Angel Of The City (22 page)

I follow behind her. As she passes the rows of chairs, I slip my arm around her neck. Her hands clutch at me, but the struggles last less than minute before she goes limp in my arms. I pick her up and set her gently in a chair, checking to make sure she’s ok, then take a seat next to her. From here, I can see the entire street and the armory.

Is she right? Could I have done more?
Not just about the wall, but everything; the boy; Dane; Pen. Maybe I have only done what I had to, the least I could do to live with myself. I don’t know anymore.

I can
’t stop the Council. I can’t prevent the wall from being sealed or the death of twelve million people, but the least I can do is give Abby what she came here for. And this time, the least I can do is all I can do.

I don’t have to wait long. I feel it before I see it, a deep basso rumble from behind the store. A mob—ten thousand, maybe more—pour out from around the building and onto the street. They’re screaming and shouting, yet strangely organized, moving at one speed toward the armory. A section of the crowd splits off from the rest and takes position in front of the entry gate. Most of these are carrying large signs detailing various offenses by the Ministry or proclaiming support for the newly martyred, Angel of the City. As they shout slogans and shake their signs, I wonder what their reaction would be if they knew she was lying here next to me, unconscious, but very much alive.

So far there
’s no response from the armory. Counselors won’t hesitate to shoot if they feel threatened, but they’ll be more circumspect in a crowd this size and with so many witnesses. That will change if there’s an attempt to enter the compound itself. If one protester puts a hand on the fence, it will be considered an act against the government and they’ll open up with everything they have.

But the guns remain quiet. Amazingly, though the crowd stands angry and menacing only a foot from the fence, no one touches it.

At the end of the street, a large truck appears—a trash hauler—and I wonder that anyone would still be at their job during these riots. I crane to look over the churning mass of people, expecting the mob to overrun the vehicle and pull out its driver.

But once again, nothing is as expected. The crowd doesn
’t attack the hauler, or even impede its progress. Instead, they move aside in a well-choreographed motion and allow it to pass. Maybe it’s my imagination, but as the truck passes, those holding signs appear to lift them higher. The hauler lumbers slowly down the street, apparently in no hurry, despite the obvious threat from the mob. When it reaches the gate, it stops.

Two men jump out from the passenger side and move quickly to the back of the truck. Heavy chains are pulled from somewhere in the back and land in a coil on the ground. Each man grabs one and runs toward the concrete barriers, their movements sheltered by the mob and the raised signs. Even from the roof, Counselors wouldn
’t have the right angle to see the activity below.

In just a few seconds, the men come racing back and dive into the truck. With a lurch, the hauler moves again, picking up speed as the coil unwinds until the chains snap taut. Gears groaning, the two barricades come bursting from the crowd, dragging and sparking along the ground.

As if on cue, the crowd disperses at a run. This time there’s no coordination. It’s a rout, as groups of people bolt in every direction, some stepping over the bodies of those who have fallen.

I
’m still watching the speeding hauler when it passes a Blueshirt vehicle surreptitiously parked on the other side of the road. Two people are inside. I can’t see the passenger, but I can take a guess who it is. The driver, I know.

Abby is still out
but stirring, when I leave the store and cross the street. Jace’s attention is so focused on the armory that he doesn’t notice me until I’m almost at the car. When he does see me, his reaction is predictable.

He pulls the carbine from his lap and tries to swing it toward the window, but misjudges and the barrel strikes the steering wheel. He never gets a second chance
. I swing my left arm, the knife in my hand finding its way into his neck and the carotid artery. Blood pulses in a tight arc, spattering the windshield as he slumps forward. In the passenger seat, Kingston can only gape in wide-eyed shock.

I stick my head in the window.
“Dreitch weaither we’re havin’, eh?”

“
You murderous son-of-a-bitch!” His gaze drifts to the carbine, but it’s wedged in Jace’s lap, and is rapidly being covered in something red and sticky.

“
Murder? That’s funnay comin' frae ye. Ye know, when ye set someone up tae be killed, ye shood stick aroond an' make sure they’re deid. It’s only common courtesy.”

“
You left us no choice. The revolution is more important than any one person.”

“
Ur three?”

“
Or three.”

“
Weel noo, ah guess ye an' ah will jist hae tae agree tae disagree on ‘at particular point.” I nod toward the armory. “Ah see you’ve cleared th' way in. Let me guess: a fast movin' vehicle loaded wi' explosives? It would explain why everyone is runnin’ over each other trying tae get away from ‘ere. An’ what suicidal fanatic did you find fer the driver?”

“
Not a fanatic; a patriot,” he says.

“
Aye, they always are, ain’t they?” I level the pistol at him. “Git out.”

“
Killing me won’t stop this.”

“
Nae, but it will stop ye from enjoyin’ it and right now I’m willin’ tae settle for little victories. Now move.”

As he reaches for the door handle,
I’m momentarily distracted by the sound of a high-revving engine. I look up to see a white van on the horizon, heading at great speed from the opposite end of street toward the armory gate.

There’s a general misconception that brutality somehow implies stupidity; that someone vicious, must, by nature, be dim witted. That’s rarely the case. The implication of recent events didn’t go unnoticed by those inside the armory. As soon as those barricades were dragged away, there would have been scrambling to ensure a counter measure for what was obviously to come. Before the van can reach the gate, there’s a muzzle-flash from the roof.

The screeching mortar round just misses
the van, exploding behind the right rear axle and lifting the back of the vehicle off the ground. When it lands, it skids wildly, then topples over onto the passenger side and slides along the street—right toward the furniture store.

It
’s a cliché but true, that in certain situations, everything moves as though in slow motion. I look to the store. Abby is up, standing behind the window, her hands pressed on the glass. Just before the van reaches her, she turns toward me and for the briefest instant, our eyes meet.

The force of the blast hurls me up and over the Blueshirt
’s sedan. Pieces of concrete, glass and steel whip past like shrapnel as I cartwheel wildly in the air. Something heavy slams into my left ankle. I land in the empty lot, clutching the grass and gritting my teeth against the pain. Thankfully, the ankle is temporarily numb from the blow, but the right side of my face feels like it’s on fire.

I give myself only a few seconds to lie there. My ears are ringing and I feel nauseous, but the numbness in the ankle won
’t last long and if I don’t stand before the pain arrives, I won’t be able to.

The effort is more than I imagined. Not only is the ankle beginning to throb, but it feels like my one broken rib now has a brother, or two. I finally make it up and stare in silence, limping and wobbling, at the shallow crater where the furniture store once stood. Both it and the van are gone, pieces of each lying scattered over a hundred meters in every direction.

She felt no pain.
I immediately curse the thought for its shear banality and dishonesty. Of course she felt pain. She felt it the moment I told her, the moment she realized that all she had fought for and suffered—her expulsion from the Garden, Pen’s death—was all for nothing. In the end, there was never any hope of making the city a better place, just as there was no hope I could have ever saved her or Pen. In the end, nothing mattered.

The Blueshirt
’s vehicle is lying in the lot upside down, its roof partially collapsed. There’s a groan from inside and two hands appear in the open window, clawing at the ground. Slowly, Kingston works to extricate himself from the front seat, dragging his useless legs behind him. Half way out, one of his legs becomes pinned. He struggles for a while, but it’s pointless and he collapses in a heap, gasping. His face is a bloody mess, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to die from his injuries just yet. I take out my gun and hobble to him.

He looks up at me through his one remaining eye.
“Do it.”

A siren peels in the air; a warning to clear the streets. Counselors from inside the armory will wait to ensure that the threat has been contained, then they
’ll begin a methodical sweep of the area, looking for any survivors.

“
Nae, I dinnae think so.” I flip out the cylinder and pour the bullets into my hand, replacing just one.

“
Do it, damn you! You know what they’ll do to me.”

“
Aye, ah do.” I drop the gun just out of his reach, then turn and walk away.

I
’ve gone two blocks, but my ankle is screaming and I can barely force myself to put any weight on it. I turn a corner and find a small crowd of people all staring in wonder at the rising cloud of dust behind me. The explosion must have been heard by half the city.

Behind the crowd, a rickshaw puller stands with his cart, his mouth gaping open like the rest.
He takes one look at me and turns his cart around in an effort to leave, but I grab a hold of the bench.

“
I want tae hire you,” I pant. The pain running up my leg is excruciating.

He shakes his head as he tries to p
ull the cart free but I hold fast, my hand smearing blood on the seat.

Keeping a grip
on the cart, I reach into my coat and pull out Devon’s envelope, shaking it at him. Bills fall and scatter on the ground. “The jewelry store on eighty-third street. Ye know it?”

He nods, his eyes locked on the fallen money.

“Take it. There’s more when ye git me there.”

Diving to his knees, he grabs the fallen bills and stuffs them into his shirt, looking around to make sure he hasn
’t been seen, but all attention is still focused on the billowing cloud of debris.

H
e grasps the wooden rods and heads off at a trot as I fall into the cart and lie back, closing my eyes. There’s no time to worry about being seen. No time for anything but getting to Reed and disappearing. A month, a year, I don’t know. We’ll have to find food, somehow, but I can’t think about that right now. All I can think about is Reed.

I must have passed
out. I don’t remember the trip, but I open my eyes to a face staring down at me and the feeling of someone pulling on the envelope clenched in my hand. I sit up quickly and can’t stop the cry from escaping my lips as pain shoots up my leg. The rickshaw driver jumps back, his hands red with my blood. I lumber out of the cart.

We
’re stopped in front of Reed’s place. The street is nearly deserted, all the shops closed. Reaching into the envelope, I toss a fist-full of bills at the driver and head into the building. I don’t know how much. I don’t care.

With my ankle, t
he fire escape is out of the question, so I enter through the main door, lurching up the stairway and bouncing off the walls. The racket brings out the curious and angry, but one look at my charred and bloody face and they clamor back to their apartments and lock the doors behind them.

I make it up the three flights and lean against her door, panting. There
’s no reply to my persistent knocking and so I call out, repeatedly shouting her name.

She finally answers,
ignoring my gruesome appearance and throws her arms around me. I hold her tight, so thankful to be with her again, that I don’t notice at first how warm she is. I can feel the skin under her light blouse, slick with sweat.

“
I thought you were dead,” she says. “All this time I thought you were dead.”

“
You were almost right.” She pulls back from me and her face is pale, the only color the streak of blood on her cheek from my face. “You’re ill.”

“
It’s nothing,” she says, leading me into the apartment. But her walk is unsteady and she leans on me, even though I’m hobbling. We make it to the couch and sit down.

“
You look terrible,” she says, managing a weak smile.

“
You should talk.”

She rubs a
hand across her damp forehead. “I’m all right. Just a virus. It’s been coming on for days, but today’s been the worse.” The smile fades. “Abby?”

I shake my head.

“I’m so sorry. Are you safe?”

“
No, not for too much longer, anyway. I need to move. I want you to come with me. The riots are going to get worse before they get better and you won’t be safe here.”

To my surprise, she doesn
’t argue. “All right. Just let me lie down for a few minutes.”

I pivot on my good foot and swing myself around
into the chair as she puts her feet up and lies back, closing her eyes. “I heard Devon is dead,” she says.

“
Yes.”

“
Things will be better then, won’t they? After the riots, I mean. Better for us.”

“
Yes, things will be better for us.”

She smiles again and for a moment it seems as though the color comes back to her face. Then she coughs
and something lands on her white blouse. Just a small bit of phlegm, but I stare in horror. It’s green.

The coughing becomes a fit
until I’m off the chair and on my knees, trying to help her sit up. She begins to seize, her arms tight against her chest, her body spasming as her back stiffens and arches off the couch. I grip her hands in mine and close my eyes. I can’t watch, can’t see it happen. Suddenly she’s retching and I feel something vile flow over my hands, thick and warm like honey.

I don
’t know how long I stay there on my knees after she’s gone, unwilling to open my eyes, but I’m not surprised when I hear boots coming through the door. I feel someone step on either side of me, then hear the distinctive rustle of a body bag being opened. No one asks me to move as I feel Reed’s body being lifted from the couch. I let go of her hand and don’t open my eyes until I hear the zipper closing behind me.

The trailing hem of a leather trench coat
comes into view as a Counselor takes the seat next to the couch. The sleeve of his coat is adorned with five gold stripes. A little older than me, with gray hair cut close to the scalp. A thin scar across his left cheek. Intense blue eyes.

Hands grip me under my arms.
I’m lifted up and placed in the other chair across from him. With a flick of his wrist, the four men with him click their boots then turn and leave, taking the body bag and closing the door behind them.

He
reaches into the pocket of his coat and withdrawals a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out. He offers one to me, but when I don’t move, he shrugs and puts it back. Lighting the cigarette, he takes a deep drag, letting it out slowly. “I’d ask you how you’ve been, but that would be disingenuous. I’ve been monitoring your activities for some time. Not that you made it easy. You covered your tracks pretty well. Eliminating your own shadow maker was a particularly… calculated move.”

“
Keillor.”

He draws on
the cigarette. “I can’t say your leaving didn’t hurt. After all I did for you.”

“
All you did for me?”

He glares.
“Would you rather be back in the ghetto? Don’t forget, I was the one who pulled you from the filth. Without me, you’d still be digging for your meals in a trash pile, just another illiterate Alba bobby.”

“
’At’s nae way ta talk aboot th’ auld neighborhood.”

“
Diul mo bhad.
Don’t forget who you’re speaking to. I fought my way out of that stinking cesspool long before you. My only mistake was in trying to give something back. I took you in, beat that detestable accent from your lips and gave you a chance at something better. And look how you repaid me. You turned traitor over some dirt nosed kid who was going to die in a few years anyway.”

I stare at the empty couch.

“Nothing to say for yourself?”

“
Nothing you could understand.”

His face flushes. For a moment
I think he’s going to reach out and strike me, but the blow never comes.

“
How long?” I ask.

“
Since I found you? Five years.” He draws from the cigarette. “But of course I couldn’t announce it. I had to be circumspect. I couldn’t bring you in without exposing our little mishap at the schoolhouse. So, I have waited patiently, content just to keep tabs on you.”

Five years
. Somewhere in my mind, a timeline intersects. “Devon.”

“
Yes. I may not have been able to arrest you, but I felt safer having you on a short leash. We’d been monitoring Mr. Blaze for some time, allowing him to continue his illegal activities in exchange for information. Not that there was any conscious collaboration on his part, but criminals are easy to manipulate. In your case, all I had to do was make sure he learned the truth about you.”

“
Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just have me eliminated?”

“
Believe me, I was tempted more than once, but for some reason, I always held my hand. Maybe it was gut instinct that one day you’d be useful, or maybe I just enjoyed watching your fall; to go from being a Liedercounselor to living as a shade, hiding in the shadows, forced to do the bidding of a drug-addicted psychopath.”

“
Not much different from my previous life.”

His face turns deep red.
“That’s twice you’ve insulted me. I would not risk a third.”

“
There’s nothing you can threaten me with now.” I gaze at the couch, the cushions still depressed where she lay. “Why?”

He looks
momentarily confused. “Ah, the girl. I had nothing to do with that. She’d burned herself what, about eight months ago?”

I nod.
She was cooking and reached out to grab the handle of a boiling pot. I told her it was nothing, that it would heal on its own, but she was worried about infection. She went to the clinic for treatment. “You turned her foul.”

He taps his ash onto the floor.
“Not me. Enhancement is a separate division; you know that. But fences always make good candidates. They come in contact with so many unsavory people. Hers was simply the next name on the list. Just routine police work. Nothing personal.”

Nothing personal
. The sound of distant gunfire filters in through the window. Abby’s dream of bringing the quarters together may be dead, but she did get her revenge on Kingston and now she’ll have helped bring Keillor down. That is something, anyway. “Shouldn’t you be in hiding?” I ask.

“
Should I?”

“
The Ministry will be breathing down the Council’s neck for their failure in controlling the riots. The Council will need a scapegoat and you were made to order. They’ve been looking for years for an excuse to expel you—or worse.”

He smiles.
“They have, haven’t they? Can’t say I’ve made many friends among the board. Oh, and I see your point. These riots have been the worse ever recorded. The death of
the Angel
certainly ignited the people, didn’t it?” He takes a drag. “Or should I say, our Angel.”

A coldness cr
eeps over me. Ever since Pen first related the story of her and Abby’s escape from the G.D., something has been nagging at me, just below the surface. I couldn’t quite put a finger on it, until now. Too many coincidences; too much good luck.

“
I don’t believe you,” I say, but there’s little conviction in my words.

“
Yes you do. You believe me because deep down you know she could have never survived a purge, any more than she could have escaped the Garden District. You believe me because you know full well that no resistance movement has ever operated
, could ever operate
, so long in the open, especially with that idiot Kingston at the helm. Tell me, who do you suppose released those pamphlets throughout the city?”

I feel dizzy. My head is pounding, as much from confusion as pain.
He’s lying; trying to cover up for his own incompetence, just like before. He’s lost control of the city and now he’s pretending it was all part of a plan.
I try to remember everything that’s happened, to find some hole in his story, but I can’t concentrate. The memories of the last few days are too jumbled, too scattered. “No. No, you had her arrested.”

He sighs.
“Blueshirts. Their incompetence can usually be counted upon, so naturally they chose this occasion to stumble across her and make an arrest. The Angel operation was covert. Few even within the Council were aware of our activities. I couldn’t just order her release without arousing suspicion, so I had no choice but to take possession of her myself. I had hoped Kingston would attempt a rescue. I practically sent the fool an invitation, having her delivered to the One Twenty Seven in that way, but it turns out he wanted her even less than I did.”

Kingston. He
’d wanted Abby out of the way. Was he working for the Council? No, that’s impossible.
I don’t even realize I’m speaking aloud. “Kingston?”

“
Our first choice to lead the resistance, but he proved useless. We drove him out two years ago with the idea that he could incite the quarters, but he failed miserably. The man simply has no charisma. So we turned to the girl. We knew of her anti-government leanings of course—just as we knew of her mother’s.”

Something Abby said comes back to me.
“Aneurysm?”