The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (58 page)

“Well, get her!” the Prime bellowed as the
Ally shimmered, became translucent and disappeared. Steadying
himself with thoughts of hate, he marched over to the phone. His
Demon organ twitched and squirmed like an eel. Betrayed by the
incompetence of superiors! Betrayed by bargains. Betrayed by
Powers!

“Get me General Topp!” His voice was sharp
iron. A minute passed. He pondered the depths of betrayal. He’d
show the two-faced fuckers.

The General picked up the phone. “Yes, Sir!”
His tone was as stiff as a salute.

“Topp,” the Prime began. “I want to initiate
the Final Solution.”

“Prime, sir.” Topp’s voice cracked. “I
understand our troops have engaged the enemy on the southern and
western flanks of the City.”

“Yes, General.” He paused looking at the dirt
under his fingernails. “So what?”

“Sir, I wondered,” Topp started. “Is it
possible that the war can be decided in our favor using
conventional
means?”

Fucker
! “Conventional?” He ground his
teeth.
Ignore the fool
. “It is 3 a.m. Topp.” He cleared his
throat, holding back a tirade. “I want those birds in the air in
one hour and fifteen minutes.”

“But sir!” Topp’s voice broke.

“But sir what?” the Prime asked, keeping his
voice soft.

“I can’t fire on my own people,” Topp
blurted. There were a couple of hollow rushing pops, and then a
thud. The telephone receiver bumped and squeaked.

“Hello Prime?” a new voice said.

“Hello Carter,” the Prime chortled. Topp’s
soft spot just cost him a pair of bullets in the brain. “Good
work.”

“Looks like you were right about him,” Carter
continued.

“The missiles are ready?” the Prime
asked.

“Affirmative,” Carter said. “On your
command.”

“A minor change in plan,” the Prime said. “I
want you to launch at targets in both “A” and “B” groups in one
hour and fifteen minutes.” The leader of Westprime had long ago
traded out the duplicate key launch method, and replaced it with
loyalty and hidden Demonic assassins.

“And I get to keep Carter’s body,” Carter’s
possessing Demon said.

“Drive it in good health.” The Prime was
pleased this much of his plan was working.
Now the nun
! His
captive said he had to
know
the God-wife before him.
Sick
fuck
! The mere thought got his Demon organ rising. Then he’d
rule the world.

“In one hour fifteen minutes the missiles
launch,” Carter said.

“Unless I say otherwise.” The Prime started
laughing and slammed the phone down.
Do an end run on me
!
You’re about to experience the Mother of all betrayals
! He
would be safe underground when the birds started flying, if he had
to go through with it. “I’ll show you fuckers Apocalypse!”

83 – Shootout at Archangel Tower

Driver wanted to walk into the meeting with a
big smile on his face. His old man always told him that if you
can’t do it with a smile don’t do it. He’d tried to live that way,
and had done pretty well up to the last few days. Things were
getting stickier by the minute.

He was wearing a Kevlar vest and carried
clips of ammunition in the pockets of his long black overcoat. He
wore bulletproof greaves under his black army pants and a baseball
cap of the same color pulled low over his eyes. His long black
overcoat concealed empty shoulder holsters that left the Texan
feeling naked. He didn’t like Tiny’s plan at all. No more than poor
Bloody did.

The dead gunman clomped along in his big
black shoes, looking out of place in his tattered brown jacket,
corduroys and green shirt. Bloody never wore body armor and hadn’t
changed his attitudes in death. His shoulder holster was empty
too.

He made a good match for the nun, whose quiet
intensity had begun to give Driver a case of nerves. She’d been
real helpful getting them into the Tower but got quiet once she
looked around a bit. Then she started whispering to herself, and
her eyes rarely met his. Instead they scanned around him like she
saw invisible flames or something.

“I hope Tiny knows what he’s doing!” he
muttered to himself as they strode off the elevator. Two men in
dark suits stood in front of an oak-paneled reception desk. The
tallest, a black man, was poised on the balls of his feet, arms
bent slightly for the quick draw. Driver noticed the bulge under
his left armpit, and guessed that it would be one of those small
automatic assault guns. The other guy sported a similar bulge, was
older, and had a worried look about him.

“I’m Central Operative Morgan, this is
Turner,” the black man said. “We will shoot at the first sign of
hostility.”

“We’re unarmed and you know it.” Driver
pointed a finger remembering the thorough frisking downstairs.
Those Operatives were suspicious of the empty holsters, but Driver
told them he left the guns in safekeeping so he wouldn’t have to
write his congressmen to get them back.

“I like the way you boys do business.” The
truth was, Driver wouldn’t have minded working for the Prime. A
life on the run got tired.

Operative Morgan looked at the nun. Her eyes
opened wide and she smiled. “You’re a strong color.”

Morgan frowned, cast a glance at his partner,
and looked back to Cawood. “Sister, welcome back to Archangel
Tower.”

“We rescued her.” Driver couldn’t stand a
two-way conversation that he wasn’t part of.

“Rescued,” Bloody echoed.

“Fucking zombie,” Turner hissed.

“He only died just a while back so…” Driver
glared. “We’re here to get paid.”

“Paid?” Morgan sneered.

“If you’re giving them away you should get
out of the nun-trading business,” Driver snarled.

A tremor ran through both Operatives. Morgan
gestured to the hall behind them. “After you.”

It was a short trip to the boardroom really,
nun in the middle, Driver on her left and Bloody to the right.

Morgan stepped up and opened double doors
onto a big room. A long wooden bar with red stools ran the length
of it. Tiny sat there at the far end—his lips stuck to a big glass
something. The salesman set the drink down smiling.

“Hey brothers!” His face looked a little
pale. He wiped a knuckle under his nose, turned the glass with his
fingertips, and then walked toward them. Signals. That meant get
Bloody into position.

“Hello brother!” Driver walked up to Tiny,
nodding. “Hey. The Prime knows how to live.”

“Oh yes.” Tiny slapped Driver on the shoulder
four times, used his other arm to sweep the expanse of the room.
The salesman’s hand rolled over onto its back as it passed a pair
of glass doors.
Four guys on the patio
. “This is living
boy!”

Morgan and Turner stood at the entrance. “The
Prime will join you shortly.” They pulled the doors shut and
left.

“Well, Driver, what are you drinking?” Tiny
walked behind the big bar with the Texan. It would provide cover.
Driver winked at the big gunman who left the nun by a barstool. He
came around opening his coat.

“Any damned thing I want.” Driver talked.
“The tequila looks like it was drug all the way up the Rio
Grande.”

“You’ll all die here,” the nun groaned, her
eyes frantically searched the room. “Operatives are colored wrong.
They don’t trust the Prime.”

“Cheery.” Driver gave her a tight-lipped
smile with lots of teeth.

Bloody pulled his shirt open and Driver
yanked the duct tape aside that closed the vertical incision they’d
made in his abdomen.

“We’re all going to die.” Cawood’s face
flushed as she stared around the room. “I can see the color of
death.”

“Don’t care about the color, as long as I go
down in a blaze of glory,” Driver whispered, reaching in and
pulling a package out of Bloody’s torso—a plastic-wrapped .357
magnum, then his .9 mm’s. He set them under the bar. Tiny got to
work on his. He pulled out Bloody’s gun, ripped the plastic off it
and stuffed it in the gunman’s holster. He drew out another package
containing a lump of C-4 explosive. He flicked a switch on it and
set it amongst the bottles under the bar. The alcohol would give it
a little extra kick. Driver pulled the tape back over the incision
then unwrapped his guns. Bloody closed his shirt.

The doors opened. A big man in a black suit
strode in with a gangly chap, skinny as a twist of barbed wire. The
big guy had a plain face with saggy pig jowls under a stupid
straight bang. The second man was obviously dead. His clothes were
tattered, and had bullet holes all through them. Morgan and Turner
followed.

“Able!” the nun cried, and she ran toward
him. The dead man cracked a leathery grin and opened his arms. They
embraced. Two more Operatives entered. They closed the door behind
them.

“Mr. Prime,” Tiny began. “These are my
partners, Driver from Texas, and the big fellow’s Bloody.” The
salesman walked around the bar after the Texan. Bloody
followed.

The Prime moved toward them. He ran his eyes
over Driver, turned to Bloody. Something wasn’t right though.

“A dead man?” The Prime glared at Bloody.

“
You
got one!” Driver gestured to the
skinny fellow.

“We are at war with the dead.” The Prime’s
voice quavered. Driver kept his eyes on the Operatives who had come
in. They had taken up position, two on each of the Prime’s
flanks.

“We’re just catching up on that part.” Tiny
smiled. “But a loyal gun’s a loyal gun.”

The Prime’s eyes glimmered from cavernous
sockets. “Of course.” He looked at the nun. “Reverend Stoneworthy,
I wish to thank you.” The Prime walked over and bulldozed the two
apart—slipping an arm over the nun’s shoulder. “Sister Cawood, I am
so pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Or shall I say,
reacquaint myself. For we have met before, on occasion over the
years. You and I have much to talk about.”

When the nun looked up at the Prime her mouth
dropped open in horror. A terrible grin spread across the leader of
Westprime’s fat face.

The dead man stepped up to him.

“You have no right to hold her.”
Stoneworthy’s voice rasped—weary and sad. “She has been through
enough…”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand.” The Prime turned
to the dead man. “After a thorough debriefing, she’ll be released.
And of course, how she cooperates with the investigation will have
a direct bearing on your case. Treason is a serious offence.”

“That is
my offense
,” Stoneworthy
said. Driver admired the stick man’s pluck. “Release her!”

“
You
can’t make demands.” Then he
looked over at Tiny. “Mr. Tiny. You have said that you and your
partners would do anything for me. Here is your opportunity. Remove
the minister’s arms if he opens his mouth again.” The nun screamed.
Stoneworthy took two quiet steps back shaking his head.

“Sure,” Tiny said, smiling and shrugging at
Driver. “
After
, we can talk turkey and get this deal
done.”

“Do that and consider it done.” He glared at
the nun.

“Why are you doing this?” The nun’s
expression was disbelief and horror.

“I will need your cooperation.” The Prime’s
eyes gleamed with power.

“I’ll cooperate!” She grabbed at his
arms.

“Karen, no!” Stoneworthy stepped up.

“You don’t have to do this!” the nun
screamed.

“You’re easily broken.” The Prime chuckled.
“And with only a threat.” The big man looked at Tiny. “Remove one
of his arms.”

The nun screamed.

Tiny gestured for Driver and Bloody to follow
him.

“Don’t matter to me!” Driver shrugged,
wondering how he’d remove the dead man’s arm.
Messy
. He
winced, wiped his hands against his coat. “Tiny, I reckon if you
hold the feller I can pry one loose.”

The Prime smiled like a predator, sliding one
hand around the nun’s waist. Something was agitating the man—he was
almost hopping. The woman leaned away from his bulk. “I’ll escort
Sister Cawood to the debriefing. Bring the arm.” He pulled her to
him. She screamed. Stoneworthy stepped forward. The Prime sent him
sprawling with a powerful shove.

Tiny stepped up, grabbed the dead man and
pulled him over to the bar, pushed him hard against it. Driver’s
eyes jumped around the room. Once the pushing starts. Shit!

“Stop!”

The Texan froze.

Operative Morgan had stepped back behind his
partner, a small machine gun jumped in his hands. The Prime whirled
on him.

“Put that away!” he commanded.

“I can’t be part of this.” Morgan’s voice was
uncomfortable with the emotion it held.

“You take my orders.” The Prime held the nun
like a shield.

“I take orders to ensure the safety of
Westprime’s citizens.” He kept the gun on the Prime.

The Texan took a deep breath, relaxed his
arms to let the blood pool in his hands. He watched the Operative’s
chest. There was a fairly clear shot under his right arm. Might not
get the heart, but he could knock a hole in his breastbone.

He drew.

Morgan swung his gun toward Driver. That just
opened up his chest to gunfire. He had the sense to drop, but three
of Driver’s .9 mm slugs ripped his shoulder and neck.

The Operative’s gun opened up, firing across
the bar. A bullet grazed Driver’s calf. Something thumped a few
times and Bloody grunted.

Driver rolled. Morgan’s machine gun swung
back to the Prime. The Texan fired at his hand—so did Tiny. The gun
and hand flew away in a spray of blood and chopped flesh. Turner
fired at Tiny. The salesman took a burst in the stomach, jerked to
the side still firing. Stoneworthy took a damaging spray to
shoulder and throat. One of Tiny’s shots took an eye out of the
Operative on the Prime’s right. The man dropped weeping blood.

Driver drew another .9 mm. He put two bullets
into Turner’s temple.