LITMIR.BIZ

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started. One rule of thumb in fighting is that crazy can often overcome skill and numbers, because, while a trained fighter might actually enjoy going up against another trained fighter, no one really wants to wrestle with crazy. Crazy doesn’t know when it’s winning. And crazy doesn’t know when to stop. If you can’t pull off crazy, if, for instance, you’re handcuffed in a small van with six armed assailants, stupid is a decent substitute for crazy.

      Wells still has his hand inside his jacket when I slam my elbow into his throat. He freezes, trying to remember how to breathe. Before the boys in the front of the van get any ideas, I swing an elbow up over his head and bring the arm down on the other side, getting the cuffs around his throat. Then I fall back across the seat, pulling Wells on top of me. The G-men in the front of the van have all drawn their guns out by now, but I’m not sweating. If they want to shoot me, they’re going to have to blow a lot of holes in the big man first.

      “Stand down,” shouts Wells. Then, quieter, to me, “That got you far, didn’t it, shit-for-brains?”

      “It got me your neck. That’s a start.” I tighten the cuffs across his throat. Just enough so that he can feel it, but not enough to make him pass out. “You’re not the first bunch that ever kidnapped me, but you’re definitely the least fun.”

      “Boy, you just attacked a federal officer. I’ll have you swinging from your balls at Gitmo.”

      “Who you going to arrest? I’m already dead.” Wells goes for his gun again. I spring forward and slam his head into the door frame, spinning him at the same time so that his body stays between his boys and me. I’ve got four guns on me and one guy is still driving.

      We’re somewhere south of L.A., near Culver City. The van turns into the parking lot of what looks like an aircraft assembly plant that hasn’t seen action in twenty years. There are diamond-shaped hazardous materials warnings and rusted DOD signs on all the fences and buildings.

      The van slams to a stop and the side door opens. I tighten the cuffs on Wells’s neck and pull him back to use as a shield against whatever is coming into the van.

      A woman in a crisply tailored power suit leans her head inside.

      “I can come back later if you two gentlemen need a moment alone,” she says.

      I let up on Wells’s neck, but still keep hold of him.

      “He’s the one getting grabby,” says Wells.

      The woman nods. “That’s what he does. All those years in the Abyss have left him with some impulse control issues. It’s all in his file.” She looks at me. “Let Marshal Wells up right now. No one is going to shoot you. And, Larson, uncuff this man. You look like a couple of third graders.”

      “Sorry. Who are you again?” I ask.

      The woman shakes her head, and then walks away. The G-men have holstered their guns. I lift my arms so that Wells can wiggle out from under the cuffs. He gets out of the van without looking back at me and starts adjusting his suit and tie. I follow him outside and hold out the cuffs. He takes his time, playing with his jacket and tie like a bad Vegas lounge comedian. Finally, he digs a key out of his pocket and unlocks me. There are red marks on my wrists, but there are corresponding marks on Wells’s throat, so I guess we’re even.

      I take out my cigarettes and Mason’s Zippo. When I thumb the lighter, all I get is sparks.

      “Anybody got a light?” I ask.

      “You can’t smoke here,” says Wells.

      “We’re in the open in the middle of nowhere. Why not?”

      “Are you stupid?” asks Wells. “That’s Aelita. She’s an angel. They’re very sensitive to things like cigarette smoke.”

      “Cool. I’ve never seen an angel in disguise before.” I follow her to the old assembly plant.

      Aelita isn’t what I imagined an angel would look like. She’s about as ethereal as a zip gun. She walks like she’s about to call in an air strike or buy Europe. Donald Trump in drag with her enemies’ balls in a candy dish on her desk, right next to the stapler.

      The complex’s main building is huge. Probably a Cold War–era industrial assembly line. Aelita opens a side door and I can see inside. Absolutely nothing. Concrete floor and metal walls. Shadows of smashed and abandoned machinery. Not even lights.

      A few steps into the building, I hit a kind of barrier. It’s like walking through warm Jell-O. Then I’m suddenly in Times Square on New Year’s. Humans in suits, and different kinds of nonhumans, are moving huge diesel engines on automated chain lifters. Others are driving forklifts with pallets loaded with cedar and mugwort. Silver ingots and iron bars. Industrial drums of holy water. They’re assembling armored vehicles and what look like weapons. Shiny superscience versions of old pepper-pot guns.

      I look back at the entrance. There are angelic runes chiseled into the concrete floor. Overhead some kind of massive machine hangs bolted to the ceiling. It hums like a beehive and gives off a shimmering fluorescent-green light.

      “It’s called a Phylactery Accelerator,” says Aelita. “The holy relics and sigils in the floor form a protective talisman.”

      “But not one powerful enough to hide all of whatever the hell this is.”

      “Please don’t use profanity in here. The Accelerator captures the energy released by charmed-strange mesons as they decay into protons and antineutrinos, and uses that energy to amplify the talisman’s blessed essence.”

      “You lost me after ‘profanity.’ But I think I get the idea. You’re the respectable magic committee. You’ve got a real Norman Rockwell vibe here. Except for all the guns.”

      She looks right through me. Suddenly I’m thinking that maybe I would have been better off if the guys in the van had been a hit squad.

      “Come with me.”

      She takes me into a soundproofed side room. After the noise of the factory floor, the room is spooky quiet. There are stained-glass windows suspended by wires from the rafters. More angelic script cut into the floor, this time in the shape of a cross. There’s an altar at one end of the room. The other end looks like Frankenstein’s lab. There are celestial maps of the universe looking down from Heaven (I’d seen the reverse maps Downtown). The machine that surrounds the operating theater could be anything. Part of a personal nuclear power plant or one of the alien rooms from Forbidden Planet.

      I wait for the angel to say something. I want to know why she had me dragged here, but I’m not about to be the first one to blink. I turn and find her over by the altar, brushing Communion-wafer crumbs into her hand. She gently drops them into a trash can beside the altar, then bows her head and crosses herself. Now I know why Lucifer and his wild bunch ended up down below. If I had to take my boss’s kid so seriously that I was required to salute his dandruff, I’d go stab-happy, too.

      “Have you been enjoying yourself since your return?” she asks with her back to me.

      “Not particularly.”

      Now she turns. She smiles. A beaming, monstrously insincere angel smile. Probably another part of her job training.

      “I only ask because it seems to me that you’ve been having a lot of fun. Cutting people’s heads off. Beating up people in bars. Blowing up whole shopping districts. Shooting people on the street in the middle of the day. It sounds terribly fun to me. The kind of fun that I’d expect to appeal to someone like you.”

      “Is snatching people off the street your idea of fun? God gave you wings, so you have an everlasting get-out-of-jail-free card. You can do anything you want because everything you do is holy. Is that it?”

      “Yes. As a matter of fact, it is.”

      “Is everything your army does holy, too? They didn’t all look like angels to me. Was Marshal Wells sweating holy water? I must have missed that.”

      “Marshal

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