The Getaway God (36 page)

I pull the black blade and slash his throat, cutting through the vertebrae and muscle at the back so his head pops off and slops onto the wet ground. Shaky kneels down and picks it up.

“Let's see if you can put yourself together before I figure out the 8 Ball.”

Shaky sets his head onto his shoulders and walks away into the dark.

Rain begins to fall again.

So, to sum up. Tonight I had my throat crushed. I was tossed around like a beanbag. I was beaten with a gun butt. I was shot. And now another God hates me. I want a smoke, but when I cough I taste blood. Maybe some bullet fragments in a lung. I put the Maledictions back in my pocket.

It's nights like this that make me want to give up the glamorous work of world saving and take up woodworking or needlepoint. Something soothing and without quite so much ass kicking aimed in my direction.

I wipe the blood off my mouth and head inside.

T
HE PLACE IS
still a mess. Marshals clear away wreckage and try to salvage equipment. They're dispatching patrols to make sure the rest of the city didn't fall down. Rain pours in through the roof, making the floor slick and dangerous. No one pays the slightest attention to me.

The Shonin's lab is still a wreck, but a pathway has been cleared from the door to his worktable. He's picking through the wreckage, looking for books and manuscripts he might be able to save. When he hears me he drops into his chair, cradling his broken arm in his good one.

“So, did you mess everything up, fatso?”

“They're going to do it. Mr. Muninn is. Oh, and I met Zeus on the way in here.”

He sits up a little straighter.

“One of the Angra?”

“
The
Angra. The head cheese. Seems like a sweet guy, but a little pissed off.”

“You're going to need the Qomrama.”

“You're not going to rat me out, are you?”

“At the monastery, the only ­people punished more than rule breakers were tattletales.”

I help him up and we slowly pick our way over downed beams, crushed furniture, and ceiling tiles. He's so full of poison he can barely lift his feet. It takes minutes getting across the room and I can feel every second ticking away.

Once we get to the magnetic chamber, he shuts it down and opens the door. I pull off my glove and take out the 8 Ball with my Kissi hand. The Shonin gives me the box Father Traven made to hold the Qomrama. I put it inside and drop it into my coat pocket.

“There,” he says. “If anyone is watching us, we are both complicit.”

“Thanks, old man.”

I help him back to his chair. He sits and scratches his head with his good hand.

“What time is it?” he says.

I get out my phone.

“A little past eight-­thirty.”

He doesn't say anything and doesn't move when I go over to him. That's it then. Four hundred years hanging around this rock and it ends in a broken-­down Beverly Hills country club. A funny end to a strange life. But he came through when he had to, and that's more than I can say for most ­people.

I straighten him upright in the chair and lay his hands in his lap in the Dhyana mudra, the only bit of dilettante L.A. Buddhism I can remember.

Someone is at the door. I look up and see Julie. She stops and grimaces.

“You're shot.”

“Yeah. I'm hard on clothes.”

“Where have you been?”

“I just got my ass kicked in Hell. How are you?”

She comes in and looks around the room.

“I never know what to believe when you open your mouth.”

“Want to meet the Devil?” I put out my hand. “Just say the word.”

“I'll pass.”

I try to angle myself between her and the magnetic chamber, hoping she won't notice that it is gone. But she isn't looking at me. She's spotted the Shonin and goes over to him.

“My God. What happened?”

“I think the book finally finished him. Will you take care of his body?”

She shakes her head.

“I can't. We have a report of a mob of Saint Nick's corpses around Hollywood Forever Cemetery. They're starting to move into the streets, destroying everything in the way. Believe it or not, there are still civilians in the city.”

Hollywood Forever. I can't get away from the place. When I die for the last time, dump me in the ocean or a landfill or chop me up and serve me as corn dogs at the state fair. Just don't bury me in Hollywood Forever.

“Let me handle it.”

“By yourself?” she says.

“I'll have backup, but your agents won't want to meet them. Give me an hour before you send anyone in.”

“Listen. After everything that's happened, these cowboys want to get out and shoot something. I don't know how long I can keep them here.”

“Think of something. I'm just asking for an hour. It'll save some of your ­people's lives.”

She thinks for a minute.

“Half an hour.”

“Good enough.”

I start out, but stop.

“You mind if I take some body armor?”

She looks at my bloody shirt.

“You look like you need it.”

“Yeah. I kind of do.”

“Let's go find you something.”

“One more thing. I want you to do me a favor.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Why should I?”

“Because afterward you'll own me.”

“Keep talking.”

W
H
EN
I
'M FITTED
up with a vest, I take a shadow to Max Overdrive, fire up the Hellion hog, and head Downtown. Not to see Muninn or Samael or anyone else who can talk. I come straight out into the kennels, where a hundred-­plus hellhounds wander restlessly. I'm in and out fast in case anyone wanders down here. I only have a half hour and I don't want to spend it explaining anything to anyone.

As soon as I corral the last hounds I lead them into a shadow at the far end of the place. Their growls and the grinding of their gears fill the air. Their claws tear up the concrete. It's beautiful.

We come out right in front of Hollywood Forever.

Julie said there were chop shops here and she wasn't exaggerating. Only they're not in the cemetery anymore.

It's like New Year's fucking Eve outside the gates. Wall-­to-­wall, shoulder-­to-­shoulder Qliphoth morons claw their way onto Santa Monica Boulevard. When the street opens up enough that they have room, they head off in different directions, splashing like happy monster pups off to gnaw on what's left of L.A.'s soggy carcass.

I don't have to tell the hellhounds what to do. They sense it the moment they get a look at Mason's berserkers and rip into the mob without a word from me. The chop shops fight back, but they're just stitched together meat salads and no match for a hyped-­up mob of mechanical hellspawn. In just a minute, it's like a holiday sale at Ed Gein's butcher shop. Arms and legs in the half-­price bin. Bones and livers on special, two for one.

I can't say the carnage is pretty, but it is satisfying. Mason got the better of me with the games, but I can take back a little from him by flattening his street muscle.

The hounds are well trained. They don't hang around playing with the dead chop shops. Groups of them peel off and follow the rest of the mob through the storm into town. I rev the bike and head that way too. Mason's goons will be on Hollywood Boulevard eventually, which means they could make it to Max Overdrive. I have to make that sure that Candy and, yeah, even Kasabian are all right.

I head up Gower from the cemetery. Notice a ­couple of cop cars a street over, but mostly keep my eyes on the road. It's hard to hold the bike steady in the flooded streets.

There isn't a light on anywhere and the clouds have closed in, so even the stars are gone. I stop and put on the night-­vision goggles Julie gave me. The city glows a faint green, just bright enough that I can navigate.

I make it across Fountain and Sunset, but at Selma Avenue the streets light up like I've gone over the rim of a volcano. I pull the goggles off and squint my eyes as two LAPD squad cars pull up nose to nose, blocking the road.

Normally in a situation like this I'd be quite disinclined to stick around. I'd zip around the cars on the sidewalk or turn tail and head south. But I still have my Vigil ID. Protection from on high and legit as greenbacks. I button my coat so they won't see the bullet holes and ask stupid questions, then step off the bike.

“Hands over your head,” one of the cops calls.

I yell back.

“I'm with the Marshal Ser­vice. The Golden Vigil.”

“Hands over your head.”

I can tell this guy isn't going to take my word for anything, including that I'm a biped from planet Earth. I put my hands up like the nice man said. The pain in my chest heats up again when I get my hands over my head.

“Turn around and walk backward toward us.”

“Come on, guys. We're wasting time. Let me just show you my ID.”

“If you do not comply we are authorized to use deadly force.”

I should have seen that coming. Martial-­law bullshit. Shoot looters on sight and harass stragglers while you're at it.

I walk backward to the men in blue. It's not as easy as it sounds in ankle-­deep water with your hands over your head throwing off your balance. But I make it out of Dixie and into the promised land of the cops' headlights.

“The ID is in my back pocket if you want to get it out yourselves.”

I hear someone splash up behind me.

“Don't even breathe,” he says.

He sounds like the nervous type, so I keep my hands up and my mouth shut while he spelunks in my jeans.

“What's this?” he says, pulling the Colt from behind my back.

“That's my gun. Like I've been saying, I'm with the Golden Vigil.”

He reaches into my back pocket and comes out with something. It's quiet behind me for a while. Maybe reading wasn't his strongest area back at the academy. I'm sure he has other redeeming qualities.

“Stark,” he says. “James Stark.”

“That's me.”

“The Golden goddamn Vigil.”

“Can I put my hands down now?”

“Hey, boys,” he says, calling to the other cops. “Want to meet a real live Vigil agent?”

The sound of splashing coming up behind me. No one gives me permission, but I lower my hands and turn around anyway.

Four of LAPD's finest are going over my credentials under a flashlight. One by one they look at the ID and up at me like they've never seen a photo before and are wondering how I got that tiny doppelgänger onto the card.

A different cop says, “You're James Stark.”

“I thought we'd kind of established that.”

“Just double-­checking,” he says.

A second later I'm on the ground. I've never been Tasered before and I can't say I enjoy my first taste of it. Still, just to make sure I get the full effect, another cop lights me up. I want to get up and clock someone, but my body would rather stay down and twitch in the gutter, so that's what it does.

When they let up on the juice, one of the cops rolls me onto my back and shines a light in my eyes. I think he wants to make sure I'm still breathing because when he sees that I'm basically intact, he kicks me a good one in the ribs. Then his friends join in. I'm beginning to think this isn't a by-­the-­book group. They might even be the vigilantes who helped burn Allegra's clinic.

I try to fight back, but seeing as how I already have a ­couple of bullets in my chest, I'm less Bruce Lee and more Donald Duck. The body armor takes a lot of the punishment, but these are experienced boys and they know how to make it hurt.

Eventually they get bored or tired or hungry and the kicking stops. One of them, I think it's the one who first took my ID, pulls me upright.

“Audsley Ishii says hello.”

All of a sudden this makes more sense.

The cop rolls me over and wrenches my arm around to my back. I hear the rattle of cuffs and know that if the bastard ever gets them on me I'm dead.

I push back with one hand and buck the cop off. Then I have the other three on top of me and I can't move. Someone else gets their cuffs out. I feel one close on my wrist. Even though I know I'm going to lose, I'm not going to make killing me easy. I kick back and launch one of them off me and get a swift knee to the back of my head. It forces me all the way down under the filthy street water. I have to hold my breath to keep from drowning. I can't even fight anymore.

At first, the sound of screams is muffled by the water. It churns around me as one by one the cops disappear off my back. I sit up and gulp in a lungful of air.

Hellhounds are outlined in the squad-­car headlights. One gnaws on a downed cop's leg and the others are off chasing the rest. I hear gunshots, but can't see out into the dark. I don't have to because I know what's happening. The cops are losing. Hellhounds are bad one-­on-­one. When they're in a pack, there isn't much that can stop them. Sure as hell not a few cop sidearms.

I crawl over to the downed cop and feel around his belt. Find his keys and unlock the handcuff snapped around my wrist. I get up and look around the scene for my gun and ID. I find both by one of the squad cars. The gun is all right, but the ID is a little waterlogged. I slip it into my pocket and put the Colt in the waistband behind my back. Candy has been on me to get a holster. She says my not using one is part of my just-­passing-­through mentality and that I should get over it. Maybe she's right. Not necessarily about the holster, but about the passing-­through thing. Here I am half drowned and with bullets in my chest trying to fucking save this piece-­of-­shit world. Again. Maybe that doesn't qualify as just passing through anymore. Hell. Maybe I really am sticking around. But I'm still not folding towels.

By the time I'm on my feet, the rest of the hounds have run off after the cops or gone back to chasing down the chop shops. I find my goggles and get back on the bike. Slowly. Every move aches. The body armor might have kept the beatdown from cracking more of my insides, but my ribs took a pounding and the bullets danced a jig all over my insides. I sit still for a minute pulling myself together.