“We’ve got company,” he barked.
“Not Devina.” Jim would sense her, and as much as he would have loved to see the bitch and give her a piece of his goddamn mind he wasn’t picking up on any vibrations.
“No, the other kind of visitor.”
Fuck. XOps must have staked out the Marriott and seen them leaving. Not a surprise—just really sucky timing what with Matthias still looking like someone had unplugged him from his power source: The guy was better, but not fully back online.
“Let me go out there,” Jim said in a bored voice. “I know how they’re trained—”
“What’s happening?” Matthias said as he pushed himself upright.
“Nothing—”
“Nothing—”
Matthias grabbed the gun he’d been feeding lead into, the surge of energy a surprise. “Let me—”
“You stay here with Adrian—”
“Fuck that—”
“FYI you’re the target.”
“And you think that makes my aim bad?” Matthias focused on Ad. “What did you see out there?”
“Not much. I heard a stick crack off to the side and caught a flash of black that wasn’t a shadow. Next thing I knew I was hit—annoying, really.”
There was a heartbeat of frozen silence as Ad realized what he’d said—and so did Matthias.
“Do you need a doctor?” Matthias asked.
“No, I’m good.”
As the angel turned away, there was a hole in his jacket the size of a pea—and it was precisely in the center of his back, execution style. Clearly, XOps was still teaching its recruits how to be good little marksmen: If Adrian had been alive in the conventional sense, he would have been dead within seconds, the integrity of his heart muscle reduced to hamburger in his rib cage.
Bet that operative out there had been surprised when his target merely looked over and glared like someone had been snapping gum in a movie…then disappeared into thin air.
“Hell of a vest you must be wearing,” Matthias muttered.
“You stay put,” Jim commanded. “Ad, you—”
And that was when the wind came up from out of nowhere, the howling signifying so much more than a change in weather, the light draining from the sky not because a storm had arrived in the Jim Cantore sense, but because the demon’s minions had showed up.
Shit, one look at Adrian and Jim knew they were in trouble. The angel’s face had that nasty cast it took on when his mood meant you couldn’t deal with him. And what do you know: Outing his crystal dagger, he dematerialized right in front of Matthias, heading into the fray alone, obviously prepared to die out there.
“Did I see that right?” Matthias said calmly.
Jim glanced over and went for his own dagger. “You stay here. We’ll take care of this.”
Matthias didn’t seem all that bothered about the poof. Then again, he’d just gotten part of his backstory right, so he was clear that demons existed—and reality was pretty fungible when it came down to brass tacks.
He was, however, checking that gun like he was going to use it.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jim snapped. “I need you safe.”
Jogging to the door, he glanced back to see if the guy was paying attention, but the status of Matthias was not what caught his eye. Dog had gone over to the crawl space where Eddie was and had curled into a sit right against the door…as if he were guarding the angel’s sacred remains.
Which was good.
At this point, he’d take any help he could get.
As Matthias parted the drapes a little and looked out, Jim dematerialized, and prayed he could get things under control before his old boss acted on any bright ides.
Last thing he needed was a pair of wild cards.
35
As Matthias searched the pebbled drive, he smelled something bad—and not in the conventional, three-week-old-leftover sense. This stench was in more than just his nose; it penetrated the very pores of his skin and twisted his gut…and he knew what it was.
This was the Hell that he had been in made manifest. This was the horrid infection that had festered in his flesh.
It was back.
It was coming to get him.
A paralyzing fear took over his limbs, freezing him in place, rendering him incapable of thought or action. The torture and the helplessness, the goddamn eternity of what he’d found in Hell was a misery he couldn’t bear again—
Fuck. That.
The fighter in him surged to the fore and cut off the emotions, the cold logic that had for so long defined him taking over and reestablishing control, shutting the door on anything and everything but the fact that they were not taking him. No f**king way was he going back there.
He didn’t care what he had to sacrifice or who he had to kill—he was not going down again.
Gun was loaded. Body was willing. Mind was sharp.
That was what he knew for sure. The rest he was going to have to figure the f**k out.
A quick check for exits other than that side door yielded a big fat zero: Looked like that was the only ingress/egress—unless, of course, he considered windows.
In the bathroom, he found just what he was looking for: a three-foot-across, four-foot-high set of panes that opened out to the rear woods. Quick check and he thought, Shit, the sky had grown dim as the gloaming, the sun not just covered up, but consumed by the thick cloud cover that had blown in from wherever. But a sudden rainstorm was not what he was worried about: down on the ground, in and among the pines, shadows were moving, and not because someone was working a flashlight around the forest.
Fury threw open the center of his chest. Crossroads? Fuck that—try payback. In this moment, he had a chance to get back at those bastards, and he was damn sure going to take a pound or two out of them on the way to the exit.
As he popped the latch on the window, he was suddenly feeling like Mr. Popular and was so ready to return the love to whoever got in his path—XOps, cops, demons, whatever the f**k.
The window pushed all the way up like a dream, nice and quiet and smooth, but it let in the gale that was blowing outside, the cold wind hitting him in the face. Hefting himself off the floor and through the relatively small opening, he was grateful for two things: one, that he didn’t have his old body—because his formerly broad shoulders and big barrel chest would have been a tight squeeze; and two, that it was dark as the inside of a hat even though it was afternoon.
Good for him: Cover was his friend—at the moment, he was a sitting f**king duck.