Hellfire Drop (Brimstone Cycle Book 2)(12)
“He’s not where I left him.” I say. “He’s not in hell.”
I take another breath and continued, my voice echoing through the hollow insides of the industrial building.
“We know.” says the woman on the phone, shocking me. “We know that he’s here on earth, enslaved. What we don’t know is where on earth he actually is. That’s why we took you in the first place. To bring us to him.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I just stare at the outline of the driver sitting and the phone he holds behind the light, for a silent handful of seconds as my pistol whipped brain tries to process what I’d heard. I’d read up on Tom’s mercenary company three years ago, shortly before I’d found him and made him pay his share for Mary’s death. The mercenary shop that he ran was no small thing. They had spies on their payroll, and not just retired ex-Marines like Three Letter Agency. If any organization short of a nation state had a chance of tracking down a devil, it was the shop that employed these mercenaries.
Then again, I thought, locating a devil wouldn’t be much use to them. My ability to drop, when it works right at least, is a borrowed shadow of what devils like Ole Beeze and the one wearing Tom can do. Even if you find them, they could be a continent away moments later. Keeping up with them would be impossible.
Unless, just maybe, they had someone like me.
Out of all the people in the world, I would have had the best shot of keeping up with a devil. There’s few places I haven’t traveled, and even fewer devil dogs out there, real ones not Marines, who know how to drop quickly and on instinct without attracting fatal attention while in transit downstairs. If these mercenaries knew anything about the real me, they’d know that at least. Too bad they didn’t know that my drops were no longer working. Their plan wouldn’t work. Not with me. Not anymore.
I’m about to explain as much to the woman on the phone when a loud crunch-whumf interrupts us from outside. Two shapes in the corner of my eye run towards the windows a split second later. I turn my head to track them, and see that my eyes have adjusted enough to the bright light nearby for me to make out who they are and what they’re doing.
Three Letter Agency and Diner Boy are standing at opposite edges of one of the windows to my left. They crouch low behind cover, squinting out into the darkness outside of the building.
“What is it?” I ask from my spot on the chair.
“An accident.” says Diner Boy.
Three Letter Agency responds to him with a snort.
“If that’s an accident, then it’s the most pristine crash that I’ve ever seen. Bastard smacked right into the back of our van. We’re not going anywhere. Not that way at least.”
“Damage isn’t too bad.” replies Diner Boy. “Broken tail lights, dented bumper. We can clear the car, move it, and leave.”
The confidence in his voice makes me cringe a little. I’m a smuggler, not a shooter, but even I can tell that the crash was some kind of delaying action, or worse, a distraction. I’ve known my fair share of ex-soldiers, gangsters, mercenaries, rebels who’d been too proud of their own skill with a rifle to show hiccups in their plans the right level of respect. They had all been young, right down to the last man. I guess old fighters know better. I guess that’s how they got to be old in the first place.
“If you want to go out there, that’s fine with me. I’ll be staying here where there’s cover, though. Smart bet would be for you to stay here too. If this were Baghdad,” Three Letter Agency says, “I’d swear this is the lead in to an IED.”
“This isn’t Iraq.” says the younger mercenary, “No IEDs here. I’m going to go out back and circle around. Get an idea for things past the wire.”
“Take your weapon.” says the driver’s voice, still mostly hidden by the glare of the nearby lighting.
“Way ahead of you.” says Diner Boy, pulling out a pistol that had previously been concealed.
I hear a grunt from the driver, and the muted voice of the woman on the phone, apparently no longer on speaker.
“A real weapon.” he says. “Keep it shouldered and ready. I don’t like this. The boss doesn’t either.”
“Got it.” says Diner Boy, as he retrieves his shotgun. I hear him load a shell into the chamber before stepping out into the night outside.
“What else does the boss say?” asks the woman a moment later.
“About what you’d expect.” says the driver. “Head on a swivel. Do what needs to be done. Don’t let the package get her hands on a match or lighter.”
I try to keep quiet at that. I really do, but I can’t help myself.
“Heaven forbid I have a problem with being kidnapped.” I say. “Would be a shame for me to get away before I finish answering all of your questions.”
“It would be a shame.” says the driver, nonplussed. “Those were good men that you took along with you to Hell. None of them deserved what you did.”
“Good men?” I say,”They helped take my sister from me.”
“I was briefed on what happens to people down there.” says a different voice, Three Letter Agency, still crouching by the edge of the window. “I’ve seen some real monsters in my time, but the shit you pulled fucking takes the cake.”