The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(27)

Then he saw me. “Al Kropp! My God, is that you? Jeez, kid, you’re like the Forrest Gump of supernatural disasters— you’re always everywhere!”

He clapped his hands together. “So! This it? This all you brought for the greatest intrusion event in the past three millennia? I feel a little disappointed, to tell you the truth.”

“You’re not the only one who is disappointed, Michael,” Abby Smith said.

“Well, like the old saying goes, you gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelet.” He spread his arms wide, palms facing toward us.

I saw the ring then, the Great Seal of Solomon, shining on his right hand. Twice as thick as the average wedding ring, it shone with a reddish, coppery color.

“Tell us what you want, Michael,” Abigail said.

“Oh, it’s not what I want, Abby,” Mike said. “Or what anybody wants, really. It’s more of what we need.”

Abby and Op Nine exchanged a puzzled look.

“Look, I’m not going to bust your chops,” Mike went on. “It’s a damned shame, but sometimes damned shames are necessary. Kind of like the demons here. That’s my new best friend Paimon on the camel with the thyroid condition. I’ve freed all of ’em, down to the last demon, and they’re all angry as hell, if you’ll excuse the expression. They’ve been cooped up in a cell the size of a birdcage for the past three thousand years. Things got a little testy in there, as you can imagine.”

“Enough,” Op Nine said sharply. His tone was like a father who had run out of patience with a lippy kid. “What do you want, Arnold?”

“Oh, it’s a little bigger than that, Padre. I’m just an insignificant blip on history’s radar.”

“Michael, we’re willing to negotiate,” Abby said. “But you are making that extremely difficult.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, Abby. It’s a wake-up call. You know, like the Russians putting up Sputnik. Whether it likes it or not, the world’s going to beat its swords into plowshares. Or else.”

He walked back to the monster camel with the mouthful of slobbery six-inch fangs. He turned to King Paimon, and then jerked his head back toward us.

“Kill them, Paimon,” he said. “Kill them all.”

23

One of the agents—I think it was Bert—raised his 3XD. Paimon’s right arm came up, the fingers spread wide in Bert’s direction. I expected some kind of death ray or lightning bolt or maybe a stream of hellfire to shoot from its open hand.

Instead, the hand snapped closed into a fist, and Bert blew apart. I mean, his body twisted and bulged like he was made of Play-Doh and then just exploded.

The team’s 3XDs opened up, and now this Paimon thing twisted and bulged as the rounds tore through its body, tearing it to pieces, but in seconds it was whole again.

I felt a blast of heat on the top of my head. The entire contingent of demons was descending on us.

I looked down and saw Mike hop onto the back of the camel and take off toward the mirage or oasis or whatever it was. I didn’t even think about it, just jumped on the nearest sand-foil and took off after him.

Despite its massive size, that camel could move. I yanked back on the throttle and soon the sand-foil was clocking 140 and shaking like it was going to break—I figured maybe the foils themselves would snap off and send me straight over the handlebars.

The front edges caught on something hard and suddenly I was airborne, two feet off the ground, now smooth and shiny, not sand anymore, but more like ice.

I landed hard on my stomach and slid four or five feet before coming to a stop. I scrambled to my feet, my boots slipping on this strange surface, and looked around.

Mike was standing on a makeshift platform or altar, with about a dozen robed men gathered around him, probably part of the Bedouin tribe Op Nine talked about. The damned camel was gone.

In front of the altar, sitting on another wooden platform, was a lidless copper jar. It could only be the Holy Vessel, where the demons had been imprisoned for three thousand years.

I walked toward him, cradling the 3XD, still slipping and sliding a little on the glassy ground. Mike laughed when he saw me coming.

“You know what that is?” he shouted at me. “Glass! Heat from the demons’ release fried the sand. Can you believe it?”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have anything left to say to Mike Arnold, who had literally dragged me into this whole thing and who was responsible for so many deaths.

I was going to get that ring from him or die trying.

I raised the 3XD—to hell with conserving ammo—and a dozen Uzis appeared from beneath the Bedouins’ robes.

“Fortunately, the ol’ Seal protects its wearer from a whole bunch of nasty consequences,” he said.

He whispered something to one of the tribesmen, and I saw the muzzle of his Uzi flash before feeling the punch in my thigh. The round knocked my feet out from under me and I landed right on my tailbone, which hurt almost as much as the bullet.

I pushed myself up, rocking now on my heels. I could feel the warm blood running down my leg.

I gritted my teeth and took a step toward Mike, bringing up the 3XD a second time.

The next bullet hit me in the right shoulder, the impact flinging my arm away. The 3XD clattered to the ground. I fell to my knees, pressing the heel of my left hand against the burning spot in my shoulder.