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“Save it, honey,” Sylvester grumbled as he passed her. She rose out of her chair, sending her latte spilling all over the desk.
“Wait! You can’t go in there!” she shrieked. He ignored her.
Turning the corner, Sylvester blew past the rows of assistants on their headsets. They gave him curious, uncomprehending stares as he passed. He could hear the receptionist’s clacking stilettos on the tile behind him, most likely trying to raise an alert, but he didn’t bother to look back. He reached the end of the hall, turned, and threw open the glass doors of the conference room.
The Archangels were sitting around the conference table in intense discussion. Their jackets were thrown over chair backs, their ties loosened. An assistant had apparently brought in coffee and trays of sushi that were set in the middle of the table, along with glasses of imported sparkling water. On the flat screen, news chopper footage of the attack on the freeway was playing.
At Sylvester’s entrance the Archangels fell silent, looking up at him with surprised expressions. Sylvester glared back. He looked at the faces of the Archangels, backbone of the NAS. His eyes found Mark, who still wore his suit jacket and appeared stunned.
Finally, Mark spoke.
“What can we do for you, David?” he said calmly.
Sylvester came into the room, letting the door close with a clang behind him. Outside, assistants watched through the glass, horrified. One of the Archangels held up a hand to them, as if to indicate everything was all right.
Sylvester felt suddenly unsure of himself. His hands instinctively went to his glasses to polish them, but he caught himself, and instead he let them drop back to his sides. He took a shaky breath and spoke.
“You know how I feel about you and the NAS.”
He paused. They were silent.
“You know I believe all of this is wrong,” he said, motioning around at
the lavish surroundings of the conference room. “I believe it was never supposed to be this way, saving mortal lives for mortal money, for mortal vices. I believe you have led us astray. I believe your greed and corruption is directly responsible for the threat this city faces.”
Mark was silent, scrutinizing Sylvester intensely.
Sylvester felt his passion loosening his tongue.
“Now I want you to prove me wrong. I want you to prove to me that you still remember the old ways. That you still remember who you are. I want you to prove to me that you can defend those who can’t defend themselves, the victims, the sufferers, and the mortally endangered. Prove to me you can do your duty.” He looked around at their flawless faces. “This city needs you. Now rise up and protect it.”
A blond, chisel-faced Archangel rose.
“David. We’re working on it. These things have to be discussed first. Plans have to be approved with the city, as well as, of course, a price.”
Sylvester’s face darkened.
“You have to understand we can’t just ask Guardians to risk their lives—”
But Sylvester had stopped listening. Reaching down to his waist, he drew his service revolver.
The blond Archangel’s eyes grew wide.
Sylvester pointed the pistol at the large glass display case in the corner, the case holding the ancient armor and sword of a Battle Angel, and fired. The glass fell instantly in a cascade of ringing pieces. The bullet ricocheted off the armor and buried itself in the ceiling tiles. The room went deafeningly silent.
The armor and weapon stood in the shattered case. Ready.
Sylvester reached in and closed his grip around the hilt of the ancient sword. The weight of it was heavy in his hand as he brought it out. He turned to the Archangels and threw the sword onto the conference table, sending sushi rolls scattering, water glasses shattering under its tremendous weight.
Sylvester looked around at the startled faces of the Archangels. They had all gone silent.
“Now,” he said, his tone resolute, “where are the others?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The cold against his face. That was the first sensation he felt, the first coherent thought Jacks had since riding in the back of the SUV. His fingers became aware of the ground, cold and absolute beneath him. The wind whistled in his ears. As he lay there, fragments of a nightmare began to return to him. Terrible images swirled in his consciousness. Archangels ripped out of their seats next to him. Cars colliding violently with one another. Black-orange fireballs of death. And some kind of terrible thing. A monster. But the worst image of all was simpler than all the others. It played over and over like a horrible movie, refusing to stop.
A train station and a goodbye.
