“It was Bloody’s fault!” Tiny hissed. He knew they might have to take the gunman out, and they had a long history.
“Yep. Bloody never did know better.” Driver reached for another cigarette, got up and walked to the window. “We ain’t his nursemaids. Let’s go tell him. If he don’t want to come in with us, he can go to hell. I’m gettin’ tired of his shootin’ and cryin’ and that damn old tape… This Change just screwed everythin’ up, otherwise we’d be droppin’ flowers at his grave.” A whimsical look passed over his face. “You know, we’d have got him a nice piece of marble or some such, could’a carved somethin’ sweet on it about tiptoeing through them tulips like we done after Killer got blowed to smithereens.”
“Yep.” Tiny checked the action of his gun. It was the same one that Driver had given him a century before. Much of it had worn away and been replaced, but the body of it belonged in a museum. “Do you know what they were fighting about when it happened?”
“I believe it was a squabble over a gun,” Driver sighed, and looked out toward the driving shed. “Felon was always a straight shooter. I just wished he hadn’t pumped eight bullets into old Bloody.” He looked at Tiny. “Didn’t need eight.”
“If you were killing Bloody, wouldn’t you put eight into him?” Tiny joined him at the window. “Felon was always an overachiever though. He was the best because of it. Eight’s a lot to you and me and Bloody, of course; but to a guy like Felon it’s just doing business the right way.”
“Still, one bullet and we could’a sold Bloody on it bein’ a crime of passion.” Driver studied his nails. “ Eight is just plain mean.”
“You got to be mean in this business.” Tiny smirked, studying the round stones of the barn’s foundation.
“Let’s tell him.” Driver’s face was dark. His eyes flashed like cash registers.
“Let’s tell him in the desert. We got to meet Felon in the City of Light in two days.” Tiny grabbed the first hint of a sales plan.
“Two days? With them bad roads, and only one rusty ferry to cross the Mississippi Sea!” Driver frowned. “That’s quite a drive.”
“That’s why we call you Driver.” Tiny laughed.
32 – The Captive
No one was guarding the dark blue door as the Prime approached. There were guards, but the thing needed more than Authority Enforcers to keep it captive. Learning a way to bind it had taken years-and gave him an education written in blood. But the Prime had to increase his Powers, and those of his allies to fix the final locks and set an invisible watch upon the prison.
The somber Central Operative walking beside him was silent. He hadn’t uttered a word in the elevator as they had dropped to the Tower’s lowest level. The leader of the western world did not make a habit of inviting mere soldiers to his inner sanctum, but he had long encouraged a campaign of disinformation to keep his military arm dubious to the realities of his other research. He had no wish to share his true might with them.
The Prime had a section of Central Operations devoted to Powers research and trained its members as adepts. His Operatives collected information about Powers but were encouraged to doubt them. The Prime felt the blind necessary for two reasons: It was none of their fucking business. And secondly, they were less likely to abuse information they discovered if they didn’t think it was real. Some of his adepts were beginning to suspect that there was more than scientific research going on, but those could be dispatched, as others had.
The Prime could name two that had just participated in his Sending who were one mistake away from being ground up and fed to the Tower gardens.
He came to a halt at the end of the hallway. What would look to the Operative to be eight yards of gray polished tiles was actually a mini-biosphere of Infernal creatures. The Prime had painted the protection symbols himself. They were the culmination of fifty years of top-secret investigations combined with Powers loaned him by his allies. He would not trust his adepts to do the spells. There were arcane symbols painted in the Ardor of Fallen. Knowledge of those symbols meant knowledge of the Powers upon which the Prime based his ambitions. With the symbols in place, he could maintain his grip on the Divine plan. He wouldn’t even imagine what would happen, should they be broken.
It was simple for him to walk across the tiles without alerting any of the invisible defenses. The path was ingrained in memory. He was obsessed with it. Sometimes on his sleepless nights he would traverse the corridor to gaze upon his prized possession. He was the only human being who could do that. Since the Prime had laid the symbols, he was able to move by them without disturbing the Powers they contained. They were drawn to keep Divine and Infernal Powers away.
God help any man or woman that tried to walk them. The invisible creatures turned the color of blood as they fed upon the unwary. In a moment of indulgence, the Prime had tested the protective spells on an unwitting functionary from the mayor’s office. His empty husk was burned in the Tower incinerator.
Today, with his companion, he’d have to be sure that none of the symbols were disturbed. This Operative had to survive the meeting because he needed to know the truth of magic, so he could investigate the events of the last two days. He turned to the man’s impassive black face. “Place your feet where I set mine.”
The Prime then gingerly, energetically danced his way past the symbols and to a broad step before the dark blue door. His business suit constricted his actions, and he pined for the freedom of his Sending robes. It was still impressive. How a man of his bulk could move with such energy was a mystery; but none knew of his Powers or his Union.
The Operative waited. The Prime watched his features, waited for the first sign of mockery. But there was nothing of the kind, the Operative followed, mimicking the movements exactly until he stood breathlessly beside his superior.
The Prime had already explained the symbols to the Operative. He accepted the information with a shrug. An Operative might think the Prime had gone insane but would never say it. The Prime turned to the door. He waved a hand across its unmarked surface-and it answered the gesture with the grate of brass on steel-a deep boom, and the door slid into a recess in the wall. Before them was a foot-thick window of polycarbonate that covered the doorframe from floor to sill and was blemished with three small holes half way up its face.
Beyond the covering was darkness. The Prime was pleased that some small cloud of apprehension had appeared on the Operative’s features.
“You!” The Prime tapped the plastic barrier. “I command you to speak!” He paused to drink in the wonderful moment of anticipation. He noticed sweat on the Operative’s brow.
As always there was never a sign of life behind the wall. The black was complete. This darkness held a moment longer, its opacity reflecting their images on the plastic. Then the Prime felt it-a presence in the black, as absolutely powerful as the darkness that imprisoned it. The leader of Westprime tapped the barrier again. He knew that a being was inside watching him. He could feel its hatred. So many years had he kept it in darkness, he wondered from time to time if it had gone insane. Perhaps time was different to it.
“You will do as I command you.” The Prime matter-of-factly studied his nails, a show of bravado for the Operative. These things hated insolence.
The air around him changed, it grew chilly-the Operative looked at him uncomprehending. The Prime knew it was an attempt by the captive to Send Power. The damned thing always tried something. He could see that the Operative was unprepared-the Power had rocked him on his heels and he’d taken a step back. The Prime broke the spell.
“Stop or go to Limbo!” His voice echoed into his face. “Do as I say.” He paused a moment to let the Operative see he had control. “Now!”
“Your time is running out!” a voice whispered through the holes in the acrylic. Its tone held husky secrets. “You do not understand this Prime.”
“Silence! I didn’t ask you to speak.” The Prime’s cheeks flushed scarlet. Threaten me in front of the help?
“And yet, I speak,” the voice carried on.
“Silence!” The Prime had a second of doubt. If he lost control, if someone had tampered with his
