40.

By the time I found the interstate I was shaking so badly, I could hardly keep us on the on-ramp. The pain in my head blurred my vision, but I could see streaks of black and gold as the burning hail hurtled down from the sky, and the tires went whump-whump-whump as we drove on the fiery hunks.

This wasn't illusion created by the demons to drive me mad; this was real and, looking to my left as we flew into the southbound lanes I saw orange and black everywhere, and the flashing red and white lights of fire engines. Chicago was burning.

"Op Nine!" I screamed. "Op Nine, wake up! You gotta tell me what to do!"

His head leaned against the window. His eyes were closed, but I could see him breathing, so he wasn't dead.

The interstate was deserted except for some cars that had either pulled into the emergency lanes or had been run off the road by the firestorm. I pushed us up to ninety-five, heading south, formulating the beginnings of a plan that probably wouldn't save the day but might save me and Op Nine long enough to fight tomorrow.

I looked into the rearview and saw a mass of black shapes, a flying wedge of short, fat creatures with soft, pointy hats rippling straight back as they raced toward us. I did a double take because it isn't every day you look in your rearview mirror and see a squadron of yard gnomes mounted on vampire bats the size of rottweilers, wielding lances tipped with fire and flaming swords, bearing down on you.

I pushed the accelerator all the way to the floorboards and kept pressing till the pressure made my knee ache. The old Taurus rattled and shook as the needle leaped to 110 and wavered there.

But I knew I could be flying the X-30 at Mach 6 and I wouldn't outrun these nasties. Op Nine might be a SPA, answerable to no laws except the natural ones, but these things answered to no rules period. They came before any of the rules had been written.

They swarmed around the car, and little flaming darts smacked against the windshield, the hood, and the trunk, exploding with firecracker-loud pops. The gnome riders were smiling and the bats' razor-sharp fangs were about four inches long, dripping goo and glimmering in the streetlights. It was all I could do to keep us from skidding off the road and slamming into the concrete barrier separating us from the northbound lanes.

Four gnomes dropped off their mounts onto the hood. They attacked the windshield with flaming axes, hacking at the cracked glass with those ironic little smiles frozen on their faces. I heard more smacking and cracking behind me, and figured more gnomes were skittering around on the trunk, chopping at the back window. Red and orange tracers lit the night sky as the flaming ice boulders rained down. Great hunks of concrete spun into the air with each impact. We roared by a car balanced on its roof and another one that had burned down to its axles.

I yelled at Op Nine to wake up. I yelled at the bat-riding gnomes to cut it out. I yelled at myself for looking into the demon's eyes and then I yelled at myself for not giving the ring to Op Nine when I had the chance.

And when my throat was raw from all the yelling at everybody, I figured enough was enough and, if I didn't do something drastic, the hell that had broken loose because of me was going to get a lot hellier, and "hellier" wasn't even a damn word.

So I slammed on the brakes. The gnomes on the hood lost their footing and slapped into the windshield, then slid out of sight. The rear wheels locked and the car went into a skid. I actually laughed aloud at that point and shouted at them: "Ha! Guess you bats don't got brakes, do ya? Do ya?" The Taurus careened sideways and that's how we came to a stop, with fiery ice balls zipping and popping on the road all around us. I didn't stop to think. There wasn't time. I got out of the car and waited.

It was very quiet, except for the ice hissing on the pavement and the distant sirens of the fire trucks.

It came alone, three feet tall, wearing a pointy red cap, a green shirt, blue suspenders, and brown shoes, with a smile frozen on its face, and I knew without knowing how I knew that this was the same creature that had posed as Mike's mom and my mom. The same eyeless creature that had blocked my way out at the front door.

I held up my hands.

"I'm unarmed!" I called over to it. It stopped about fifty feet away and cocked its little gnome head at me.

"I've had enough!" I continued. "You win. I'll get you the Vessel, but you gotta stop harassing me like this!"

I paused, waiting for the gnome to say something. It didn't.

"Just tell me where to find you once I have it."

The lips didn't move; I heard the voice inside my head.

Meet us at the gate.

"The gate?" I shouted. I wasn't sure why I was shouting.

"What gate?"

The gateway to hell. The devil's door.

"And where's that? Where's the devil's door?"

Two days, Alfred Kropp.

"Two days or what?"

It didn't answer. It didn't need to. Op Nine had already told me: They will consume us.

"Okay," I said. "Okay. But I'm not sure where-"

And then the gnome disappeared, vanishing with a loud pop! and I was alone on the highway.

Well, not completely alone. I took a deep breath and hopped back into the car. Op Nine hadn't moved, but his jaw muscles were working overtime and his eyes were rolling behind his charcoal-colored eyelids. Maybe he was dreaming. I had hoped I was dreaming back in the Arnold house, and that's what will get you in trouble. Not the hoping. The dreaming.

41.

I managed to get us off the interstate and back to the Drake in one piece. It wasn't easy. The highway was littered with chunks of asphalt and abandoned cars, and once I got off the interstate I inched along, weaving through a massive traffic jam, every street clogged with cars and bicycles, and people dodging between them carrying suitcases. I passed broken storefront windows and could see people milling about inside, looting.

I didn't see any valets in front of the hotel, so I double-parked about two blocks away. The wind howled and swirled and little flecks of burning ice stung my cheeks and I worried one would land in my eye and blind me. Op Nine's head lay in the crook of my neck as I dragged him into the lobby. Nobody paid any attention to us because the place was crazy, the front counter packed ten people deep and cell phones ringing and people mingling about either talking very fast or talking not at all but walking around with dazed expressions, and I thought, Hang on, people, 'cause you ain't seen nothin' yet.

Back in our room, I threw Op Nine on the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He was shivering pretty badly, muttering under his breath, and his right eyelid twitched. I'd figured out by this point what was wrong with him, so I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, rolled him onto his side, and tied his hands behind his back. The towel was too thick and the knot too big to hold him for long, but it might give me a few seconds to get to him once he woke up.

Then I searched his pockets.

A handkerchief, a travel-sized plastic bottle of Visine, nose spray, a comb, and a crucifix. Then I found his cell phone and clicked through the address book. I highlighted the entry called "HQ" and was rewarded with a recording that all circuits were busy and to try my call again later. I didn't have much "later" left, nobody did, but I slipped the phone into my pocket to try later or in case it rang.

I went into the main room and booted up the laptop. This time I tried to crack the code, but nothing worked, including such attempts as "SPA," "NINE," "9," and "OUR FATHER."

I went back into the bedroom and sat beside him.

"The phone lines are out," I told him as he lay there, muttering and sweating. "I can't get into your computer and we have forty-eight hours till they consume us. Well, more like forty-six hours. I know you're hurting right now, but sometimes you have to suck it up and just push through. Take it from me; I've done more sucking it up than your average NFL quarterback.

"I need the access code to your computer, Nine. We've got to get in touch with headquarters, let them know what's happened, and come up with some kind of plan. It would also be helpful to know what and where the devil's door is, and you're the expert. I'm just a kid mucking around with these demons, and I'm losing my grip. I mean, I think I'm going insane. I've been having these hallucinations about killing you, so I'm starting to not trust myself when it comes to homicidal impulses. I've got to get a grip on this situation because right now it's got a grip on me-both of us, I guess."

He probably couldn't hear a word I said. I got a wet washcloth from the john and wiped his face with it and shouted right in his ear, but nothing worked.

Back in the main room, I opened up the minibar (I figured we were traveling on the corporate tab) and ate a chocolate bar, drank a Coke, then brought a bottle of Evian back into the bedroom and dumped the contents over his hound-dog head. He still didn't wake up. I felt pretty bad about doing that, so I fetched a towel from the bathroom and dried him off the best I could.

"They get you with the worst thing," I told him. "For me it was my mom. What are they doing to you? What's the worst thing, Nine?"

I had a feeling I knew, and that gave me an idea. I sat back down in front of his IBM ThinkPad and typed in "ABKHAZIA." A box popped up on the toolbar: "WELCOME NINE."

I clicked on the SATCOM folder. The screen flickered, then another message box popped up: "SATCOM DOWN." Below it was the little e-mail icon, so I clicked on that and his in-box popped up. There was only one message.

From: Aquarius To: Nine Subject: RE: OPREQ As you predicted, Research advises active agent cannot be cloned or synthesized. What an annoying habit you have of always being correct. Accordingly, unless conditions on the ground warrant otherwise, protect at all hazards the ACTAGE carrier. Do not put him in harm's way unless absolutely necessary.

Aquarius I read this twice. What was "OPREQ"? Operational Requirement? Operative Request? "ACTAGE" must be short for "active agent," but what was the active agent he was talking about? Then I remembered the briefing, and Op Nine talking about the 3XDs and the active agent, the whatever it was that gave the ammo its bite. And I remembered asking him in the desert if the bullets were loaded with holy water and him saying no, it was something he hoped was more powerful.

Then I remembered my dream, of the gigantic Kropp Fish and the little suckers all over my body, and how when I first woke up on the Pandora, I was dizzy and drank those big glasses of orange juice. I remembered the soreness under my arm, and suddenly it all came together. The sore spot must have been the insertion point for the needle they used. The needle to drain my blood.

I read the e-mail again: ". . . protect at all hazards the ACTAGE carrier . . ."

I clicked on the other boxes: Sent Mail, Trash, Drafts, but every file was blank.

So I clicked on the Compose button and wrote: To: Aquarius From: Nine Subject: Help I'm not sure who you are, but I guess you're Director Merryweather. This is Alfred Kropp. I broke into this computer bcuz Op Nine is hurt. Still in Chi. City burning. Two days to get Vessel or world ends. Need help here. Send help.

AK.

I hit the Send button and the message vanished. Then a dialogue box popped up.

Message Undeliverable: Unknown Recipient "Wuddya mean?" I yelled at the computer. " 'Unknown recipient'?"

I hit the Compose button again.

To: Aquarius From: Nine Subject: Help This is Alfred Kropp. We need help. No Hyena in Chi. Raining fire. Op Nine very hurt. 2 days or else. Send help!

AK.

I hit the Send button and again the little box popped up. I clicked on his address book and a long list popped onto the screen. So I wrote a third e-mail to everyone on the list, a kind of bulk mail SOS.

To: ALL COMPANY PERSONNEL From: Nine Subject: Help us This is Alfred Kropp. Op Nine very hurt. 2 days to give them Vessel. Don't have Vessel. Don't have Hyena. Where is devil's door? Please send help.

AK.

I held my breath, my index finger hovering over the touch pad. I clicked, waited, and then a box popped up.

Message Undeliverable: Unknown Recipients I gave a yell of frustration and pushed back from the table. From the bedroom Op Nine moaned loudly, as if in answer.

His body jerked on the bed and his head lolled back and forth on the pillow. His color, never very healthy looking, now looked even worse, a kind of burnt orange, and spit rolled from his open mouth. I went into the bathroom for a fresh washcloth and caught my reflection in the mirror.

I froze. Red spots with white centers the size of nickels had appeared all over my face and neck. I touched one on my cheek. It was like pressing the head of a hot match against my skin, and I yanked my finger away. What now? What the hell were they doing to me now? I pulled the sweater off and lifted the shirt underneath. The marks were there too, and on my back. I was covered in boils.

"Okay," I muttered, dropping my shirt and ducking my head over the sink as I wet the washcloth. "Okay. Pustulating boils. That's fine. You wanna play hardball. I can take it."

I returned to the bed and wiped Op Nine's face.

"I can't get through," I told him. "I don't know, maybe headquarter's been destroyed or something. We're on our own and since I can't get through to you either, I guess that means I'm on my own. Not a happy development in terms of MISSCOMP." He moaned, eyes jerking behind fluttering lashes.

"You guys did lie to me," I went on. "I'm the carrier. My blood is the active agent in the 3XD ammo. You must have taken a couple pints from me on the ship to put in your guns, and that's really low. That borders on the despicable. You could have just asked. But I guess being a SPA means you never have to ask. No wonder Ashley told you to take a hike. You're gonna have to answer for that, but you're not going to have a chance to answer because they've scooped you out too, and you can't help me find Mike or the devil's door and so everything's screwed. Game over."

His arms began to pull against the knotted towel, his fingers clawing in the air. I didn't have much time before he went for his eyes. I went back into the bathroom and smashed one of the drinking glasses in the sink, picked up the longest shard, and without even a second of hesitation cut my left palm open and walked back to the bed, my hand raised over the level of my heart, palm upward, cupping the blood.

I sat on the edge of the bed, dipped two fingers into the blood pooling in my palm, and smeared the blood over his eyelids, saying the whole time, "Now in the name of Saint Michael, I order you to be whole-though I oughtta . . ." Then I stopped, because a healing was no place for bitterness. "So be healed, Operative Nine, be healed."

I traced a cross on his forehead with my blood and then took my hand away. The moaning stopped, the eyes went still, and the hands relaxed. I gave his shoulder a little poke, but he didn't wake up. Something had happened, though.

I wrapped a hand towel around my left hand, dragged myself into the main room, collapsed on the sofa, and lay there for a few minutes before I got back up, went into the bathroom, and trimmed my toenails.

Then I went back to the sofa, threw an arm over my eyes, and fell asleep. It would be the last sleep I got for a very long time.

42.

I don't remember what I dreamed during that last bit of sleep before my final showdown with the demon king. But when I woke up I knew my next move.

Op Nine was still flat on his back, but his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. The towel must have come loose at some point while I slept, because his arms were crossed over his chest, the way they arrange dead people in caskets, and that unnerved me, like a portent of things to come.

"Op Nine?" I said softly.

His eyes rolled in my direction, but his head didn't move. The dried blood on his eyelids and forehead had turned a rusty red.

"What," he croaked, "is an 'Op Nine'?"

"That's complicated," I said. "But don't worry, your memory will come back. Mine did, so I don't see any reason why yours wouldn't. Here's the deal: we're in Chicago right now, but we won't be for very long. We've lost contact with HQ and so we're going solo. You've been attacked by demons, only you don't like that word, but sometimes you gotta call a spade a spade. My name is Alfred Kropp."

"Alfred Kropp!" His eyes widened. "I know that name!"

"I'm going to order some room service because I haven't had anything except a Snickers and a Coke-not counting the dead cat, which I'd rather not."

"Dead cat?"

"You want anything?"

He swallowed. "Perhaps some water."

"Bottled or tap?"

He didn't answer. I fetched a bottled water from the mini-bar and held it to his lips while he drank. He emptied it in about four swallows.