Felon sat in a rental car up the street from 232 Towerview Terrace, Level Four. The car was a wreck. He had paid a large cash deposit and used forged driver’s license and identification to drive it off the Level One lot. It was an old Ford, a rusty Pinto from a pre-Change seventies fad that had struck the City in the post-Change sixties. Felon knew that it was worth considerably less than the down payment but with the extra green, the dealership would be less inclined to miss it and might not even look for the heap if it didn’t return. And he’d always found that if you paid well people rarely asked probing questions. He didn’t quibble about the money, it was the cost of doing business, and this job was going to make him wealthy.
The afternoon was dark-it was always dark in the City. He wanted to get a feel for the neighborhood, get a glimpse of his prey.
From his hunter’s blind he had watched people come and go. It had rained off and on all day, beyond the layers of concrete, asphalt and steel that made up the levels above. At its highest point, the City was six layers thick and was well into adding its seventh. There didn’t seem to be any plan to construction. The City just added neighborhoods when they were needed. There was still a constant influx of refugees from the failing inland cities and states, and the wealthy from around the world had begun to make the trip, paying enormous sums of money for Sunsight apartments in the upper reaches. It wasn’t progress. Felon knew it was decay. The City was an expensive refugee camp for the survivors of all that was left of North America. There were similar cities on the other continents-fancy catch basins. They didn’t know they were fucked.
The assassin sneered and looked out at a fine mist that hung in the air. Runoff and any rain that got through the Carapace poured down road, building and Skyway gutters to collect in vastly inadequate and aging sewer systems on successive levels. These were originally designed to channel the descending torrents of water to the sewers that ran beneath the City-from there out to the sea. But, the sewers weren’t designed for such growth, and were incapable of keeping up with the vast quantities of precipitation that fell. So the water seeped through cracks and holes in this overtaxed system to form a dirtier and rustier rain that fell on the level below where the process was repeated.
It added a steely gray dampness to the cold air and darkened the street in puddles. The chill leached up through the tires, the car frame and into Felon’s bones. He resisted the urge to run the heater-exhaust was like a smoke signal-and he was already running a risk with a cigarette. His prey was partly omniscient so any activity was dangerous. 232 Towerview Terrace was about one hundred feet up the block from him. This Level Four neighborhood would consider itself upscale. He imagined there was a time that you could see the Tower from the street. Now it was completely obscured by buildings and massive supports for Level Five. The monolith punched through Level Five about thirty blocks to the south. The view was gone now but must have been impressive before the upper level was clamped into place.
People trudged past through sporadic drizzle. It was rare to see anyone hurry through the perpetual wet anymore. It was going to get you sometime. Umbrellas and hat brims sagged against the onslaught. Raincoats glistened like polished steel.
The assassin hated the people who passed. He took grim pleasure wishing each one dead. They were losers, every one-unredeemable. Divine and Infernal creatures were right to view them with contempt. The human race had been was destroying the planet before the Change came, gearing up for a manmade apocalypse. The assassin hated that part of the Change; by robbing humanity of the responsibility for its own destruction it let the hypocrites off the hook. He shrugged his hatred away, useless hate. If the situation developed fast, he’d have to be free of emotion. Hating people was like a shunt for his passions. He had to be clean of feeling-sometimes if he hated hard enough, he needed a cigarette after.
He tossed his cigarette out the window. Even its sizzle in the damp street concerned him. But with the pedestrians and the raucous traffic he doubted his quarry could stand being so finely attuned. Setting a hand on his gun, he lit a fresh cigarette, bared his teeth through the smoke.
Felon turned to the papers on the seat beside him. Margaret Travers. Age (Pre-Change): 37. Height: 5’ 8”, Weight: 130 lbs., Hair: Brown, Eyes: Green. Felon pulled her picture out. Pale, a few freckles around the nose. Full lips. Slight overbite. She was employed as a paralegal for Divine amp; Fair Law, a firm that represented the Jehovah’s Witness offices in Archangel Tower. Travers had worked with them off and on for forty years, and acted as temp secretary for offices of other world religions in the Tower.
The assassin imagined her Angel boyfriend putting the moves on her there. A little cinnamon smell to the air-a sprinkling of cologne. No woman would be able to resist a Divine creature’s powers.
He looked up from the papers, glared at the buildings. Travers owned one of the unimaginative condominiums that lined both sides of the street. Hers had seven green steps that led up to the two-story brick structure. The number and mailbox were brass, as was an ornate knocker on the dark wooden door and railing that followed the steps up to it. The file said she worked until 5 p.m., sometimes ate at Daniel’s Cafe but most often made dinner for herself at home. She was punctual person with a penchant for rock climbing and bicycling.
Felon set a cautionary note next to the rock climbing. Since death was no longer permanent with the Change, most people avoided thrill seeking, since living death was everyone’s worst nightmare, especially a death by massive trauma-like a fall from a cliff. After Blacktime, the unconscious period between life and living death, bones and contusions did not heal. There were surgical and repair techniques that could fix broken bones and skeletal injuries, but few people took the chance of dying lightly. Travers was a risk taker and she could be dangerous. He’d he cap her fast.
Felon set the file down. Most likely, Travers didn’t know her boyfriend was an Angel. When one of the Divine or Infernal host walked the earth, he did so as a mortal for the duration of his stay. Powerful-but mortal. And mortality bred cowardice among the immortal. While they walked the earth, they could catch colds, sprain an ankle or be seriously compromised by a high caliber bullet. They retained a large percentage of their Divine powers of perception, and they had immense strength. If they had the time to shift into their Divine forms they were invincible.
Felon looked back to Travers’ file. Passport had delivered it and a notarized document for the 3 million dollar cash deposit in the assassin’s account. A quick call to the bank confirmed it. The file saved him having to do the backgrounder himself and he was short of time. Using the Demon’s research presented some risks, but the Baron had a legion of Demon soldiers he commanded if he wanted Felon out of the way. There was no need for the ruse.
Just before three-thirty, the assassin watched a bus pull up to the curb across the street about seventy-five yards south of him. That was her bus. She’d be on it at six. A figure bundled in a wine-colored trench coat got out and walked along the block toward the Travers’ condo. As he watched, Felon struggled with his suspicions. He didn’t want to trust Balg and hated more the fact that by proxy he had put his faith in a Fallen. But the money was delivered. And they knew who they were dealing with.
Felon looked away when he realized the approaching figure was a woman. He’d found that women could sense a stare. He had no scientific proof, but they seemed to know when someone’s full attention was on them. Even if he was well hidden women could tell when they were being watched.
Men were easier to surprise. For the majority, if they had no reason to suspect a trap, it didn’t enter their minds. Probably had something to do with the fact that men were not preyed on as often. So for women, the assassin had cultivated the sideways glance. He watched as she hurried against the gusting wind and rain with one hand holding the brim of her dark fedora and the other clenching a briefcase to her chest. The woman glanced at the car, looked away and glanced again. Felon dropped further down in his seat when she got close. The Angel would be attuned to living things. Might even scan the street through other eyes. The assassin had parked far enough away, but he knew too much about Angels to take any extra risk. The woman relaxed her grip on the brim of her hat as she walked past Travers’ home.
Felon made a mental note to park farther from the bus stop next time. He took a deep breath and let his mind shift back to the hunt. The hit had to be fast. An Angel took about a second to shift to his immortal form, and the only way to delay that was with heavy damage. High-powered handguns would be best. Automatics, so he could chew a big hole quick.
Felon felt adrenaline rush through him as he inventoried his armament. He would have his. 9 mm in one armpit, and the. 44 magnum in a handmade holster across his belly-three speed-loaders for that. He’d sling his Derringer in a holster between his shoulder blades. He’d stick a. 38 revolver in his right boot and a 12-inch bayonet in his left. He counted extra clips and speed-loaders for all the guns. Beneath his black suit and overcoat he would wear lightweight Kevlar body armor and padding. All he needed was that second delay.
He started the car and pulled away from the curb. He’d drive a big loop and park farther down so he could watch Travers when she got off work at five. Balg’s file showed her off tomorrow, which would be a good time for her Angel boyfriend to stop by for some earthly delights.
Felon would kill everything in the house.