The Reapers

Louis watched the city flash by the window. Everything-the cab, the people, the lights-seemed to be moving too fast. Louis was a man who liked to be in control, but that control was being ceded to others: Gabriel, his unseen contacts, and now Nicholas Hoyle.

“All right, make the arrangements.”

“I will. You’ll have to go unarmed. Hoyle doesn’t allow weapons inside the penthouse.”

“Gets better and better.”

“I’m sure that you can handle anything that may arise. Incidentally, I raised the federal matter with some potentially interested parties. I believe it will be dealt with to your satisfaction.”

“And who might those interested parties be?”

“Oh, you know better than to ask that. Now, if you’d just let me out here, I’ll be on my way. And please pay the cab driver. It’s the least that you can do for me after all that I’ve done for you.”

Bliss drove north, an anonymous figure on an anonymous highway, just another pair of headlights burning whitely in the dark. Soon he would leave the road and find a place to rest for the night. Rest, not sleep. He had not slept properly in many years, and he lived in constant pain. He desired peaceful oblivion more than almost anything else on earth, but he had learned to survive on a few hours of slumber brought on by the exhaustion that eventually overcame his residual agonies. The treatment of his injuries, and his efforts to stay ahead of his pursuers, had depleted him not only physically, but financially, too. He had been forced to resurface, but he had chosen his paymaster carefully. In Leehagen, he had found someone who could satisfy both his financial and his personal needs.

The bottle containing Billy Boy’s blood lay in a padded box at the bottom of Bliss’s small suitcase. Leehagen had wanted him killed on his land, but Bliss had refused. It was too dangerous. But as the knife left his hand, and he saw the look of understanding on Billy Boy’s face before he died, Bliss knew that his gifts were still intact. It gave him confidence for what was to come.

That night, as he lay on his bed in a modest, clean motel room, humming softly to himself, he thought of Louis with the ardor of a lover journeying to meet his betrothed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE HEADQUARTERS OF HOYLE Enterprises stood a few blocks from the UN, so the surrounding streets were a Babel of diplomatic plates, creating uneasy relationships between bitter international enemies now forced to share valuable parking space. Hoyle’s building was unremarkable: it was older and smaller than most of the adjacent towers and stood at the eastern extreme of a public area that extended partially into the vicinity of the neighboring blocks to the north, south, and west, creating a natural boundary between Hoyle and the edifices around him.

In the twenty-four hours since the meeting with Gabriel, Louis and Angel had sourced the blueprints for Hoyle’s building, and Angel, aided by a bored Willie Brew and a slightly less bored Arno, had watched it for an entire day. It was a precaution, an effort to establish some sense of the rhythms of the building, of how deliveries were dealt with, of shift changes and lunch breaks among the security guards. It wasn’t long enough to form any accurate determination of the risks involved in entering, but it was better than nothing.

Actually, to Willie it was worse than doing nothing. He could have been doing nothing in the relative comfort of his own apartment, instead of doing something that he wasn’t enjoying far from any comfort at all. Arno had spent most of their watch reading, which seemed to Willie to defeat the purpose of keeping an eye on the building to begin with, but then Willie supposed that Arno was just killing time, too. Louis was reluctant to have them return to the auto shop just yet, which meant that Willie could either sit in his apartment and watch TV that didn’t interest him, or sit in a car and watch a building that didn’t interest him either. One good thing had resulted from their efforts: Willie had decided that, Louis or no Louis, he and Arno were going back to work soon. Even after only a couple of days of lounging around, Willie felt as though something was dying inside him.

Hoyle’s penthouse occupied the top three floors of the building. The remainder was given over to his offices. While Hoyle-owned companies were involved in mining, property, insurance, and pharmaceutical research, among other interests, the beating heart of his operation lay behind the modest façade of the Manhattan office. This was the parent company, and it was in this building that all power ultimately resided. A small but steady stream of people moved in and out of the lobby throughout the day, the flow increasing between twelve and two, and becoming almost entirely one-way traffic after five. Angel had spotted nothing untoward during his period of surveillance, and neither had Willie or Arno. There were no men carrying RPGs stationed behind the pillars, and he could see no heavy artillery hidden among the potted plants.

Then again, as Gabriel had noted, Hoyle had approached Louis through the proper cha

There was one security guard behind the desk, and he merely nodded them through. Only one elevator was open in the lobby, and it had no buttons inside or out. The interior was mirrored. There was no visible camera. Angel figured that meant there were probably at least three: one behind each mirrored wall, and maybe a pinhole fourth behind the small video screen displaying the numbers of the passing floors. The elevator was also likely to be miked, so neither man spoke. They merely watched their reflections in the gleaming brass of the doors, one apparently contentedly, the other critically. Angel didn’t like mirrors. As Louis had once pointed out, mirrors didn’t like him either, remarking that “even your reflection probably leaves a stain.”

When the display read “PH,” the elevator stopped and the doors opened silently. There were two men waiting for them in an otherwise empty foyer, with more mirrors on the walls and a vase of freshly cut flowers standing on a small marble plinth. Both men wore black suits and matching funeral ties, and both carried metal detector wands. They swept them over Angel and Louis, pausing to check belts, coins, and watches, then indicated that they should proceed. A pair of carved wood doors, Oriental in origin, and clearly old, opened to reveal a third man. He was dressed more casually than the others: black trousers and a black wool jacket over an open-collared white shirt. His hair was neither too long nor too short and was pushed casually over his ears at the sides, as though he cared just enough to keep it tidy, and nothing more. His eyes were brown, and Angel detected in his features a mixture of amusement, frustration, and professional jealousy. He had the build of a swimmer: broad across the shoulders, but slender and muscular overall. The jacket hung loose enough to hide a gun, and was unbuttoned.

Angel felt Louis relax slightly, but the response was the opposite of what it appeared to be. When Louis relaxed, it was an indication that a threat was at hand and he was preparing to act, as when an archer releases a breath simultaneously with the flight of the arrow, cha