Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm by G. T. Almasi Read Free Book Online

jobs. The dial says “Waterproof,” and I decide to never take it off, even when I’m in the shower. I wrap my arms around Cleo and kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I love it!”
    â€œYou’re welcome, sweetheart. Oh! There’s your ride.”
    Beep! Beep!
    A cab has pulled up outside, ready to take me to the airport. I open my bedroom window and shout, “Be right down!” The streetlight illuminates the driver in front and my partner in back.
    Cleo tries to pick up my bag for me. She grunts and oofs at its weight. She can barely even drag it.
    â€œMom, how about I take it and you get the door for me?”
    She lets go and brushes a stray hair off her face. “Ha-hm, yes, how about we do that.”
    I crouch down, wrap the bag’s carrying strap over my shoulder, and stand up. The heavy bag swings into my legs as I schlep it downstairs and out to the street. Mom waits with me while the cabbie dumps my duffel in the trunk.
    Brando rolls down his window. “Good morning, Mrs. Nico.”
    â€œHello, Patrick. Are you all ready?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. How do you like your new house?”
    â€œI’m still getting used to it, but I think we’ll be happy here.”
    The cab driver slams the trunk shut while I bop into the backseat. Brando slides over to make room for me.
    Mom leans down. “You two be careful.” Her voice is anxious, but she’s being brave. “Come back safe.”
    Brando and I both say, “We will.”
    The cab drives us away. Cleo wraps her arms around herself and goes back inside. I check my dad’s Bulova.
    My partner says, “Hey, nice watch.”
    â€œThanks. My mom gave it to me.”
    He says with a wry grin, “I’ve never seen brass knuckles that tell time.”
    â€œYes, it’s huge, wise guy. You’d better hope I don’t brass knuckle
you
with it. Besides, you’ll thank me when we’re in—” I glance at the driver. “—uh, where we’re headed, and we can tell time in the dark.”
    â€œI thought your Eyes-Up display had a clock in it.”
    I face Brando and shoot daggers from my eyes. It’s too dim for him to see them, so I say, “It’s my
father’s
watch, dummy! Plus, I can’t hit smart-asses like you with my Eyes-Up display.” I whack him on his arm with my big-ass Bulova.
    â€œOw!” He winces and rubs his arm. “Fine! I agree. An old mechanical wristwatch is a perfect addition to our collection of digital state-of-the-art covert activities equipment.”
    I swing at him again, but he quickly holds up his carry-all bag and blocks my strike. The bag—his constant companion—is a forest green military-style tactical pack he picked up in Berlin. The outer surface is an orgy of buckles, zippers, and straps. The flexible design allows it to hang over one shoulder, strap on like a backpack, or be slung across the chest, which is how my partner tends to wear it. Like my late partner’s Bag of Tricks, Brando’s tactical bag holds way more stuff than I’d think possible. A big X of black electrical tape on the front flap covers the hole I made when I thought he said it was bulletproof, which is why I call it the X-bag, although I’ve got other names for it, too.
    He opens his shoulder shed and rummages around inside. Then he hands me an update to our mission brief. I try to read the paper in the passing streetlights. I can’t catch any of it. My night vision is good for unlit spaces, but it isn’t so great for reading. Then an old memory floats up in my mind.
    Some nights my dad would pass out on the couch down in his shop either from too much work or too much drink. In the morning, if I found him down there, I’d snuggle my little grade-school self up against him. I left the lights off. I’d already learned my lesson about waking him up with bright lights when he’d had some drinks. If