Which brings us back to the question of who's the big meat eater along this food chain, Homeland Security or the Golden Vigil? Whoever controls the money is in the driver's seat. The gray-suit guys back east might pony up the money now, but I have a hard time believing that if Washington pulled the plug, the Vigil couldn't support itself. You can stuff a lot of loot into the cookie jar over seventy thousand years.
WHEN I PULL into the parking lot of the Vigil's warehouse, a couple of G-men dressed like rent-a-cops hold up their hands for me to stop. Being highly trained security professionals with keen powers of observation, they leap and lurch out of the way when they see that I'm not slowing down. By the time I'm up to the warehouse entrance and out of the Jag, six of them have surrounded me and each one of them has an identical Glock 9mm pointed at my head. I hate Glocks. Guys who love Glocks love Corvettes. Not because it was a hot car, but because it was cool forty years ago and they once saw a picture of Steve McQueen in one. Their dad probably had a Vette when he was young, but he was never cool. But if they have a Vette, maybe they can forget the fat man who made them mow the lawn when they should have been out with their friends sneaking into R-rated movies, and who embarrassed them in front of their first girlfriends. Maybe their dad was the guy driving fast and locking lips with Faye Dunaway in The Thomas Crown Affair. Maybe their dad was cool after all and maybe that made them cool, too. That's what Glocks are. High-precision killing machines that scream "Daddy Issues."
They come on attack-dog fierce, but no one seems eager to pull the trigger. Lucky me. I don't want to get shot. Lucky them. I know these guys are just the hired help, but right now I really want to hurt someone.
A couple of them are talking into their sleeves, nodding to the air. Another minute of the silent Sergio Leone standoff and Wells comes out of the warehouse, banging the door open.
"I ought to let these men shoot you. You drove straight here, shitsack. Did you, even for a second, think about who might be watching or tailing you?"
"Not even for a second."
He nods to his men.
"Bring him inside."
"I want to talk to you, not your Boy Scouts."
"I don't want to talk to you at all out here. Shut up until we're somewhere secure."
I keep my mouth shut. I don't need any more enemies. Well, any more enemies who want to see me turned into chum any more than they already do.
We pass through the electric Jell-O interior barrier and the work floor appears. It's different inside. Like Vegas on the Fourth of July. All lights, machine noise, a din of voices, welding sparks like fireworks. Vigil members are trying out new weapons. Some look like modified guns. Others are like metal parasites attached to their backs, wrapping around their arms and waists. Across the warehouse, they're prepping vehicles. I don't see Aelita, but then, there's no reason she'd want to see me.
Wells says, "We're kinds of busy right now, so talk fast."
"I thought you'd like to know that a couple of civilians have been kidnapped and dragged up to Avila."
"Friends of yours? Then I doubt they're civilians, in the true sense of the word. I mean, in the sense that anyone gives a rat's ass about."
"You're going to leave a couple of innocent people hanging because you have a beef with me?"
"I don't think you'd know innocent if it rode up and bit you in the balls. And, for your information, I don't leave innocent people hanging."
"Then what are you going to do about it?"
Wells sweeps his arm around at all the activity.
"I'm going back to work. We're a little busy right now. Thanks for stopping by."
He turns away, but I put my hand on his shoulder. Hard. Come up right behind him, close enough to snap his neck. When I feel him tense, I know he knows it. I say it all quietly and evenly.
"I can go up there and tear Avila apart on my own. I'm far from bulletproof and they have enough firepower that I'm pretty sure they'll kill me, but I'm going to take a lot of people with me, including every magician in the place. A fight like that, it can't be helped if some of Avila's rich clientele gets burned, including the richest, most important ones. Imagine the shitstorm when all those old-money families and the Sub Rosa find out that you knew what was going down and did nothing about it. Or, you and your Mouseketeers can come with me and we can take the place down together."
"You're a day late and a dollar short, Chuck. What do you think all this is? We're hitting Avila tonight."
"If you're not going for the civilians, what are you going for?"
"We're trying to stop the end of the world, asshole. Which, by the way, is entirely your fault."
I let go of him. He turns around and faces me, rubbing where I held him. He's not lying. I can see that right away. His heart is hammering like a car running third at NASCAR. He smells like anger with a little fear mixed in, but no lies.
"Keep talking," I say.
"You know why you piss me off? It's not that stunt on Rodeo Drive, your schoolyard threats, your pixie friends, or even you wanting to kill every living thing in sight. It's that you think you're alone in the world and that there's nothing going on except for you and your problems."
"Enlighten me. What, are you and your cowboys going up there with your Flash Gordon toys to make them turn down their music?"
He looks over his shoulder, then back at me.