The Seal of Solomon

I was going to get that ring from him or die trying.

I raised the 3XD—to hell with conserving ammo—and a dozen Uzis appeared from beneath the Bedouins’ robes.

“Fortunately, the ol’ Seal protects its wearer from a whole bunch of nasty consequences,” he said.

He whispered something to one of the tribesmen, and I saw the muzzle of his Uzi flash before feeling the punch in my thigh. The round knocked my feet out from under me and I landed right on my tailbone, which hurt almost as much as the bullet.

I pushed myself up, rocking now on my heels. I could feel the warm blood running down my leg.

I gritted my teeth and took a step toward Mike, bringing up the 3XD a second time.

The next bullet hit me in the right shoulder, the impact flinging my arm away. The 3XD clattered to the ground. I fell to my knees, pressing the heel of my left hand against the burning spot in my shoulder.

“Stay down, Al,” Mike said softly. “I promise it’ll be quick.”

I looked up at him, blinking back tears. Mike stepped off the platform, walked over to where I knelt, and pulled his 9mm Glock from his belt. He leveled it at my forehead.

“Good-bye, Al,” he said.

24

His finger tightened on the trigger—then suddenly froze. Something behind me had caught his attention. His eyes went wide.

“Awww, darn it!” he breathed.

I turned and saw two things: the sun rising in the east and something silhouetted against it—actually about fifty somethings, coming straight for us, flying in tight formation, their four low-hanging turrets flashing orange balls of light as they came.

They were Apache attack helicopters, the air support Abigail Smith had called in during the opening skirmish.

I lunged forward, slamming my weight into Mike’s knees, knocking him backward, and he cried out when he smacked into the glass.

I threw myself on top of him and slammed my fist into his grinning, gum-smacking, wise-cracking mouth. Then I yanked the gun out of his hand and jammed the muzzle under his chin.

“Do it,” he whispered. Blood ran out of the side of his mouth and trickled down his jaw.

I didn’t pull the trigger, though. With my free hand I grabbed the ring and gave it a sharp yank, pulling it from his finger.

By then the Bedouins had reached us, shouting in confusion, some of them yelling at Mike and some at me, but it didn’t really matter because I had the ring now.

I pushed myself off Mike and didn’t bother trying to stand up. The ground was too slippery, plus I was losing a lot of blood and felt a little light-headed. I scooted back on my throbbing backside, putting some distance between us.

The Apaches swooped down into the swarming hornet’s nest of demons, guns blazing, and the sun cast spinning bars of red and gold through the roiling haze.

I watched the demons adopt a Kamikaze mode of attack, gathering themselves into fireballs and ramming into the copters. At first, the Apaches seemed to absorb the blows, only to expand like overfilled balloons and blow apart, minisuns going supernova against the indigo sky.

Then I slipped the ring onto my finger.

“Drop ’em!” I shouted at the Bedouins, even though I doubted the Seal of Solomon controlled anything but demon hordes. It worked, though. The Uzis fell out of their hands without a word of protest. Maybe I couldn’t control them, but they knew what I could control.

I slid back around to face the battle and raised my fist, pointing the ring toward the demon hordes. I screamed at the top of my lungs: “STOP! QUIT IT! CUT IT OUT! I’M THE BOSS NOW! LEAVE US ALONE!”

Nothing happened. The battle went on. Maybe I put it on the wrong hand.

I yanked the ring off, and at that moment Mike Arnold jumped me.

He drove his knee into my back, throwing me forward. The ring flew from my hand and skidded across the polished glass. Mike landed on top of me, smashing my face into the ground.

“Oh, Lord,” Mike breathed in my ear. I rolled him off me and scrambled after the ring.

I beat Mike to it, but only because he didn’t chase after it. He had seen something that I didn’t until it was too late.

The ring came to a stop at the feet of the seven-foot-tall demon king called Paimon, who picked it up just as I stretched out my hand to grab it.

Then I did an incredibly stupid thing: I looked right into its eyes.

PART THREE

The Hunt for the Hyena

—original message—

To: Aquarius

From: ChiCubsFan

Subject: Sub-Sub-Sec. Op Utopia

See attached briefing memo. That damned kid has practically cost us the game! LS in my possession. Am now making for Barcelona via rail.

Request immediate recall.

Help.

ChiCubsFan

Attachment (SUBSUBSECOPUTOP.DOC)

To: ChiCubsFan

From: Aquarius

Subject: Sub-Sub-Sec. Op Utopia

Go immediately to ground until further notified. Situation is extremely fluid and IAs’ intent not clear. I’ll do my best from this end to manage interface with signatories. Hold for further instructions but under no circumstances make contact with anyone.

I suggest you sequester your loved ones to circumvent application of Section Nine protocols.

Aquarius

25

“Alfred? Alfred Kropp, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Alfred, I want you to do something for me. I want you to open your eyes, very slowly. Can you do that for me?”

“I’ll try.”

“There now. Is it too bright, Alfred? We can dim the lights.”

“Do I have to leave them open?”

“Only for a few minutes, if you can.”

“Okay.”

“Can you see me, Alfred? Can you see my face?”

“Yes.”

“Do you recognize me?”

“Yes.”

“And do you remember my name?”

“I—I’m not sure . . .”

“It’s all right. You’re perfectly safe here. Alfred, my name is Dr. Abigail Smith. Do you remember now?”

“No. Not really. You look familiar, though. Why can’t I move my arms?”

“We had to restrain you, for your own protection.”

“What if I need to scratch my nose?”

“Does your nose itch?”

“No, but just in case . . . I’m not sure I remember your name, ma’am, but your face is familiar, or at least this fuzzy image I’m getting of your face. Where am I?”

“You are in Company headquarters, Alfred.”

“What company?”

“OIPEP. Do you remember OIPEP?”

“Should I?”