Chapter thirty-seven

S ylvester tore down Wilshire Boulevard in his unmarked

cruiser, weaving around the teeming Beverly Hills traffic.

Overhead, palm trees swayed anxiously in the wind, leaves

glinting orange in the fiery dusk. Careening across oncoming

traffic on Beverly, not bothering with the red light, he

pulled into the NAS building, scraping the belly of the car

on the garage ramp. He screeched into the valet parking and

left the car without waiting for a ticket. He took the stairs up

to the lobby.

The chirpy receptionist seemed startled to see him

again as he strode across the sleek lobby.

“Can I help you, sir?” she said in her pseudo-polite

tone.

“Save it, honey,” Sylvester grumbled as he passed her.

She rose out of her chair, sending her latte spilling all over

the desk.

“Wait! You can’t go in there!” she shrieked. He ignored

her.

Turning the corner, Sylvester blew past the rows of assistants

on their headsets. They gave him curious, uncomprehending

stares as he passed. He could hear the receptionist’s

clacking stilettos on the tile behind him, most likely

trying to raise an alert, but he didn’t bother to look back. He

reached the end of the hall, turned, and threw open the

glass doors of the conference room.

The Archangels were sitting around the conference

table in intense discussion. Their jackets were thrown over

chair backs, their ties loosened. An assistant had apparently

brought in coffee and trays of sushi that were set in the

middle of the table, along with glasses of imported sparkling

water. On the flat screen, news chopper footage of the attack

on the freeway was playing.

At Sylvester’s entrance the Archangels fell silent, looking

up at him with surprised expressions. Sylvester glared

back. He looked at the faces of the Archangels, backbone of

the NAS. His eyes found Mark, who still wore his suit jacket

and appeared stunned.

Finally, Mark spoke.

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“What can we do for you, David?” he said calmly.

Sylvester came into the room, letting the door close

with a clang behind him. Outside, assistants watched

through the glass, horrified. One of the Archangels held up a

hand to them, as if to indicate everything was all right.

Sylvester felt suddenly unsure of himself. His hands

instinctively went to his glasses to polish them, but he

caught himself, and instead he let them drop back to his

sides. He took a shaky breath and spoke.

“You know how I feel about you and the NAS.”

He paused. They were silent.

“You know I believe all of this is wrong,” he said, motioning

around at the lavish surroundings of the conference

room. “I believe it was never supposed to be this way, saving

mortal lives for mortal money, for mortal vices. I believe

you have led us astray. I believe your greed and corruption

is directly responsible for the threat this city faces.”

Mark was silent, scrutinizing Sylvester intensely.

Sylvester felt his passion loosening his tongue.

“Now I want you to prove me wrong. I want you to

prove to me that you still remember the old ways. That you

still remember who you are. I want you to prove to me that

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you can defend those who can’t defend themselves, the victims,

the sufferers, and the mortally endangered. Prove to

me you can do your duty.” He looked around at their flawless

faces. “This city needs you. Now rise up and protect it.”

A blond, chisel-faced Archangel rose.

“David. We’re working on it. These things have to be

discussed first. Plans have to be approved with the city, as

well as, of course, a price.”

Sylvester’s face darkened.

“You have to understand we can’t just ask Guardians

to risk their lives—”

But Sylvester had stopped listening. Reaching down

to his waist, he drew his service revolver.

The blond Archangel’s eyes grew wide.

Sylvester pointed the pistol at the large glass display

case in the corner, the case holding the ancient armor and

sword of a Battle Angel, and fired. The glass fell instantly in

a cascade of ringing pieces. The bullet ricocheted off the armor

and buried itself in the ceiling tiles. The room went

deafeningly silent.

The armor and weapon stood in the shattered case.

Ready.

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Sylvester reached in and closed his grip around the

hilt of the ancient sword. The weight of it was heavy in his

hand as he brought it out. He turned to the Archangels and

threw the sword onto the conference table, sending sushi

rolls scattering, water glasses shattering under its tremendous

weight.

Sylvester looked around at the startled faces of the

Archangels. They had all gone silent.

“Now,” he said, his tone resolute, “where are the

others?”

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