Chapter IV

The lobby of the Hotel Americana was just about as hot and humid as the street that led to it.

HOT SWELLS OF LIQUIDY AIR dripped upward like invisible lava, off of the blackish- brown pavement. Deegan had taken on the shape of the street vendor who had, not fifteen minutes earlier, pointed him in the direction of the front entrance to the hotel.

In the same way that Mavet must jump by making some physical contact, so must Deegan to take on a different shape. He had taken the vendor’s face, and swiped a pair of cheap sunglasses to conceal his eyes. Unlike Mavet, Angels couldn’t look into his eyes to see who he was. Demons and Dark Angels certainly could.

But they couldn’t see Deegan.

The reason for his choice of eye apparel was simple: he wanted to be able to walk casually and relaxed, and all the while his eyes could be darting around and searching the periphery. He would scower each and every detail so that he missed nothing.

His idea was to bumble his way through the hotel, shifting as he needed to, in order to find Mavet. He could feel, deep in his chest and stomach, that he was so very close. It was like a very loud piece of music resonating inside his body, and yet . . . nobody else could hear it.

Perhaps Mavet was feeling the same kinds of guttural pangs-the thunder from within. Maybe not, though, because Deegan was a more finely tuned machine . . . with a more precise purpose.

He was an Angel hunter, and had been for quite a while. Lucifer had quickly realized that God, Heaven, and the Angels under Michael would stop at nothing to secure their aims. They would use spies, and agent provocateurs, to gain entry into Hades . . . and possibly Hell.

Deegan had been chosen—one of a small group of special Souls that had a gift for such things.

He was a predator.

Mavet, though an equally honed instrument, would be too busy dodging and ducking the Angels and any of the other entities 1 that Michael may have employed to find him.

But Deegan was just huntin’ .

Something was in the back of Deegan’s mind. Something that Uriel had almost let slip. It was there, dancing around like an illusive melody to a song that he’d heard before, but couldn’t quite recall. Heaven was afraid of Mavet, and Deegan knew it had nothing to do with killing one rookie Angel.

No, no . . . sell that story to the kids. Heaven was scared of Mavet.

Why?

Surely Michael could have put a force of thousands down on earth to cover even the largest city. They’d done such things before . . . like when a small, angry little man who went by the name of Adolf was taken in the mid 1900s.

But not this time.

Why not? Perhaps there was some kind of power struggle brewing just below the apparently calm surface of Heaven. That, too, had happened before.

Another question that bothered Deegan was: Why did Heaven care about the death of a few dirty priests. From his information, the humans that Mavet had cleansed were garbage, feeding off of the innocence of their fellow man.

They were like vultures; only they didn’t wait for their victims to die before they started to rip at them. These were not noble, or ‘Godly’ souls . . . they were filth- and would almost certainly end up in Hades after a quick jog through Purgatory. And they were Catholics, at that. They didn’t even believe in the path of Jesus, as did other Christians. Deegan just couldn’t imagine Heaven going to bat for these dead men.

Deegan put all of his questions aside as he made his way past the valets, dressed in green vests with khaki slacks. They were running nervously from the front entrance, to the cars that were gathering in the semi-circular driveway that led to the front entrance of the Hotel Americana.

There was so much happening, and so many people going in every direction, that Deegan walked right past a line of several hundred gloss-eyed believers. They were probably making their way, person by person, into the large ball room where the Pope was due to arrive in a couple of hours. Several religious figures would be speaking, with the main a1dress being given by his holiness and all of the spiritual ho-ha that comes with that.

Religious zealots, he thought as he walked past two security officials.

As he tried to make eye contact from behind the mirrored sun glasses, a hand stopped him from proceeding into the lobby.

“Excuse me, sir,” the thick-necked guard said as he eyed Deegan politely, but discerningly. “Are you a registered guest of the hotel, or are you here for the sermons?” The guard had a brushed aluminum clipboard in his right hand.

“No, no,” Deegan said politely, “I’m here to see the Pope.”

The guard gave a tired grin, probably hadn’t heard that more than a thousand times so far. “Well, everyone in that line over there,” he pointed, “is here to see the Pope. General seating will being in forty-five minutes. Please have your ticket and your ID papers ready to present to the hosts—”

Deegan held his hand up, “I’m on the guest list, though.”

“If you give me your ID, I will be able to check for you,” the guard said quickly, but diplomatically.

Deegan made a show of checking his coat pockets and then felt his pants.

“I . . . hold-on,” Deegan said as he searched, trying to look as sincere and embarrassed as he could. “l must have left my wallet and papers in the taxi . . . can you just check the list for me?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the guard said as he shrugged. People were accumulating behind Deegan . . . and they probably had the right papers. “I can only allow you to enter with your proper papers.”

“But I’ve lost them,” Deegan tried in vain.

“Again, I’m sorry. You’ll have to contact your consulate. There’s nothing else we can do.”

Deegan knew that there wasn’t anything else he could say or do to persuade the guard. He opted for, “Sure, I understand.” He paused for a moment he had to sell it.

“Sir,” the guard pressed.

“I’ll just retrace my steps.” And at that, he turned and walked away, back across the parking area, and found an attendant.

He asked some colorless, bland questions, pointed, nodded, and then shook the valet’s hand. Deegan then made his way out of the circle of cars.

Twenty minutes later, a man walked strait in the front door. The guards did little more than to glance in his direction. They didn’t stop him, nor did they search the rolled-up black clothes that were bundled under the man’s arm.

“One of the guests left their clothes on the dash board of a blue Mercedes,” Deegan said, now sporting one of the valet’s faces. The actual valet, who had been less than cooperative in giving-up the vest, slacks, and ID, was sleeping in the trunk of a lake model Chrysler-nice, roomy, plenty of extras.

By the time he would wake, and kick his way free from the boot of that platinum beauty, Deegan’s work would probably be finished. Besides, he could have shifted twenty times by then.

The same guard that had, minutes earlier, shown him the door, was not nodding to the valet’s doppelganger. “Thanks, Victor,” the guard said.

Deegan smiled as he hurried by, looking busy, busy, busy. “Yeah,” he said under his breath, “I thanked Victor, myself.”

He made his way past the concierge desk, following the signs to the restrooms.

A minute after entering, he exited wearing his old black clothes, and a brand new face. Some guy in the bathroom was going to have a horrible headache later.

Time to go on a lion hunt. Mavet, Mavet . . . come out, come out, wherever you are.