“We’re in trouble.”
Pan didn’t need anyone to tell her that. It was pretty damn clear that they were in trouble. Big trouble. They were barreling down the Cross Island Expressway at eighty miles an hour, the truck roaring like a jet plane. Most of the cars on the road had the good sense to swerve out of their way, but a couple had been shunted off the tarmac by the Ford F-650’s custom grille guard. Pan hadn’t looked back to see what happened to them. There were more important things at stake.
Her life, for one.
She checked her watch. There was no time on the display, just a line of bright red numbers. 00:00:32:21. There were way too many zeroes there for her liking. Thirty-two minutes, counting fast. Thirty-two minutes until they came for her. She checked her black Kevlar body suit, designed to withstand a close-range shot from a .44 Magnum. Not that it mattered. It wouldn’t last five seconds against what was coming.
“Serious trouble,” said the guy sitting next to her. His name was Forrest, although Pan didn’t like to think of him as something with a name. It made it too difficult. You didn’t name cattle when you sent them to the slaughterhouse. His skin was a nasty shade of gray, coated in sweat, and it wasn’t surprising. He’d made his contract ten minutes before her so he’d have ten minutes less on his countdown. He wiped his brow, then sat forward in his seat looking like he was going to puke. It was Forrest’s first mission and the Lawyers were cutting it fine.
Way too fine.
“Hold it together, guys,” said the other man in the back of the truck. Herc. He was mission commander but he’d commanded jack on this particular mission. The whole damn thing had gone wrong and if the Lawyers didn’t hurry up, then all he or anyone else in the van was good for was a midmorning snack for hell’s hungriest. He rubbed a hand through the grizzled stubble on his chin. “Take the next exit, we gotta get out of sight. And rack ’em up, we’re gonna need ’em.”
Herc pumped a shell into his combat shotgun and Forrest fumbled with his. They were the best defense they’d found against the demons. Kind of like saying a toothpick was the best defense against a rabid bear, she thought. Pan didn’t have a gun. She reached down, felt the crossbow at her feet. Even that wouldn’t do much good. Not unless the Lawyers found a way to end her contract. What the hell was taking them so long?
“Ostheim,” she said into the radio attached to her armored suit. There was a permanent open link between her and her employer, Sheppel Ostheim. “You guys any closer? We don’t exactly have a lot of time here.”
There was a hiss of static, followed by a voice with a trace of a German accent.
“They’re going as fast as they can, Pan. This is a tricky nut to crack. Just stay alive, they’ll get there.”
Pan spat out a bitter laugh.
“Stay alive? You finally developed a sense of humor, Shep? Any chance of backup?”
“Nightingale and Truck are inside the Engine, everyone else is airborne. Until then you’re on your own.”
Great.
Everyone jolted in their seats as the truck made contact with something else. The sour stench of fear filled her nostrils, making her want to gag. She and Herc had done this before but Forrest had only heard stories—the way the world is torn open, the way they swarm out from behind the paper-thin shell of reality. He had a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide and white, the brightest things in the truck. She didn’t offer him any words of comfort. What would be the point? Chances were that in less than half an hour the only evidence he’d ever existed would be his entry in the Book of Dead Engineers.
Right next to her own.
“Hang on!” yelled the driver, wrestling with the wheel. The truck lurched off the expressway, thumping into the side of the road hard enough to jolt them all off their seats. Pan was pushed back by an invisible hand as they accelerated, her stomach trying to punch its way out past her spine, the world flashing by outside the tinted windows too fast to see. It didn’t matter how fast they were going. They couldn’t outrun them. They couldn’t escape, they couldn’t hide. The only thing that mattered was finding cover, where nobody could see what happened next.
“Get off the street,” Ostheim said, reading her mind. “By my calculation…” He swore. “Twenty minutes, Pan, and counting, fast. Get out of sight.”
The world cannot know. It’s the only thing that counts, it’s more important than your own life. Ostheim had drilled that into her on day one. And every day since.
So why the hell were they heading right into the heart of Staten Island?
“Out of sight, goddammit!” Herc yelled, grabbing the seat as they smashed into the back of an SUV, sending it spinning out toward the side of the road.
Too late, Pan thought as the driver steered them around a wide bend, so fast that the world outside was just a blur. The screeching tires threw up smoke, and for a second the driver almost lost it. There was a wet retching sound as Forrest puked over his trousers but Pan ignored it. There was something else in the air alongside the smell of vomit. A thick, heavy, sulfurous scent that she knew all too well.
Their smell. The stench of hell.
“Twenty minutes, Pan,” Ostheim repeated, like she hadn’t heard him the first time.
Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes between her, Forrest, and an eternity of agony. Twenty minutes before they dragged her kicking and screaming down to hell.
“Those Lawyers better shift their asses,” she yelled at Ostheim, cursing herself—for the hundredth time at least—for ever accepting his offer.
The Engine.
The goddamned Devil’s Engine.
She’d always known it would be the death of her.