The Overseer (32 page)

Hannah tried to think of something to say. Something strong that would guarantee that she was understood, that would make them all realize that she had a gun and that she was in control of the situation. All of that was overridden by the absurd urge to apologize.

She lifted the gun, pointing it at the older woman. The woman’s expression soured, looking offended. The woman said something in her native language, including one word that Hannah understood.

“…Dominik…”

Hannah looked behind her where Dominik had been, turning just in time to see his fist.

Chapter 19

T
HE
L
AS
V
EGAS
city bus rolled along the streets, off the Strip, near some of the seedier portions of the city. Faux skylines of New York and Paris were somewhere ahead in the distance.

The mammoth vehicle stopped, its doors opening. A handful of passengers got up and made their way to the exit while several climbed aboard.

Devin glanced out the window, then at the bus map he’d found crumpled on a nearby seat.

Almost there.

He checked his watch. Not much time.

Almost there.

Those getting on the bus found their places. A passenger sat across the aisle from Devin. He caught a passing glance in his peripherals as he looked out the window, then did a double-take.

“Mr. Bathurst,” Angelo said, currently lucid.

Devin looked up, preparing himself mentally for a fight. “Angelo,” he replied.

John could feel the urgency from the next room.

Dalton Waters standing, duffle bag in hand. A bulletproof vest and rifle inside the bag, along with ammunition, a mask, and various other items.

Going to the door.

Leaving. Heading for…somewhere.

“You have to let us go,” John Temple said, standing in the middle of the hotel room, stepping toward Vince.

“No”—Vince wagged a finger—“not a chance. You’re staying here. Things are going to play out naturally. No interference from you two.”

“We know there’s going to be an act of violence,” John snarled. “We have to do something. We have a moral obligation— or it’s the same as killing that man ourselves.”

“No, we don’t,” Vince rebutted. “We don’t have to get involved. It’s not our fight—and some things simply have to be allowed to play out. This is one of those things.”

“John’s right,” Trista said from her place on the couch. “I don’t know the extent to which each individual should be expected to take care of everyone else, but we’re called to this. This is something that we have to do. Otherwise John wouldn’t be getting the visions he’s getting.”

“No.” Vince shook his head. “Devin Bathurst was called to this, and he put it on you to finish it for him.”

“But someone
was
called,” John said.

“Yes,” Vince agreed, “but he chose a different calling and left this one.”

“Fine.” John could feel the situation coming together, time slipping through his fingers.

Dalton Waters and his associates making their way to their respective places—bags filled with weapons and scads of ammunition.

John turned toward the door of the hotel room. “I’m leaving.”

“Whoa!” Vince ordered, stepping in front of John, the other three guards getting up from their places. “You’re not going anywhere. Do you understand?”

“Or what?” John stepped up to Vince, eyes focused on the other man’s pupils. “Are you going to shoot me?”

Vince pushed his sport coat open and put his hand on the grip of the pistol he’d tucked in his pants. John took another step, and Vince pushed him back with his left hand, reaching for the pistol with the other.

“Back!” he shouted, pistol pointed downward but ready to be raised.

John glanced at Trista, sitting on the edge of the couch, then back at Vince. “I can shout and scream at the top of my lungs,” he said smugly, “and when the neighbors complain about the noise—”

“They’ll call the room,” Vince interjected, “and I’ll tell them it was my kids and that I’ll keep them quiet.”

“But when the noise doesn’t stop, they’ll send someone.”

“By then”—Vince shrugged—“it’ll all be over, and we’ll all just go our separate ways.”

Dalton Waters getting into a van, tossing a bag of guns onto the floor. The driver starting the engine.

“How long have we been friends, Vince?” John asked, looking him in the eye.

A sudden look of sobriety crossed Vince’s face. “A long time.”

“Kind of a stupid thing to end a friendship over, disagreeing on whether or not to let a United States senator be assassinated.”

Vince shook his head, sincerely apologetic. “I’m sorry, John.”

“I’m sorry too, Vince,” John said sadly. He lunged forward and punched Vince in the nose.

Shouts of confusion and protest erupted from the other guards as John ripped the pistol from the man’s hand, taking him hostage.

Men in the lobby bathroom stalls, pulling on ski masks and jamming magazines into automatic rifles.

“We’re going!” John announced, motioning to Trista with his head.

Vince touched his bloodied nose, trying to pull away from John. “You wouldn’t shoot me,” he blustered.

“Really?” John asked, the guards pointing their weapons at him from their places around the room. “Have you ever killed anyone, Vince? I did, once. It’s the kind of thing that keeps you up at night. Which is why I won’t kill you”—he jammed the pistol into the back of Vince’s arm—“but I will blow your elbow away if I have to!”

“Let him go,” one of the guards barked.

“Trista.” John turned to her. “Get out of here and run.” He ignored the guards as he spoke over their demands. “Don’t go anywhere near where the assassination is supposed to be.” He wrangled the squirming Vince. “Run!”

She stood, moved past them, toward the door, opened it.

John shoved Vince and followed Trista out of the door.

Devin sat perfectly still, watching Angelo across the aisle.

Their eyes locked. The bus shook, hitting some kind of imperfection in the street. Their gaze didn’t break.

“You’re here to stop me,” Devin stated, still tense and prepared.

Angelo’s eyes, dark and intense, seemed to look right through Devin. In a fraction of a second his eyes darted down, and when they came back up, the intensity was gone. “No.” Angelo took a quick look at the few people in nearby seats, apparently trying to determine if they were being listened to. He whispered, “I’m not well.” He articulated the statement with more lucidity than Devin thought possible.

“I know,” Devin agreed.

“There’s too much going on in my head,” he whispered, looking as if he might cry. “The human mind isn’t supposed to endure this much information from conflicting sources. It’s confusing and distressing.”

Devin listened patiently, then spoke. “What do you need, Angelo?”

Angelo wiped his face with the back of his black coat, dark hair shifting. “I’m not well,” he repeated, “but I do have the ability to reason. And I can see that my attempting to stop you won’t prevent you from trying. Or the others, for that fact.”

Devin leaned closer. “Why are you here, Angelo?”

“I am a reasonable person,” Angelo said again, his lucidity starting to slip, “and I hope that you are too.”

“OK,” Devin accepted. “What do you have to say to me?”

“The reckoning,” Angelo stated with sudden stability.

Devin frowned. “What?”

“When the Firstborn are removed, the reckoning will come, and the Firstborn will be destroyed. And then,” he sighed, “the truly bad things will happen.”

“What things?” Devin asked, watching Angelo slip toward confusion again. “Angelo, what things?”

“It’s in the prophecy of Alessandro D’Angelo.”

“What prophecy?” Devin demanded.

“It’s hidden,” Angelo muttered.

“Where? Where is it hidden?”

Angelo’s head hung for a moment, stringy hair covering his face, then looked up, eyes tortured. “I’m still a man,” he said, face pained. “I know you can’t let them kill innocent people. But if you interfere—even if you fail—you’ll doom the Firstborn and countless others.”

“How?”

Angelo shook his head. “I don’t know how. I just know that when I see the future I see your interference—and then I see what they did to me. I see”—Angelo winced as he said the word—“
pain
.”

“Who?” Devin asked. “Who caused you pain?”

Angelo shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

The bus stopped.

“This is your stop,” Angelo conceded, eyes darting toward the hydraulic doors as they opened automatically.

Devin stayed sitting. “You’re really going to let me go?”

Angelo looked back at him. “I won’t stop you. I know better than to try. But,” he added, “you’ll have to live with the consequences of whatever choice you make. You can trust that I’m not completely out of my mind, and let a man be executed and others hurt, or you trust your conscience and intervene.”

Devin blinked, not certain what Angelo was doing.

“Go!” Angelo blustered, standing, pointing toward the door. “Hurry! There’s isn’t time!”

Shock hit Devin like a breaking wave. Had Angelo suddenly lost faith in his own ability to see outside of the confines of time? Or had he suddenly gained some strange confidence in Devin?

“Get out of here!” Angelo growled, something flashing in his eyes that had only seemed to be there in muted tones up to this point. Something irrational, flawed, self-destructive, and alone—humanity.

The doors started to close.

“Wait!” Devin shouted toward the driver. “This is my stop!” The doors cracked open again, and he moved toward them, left the bus—

—and ran.

One of the guards who had chased after John and Trista walked back into the hotel room.

“Where is Temple?” Vince asked, bleeding into his hand as he clutched his nose. Temple had slugged him right in the nose and hit him harder than he’d first realized.

“We didn’t see. We’re going to have to track them down before—”

Vince’s phone rang in his jacket, and he removed it with his free hand, trying not to bleed on himself. He checked the caller ID—
Clay Goldstein
. Vince flipped the phone open. “Mr. Goldstein?”

“Let it go, Vincent,” Clay said with the casual ease that characterized him.

“What?”

“John and Trista; let ’em go. This is something they think they’ve got to do.”

Vince stepped into the hotel bathroom, spitting a glob of blood into the sink. “I’m Overseer,” Vince protested.

“You’re only Overseer because I say so.”

“I’m not your puppet,” Vince growled, washing blood down the drain.

“The agreement was that you did what I said and I’d support you as Overseer. It was supposed to give me distance and keep me safe—not give you license to harass our people and let senators die on national television.”

“I’m still Overseer,” Vince argued, pulling tissues from a box.

Clay spoke firmly. “I made the calls, Vince. I’ll have your job by this afternoon—and if you want any place of authority in the restructuring, then you’ll do what I say.”

Vince closed his eyes. “Fine. I’ll call them off.”