Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm by G. T. Almasi Page A

unobstructed view of the room and allows an agent to attack their target from a completely unexpected direction. The trick, however, is the stick. Not all buildings lend themselves to this move. Luckily for me, the town hall in York has got lots of fancy moldings and decorative flourishes inside and out I can use as climbing handles and perches.
    Getting in here was easy. From the building’s back alley, I leaped up to a second-story ledge and jimmied a window open. Then I lowered a line down to my partner and held on while he climbed up. A CIA schematic of the building, sprinkled with notes from one of the janitors, guided us straight to the office of York’s mayor. Brando picked the lock, and we were inside.
    I feel like a gargoyle. My feet are jammed into a corner molding while my hands press against the ostentatiously decorated ceiling. Brando has crawled under a big couch in front of the mayor’s heavy wooden desk. It’ll take him a few moments to get out of there, but he doesn’t need to make a big entrance like I do.
    05:30.
It’s been a hell of a couple days. The Fritzes responded to our opening salvo by imposing martial law all over England. Our rail bombing has already resulted in mass arrests among the Jewish slave populations and German dissidents around Yorkshire. The mayor of York is in charge of these roundups, which is why we’ve made ourselves an early appointment with Herr Bürgermeister to dissuade him from killing the people caught in the raids.
    Once we pull this operation, everyone who works in this building will be prime suspects, whether they’re antislavery or not. Miriam has already evacuated the Circle sympathizers to the Rabbi’s camp up north.
    05:35
. My drugs keep coming out of balance. Right now my system is carrying an excessive amount Madrenaline, and my skin feels like it’s vibrating. My mind is hyperaware, but I can’t focus. I take few deep breaths, close my eyes, and try to calm down. This doesn’t work, so I have my neuroinjector dose some Kalmers—a little—to try and find equilibrium.
    As usual there’s a lot riding on our mission, but this time it feels more personal. We’ve spent over a week in-country with these people. We know their names, and we’ve seen their scars. Slaves always get the crap beaten out of them, and Europe’s Jews are no exception.
    Miriam told us one story I’ll never forget. Her first master, a big fat German factory owner named Günther, used to house his slaves in an old shipping container behind his facility down in Hull. Günther’s factory was right on the harbor, so it was simple to get raw materials in and slave-produced items out.
    One night, old Günther was reviewing his accounts. His business insurance had gone way up because the local Circle of Zion cells were actively sabotaging the region’s industry. Earlier that month a nearby clothing company had been attacked. Circle activists dumped a shipping container of raw cloth into the harbor, and then spirited the factory’s slave labor force away in boats. Günther bitterly saw he was now required to carry so much additional coverage for his slaves that—should they accidentally die—the insurance payout would be higher than the cost of replacing them.
    Which gave him an idea.
    As Miriam tells it, one night she and her fellow laborers were in their unlit, rust-covered container, trying to sleep. They were woken by a heavy tractor growling to life outside. A loud clang at one end of their metal living quarters woke up the few slaves who’d managed to remain asleep. Many of the box’s inhabitants stood up, but when the floor shifted, most of them fell right back down. The vibrating shipping container screeched over concrete as the roaring tractor shoved them past the loading bays. Chips of paint and flakes of old metal rained down on the people inside.
    Miriam pounded on the door until her