should ever find himself in the middle of nowhere during a mission — which, truth be told, he frequently did.
“Ready to meet and greet?” Liz teased.
“Bring it on,” Hellboy said.
The pilot had already appeared from the cockpit and was opening the door. He was one of their regular flyers, an ex — air force guy of around fifty called Bud. He had grizzled gray hair cut close to his scalp, but was tougher and fitter than most men half his age. Hellboy liked him because he was straight as a die and never seemed to be phased by anything.
“How’re Cheryl and the kids?” Hellboy asked him as he clomped towards the exit on his hoofed feet.
“Doing good,” Bud said. “My youngest, John, just started college this fall. Can you believe it?”
Hellboy shook his head. “Where does all the time go?”
Liz was first out on the ramshackle steps that a couple of uniformed grunts had shoved up against the side of the aircraft. She took a deep breath. English air always seemed to smell greener, mulchier, more ancient than it did at home — or maybe that was just her imagination. She looked down at the upturned faces and saw the apprehension and expectation in their eyes. For the thousandth time she wondered how HB coped with it all — not with the fame, though that in itself must be a royal pain in the ass, but the fear , the awe , that those meeting him for the first time never quite failed to conceal. She wondered how many of these people would have known who she was if they hadn’t been briefed beforehand. She guessed some of them might have heard of her, but she doubted they’d recognize her if she passed them in the street.
And that was just the way she liked it. If she’d been on the cover of Time magazine she’d be living on a deserted tropical island by now. She saw a ripple of reaction go through the crowd below her, heard a slight intake of breath, and knew that Abe had stepped out of the shadows behind her.
“Cheery-looking bunch, aren’t they?” he murmured in her ear.
“That’s the stiff upper lip you’re seeing right there,” she replied.
The metal creaked as Hellboy stepped from the plane and she and Abe were engulfed in his shadow. There was a collective gasp from below. Eyes boggled. A couple of the guys in suits actually took a step back.
Hellboy sighed. “Here we go again.”
The three of them descended the ramshackle metal steps. The young woman in the B.P.R.D. jacket stepped forward to greet them.
“Agent Rachel Turner, London office,” she said eagerly, holding out her hand. “This is a real honor, guys. Welcome to England.”
She shook hands with each of them in turn. When she got to Hellboy, he said, “I remember you. You’re the sambuca girl.”
Agent Turner blushed. Liz looked at Hellboy and raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
“Long story,” he said. “Another time.”
“Or maybe never,” said Agent Turner.
Hellboy chuckled.
Agent Turner introduced them to representatives from the British government, the army, the metropolitan police, the US embassy and MI5. Each of the representatives had prepared a speech of welcome. The embassy guy droned on for a good five minutes about protocol and procedure.
Liz did her best to look gracious, but was aware that just behind her Hellboy was already fidgeting. “Man, I hate red tape,” he had muttered to her on more than one occasion, and once he had even memorably scandalized their Japanese hosts by shouting, “Enough already!” and stomping through an elaborate welcoming ceremony that had been laid on for them at Yokohama airport.
Finally it was the turn of the man in jeans to step forward. Agent Turner started to introduce him, but he said, “It’s okay, Rachel, I can do it.” He shook Liz’s hand, then Hellboy’s big stone one, and finally Abe’s webbed one. When he grimaced it was not with distaste, but with apology.
“I’m sure you’ve had enough of being talked at,” he said, “but I just wanted to
“Ready to meet and greet?” Liz teased.
“Bring it on,” Hellboy said.
The pilot had already appeared from the cockpit and was opening the door. He was one of their regular flyers, an ex — air force guy of around fifty called Bud. He had grizzled gray hair cut close to his scalp, but was tougher and fitter than most men half his age. Hellboy liked him because he was straight as a die and never seemed to be phased by anything.
“How’re Cheryl and the kids?” Hellboy asked him as he clomped towards the exit on his hoofed feet.
“Doing good,” Bud said. “My youngest, John, just started college this fall. Can you believe it?”
Hellboy shook his head. “Where does all the time go?”
Liz was first out on the ramshackle steps that a couple of uniformed grunts had shoved up against the side of the aircraft. She took a deep breath. English air always seemed to smell greener, mulchier, more ancient than it did at home — or maybe that was just her imagination. She looked down at the upturned faces and saw the apprehension and expectation in their eyes. For the thousandth time she wondered how HB coped with it all — not with the fame, though that in itself must be a royal pain in the ass, but the fear , the awe , that those meeting him for the first time never quite failed to conceal. She wondered how many of these people would have known who she was if they hadn’t been briefed beforehand. She guessed some of them might have heard of her, but she doubted they’d recognize her if she passed them in the street.
And that was just the way she liked it. If she’d been on the cover of Time magazine she’d be living on a deserted tropical island by now. She saw a ripple of reaction go through the crowd below her, heard a slight intake of breath, and knew that Abe had stepped out of the shadows behind her.
“Cheery-looking bunch, aren’t they?” he murmured in her ear.
“That’s the stiff upper lip you’re seeing right there,” she replied.
The metal creaked as Hellboy stepped from the plane and she and Abe were engulfed in his shadow. There was a collective gasp from below. Eyes boggled. A couple of the guys in suits actually took a step back.
Hellboy sighed. “Here we go again.”
The three of them descended the ramshackle metal steps. The young woman in the B.P.R.D. jacket stepped forward to greet them.
“Agent Rachel Turner, London office,” she said eagerly, holding out her hand. “This is a real honor, guys. Welcome to England.”
She shook hands with each of them in turn. When she got to Hellboy, he said, “I remember you. You’re the sambuca girl.”
Agent Turner blushed. Liz looked at Hellboy and raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
“Long story,” he said. “Another time.”
“Or maybe never,” said Agent Turner.
Hellboy chuckled.
Agent Turner introduced them to representatives from the British government, the army, the metropolitan police, the US embassy and MI5. Each of the representatives had prepared a speech of welcome. The embassy guy droned on for a good five minutes about protocol and procedure.
Liz did her best to look gracious, but was aware that just behind her Hellboy was already fidgeting. “Man, I hate red tape,” he had muttered to her on more than one occasion, and once he had even memorably scandalized their Japanese hosts by shouting, “Enough already!” and stomping through an elaborate welcoming ceremony that had been laid on for them at Yokohama airport.
Finally it was the turn of the man in jeans to step forward. Agent Turner started to introduce him, but he said, “It’s okay, Rachel, I can do it.” He shook Liz’s hand, then Hellboy’s big stone one, and finally Abe’s webbed one. When he grimaced it was not with distaste, but with apology.
“I’m sure you’ve had enough of being talked at,” he said, “but I just wanted to
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