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“Take care of yourself? You mean you and your nine millimeter Glock that you shoulder under your coat!” mocked Morrell. “You have no idea what you are up against if you get on my bad side!” “Devils and all that?” Flint suppressed his fear, pretending to be amused by Morrell. Morrell captured Flint in the cage of her glaring gaze. Not blinking, she started muttering something mechanically. Molech appeared, swollen after gorging itself at Moscow. At its side was a lesser demon, just half the size of Molech. They were invisible but for Morrell. The smaller demon floated from its master until it hovered menacingly beside the terrorist. Reaching up it touched the area of Flint’s suit, concealing his gun. Instantly the cloth burst into flames. “Damn!” cried Flint tearing off his coat and throwing it at Morrell. The flames vanished as the coat hit an invisible barrier, falling onto Morrell’s desk. “I don’t have time for your carnival tricks,” he snapped. “Take the virus!” He walked with the suitcase over to Morrell who mocked Flint with a slitted smile. Flint shouted, “I hope to hell it takes you!” “Speaking of that,” Morrell’s matter-of-fact voice tossed away the jeer, “do you have the antidote?” “Yeah, it’s all in there.” Flint dropped the suitcase; it fell with a thud on the desk. Turning around Flint headed for the exit. He wanted fresh air! “Don’t you think that you’re going to attract a lot of attention with that gun of yours?” asked Morrell. Forgetting about the absence of his coat, Flint looked down to see his holstered gun. Morrell laughed lifelessly. “Here!” She tossed him his jacket. There were no signs of fire damage. Uttering a profanity, Flint slid into the coat and left. |
