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  Fall for Freedom

  A Short Courier Prequel

  WINNIE JEAN HOWARD

  OTI PRESS

  www.otipress.com

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, situation and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination. Any semblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  FALL FOR FREEDOM.

  Copyright © 2018 by Winnie Jean Howard.

  All rights reserved.

  Upon payment of the required book fee, you are given individual, non–transferable right to obtain and read this book electronically. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in book reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  FIRST EDITION

  Published by OTI Press

  More about the author at winniejeanhoward.com

  Cover art by RL Treadway at atrtlink.com

  Always for Michael

  My Heart

  My Inspiration

  The Set Up

  September 1995 - Walsenburg, Colorado

  Driving a van four-hundred miles a day for Satan sucks bad enough. Add a tailgater in a black pickup for the last few miles, and I’m ready to exit the highway and head for the nearest bar.

  Then the van lurches forward. Hit from behind. My dark, slick-back hair falls to my forehead, partially veiling my view of the pavement and sunflowers that dot the dry Colorado landscape. With a shaky grip on the steering wheel, I snap my bulging eyes to the passenger-side mirror. No surprise, the jerk to the rear is closer than he appears.

  I floor the gas pedal and swerve into the right lane, jarring awake the demon possessing me. In his whiny voice, he says, I don’t bother you when you’re sleeping.

  Of course he does, but most times I’d rather poke my eyes out than argue with him. “It wasn’t my fault,” I say. “We were rear-ended.”

  White warriors? Boss says. Why would they bother us now? We’ve already unloaded the evil energy tanks in Trinidad.

  “It’s not God’s Army.”

  Who then, Mister Smartypants?

  Again, I glance at the side view mirror. “If you were awake a minute ago, Mister Pain in My Ass, you’d have seen our friend is driving a black vehicle, not the usual heavenly white.” A comment I instantly regret when his demon essence, merged in with my spine, sends a shot of hot, sharp discipline up my back. I groan. “I’m trying to drive here.”

  Hee, hee, hee. Boss’ laugh sounds like a dog munching on a squeaky toy.

  The pickup’s engine revs, and with the next hit the van swerves toward the ditch. “Boss, help me, please,” I say while fighting to stay on the road.

  Chill out, he says. Probably some moron out for a joyride. Besides, he can’t hurt us unless you stop.

  “Like if the van flips next hit?” I shake my head and call out for Hell’s useful level of support. “Margery, you there?”

  As our dispatcher and the head demon who protects the evil cargo we haul, normally her voice would pipe in over the AM radio. She barks orders through it anytime, anywhere. So when she doesn’t answer, I squirm in my seat and stare skyward for a murder of crows. They’re one of Satan’s fiercest defenses against attacks. But there’s no reprieve in sight. “Where are the birds?”

  Duh! Clear blue sky. Try Margery again.

  I lean toward the radio and say louder, “Hey, I’m in trouble here. How about a little assistance?”

  “After what you did,” Margery replies in her gruff New York accent, “you’ve got a lot of nerve, taking one of my vans.”

  “What do you mean?” I stammer. “I’m driving back to Denver like I do every afternoon.”

  “Don’t act stupid. I know you sabotaged the hellhole.”

  “What?” I ask. “I haven’t been near the hellhole for years.”

  “Tell it to the mercenary on your ass. I hired him to take off your head.” Her deep inhale and crackling cigarette resonate in the background while the shocking news sinks in. Heat rushes up my spine, telling me Boss is equally surprised.

  Wow, that’s the thanks you get after fifty years of brown-nosing.

  Boss, go back into your coma. Then I tell Margery, “I’m your most loyal driver. Why would I turn on you?”

  “You tell me.” Phlegm gurgles in her throat as she adds, “We were so close to opening the Gates of Hell, and now we have to start over. You have any idea what will happen to me when Satan finds out what you did?”

  “C’mon. Please. Call off the mercenary. Give me a chance to prove I didn’t do it.”

  She blows out a long exhale, ending in a hacking cough.

  “Margery, listen to me. I would never—”

  “Too late. You’re on your own.” She cackles. “And good luck. There’s no protection hex on your van. I give that mercenary less than five minutes before he runs you off the road.”

  This can’t be happening. My hand trembles as I smooth my hair back into place. All I can think is one of my shady co-workers must have set me up. “Margery! I’m innocent!”

  No answer.

  Dude, we are so fucked.

  The van jolts and my gut smashes into the steering wheel. A twenty-ounce cola in the center console flies to the floorboard under my feet, spraying foamy liquid onto my cowboy boots and jeans. “Dammit!” I reach to pick up the bottle.

  Leave it, Boss squeals. Give that mercenary half a second, he’ll lop off your head and use it as a bowling ball.

  “No kidding.” I swallow hard around the knot in my throat.

  Fifty years ago, Margery granted me immortal life in exchange for a few strokes of a pen on a satanic contract. There’s no chance a mercenary will take it away with a stroke of a sword across my neck.

  I’m in no hurry to go back to the demon pool to wait for a new host, Boss says, even if you are short, gassy, and afraid of women.

  “Cut the insults. We need sanctuary.” I push the accelerator to the floor. “Find us an escape route.”

  Take the next exit, he says. There’s a Purgalator coffee shop connected to the Conoco station.

  As a haven for otherworldlies, it’s our only hope for survival.

  I swerve onto the Walsenburg off ramp and descend the hill. The pickup roars along behind me. At the red light, and halfway into a hard left, the van tilts and skids through the intersection, cutting in front of a semi-trailer. From behind, wheels screech and a deep horn blares.

  You trying to decapitate yourself and save him the trouble?

  “Hey, I bought us some time. Can’t believe I did it in an unprotected vehicle.”

  And surprisingly without soiling yourself, he says.

  I race into the gas station lot and park. The black truck’s engine amplifies as it closes in. I jump from the van, run past a dumpster, and blast through the Purgalator’s door.

  You do realize, there’s nothing stopping the mercenary from following us inside.

  What’s in It for Me

  A sign on the coffee shop wall reads, ‘Neutral Zone. Offenders will be ousted to their respective realms.’ This place better be as safe as it promises because it doesn’t ease my mind or Boss’ when the door bursts open. Sleigh bells break loose, fly across the room, and jingle all the way to the floor. The mercenary stomps through the joint and snarls, revealing rotting teeth buried inside an overgrown brown beard and mustache. With a wide nose, a shelf of a forehead, and dark eyes, he appears both Neanderthal and strangely familiar.

  Run! Boss hollers and torches my spine. It’s Roy Morrow.

  Looking past his unkempt mane, I recognize one of Margery’s long-lost couriers. He was so mean
that when he went missing no one cared. Makes sense he’s hunting heads.

  Roy sweeps aside his black trench coat to expose an Egyptian-style sword strapped to his hip.

  I return a nervous grin and skulk backward into a wood table.

  “Hey, you.” Harvey the coffee jerk points at Roy. “Back off or you’re out on your ass.” Anyone who frequents the Pugalator knows Harvey and his piercings, arm tattoos, dirty apron, and all around grunge look.

  Roy grumbles under his breath and closes his coat, but holds his ground with his arms crossed.

  Harvey shakes his head and turns to me. “Can I get you something?”

  Last rights, Boss says.

  I roll my eyes. “Is there a back exit?”

  “You leave the same way you came in.”

  Might as well have a seat, Boss says. As stubborn as Roy looks, he could block the door forever.

  While I’d rather remain quick on my feet, I go ahead and settle into a metal chair at the table Harvey’s wiping. Maybe a little caffeine will help me think clearer. “Black coffee, please. As bitter as you’ve got to match my mood.”

  He schleps back to the counter without a word.

  I take in the heavenly aroma of coffee and the dark decor. This place is peculiar in that no matter where you enter, patrons only see customers who came in through the same door. Any of the eclectic mix of chairs could seat any number of other unseen beings who entered at a different location. As the Purgulator’s one server, only Harvey knows true occupancy.

  With an eye on Roy, I ask Boss, What should we do now?

  Fill out an application, he says. At least we’ll be safe here.

  A high-pitched voice at the neighboring table interrupts. “Can I buy your coffee?” The caramel-skinned beauty emits a glow that catches me off guard every time I encounter her, although not in a good way.

  Boss laughs. Just when you thought things couldn’t get worse…an angel moves in.

  “Angel apprentice,” I say. The very same one who’s been chasing Boss and me for years. She has a team of white warriors—couriers who have defected to God’s side. Dressed in her usual silky white blouse and mini-skirt, I sometimes wonder why I haven’t let Trisha catch me already.

  “What’d you say?” She frowns and bounces her crossed leg.

  “Was talking to my demon.” I point at my temple.

  “Ah…”

  “You’ve got some timing,” I tell her with my head turned toward Roy.

  “Gee, Pete, considering that goon wants your head, I thought you’d be happier to see me.” The sound of her drumming fingernails gives me an eye twitch.

  “You know about the hellhole closing?” I ask. Gossip around the worlds of good and evil spreads as fast as lightning.

  “Why’d you do it?” she asks. “Not that I’m complaining. You’re making my mission to destroy Hell’s Trinidad operations easier. It just strikes me as odd that you would betray Margery.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Why is Margery so convinced you’re guilty?”

  “I think someone set me up.”

  “At this point, it doesn’t matter. Something much worse happened when the hellhole closed.” She leans forward. Long brown curls frame her face. “It’s related to why I’m here to offer you a way to keep your head.”

  Even though I’m afraid of what she might propose, I better hear her out. My hand shakes as I pull my chair over to her table. The legs screech, grating on my nerves.

  “Did you feel the earthquake around noon?” she asks.

  Boss laughs. Does she think you caused the quake? Because you can’t even make a woman’s legs tremble.

  My face reddens.

  “Well,” she says. “Did you?”

  “Sure, I felt it.” I cup my hands at my knees and stare down at the cola stains on my jeans. “Happens every six months, when the hellhole gets closer to opening.”

  “Today’s earthquake was more intense, and caused by a dark and abstruse magic,” she says. “It spread into the Sangre De Cristo Mountains and weakened a fault line near Blanca Peak, where a dangerous fallen angel named Azael was imprisoned.”

  “What do you mean by ‘was’?”

  “He escaped his holding cell.”

  I cough and beat my chest. Being blamed for the hellhole closing is bad enough, but freeing a fallen angel? “I had nothing to do with that either.”

  “Calm down.” She strokes her forearm with the tips of her manicured nails. “Margery can blame you all she wants, but I happen to know neither you nor your demon are capable of magic that can release a fallen angel,” she says. “The question now is, are you willing to help put Azael back in his cell?”

  Sounds like a faster path to decapitation than joining Roy for coffee, Boss says.

  I repeat Boss’ sarcastic reply, then add, “Seems to me, if you think I’m innocent, I’m more inclined to persuade Margery—”

  “She’s already convinced Satan you closed the hellhole. You honestly think she’ll go back and admit she was wrong?”

  Harvey approaches and places a steamy ceramic mug on the table. “Sucks to be you.”

  “Now, now,” Trisha says, then she hands him a ten-dollar-bill and tells him to keep the change.

  Harvey snickers and walks away.

  Yeah, dude, Boss says, she’s got you by the balls.

  Suggest you mastermind some way out of this, I tell him, unless you want to be known as a demon who helps angels.

  What could Trisha possibly expect from a now outlaw courier? Especially against a formidable being? “Count me out if you want to turn me into one of your white warriors.” After serving God’s Army for a thousand years, a warrior’s only reward is an eternity in Purgatory’s bookkeeping department, accounting for souls. Not my idea of redemption.

  “I can respect that, and it’s not what I’m offering,” she says. “But you do realize a refusal to work for me means an eventual date with a mercenary?” She glances the direction of Roy.

  A sip of coffee burns the back of my throat, invoking a vision of a sharp blade hacking at my neck. Then again, pursuing a fallen angel will probably end in the same fate. “If you want me on your side, start with the facts. Why would God’s Army need me?”

  With her eyes averted and a leg shaking, she says, “It’s a long story.”

  I gesture toward Roy, who snarls and cracks his knuckles. “I have time.”

  “Fine.” She huffs. “After the earthquake, Azael stormed my cave in Poison Canyon and took control of my white warriors. He also hacked off my left wing before I escaped.”

  Boss laughs so hard he snorts. What a moron. No wonder she needs us to do her dirty work.

  I don’t share my demon’s amusement. The prospect of white warriors under the influence of a fallen angel is terrifying.

  “You have any idea how long it takes to earn back a wing?” She stares deep into my eyes as if examining my soul, or the violet discoloration that happened when Boss first possessed me.

  “Sorry.” I try to be sympathetic to her loss even though she deserves no pity from me. She’s been trying to put me out of commission for fifty years. “Why isn’t God sending one of your archangel bosses after Azael?”

  “Well, for starters, no matter what new protections God adds to Azael’s prison cell, he figures a way out. With each subsequent escape he becomes stronger than his brothers and in his ability to evade capture. Because he’s so arrogant in his power, he only lets his guard down around humans and otherworldlies like you and your demon.” She sits up and wiggles in her seat. “It’s who he intends to rule over. He wants to steal your free will.”

  Boss butts in. There’s no arguing with her. Even I know Azael’s a bad ass. He’s the only other being besides God who sends Satan into a panic attack.

  My chest tightens and I clear my throat to speak, but all I can manage is to open my mouth.

  “There is a positive side to this.” Her warm smile provides no comfort. “We do know how t
o weaken him.”

  “Let me guess. It’s what you want me to do.”

  “We have a weapon, created by rogue Knights Templars who wandered across North America and released Azael in the twelfth century,” she says. “It’s made from one the spikes that held Jesus to the cross and the bottom half of the Spear of Destiny that pierced His side. It’s called the Sword of Sin, and humans and immortals can wield it, but it weakens angels and apprentices like me. It’s a sort of angel kryptonite.”

  Boss says, She wants us to risk your neck to fight a fallen angel that God can’t control. Screw it. Get the sword and use it on her and everyone else in our way.

  Again, she stares into my eyes while drumming her fingernails on the table. “Pete, I’m giving you the only way out of this coffee shop with your head. If you’re untrustworthy and your demon’s out of control, I’m wasting my time.”

  I jump back in my chair. “Can you hear Boss?”

  “To fight evil, you have to be able to perceive it. Plus, your violet eyes are pulsating. A dead giveaway your demon’s up to no good.” She lifts an eyebrow. “So, what’s it going to be? Follow your demon or help me?”

  Part of me continues to believe I can convince Margery I’m not to blame for this mess. With Roy on my tail, I’d be lucky to make it three feet out the door.

  Don’t agree to anything unless she gives us something in return, Boss says.

  “My demon wants to know what we get out of this.”

  “Demons,” she says. “Always in it for themselves.”

  Angels, always spreading good will, Boss says, when they should be spreading—”

  Boss!

  Trisha glares across the table. “What do you want, Pete?”

  “Freedom from Hell,” I’m quick to say. “I want freedom from Hell.”

  “That’s a given. We can’t fight Azael with Satan and Margery controlling or tracking you.”

  “Then I want a safehouse, where no one from Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory can screw with me.”

  “That better be it.” She huffs. “I’m not a genie who grants three wishes.”

  I think how separation from Boss should have been demand number two, but heat penetrating my spine says he disagrees. After half a century, I’m not sure I could live without his quirky thoughts in my head.