What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [33]
A kid in a baseball cap ran up to the driver. “Whoa! Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay, you halfwit!” Satan smacked the kid on the top of the head and stalked off to find Agent Robertson.
Two security guards ran up from a guard stand on the side of the building with their guns drawn. Satan did not break stride, and instead merely waved a dismissive hand in their direction. The two men shot off into the air as if fired from a cannon. Another guard peeked his head out from the stand, thought about it, and then ran off in the other direction. It was too late though. His head caught on fire as he ran. The Prince of Darkness strode to the main entrance, opened the door, and walked inside the FBI headquarters.
Clyde Parker had done and seen some crazy stuff, what with working for the VP and all, but he couldn’t recall ever having seen someone kick ass with what pretty much looked like magic. He stood there for a moment, regarding the scene through squinty, skeptical cowboy eyes, until a largish family waddled by, screaming in terror, waking him from his reverie.
“Shit!” he said, shaking his head. “To Hell with Baphomet.”
He had to figure out who this guy was. But how? He looked around, as if he expected to find some handy, Who-the-Hell-Was-That? tool lying around, and then paused, wondering whether there was even any point. Wasn’t it suicide, marching into the damned FBI building like that? With no gun? Just … well, he didn’t know what it was. Parker sure as hell wasn’t going to march in after him.
So what then? Wait until the guy came out? If he came out? Well, he was sure to come out. It just might be in a body bag, was all. Then again, after what he’d just seen the man in the pinstriped suit do, a body bag didn’t seem all that likely. No, that man was going to come out, climb back into that sports car, and skedaddle. And that meant Parker was going to need to find some kind of transportation. Fast. He should probably also call the Governor.
He struggled for a minute, trying to extract his cell phone from the pocket of his extra-tight cowboy jeans. After some straining and a bit of hopping on one leg, he got it out, opened it and dialed a number.
“This is Parker. Get me the VP – the governor,” he said, as he stalked off to find a cab.
Satan strode through the lobby of the FBI building, setting fires here and there, and paused for information at the security desk.
The attendant wore a short-sleeved blue shirt and a shiny badge. He looked at Satan and trembled very slightly.
“Um, yes, hello,” said Satan, glancing around casually. “Can you help me find Agent Bob Robertson?” He smiled as if it were perfectly normal for visitors to the Hoover building to set half the building on fire.
The man pulled his trembling hand back toward the revolver holstered on his belt. He unbuttoned the holster, fumbling with the snap.
Satan finally turned his attention to the man, raising his eyebrows as he noticed the gun. “Oh dear,” he said. “I’d be very careful with that.” The security guard froze. Satan smiled, and watched the man’s hand move back from the holster to a nice, comfortable spot on the counter.
“Elevators’re over there,” he said, nodding. “Sixth floor.”
“Thank you.” Satan turned and strolled toward the elevator bank.
The elevator dinged, and a gruff voice called out as Satan stepped onto the elevator. “You there! Stop!” Satan peeked out of the elevator and saw a group of heavily-armed men with helmets and bulky vests fan out, guns drawn. He stepped back into the elevator and pressed the “6” just as the doors came together.
As he ascended, the tiniest hint of doubt crept into Satan’s mind. There were an awful lot of agents running around, and no doubt more were on the way. Some of the group that had tried to stop him as he’d got on the elevator had had rather large, unpleasant-looking