poked his head out of the bedroom and into a hallway. He didn't see anybody. He walked quickly and silently through the apartment.
He found the second bad guy in the living room. Pillows and blankets on the couch indicated he had been sleeping there. He was standing up and holding a gun.
The bad guy saw Virgil at the same time. Virgil charged straight forward. The guy had time to squeeze off a single gunshot before their bodies collided. Virgil tackled him with enough force to drive his body into a wall. Virgil then punched the guy in the face, knocking him out. Virgil grabbed the gun, popped out the magazine, and threw both pieces across the room.
He stood up. A wet sensation on his chest made him look down. Black, sticky blood was oozing from a gunshot wound. Another shirt ruined, he thought.
Lisa and the hostage walked into the living room.
"Call the police," Virgil told the girl. "When they show up, explain what happened, but give them the wrong description. You can say you were rescued by mysterious strangers, but misremember what we looked like. OK?"
She nodded with a fearful expression.
Virgil and Lisa left through the front door of the apartment. They hurried down a back staircase and emerged from the building using a rear exit.
The morning was turning out beautifully. The sun was rising in a clear, blue sky. The air had the chilly bite of early winter, but no snow had fallen yet this season.
For the ten thousandth time, Virgil was glad to be out of Hell. That place had been dark, hot, smoky, foul, and most of all, lonely. He had spent thirty years in Limbo, a comparatively mild circle of Hell, but Earth was so much nicer. He treasured every sunrise as if it were his last.
He and Lisa walked quickly towards their car.
"That went pretty well," she said.
He nodded. "I can't complain. We got the job done with minimal fuss. No reason for Mammon to hear about it."
"You were shot again."
He shrugged. "No big deal."
"I'm surprised you don't jingle when you walk. How much lead are you carrying in your body?"
"Thirty or forty bullets. It's getting to be quite a collection."
They arrived at their car, a blue Nissan Altima. Virgil took the driver's seat, and Lisa rode shotgun. He started the engine.
He remembered the phone call he had ignored earlier. He took out his phone and saw Sara had tried to reach him. With a puzzled expression, he called her back.
"Hello?" Sara said.
"It's Virgil. What do you need?"
"Why didn't you pick up earlier?"
"I was, uh, busy," he said.
"Busy with what? You and Lisa have been spending a lot of late nights together."
"We're training."
"Without Alfred or me," she said. "What exactly are you doing?"
"You guys don't enjoy the same kind of training as us. We like to mix it up on the city streets. Is there a specific reason why you called, or did you just want to accuse me of unspecified misdeeds?"
"Haymaker is coming to headquarters. He has some pictures he wants me to see. Maybe you should be here."
"We're coming home right now," Virgil said. "See you in twenty minutes. Bye." He hung up.
"We need to change our clothes," Lisa said. "We look like crooks."
He nodded. "Sara is getting suspicious."
"I'm not surprised. I'd suggest we cut back on the hero stuff, but it's too much fun."
We need a real mission, Virgil thought.
Chapter Two
Virgil and Lisa were walking through an alley in Chinatown on the south side of Chicago. Flies buzzed around dumpsters behind restaurants. Flattened cardboard boxes and shipping pallets formed piles. A cat was chewing on a fish head, and it eyed the two intruders warily. Colorful graffiti decorated the walls. Virgil's nose could only perceive supernatural scents, so fortunately, he couldn't smell the rotting food.
He and Lisa reached a concrete staircase leading down to the basement of Red Palace Antiques. They went down the stairs and stepped carefully on the frosty surface at the bottom. The door was made of steel painted red, and it had a
He found the second bad guy in the living room. Pillows and blankets on the couch indicated he had been sleeping there. He was standing up and holding a gun.
The bad guy saw Virgil at the same time. Virgil charged straight forward. The guy had time to squeeze off a single gunshot before their bodies collided. Virgil tackled him with enough force to drive his body into a wall. Virgil then punched the guy in the face, knocking him out. Virgil grabbed the gun, popped out the magazine, and threw both pieces across the room.
He stood up. A wet sensation on his chest made him look down. Black, sticky blood was oozing from a gunshot wound. Another shirt ruined, he thought.
Lisa and the hostage walked into the living room.
"Call the police," Virgil told the girl. "When they show up, explain what happened, but give them the wrong description. You can say you were rescued by mysterious strangers, but misremember what we looked like. OK?"
She nodded with a fearful expression.
Virgil and Lisa left through the front door of the apartment. They hurried down a back staircase and emerged from the building using a rear exit.
The morning was turning out beautifully. The sun was rising in a clear, blue sky. The air had the chilly bite of early winter, but no snow had fallen yet this season.
For the ten thousandth time, Virgil was glad to be out of Hell. That place had been dark, hot, smoky, foul, and most of all, lonely. He had spent thirty years in Limbo, a comparatively mild circle of Hell, but Earth was so much nicer. He treasured every sunrise as if it were his last.
He and Lisa walked quickly towards their car.
"That went pretty well," she said.
He nodded. "I can't complain. We got the job done with minimal fuss. No reason for Mammon to hear about it."
"You were shot again."
He shrugged. "No big deal."
"I'm surprised you don't jingle when you walk. How much lead are you carrying in your body?"
"Thirty or forty bullets. It's getting to be quite a collection."
They arrived at their car, a blue Nissan Altima. Virgil took the driver's seat, and Lisa rode shotgun. He started the engine.
He remembered the phone call he had ignored earlier. He took out his phone and saw Sara had tried to reach him. With a puzzled expression, he called her back.
"Hello?" Sara said.
"It's Virgil. What do you need?"
"Why didn't you pick up earlier?"
"I was, uh, busy," he said.
"Busy with what? You and Lisa have been spending a lot of late nights together."
"We're training."
"Without Alfred or me," she said. "What exactly are you doing?"
"You guys don't enjoy the same kind of training as us. We like to mix it up on the city streets. Is there a specific reason why you called, or did you just want to accuse me of unspecified misdeeds?"
"Haymaker is coming to headquarters. He has some pictures he wants me to see. Maybe you should be here."
"We're coming home right now," Virgil said. "See you in twenty minutes. Bye." He hung up.
"We need to change our clothes," Lisa said. "We look like crooks."
He nodded. "Sara is getting suspicious."
"I'm not surprised. I'd suggest we cut back on the hero stuff, but it's too much fun."
We need a real mission, Virgil thought.
Chapter Two
Virgil and Lisa were walking through an alley in Chinatown on the south side of Chicago. Flies buzzed around dumpsters behind restaurants. Flattened cardboard boxes and shipping pallets formed piles. A cat was chewing on a fish head, and it eyed the two intruders warily. Colorful graffiti decorated the walls. Virgil's nose could only perceive supernatural scents, so fortunately, he couldn't smell the rotting food.
He and Lisa reached a concrete staircase leading down to the basement of Red Palace Antiques. They went down the stairs and stepped carefully on the frosty surface at the bottom. The door was made of steel painted red, and it had a
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