Free Angel Souls and Devil Hearts by Christopher Golden Page A

commander of the UN Security
Forces. Still, they didn’t want him out there, fighting. But that was the condition upon which he’d taken the job. He’d trained with nearly every elite fighting force allied with
his homeland, Spain. He was not going to give orders from safety. He couldn’t, no matter how badly they wanted to protect him; the thought sickened him.
    And they did want to protect him. The job had gotten that much more important in the three years since ’97, when NATO and the UN had finally merged. The two organizations had been stepping
all over each other’s toes for years, but after the whole Bosnia debacle, there was no putting off the merger. NATO had begun to play diplomacy games, and the UN had moved more and more into
the area of military intervention. Technology and time had made the Earth like a small town, and there wasn’t room in town for both of them. The new balance of power made Roberto Jimenez one
of the two or three most powerful military men in the world. Maybe the most powerful.
    But he didn’t let it go to his head.
    Now the transport brought him at top speed toward a rendezvous in Munich with the UNSF troops gathering to take the hot spot. By dawn, they’d be invading Salzburg on his orders. For the
moment, though, he was arguing with his boss on the phone. The duties of the UN secretary general had grown in the past five years, as more and more of the world’s protection was heaped on
his shoulders. The man was not one to mince words.
    “I don’t give a goddamn whether you like it or not,” Nieto snapped, and the viewscreen was good enough that Jimenez could see a vein pulse on his superior’s forehead.
    “Listen, Rafe,” Jimenez reasoned, “you know and I know that Hannibal has his own agenda. I don’t know what the SJS is up to, or even if the whole group is under his
control, but their presence will compromise this mission.”
    Nieto heaved a sigh, calming himself down.
    “Berto,” he said, “I know you don’t trust him. I don’t. Even the shadows don’t. But chances are, you’re going to need him. His people know a lot more
about this shit than we do! He’s agreed to follow your orders. Besides, Gallagher and Nueva will be there to keep him in line.”
    Roberto Jimenez listened, but wasn’t buying any of it. He feared the shadows, and didn’t trust any of them, even the “good” ones.
    “Who’s going to keep them in line?” he asked, sarcastically.
    A cloud fell over UNSG Nieto’s face.
    “Just do your job.”
    The connection was broken, leaving Jimenez with the thrumming of the jet for company. He unzipped his jacket and reached inside to pull a sharp object from under his arm, where it had been
hidden in a leather sheath. It was a crucifix, made of silver, whose base tapered down to a razor point. A dagger. A friend of his, a lieutenant in the Italian army, had found it in the ruins of
Venice after the Jihad, and given it to Roberto as a gift.
    And for protection.
    Jimenez stroked the blade for a moment before replacing it inside his jacket, then zipping up. It made him feel a little better to have that weapon, and symbol, nestled against his body.
    It bothered him that Nieto referred to the shadows as people. They weren’t. They were exactly what they were called—shadows. Shadows of human beings.
    And shadows were fickle things.
    Roberto Jimenez didn’t trust any of them.
     

4
    Salzburg, Austria, European Union.
Tuesday, June 6, 2000, 3:14 P.M. :
    It was amazingly quiet.
    Everything human had fled this particular street except Allison Vigeant, and she stood between John Courage and Will Cody, Beretta in hand. They couldn’t even hear screaming in the
distance. No sirens, no vehicles. For a moment, the only sound was the chilly summer wind whipping down Getreidergasse.
    In front of them, were humans whose souls had been torn out and replaced with the supernatural will of the ghosts of centuries-dead soldiers, their tourist clothing