Now, I thought as I moved amongst the parked vehicles in the lot, if I were a van full of terrorists, where would I hide?

Fruitcake had given me the oh-so-helpful advice that the van was nondescript and white. I’d already snuck up on three vans matching that non-description, only to find them empty. Of course, I had not exactly sorted out what I was going to do once I found them.

When I got out of the taxi I tried to call the boys, but every one went straight to voicemail. I could see them now, in some strip bar with no reception; a place safe from the prying calls of wives and girlfriends. The 911 call went better, but they wanted me to stay in one place and hold the line, which I was not about to do. Too much at risk.

I was nearing the stadium itself now. The roar of the crowd and the thrum of loud music reached me even here. People were lost in the moment, enjoying life and trying hard to forget that the world was going to hell. I wished I was one of them and not someone slinking around outside in the parking lot.

When was the last time I’d been to a gig? I couldn’t remember. The Peri that did that sort of thing seemed like someone I read about or watched on TV. Even the idea of doing something so mundane seemed laughable. I didn’t know if I would ever be that kind of person again.

Moving as quietly as I could, I crept amongst the cars and trucks. At the edge of the parking lot, as close as vehicles were allowed to park thanks to fears of just such a thing happening, I saw another white van. If this was not it, then this was all some sort of weird, sick joke. Or a test. Maybe somebody in Seer division was fucking with me.

Staying low, I tried to approach the van at an angle that would keep me from being seen in the mirrors or windows. Four car lengths away, I stopped. There was no way to get to the van without traveling through a pool of light cast by one of the street lamps. Crouching behind an SUV, I cursed. What the hell was I supposed to do? I could run, but that would probably attract attention.

Then I noticed a large rock on the ground. Fantastic. You can always rely on shitty parking lot maintenance. Picking it up, I juggled the chunk of asphalt several times. It would do. They would hear a noise, but better that than being spotted. I chucked the rock at the light pole and was rewarded with an extremely satisfying crash of glass as it hit home and killed the light.

Ok, so it made a bit more noise than I hoped for, but what are you going to do?

Creeping forward, I moved in the now shadowy place between the van and my SUV. I saw some movement from the van, nothing I could make out specifically, but there was definitely at least someone inside it. Oh shit, maybe this was it. Maybe terrorist gunmen were inside the thing right now.

I was almost to the back doors when they opened. Throwing myself to the side, I tried to cartwheel with as little noise as possible. Ending up in a crouch at a 45-degree angle from the door, I hugged the ground as it swung aside. A face poked out, illuminated by the light from the van interior, and scanned the area I was standing in just a moment before.

They were holding a pistol.

Well, there you go, fruitcake was right. Probably. I mean, this was America. I was about ten feet from the gunman, who was probably blind thanks to the interior car light. In a second he was going to look in my direction.

I was up and moving before I had time to think. Crossing the distance between us, he was still turning, probably reacting to the sound of my shoes on the pavement. I smashed into the door with my shoulder. Being small, I don’t weigh very much. Lucky for me, I am very fast, very strong, and had a lot of momentum on my side. Now if I could just grab his weapon.

The door slammed into him with a loud crunch. Twirling end over end, the gun fell, skittering beneath the van, out of my reach. Pulling the buckled door open, I slammed it into him again with another rewarding thud. When I yanked it open again, he was already falling forward. Grabbing his collar, I tugged at him and helped him smash into the pavement.

Three guys were sitting in the back of the van, all of them armed with submachine guns slung around their necks. They were cosplaying in bulletproof vests and swat gear. Crosses glimmered in the interior light. They looked at me with absolute shock, their mouths hanging open.

“Hello boys,” I said, as I hopped up into the van with them. They would not have been more surprised if I had had four heads and breathed fire.

Why let a good thing go to waste? I decked the nearest one with a hard blow to the side of the jaw. This was no time to mess around; teeth and blood fountained from his mouth. The others began jabbering and screaming, trying to move away from me. It was obvious they had little to no training, they seemed to have forgotten they were holding guns.

The one on my left was a bit trickier. I swung, but he was moving, it was cramped. Anyway, I missed. My fist deformed the side of the van where his head had been. He was trying to get away, ignoring the reality that he was trapped in a metal box with me. I grabbed him by the belt loop and pulled back, hard. He screamed as I prepared to toss him out the back of the van.

His friend had other ideas. I was not dealing with them quickly enough and he had recovered enough to remember that he was holding a weapon. Bullets spit out of the nozzle in a cacophonous roar. The guy I was holding jerked and spasmed as the bullets ripped into him. White pain exploded from my hip as a bullet caught me.

I will not pass out, I told myself, I will not pass out. People were screaming in the van, too many to tell who it was, but I think it was all of us. I slammed the body I was holding into the gunman, forcing them into the side of the van. Bullets zipped past my leg like angry bees. Holding the two guys together with my left arm, I punched my free fist over and around the body, trying to hurt the gunman. Two rapid blows and the gun clattered to the floor.

Dropping my shield (I did not want to think of it as a person) I slammed my elbow into the throat of the gunman. He flailed about, trying to push me away but could not. I pressed hard against his throat, trying to decide if I should break his neck. My thigh throbbed in pain; I was afraid to look at the wound there. He gasped, turning red, then blue as he tried to push me away. It was fun watching his futile struggle.

It felt good, holding him there, righteous. He deserved this. He’d earned this.

My gunshot wound burned. I’d fucking fought an angel. I’d lost friends to these monsters and now this asshole was trying to finish their work for them?

No one would judge me.

His struggles were getting weaker now, feeble like his brain.

Why shouldn’t I?