2. Enter Lucifer
Twenty-four hours later, I'm sitting in a hole-in-the-wall cantina in Culiacan, Mexico, waiting to meet with the notorious Lucifer. I'm more than a little curious. My employer rarely talks about those years with the CIA, so the prospect of meeting a real, live agent-or ex-agent, I've gathered, who might fill in a few puzzle pieces - is tantalizing.
Although I don't have any description to go on aside from "the face of an angel", I don't have any trouble spotting Lucifer when he strolls in the door. He's wearing the PSCS in broad daylight. They're built to look like sunglasses - the frames are by Oakley - and aren't opaque. Well, that's one way to identify himself. He's dressed like a Hollywood movie cowboy, all in black, and he walks with a slow swagger. The face of an angel? It's hard to tell with the reflective silver shades covering so much of it. He threads his way nimbly through the crowded restaurant to my table. "Room for one more?" he asks smoothly. His lips are pursed in an expression that comes off as smug.
"Sure. Have a seat."
"You work for...?" Up close, I get a look at some good bone structure. Slim build. I'd peg him around my age, late thirties, with an American accent.
"Millennium Consulting," I answer quietly. He settles gingerly into the chair opposite me. Something about his attitude - wary, watchful-makes me edgy. There's a gun under his vest - he's not even trying to be subtle about it - and I know that RC was right about this guy. He'd put a bullet into me between one heartbeat and the next if he thought it needed to be done.
A waitress appears, asks if he wants the usual, and he nods curtly. The big silver curve that covers his eyes is still trained in my direction. "What's your name"
"Kate." I answer to that as readily as I do Catherine these days. It started as a "Taming of the Shrew" joke, but it could be Hepburn, too, and I like it.
"So, you're the one who put together the gear." He touches an earpiece lightly. "Nice work. Did RC tell you what I want?"
"Matching gloves."
"Yeah, basically. We'll go back to my place after lunch and you can hook me up." He accepts a plateful of something violently red on a bed of yellow rice and digs in. Lucifer may have a gun, but I remind myself that I've held my own with guys a lot bigger than him when it comes to hand-to-hand fighting. He's an inch or two taller than I am, but he's slender bordering on skinny. I probably outweigh him by ten or fifteen pounds, tits not included.
I'm not sure what I expected of his place - maybe a swinging batchelor pad; he strikes me as a ladykiller in more ways than one. Instead, it's a plain jane cinderblock house, one story, walled by courtyards front and back, a regular fortress. Practically empty, there's nothing homelike about it; everything is strictly functional. The few pieces of furniture are arranged with geometric precision. It must be a furnished rental, I think, because I can't imagine this...gunfighter...picking out that pink and blue floral sofa.
The blinds are drawn. It's dim, almost womblike in here, but he gestures to the table in the dining room. "Okay, trot it on out, sugar butt. Time's a wasting."
Ah, hell, I don't really care if he's packing - he's starting to get on my nerves. "First of all, sport, it's not a case of trotting something out. I haven't built them yet. Second, I'm going to have to configure them with the primary unit, and I'm sorry, but that's gonna take a little while. And third, it's a fucking cave in here." I yank on the cord for the blinds and he goes rigid. For a minute, I think he's gonna reach for his gun - I'm already tensing to take him down - but he stops. Looks pissed.
"How long is it going to take?" he asks tightly.
"It takes as long as it takes, Lucifer."
"No. I'll put up with that shit from RC, but not from you. The name is Sands. Use it."