"Lots and lots. So you don't have any problems, about going up against angels or devils?"

She smiled coldly. "Just give me something to aim at and leave the rest to me." She frowned thoughtfully. "There was a weapon I heard of once ... The Speaking Gun. Created specifically to kill angels. The Collector tried to bribe me with it one time, to get into my pants ..."

"I think we'll save that for a last resort," I said, diplomatically.

She shrugged. "So, where do we start?" "Well, I thought we'd go and have a word with the Demon Lordz."

"Those gangsta wannabes? I have seen puppies in toilet paper commercials that were more threatening than that bunch of poseurs."

"There's more to them than meets the eye." She sniffed. "There would have to be." I stood up. Time to get the show on the road. "Grab what you need, and let's get moving, Suzie. Above and Below have already tried to lean on me. I'm pretty sure we're working against the clock on this one."

Suzie lurched ungracefully to her feet and stomped out of the room, heading for her bedroom. I waited patiently while she threw things about, looking for what she wanted. When she came back, she looked like Shotgun Suzie again. The grubby T-shirt and faded jeans were gone, replaced by gleaming black leather jacket, trousers and knee-high boots, generously adorned with steel chains and studs. She wore two bandoliers of bullets across her impressive chest, and the hilt of her favourite pump-action shotgun peered over her right shoulder from its holster on her back. A dozen assorted grenades hung from her belt. She'd even brushed her hair and slapped on some make-up. She looked sharp and deadly and very alive. Suzie Shooter was on the job, heading into deadly peril, and she couldn't have been any happier.

"Damn," I said. "Clark Kent becomes Superman."

"Big Boy Scout," she sneered. "Who's our client on this one, Taylor?"

"The Vatican. So watch your language. You ready?"

"Does the Pope shit in the woods? I was born ready."

I made a mental note to keep her well away from Jude, and led the way out. It was a good day for someone else to die.

Demons, Nazis, and Other Undesirables

We went uptown. The nastiest, scariest, sleaziest joints are always uptown. Where the beautiful people go, to act out their inner ugliness in private places. Uptown, where the neon becomes more stylised and the come-ons are more subtle. Where the best food and the best wine and the best drugs, and all the very best music can be yours, for a price. Which is sometimes money and sometimes self-respect, and nearly always your soul, in the end. Uptown, you can see everybody on the way up, and everyone on the way down. Birds of a feather groom together. Walking the rain-slick streets under hot neon, wit Suzie at my side like a barely restrained attack dog, it quickly became clear that there really were a lot fewer people about than usual. Just the thought of visiting angels, from Above or Below, had been enough to scare a lot of familiar faces into lying low for a while. But there were still crowds of people out and about, hurrying along temptation's rows, avoiding eye contact, lips wet with anticipation. On their way to business or pleasures they couldn't or wouldn't put off, even for the threat of Judgement Day.