When I looked again the jacketed man with the bandanna-covered face was behind a vault, bending toward the base of the crypt. He stood, and sun glinted off steel as he pul ed back the slide on a semiautomatic. Then he dropped his hand straight to his side and walked toward the swimming angel.

Fear shot through me.

Without thinking, I began to crawl toward the path.

"Get back here, Brennan," Claudel shouted.

Ignoring him, I pushed to my feet and scrabbled down the hil , keeping to the far side to avoid gunfire. Crouching low and darting from monument to monument, I worked my way toward the statue sheltering my nephew.

Pistols and semiautomatics barked around me. The Angels were reaping their vengeance, and the Machine were returning fire. Bul ets sparked off tombs and headstones. A granite splinter struck my cheek, and something warm trickled down my face.

As I rounded the statue on one side, the jacketed man appeared on the other Crease and Kit stood directly between us. The gunman raised his arm and aimed.

Crease swung Kit around to shield himself.

"Get down!" I screamed. Sweat trickled from my hairline, and the wind felt cold on my face.

It took Kit a moment to realize his situation. Then he spun and brought his knee up hard between the reporter's legs. Crease's hand flew up and his mouth opened in a perfect O, but one hand held tight to Kit's shirt.

Kit twisted to his right, but Crease yanked hard just as the shooter squeezed the trigger. A deafening sound reverberated off the bronze torso and wings above us. My nephew fel to the ground and lay stil .

"No!" My scream was drowned by the sound of engines and gunfire.

Another thunderous roan I saw a hole open in Crease's chest, and a liquid river of red streamed down his front. He went rigid for a moment, then dropped next to Kit.

I sensed a figure moving around the monument, and threw myself forward to cover Kit. His hand moved feebly and a burgundy stain was spreading across his back.

The figure loomed larger and fil ed the gap between the angel and the neighboring tomb, feet spread, pistol extended in a twohanded grip toward the gunman above us. The muzzle flashed. Another deafening crack. The gunman's eye exploded, blood bubbled from his mouth, and he crumpled to the ground beside me.

My eyes met eyes bluer than a butane flame. Then Ryan whirled and was gone.