Alain stood at the slingshot chair with the nine men and Albert. For the sake of expediency, Albert did not recruit Kolya, but it cost another bottle of vodka and another case of assault rifles to get him to send his men while he stayed back.

Only two of them were Russian (both ex-Spetznaz), one was a former Somali pirate, three were former mercenaries, two were from street gangs, and the last was a P.E. coach who had apparently enjoyed the dodgeball a little too much. All of them carried an assault rifle, a bandolier of clips across his chest, three grenades, a paintball gun loaded with 110 magic whizzballs, and a backpack filled with 50 pounds of sand. The backpacks were to ensure they fell when shot out of the slingshot chair. Otherwise they'd rise and be blown back onto the 7th ring.

Alain could actually tolerate the Russians, the gang members, the mercenaries, even the pirate. They might not have been the nicest people in the world, but they were quiet and businesslike. The P.E. coach, Vic, treated this like an outing with his buddies and talked as they walked along Albert's tunnel... all 15 miles of it. He was not just an asshole, he was an asshole who wouldn't shut up. He talked about women he'd slept with, asses he'd kicked, times he'd gotten so drunk he did something stupid. When he wasn't talking about himself, he was saying incredibly pointless things about politics, discussing the relative merits of different porn movies, rattling off sports trivia, or going on about cars. It had actually built up some camaraderie between Alain and the other men as they shared looks of exasperation.

Alain had initially thought Kolya had assigned Vic to them as a "fuck you" gesture for not being included. Now Alain had a feeling Kolya had included him in the complement of men just to be rid of him. The "fuck you" gesture was an added bonus. Alain was almost ready to frag Vic himself, but Deuce had said he needed to recruit ten men.

Alain and two of the mercenaries, Peterson and Kramer, got first turn in the chair so they could secure the landing zone. While the mercenaries got themselves settled, Alain put an arm around Vic's shoulders and took him aside for a private chat.

"Look, Vic," he said, trying to sound buddy-buddy and not put the guy on the defensive. "Thanks for the entertainment during the hike, but you do understand that from this point forward, we've got to keep noise to a minimum, right?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Vic said. "You got it."

"Good."

Alain parted from Vic, walked back to the bench, and took his seat between Peterson and Kramer. He looked over at Albert as he crossed his arms over his weapons and straps, securing them against the rapid motion about to occur. "I'll see ya when I see ya." Albert nodded.

Peterson, on the lever, counted down. "Three... two... one... go."

The bench shot forward and then abruptly stopped, flinging the three men out into the void. Peterson and Kramer had both gone through Airborne training and had themselves angled into dives before Alain had even stopped tumbling enough to begin thinking about positioning himself. He followed their lead, slowing their forward momentum so that they cleared the lip of the 8th ring with around 200 feet to spare, then angled their dives to bring them in close to the 9th ring's cliff wall, landing outside the walls of Pandaemonium.

When they landed, Kramer and Peterson jogged off to establish a perimeter as Alain waited for the other 8 men. The last mercenary and the two bangers came next, followed by the Russians and the Somali, the parties dropping in 3 minute intervals. Albert and Vic came last. Vic didn't talk as he fell, thankfully, but as he hit the ground with his knees bent, he came up from his crouch with a loud "woo-hoo" that was cut off mid-woo by Alain's hand closing around his throat and slamming him up against the cliff wall.

"What part of 'noise to a minimum' was unclear," Alain asked quietly through gritted teeth.

With Alain nearly crushing whatever passed for a windpipe in his plastic-like anatomy, all Vic could do was squeak.

"There a problem here?"

Alain turned his head to see Deuce approaching, trailed by Peterson. Although Deuce was an ally, Peterson shouldn't have let him through. Alain glared at Peterson who gave a pained expression in return. None of the weapons Peterson carried or any of his fighting skills would stand up against a real, honest-to-goodness angel, so that made Alain actually feel a bit better about trusting Deuce. It also made Alain realize that, except for the holy pissballs, there wasn't a weapon or skill among his motley crew that would be of any use against demons... unless Vic could annoy them to death.

"Small disciplinary issue," Alain said, lowering Vic to the ground and releasing his throat. Vic rubbed his throat and turned his head back and forth, lightly hacking and coughing.

"Hmm," Deuce said, looking Vic up and down. "Can't have that." He raised his hand and Vic's weapons and pack fell off.

Vic floated upward. "Hey," Vic shouted. A quick hand wave by Deuce and his jaw clamped shut, muffling his shouts as he quickly rose upward and out of earshot.

"Not that I'm ungrateful," Alain said, "but we're now a man short."

Deuce smiled a sly smile. "I'll take his place. Anyway, if you get caught again, you're going to need a lawyer."

---

Kurt spent the rest of the afternoon practicing bigger and bigger jumps. Elvis and Arthur both went home and he practiced teleporting to their houses, then teleporting back. In an in-between time, he sat down with Marie.

"Tell me about Alain."

Marie put her elbow on the table and leaned her head into her hand, her fingers rubbing her head behind the temple and over the ear. She got a look of contentment on her face, as if she were imagining it were Alain's fingers running through her hair as she called him to mind. Kurt had noticed her French accent before, but after 60-plus years in the States, it was subdued. When she spoke this time, it was deeper, richer, more relaxed and less controlled. "Sweet... loving... a little shy... a terrible singer... though you never saw any of that I would guess. Loyal and dedicated... sometimes too much. If he called you 'friend,' he would die for you."

"He has a remarkable sense of right and wrong. It could make me so angry sometimes, you know. Sometimes, when my passions got the best of me, and he would give me moral guidance... sometimes I could spit. I would think that here is a man with part of his soul already in Hell, and he is trying to tell me about what is right and good."

"He could have said 'the Devil already has my soul, so why not just do whatever feels good?' And then I'd see... being good feels good to him. He is naturally a good person. It is not just something he does out of fear of damnation, or greed for paradise, or even a logical decision that this would be the best course of action."

Marie's voice grew thick. "He just follows his heart. He is good because his heart is good. How could you not love someone like that?"

Kurt was in a half-daze, watching her, listening to her talk about the man she loved. This was what God needed to hear, and he felt very inadequate as he contemplated trying to deliver it secondhand. But the bet was that he would convince God to save Alain, not her. So he listened as she went on, trying to figure out how he was going to use mere words to do justice to 64 years of love.

---

Deuce, Alain, and Albert sat next to each other on a bench in the Pandaemonium security office, hands cuffed behind their backs. In front of them, a team of demons and damned souls worked the monitor banks and dispatch consoles that coordinated security response not only within the 9th ring, but throughout Hell. Beside them sat the closed door of the office belonging to Andromalius, a duke of Hell and chief of security.

The door opened and one of the bouncer demons preceeded Andromalius out. Alain had been expecting something on the order of Mammon, but Andromalius looked more like he could eat Mammon. He had a crocodile's head on top of a body that resembled Lou Ferrigno wrapped in snakeskin. He wore black shorts and a blue t-shirt, both sporting Pandaemonium security badge logos.

"You're an angel, huh?" Andromalius ignored Alain and Albert, focusing in on Deuce. "Well, I know every angel created before the fall, our intelligence says there ain't been none created since, and I don't know you."

"You don't?" Deuce smiled. "Take a closer look. Maybe you're missing something."

Andromalius stepped closer to Deuce, leaning in to peer into Deuce's eyes. Alain watched as it happened and saw a light burst from Deuce's eyes, like the pop of a flashbulb. The sequence of events that followed seemed to play out in slow motion. The crocodile's jaw dropped and its eyes glazed as Deuce's hands came up and touched the side of the beast's head.

While Andromalius was falling, Alain and Albert were standing, their handcuffs dissolving into the ether. Deuce spread his wings, reached up under them, and pulled out Albert and Alain's paintball guns, tossing them to the two men before grabbing his own. Within thirty seconds, three damned souls and four demons lay unconscious, two more demons lay whimpering with smoke rising off of them, and the remaining security office staff had their hands in the air.

Over the next few hours, in groups of two and three, security personnel around the 9th ring were alerted to a disturbance in the Asmodeus Arena. Upon arrival they were greeted by 8 armed souls, a pile of smoking demon carcasses, and a large group of wiser demons who had followed instructions and taken seats in section A-2 with their hands up.

---

Inside the first gate of the celestial palace sat a reception desk. All visitors had to check in with the angels Sabrael and Domiel before being allowed deeper into the palace to attend to their business. It hadn't been very busy for the past few hundred years, but the two angels held their station faithfully, even if they did find ways to occupy their hours. At the moment, Domiel was deeply immersed in a Danielle Steele novel while Sabrael knitted a tea cozy.

"Domiel," Sabrael asked, his voice rising, "do you smell smoke?"

"No," Domiel answered, not looking up from his book. "Why?"

"Because the desk is on fire."

The two angels stepped back from the desk and stared at it incredulously. The desk burned with fire, and the desk was not consumed. No smoke rose. No wood blackened. Yet heat radiated as if it was engulfed.

Now things in Heaven aren't normally flammable. Flammability was one of those physical laws that Heaven seemed to get around, much like Hell got around gravity. About the only thing that burned in Heaven was Michael's flaming sword. If nothing burned, there was no need for fire alarms, and the security alarm switch was hidden under the desk... within the fire. Left with no other options, the angels resorted to a tried and true method that had been utilized by mankind for thousands and thousands of years: they yelled "FIRE!" at the top of their lungs — and the top of an angel's lungs can pretty much be heard for miles.

Offices around the celestial palace emptied. Angels, archangels, seraphim, and cherubim flooded out into the reception lobby, but didn't evacuate the building. They gathered around the desk, reaching out hands to feel the warmth of the fire before dropping to their knees and praying.

In the throne room, a small breeze blew as air was shoved out of the way to make room for a human body. Kurt turned to find the alarm box. As he raised his hand to smash it open, he heard a voice behind him.

"Nice burning bush you did out there. Very impressive. Not distracting, but impressive. Now why don't you turn around with your hands up?"

Kurt turned to see an angel, one of the most beautiful beings he'd ever seen, sporting flowing blonde hair, wings, a halo, and a huge flaming sword. "My name is Michael," the angel said.

Kurt stepped back, acting as if he were backing away in fear, then brought his elbow down and back in a fast motion, shattering the glass and pounding the button, setting off a very loud alarm.

"I really wish you hadn't done that," Michael said, shouting over the alarm. "It's a pain to reset the alarm and replace the glass!"

Michael raised his sword and took a step forward. "I was hoping we could have settled this peaceably!"

Kurt got a vision, loved it, blessed it, and Michael's hands were empty, the flaming sword now clasped by Kurt. He raised it, stepping toward Michael, and his hands were empty again. He dove out of the way as Michael swept the sword down at him. Kurt scrambled into a wary crouch as an annoyed Michael shoved the tip of his sword into the alarm box, turning the loud klaxon into a fizzling sputter and then silence.

"I know you're stronger than me," Michael said, moving cautiously toward Kurt. "But I've been training to use my holiness since God created me at the beginning of time. You've been training since when? Lunch? I don't care what your holiness rating is. I'm going to kick your ass, noob."

The shock of hearing an angel say "noob" paused Kurt almost long enough to take a flaming sword to the neck. He ducked just in time and he could hear and smell the flames of the sword fry the ends of his hair as it passed over his head. He came out of the crouch leaping in the same direction the sword had passed, flying under it on the back swing and running to put some distance between himself and the angel.

He was panicking and that was making it hard to concentrate enough to get a vision and do something with it. As Michael stalked forward, Kurt stared at the flaming sword and said "Amen." Once again, he had a flaming sword in his hands, but this time it wasn't Michael's. Michael's swing came in and Kurt raised his sword in time to deflect the blow. The two holy instruments came together with a shower of sparks and a clang like a church bell, gouts of flame erupting as Michael's blade slid along Kurt's.

Michael stepped back and poised himself for another blow while Kurt grimaced. Michael's blow may not have connected with Kurt's flesh, but the impact of the sword had sent compression waves pounding through Kurt's arms and shoulders and into his torso. It felt like his ribs were wobbling. He warded off three lighter blows in quick succession as Michael tested the strength of his defenses, which weren't much. Kurt's experience with swordfighting was pretty much limited to when he was 13 and he and Jimmy Hill discovered Highlander, watched it obsessively, and play-fought with plastic swords for a summer. Michael was going to pick him apart in short order if he didn't do something.

Where the Hell is God, Kurt thought as he turned and ran.

---

Alain and Deuce walked down an ornate hallway. Kramer and Peterson had double-timed it over from the arena to help Albert run the security office while the remaining six stood guard over dozens of demons. Deuce offered a brilliant idea to help the six men retain control over so many prisoners, telling them to have the demons sit in each others' laps. It demoralized the demons, shrunk the boundaries of the physical area that needed to be guarded, and made leaping into action that much more difficult.

At the end of the hallway stood a giant golden door, fifteen feet high and ten feet wide, covered in ornate scrollwork and crusted in gemstones. A giant L, composed of rubies as big as your fist and as red as new blood, made it clear who they were going to see.

Deuce didn't have to do any hand waving to gain entrance. The door opened of its own accord and Alain followed Deuce in. The throne room was composed of stone, like a medieval castle, the only light coming from torches along the walls. The smell of burning pitch was thick in the air. At the end of a long red carpet, a handsome man in a Versace suit sat in a giant golden throne that threw off pings and glints of reflection in the torchlight.

"Hello, Lou," Deuce said, breaking the silence.

"I thought you'd come," Lucifer replied. He had long, brown curls, pulled back into a ponytail to match Deuce's do. Now Alain knew who Vinnie had patterned his hair style after. He was clean-shaven and there was no hint of horns. He had high cheekbones, full lips, and smoldering eyes. Alain wasn't gay, but even he had to admit the man was beautiful.

"Of course I came. You worked awful hard to get my attention."

Lucifer smiled. "Haven't I always?"

Deuce frowned. "But this time you went too far. I can't allow this anymore."

"Then punish me," Lucifer laughed. "What are you going to do that's worse than this?"

Alain watched as a tear ran down from Deuce's eye. "I'm sorry, Lou."

The smile disappeared from Lucifer's face as he burst into flames. The inferno was mercifully short. Lucifer didn't even have time to scream. Within seconds nothing was left on the throne but a small pile of ash.

Alain turned to Deuce, his mouth agape. Another tear rolled down Deuce's cheek followed by a sniffle. Deuce pinched his nose and sniffed again, shaking his head sadly from side to side.

"I prefer to think of it as 'unmaking,' not 'killing,'" Deuce said, seeming to read the question Alain was too shocked to ask. Deuce held out his hand and a small urn appeared in it. A slight wave of his other hand and the ashes on the throne disappeared.

"You're not my guardian angel, are you," Alain asked.

A flick of Deuce's finger mounted the urn at the top of Lucifer's throne. "What makes you say that," he asked, turning to Alain and smiling a strained smile. Deuce put his hand on Alain's shoulder. "Thank you for all your help, but we have one more thing to attend to."