Page 136 of Rev

José just stands in the middle of the room, in front of me. My back is to the wall of windows facing the city, my front to the double doors. The bedroom is on my left, the TV on my right.

“José.” This is Tony.

“We can’t use guns.”

“You want to face thatpendejowithout a gun?” José snaps.

“I don’ wanna face that pendejoat all.” Tony gestures at me. “Boss would be pissed the fuck off, he knew Javi had kidnapped some innocent bitch. She catches one in a shoot-out with Rev, who he told Javi flat out to leave the fuck alone? Amigo, it ain’t Javi gonna pay.” He pronounces the diminutiveHA-vee.

José finally looks away from the door to Tony, an aggrieved expression on his face. Then at me. Back to Tony. “Fuck,” he snaps. Then, with a wave. “No guns. Javier wants his ass alive for himself anyway.”

The men all set their machine guns aside, and while I breathe a sigh of relief—seeing as I’m not exactly eager to “catch one”—I’m not sure it’s a smart play on their end, considering what I know of Rev.

And since he’s not alone, I’m guessing at the very least, Chance is with him.

José looks at me again, then at the doors. “You get a clean shot, take it. Otherwise, beat his ass down.”

I’m sort of confused.

They’re between me and the door. Rev has to go through them to get to me. So…what’s to stop them from just shooting at him before he gets to me? There’s got to be something I’m missing.

A door slams open, somewhere close—the other side of the double doors; the doors open onto a wall, the hallway going to the right, leading to the elevator and staircase.

José gestures at two men with his handgun, then gestures at the door. “Go.” When they hesitate, he gestures again, more angrily. “Ándale!”

Reluctantly, clearly afraid, they grab their machine guns and creep for the double doors. One reaches them first, pulls it open, leaning into the opening, peering down the sight of his gun. The other moves past him.

Crack-crack—crackcrackcrack! There’s an odd echoing noise, kind of like a dull, echoing thud. So much for no guns. There’s a cry of pain, and a machine gun flies through the air past the open door, hits the wall at the end of the hall, falls to the ground.

Pause—a matter of a second, maybe two.

During that brief pause, the man still in the doorway leans forward, fires—crackcrackcrack!

A body flies through the air, arms windmilling. He hits the wall where his gun did, moments before.

Crackcrackcrack!

The echoing thud again.

Something large and made of thick clear plastic appears, smashing with brutal violence into the man in the doorway. The clear plastic thing—a massive shield, the type you see policemen use during riots—is already smeared with dripping rivulets of blood; more is added at this impact, and the man is rocked backward flat on his back. His nose gushes, and he groans.

Rev.

He’s an avenging angel, clad in black cargo pants, his boots, a thick bulky black vest, arms bare, wearing black gloves with plastic or rubber or something on the knuckles. The shield is pocked with circular dents.

He appears in the doorway, grabbing the man who’d hit the wall. One fist in his shirt, Rev spins in a circle and hurls the man bodily into the room.

The shield-smash and throwing of the body happen in the space of an eye-blink, just for reference.

Now, Rev hulks in the doorway, eyes going to mine. He’s got a huge knife on his belt, sheathed.

He holds the shield in front of himself, scanning.

My heart beats…once. Twice. Three times. I can feel it, time creeping by like sludge.

Rev moves. Snatches up by the shirtfront the one he’d hit with the shield, head-butts him in the already-broken nose, and then moves forward into the room, dragging the man, who’s gone limp, feet dragging.

José shoots, two short bursts of three rounds. The rounds thud into the shield, and then into his own friend. Red holes appear in his back.