his means of communication and many of the other useful accoutrements he carried about his person, but that was a sacrifice he was going to have to make.
Tugging the belt from under his stomach, he held it up. “DI Cartwright,” he called, “could you arrange to have this sent to my hotel? I’ll be back for it later.”
“Sure,” Cartwright said, his voice muffled by the water. Abe swung his arm round awkwardly in the confined space and tossed the belt up to him. He heard the clatter as Cartwright caught it.
“Thanks,” he called. “Wish me luck.”
Then, without waiting for a reply, he plunged his head beneath the water and propelled himself into the darkness.
———
Hellboy was forging through darkness, too, but the only water he had to contend with were occasional drips from the ceiling. Even so, he was cranky enough to swear each time he felt a wet splat of cold on his cheek or neck. The reason for his crankiness was that he was still unhappy about having non-B.P.R.D. operatives accompanying him on his mission. Whatever Tom Manning had said, Hellboy felt ultimately responsible for the welfare of the two guys. It was easy enough for Tom, sitting in his cozy Connecticut office, to be nonchalant about them. To Tom these guys were nothing but concessionary factors in an ongoing process of negotiation with the British authorities. He didn’t have to see them as human beings.
Hellboy did, though. Oh, he had tried to distance himself, had done his utmost to be as businesslike as possible, but the problem was, he couldn’t keep it up. Despite his fearsome exterior, he was a personable guy, and if someone treated him with friendliness and respect, then he couldn’t help but respond.
And these guys had been, and still were, friendly and respectful. It turned out they admired him. Turned out they had volunteered for this mission just for the chance to work with him, fer Chrissakes. If they had been a couple of gung-ho morons, maybe he could have hated them a little for that. But they weren’t; they were competent professionals. They listened to what he said and they took no chances. Apart from the fact that they had no real idea of what they could be facing here today — despite Hellboy’s best efforts to educate them — they were perfect. Their lack of true understanding was certainly not their fault. When it came to fighting monsters, Hellboy knew no amount of preparation was ever enough. The only way to find out how you would react to the hyper-reality of encountering such a creature was to meet one head on. Which was why — if Hellboy was obligated to have any backup at all — he liked being surrounded by people he could rely on, people who had done this kind of work before. The inexperienced were unpredictable. Hellboy had seen battle-hardened army veterans freeze at the sight of their first supernatural entity; on the other hand, he had seen fresh-faced rookies barely out of high school take the appearance of some colossal, slavering swamp monster in their stride.
The two guys alongside him this evening were called Louis and Sean. Louis was a tall, broad-shouldered black man in his mid-thirties, whose easygoing, unflappable manner seemed to radiate stability and assurance. Sean, ten years younger, was sparky, alert, and receptive, but highly disciplined nonetheless. Louis, a Londoner, was married, with a five-year-old son and a nine-month-old daughter. Sean was from Aberdeen, and had a girlfriend called Lucy, who was a student at London University.
All this, and more, Hellboy had discovered in the hour or so that the three of them had spent tramping through the black, filthy tunnels of the London Underground. The only other living creatures they had seen in that time had been rats and mice, scampering away from the thin white beams of the flashlights mounted along the sights of the police officers’ assault rifles. The only sounds they had heard, aside from the crunch of their own boots and the
Tugging the belt from under his stomach, he held it up. “DI Cartwright,” he called, “could you arrange to have this sent to my hotel? I’ll be back for it later.”
“Sure,” Cartwright said, his voice muffled by the water. Abe swung his arm round awkwardly in the confined space and tossed the belt up to him. He heard the clatter as Cartwright caught it.
“Thanks,” he called. “Wish me luck.”
Then, without waiting for a reply, he plunged his head beneath the water and propelled himself into the darkness.
———
Hellboy was forging through darkness, too, but the only water he had to contend with were occasional drips from the ceiling. Even so, he was cranky enough to swear each time he felt a wet splat of cold on his cheek or neck. The reason for his crankiness was that he was still unhappy about having non-B.P.R.D. operatives accompanying him on his mission. Whatever Tom Manning had said, Hellboy felt ultimately responsible for the welfare of the two guys. It was easy enough for Tom, sitting in his cozy Connecticut office, to be nonchalant about them. To Tom these guys were nothing but concessionary factors in an ongoing process of negotiation with the British authorities. He didn’t have to see them as human beings.
Hellboy did, though. Oh, he had tried to distance himself, had done his utmost to be as businesslike as possible, but the problem was, he couldn’t keep it up. Despite his fearsome exterior, he was a personable guy, and if someone treated him with friendliness and respect, then he couldn’t help but respond.
And these guys had been, and still were, friendly and respectful. It turned out they admired him. Turned out they had volunteered for this mission just for the chance to work with him, fer Chrissakes. If they had been a couple of gung-ho morons, maybe he could have hated them a little for that. But they weren’t; they were competent professionals. They listened to what he said and they took no chances. Apart from the fact that they had no real idea of what they could be facing here today — despite Hellboy’s best efforts to educate them — they were perfect. Their lack of true understanding was certainly not their fault. When it came to fighting monsters, Hellboy knew no amount of preparation was ever enough. The only way to find out how you would react to the hyper-reality of encountering such a creature was to meet one head on. Which was why — if Hellboy was obligated to have any backup at all — he liked being surrounded by people he could rely on, people who had done this kind of work before. The inexperienced were unpredictable. Hellboy had seen battle-hardened army veterans freeze at the sight of their first supernatural entity; on the other hand, he had seen fresh-faced rookies barely out of high school take the appearance of some colossal, slavering swamp monster in their stride.
The two guys alongside him this evening were called Louis and Sean. Louis was a tall, broad-shouldered black man in his mid-thirties, whose easygoing, unflappable manner seemed to radiate stability and assurance. Sean, ten years younger, was sparky, alert, and receptive, but highly disciplined nonetheless. Louis, a Londoner, was married, with a five-year-old son and a nine-month-old daughter. Sean was from Aberdeen, and had a girlfriend called Lucy, who was a student at London University.
All this, and more, Hellboy had discovered in the hour or so that the three of them had spent tramping through the black, filthy tunnels of the London Underground. The only other living creatures they had seen in that time had been rats and mice, scampering away from the thin white beams of the flashlights mounted along the sights of the police officers’ assault rifles. The only sounds they had heard, aside from the crunch of their own boots and the
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