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  The Quake demon’s tail swung at Angel again, knocking him to his knees. A rocky claw locked around his left wrist. Another gripped his right shoulder.

  A shockwave rippled between the two points, slamming up his arm and across his chest. He could feel his bones begin to hum as his muscles convulsed. In another moment his teeth would explode like firecrackers. . . .

  His right arm was still free. He reached up and grabbed the demon’s wrist, wrenching its claw loose from its grip on Angel’s shoulder. Now he had it by one wrist and it had him by the other.

  Angel put every ounce of strength into a lunge to the side. He took the demon with him—and both its rocky paws plunged into the soft earth of the tunnel.

  Angel’s body stopped shaking itself apart, and the ground began to shudder instead. Something Angel had learned over the years was that it was generally a lot harder to turn off a mystical source of energy than it was to turn it on . . . and whatever force the demon was generating probably had a much greater affinity for rock and earth than undead flesh.

  He was still congratulating himself on his ingenuity when the tunnel collapsed.

  Angel ™

  City Of

  Not Forgotten

  Redemption

  Close to the Ground

  Shakedown

  Available from POCKET PULSE

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  shakedown

  Don DeBrandt

  An original novel based on the television series created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt

  POCKET PULSE

  New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore

  Historian’s Note: This story takes place during the first season of Angel .

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET PULSE published by

  Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

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  http://www.SimonSays.com

  ™ and © 2000 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-3283-5

  POCKET PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Dedicated to my partner Andrea, a fiery Irish lass and the biggest Doyle fan I know.

  This one’s for you, darlin’.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my agent, Lucienne Diver of Spectrum, for all her hard work; my editor, Lisa Clancy, for insightful input; Pauline, who lent me all her Angel tapes; and the friends who came to my rescue at the eleventh hour when my computer died and I was a week away from my deadline—Marilyn, Kathleen, John, Steve, and especially the Brick, who analyzed, improvised and overcame.

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  shakedown

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Visions suck, Doyle thought. It’s not so much the blinding headaches, the Irishman mused as Cordelia pressed a bag of ice to his forehead. Or even the sense of impending doom that always goes with ’em. But flailin’ about like I’ve got a chicken stuffed down my pants, in front of Cordy—man, that’s just not fair.

  “So, what is it this time?” Cordelia sighed. “ Vampires? Werewolves? People who still like disco?”

  “Worse,” Doyle said, wincing. “Y’know, for a vampire’s office this place has entirely too many reflective surfaces.” There were glass panels between the inner office and the outer, and it felt like every one of them was sending sharp little glints of light directly into Doyle’s skull. At least the window in Angel’s office was bricked over.

  He closed his eyes and said, “I don’t want t’seem overly melodramatic, but I think I just saw the whole city get destroyed.”

  “Tell us,” Angel said.

  Doyle opened his eyes and looked over at his boss. Angel sat behind his desk, polishing the head of a Celtic war ax. He looked like he should be wearing blue body paint and a kilt instead of a black silk shirt and pants, lit by a hillside campfire instead of an office lamp.

  “What I could really use,” Doyle said, taking the ice bag from Cordelia, “is some whiskey and a glass to go with this ice.”

  “Make with the four-one-one already,” Cordelia said. “I mean, is this like Bruce Willis summer blockbuster bad, or Hulk Hogan direct-to-video bad? You know, in terms of special effects.”

  Doyle’s eyes flickered back to Cordelia. She wore a simple summer dress of pale green, probably a knock-off of a more expensive designer label she’d picked up in a thrift store on Melrose. On her, of course, it looked like an original. What Cordy lacked in funds she made up for in attitude.

  “Right,” Doyle said. “Well, I’d have t’go with door number one. I’m talkin’ total city-wide destruction here.”

  “How?” Angel asked.

  “Every L.A. resident’s worst nightmare,” Doyle answered. “Besides the Olsen twins, o’course. An earthquake. The Big One . . .”

  If there was one thing Angel could change about his job, it would be his relationship with The Powers That Be.

  The Powers That Be. You could just hear the capital letters when you said it. Angel wondered if their close friends called them The, or maybe TP.

  Probably not.

  It wasn’t that he resented being their instrument. In the great buffet of existence, Angel’s plate held a big heaping serving of guilt, liberally sprinkled with regret and remorse. That was seconds; his first helping had consisted mainly of torture, murder, and the occasional maiming. He had a lot to make up for, and he was happy to do it by acting as an agent for a higher power. Doyle got the visions, and Angel did his best to do something about them.

  But did they have to be so damn vague all the time?

  “ ‘Angel, here’s the address and a recent photo of a demon serial killer. Go get him,’ ” Angel muttered to himself. “That’d be nice. Or maybe, ‘Here’s a schedule of ritual sacrifices you have to stop, crossindexed and alphabetized.’ That would be helpful. What do I get instead? A description of a Universal Studios theme ride and the name of an apartment building.”

  He was standing in the shadows of a hibiscus bush across the street from the aforementioned building. APPLETREE ESTATES read the sign over the front door. It looked like a fairly new structure, a low-rise spread out over the better part of a block, with an eight-foot stone wall around the perimeter of the grounds. Underground parking, security gates, probably an outdoor pool. Nothing unusual for this part of L.A., a residential neighborhood called Silverlake.

  He’d been watching the front door since nightfall, watching people come and go. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been spotted so far—“Professional Lurker” was second from the top of Angel’s resume, right between “Vampire With a Soul” and “Private Detective Without a License.”

  And then he saw the demon.

  The demon looked normal, for this part of L.A.: thirty-something, handsome, the best hair and teeth money could buy. Custom-tailored suit i
n a tasteful shade of teal—going out to a dinner meeting with a few studio execs, maybe. The demon paused in the darkening twilight, taking a few deep breaths of air and obviously savoring them. He smiled.

  And a slender, forked tongue darted out between his lips.

  Anyone else might have missed it, but Angel knew what he’d seen. “Gotcha,” he whispered. “Couldn’t resist getting a little taste of that delicious L.A. smog, could you? . . .”

  A silver Porsche 928 rolled up a moment later and the demon got in. The car drove off.

  Angel considered the situation. That tongue had given him an idea; he pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

  Twenty-seven minutes later another car pulled up, this one an old white Dodge. Angel walked up to the driver’s side.

  “Large pepperoni mushrooms?” Angel said, pulling out his wallet.

  “You mus’ be hungry,” the young Latino behind the wheel said. “Mos’ people wait ’til I get to the door.”

  “And I’ll give you another twenty for the hat,” Angel said.

  The driver hesitated, then shrugged and handed over his baseball cap with the pizza chain’s logo on it. “Okay by me.”

  “Uh—there’s no garlic on this, right?”

  He breezed through the door, going in at the same moment someone else was going out, and didn’t get a second glance. The only thing people noticed—or remembered—about someone delivering pizza was the smell.

  Apartment buildings were public spaces; as a vampire, Angel had no trouble entering them. For individual dwellings he needed an actual invitation to cross the threshold, but he didn’t think that would be a problem. He was only here to do some looking around, get a sense of the place.

  So that’s what he did. The lobby was undistinguished: a fake fireplace with a plaster mantelpiece, covered with junk mail people hadn’t bothered to pick up. A bank of chromed mailboxes, a few potted plants. He roamed up and down the halls, only running into people once or twice and never making eye contact.

  He found nothing.

  No mysterious sounds from behind locked doors. No pentagrams woven into the carpet. No stench of evil from the laundry room. Just a box full of congealing cheese in one hand and a cap that made him look ridiculous.

  “Earthquake,” he murmured. “Underground?”

  He went down to the parking garage and looked around; nothing but oil stains and vehicles. Maybe he wasn’t looking deep enough . . .

  He slid the pizza box under a BMW and stuffed the cap into the pocket of his black trenchcoat, then approached the elevator doors on the parking level. There didn’t seem to be anybody around.

  Angel forced his fingers into the crack of the doors, then used his considerable strength to pry them open. He stuck his head into the elevator shaft and looked down.

  This was supposed to be the bottom floor, but the shaft kept going. He couldn’t tell how far.

  “Well, well,” Angel said softly. “And what are we keeping in the basement?”

  There were iron rungs set into the side of the shaft for maintenance access. Angel grabbed hold of the nearest one and started climbing down.

  He moved quickly, not wanting to get caught by a descending elevator, and reached the bottom, five stories down, within moments. Hoping there was no one on the other side, he pried the doors open on the lowest level.

  The hallway he stepped into was similar to the ones on the upper floors, but Angel could tell at a glance that more money had gone into the furnishings. The lighting sconces were cut crystal, the carpet a deep emerald shag with an intricate Celtic knotwork design, the walls done in an expensive faux finish with teak trim. Oak-paneled doors lined the corridor. Even the elevator doors were covered with ornate antique brass; it gave Angel something to grip as he forced them closed again.

  Just in time. He heard another door open down the hallway as he turned around.

  The man who walked out could have been a brother to the demon Angel had first seen, or at least a cousin; he had the same kind of generic good looks all too common to L.A. He was dressed in tennis whites, in stark contrast to Angel’s black leather trenchcoat.

  They looked at each other for a second. The demon smiled with even white teeth.

  The perfect cover story came to Angel in a flash. It was so good, so believable, that the grin he gave the demon in return was completely natural. The reason Angel would give for being there would not only be accepted without question, it would probably net him more information than he needed.

  And just as he opened his mouth, the earthquake hit.

  The demon grabbed the door frame and hung on, terror on his face. Plaster dust sprinkled down from the ceiling. Doors opened up and down the hallway, other frightened people assuming the same protected position in their doorways.

  Frightened people with forked tongues flickering nervously between their lips.

  The tremor lasted less than a minute. Angel had been through worse—but he’d been around for a few hundred years. Even so, the prospect of being buried under several tons of rubble was enough to make even a vampire uneasy.

  Then it was over, and everyone was asking everyone else if they were okay. Angel’s presence wasn’t questioned, for which he was thankful but slightly annoyed. It had been such a good cover story. . . .

  “Everyone all right? Nobody hurt?” asked a tall man striding down the hall. He was dressed in casual clothes, tan slacks and a yellow cotton shirt, but had an air of authority that didn’t require a uniform to confirm it. He appeared to be around sixty, with silver hair and the kind of weathered good looks that old movie stars develop.

  “We’re all right, Galvin,” a young woman in shorts and a halter-top said. “A few of the kids are shaken up.”

  “I think it’s time we had a meeting, don’t you?” Galvin said. He had the faintest trace of an Irish accent; if Angel hadn’t been born on the Emerald Isle himself he wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Everyone,” Galvin said. “In the common room, in ten minutes.”

  It wasn’t hard to tag along and find a seat at the back. The room itself was able to seat around a hundred people, and it was filled to capacity. All the faces were young and handsome; Galvin seemed to be the only senior citizen there. Rows of chairs faced an elaborately carved antique podium at the front—Sotheby’s would have listed a starting bid for it at a minimum of ten thousand.

  Galvin stood behind the podium. He rapped an equally ancient gavel three times, bringing the meeting to order.

  “Well now,” he said. His voice was a deep, rich tenor that didn’t need a microphone to carry. “This is the third tremor in three days, ever since the original incident. Each one has been stronger than the last. If this continues, they’ll bring our house down around our ears.”

  A man in the second row held up his hand. From where Angel sat, all he could see was the back of an expensive haircut and the Rolex on his wrist. “Can’t we negotiate with them?”

  Galvin smiled and gave a rueful little chuckle. “Well, if anybody could, you’d think we could, right?” Nervous laughter from the crowd. “But this isn’t a negotiation. It’s a siege. We’re in their way, and they plan to be rid of us.”

  A young woman in a Versace suit spoke up. “Can’t we make them an offer? Surely we have something they want.”

  “We do,” Galvin said. “Unfortunately, what we have they’ve decided to simply take. We’re very adept at finding leverage, but all the leverage in the world does us no good without the muscle to move the lever. We’re wheelers and dealers, not fighters.”

  Angel got to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said. People turned to look at him.

  “If you’re not fighters,” Angel said, “maybe you should think about hiring some.”

  “Angel,” Galvin said. “The vampire with a soul . . .”

  Galvin had invited Angel back to his office to talk. The office was as elegant and refined as royalty: polished mahogany paneling, Persian rug over a hardwood floor, a writing desk that
had probably come from a French court. The two paintings that hung on the wall could have paid Angel’s rent for a century.

  “So you’ve heard of me,” Angel said. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same about you.”

  “That’s understandable,” Galvin said. “We’re rather secretive. We like to keep to ourselves—but we’re not evil. Brandy?”

  “No, thanks. If I’m going to be working for you—”

  “—you’re going to need to know a little about us, of course. Well.” Galvin poured a shot of brandy from an ornate decanter into a snifter. He swirled the liquor around a few times, then let his forked tongue flick out over the top of the glass. “Ah. Sure you won’t try some? It’s the very best, I assure you.”

  “I believe you,” Angel said. “But that’s not what I’m interested in.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry—it’s just that a lifetime of hiding in the shadows makes it hard to reveal our secrets to an outsider. But we do need your help . . .

  “We’re called the Serpentene. Just as vampires are demons that have taken over a human body, we’re demons that originally took over the bodies of snakes. Over time, we’ve transformed—shed our skin, so to speak—as a matter of survival. Humanity has an inbred aversion to snakes—not to mention demons—so we’ve learned to hide our true nature from them.”

  “You seem to have done pretty well for a group of outcasts.”

  “Financially, you mean? Oh, yes. The Serpentene are natural deal-makers; we dabble in everything from stock trading to car dealerships. The only thing that limits us is the same problem you have.”

  “A liquid diet?”