"We've been trying to set up — "
"And you'll try forever. But can you take us to him, now? Do you know where he is? If I have to break a few heads to get in there, maybe that's better. Get the asshole's attention."
Jim raised his eyebrows and smiled. "I'd forgotten how unique it was working with you, Hellboy."
"Hey, I'm here to please." Hellboy fisted his right hand, heavy knuckles crunching, and the pain from his various wounds seemed to fade even more. The bullet holes on his chest were little more than bruises now. Dangerous. Sometimes he thought of himself as invincible, but in calmer, more reflective moments he knew that there was an end waiting for him somewhere out there. What hurt the most was that he guessed it would not be gentle and kind.
The door burst open, and Fray came in. "Jim, the British have lost a submarine."
"Where?"
"North Sea."
"Who did you pick that up from?" Hellboy said.
Fray smiled. "Telephone. I have a friend at the Admiralty."
"Nuclear sub?"
"Yes, but it wasn't armed. Out on maneuvers after being refitted. The core's stable, and they've already launched a salvage operation."
"What happened to it?"
"It's confused. But my contact says the final transmission from the sub talked of something attacking it."
Hellboy nodded. "He'll be coming in by sea."
"How can you know that?" Jim asked.
"It's the only logical way. He's been out there for years, somewhere, creating these things. Pulling them out of the Memory. Whatever. Where would he be safe doing that? A South American jungle base? No mobility. Easier to move around by sea." Hellboy turned to Fray, who immediately averted his eyes. "Thanks," he said. "And hey, you can look at me. I don't bite."
"One day you will," Fray said. Then he hurried from the room and slammed the door, suddenly keen to be elsewhere.
Hellboy, Liz, and Jim Sugg were silent for a few seconds, deep in their own thoughts. Then Hellboy punched the wall once, hard, and the patter of shattered plaster ended the moment and moved them on to the next.
"Jim," he said, "the minister. Now."
"Meet me in the lobby," Jim said. "I'll sort out a car."
* * *
Manchester Airport — 1997
ABE SAPIEN WAITED until Abby had pulled out of the Avis parking lot before following her. The Jeep was big and comfortable, the wheel chunky enough for his webbed hands to grab, but it was hardly discreet. He only hoped she was not looking out for pursuit.
He could have stopped her any time since she'd disembarked. His own flight — chartered using the BPRD account, although if Tom were being picky, he'd probably class Abe as AWOL right now — had been diverted to Manchester after the trouble at Heathrow. He had landed and passed through private customs, and he'd been thinking about where to go next when he heard Abby's flight announced. Baltimore. Perhaps it had been a hunch, or maybe just a long shot, but he'd stood in arrivals, hidden away behind a pillar, and watched as the passengers came out of baggage claim. And there she was, Abby Paris, the girl he'd rescued from her own suicide and who was now running away.
Or perhaps she was running toward something.
And that thought had prevented him from approaching. Kate Corrigan had called to fill him in on Blake and Hellboy's discovery of London as a possible target. Abe had called back later to tell them of his suspicions about Abby. And suddenly her disappearance had meaning. If she really was a product of Blake's peculiar blend of science and magic — and all evidence suggested that was the case — then her fleeing at this moment could surely not be coincidence. For whatever reasons, Abe believed that she was going back to Blake.