Fallen Angel
DELILAH
I knew it would be a cold day in Hell before I’d let myself get attacked again like I had in The Sweet Spot. But I guess that day is here.
I sit, strapped to a chair in an empty warehouse, the room colder than the heated springtime air should allow. I can almost see my own breath. A bag had been placed over my head in the car. I blinked furiously, trying to clear my vision, but even if the bag wasn’t there, nothing would have worked.
I was on the opposite side of town, far from my familiar San Francisco neighborhood street, and though I could still smell the oceanic spray from the nearby bay, I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, and the guy in front of me was no Oz, though he did have surprises behind the “curtain.”
Namely a huge projector screen, which he shone on
