Unseen #2: Door to Alternity

by Nancy Holder

  No, Nicky thought. Like survivors.

  Teodor Nokivov was furious.

  Filthy Mexicans. I should have realized they could not be trusted.

  He made the necessary phone calls, barking orders into his cell like a drill sergeant at boot camp. He was already comfortably ensconced in the back of a black Lincoln Continental with dark, tinted windows, being driven across town. Within ten minutes of the gunplay—before sirens even wailed their way toward the office building— Teodor’s crew swept the offices, emptying every desk and filing cabinet and wastebasket, wiping down every doorknob, removing any evidence of who had been using the space. The bodies of the two men shot by Che were on their way to a final resting place in the Pacific Ocean. The KGB had prided itself on the effectiveness of its cleaner crews, and Teodor Nokivov had instituted that same pride in the Los Angeles Mafiya.

  The brisk efficiency of his people pleased him. He was angry, though, at Che, who had so easily escaped his trap. He was angry at Stokovich’s men, who had let two punk gangsters escape them—if the men hadn’t died, he would have killed them himself, or made Stokovich do it for him. He still hadn’t decided what to do about Stokovich, but he realized the indecision would work for him—as long as Stokovich knew he was mulling it over, he’d be on his best behavior. And the next thing Nokivov ordered him to do would be done, without fail.

  But he really had wanted Che dead before another sun rose, and now that wouldn’t happen. The Mexican gangs, he believed, had run the city for too long. Now they were in his way, interfering with business, their petty turf wars and battles over pride and honor getting in the way of his agenda.

  And Teodor Nokivov’s agenda was an ambitious one indeed. He desired nothing less than the restoration of the Soviet Union, with himself, if not at its head, then as the power behind whoever sat there. If the Soviet Union itself proved too hard to bring back, there was one fallback position for which he would settle—Mother Russia herself, once again under Communist rule.

  He knew how to do it. All it took was money.

  And money, the United States had in abundance. It was a matter of directing it to the proper ends.

  Forty minutes later, the Lincoln pulled up to a modest suburban ranch house in Hawthorne, near the corner of Mount Vernon and Fairway. No one would ever suspect that the key to returning Russia to Communist grandeur lay inside that purely American construct—the epitome of postwar capitalist society. But it did. Teodor chuckled softly to himself as he walked the flagstone steps from the driveway to the front door.

  As he approached the door, it swung open, from within. Mrs. Vishnikoff stood there, blond head bowed slightly, eyes cast away from him. He swept inside without breaking stride. As she closed the door behind him, he took the foyer in with a single turn of his head, and spoke the two words that would change the course of human history.

  “It’s time.”

  Chapter 2

  LOS ANGELES IS A VERY LONELY PLACE AT NIGHT. IT’S NOT like New York, the city that never sleeps. In New York, you can do anything at three o’clock in the morning, including shopping for antiques or going to graduate school. In Los Angeles people go to bed early— successful people anyway, by Los Angeles standards—working actors and directors, who have to get up early to start shooting; their busy managers and aggressive stockbrokers, whose lives revolve around the opening and closing of offices and markets all over the globe.

  When it’s six A.M. in Los Angeles, it’s already nine A.M. in the Big Apple, and almost time for tea in London. You want the big bucks, you gotta hustle.

  Nights in Los Angeles don’t smell of perfume, champagne, or money; the most common odor is a combination of ozone and freshly watered grass. Lawn sprinklers skitter on just before dawn. Before first light, alarm clocks chime and house lights blink on. Computerized coffee makers grind the Jamaica Blue Mountain and drip the first batch of the day, usually the first of many in this high-stimulation environment.

  Willow wondered what the de la Natividad house was like this early in the morning. She couldn’t wait to get back, get into bed, get some sleep.

  The meeting finally concluded, Willow stumbled sleepily from Cordelia’s apartment, slightly behind Buffy and Riley. The world of Los Angeles was just beginning to rise. It was surreal, as Willow’s life often was: scratch the picture the world saw, and scarlet demon eyes glowed from the shadows. Arched palm tree trunks became the spiny curves of dragon backs; trash cans were squat trolls, eager for something—or someone—to gobble up.

  And we’re not just talkin’ fairy tales, Willow thought.

  Buffy and Riley were both sleepy-quiet as they led the way to the black SUV Riley had borrowed from one of his old Initiative buddies. It was parked at the curb and there was a fluorescent flyer underneath the windshield wiper advertising a gig by an L.A. band called Velvet Chain. Willow took it and glanced at it while Riley unlocked the car doors. Old habit, maybe, but her life with Oz had left her with an interest in the music scene.

  They wearily began to climb in. Riley had mentioned to Willow that his own car was still back in Iowa, and she wondered if it bothered Buffy that he hadn’t brought all his stuff out to Sunnydale. To Willow, it meant that he still considered Iowa to be his home. He was still hedging his bets about staying permanently in southern California. Maybe she was reading too much into it, or not; at any rate, she herself had been devastated when Oz had sent a note to Devon asking him to send on the rest of his stuff. That had pretty much signaled the end of their life as a couple—whether Oz had realized it at the time or not.

  Riley started the car and pulled out into the not-yet-traffic, although there were a fair number of cars. Willow was not a big fan of busy highways; Sunnydale was still, in many ways, a small town, and gridlock wasn’t one of their problems. Too many things that ate cars, maybe, but not too many things that drove them.

  “Cordelia seemed like a nice gal,” Riley said conversationally. “Not as snobby as you guys made her out to be.”

  “She seems a lot mellower now,” Willow agreed.

  Riley glanced from the wheel at Buffy. She only said, “Sure.”

  She’s distracted. Is she feeling nostalgic? Willow wondered. For this? Maybe it’s being around Angel. Weirdness. Riley seems stressed too—I’ll have to tell him not to be worried. He’s the one.

  In the predawn lavender gray, the homeless were shuffling from the streets toward alleys and doorways. They wore raggedy layers and their faces were cast with a patina of gray, age, and poverty. The sidewalks were cracked and the buildings spray-painted with graffiti. Metal grates protected all the storefronts.

  It’s like Los Angeles is a big prison, Willow thought, and we’re on the inside, looking out.

  “Sorry for all the driving,” Buffy told Riley. “You must be really beat.”

  “I’m good.” He flashed her a smile. “Not a heck of a lot of traffic. I thought L.A. was always jammed.”

  “The freeways will be heating up pretty soon,” Buffy said. “All the movie stars going off to work in their limos. These guys . . .” She gestured out the window at the street people. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  Willow leaned back and closed her eyes. She wished Tara had come. Or, not. I’d prefer her to be out of danger. Which, Sunnydale, you have to figure danger, sure, but—

  “Willow!” Buffy screamed.

  At the exact moment that the windows on either side of Willow shattered.

  With a piiing, something whizzed past her nose. She knew gunfire when she heard it, only usually, not this close. She freaked for one full heartbeat, then flung herself to the floor of the SUV, covering her head with her hands.

  Screams and shouts erupted outside; the vehicle swerved as Riley cranked the wheel and slammed to a stop. His door opened and he shouted, “Willow, stay down!”

  “What—?”

  “Stay down, Willow!” Buffy yelled, also opening her door.

  Willow said “Okay” in a tiny voice as a bullet tore
through the door; she felt the hair on the back of her head lift as it missed the hollow at the base of her skull by a fraction of an inch. Chills shot up and down her spine; she trembled violently, realizing she had barely missed being hit. Struggling to concentrate, she murmured a quick protection spell for herself, the ex-Commando, and the Slayer, and thought once more of Tara.

  There were more shouts; also, grunts, screams, and guns. Willow could hear her pulse in her ears. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. She whispered more words, in Latin, tears welling. She was frightened out of her wits.

  “You’d think I’d get used to it,” she muttered. “Life in danger, gunfire. Not so much gunfire back home.”

  Riley and Buffy slammed their doors and barreled around the car to a row of overflowing trash cans. Riley spared a glance at the car, where Willow remained on the floor, and scoured the street in the flat, gray dawn. Buffy had seen the shooter first, but Riley had also caught a glimpse of him beneath a streetlight as he ran; he’d been a blond guy in a leather jacket carrying a Kalashnikov. Bastard had run up to the car, blasted directly into the door, and disappeared on this side of the street. There were lots of nooks and crannies to hide in, and Riley was very aware that he and Buffy presented excellent targets.

  “Did you see where he went?” Riley murmured to the Slayer, as he crouched beside her. They both squatted on their haunches, poised for action. She shook her head.

  Riley ducked his head around the trash can, which reeked of something rotten. It was too dark to see what it was, but it couldn’t be anything good.

  “Gotta be a gang thing,” he said. “Who’d want to shoot an innocent SUV? Or some innocent-looking people inside it?”

  “Hey.” Buffy nudged him. “Look.”

  Riley swiveled his head in the same direction Buffy was jabbing her thumb. Blue neon from a sign that said, PAYCHEX CASHED MONEY ORDERS illuminated the silhouette of a guy wearing a knitted cap. He was creeping down their side of the street, completely unaware of the two of them. He was wearing baggy cargo pants and a plaid shirt. In his arms he held an Uzi, and he cradled it like a veteran soldier.

  The creeper swore in Spanish. His eyes were riveted on the other side of the street. He was not a veteran street soldier, that was for sure. He was making so many mistakes that Riley figured he wouldn’t make it to the ripe old age of, say, nineteen.

  Sure enough, the sound of the blond guy’s Kalashnikov ripped the sshussh of passing cars, their drivers unaware of what was going down, and the Spanish-speaking creeper screamed and crumpled onto his back.

  He wasn’t dead. Groaning weakly, he tried to find his Uzi, his right arm anxiously sweeping the pavement. Blood ballooned from beneath him, and the weapon lay about a foot beyond his reach.

  From across the street, Blond Guy yelled something in Russian. Riley smiled grimly. Buffy took in his expression and asked, “What did he say?”

  “That all Mexicans are something that can’t be said during prime time,” Riley replied. When she waited for more, he shook his head.

  She grimaced, blue eyes half-closed and that mouth he loved hinting that she was touched by his sense of decorum. “Sometimes you just go all Iowa farm boy on me. I’m no delicate maiden, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.” They shared a mini-moment, glancing at one another through the darkness, and then they both were all business again. Actually, being shot at was not conducive to building romantic memories that last a lifetime.

  He said, “I knew I should have gotten my gun out of the glove compartment when we left Cordelia’s place.”

  “Not loving gun-toting,” Buffy said. “However, dying also sucks.” She gestured toward the direction of the Russian-speaking person with the potty mouth. “You think he’s alone?”

  “Could be. We haven’t heard any additional gunfire.” He tensed. “Except—”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  There was someone behind them, coming up stealthily and slowly. Riley shifted his gaze toward Buffy. She counted off her fingertips on her thigh, one, two, three, and they both dove away from the trash cans, Riley to the right and Buffy to the left.

  Clockwork.

  Bullets ripped into the cans, slamming them into the street. The force gutted them open as they rolled, strewing coffee grounds, wet newspapers, and pieces of melon rind everywhere. Riley and Buffy both tucked and rolled; and as the shooter ran forward, Riley sprang from the completion of his forward roll and threw himself at the guy. Both of them went down; Riley knocked the gun away and Buffy grabbed it up.

  Then she executed an awesome 360-degree turn followed by a kick, snagging the chin of a second guy. A chest-high side kick to the left, and she downed a third one.

  Fire opened across the street again, only this time it came from more than one weapon. The body of Buffy’s second attacker quickly became a corpse as she barreled out of harm’s way, not taking him with her. The first guy started shouting and scrabbling out of the line of fire; it would have been funny if it didn’t look like he might die within the next oh, ten seconds or so.

  Directly above Riley’s head, a second-story window shattered as fresh gunfire erupted; a wooden door to his right slammed outward and half a dozen guys swarmed out, shooting as they started gathering up their wounded and possibly dead. Riley was not in any special mood to help out, but he didn’t relish being shot, either, so he grabbed attacker number two under the arms, hoisted him up, and handed him over to a couple of his buddies.

  While they were dealing with that, Riley caught up with Buffy, who rushed toward the car. Willow must have been watching, because the front door on the driver’s side opened.

  As the single working headlight diffused the darkness, Buffy flew inside and crawled past the wheel to the passenger side. Riley dove in after her and slammed the door.

  The engine roared to life and the car went from zero to slamming into the pale blond guy, who had run in front of the car in preparation for shooting everyone inside it. He went down and Riley skyrocketed into reverse, hung a sort of a trapezoid, and caught the ragged edge of one of the trash cans as he raced down the street.

  “Willow? Doing a protection spell?” Riley said, as the car fishtailed down the streets. The right front tire was flat, and the resultant rocking as they rode the rim was extremely bad.

  “Hecate, hear my plea,” Willow intoned. “Divine goddess, make straight our path and guard our way. We beseech thee, keep us in safety and bind us to thee.”

  The front left tire blew. Riley reacted quickly, giving the car its head, not making any move to hit the brakes. The car struggled to keep going; and bare metal scraped the asphalt as it ground to a stop.

  “What’s up with Hecate?” Buffy asked sourly.

  “Buffy, look,” Riley said.

  On their right, more guys with weapons charged toward the car. On their left . . . more guys with weapons charged toward the car.

  Riley gunned the engine, floored it, and . . . the car lurched about two inches forward. Then something caught, and it burst forward with impressive speed.

  Riley glanced into the rearview mirror at Willow, whose eyes were shut in concentration, but who wore a little smile. He took time out to smile, too, then returned his attention to their regularly scheduled crisis. The car was badly damaged, holes everywhere, smoke pouring out from beneath the hood. It was a miracle that no one had been hurt.

  No one I know, anyway, Riley thought, remembering the guy who was lying back there in a pool of his own blood. He felt a moment of disgust: all the gunfire, and the injuries, and no police sirens were blaring to the rescue. Soldier’s life—good and evil, right and wrong, with no shades of gray—but Riley was not naïve. Some of these gangsters had started life hoping for fair treatment and justice, and had turned to lives of crime not because they were poor but because they had had enough of being harassed just because they had brown skin and spoke Spanish. They were tired of getting plopped into special ed classes simply because their first language was not En
glish. Many of them were American citizens, but cops stopped them, searched them, questioned them, as though they were in their own country illegally.

  Still, Riley thought, you don’t let someone kill you just because you felt sorry for them. And you don’t let them get away with murder.

  They went under a bridge, and it was spider-dark there; Riley was not loving it. Neither was Buffy, who sat up straight and kept her eyes glued to the windshield. And neither was Willow, whose chanting got a bit shaky and who, at one point, opened her eyes to take in her surroundings.

  Riley had prepared for situations like this for most of his adult life; he’d been pulled from Special Ops to join the Initiative. Then Maggie Walsh had souped him up, transformed him into a supersoldier.

  He almost knew the brick was plummeting from the bridge before he saw it; it hit the windshield with the force of a grenade, spraying the three of them with fragments of thick glass. He finally lost control of the car and it wheeled to the right, hard, metal squealing as Buffy’s side of the car impacted a huge stone column.

  Shards pierced his forehead and cheeks, but he was damn lucky: nothing hit his eyes. Willow screamed; the dome light was on; her face in the rearview mirror was traced with a dozen puncture wounds. Beside Riley, Buffy was worse off; her entire face was bleeding profusely.

  Still, as the car gave up and died, Buffy unbuckled her seat belt and tried to open her door. Wedged as it was by the concrete column, Buffy switched to Plan B and plunged through the webby debris of the windshield. She got her footing on the hood, then leaped off the front end and raced toward a pedestrian stairwell.

  Inside, Riley reached for the glove compartment, going for his gun, but it was jammed shut by the crash. Giving up, he threw open his door, and raced up beside her. The rush of adrenaline eased the burning pain of his face, and he made good backup as Buffy located a dark-haired guy in the shadows and threw him up against the side of the stairs.

  “Hey,” she snarled. She clenched the front of his shirt in her fist and threw him backward again. “Who are you people, going after anybody who drives into your precious territory?”