Demon Driven

by John Conroe

  I shoved that thought aside, uncomfortable with what I had been able to do. My thoughts turned back to Tanya…Tatiana as I must now think of her. Tanya was reserved for friends, those that knew her well. It turned out that I didn’t know her at all.

  * * *

  My stomach rumbled. I shouldn’t have been hungry, not for days, not with the nausea inducing image in my brain. But the V-squared virus was not to be denied. I could either feed it or it would eat me.

  I found an all-night McDonalds within a block of my car (and her house) and raided their dollar menu for cheeseburgers (ten) and a chocolate shake. The Rastafarian behind the register looked a little incredulous at the burgers, then shook his head and went back to bullshitting with the skinny old dude cooking in back.

  I ate the burgers as I walked, a cold spring rain falling from the purple sky, the blanket of cloud having fully covered the stars. Dumping the empty bag and cup in a city garbage can, I turned the corner of Willow Street, Brooklyn Heights. The Tonka-yellow Xterra waited for me just up the street, about two houses back and across the street from number 119. Shadows shifted as I approached my car, pale figures sliding back from their watchful positions. The front doors of 119 were patched with 4 by 4 pressure treated timbers, no doubt awaiting repair when daylight returned. Two figures appeared on the front entry, one massive, the other tiny. I ignored both as I key fobbed my door and slid into the driver’s seat. They watched me, just visible in my peripheral vision as I drove off.

  Chapter 9

  “You’ll never know how your face has haunted me. My very soul has to bleed this time, another hole in the wall of my inner defenses…” – Disturbed.

  Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, images of Tatiana with Reyes would pop up, no matter what I did.

  So I headed to the basement, where a number of residents had contributed to a basic weight training setup. As long as I had access to lots of calories, workouts weren’t too much of a problem. Weight training actually helped me add mass, but the problem was getting enough weight on the bar to do much good. That’s why I dropped my gym membership and pitched in with a few of the buildings muscleheads. The advantage of having the weights in my own building was late night workouts like this one. No one was around to see me heft loads that would handily break world records. I had contributed more than anyone else just so I could be sure there was enough poundage. While I worked out I swilled protein shakes instead of water. So with music set low but pumping, I proceeded to pound myself into the floor, running an aggressive circuit load until I was finally tired enough to catch an hour’s catnap.

  Mind numb, I got my gear together, dressed in black combat pants, boots, black UnderArmour tee shirt and threw my combat vest on my gear bag, ate a huge omelet and headed to Manhattan.

  * * *

  The heliport in downtown Manhattan sees lots of use. NYPD, Homeland Security, New York State Police all land there on a regular basis. A dedicated air traffic control staff handles flight approach at all hours, on all days of the year. Most of the aircraft are of the Bell series choppers, 206B’s and a Bolkow BO 105 that belong to the NYPD, State Police 407’s and 430’s mainly. I was waiting near the flight control room, my gear piled under my feet, leaning back with my eyes closed, listening to the controllers talk. I felt/heard/smelled Gina come into the room, but I didn’t open my eyes, preferring to pretend sleep rather than face her eagle sharp perceptions.

  “Downtown, this is DHS Nightstrike, inbound to pick up two, over,” came a radio call on the operator’s speaker.

  “Nightstrike, this is Downtown heliport, the pad is clear. Please land in transient, advise on the go,” was the calm reply from the controller who had been called Mitch by the other controller.

  “Do you have a visual on Nightstrike, Ian?” Mitch asked.

  “Not quite yet…gottem! Holy Shit! Nightstrike is a Blackhawk!” Ian said.

  “No shit? Let me see!” Mitch answered. Then a second later: “Crap, you’re right. Big mothers, aren’t they?”

  I opened my eyes and looked at Gina who was, oddly, not staring at me. Gina was always evaluating me; now it looked like she was avoiding my gaze, which immediately told me she had been talking with Lydia.

  Why I chose to introduce those two, I’ll never figure out. All I can say is it seemed harmless at the time. The human police sergeant and the vampire confidant had hit it off instantly, the two immediately making my life hell. Apparently, my human handler and Tanya’s vampire handler felt the need to confer on virtually every detail of my bizarre life.

  I settled my Oakley sunglasses on my nose, grabbed my gear and stood up just as the one named Ian poked his head out of the control room and said: “Looks like your ride is here. You’re going in style!”

  I merely nodded and headed out to the heliport, ignoring Gina as she came calmly along behind me.

  The D.O.A.A. helicopter was a black UH-60 Blackhawk, the utility workhorse of the U.S. military.

  The standard Army version could carry a crew of four and eleven other passengers. I knew Brianna’s group was well funded, but I hadn’t expected this.

  The crew chief jumped out of the bird and waved us over, the rotors spinning and hitting us with heavy blasts of air as we ran over to the door of the helicopter. The chief, who was female, directed us to our seats, the only two left open. Looked like a full flight. She got us buckled up, jumped back out to check her bird, then hopped into her own seat after a quick signal to the pilot. The big copter spun up to full power, lifting off with a forward tilt like a giant dragonfly.

  Normally I would have been enjoying myself immensely. I love flying and have always wanted to fly in a Blackhawk. But I wasn’t really capable of generating enthusiasm for anything at this point.

  I settled back in my seat and looked over my fellow passengers. Agent Duclair was setting closest to the cockpit and wearing a crew headset so she could confer with the pilot, which she appeared to be doing now. Eric Adler loomed to her left, his ice blue eyes watching me appraisingly. Seven other pairs of eyes were checking us out as well. Two sets belonged to male and female agents, dressed in khakis and polos, with the look of crime scene technicians. The other five were dressed in [wore] combat dress much like my own, but dark blue instead of black. I knew them immediately for what they were. A strike team. Armed with assault rifles, body armor, and tactical vests, they were the team’s hunters. Their guns would be loaded with silver tipped bullets, their job would be to terminate the rogue when it was located and cornered. Four men and one woman, all hardened operators, probably with military backgrounds. They would all have a cool team nickname for instant use in a firefight. The names would also help bind them as an elite group, helping them feel and act as a unit.

  I recognized Agent Simmons, he was probably something like Snake. The giant refrigerator-sized black guy I had met as well. They probably called him Dozer or Brick or something. The girl, who had Eurasian features, was easy. They would call her Angel – as in angel of death. The tall, rawboned white guy had to be Crane or Tex. The wiry average-sized dude, who was snapping gum aggressively, would be Mongoose or some other fast and nasty predator. They were sizing us up, although Simmons rubbed the side of his nose with his middle finger while meeting my eyes, then started to leer at Gina. The big black guy nodded and leaned back with his eyes closed. The girl was working the tough chick thing as hard as she could, a slight sneer on her otherwise attractive features. Gina pulled out a notebook and started to study the contents and I, being in a window seat, stared out the heavy plexiglass, watching the ground go by at a hundred and seventy miles an hour.

  It was cathartic, the steady change of scenery. I suppose it would be blurry for the others, but my eyes didn’t perceive it as too fast. The sprawl of the city gave way to the outlying suburban terrain and then to mostly trees and forests. Occasionally, a village or other island of civilization would pop into view and then be gone again in moments. I put my earbuds in and cranked up my iPod, l
etting the dark, heavy tones of Disturbed wash out my brain. I drifted, afloat like an empty barrel on Niagara, headed for the falls.

  The flight was fairly quick, taking just over an hour to reach the little airport on the north edge of Bennington. The pilot circled the tiny field, finally landing on a spur of runway, coming to halt next to a small armada of black SUVs. Local police were parked nearby, the officers standing next to their cars, watching our arrival and trying hard not to look impressed. The crew chief hit the door and Duclair’s strike team piled out like they were entering a hot zone. Show-offs.

  Adler followed, then the technicians, Gina and myself, and finally after a quick word with the pilot, Agent Duclair descended to the ground, projecting the very essence of a self confident Special Agent. We moved as a group to the vehicles where drivers stood ready to help load gear. Briana headed toward the lead vehicle, stopped, turned and reversed till she was right in front of Gina and me. Adler moved up next to her, his eyes fastened on mine, the rest of the strike team closed around us in a tense circle.

  The blackness inside me reared its head, sensing possible violence like a dog sniffing steak.

  “As this is Vermont and you’re NYPD, I’m afraid I need your sidearms.” She said with a tight little smile.

  “Vermont has no restrictions on carrying side arms. Briana, and Chris and I are trained officers,” Gina countered without hesitation.

  Duclair frowned, a small furrow forming between her brows.

  “Well, this is a federal operation and you haven’t been cleared by our people. Hand them over.”

  “Briana, Inspector Roma agreed to our participation with the distinct understanding that we would be able to follow OUR protocols. Going unarmed after a rogue were is NOT protocol.”

  “Detective Velasquez, YOUR COMMISSIONER agreed in writing to your following ALL of my orders,” Duclair replied, waving a piece of paper at Gina, who took it and started to read.

  Simmons chose that moment to step forward from behind and grab Gina’s left hip with one hand and her holstered gun on the right hip with his other. She started to react, but I had already joint-locked his right wrist, spun him around and stiffed-armed him away. Immediately, he spun back with a vicious back fist, fast enough to tell me he had been anticipating my reaction. He didn’t anticipate my catching his fist in one hand, stopping the blow like it had hit a tree and squeezing his hand hard enough to drop him to his knees.

  In the next instant, the rest of his team started to move, and the black berserker inside me crowed with delight and shook its restraints.

  “STOP!” Gina commanded, freezing everyone in their places. “Chris, this letter is legit, we have to comply.” Her eyes were worried as they watched me.

  I went completely still for a moment as I contemplated going unarmed after a rogue werewolf, but the blackness inside, although irritated at the cessation of violence, was utterly confident in our/my/its abilities, not to mention I was still carrying enough silver to serve tea to the Queen of England.

  I let go of Simmons and he jumped to his feet, his face red with rage and pain, but Adler stepped between us. Gina handed over her Glock, then turned to me.

  Again I paused for a moment, then I drew, pulling both guns at once, reversing them so I was holding them by the barrels, butt forward, then spun in place and offered them to each team member faster than they could follow. None of them had a chance to react before I came back around and finally offered them to Duclair, whose face had gone white. I could have shot the entire team before they could react.

  * * *

  “If we’re done playing bullshit kindergarten games, let’s get this clusterfuck underway”, I said. “The faster we put this puppy down, the quicker I can get home. I gotta see some people, about some bullshit orders.”

  I started to walk toward the second vehicle, but tossed a final comment over my shoulder.

  “I call shotgun,” I said with a chuckle.

  Behind me I heard the female, Angel or whatever, say, “That went well,” in a sarcastic tone.

  Duclair spoke to Gina, “Is he insane?”

  Gina answered her quietly in a low hiss: “You have no idea what you’re dealing with, Briana. Why do you think Roma insisted I be here? My full-time job is him. And he started the day on a razor’s edge. Oh, I know, you’re playing dominance games, trying to show him who’s boss, but all you’ve really done is piss him off.”

  “If he’s that volatile, then I’m glad we disarmed him,” Duclair came back.

  “Disarmed him? Listen, if he wants a gun, he’ll just take one of yours. And there won’t be a damned thing any of you can do about it.”

  Chapter 10

  I grinned at the driver of the second SUV, who knew something hinky had taken place, but was unsure what, and then climbed into the front passenger seat. Three of the others climbed in back. My senses told me they were the huge guy, the tall guy, and the average guy. Starting to sound like the three bears, only I ain’t no Goldilocks.

  The others distributed more or less evenly in the other vehicles and we headed out.

  * * *

  The William H. Morse State Airport sits on the west side of Bennington at about 800 feet above sea level. State Route 9 traverses the village from west to east, then climbs up into the Green Mountain National Forest, where the road reaches elevations of 2600 to 2800 feet. Led by Vermont State Police, our little convoy of black vehicles roared through town, breaking every posted speed limit along the way. Of course we drew the attention of everyone. I was real glad for the tinted windows, ’cause I was embarrassed to be associated with Briana’s little circus.

  The road climbed quickly in elevation until we turned onto another road, Harbour Rd.– according to the sign, which had police vehicles blocking access. We went on for what seemed like a mile or mile and a half till we came to a cluster of official vehicles, which included another couple of government SUVs. The driver pulled right into the middle and screeched to a halt.

  Briana dismounted the lead car, striding into the group of approaching officers and agents, and began to receive their reports. Agents wearing FBI raid jackets were combing the woods along the eastern side of the road, searching the ground carefully for evidence.

  Gina had gotten out of the back of the lead vehicle as well, but she chose to wait for me, rather than get towed along in Duclair’s wake. The two technicians hurried into the mix, but the strike team slowed up, obviously keeping an eye on me.

  “How ya doing?” Gina asked in a low voice. I didn’t think she was referring to the gun confiscation thing.

  “I’m here and I haven’t killed anyone,” I answered.

  She didn’t take it as a joke, which was good, ’cause it was a heartfelt response.

  She nodded, pushing a strand of long brown hair back behind her ear. I kept walking toward the little hive of worker bees circling around the queen, Briana, and Gina fell in beside me, not saying anything else. I was grateful for that, because I had nothing to say and didn’t want to talk.

  Eric Adler moved up next to us, his long legs making short work of catching up.

  “I need to introduce the team,” he said simply, as if nothing had happened earlier.

  We stopped and turned to look where he was pointing. The five-member team was moving up behind us, eyes wary, tricked-out M4 rifles slung patrol style across their torsos.

  “I believe you already know Simmons, his team name is Rattler.”

  Blockhead said nothing, just gave me a flat stare and Gina a head-to-toe appraisal.

  “The big guy is Books, our heavy weapon specialist. Next to him is Data and Splitter.”

  That covered the wiry little guy and the tall lanky dude.

  “Finally, we have Balls,” he said, indicating the girl.

  Gina asked the obvious question, “Why Balls?”

  “’Cause I got brass ones!” the girl answered, with a cold grin.

  “Okay, Data is your technical wizard, Splitter is a snipe
r who ‘splits hairs.’ But I don’t get ‘Books.’ ” Gina said.

  Adler shrugged. “He’s always reading one.”

  The niceties’ out of the way, I turned away and moved over to Duclair, who was in her element, issuing orders and asking questions. She noticed our approach and stopped an agent in mid-sentence to speak to us.

  “Mr. Lassiter was found by a passing car, right over next to the woods, twenty-nine days ago. He was unconscious and had severe bite wounds to both legs and his right arm. The responding EMT’s felt he would expire before he got to the hospital, but he made it and subsequently healed at a near astonishing rate,” she said. “Lassiter lives about two miles up this road, but he hasn’t been to his house in days and so we’re checking both the house and here for possible fresh sign. You know… revisiting the scene of his attack and all that. Chris, I’d like you to see if you can find anything we’ve missed.”

  She looked at me closely as she said this, but my poker face was on lockdown and I simply turned and moved toward the attack site. I didn’t miss her questioning look in Gina’s direction. Whatever sign Gina gave her must have reassured her, as she turned back to her covey of agents.

  I hadn’t gone more than a dozen feet when the vision hit. Unlike my demon visions, this one was slower and without a sense of urgency. I quickly saw, as well, that it was also a vision of the past, not the future. I stopped and dropped to one knee, the other leg folded under me, while I dug out the sketch pad and pencil.