by A. Q. Owen
Odd. There weren’t any.
That meant Cunningham had either cloaked the room somehow, or he’d simply not been tapped into the ethereal power around them while he was visiting his friend.
She turned her head to the stairs as she considered checking the second floor, but realized that was folly. The back door was slightly ajar, which meant the men had stayed here on the main floor and then left at the first sign of trouble.
That last thought kept kicking her in the gut over and over again.
“How the hell did you people fuck this up? Huh? Can someone explain that to me?” Her voice rose high enough to convey her anger but not so loud that the two dipshits on the street could hear.
Barry and Skip lowered their gaze to the floor, hoping to find any kind of escape from her wrath.
She whirled around and stormed toward the back, passing the modest kitchen along the way. She flung the back door open and looked out into the backyard and the street beyond.
The scene was like nothing she’d imagined would happen here. Sure, when she’d been abroad on assignment shit had hit the proverbial fan on a large scale. Terrorists would hit places, and first responders would flood the area. This, though, in her own city, in her own country? It was shocking to behold, even for her.
Containment was always the number-one priority for her agency. Gawking witnesses were problematic. They asked questions. Rumors would spread. And before she knew it, everything would tumble out of control.
She took the back steps in two bounds and marched across the yard and through the back gate, which looked like it was hanging on by three flakes of rust. The street beyond was a scene out of some of the worst war zones she’d seen. Six fire trucks were busy dousing the flames of cars and buildings. Reporters lined the street at the other end of the block, their camera crews desperately vying for the position that would give them the best angle on the chaos.
Two SWAT vans and a bomb squad truck were positioned in a U-shape to block off most of the view, but there were more than enough cracks for the reporters to get their footage. Who knew what kind of story they were telling? She could see the headlines in her mind, though, and she knew that would be problematic.
Nothing she couldn’t handle. Disinformation was part of the process. It would just take more of it this time.
“Skip?”
“Yes, ma’am?” He stepped to her side immediately.
“Make sure you take care of the reporters. Give them the usual story.”
“Pardon, ma’am? But you think the usual will work this time? We’ve never had an outbreak on this scale before.”
She turned to him with a how-dare-you eyebrow raised.
Then he nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of it.” He turned and walked swiftly toward the end of the street to their left.
She pivoted on her heel and strode toward the first burning SUV sitting in the middle of the street. There wasn’t much left of it, just a smoldering husk of steaming metal. The charred bodies that should have been there were already gone. At least her cleaners had handled that efficiently, which was more than she could say for the rest of the unit.
“How many?” Myra asked.
Barry didn’t need the question to be more specific. He knew exactly what she wanted to know.
“Eight dead. Not including Johnson.” His answer was as blunt as the query. Johnson was the agent who’d had a hole blown through his chest on the top of Cunningham’s building.
She blinked once. Good agents? Sure. Expendable? Absolutely. She could find others. In fact, Myra never winced at the report of any of her assets being terminated. They were all simply gears in the machine, little cogs that she could tweak and replace whenever needed. There were always bodies out there, people who were ready to kill for some money, and lately there were plenty of well-trained former military types around. The way she saw it, when her assets died it was nature’s way of thinning the herd, making the rest of the organization stronger.
These dead had been sloppy. How in the hell had they let Cunningham get away?
She surveyed the street, noting the position of the SUVs. Then she spun and started down the sidewalk, walking away from the nest of reporters and cameramen. They would never get a picture of her. A concealment spell prevented anything from catching her appearance outside of an old Polaroid or primitive film cameras, neither of which anyone had anymore, except in museums or private antique collections.
Forty feet ahead, two men in CSI gear were investigating something under a dumpster that was sitting on its end. Four more were across the street with firemen, pulling cars away from a building.
She’d already been apprised as to what happened to those agents. Two pinned against a wall, crushed instantly by the weight of the cars. The female under the dumpster had left…more of a mess to clean up. Her cleaners had been thorough, she knew, but there was always a moment of doubt when she had to deal with a situation like this, which wasn’t often.
Myra gazed toward the end of the street, noting the black windowless van parked along the sidewalk. She knew that was one of hers, the vehicle the cleaners used to take care of everything and then disappear like mist in the morning sun. They were ruthless and brutally efficient. She appreciated their particular way of doing things, never questioning her authority and completely devoid of emotion.
“Where did they go?” She twisted her head to face Barry.
His breath came out in a cloud of moisture in the cool, damp air. At least the storm had passed.
“We don’t know. Our sensors lost his energy signature.”
That was less than good news. “What about the city’s cameras?”
“Glitchy at best. The storm knocked out some of the power grid in certain areas. Then there were so many lightning flashes, so much going on, it shorted the surveillance systems. Right now 40 percent of the city’s cameras aren’t working.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Her voice echoed down the street. The two investigators at the dumpster flashed a glance at her and then immediately went back to what they were doing.
Barry didn’t wince at her outburst. He’d seen it before, though not often. He was far too hardened to be affected by something like that.
She spun around with hands out and then came to a stop with her heel dug into the concrete.
“So, we have eight dead agents and a rogue mage on the loose somewhere in the city. That’s just fucking perfect.”
“May I make a suggestion, ma’am?”
“I would love that, Barry. I really would. Please, by all means.”
“The man he came to see is a priest.”
“And?”
“It’s possible they went to the priest’s church. I’d suggest getting a unit there right away.”
She clenched her jaw. “Where is this church?” She didn’t mention the fact that she was angry with herself for not thinking of it first. Of course they were at the church. It was the only place those two could go. Okay, that wasn’t true. They could have left the city entirely and headed out into the mountains or the surrounding countryside. The two fugitives could be anywhere, but she knew they weren’t. Call it intuition. Maybe it was her master giving her a clue, a hint in the depths of her soul as he reached out to guide her from the Realm.
“Get someone over there now. Tell them we’re on our way.”
“Ma’am?”
“What, Barry?” She did little to hide her irritation.
“The church…we can’t—”
“I know we can’t go in, Barry. I don’t need you to remind me of that.”
“So, what do we do? Stake out the place?”
She shook her head. “No. We simply need to lure them out.”
20
Steve took one last paranoid look out the front doors of the church and then closed them, bolting them shut before returning to his office in the back. Orion was already there waiting for him, standing next to the door.
“You get all
the doors in the back?” Steve asked.
“Yeah.”
Steve walked into the office and eased into his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head as he reclined. He let out a sigh, flapping his lips.
Orion remained in the doorway. “You think we’re safe here?” He asked the question even though he already knew the answer.
Steve shrugged then frowned. “You don’t?”
“This is a high-clearance government agency, Steve. They’ll know where you work.”
The tired, carefree look on Steve’s face turned despondent.
“Great. Well, let them come. I’m ready to die, literally and metaphorically, at this point. It’s too late at night, and quite frankly, I’m exhausted. So, if they want to kill me, fine by me. I’m ready to see what’s on the other side, anyway.”
Orion scowled at the response. “You sound like me.”
Steve sat up and leaned forward. He pulled out a drawer on the right side of his desk and retrieved a bottle of Jameson Black Barrel Irish Whiskey along with two metal shot glasses.
“May as well have a bit of the good stuff before we go, huh?”
Orion ran a hand through his hair. He was tired, too. Actually, tired didn’t even come close to describing it. He needed sleep more than he recalled ever needing it in his life, save for a few select moments in Russia during one particularly difficult mission.
Steve poured two drinks and slammed the first then the second—before refilling both cups.
“Take it easy,” Orion said. “We may be able to get out of this yet.”
“Oh yeah?” The priest raised another glass, about to dump it into his mouth.
Orion stepped over and grabbed him by the wrist. “Get ahold of yourself, man. There’s still a chance, okay?”
“Chance? What chance? Huh? You said it yourself. They’ll track us here. When they do, they’re going to kill us.” Then he had another realization. “Oh, sweet mercy. How many of them did you kill? They’ll be out for revenge. Yep, we’re dead.” He tried to shake his hand free of Orion’s grasp, but all he ended up doing was spilling golden whiskey onto the desk as it sloshed out of the glass.
“Let go of me!” Steve ordered.
“No. Listen to me. There’s another way.”
Steve met Orion’s intense gaze and held it for a second. Then the moment was interrupted by a heavy banging coming from the front of the church.
They heard a woman’s muted voice echoing through the church corridors like a whining apparition.
“They’re here.” Steve couldn’t hide the panic in his voice.
“Calm down. A few minutes ago you were okay with dying. Now you’re terrified of it. Pick a place to plant your flag, okay? I’ll deal with whoever is out there.”
Steve’s frown deepened. “They’ll kill you. You can’t go out there.”
“I’ll be fine,” Orion said, glancing down at his ring. “This little thing goes nuts when trouble is near.”
“Maybe it’s malfunctioning. It should be blinking like crazy.”
“Which is why I’m going to go on a little blind faith that it knows more than me.”
Steve blinked rapidly, trying to understand, but he didn’t.
Orion turned and slowly walked out the door, heading toward the front of the church.
Steve stared down at the remaining whiskey in the second cup, started to grab it, then stood. “To hell with it.” Then he glanced skyward and crossed himself for swearing in the church.
He hurried out the door and caught up to his friend, staying slightly behind him and to Orion’s side.
“What are you going to do?”
Orion noted the ring out of the corner of his eye. Still no warning. “I’m going to see what they want.”
The two men reached the heavy front doors and stopped.
“Stay back,” Orion ordered, motioning with his hand for Steve to take a step away from the entrance. “Just in case.”
Steve did so with a nod, pressing his back against the wall next to the far-left door for cover.
Orion slotted the bolts free and pushed open on the wooden door. It creaked slightly, the hinges protesting the weight on their pivot points.
Standing on the steps was the woman he’d met in his apartment. Myra Koch waited with hands behind her back and a displeased grin on her face.
“Hello, Mr. Cunningham. Here for a late-night prayer vigil?”
Orion swallowed. Something about her was pure evil. It seeped out of her eyes like black oil, covering her in some kind of wicked film.
“Just here to see a friend.”
“Ah yes. Your priest, Steve Branson.”
Orion said nothing, simply staring with vapid eyes into hers.
“You and I have a problem, Mr. Cunningham.”
“A problem? You mean going through my home without a warrant? Yeah, I’d say that’s a problem. I should press charges.”
She smirked at the ridiculous notion and even offered a snort of laugher. “Mr. Cunningham, you and I both know you’re not going to do that. And who would you tell? We are the authorities. We answer to no one on this planet.”
“Everyone answers to someone, lady.”
“Perhaps.” She quickly changed tack. “You killed some of my agents tonight.”
“Maybe they shouldn’t have been trying to kill me?”
“You broke the law, Mr. Cunningham. Unauthorized use of magic at those levels is expressly forbidden.”
“And here I thought you were going to let me off with a warning.”
She unfolded her hands and crossed them over her bulging chest, cocking her head to the side as if appraising a horse for a county fair. “You have powers, Mr. Cunningham. Impressive ones, I might add. Even the more powerful mages and wizards I’ve met can’t do what you just did. You killed eight of my people.”
“You counting the one on the rooftop? Last I checked he was pretty dead, too.”
She bit her lip at his smartassery. “Nine then.”
His head bobbed slightly, letting her see he was proud of the fact. “What do you want, Myra?”
“Right to the point. I like that.” She looked to her right and left, then deeper into the church atrium. “You’re a man of considerable talents. I’d like to offer you a job.”
“A job?” His forehead wrinkled at the idea. “Working for you and your little…whatever this is?” He motioned to the two men in suits standing behind her. He also noticed three black SUVs in the street surrounding the entrance. No doubt, there were snipers somewhere on the opposite rooftops or in some windows, but he couldn’t see them. All she was waiting for him to say was the word no before she ordered them to fire.
“I’ve read through your dossier, Agent Cunningham. I know everything about you. You’re quite the talent without magic. Sixty-two confirmed kills in the field. Impressive.”
He knew that number was far lower than the real one. The CIA burned some of the things he’d done, erased them from the face of the earth for all time.
“We could use someone like you,” she went on.
“I bet you could, based on the number of people you lost tonight.”
She ignored the jab. “Notwithstanding, I believe you could do a great amount of good in this world if you come to work for us. Unauthorized magic use is on the rise in the world, Mr. Cunningham. We need strong warriors to take the fight to them before it’s too late. Otherwise, our planet will be overrun by wizards and sorcerers bent on chaos. Under my guidance, you will become the sword that fights against that anarchy. You can help us restore order.”
Orion’s head bobbed once with a chuckle. “Order? You know, back a long time ago in the twentieth century there was a guy who was really into order. He wanted to have the entire world under his rule. Claimed that to do that; certain groups of people had to be rounded up and exterminated in camps or executed in the streets.”
She sneered at the reference but said nothing.
“Then there’s the little fact
that I think you’re lying to me.”
Myra cocked her head to the side. “Lying?”
“Yeah, about this whole job thing and all that.” He snapped his head to the left, shaking off the insinuation as borderline silly. “I don’t think you have any intention of offering me a job. How I see it: I go with you and get in one of those cars, you’ll cut my head off and leave me in a lake somewhere. And while a couple of days ago I would have been fine with that, I’m thinking about sticking around this life a little longer.”
“Newfound motivation for living?” The words were laced with venom.
“Something like that. Plus, I’d like to stay alive just to be a thorn in your side. Shitting on your parade seems like my idea of a good time.”
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with, Mr. Cunningham.”
“See? That’s where you’re wrong. Clearly, you’re a horrible person. Or just very unhappy. Or both.” He paused for a second, looking her up and down. “No, it’s both. I’m sure of it. My point is, I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. And if you send your goons to try to hurt me or my friend again, I’m going to make the rest of your short life so miserable that you’ll wish you’d never met me.”
Orion remembered he was still standing in a church and crossed himself haphazardly. He wasn’t Catholic, not even very religious, so he performed the gesture all wrong.
“Very well, Mr. Cunningham. Death it shall be.”
She stepped aside, and the two men behind her raised their weapons. The bulky black pistols had long barrels, much like the Desert Eagles he’d seen some people carry in his old agency. He never cared for them much, but they were an imposing weapon to stare into.
“Kill him.”
She gave the order as casually as she’d have asked for extra cheese on a burger.
The men didn’t hesitate. Their fingers twitched, and the muzzles fired, each man shooting three times.
Orion flinched at the thunderous sound.
Steve shuddered as he crouched next to the wall nearby.