Volz stroked his huge red mustache. “Hmm. Why not simply hack into the FBI’s database and see which agent has an open case involving the Times Square incident?”
“Ha, ha.” He chortled. “Good one, Volz. I’ll get right on that.”
The dwarf squinted at him and his mouth began to smirk. “Do you think I’m joking? Not at all. Cracking most mortal computer systems, frankly, is like taking candy from a somewhat tech-savvy baby. Humans lack the lifespan to learn things and aren’t inclined to be good with systems, in general.”
“Yes,” Remy remarked. “What I really needed right now was a dwarven supremacist lecture. Is there any chance you could take over my seat for a second or two and get on with the candy-stealing?”
Volz grinned. “Of course. For a price, that is.”
“I’m not shocked.” He stood and turned the chair toward the dwarf. “Bill me later.”
Chuckling with satisfaction, the tech squeezed himself into the chair and boosted its height up a few inches. He set to work and screens, windows, and strings of code and numbers appeared on the display at a dizzying pace while his fingers danced over the keys.
Remy puffed his lips out as he watched, impressed. “Damn. This is like one of those terrible hacking montages in movies or TV, where they make it look like this shit is really easy. I never even learned the basics of code. Do they simply hire dwarves for those scenes and film the results?”
“Sometimes,” Volz quipped.
Riley also watched in awe. “I could make the computer do things,” she observed, “but it would probably only burst into flames.”
A few more moments passed before the dwarf leaned back in his chair and exhaled with satisfaction, a smug expression visible beneath his red brows and facial hair.
“There you have it, Golden Boy,” he stated. “The official documents hidden within the private files of Senior Special Agent Kendra Gilmore. And they won’t even know we were here.” He grunted and shuffled himself forward and out of the seat, which was a little narrow for his frame.
Remy peered at the screen. It definitely displayed a Docs folder—which contained mostly weird technical stuff—but also a sub-folder labeled Reports. That sounded promising.
He clapped a hand on Volz’s broad shoulder. “Excellent work, Scruffy Short Ginger Guy. My people will be in touch with your people about the fee.” He slid into his chair and lowered it to an appropriate level.
Volz shook his head. “Your cockiness is truly something. You’d almost make a good dwarf, you know, if you hadn’t had the misfortune to be born human.”
“Thanks.” He flashed his tech specialist a brief smile before he turned his attention to his new discovery. Volz grunted again and stomped out of the room in time to field another inane question from Bobby. Remy ignored the discussion which, thankfully, was almost immediately silenced when the door closed.
Within Ms Gilmore’s reports folder was an assortment of files. One, in particular, caught his attention—partially because it was the first and most recent item she’d added and partially because it was titled Times Square. Its date coincided with Remy’s recent arrest.
“Huh,” he remarked. “There isn’t much in the way of shocking twists or ambiguity so far.” He skimmed his eyes over the other files. None of their titles made much sense or rang any bells and he decided he would have a look at them later.
First, he opened the Times Square one. Unsurprisingly, it seemed little more than a copy of the police report regarding his little fracas, along with some notes on how the media were reacting to it.
The NYPD merely classified it as an intoxicated disturbance of the peace between the ever-popular David Remington and an unknown second party. There was no indication, fortunately, that they planned to surprise him with any heftier, scarier charges like assault and battery or possession of narcotics. Although, if the latter were the case, they’d step on their own dicks anyway since he’d been on nothing but alcohol.
The file also mentioned that, of course, the press reported the matter as a brawl and made mention of his family connections. They seemed ignorant of the fact that he’d been barred from his inheritance until further notice.
Finally, and most interestingly, someone had added a few notes about eyewitness statements that one of the participants in the fight had seemingly demonstrated superhuman speed and strength. The cops and the press dismissed these comments as the ravings of persons equally as drunk as Remy had been, if not mentally ill.
Why, then, he wondered, had Gilmore drawn attention to them?
Riley, reading over his shoulder, snickered with what sounded like scorn. “Those imbeciles. They keep calling you David. Someone should tell them your real name is Remy.” She broke into laughter at this and doubled over while her tiny body shook.
He shrugged. “Let’s say I have two different real names, depending on the situation, shall we?”
The fairy calmed, returned to her normal posture, and fluttered her wings to straighten them. “I guess that makes sense. Kind of.”
“Of course it does.” He closed the Times Square file and proceeded to examine the others.
In contrast to the relative banality of the NYPD report, the other documents were exceedingly bizarre. Some contained news articles but mostly, they were jumbles of notes, jargon, and code, interspersed with in-line photographs and charts.
“What the hell…” Remy murmured. “Look at this one. ‘Two dead, entire herd slain in bizarre murder-suicide.’ Some ranchers killed all their sheep and goats by slashing their throats and apparently gave themselves the same treatment.”
She squirmed. “Eeww. I don’t like blood. And I hate when animals are killed. Poor things.”
As he continued to read the story as well as the comments attached by Gilmore or her aides, it became clear that the article was a translation and the weird incident had taken place in a rural area near Beersheba, Israel.
“Hmm.” He stroked his chin. “I have a hunch…”
His instinct proved correct. He clicked and skimmed his way through all the other files and found that every one of them, save two—the Times Square file, and another from Ponta Delgada in the Azores—focused on events that had taken place in Israel.
“Hah!” He laughed and actually grinned as the pieces of the puzzle began to come together. “That big scary vampire Taylor says she’s tracking is supposedly based over there. There’s no way that’s a coincidence. And given the nature of some of this shit, it would seem she and Agent Gilmore are working the same case.”
Among the other stories were a wide variety of suspicious occurrences. Gruesome unsolved murders. Major burglaries of high-security facilities in which the perpetrators had stolen everything from money to food to weapons. And no fewer than three instances when local bystanders claimed to have seen someone leap to the tops of buildings or across entire streets and apparently literally fly to safety.
“Now that sounds familiar,” Remy said a little darkly. His cuts and bruises still hurt.
Riley had trouble reading all the material as quickly as he could—at her size, it took more time and effort to scan all that massive text—but based on what she could see, she rubbed her arms and shoulders in discomfort.
“This is bad stuff,” she remarked. “It’s what usually happens in a place where vampires start running amok. I hope the people over there are okay.”
He frowned. “It might be a little late for that. For the moment, I’m more concerned with people here. Especially myself, of course. Still, this info might be useful.”
And although he did not say it aloud, it would be especially useful in helping him get one step ahead of Taylor.
With a smirk, he imagined the scenario in which she was forced to admit that he’d cracked the case on his own. It included a satisfying moment when she apologized for treating him merely as bait and for trying to keep him in a subordinate position by reminding him of the whole jail thing. It would be glorious.
Remy
returned his attention to the screen. The folder contained a sub-folder, within which was a single file. He double-clicked it open and read it.
This one dealt with an extremely old statuette of a black cat crafted in Egypt shortly before the Greek conquest. Apparently, it was about to make a display tour of the United States.
“That,” he commented under his breath, “also sounds familiar.”
Agent Gilmore’s commentary went on to explain her view that “the target” was “extremely likely” to pursue the statuette, even positing that it might be the entire reason this shadowy individual had come to New York, to begin with.
Best of all, in his opinion, was the agent’s recommendation that the FBI “take the object into custody” for the sake of setting up a sting.
He stared at the screen for a moment and adjusted his cufflinks. After a moment of thought, he turned his head and called, “Hey, Bobby! Come here for a second.”
A chair scraped and heels clattered across the floor toward his office. The door opened. “Yes, Mr Remington?” she asked, smiling at having something to do.
He waved her over to his desk. “Show me that article from the Inquirer again, the one you pulled out when you were telling Volz about that museum exhibit. If you still have it, that is.”
“Ooh, yeah, I do.” She looked excited, probably because he had shown interest in her interests, even if it was purely professional.
She fished around in her voluminous purse, eventually produced the folded and rolled-up sheaf in question, and shook it into a viable shape as it dangled from her hand.
Remy took it before she could proffer it. “Thanks. Let’s see here…”
Right there on the front page was a large photo of an ancient figurine fashioned in the likeness of a black cat. Above it screamed the headline Occult artifacts of power come to the Guggenheim.
With a satisfied nod, he used his index finger to trace his way through the article in search of the range of dates. “Oh, this is perfect,” he gloated. “The display will still run for another four days. Thanks, Bobby.” He handed the paper to her.
“Don’t mention it.” She almost looked like she might be blushing. “You can keep it if you want to read the rest. There are some really good articles about—”
“Nah,” he interjected, “I gotta focus on work here. I only needed to know when that exhibit would end. If I need anything else from the Inquirer, though, fear not. I’ll be sure to ask you about it.”
She stuffed the rag into her purse. “Awesome. Do you…uh, need anything else? I’m basically caught up by now.”
He waved a hand. “You are dismissed. Thanks.”
The girl turned and walked out of the office, seemed to leave the door open a second or two longer than necessary, and as he stared again at his computer screen, he thought he felt a draft. Maybe Volz had left a window open or something.
Remy steepled his fingers. “Yes, Riley, now we’re almost guaranteed to—”
“How interesting,” a soft, elegant voice cut him off.
He almost bolted out of his chair when Taylor leaned over his shoulder and gazed at his PC. He managed to remain still, bit his tongue to keep from blurting out some stupid comment, and wondered how the hell she’d slipped in like this. She’d probably entered as Bobby left the office. That was the most logical answer.
“Yes,” the vampire went on, “this idol may be of use to us. I’m glad you found out about it, Remington, especially if that FBI agent has taken an interest in it. I see you’ve hacked into her files. That’s quite impressive.”
Remy grinned sheepishly and adjusted his tie. “Oh…ha, it was mostly Volz. According to him, most humans suck at computer security, even the supposed experts. When did you get here, by the way? I…uh, never heard you come in.”
She nodded to acknowledge his humble admissions, although she kept her gaze on the screen. “It was crafted during the twenty-ninth Dynasty, I see, so it’s probably associated with the cult of either the cat-headed goddess Bastet, or perhaps Sekhmet, who had the head of a lioness…which is close enough.”
He blinked. “Wait, did the file actually mention that? I basically only skimmed it and didn’t have time to read the whole thing.”
Taylor moved around his chair to stand more comfortably beside him while she continued to study Agent Gilmore’s document.
“I know my mythology, Remington. And I know a thing or two about what the Guggenheim people refer to as ‘occult objects.’ Oh, and that’s interesting… Gilmore says her target is after it.” She leaned back and tapped a red nail to her lips.
“So,” he asked, “what does all that mean? In your…uh, professional opinion.” Inwardly, he felt like something was sinking, or even crashing and burning—his fantasy of getting ahead of Taylor suddenly seemed much less like a potential reality.
She gave him a sidelong look. “It means that we ought to acquire the statuette ourselves before either the FBI or our enemy can. With so many fearsome and determined people now in pursuit, it’s effectively guaranteed to be taken out of the hands of the current owners, one way or another, and I would be a far better caretaker than the Feds, let alone our rival in Israel.”
Remy watched her and actually studied her while she spoke. He knew her well enough to recognize when she was being entirely serious and had made her mind up about something, even if her demeanor remained calm. Right now, she seemed casual and almost flippant. It was a façade.
“I see,” he commented. “Our friends at the Inquirer ran a story on this exhibit, you know—Bobby showed me—and I distinctly recall them mentioning that the piece was not for sale.”
Taylor smiled ever so subtly. “Everything has a price, Remington.”
Riley piped up. “That reminds me, Remy, you still need to donate another pound of honey to the colony tomorrow. I don’t really mind spending time with you, but the rest of my family will throw a fit.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged and inclined his head toward the fairy. “That will be our first order of business tomorrow.”
He turned back to Taylor. “Well, even if it does have a price, I can’t help thinking that it’s probably out of your range.” He paused and suddenly thought of his own bank account. “Or mine. Definitely out of mine.”
The vampire’s smile broadened, and he could almost see her fangs. “No one said anything about buying it.”
Chapter Twelve
Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, Manhattan, New York
Senior Special Agent Kendra Gilmore breathed in slowly through her nose and exhaled gently through her mouth. The cooler they all remained during this operation, the better, and it started with her. Anxiety was contagious and it flowed downhill, hierarchy-wise. She had an example to set.
“Ma’am,” said Agent Mortensen, her usual second-in-command on field actions. “We’re clear to go whenever you’re ready.” He sat beside her in the van and the other three were in the back.
She nodded. Now in early middle age—although most people told her she looked younger—she was a tall, athletic woman of mixed white and black heritage. She had retained freckles well into adulthood and covered them with makeup to make herself look more mature.
Not that it was necessary with people who knew her well personally or were familiar with her professional record. “Not yet. Only a little longer…”
A security guard patrolled the outdoor perimeter of the museum. Gilmore and her team knew that there were three more men inside. This was in addition to a laser alarm system and a veritable gauntlet of cameras.
They knew this because, yesterday, a third-party affiliate of hers had been in to run surveillance and had delivered all the pertinent information. He had even planted a few micro-cameras of his own.
They had to wait for exactly the right moment.
Mortensen kept his gaze on the mini-viewer displaying the feed from the tiny cams and reported what he saw.
“One guard is still at his desk. The other one on the ground floor
is circling to the far side of the building. Number three is near the top and close to the atrium and might be able to see down, but it looks like he’s moving on. The external guard passed the front entrance a second ago.”
Very close, Kendra thought. A matter of seconds, now, and we go in. We cannot screw this one up.
She had not expected to actually be granted command of this kind of special task force—especially not for an unsanctioned, technically illegal black op. That they were there now was both a privilege and a stroke of luck.
And if they failed, she might not be so lucky again.
Their van was parked immediately across the street and a short way down. The location was close enough for them to quickly rush out and enter the museum but far enough away that it wouldn’t look too obviously like they had targeted it.
They’d sneaked the vehicle in during the changing of the guard after normal business hours drew to a close and the place shut down. No one had really seen them arrive and no one seemed suspicious of their presence. So far.
And now, it was time.
Gilmore spoke softly into her headset. “On the count of three…”
She and the four other members of her primary force, including Agent Mortensen, would conduct the main strike into the building. Additionally, she had two other men in other locations.
Perched at the window of a nearby apartment complex was Agent Mgaywa, safely ensconced in gloom and shadows but well-positioned to keep an eye on things with high-powered infrared binoculars. He would be able to alert them, via headset, of any approach by backup private security forces, local law enforcement, or any other possible threat.
Hidden around the corner in an alley was Agent Gennaro. He was dressed in civilian clothes and was prepared to create a diversion as well as offer resistance by force is necessary. If the external security guard came too close to the main team once they’d entered the museum, he would stagger out, pretend to be some random drunk asshole, and engage the man in a low-level scuffle until the remainder of the team was in the clear.
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