The last wizard

by Simon Hawke

“I imagine a lot of people are going to be involved,” said Makepeace.

  “You’re expecting a lot of trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  Wiley sat silent for a moment. So did the others. “There’s not going to be an arrest, is there?” he finally said, quietly.

  Makepeace stared at him for a moment. The man was no fool, and these people were going to be putting their lives on the line, even as backup personnel. They had a right to know. He shook his head. “No. No arrest.”

  It was very quiet at the table for about a minute. The cops just looked into their beers. “Guess it would be kinda hard to hold a high-level adept in jail,” Tyler said softly.

  “Just how high are we talking about?” asked Wiley.

  “Mage level,” Makepeace said.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding,” Glener said. “There’s like, what? Only four of those guys in the whole world!”

  “I am most assuredly not kidding,” Makepeace said.

  “That’s why this is ITC and not Bureau,” Wiley said. “I was wondering about that. I figured there had to be an international angle, but I never counted on anything like this. No wonder they didn’t tell us anything. A leak on something like this and it’ll be all over the national media in a flash. It’s gonna be hard enough keeping them out of it as it is.”

  “At the moment, that is the least of my concerns,” said Makepeace. “When the plane lands—” He felt as if ants were suddenly crawling around in his brain. He glanced up and saw a large, muscular black man with a shaved head and a small goatee standing at the entrance to the bar, his eyes glowing with blue fire, like a sparking arc welder. “Look out!”

  He threw himself out of the booth just as the bolt of thaumaturgic energy slammed into it. The table, the bench seats, and part of the wall, along with Tyler, Glener, and Smith, were vaporized instantly.

  Trapped inside the booth, they couldn’t have moved in time, but Wiley, who had been sitting on the outer edge, had thrown himself to the floor at the same time as Makepeace and had only caught part of the backwash. He was burning. Even as he screamed in pain, he pulled out his gun and emptied it at the black man. Makepeace thought he hit him at least twice before the man fled, staggering out of the bar, but he wasn’t sure. The heat of the blast had singed him badly and he felt his hair burning. He slapped at it, then pulled his smoking coat up over his head, putting it out, then slipped out of the sleeves and threw the coat over Wiley, smothering the flames. He couldn’t feel anything yet, but he knew he had suffered serious burns on his face and head. Wiley’s condition, however, was much worse.

  “Jesus… Jesus…” the detective kept saying, over and over, through teeth gritted against the pain.

  “Hang on,” said Makepeace.

  There were screams as the bar emptied out. It had all happened so quickly that the black man was gone before the impact of what had occurred struck the patrons and they fled.

  “Radio…” said Wiley, “… belt…”

  Makepeace found the little radio clipped to his belt and thumbed it on. “Help, somebody!” he said. “For God’s Sake, help!”

  “Who is this?” a voice came through.

  Makepeace quickly identified himself and told them there were officers down, then gave the name of the hotel and the street. He knew that would get a quick response. Then he tossed the radio aside and concentrated on Wiley, summoning up all his healing energy. He felt weak, but if he couldn’t do something for Wiley now, he was going to lose him. He closed his eyes, summoning all his strength, placed his hands on the cop’s chest, and concentrated, letting the energy flow through his hands and into the injured man. He kept it up until he passed out from the strain.

  “Sebastian! Sebastian!”

  His eyelids fluttered open. Kira and Wyrdrune were both bending over him, looking down anxiously. He was on his back, on the floor in the bar. He heard the noises of bustling activity all around him, the sound of radios, and saw, reflected on the ceiling, the flashes of police lights.

  “Thank God,” said Kira. “You’re going to be okay.”

  “Wiley…” he murmured.

  “The cop?” said Wyrdrune. “He’s going to make it. You saved his life, Sebastian. They’re taking him out to the ambulance now. They’re coming right back for you.”

  “No…” He swallowed hard. “I’ll be… all right…” He tried to sit up and couldn’t make it.

  “Forget it, Professor,” Angelo said, coming up behind Wyrdrune and Kira. “You’re out of it. You’re going to the hospital and you’re going to stay there, like a good fairy.”

  “Up yours,” said Makepeace.

  “That’s the spirit,” Angelo replied with a grin. “You’ve got third-degree burns. Bad ones. You’ll heal just fine, an old immortal like you, but you’ve got to get your strength back first.”

  “You’re going to the hospital and you’re going to stay there,” Kira said. “Promise?”

  “Acolyte…” Makepeace said. “Black man…”

  “We know,” said Angelo. “There were a dozen witnesses. Billy’s talking to some of them now.”

  “Promise me, Sebastian,” Kira said. “You’re going to stay in the hospital. Promise me!”

  “All right… I promise.”

  The paramedics returned with the gurney and gently lifted him onto it.

  “Simko… went out there. Think he’s dead.”

  “I know,” said Wyrdrune as they rolled the gurney out. “We’ll get him for you, Sebastian. He’s not getting away. Count on it.”

  They lifted the gurney into the ambulance, beside Wiley, who was unconscious. The doors were shut and a moment later, the ambulance rose up and whooshed away, siren blaring. The EMT bent over Makepeace.

  “You’re going to be okay,” he said.

  Makepeace glanced up at him. “How old are you?” he asked wearily.

  “Twenty-four,” the EMT replied, then smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Gramps, I’m old enough to know what I’m doing. “ He looked very fit.

  “I need to borrow something from you,” Makepeace said weakly.

  “Borrow something?” The EMT frowned, then assumed Makepeace was delirious. “You just lie back and relax, Gramps. We’ll have you at the hospital in no time. I’m going to give you something for the pain.”

  He held up a hypodermic.

  “No…” said Makepeace. He reached out and took the EMT by the arm, murmuring a spell under his breath. The hypodermic fell from the man’s grasp. “Just enough…” said Makepeace, closing bis eyes as the strength of the EMT’s life force flowed through him. “Must take only just enough—”

  Rafe sat slumped over the steering wheel of the car as it glided silently and swiftly down Valencia Boulevard. Valencia wound its way briefly through the hills at the edge of town, then it was a straight shot to where it T-boned into Ajo Way at Ryan Field, once a small private airport and now a suburban housing development. He turned left onto Ajo Way and headed out toward Dragon Peak.

  He was getting blood on the seats. He had taken one bullet in the shoulder, the other high in his thick chest. It was his muscle density that saved him. The thick and massive slab of pectoral muscle had stopped the round before it reached his lung. A little lower and to the left and it might have struck his heart. Still, it hurt like a son of a bitch, but Rafe welcomed the pain. It was the pain that had snapped him out of it, severed the link with Talon.

  That was the secret, he realized with a savage triumph. Make it hurt enough and it drives the motherfucker out, or else adrenaline kicks in and you snap out of it. It didn’t matter either way. He knew how to beat him now. He couldn’t beat his magic. He knew that. Talon could still blast him and turn him into nothing but a puff of smoke. But he just might catch the son of a bitch off guard, especially if Talon still thought he was under his spell. It was a risk, but Rafe didn’t care. He had to take it. When he snapped out of it back there and realized what he had done, he knew it was all
over.

  Those were cops he’d snuffed. Talon had actually been the one to snuff them, but it didn’t matter. Rafe was the one they’d seen. You don’t kill cops and expect to walk away. Not in this town, he thought. And especially not if you were black. He was going to go down. All he cared about now was taking Talon with him. Getting his hands around that fucker’s throat and squeezing the life right out of him. He welcomed the pain, cherished it, and hoped desperately he wouldn’t lose so much blood he would pass out before he got there.

  They were spread out all over the country, in twos and threes and fours. The largest group was in New York. They had lost several of their number, gunned down by Angelo with an expertise that came from skills and instincts acquired from Modred’s centuries of hunting men. But there were still at least half a dozen left and they had spread out through the city at key points, where there would be crowds.

  Each of them had already killed several times, bolstering their strength. Now they waited for the signal that they knew would soon be coming. Waited in the theater district and in the West Village, where cafe society would soon be filling up the bistros and the coffeehouses. Waited in Little Italy, where a street festival was in progress. Waited in Soho, where art galleries and trendy watering holes and restaurants would soon be filled with chic partygoers. Waited outside Madison Square Garden, where a crowd was lining up, choking the sidewalks as they waited for the doors to open and admit them to the first show of the Nazgul “Riding Out the Storm” tour.

  They waited at similar places in Chicago and Detroit, in Denver and San Francisco and Salt Lake City, in Atlanta and Philadelphia and Miami, and in Phoenix, Dallas, and Los Angeles. Each of those cities had been plagued by a recent, sudden rush of necromantic serial killings. In each of those cities, the police were doing their best to hold the hungry media at bay, “no commenting” reporters who knew the authorities knew more than they were saying and worked every desperate angle they could think of to find someone, anyone, who would leak some information. To their utter amazement, no one did.

  Some enterprising newshounds had already made the connection with similar rashes of killings in other cities, but without any details to report, they could only speculate. Some restrained themselves, hoping to ferret out more facts, but they were in the distinct minority. Most speculated wildly about murder cults and organized crime warfare and terrorist plots. No one came close to the truth, for no one but the police knew that necromancy was involved, and the police—many of whom knew no more than the media did— weren’t talking, under pain of having their badges melted down and poured into their nostrils.

  Captain Rebecca Farrell of the LAPD was one of the very few who knew it all. Along with Commissioner Steve McGuire of the NYPD, on the opposite coast, she wasn’t getting any sleep and had taken up chain-smoking. SWAT teams were standing by, not knowing yet what they were standing by for. Something was in the air. Something big and nasty.

  And in the nation’s capital, Senator Don Jones of Arizona, photogenic darling of the media and future presidential hopeful, was basking in the beauty of one of his constituents as she got into the limo, showing a nice expanse of leg in the indigo silk designer gown he’d paid for. She looks like a million bucks, he thought, never suspecting that just a month or so ago, she could have been had for a mere fraction of that sum. Wait’ll the President’s old man gets a load of her, he thought. The horny bastard will probably have a hard-on under the table all through dinner. Wouldn’t be surprised if he puts the moves on her tonight. Probably be in her pants inside of a week. And then I’ll put the screws to him, Jones thought. Yup, it was sure going to be an interesting evening at the White House.

  Chapter 10

  They held the mission briefing in a hangar at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base before a combined force of Bureau and ITC agents, as well as U. S. Army rangers who had flown in, dressed for battle and armed to the teeth. Security’ was so tight, none of the military personnel had any idea what they were going up against until they arrived for the briefing. When they saw who would be conducting it, they were dubious at first. They were all called to attention as Wyrdrune, Kira, Angelo, and Billy came out to face them. A lot of curious looks were exchanged.

  “As you were, or whatever,” Wyrdrune said, speaking into a handheld mike that broadcast from a speaker in a truck bed. “In other words, sit down. Get comfortable, because I want you all to listen very carefully.”

  There was a lot of shuffling as they all sat where they stood in the hangar, on the floor, their curiosity mounting.

  “As you are all aware by now,” Wyrdrune continued, “this is not an exercise. This mission is for real and it’s going to be a bitch. There’s a damned good chance we’re going to lose a lot of you, so don’t kid yourselves. This is going to be dangerous and there won’t be room for any mistakes.”

  He paused to make sure it had sunk in and he had their full attention, then continued. “This operation has been code-named ‘Dragon Storm. ‘ It is being conducted under the joint command of the U. S. Army, the ITC, and the Federal Bureau of Thaumaturgy. You’re probably all wondering who the hell we are and what we’re doing here. I’d like to oblige with an explanation, but there isn’t time and there are certain security issues involved. All you need to know is this: We are adepts, special operatives for the ITC, and we are in charge of this operation, by authority of the President of the United States. Take a good look at us, so you’ll know who we are, and then stay the hell out of our way and do exactly as you’re told. There are probably going to be civilian hostiles involved, and you may need to be able to tell us apart from them at a glance, so take a good long look. We don’t want to be shot by mistake. Now, the object of this mission is to take Dragon Peak.”

  He saw many of them looking puzzled. “The Dragon Peak Enclave, located at the summit of the mountain, was once the Kitt Peak National Observatory. In recent years, it passed into private ownership and is now ostensibly a natural preserve and spiritual enclave, housing the Dragon Peak Drug Rehabilitation Center. In its latter capacity, the enclave has performed private and court-referred drug counseling, and in its former capacity it has functioned as a natural preserve for thaumagenetically engineered dragons, of which we estimate there are approximately seventy to one hundred on the mountain, roaming free behind the concrete walls surrounding the base. More on that in a moment.

  “Behind its facade as a spiritual and counseling center and preserve, the enclave is in reality the headquarters of a cult of necromancers, led by a man calling himself Brother Talon.”

  Behind him, on a large screen, high-resolution satellite images of the enclave and its grounds were projected.

  “There is no known photograph of Brother Talon. He is reported to be approximately six feet tall, slim, with green eyes and shoulder-length, fiery red hair. However, he is also capable of magically altering his appearance, so this description may be of little use to you. Talon is a highly dangerous adept of mage level, and he has been training a select cadre of necromancers drawn from the ranks of felons that were court-referred to the center. We do not know how many of his followers are among the population at the enclave, but our intelligence reports that among them are an undetermined number of innocent civilians who probably have no knowledge whatsoever of the cult’s criminal activities.

  “Talon is our responsibility. Yours is to secure the grounds of the enclave and make sure nobody gets out. Now… here’s the tough part. The civilian population of the enclave can be regarded, for all intents and purposes, as hostages held by terrorists. The problem is, there isn’t any surefire way to separate the terrorists from the hostages. And there is also a very real possibility that the hostages may be compelled by magic to attack you. If they do so, there is every reason to expect that it may come as a magical attack, where they may act as involuntary conduits for necromantic power. Possessed by black magic, in other words, and able to use it against you. Consequently, everyone within the enclave is to be regarded as a po
tential hostile, but we want to avoid, if possible, harming any innocent civilians. Under the circumstances, that’s a hell of a tall order and there is only one way this task might be accomplished.

  “Each unit commander, as well as each platoon and squad leader, has had a Bureau or ITC adept assigned to them. They will act as on-site advisers in the field. Listen to them They are not there to take over your jobs, but to provide assistance. Remember, they’re trained to deal with magic You’re not. If they give a direct order to use deadly force, instruct your personnel that they are to comply immediately Their lives could be at stake.

  “Now, certain units will be designated to set up a secure perimeter outside the walls of the enclave, at the summit, to make sure no one gets out. If you see anyone trying to get out past you, order them immediately to get facedown on the ground, hands clasped behind them. If they do not comply at once, fire warning shots. If they do not immediately comply at that point, open fire, especially if you see a blue glow emanating from their eyes.”

  He paused again to allow his words to sink in. The troops all sat perfectly still. There was not a sound inside the hangar.

  “If we’re lucky,” Wyrdrune went on, “it won’t come to that, because other units will be designated to storm the enclave and take down anyone they run across. Now in this case, ‘take down’ does not mean kill. Except in self-defense. All personnel will be issued strong, reinforced tape. The procedure will be as follows: hit the enclave hard and hit it fast. Anyone you encounter, immediately order them to lie facedown on the ground, hands clasped behind them. If they hesitate, knock them down. Secure their hands and tape over their mouths and eyes. Work fast. Speed is of the essence. Anyone who resists is to be shot. Yell, act mean, make a lot of noise. Intimidate them. Scare the crap out of them. And if they don’t get scared… then shoot if you have to.

  “Remember, it’s possible that anyone you attempt to take prisoner could try to attack you magically. Do NOT let them weak, under any circumstances. Do NOT allow them to make any gestures or movements with their hands. Watch their eyes. Now, it’s a normal human response to raise your hands when confronted with someone pointing a gun at you. Do not, repeat, do NOT allow them to do this. Yell at them to put their hands down and get down on the ground, now. again, club them down if you have to. You will have to use overwhelming force and maximum intimidation to avoid getting yourselves killed. And, hopefully, to avoid getting tern killed, too. You’ll need to get in there fast and neutralize everybody as quickly as possible by immobilizing them. once you have their eyes and mouths taped up and their hands restrained behind them, just leave them lying on the ground and move on quickly. Secure the grounds, go through all the buildings. Don’t waste any time. Once the grounds are secure, gather all the prisoners in the central courtyard, here…” He indicated the spot on the screen with a pointer. “Just pick them up and dump them all together on the ground, gently, then set up a perimeter around them and watch yourselves. Be ready for anything. A long whistle blast, repeated three times, will sound the all-clear. When you hear that, stand by for further instructions.