Federal Agents of Magic Boxed Set

by T. R. Cameron

  Diana shook her head. When the idea had come to her, she hadn’t imagined it going so well. Something about the relative ease so far made her sure it would turn to trouble of one kind or another eventually. She released the collar and Max immediately rocketed around to explore the house while Rath rode on his back and jabbered in a language she didn’t understand. Both seemed ecstatic with the arrangement.

  Later that night, her head bobbed from exhaustion as she sat on the couch, as content as she could ever remember being. Max sprawled across the rest of it and his head rested on her leg. Judge Dredd dispatched justice on the TV, and Rath lay nestled on Max’s back with a smile on his face.

  As she drifted off, she could have sworn a tiny voice growled, “I am the law.”

  Surely not. I must be dreaming.

  Chapter Eleven

  Diana crawled into place beside Bryant and raised the monocular. She scanned the back windows of the lavish home, aimed it at the top left, and worked her way across the second floor, then reversed the pattern on the one beneath. “No sign of movement.” The mic at her throat was sensitive enough that her low voice didn’t carry.

  “Acknowledged.” Taggart was in the mobile command post for the op, several miles away. He’d explained that when the action kicked off, drones with cameras and data repeaters would sweep in and the small lenses on the teams’ vests would feed video to him. During her first two weeks of training with BAM, she’d come to admire their professionalism and dedication. She hoped they felt the same way about her.

  A sense of generalized unease centered like a knot in her upper back. All their information predicted some serious magic on-site. The movement to tap the pouches that held Kayleigh’s special grenades was unconscious but delivered a little peace of mind. The anti-magic deflector around her throat delivered a little more.

  Taggart’s calm tone pulled her from her thoughts. “Teams, ready check.”

  A male voice spoke. “Team A, front, ready.”

  “Team two, left, ready,” a woman responded.

  A man with a New England accent spoke third. “Team three, right, ready.”

  Bryant’s voice finished the sequence. “Team four, back, ready.”

  The next pair of callouts spoke slowly, any excitement they might have felt fully suppressed in the name of efficiency. The first was female, the second male.

  “Overwatch one, front left, ready.”

  “Overwatch two, back right, ready.”

  The terrain hadn’t been friendly to the snipers as the estate sat at the top of a steep hill. Their trek had begun immediately after darkness fell and they had made a slow way through the trees that bordered the property on three sides. Each had found an Atlantic White Cedar to apply their climbing spikes to and deployed a portable Kevlar and ceramic tree stand in its high branches.

  Diana learned early on she didn’t have the patience to be a long gunner. As a result, she considered them amazing, like some kind of aliens. There was a small note of excitement in Taggart’s words. “Ready check confirmed. We are green. Weapons free, standard rules.” Her first day of training had been a comprehensive review of the unit’s procedures. Standard rules meant to rely on their own discretion but where possible, they should try to take prisoners. Her inner voice laughed.

  Different unit, same stuff. Shoot ʼem in the leg if you can.

  She returned the monocular to Bryant, who slipped it into a pouch on his left arm. They were outfitted with rifles, pistols, and a pair of grenades each in case things got messy. Because they were in an evolving situation, they carried low-intensity flashbangs. The tech wizards had added an electronic component to the fuse that would send a pulse to the agents’ AR glasses and dual earpieces to protect them from the light and sound if one went off. They couldn’t do anything about the concussion, and the training sessions she’d undergone to learn to cope with that experience were ones she was happy to see in the rearview.

  Team one called out, “Moving.” When they reported, “In position at the front,” teams two and three began their assaults. The comms were calmer than in any op she’d ever been on. What would’ve been an excited “breaching” when team one shattered the front windows was only a matter-of-fact status report. The others reported in one by one, and it was finally time for her and Bryant to move.

  The plan was as tactically sound as the available information permitted. The terrorist was only able to give hints about the house but when they put it together with other data they had access to, the location became clear. They’d used satellite and long-range recon, but couldn’t get a drone close enough to see inside for fear of alerting the occupants. As such, Taggart had chosen a classic multi-point attack to inspire chaos in the defenders. As those within responded to each incursion, another would occur. And while they dealt with the ones from the front and sides, she and Bryant would strike from the back.

  They ran together like shadows in the night and Diana took four strides for each of Bryant’s three. Black balaclavas concealed their faces, dark body armor protected their vitals, and their matte-finish weapons would deal some serious damage to their enemies. She cradled a Colt M4 carbine, the handle mapped to the unique pattern on the tactical gloves she wore. An enemy would have to wear them to use her weapon. Bryant’s rifle was strapped across his chest, the barrel down and to the left, facing away from her. He carried a short-barreled automatic shotgun filled with lock-busters, a special load of Emerson’s design that traded range for extreme power.

  When they reached the rear door, he moved to one side and fired at the visible locks to launch a pair of echoing explosions into the crisp November air. Diana imagined the place with snow all around and thought it would be beautiful. Bryant’s boot struck the door and it swung open as she scattered her musings like so many flurries on the wind. She led the way while he stashed the shotgun on his back and extended his rifle.

  The diversions seemed to be working as intended. She heard shouts of confusion from farther inside the large structure. They were in a mudroom, surrounded by shelves packed with an assortment of differently-sized containers. Another door led from the room into the main building. She gripped the handle and yanked it open, and Bryant hurried through.

  Their comm carried his whispered, “Contact,” and his suppressed carbine spat a triple burst of soft coughs. She followed him in and registered the presence of a commercial Wolf range along a wall.

  Damn, I want one of those.

  An enemy sprawled heavily. Another swung his rifle toward Bryant, and she delivered her own set of three rounds into his Kevlar vest, center mass. He staggered back and fell. Panic replaced surprise as he struggled to breathe. Diana kept her weapon trained on the kitchen’s other access while Bryant zip-tied the fallen men at hands and ankles, dragged them together, and ran a line between them.

  She snuck quick glances at their foes and noted areas protected by body armor—chest and thighs—and where she could deliver death if necessary. Their adversaries weren’t terrorists this time, merely a mercenary company with notoriously low standards. Since ARES hadn’t been able to determine if the mercs were aware of the evil nature of their employers, they would shoot to subdue rather than kill them whenever possible.

  Too bad the mercs don’t offer the same consideration.

  Diana led the way from the kitchen into a formal dining room as large as her basement. Gorgeous cherry wood cabinets stood on the far wall, and a sleek wide table in the center was made of the same material. It could seat at least a dozen. A rifle barrel suddenly peeked over the top and she dove to the left. Bryant went to ground on the right. The enemy’s bullets didn’t come close, but the weapon was on full auto and sprayed lead at stomach height.

  She smiled as she sighted through the chairs to where the merc’s legs were visible and squeezed the trigger once. The first two rounds deflected from obstacles in the way but the third made it through. He yelled and collapsed with his hands clutched around his shattered shin. Bryant took a posit
ion to cover the far exit, and Diana yanked the fallen merc to the side so she could work on him while she kept an eye on the entrance to the kitchen. She zipped his wrists and ankles fast, then hogtied him and drew a scream as she wrenched his leg up. “Sorry, pal. It’s nothing personal. Find a better employer next time.”

  When the man was secured, she retrieved a trauma patch from the pouch on her calf. This ARES innovation was an adhesive bandage with clotting agent smeared on one side. She wrapped it around the merc’s leg and pulled the small handles to compress it. The ratcheted nylon clicked as it shrunk. She patted him on the shoulder. “You should make it if you don’t do anything stupid. Try not to be an idiot.”

  Bryant had already cleared the merc’s rifle, so she did the same to his pistol. She released the magazine and ejected the round in the chamber, then threw the pieces to different corners of the room. The time of the encounter took less than a minute. Training for trussing prisoners had been far more fun than the one for concussion grenades, except when it had been her turn to play the downed foe.

  The exit led to a hallway with an open door across from them. Team three emerged from it, and they advanced in pairs to the building’s center, which held the main staircases. The full group had reviewed the blueprints together in the ARES core and judged the main routes less likely to be trapped—or at least trapped less lethally. It would be far easier to position an automatic turret on a disused staircase. She was relieved to see that all eight of their team were present, although Gillians sported a trauma patch on her left upper arm. One of the others teased her, and she laughed with a shake of her head. “It’s only a scratch.”

  The second part of the plan was markedly different than the initial assault. Teams two and three would cover the staircases, an agent facing in each direction. Bryant would ascend with a member of team one behind him. As Diana had quickly earned her bona fides as the backup ninja, she was assigned the down staircase, with the other half of team one trailing. Taggart’s order propelled them into motion. “Phase two. Execute.”

  Bryant offered a fist, she bumped it, and they went their separate ways.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bryant used hand signals to instruct the agent following him to keep his distance.

  It wouldn’t be good to have him stumble into a trap I missed.

  The main staircase was grand and narrowed from a flared base to a size that would still allow three people to walk comfortably abreast. It ended in a platform with additional staircases to both left and right to access the second floor. A heavy curved banister ran along each side.

  Fancy.

  The lead agent took the stairs one careful step at a time, set his foot down, and waited for a reaction before he lowered his weight in slow increments. He scanned in a pattern. First left to right on the base of each stair, then right to left on the piece perpendicular to it. He paid special attention to the sides as he sought out potential sensing devices. His AR glasses analyzed everything and displayed an overlay of things outside normal visible range. They’d allow him to discern laser or heat sensors with ease. The status section showed only routine check-ins from the other members, represented by dots corresponding to their team number.

  Halfway up the staircase, he noticed something odd about the next step and froze with his foot in midair. He withdrew it and crawled backward until he was eye level with the stair. Instead of being of uniform height, this one had alternating panels that were about two millimeters lower than the rest. Pressure plates.

  Clever idea but stupid execution. They should’ve made the whole stair a plate.

  As he stepped over the trap, he froze again and grabbed the banister for balance as he stopped his foot from coming down on the next step.

  Maybe not so stupid. I would’ve backed up the obvious one with a hidden one.

  He shook his head. Facing off against smart enemies sucked. He turned, waved at the man who waited at the base of the stairs, and pointed the dangers out. Then, he stepped onto the banister, placed his feet in between the slats, and used it to ascend one sidestep at a time. He stuck his head around the corner when he reached the landing, aware of how exposed he was, and found no opposition in either direction.

  Symmetrical short staircases led to a hallway on both sides, and he could barely see the edge of a door in the hall at the top. Bryant suppressed the desire to step onto the landing and continued to the end of the banister. He swung to avoid the obvious places a person would take their first stride into the hallway, pushed a hard nub on his left glove with his thumb, and pointed his index finger. A glowing dot appeared in his glasses. He used it to draw an oval around the area he thought might be dangerous and to put an X across it. The image was immediately uploaded to their local network to warn the other agents.

  He unlimbered his carbine. Three doors were set into the wall at irregular intervals down the long hallway. The blueprints they’d uncovered showed the farthest left to be the smallest, probably a walk-in closet of some kind. The other two had originally been bedrooms. A mirrored version of the layout could be found on the opposite side of the structure. The closets also featured a narrow corridor that connected to another that traversed the back of the building, presumably so the wealthy owners could avoid seeing their servants at work. Bryant shook his head.

  No matter what planet, no matter what people, it seems there are always some who think they’re better than everyone else for one misguided reason or another. He smirked. Well, it’s time to lay down some education.

  The agent crossed softly to the nearest door and dropped to one knee. He extracted the fiber-optic camera cable secured in his left sleeve and pointed it through the gap between the door and the floor. After a short delay, the feed opened in a window on his glasses to reveal an elegant writing room as seen through the fisheye lens. There were bookcases in several places, and a beautiful desk faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. A puddle of light bathed a polished end-table beside a sumptuous leather armchair in one corner. Seated there was an androgynous woman in an elegant gray pinstripe suit over an expensive oxford and a crimson silk tie, presumably in her mid-forties. She had white skin, long platinum hair, and held a book that looked like it’d come from another age, oversized and luxuriously covered.

  Or perhaps another world.

  He let the camera retract as he stood and examined the door. It appeared to be a standard interior model that would be no match for him. He moved to the side with his back against the wall and pushed it open. Nothing happened, so he risked a quick glance and entered the room, his rifle trained on the woman in the chair.

  She seemed amused, a small smile on her face as she put an opulent bookmark in place.

  That is not good.

  Bryant spoke in a calm tone but with the weight of iron behind it. “Hands on your head, get on your knees, and don’t say a word.” He motioned with the weapon to punctuate the command.

  Her smile broadened as she snapped the book closed and Bryant’s finger twitched on the trigger a split second before the pain erupted. The areas of the gun that his gloves touched suddenly felt like they’d been dipped in lava. He threw the carbine aside by reflex, and it skittered across the floor. Fortunately, he’d at least had the presence of mind to throw it away from the woman. He did the same with the spare magazines, which seared at his thigh. He wasn’t sure whether it was an illusion or if they really had changed temperature, but it didn’t matter.

  “Okay, if you want to talk, let’s talk.” He held his hands up in a placating gesture.

  While he had been in the room, the computer network and techs at the bus had been hard at work. Data scrolled in the right-hand periphery of his glasses. The woman’s name was Lienne, and she was on their radar as a person of interest, suspected of being part of a power-seeking group from Oriceran. She’d been mentioned by a couple of informants, but the team had never put eyes on her before. “Okay, Lienne, how about you come along quietly and we’ll sort all this out down at the office?”
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  An even wider smile preceded a velvet voice. “After what you did to the fools we had in place to mess with your little train? It was only appropriate that we properly thank you.” She waved a hand, and Bryant’s data feed disappeared. “Ah. Now we have some privacy. As I was saying, after your actions, we felt an appropriate response was in order. So, I invited you to my home.”

  Shit. Here I worried about the small traps and missed the big one right in front of my face.

  He lowered his hands and spread them in appeasement. “Well, I’m here. What do you want to discuss?”

  The woman shrugged and the perfect shoulders of her suit bobbed once. She slipped her left hand casually into a pocket, which immediately triggered alarm bells in Bryant’s mind. He stepped back carefully toward the opening and ran into what felt like a wall.

  Uh-oh.

  The Oriceran stood with liquid grace. “Your little organization has become a nuisance. It is time for you to be taken off the board.”

  Her hand emerged from her pocket, and she hurled a tiny pellet that burst into flame as it rocketed across the room. Bryant hissed, “Scield,” and a shield shimmered into place around him. He gritted his teeth against the pain of the charm that burned into his neck and dodged left. Tiny fireballs imploded in the space where he had been and spewed divots into the wall. He drew his pistol, flicked it to single shot, and fired. She conjured an invisible barrier between them with a flick of her fingers, and the bullets clattered harmlessly at her feet. He advanced with each round in the hope that he could get near enough to do some damage.

  Her mouth moved, but his earpieces were dialed down to compensate for the blasts and he couldn’t hear the words. He felt the slightest warmth through the glove that gripped his pistol and grinned. “It’s ceramic, asshole. That doesn’t conduct heat nearly as well.” He realized his error a second before it was too late and threw the weapon toward his opponent as the bullets cooked off and shrapneled metal and non-conductive shards in all directions.