Federal Agents of Magic Boxed Set

by T. R. Cameron

  “Not necessarily. More likely, they want to make a statement with the prison and we merely happen to be here. But we should nonetheless have a plan to seize any opportunity that might arise.” He looked up and identified the camera positions one more time, then shifted slightly and gestured for his subordinate to lean forward. He flicked his fingers to ensure Marcus noticed the way he kept them out of sight of the cameras and blocked by their bodies.

  Vincente lowered his voice but knew the guards would probably still be able to pick them up on the microphones. Fortunately, he and his top people had developed a kind of sign language to use when under surveillance. An open hand held in a particular way meant the statement was false. A closed hand held the same way indicated truth. He made sure his was open. “We’re on our own. They won’t send anyone in specifically to help us if they do act at all.” He saw hope spark in Marcus’s eyes at the lie.

  The other man nodded. “Damn. I haven’t been able to put together any real support in here. No one wants to work as a team.” His hand, right at the edge of Vincente’s line of sight, was open.

  Vincente suppressed a grin and placed an appropriately unhappy look on his face. “I’m disappointed in you, Marcus.” He left his hand open for a moment, then shifted it to closed. “Timing is uncertain.” He opened his hand again. “But it’s probably at least a month away. There’s a lot of preparation to do, I guess.” He made the symbol for half—his index and middle fingers spread wide apart—then curled and extended them again.

  Marcus nodded to acknowledge receipt of the message. Half, and half again. Not in a month, but probably in a week. He replied, “Damn it all. That’s a long time to wait for a rescue that may or may not come.”

  The wizard nodded, his eyes closed. A week was a long wait in this place. Feeling his magic so close yet unable to do anything with it was one of the most frustrating things he’d ever experienced. Not that he was about to let that show. He closed his fist. “We won’t see any help from those at my level, I imagine. The bastards have been good at wrapping us up and storing us away.” He opened his palm again. “I guess we’re on our own.”

  The man nodded. He gave the sign for true and asked, “Is it worth talking to some people in here?”

  Vincente surveyed the room, half of which was made up of witches and wizards. The remainder was comprised of small clusters of other types of beings—Kilomea, in the main, with a couple of dwarves and Dark Elves as well. “We should talk to the humanoids when possible, but not the creatures. They are not dependable.” His fist was clenched. He would be willing to use the others for cannon fodder if entirely necessary but would rely only on those most like him.

  Marcus nodded enthusiastically. His superior made a gesture to indicate the end of their secret conversation, and the other man leaned back and raised his voice to normal levels. “Do you get to interact much with others wherever you are? You’re not usually out here during playtime.” He packed a lot of derision into the word.

  The wizard shook his head. “We have an area like this, but when I have time in it, I’m always alone. I presume they keep us separate, although the cell is so silent that I probably wouldn’t know if there was a parade going on outside.”

  “That would suck. I’ve managed to make an acquaintance or two during my time here.” He put his fingers to his mouth and gave a soft whistle, and a man who had stood nearby ambled over. He was bookish-looking but had an edge to him that communicated the chip on his shoulder and a predilection to exercise it by causing harm to others. “Let me introduce you to Warren. He says he’s fairly decent with fire. He ran with the gang that knocked over liquor stores we partnered with before.”

  Vincente laughed. “So, a deckhand?” The Prince of Plunder was a long-standing joke among his group, but a good-hearted one. He had power and had put together a loyal crew, and both those things were worthy of respect. The man scowled. “More a boatswain, really. The boss doesn’t do too much without running it by me first.”

  Vincente grinned. “Well, then. Are more of your people in here?”

  “A few.”

  His grin widened and he extended a hand. “Let’s talk about the potential for mayhem and plunder, shall we?”

  His new acquaintance shook it and sat in the table’s third chair with a smile of his own. “Indeed. Let’s.”

  Chapter Ten

  The battered pickup truck pulled into a gravel lot outside a large warehouse. Sloan rode in the middle of the bench seat with Mur on his left and Teddy on his right. Two more sedans with gang members swung in behind them, and they all emerged in a mass. Mur had primped for the occasion, his bald head freshly shaved and oiled, and what were probably his nicest black work pants and gray button-down completed the look.

  Teddy was his normal sloppy self—jeans and a dirty t-shirt under an equally dirty unbuttoned short-sleeved dress shirt. Sloan had chosen clothes in which to be ignored—dark jeans and a charcoal hoodie half-unzipped over a heavy metal concert t-shirt. His nerves shouted at him, and he took a surreptitious deep breath to calm himself. You’ve been in this situation before. It’s nothing new. Remember who you’re supposed to be—Tommy Ketchum.

  Mur turned in a circle and called, “Inside,” in a voice loud enough to carry to the rest of his crew. There were a dozen or so other cars in the parking lot, most of them old but less battered than their own vehicle. Given this, it was not a huge surprise when they entered the warehouse and discovered a crowd of people already there.

  To the right was a group of wizards and witches, judging by the wands they held or fondled and the general fancy fashion sense that seemed to accompany the criminal magic users he’d encountered so far. They shot dirty looks at the other occupants scattered throughout the large warehouse floor—groups of five to fifteen each in their own little area. The non-magicals looked almost as nervous as he felt. Hoodies were the uniform of the day, apparently. Comfortable. Easy to hide weapons in. Logical. There were men, women, and every skin color he’d ever seen before—short, tall, thin, and fat. A wide variety of individuals, united in their common uneasiness.

  The warehouse itself was large and several stories high with dim rows of fluorescent lights hanging down to drive away the early evening darkness. Pallets of presumably stolen goods were stacked in the space at random, grouped together in ways he couldn’t begin to understand. Other areas were piled almost floor to ceiling with boxes of mismatched items. It looked more like a garage sale than an actual business.

  When a metallic thump echoed from above, every head turned. At the top of a steel staircase stood a hard-looking woman in a tight black dress that left little to the imagination. He immediately identified her as the witch Diana had described and wondered where she’d hidden her wand before he noted the slight bulge under her right sleeve as she began to walk down the stairs. Her high ebony boots looked heavy and somehow threatening and shined when the light caught them. She descended slowly and studied the scene below her, making a show of shifting her gaze from one group to the next. He examined her without trying to hide it, knowing that everyone else in the place would do the same. It was, no doubt, the purpose of her dramatic entry.

  Her energy was obvious. It crackled in her gaze as it darted around the room, was visible in the way she clenched and unclenched her left hand, and was evident in the curling of her right fingers as if they could barely be restrained from summoning the wand beneath her sleeve. As she reached the midway point, he experienced the momentary flash of insight that was always so unexpected and so elusive.

  It took all his discipline not to stagger at the chaos that roiled beneath her stoic expression. Each element was brutally intense on its own—the pure lust for power, the contempt for almost everyone in the room, the triumphant pride in the knowledge that they were all there for her, and the strange feeling of a deeper presence. He’d only ever experienced something similar to this last sensation when he’d shared minds with a schizophrenic. In combination, the potent elements t
hat defined her were virtually overwhelming.

  A hand gripped his arm and squeezed it tightly, and Sloan tore his gaze away from the woman to meet Mur’s concerned expression. “Steady on, Ketch. I get that she’s gorgeous, but you look like you’re ready to lose it there.”

  Teddy’s nervous giggle followed. “Yeah, man, maybe you need to, you know, see a professional and release some tension.”

  The gang members nearby laughed halfheartedly at the bawdy joke, and Sloan echoed them. Meanwhile, a frightened part of his mind charted escape routes and wondered if he could liberate a weapon, shoot the witch, and disappear in the ensuing chaos. She stopped when she reached three-quarters of the way down the stairs, turned, and swept her energetic gaze across them all again. This is what insanity looks like.

  The voice that emerged from the sharp face was one part lust, one part contempt, and one part fanaticism. “Welcome, all. Thank you for coming. Many of you know me already, but those who formerly followed Marcus might not. I am Sarah, and with Vincente unavailable for the foreseeable future, I lead this group.” She paused as if awaiting a challenge. None came. They’re all probably as freaked out by her as I am. His hand itched—actually itched—with the desire for a weapon.

  She raised a hand and swept it across the assembled people. “All of you have taken part one way or another in our previous adventures.” The last word was stretched out, making it a taunt toward someone, he had no idea who. “But now, it is necessary for you all to work together, rather than apart. In order to accomplish this, I will appoint two lieutenants, one to coordinate the activities of the empowered among us”—she gestured at the circle of witches and wizards—“and one to oversee the rest of you.” Her disdain was obvious to Sloan, but it appeared not to register with any of the other presumably non-magical individuals in the room.

  Sarah pointed first at one of the witches. “Wysse, you will coordinate the arcane.” The woman nodded as if accepting a heavy responsibility. She turned and looked over the others, then shrugged as if it didn’t really matter. She extended a finger toward Sloan, and his stomach clenched. “You. You, in the gray dress shirt, what’s your name again?”

  Beside him, Mur stammered “Murray Lensport, ma’am.”

  She waved dismissively. “You may refer to me as Sarah. Anything else is an insult unless you would prefer to call me Master or Mistress.” Mur nodded and wiped away the sweat that had broken out on his forehead. “You will lead these groups. Failure would be…” She paused for a moment, then gave a smile filled with the promise of pain. “It would be a poor choice on your part, one with terrible ramifications for all of you.”

  Several of the gang members seemed to bristle at the threat, and she hastened to add, “But success will bring rewards beyond what you have been promised before and even beyond what you can imagine. Make no mistake, we are in the big leagues now, people.”

  From the far side of the warehouse, the chosen chief of the magicals shouted, “Mistress.” The head witch turned toward her, an eyebrow raised in a question. The other woman stepped forward. She was dressed the same as her leader, but the cut of the black sheath differed and revealed more than Sarah chose to. Wysse raised her chin and spoke in a voice that echoed through the room. “There is one among us who does not belong.”

  Sarah’s eyes went half-lidded, and the smile that had remained frozen on her face turned into a frown. There was no anger there, merely the regard of the predator about to capture its prey. She raised a palm to the woman. “Do tell.”

  The witch wandered around the warehouse floor and seemed to sniff the air near each non-arcane person she passed. “As you know, Mistress, one of my abilities is empathy. In this room, there is someone who does not wish us well, one who is in fact right now planning to work against us.”

  Sloan froze. Again, he forced himself to remain outwardly calm while he made plans inwardly should things go wrong. The other half of his gift—the part that kept him shielded from others’ talents—had never failed him before. The witch wandered in their direction and finally stopped behind Teddy and on the opposite side of Mur from where Sloan stood. She raised an arm and pointed at a male trying to disappear into his hoodie halfway across the room. “Him. It is him. He is an informant for the police.”

  With an unearthly shriek that made almost everyone present cringe, dark shadowy tentacles surged from Sarah’s outstretched left hand and snaked to the man in an instant to lift him from the floor. He struggled but couldn’t break free of the initial ones, much less the half-dozen that followed. The witch in charge shifted her gaze in their direction. “Murray, your first official act in your new role is to eliminate this interloper.”

  Mur gulped and looked ill as he shuffled toward the struggling captive. One of the cookie-cutter gang members produced a pistol and set it in his hand as the bald man moved past him. He reached the informant, who redoubled his efforts to escape, his shouts of outrage or apology muffled by the tentacle over his mouth. Mur gazed at Sarah, who nodded regally. He aimed and fired in an instant, and the man’s head snapped back, a perfect hole drilled above his left eyebrow. The tentacles unwound, actually seemed disappointed now that their task was complete, and dropped him carelessly. The new human leader handed the weapon to the person who had loaned it to him as he returned to his former position.

  Sarah had a cruel smile on her face. “Very good. Lieutenants, come and discuss future plans with me immediately. The rest of you, wait a while and do not agitate one another. Transgressions will be dealt with harshly and instantly.” As Mur and Wysse walked toward her, she made a final pronouncement. “Once we have formed our separate divisions into a unit and determined who is best at what, we will embark upon an operation that shall make any other you’ve been involved with seem like child’s play. Organize your affairs to be ready to leave town at a moment’s notice.” She turned and led her new team leaders up the stairs.

  Sloan returned Teddy’s confused look in kind. I don’t know what that crazy witch is up to, but I am one hundred percent certain it’ll be bad for everyone involved, but especially so for whoever is her target.

  Chapter Eleven

  Diana entered the building through the garage tunnel as usual, and the tiny version of the troll who had adopted her sat on her shoulder. The additional cars outside were a pleasing sight, a visible sign of their growth. We’re seven now, including Rath, but could still use one or two more. A fighter and a specialist tech, maybe.

  They turned to the core and joined the rest of the agents already gathered for the morning status briefing. Cara handed her a mug of coffee, and she inhaled the steam. “Ahhh, yes, that’s the stuff. Thanks.”

  Her second in command nodded. “So, we have a clear agenda today. Nothing is on fire, literally or figuratively, and most of our open loops are closed.”

  Tony frowned. “What is that, some sort of business-speak?”

  She returned the scowl. “Some of us actually read things other than golf magazines, you know.”

  “I can’t see why. Golf is life. Life is golf.”

  Diana shook her head. “Quiet, you two.”

  Rath echoed, “Quiet two,” with a small laugh. He had practiced gymnastics on the couch before they’d left and had, for no apparent reason, decided to remain in his tiny form. She had assumed he would become more predictable as time went by, but it turned out that it might actually be the opposite.

  Kayleigh swept into the room from the far staircase. “Yeah, shut the hell up, whoever is supposed to be quiet.” She flicked her fingers as she approached, and the haptic sensors on her nails sent instructions to the core systems. The screens came to life and displayed several incomprehensible images, maps, and data streams.

  Diana paused to regard the tech. Since joining BAM Pittsburgh, she had truly come into her own and abandoned the modest subservience she had demonstrated in DC for a confident leadership that was entirely appropriate. She’d traded in the somewhat formal outfits she’d worn there for s
omething more in keeping with the team, currently blue jeans, killer boots—literally, given what’s hiding inside them—and a tactical top under a Rush t-shirt. Her demeanor always straddled the line between seriousness and sarcastic teasing, and she shifted across it adroitly when needed. Like Rath, she was both unpredictable and far more than she seemed.

  Her attention was jerked back to the moment when Kayleigh snapped her fingers with a sharp crack. “Boss, are you with us?”

  She nodded and took a bigger sip. “I have roommate problems. Really bloody noisy video games at all hours, so it’s hard to sleep.”

  Rath added “Pew Pew,” and the team laughed.

  Kayleigh gave her a look that promised sweet revenge, then gestured at the surrounding information. “What you’re looking at is the data from all our surveillance systems around the city. Feeds from the camera grids, from our own sensors, from the Cube’s cameras and drones, and even traffic cameras and piggybacks of any live video the tv stations send all fed into our own analysis algorithms.”

  Sloan, who made a rare appearance, shook his head in apparent wonder. “It’s good to know you have eyes on me wherever I am.”

  The tech nodded. “Eyes and ears, as long as your phone is with you.”

  Diana waved at the impressive display. “You’re showing us this for a reason, I assume?”

  “Of course. So you realize how amazing I am.” The group laughed again, and she turned serious. “Actually, I wanted you to see all the sources we have so you can judge what degree of credence to give to the system’s outputs.”

  “That’s fair. Is there something in particular today?”

  Kayleigh nodded and pointed to a map on which several dots moved. “This is a plot of some surveillance that Rath started and Alfred has continued with the drones.” She looked at the troll. “The idea of a hidden tag is an excellent one, by the way, and I’m working on it.” She laughed. “It’s fantastic but also frustrating to have more great ideas to pursue than time to invest.”