Rick or Treat: A Fae Killers Novel (The Fae Killers Book 3)

by Jaxon Reed

  “It is an evil thing,” Little Fox said from behind him.

  Jason silently agreed. Out loud he said, “Do you have a tomahawk?”

  Little Fox nodded. He handed over the deadly ax, handle first. Jason took it and swung down hard on the medicine man’s forearm. In half a dozen hacks he cut through the bone, separating the lower arm from Broken Hand’s body. Then he held the hand down with the tomahawk and pulled the bracelet off with the point of the iron knife. Careful not to touch it, he picked it up with the blade and dropped it in a leather pouch.

  “Will you destroy it?” Little Fox said.

  “It cannot be destroyed. But, I will take it someplace where it will do this world no more harm.”

  Little Fox nodded, satisfied with the answer.

  The Walker straightened and said, “Tell your men to leave their arrows. Do not reuse them.”

  -+-

  No amount of persuasion could keep the marines from aiming their rifles at the swirling mass of black light once again floating in the room. Shortly after it reappeared, the usual crowd of guards surrounded the odd phenomenon. They kept their weapons steadfastly trained on it.

  Smitty gave up trying to convince them otherwise. Instead, he called for another clipboard and some paper. Taking out a fountain pen from the collection of writing instruments on his pocket protector, he wrote a simple message: “Who are you? Where are you? What do you want?”

  He walked as close to the swirling black mass as he dared and flung the clipboard through, as if it were a discus. As he expected, it disappeared.

  Smitty walked back to the marines and smiled at the corporal.

  The corporal said, “Now what?”

  “Now, we wait and see if we get a response.”

  The marines seemed to visibly relax at the suggestion of waiting. Some even lowered their muzzles, aiming at the floor. Smitty stretched, turned and began looking for a chair he could drag into the area.

  The clipboard came flying through the breach and hit him in the back. He screamed and jumped straight up in the air.

  The marines tried their best to choke down their laughter, but with little success. Red-faced at his outburst and the stifled chuckles, Smitty reached down to the floor and retrieved his clipboard.

  He stood up and turned it over. Underneath his words, someone else had written, “I’m a friend of Cait’s. Coming soon.”

  -+-

  The steady drone of propellers filtered into the basement as German planes soared overhead. Distant explosions thundered as bombs fell throughout London.

  “This is a sneak attack!”

  Fury engulfed Ambassador MacGraw. His face turned blood red, and a vein in his forehead seemed ready to pop.

  Rick nodded, but he responded in even, measured tones in an attempt to calm the man down.

  “No doubt this raid is meant to cover the bombing of the embassy.”

  Angela said, “Why would they need a cover for that?”

  Rick said, “If the Germans blow up the city’s diplomatic corps with TNT packed into the basement, they have an international incident on their hands. But if Hitler has declared war against Britain, which I bet he has a few hours ago and we haven’t heard about it yet, then bombing London is acceptable. And if the German embassy were hit ‘by accident’ during the air raid, killing those inside, it’s a regrettable thing occurring during the fog of war. Either way the problem is resolved, but one is far more diplomatically acceptable.”

  Angela’s eyebrows shot up. She turned to MacGraw and said, “He’s right. We need to preserve this as evidence.”

  Rick said, “One thing you can do is make sure everybody upstairs sees it. They’re not going anywhere during an air raid anyway. That’s what Eisenhower did on our world during the occupation of Germany. He had as many allied troops as possible tour the Nazi death camps. More eyewitnesses mean a greater chance the truth prevails.”

  Angela said, “‘Death camps?’”

  Rick said, “Told you I hate Nazis. Totalitarianism, by whatever name it chooses to call itself, always leads to oppression.”

  MacGraw rubbed his chin, thinking while staring at the floor. His face slowly returned to its normal color. He looked up and said, “Ah think you’re right. Ah hate to keep them around the dynamite down here, but the alternative . . .” A bomb exploded closer than the others, shaking the mansion slightly.

  “The alternative is even less desirable,” Angela said, completing the thought.

  MacGraw turned to his group of people and pointed at three of them. “You, you, and you. Stay here with Agent Dorn and Mr. Strickland. If you see a Nazi, feel free to shoot him. Protect the dynamite and don’t let anyone get close to the firing mechanism. Even though it’s broken, they might find a way to rig it. The rest of you, come with me and let’s shepherd everyone who is upstairs down here. They’re more likely to listen to an ambassador, so Ah’ll go with you.”

  Minutes later, many of the diplomats walked into the room. Several had already headed for the basement when the sirens went off and the first bombs dropped, so guiding them to the storage area under the great room’s floor proved an easy task.

  Invariably, upon entering and seeing the boxes marked “TNT” stacked against the walls, each person either gasped in surprise or cursed in their native language. The breadth of the Nazi’s deception, and what it would have meant for them personally had it been successful, instantly became obvious to all.

  Meanwhile bombs continued dropping, some of them closer than others. Another one struck nearby, the sound of its explosion roaring through the basement. Dust sprinkled down on people and dynamite. Somebody jumped and conversation ground to a halt as party guests stared uneasily at one another.

  “Don’t worry,” Rick said to everyone. “They’re not very accurate. Plus, it’s dark and I seriously doubt they have much experience with nighttime bombing runs.”

  MacGraw nodded at the logic of the statement. He said, “And if this place is built like ours, the basement should provide good cover, even for a direct hit. That’s why they planted all these explosives here. They wanted to be sure and take us out.”

  Men and women from several countries nodded in angry agreement, their Halloween masks either discarded or pushed high up on their heads. They stood together in nervous clumps, glancing at the boxes of dynamite and the trembling ceiling rafters with worried expressions.

  Finally the sounds of bombs and the drone of airplane engines faded. The warning siren stopped, replaced by those of fire trucks.

  “Ah think that’s the all clear,” MacGraw said. “Let’s return to our embassies and notify our respective home offices about the situation.”

  A general murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. MacGraw directed several of his people to take the lead and keep an eye out for any Nazis. Slowly the crowd filtered out of the room and back down toward the corridor toward the stairwell. Upstairs, in a daze, people made their way through the front door. No servants or guards or German diplomats were anywhere to be seen.

  Outside, fires lit up the nighttime sky, casting eerie orange and red reflections on low-hanging clouds. Embassy Row had been largely spared. The bombs that landed close by missed buildings, tearing up streets and ground works instead.

  The diplomats assembled in front of the mansion, looking for their cars and drivers and taking in the flickering night sky.

  Movement stirred on the far side of the embassy grounds. A collective gasp went up from the crowd as two dozen Nazi guards approached, Mausers pointed chest-high.

  One gray-haired diplomat stepped out from the crowd. Judging by his accent, Rick decided he was French.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  Kerpow!

  He collapsed to the ground, a red splotch growing on his chest. Several people screamed. Some bunched together in collective fear while others ducked behind parked cars.

  Ribbentrop stepped out from among the guards, holding one restraining hand up for his me
n and a smoking Luger in the other. He cast a contemptuous glance at the fallen diplomat.

  “We’ll accept your country’s surrender later, Ambassador Corbin. For the rest of you, I must admit I’m surprised to see you out here.”

  “We’re on to your tricks, Ribbentrop!”

  MacGraw shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, followed by all the Texans who aimed their guns back at the Nazis. The guards shifted their Mausers to cover them.

  An evil grin crossed Ribbentrop’s face. “Ambassador MacGraw. I should have known the Texans would try and spoil our fun. No matter. My men will finish the job here.”

  “You’ll be the first to be shot, Ribbentrop.”

  Without taking his eyes off the corpulent Nazi, MacGraw made a motion with his head. All the OSS agents shifted their aim toward Ribbentrop.

  The Nazi smirked. He said, “You really think you can stop me with those pathetic revolvers?”

  “Ah’m willing to give it a try.”

  “Actually, he’s right.” Rick pushed his way to the front and stood next to MacGraw.

  He said, “Herr Ribbentrop here is fae. Lead bullets won’t hurt him much. But iron . . .”

  Rick made quick snapping motions with both arms and sharp rods shot out from the sleeves of his tux.

  He grabbed them in either hand and said, “Iron will hurt him. A lot.”

  Ribbentrop’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the spikes. He said to the guards, “Shoot that one first.”

  All the Mausers shifted again, this time pointing at Rick.

  Now Rick smirked. He said, “Lead’s not going to stop me, either, fae. Nothing will.”

  Time seemed to freeze as the two groups faced off. Fire trucks and ambulances wailed throughout the city as the skylight flickered with flames. Smoke and the smell of burning buildings drifted over both groups. Rick and Ribbentrop stared at one another without blinking.

  WHUMPF!

  A black swirling mass appeared to one side between the two groups, pulling everyone’s attention to it. Refracted dark light spun off as it twirled, with curls of smoke and nothingness flashing like a blacklight sparkler.

  Within seconds it firmed up into a large square shape, about ten feet tall and almost as wide. As everybody watched, the blackness gave way to daylight and the swirling stopped. Through the square, a blast of thin mountain air flowed through, chasing away the nighttime smoke and mist.

  Slowly, carefully, a cowboy rode through the square, gently coaxing his horse in calm, reassuring tones. A younger cowboy, who seemed quite awed by the whole experience, followed him.

  The first cowboy stopped and looked at everyone. He glanced at the Nazis to his left and the diplomats to his right, noting everyone’s guns. His eyes lit up when they met Rick’s.

  He said, “Why hello, Rick! Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Jason. Good to see you again.”

  The Walker smiled at everybody. The diplomats looked back at him with varying degrees of incredulity. He noticed Angela standing next to Rick and he tipped his hat to her.

  He glanced over at the Germans with their Mausers, then back to the diplomats. He again took note of the Texans with their revolvers.

  Jason said, “Looks like we’ve got a Mexican standoff. Only, with Nazis.”

  Rick said, “Yeah. We’re a little bit outnumbered. The fat one in charge over there is a fae.”

  “Hmm. Well, I might be able to even the odds a bit.”

  Jason whistled and an Indian poked his head out the square doorway. He looked surprised to see the Nazis and everybody else. He pulled back to the daylight side, disappearing for a moment. When he came out again, he had an arrow nocked in his bow, and 20 more Indians, also carrying bows ready to shoot, followed him.

  He walked up to Jason, nodded toward the Nazis and said, “Are they bad men?”

  “Yes, Little Fox,” Jason said. “They are very bad men.”

  Little Fox nodded and shouted out a command. All of the Indians turned and pulled their bowstrings tight, pointing them at the German side.

  Together they said, “Aim for the head!”

  The sight of these additional forces, appearing out of an apparently magical doorway, unnerved the Germans and bolstered the diplomats.

  Rick heard somebody speaking from the back of the allied crowd in a British accent. They said, “By George! I don’t how the Texans do it! But I always want them on our side in a scrap!”

  Jason dismounted, slowly. Some of the Mausers shifted, aiming toward him as the line of Nazi guards grew increasingly nervous. The younger cowboy followed the Walker’s lead, casually slipping a lever action rifle out of a saddle holster as he came down.

  Free to wander about on their own, the horses snorted uneasily, then slowly walked out of the line of fire. They headed for grass on the other side of the embassy lawn.

  Jason pulled a six-shooter out of his holster, tipped back his cowboy hat and said, “Okay, Rick, here’s the plan. You and I will rush them and draw their fire. Little Fox’s men and your people with the snubnose revolvers will kill the Nazis. When they’re out of the way, we take on fat boy over there.”

  With his other hand, Jason pulled an iron knife out of a sheath on his belt and pointed it at Ribbentrop.

  Rick said, “You really think we’ll still be standing with all those bullets in us?”

  “Oh yeah. Those Mausers will just shoot right through you. Mostly.”

  “I’m well acquainted with their gunshots. Too well acquainted. I tried something similar a while ago. Not sure I’m liking the sound of your plan.”

  “It’s a terrible plan,” Angela said. Several of the Texans murmured agreement, shocked expressions on their faces.

  Jason looked over his shoulder at them and said, “Well? Does anybody have a better plan?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Okay then.” He raised his voice and said, “Everybody without a gun should scatter!”

  The crowd of diplomats disbursed, slowly at first as those in the back peeled away, then picking up speed as more people ran away or hid behind cars.

  Jason pulled the hammer back on his six-shooter and smiled at Rick. He said, “Ready?”

  Rick sighed, self-consciously adjusting his bandages. He tucked one of the iron rods in his cummerbund and pulled the Walther out. He nodded.

  Jason said, “Let’s go!”

  He ran screaming toward the Germans, firing the six-shooter. Rick ran after him, shooting his Walther. Rick felt a bullet shatter his shoulder. Another went through his belly. A third hit his thigh, thunking into the femur and causing him to stumble.

  The Texans fired their revolvers, taking out several Germans. Arrows appeared like magic, sticking out of German eyes, necks and chests.

  Rick heard screams behind him as diplomats continued scrambling for cover, several people going down in the hail of bullets.

  Absurdly, he began running calculations in a corner of his mind: five rounds per Mauser, 20 men, 100 shots. Were there more than 20 Nazis? Six rounds per revolver, 12 agents, 72 shots. Plus Jason’s gun made 78. His own Walther . . . how many bullets were left? For that matter, how many arrows did the Indians have?

  Behind him and to his right he heard the loud report of a rifle and remembered the young man who rode in with Jason. How many bullets did his lever action carry?

  Rick’s Walther clicked as it ran out of ammo. One of the few Germans still standing yelled, and aimed his Mauser at Rick’s head.

  Thoop! Thoop! Thoop!

  Three arrows seemed to sprout out of the guard’s face. He dropped the Mauser and sank to his knees, then fell face-forward to the ground, jamming the arrows all the way in.

  Rick limped forward, ignoring the pain in his chest, stomach, and the shattered femur. Ahead, the Walker turned around and grinned at him with a bloody smile. One bullet had torn through his cheek, another creased his skull. His face was covered in blood and his chest was pockmarked with red splotches.

 
“We got ’em right where we want ’em,” Jason said, blood flecking as he talked. He spat out a tooth.

  Rick hobbled up next to him and said, “You’ve got an odd sense of humor, old man.”

  Jason touched his cheek gingerly, then drew his hand back and looked at the blood.

  He said, “Could use some Tree of Life right about now. Guess I didn’t think this through all the way.”

  Rick tossed aside the empty Walther, pulled the other iron spike from his cummerbund and said, “Where’d that stinking fae go?”

  “It’s never good to lose track of them,” Jason said, looking around the corpses. “Usually when you can’t find them they—”

  Angela screamed behind them. Then she choked off, as if interrupted.

  Rick twirled and looked back. All the diplomats, the Texans, and the Indians stood frozen in place. Angela stood completely still, a look of terror on her face, holding her gun straight out in front of her with both hands. Ribbentrop faced her, his arms stretched wide. All around, everything seemed deathly still and quiet except for the distant wailing of sirens. It reminded Rick of a frozen tableau in a wax museum.

  Ribbentrop turned and looked at Rick, a surprised expression crossing his face.

  Rick stared back at the fae. He said, “Uh . . . Jason?”

  Jason did not answer. Rick glanced over his shoulder and found the Walker frozen in place, too.

  9

  Ribbentrop gaped as Rick angrily limped toward him.

  He said, “What technology is this?”

  Ribbentrop moved his hands again, casting another stasis spell. A burst of sparkling lights streamed out of his hands toward Rick.

  Rick ignored them as they popped harmlessly on his chest. He tried to pick up his pace, hopping on his one good leg and ignoring the pain as he headed back toward the diplomats and the fae.