by Nick Pollota
“Duck!” I cried, and the whole world seemed to shatter into pieces and then reform, so powerful was the mass detonation of the motorcycles’ explosive cargo of plastique, aided and abetted by the six hundred kilos of thermite in our RV. Shrapnel and bits of concrete pounded all around us, while a brutal shock wave rattled the bones in our bodies, a single heart beat before a boiling thunderhead of flame extended hungrily for us.
“Berlin!” Kathi called, and we crouched low behind her magical Wall.
A wave of fire engulfed our position, but the licking flames spread out harmlessly as they rebounded from the resilient spell. However, killing heat seeped around the edges and our roasting seemed to last forever.
Eventually, the wall flickered into nothingness as Kathi ran dry of magic, and we lay panting in the middle of the disfigured Ohio highway. Battered, broiled and bone-weary, the team grimly prepared what weapons we had and crossed fingers in a primitive luck ceremony. Failure? Success?
Then from the rumbling firestorm down the road, there appeared a smoking motorcycle tire that rolled aimlessly along for a few meters then wandered off the road to collapse in the weeds.
We cheered until our throats got as sore as the rest of our bodies. When everybody else is dead, you win: Bureau 13 axiom 7, I do believe.
Romping in from the fiery horizon, came Amigo. As he reached our group, the collar around his neck rippled with light and he was a tiny Gila lizard again. Picking up our pet, Raul scratched him under the neck and Amigo came as close to a purr as he could.
“Map,” I wheezed, loosening my smoking necktie.
Bleeding from both ears, George offered the charred piece of paper to me with a bow. I thanked him and managed to focus my vision long enough to see a milemarker and locate our position. Painfully, my team hobbled off the road and headed for the someplace named Zanesville, the nearest town with an airport. We had a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in. This made twice the Scion had forced us into a retreat.
There would be no third time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As we stumbled into downtown Zanesville, our appearance frightened a small child. So the team stopped at the local mall and got shaved, showered, shampooed, haircuts, bought new clothes, and wrapped ourselves around a reasonably priced meal at a nice restaurant.
While the team was devouring desert, I ambled over to a payphone and placed a discreet call to the Bureau. With the relay in our RV gone, our wristwatches probably couldn't reach wherever the heck it was our HQ was. So the public phone was my sole option.
After being endlessly relayed through exchanges in Alamogordo, New Mexico to Trevose, Pennsylvania, I finally reached somebody in authority I could formally report to. The exchange of information was short and succinct.
Returning to the table, I gleefully informed the group that since we had been in direct telepathic communication with the Scion, no other Bureau team was going to interfere and chance exposure. We alone had been given the honor of stopping the Scion. Somehow, my friends were able to restrain themselves from doing the dance of joy at this news.
Appropriating a chair, I called for a group discussion. Kathi cast a small Dome of Silence over the table as and everybody gathered in close.
“Okay, obviously we can't go to Hadleyville without some sort of psionic protection,” George noted, mopping the last vestiges of gravy from his plate with a buttermilk biscuit. “Raul? Kathi? How about some big ju-ju magic?"
Conferring for a moment, the two wizards were glum.
"Nyet," Kathi sighed so deeply, she almost burst out of her new blouse. “Spells for minds must be cast on each person and only last few minutes. Drain Raul and me in quick time."
“Raul and I,” Jessica corrected primly.
She nodded. “Da, both of us."
“Horta, old pal?” I asked hopefully.
Almost knocking over the condiment tray, Raul was madly flipping through his big book of spells, currently disguised as a menu. “Sadly, that seems to be the case,” he announced. “There are some alchemical potions which might work, but the side effects are rather unpleasant."
“Such as?” I asked curiously. Headaches? Stomach cramps? We could take those if it got the job done.
Scowling, Raul ran a finger down a page in his book. “Let's see, there is Lungfire, Demonic Cancer, Brain Spiders...."
“Enough!” Mindy called, holding up a palm. “We get the general idea."
“And we're eating,” George munched, his mouth stuffed full. There were priorities.
Her steel wand pulsating with flashes of hot power, Kathi barked a long phrase in Russian. It didn't sound very cheery.
“This is intolerable!” Father Donaher raged, snapping a bread stick in half easy as a baseball bat. “Just because the Bureau has no operating telepaths, we're supposed to sit on our butts while the Scion of the Silver Dagger does...” He gestured vaguely. “Who knows what! How many civilians have perished already? And how many more will die?"
A good point. Where the Scion went, death followed, and lots of it.
Mindy struck the table a resounding blow with her fist, rattling the silver. “God damn it! We discover a coven of sentient werewolves, the biggest threat to the world in recent memory, and we can't even investigate because the bad guys can read our minds? I say we go back to Hadleyville anyway and kick some butt!"
“Yeah!” Raul agreed. “If we move fast enough, or independently, even if they know what we're doing, they may not be able to stop us."
Kathi brandished her invisible wand. “We shall bury them!"
“Thank you, Mr. Khrushchev,” George chuckled.
The Russian glared in return, then smiled.
“No,” I stated in a tone that brooked no further discussion. “The danger is too great. Lord knows what important secrets those Swiftian yahoos have already learned about the Bureau! Jessica saved our hides before, and we're not going to muck up the mission now by charging in unprepared. We'll find a way to stop the Scion. A trick, a trap!"
Everybody looked at me expectantly.
“Something,” I mumbled lamely.
“We always do,” Jess added, trying to be helpful.
Reclining contentedly in his swivel chair, Raul crossed his arms. “Okay, then shoot us the straight poop, boss man."
Furrowing my brow, I revved my brain to overload and thought like a sonovabitch. No ... no ... nyah, that wouldn't work either ... ah ... er ... um....
Silent during the rhetoric, Father Donaher sat hunched over, doing his rosary at record speed and starting to break into a sweat. Then he stopped, crossed himself, and wet his lip.
“Yes,” Mike said in a strained voice, as he stared at the spinning ceiling fan overhead. “If only we knew of something that could help us. But say, if some priest had heard of such a ... thing in, oh, the confessional, for example, then he couldn't tell anybody about it ... even if he really, really wanted to,” finished the big priest with a pained expression.
Smiles abounded. We have a bingo.
“Hey, Mike,” I grinned. “How about we go stretch our legs in the parking lot outside and maybe have a friendly game of darts?"
Tongue between teeth, Raul was already digging about in his spell book and extricated a giant map of North America. We had done this before. Many times.
Pulling a brass-trimmed, red leather box from a voluminous pocket of his cassock, Donaher eased open the top. Nestled inside on a cushion of gleaming white satin lay three darts. The needle tips were engraved with Donaher's full name, the shafts were of African ironwood edged with mahogany, and the fletching was of the neatly trimmed feathers of an American bald eagle.
Daintily lifting a dart into view, Donaher flipped it into the air and on the way down caught the point between thumb and forefinger. Mike flipped it again and caught the dart underhand with a snapping wrist motion. Mindy couldn't have done better.
“Gosh, Ed,” the big Catholic priest said. “I'll be glad to play a game, but I'm re
ally not as good at darts as I would like to be."
Ooh, watching a professional like him skirt around the Ninth Commandant was always a thrill.
* * * *
The two of us played darts across four states, before we ‘needed’ a fresh map to replace the old one. Pretty soon, Mike and I were working on a street map of Kansas City, Missouri. With amazing accuracy, he laid a feathered pattern in the suburbs around a small estate owned by an old friend of ours. That is, if you use some new and twisted meaning of the word ‘friend'. Try arch-enemy instead.
Gathering the crew, we paid for dinner and took a cab from Zanesville to Columbus, sleeping the whole way. In Columbus, we purchased a brand new limousine using my disposal ID and fake American Express card listed under the name of Hank Mathers. The credit card was good for any amount, but only for one purchase. Afterwards, the account would be paid in full by the Bureau and permanently closed.
Driving to Kansas City, sleeping the whole way, we traded the limo in on a used school bus, which was the closet thing to an armored assault vehicle it was possible to obtain on such short notice. It also helped to muddy our trail in case the Scion was still after us. Not an unreasonable assumption. Those guys could give bloodhounds a bad name.
Hitting a local theatrical supply company, a hangout for devious criminal types, we purchased the few additional supplies needed to do this assignment, and then took off to find a secluded place where we could work in peace.
Pulling into the lot of the Lazy Eight Motel, Jessica got us four adjoining rooms, and we trundled our new equipment inside. Most of it was weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, silver ingots, and a special purchase by me for me. I was the only member of the team trained to handle the stuff. I might have no idea what Donaher was sending us after, but I had a pretty good hunch what I would have to do to get it.
As this mission was incredibly dangerous, and slightly illegal, I was going alone. The more people involved, the bigger a chance of failure. It was not a unanimous choice, and in fact I had to pull executive privilege. Something I had not done since that nasty incident in Columbia with the New Gods. But we knew whom that suburban mansion belonged too: Dr. Mathias Bolt.
Bolt was a medical doctor, licensed psychotherapist, millionaire, philanthropist, wizard, necromancer, murderer, litterbug and leader of the Brotherhood of Darkness, a lunatic cult dedicated to conquering the world. Probably so those losers could get dates for Saturday night and avoid paying taxes. Who knew? They were as nuts as the Scion, only less efficient.
The Brotherhood of Darkness had never been a serious threat to the Bureau, or to the world in general, even though Dr. Mathias Bolt was the best ... er, make that the most powerful necromancer in the world. On the other hand, some members of the Brotherhood were smart. Too smart. So the only way to handle them was to give the loonies all the information they could handle, but make them positive it was totally false. Reverse psychology was what the gang in Strategy & Tactical called it. Field agents called the process ‘polishing the mirror.’ With the help of my friends, I began the process.
Stripping naked, I hit the shower and scrubbed myself painfully clean. Then I carefully dyed my black hair the color black. Next, I smoothed a clear tanning lotion on my normally dusky hands and face. I slid on a padded corset, and slipped on shoes with hollow heels twice the thickness of regular shoe heels. I dressed in brand new clothes, put clear non-magnifying contact lenses into both eyes, and removed my wedding ring. I used a darker tanning cream to color the pale band on my finger. Then placed the ring back on.
Carefully, the gang scrutinized me from head to toe. Perfect!
To a casual observer, I appeared as always. But, to a trained observer, I was obviously in disguise. My hair color had none of the minor color differences of natural hair. Obviously it was dyed. The same with skin tone. I was wearing contacts, so black was not my natural eye color, and I had an old scratched wedding ring with no pale skin band underneath. Plainly false. Shoe lifts meant I was short. And the padded corset indicated I was fatter than appeared, and was trying to hide the weight.
Plus, I had a bulky Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver in a shoulder holster build for a slim automatic pistol. Nobody would switch holsters, so a Magnum was obviously not my standard gun.
I had just successfully polished the mirror. I looked exactly like myself, only nobody would believe it. That is, nobody smart, which is what I was counting on.
Padding to the main bedroom, I found the gang waiting for me. Raul was chanting over a coffee pot filled with a foul smelling brew, and Jessica was loading a hypodermic syringe.
Tossing my necktie over a shoulder, I unbuttoned my shirt and lifted my body armor. Soft as silk, the stuff would stop anything this side of an elephant gun.
“This may hurt,” Jess said, wiping my amazingly muscular torso with an alcohol swap.
“Do I get a lollipop afterwards?” I asked.
Gently as possible, Jessica impaled me. Ouch!
“Sure. But only if you don't cry."
Tried my best. Whew. Who makes those things? Nazi war criminals? Then my skin went numb as the novocaine took effect. Ah, much better.
As Jess stepped aside, Kathi moved in to sketch a diagram on my chest. Kinda tickled. Then Raul took her place and used a brush to paint over the outline. Even through the novocaine, I could feel the occult brew sizzling into my tender skin. Goodbye, summer tan.
“Is this going to leave a scar?” I demanded when he finally allowed me to lower my body armor.
“Gosh, I hope so,” Raul said, pouring the rest of the concoction into the sink. The enamel began to peel off.
I stopped my buttoning. “What! Why?"
“That will make it last longer,” Raul said honestly, tossing the brush into a waste can. A piece of old newspaper flared into ash.
“Swell. Thank you, Mr. Wizard."
Doffing an imaginary plumed hat, Raul did a sweeping bow. “At your service, sahib."
After checking the load on my Magnum, I bowed my head. Father Donaher did a little prayer over me. I lifted a pant leg as George strapped on an ankle holster, and I accepted a fistful of pens from Mindy. She had personally filled and primed each, thereby greatly reducing the chance of a malfunction. Kathi poured some powders into my shoes, a potion in my mouth, and a lotion down my back. My chest burned, my head ached, and I was starting to feel a bit slimy. Yuck. The things I do for America. Then Jess gave me a glass of water and some extra-strength aspirin. God, I love that woman.
After issuing some detailed instructions to the gang and receiving a priority kiss from Jess, I went outside, hailed a cab, went downtown, bought another car, and drove boldly to the known headquarters of our hated enemies.
Briefly, I wondered again what Donaher thought was so damn important.
* * * *
Strategically, I parked my car a good block away from the mansion, stopping directly under an old oak tree whose spreading branches offered a pool of shadows from the overhead street lamps. Every little bit helps.
Dominating the street was a brilliantly illuminated billboard announcing that this was the headquarters of The Brotherhood, a non-profit, charitable organization, and an equal opportunity employer.
Openly, the Brotherhood was a publicly chartered organization dedicated to the study of magic, parapsychology and the occult science. Their agent provocateurs never went anywhere without a lawyer, which made for interesting firefights. They actively sought the company of news reporters and protected themselves with the continued association of innocent civilians. A dirty trick that worked much too well.
Their Kansas City base shared land with a unique orphanage for the blind and a training center for the physically handicapped. Both of these noteworthy institutions were supported by the blood money of the Brotherhood. Totally unconcerned with the welfare of these trusting people, the Brotherhood looked upon them merely as protective coverage. This way, the Bureau couldn't simply drop a plane full of napalm upon t
he mansion as these sister organizations would also be destroyed. The matter had been discussed. In detail.
The Brotherhood of Darkness was sneaky, tricky, and damn annoying. They used our own laws against us. If I tried to strongarm my way in, a horde of lawyers wearing pinstriped polyester would descend, each loudly demanding to see my search warrant, holding order, writ of habeas corpus, FBI badge, driver's license, fishing license, birth certificate, and anything else they could think of. If trouble occurred, a TV news team would be there within minutes.
I couldn't bluff my way in or use force. With all of their magical and technological defensives, I couldn't sneak inside. That left only one remaining option. The most dangerous and difficult of all. Knocking on the front door and asking for admittance.
* * * *
Strolling across the street, I noted that the fence was made of brick and about six feet tall. Which was exactly as high as the law allowed. But topping the brick was an additional two feet of iron picket fence, crested with shiny swirls of concertina wire. Hardly more than an endless razor blade, concertina wire would slice through leather gloves, and the hands inside, with frightening ease.
Halogen light clusters, which are very difficult to shoot out, dotted the double fence every eight meters. There was only one gate, big, heavy and made of stainless steel painted a non-descript black. There were no hinges. The massive two-ton slab of metal was lowered and raised from the concrete apron of the driveway by a set of hydraulic motors big enough to lift the fence, much less merely the gate. Of course, there were armed guards.
Standing brazenly in a cute little brick gatehouse whose inner walls were plated with Soviet Army reactive armorw were a man and a woman in baggy uniforms designed to hide the body armor underneath. Openly, the pair carried Ruger .38 service revolvers. Legal, if kind of wimpy. But the arms locker of the gatehouse also held a nasty assortment of military deathdealers, and a large cache of thermite bombs each of which was powerful enough to fry God. Pitbulls watched from stout steel chains, but those were no danger. As long as their leashes held.