“I see what you mean. Reluctance could ensue.”
“You have a gift for understatement, Dr. Monq. I want you to come up with something that will prevent a repeat.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“And keep me up on the progress.”
Monq nodded and left. He could see that Glen was on the verge of collapse and didn’t think it would be a good time to protest more work. But the truth was that he was busy overseeing the outfitting of the entire A/C system for emergency delivery of the Equalizer in the event the facility should be breached by extra-dimensional assassins.
Every floor was being equipped with a yellow emergency button behind a glass case that would release the chemical into the air and set off an alarm. Since Monq’s to-do list was perpetually long and growing, he had to make choices. At the moment, implementing the security measure was his top priority.
CHAPTER 11
Stagsnare Dimension
Archer was aware that Number Seventeen had volunteered for reeducation and Rothesay was giddy about putting the successful candidate through his process, which would turn an average man into an assassin without conscience, who would react to any order without question or delay. Rothesay used a combination of hypnosis, drugs, sleep deprivation, and drill.
By the time Number Seventeen left in the transport, the person he had been was gone as if he’d never existed. It was a premature death. His body was still walking around, but his point of view had been shoved aside and replaced by the most potent sociopathy, carefully calculated to be just the right stuff for a stone cold killer.
The ruthless travesty of the whole thing made Archer ask himself for the thousandth time if it wouldn’t be better to be decent people who were oppressed than to be the oppressors who came to power by murder and held that power with a soulless philosophy.
Jaik, his lead lab assistant, was talking. It pulled Archer out of the dark introspection.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“I said, ‘What are you doing with those mice? What’s that you’re injecting them with?’”
“Oh. It’s just a little hobby project. Nothing I’m ready to divulge. I want to get a little further along with it. If it works out, it may be a paper.”
That satisfied Jaik, who turned away with a head nod, and went back to his own work.
Rothesay had increased the number scheduled for the third attempt from twelve to twenty. So Number Seventeen arrived in Loti Dimension with a biolocator programmed with twenty life signatures, each matching one of the proposed members of the second mission, and orders to kill. The third assassination team’s departure would initiate shortly after his return with a report of one hundred percent success. Nothing less would do.
The transport deposited him on the edge of an aromatic landfill near London, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t sightseeing or on vacation. Seventeen smiled to himself when he checked his device and saw that thirteen of the twenty on his list were living in the U.K.
No feelings were associated with tracking the targets. Every synapse in his brain that fired a compunction response to harming others had been disabled. Thanks to Rothesay’s sophisticated techniques, Number Seventeen was a killing machine who responded to command exactly the way a battery operated toy responds to its remote signal.
There was no social imprint left to interfere with a directive, no individuality, no imprint of social mores or morality. The universe had been distilled down to nothing more than a goal that was perverse, to be achieved by an abomination that was evil.
The closest one of the targets was living nearby in Threehalfpenny Wood. He would start there.
Over the following two weeks, there was a cluster of unexplained murders in the United Kingdom. The Ministry of Defense Police took over investigation because no two of the crimes occurred in the same local enforcement area. They were widespread and appeared to be totally unrelated. None of the victims knew each other and no common link was found other than the fact that they were all dispatched by identical method.
The thirteen men had all been sleeping in their own beds. The perpetrator had placed a pillow over the face of each before firing multiple shots to the head. In one case the victim lived alone. In another the victim’s young wife had been out late at a bachelorette party and discovered the body when she returned home. In five cases, the victim’s wife or girlfriend never heard anything and awakened to the sight of a grisly and violent death. It was a safe assumption that the gun had a sophisticated form of silencer because even heavy sleepers wouldn’t sleep through multiple gunshots otherwise.
The other six were sleeping with partners who had been lighter sleepers. Unfortunately for them, the killer was set against leaving witnesses.
All told, the U.K. damage was twenty one dead and nineteen orphaned.
It took the Ministry some time, sending evidence to various labs and experts, to confirm for certain that the bullets were not a match for any that had been manufactured. Anywhere. While that might conceivably be explained away, as a personal project of a gun enthusiast, what couldn’t be explained was the alloy used in the composition. One of the metals simply didn’t exist in the Catalog of Elements. That was a fact that wouldn’t be reported.
The two investigators who had been assigned the case were having coffee in a London office when a Scotland Yard detective knocked on the open door jamb.
“I believe you will be interested in this.”
He placed a report between them. During the past week, when the rampage had stopped in the U.K., there had been six other identical events elsewhere. One in Sweden, one in Morocco, one in Canada, and three in the United States. It was a pattern, but it wasn’t like any serial killing pattern in record.
Nineteen of the twenty names on the list were eliminated by the alien assassin. The twentieth had already expired, verified in person by Number Seventeen, who took a photo of the mausoleum drawer plaque where the remains were entombed.
It was a successful mission by any standard. In addition to terminating all living targets, he had taken a biolocator reading on Elora Laiken every day for twenty-six days in a row. Her location had not changed.
CHAPTER 12
As much as the people who were closest to Storm hated to admit it, after two weeks, they had to get back to work and leave the search in the hands of species who could actually, well, search. They had obligations to other personnel and to The Order itself. So, much as Ram, Elora, and Glen hated to continue going through the motions of life without Storm, there really wasn’t a choice.
The Hunter Division stationed at Jefferson Unit was transferred leaving a skeleton crew that basically consisted of Z Team, that was if you were counting active duty knights. Ram and Elora were on the premises, but retired knights weren’t officially counted as part of an installation’s defense system.
Fennimore was in residence because he was using accrued vacation time to delay separation from Elsbeth. Elora speculated to Ram that they were probably trying to decide whether or not they could live without each other and whether or not they wanted to try.
Dozens of support people were transferred, farmed out to other facilities because they simply weren’t going to need as many staff, particularly medical.
By the time the dust settled, what was left was minimal staff for the infirmary, Research, meaning Monq and his research team and lab technicians, enough kitchen corps to cover the reduced numbers, Maintenance which was janitorial and housekeeping, and, of course, the trainees and their instructors.
A system of drills aimed at the trainees had been devised and implemented because the kids were the biggest concern. Second sons had been the focus of The Order’s work for centuries and that probably wasn’t going to change until the last vampire was either dead or reintroduced to life as a human. Even though the safety of the boys was priority, no one was worried. The chances of J.U. being attacked were miniscule. It was just a matter of better safe than sorry.
The first day after the
exodus, Elora went down to breakfast with Helm, planning to meet Ram after his shift in the search war room. She found it a little sad to see the once-bustling Hub practically deserted. It was even echoing.
Like Ram knew what she was thinking, he said, “Thin’s change. Right?” She nodded, grudgingly. “Acceptin’ that is part of maturity.”
“Okay. I was with you right up until the part where you started talking about maturity.”
He grinned. “Suggestin’ I’m no’ full grown, are ye?”
She laughed. “You are not luring me into a sex-laden dialogue until I’ve had my morning chocolate.”
“Aye. Cocoa is a grand start to a tête-à-tête.”
A shadow came over her face. “There are some changes I won’t accept.”
Ram knew she was talking about the fact that Storm was still missing. “Oh, aye, my girl. Some changes we will never be acceptin’.”
CHAPTER 13
When Storm had helped Rammel study to go undercover as a bartender at Notte Fuoco in New York, he’d thought he hadn’t paid much attention, but he’d picked up more than he thought. It only took one day to get the hang of running Hal’s place the way he liked it. Hal must have had his share of truly lousy employees because he wouldn’t stop telling Storm that he was lucky to have owned the door he walked through.
The first night Storm took his tips and set them next to the cash register for Hal.
“Hey, what’s this?”
“I think it’s, um, tips.”
“Well, then, this is yours, not mine.”
When Storm hesitated, Hal said, “That advance I gave you was against pay. Not tips.”
His tip money wasn’t going to pave the way to a penthouse, but it enabled him to get some sweats, a jacket, running shoes. Stuff like that.
So life took on a routine of working and waiting to be found. Storm took orders, made drinks, washed glasses, carried stock, emptied trash, swept, mopped, wiped down the bar, washed and dried the bar linens and quickly learned to feel at home in a white apron that tied around his waist. And he was glad for anything that could distract his mind from missing home, even if for just a few minutes at a time.
The worst time was crawling into bed alone at night. He missed Litha like a physical ache. Knowing that she was just as worried and scared, well, that didn’t help at all. He knew she’d be tearing up the passes looking for him. He also knew that Rosie was probably continuing to grow like a weed, even though he held on to the irrational hope that he’d return to find everything the same.
The only thing he could think of to do, that might help, was to stay visible as much as he could. His gut instinct told him that he’d be easier to find if he was out in the open. He had no reason to believe that was true, but if there was a chance…
He hoped like Hades that sooner or later someone would look for him in the right place.
So, when he wasn't working or sleeping, he walked around the city or took a trolley to Golden Gate Park where he divided his time between reading, and running to keep in shape. The incline of the hills made a great workout and he needed the burn.
The books Hal had left behind in the studio apartment, when he’d lived there himself, were not what Storm would have expected. Dickens, Descartes, Spinoza, James Hilton, Bram Stoker. An eclectic mix revealed a guy who was deeper and more complicated than his manner suggested, giving support to the adage that appearances can be deceiving.
After Storm closed up at night, he took a shower just to wash off the energy of the lost souls who made up the Halcyon patronage. Then, before going to bed, he would spend some time at the dinette writing out his story for Hal in longhand. He left the document under his pillow during the day thinking that, if he disappeared, it would be found. Hopefully by Hal. If it was the only thing the guy wanted, it was the least Storm could do in return for the extraordinary kindness and generosity that had been extended to him.
One night, customers long gone, Storm had closed up and polished off the checklist except for one last thing – taking out the trash.
Opening the alley door, the first thing he noticed was that a night fog had come rolling off the bay. The mists hovered and swirled and gave the illusion of life to the night air. The second thing he noticed was a pricking of his senses that sent him straight into high alert. He braced for the adrenalin rush that always followed.
There was no mistaking the reaction. He’d experienced it too many times not to know exactly what it meant. Vampire.
In the dim light coming from the street at the end of the alley, a dark figure was pressing a woman against a dirty wall. If Storm had been anybody else, he might have taken the two for lovers, but that scene was disturbingly familiar and he knew what he was looking at. Predator and prey.
He was on the verge of choosing a course of action when movement at the other end of the alley drew his attention.
Walking abreast, four figures emerged from the fog. To Storm, possibly because he was on alert, they seemed to be moving in slow motion, the athletic grace of dancers coupled with the lethal purpose of predatory machines. Knights. It was beautiful. Watching them silently stalk toward him, he felt a wave of pride wash over him. It stood his follicles on end and set his molecules vibrating, but he didn't have time to indulge in emotion.
The vampire raised his head and looked to his left. When he saw the glory of Black Swan knights coming for him looking like they were empowered with the authority and righteousness of the gods, he dropped his victim, intending to flee the alley.
As fortune would have it, someone had broken down a wood pallet and left it in the dumpster. Storm reached over and snapped off a dagger-sized shard of the splintered wood. When the vamp turned to run away from the knights, he ran straight into the practiced aim of a vampire slayer who was far, far from home. With shock evident in his colorless eyes, he looked down at the blunt end of a wooden shiv sticking out of his chest.
Storm locked gazes with the vamp as he died, and muttered, "I know it's not your fault. But it's not hers either. This is the only kind of cure I've got with me. Better luck in your next life." And with that, the body crumpled to the concrete.
After glancing at the knights, he walked across the alley and placed two fingers against the woman's neck. When they reached him, Storm looked up into their curious faces and shook his head to indicate that she was past saving. He stood and looked at the four, one by one, then said, "Gentlemen. If you'll excuse me."
The stunned foursome exchanged looks and, before Storm disappeared into the bar, one of them managed to say, "Hold on, brother. We've got a couple of questions."
Storm stopped and seemed to be considering. After a few beats, he opened the alley door and held it ajar.
"It's a long story. I'll buy you a drink if you want."
One of the knights swept his gaze over his three teammates as he took out an intelliphone and touched a virtual button on the screen. "Go ahead. I'll call for cleanup. If he’s buying, I’ll take a Jack Neat."
CHAPTER 14
Halcyon Dimension.
Angel loved racing season. He could have used a bookie or found a convenient off-track betting establishment behind a Chinese apothecary, but then he’d be cheating himself out of the full-bodied experience.
Yes. He liked to gamble on horses, but he also liked the atmosphere of the track: sounds, sights, and even smells.
So four times a week he took his Jaguar F-Type for a twenty minute drive on 80, across the bay, past Berkeley to Golden Gate Fields. He had suffered a streak of losses and was in big to his “financier”, but if that thought tried to nag at him, he pushed it down so it wouldn’t interfere with his enjoyment of the day or his ability to choose the lucky pony.
At the end of the day, he got in his beautiful car and drove west. Unlike the heady anticipation of going to the races, the kind that he had experienced earlier in the day, there was nothing to block out personal confrontation with the situation. He was worse off. Not better. He knew that, soone
r or later, he was going to have to be a big boy and face it.
He parked the Jag in his secure garage space. That security cost him almost as much as he paid for his apartment, but it was worth it. Everything about his life was eclectic. He lived in a high rise with a beautiful view and it would have been Trump expensive if it wasn’t for the fact that it was located in a questionable neighborhood.
Angel could have gone home for a drink alone, but decided on going to his neighborhood bar to drink alone there. It was just getting dark, early to be drinking, especially without dinner, but whatever. Walking up the block he noticed that the neon sign was winking.
Somebody was sitting at his table. Well, maybe it didn’t have his name engraved on a reserved sign, but it was where he liked to sit. So he took one of those corner booths that was designed for five people. By the time he had slid over the red leather, the bar owner was standing there ready to take his order.
“Hey, Hal.”
“Evening, Mr. Storm. What’ll it be?”
“Usual.”
“You got it.”
As soon as Hal moved away, Angel took out a little black cigar and lit it with an old-fashioned fluid lighter. He liked the look and feel of a real lighter and even enjoyed the smell of the chemical catching flame. There weren’t a lot of bars left in San Francisco that allowed smoking. Pussies. As he pulled smoke into his mouth, he thanked the gods that Halcyon wasn’t one of those.
Hal set Angel’s drink in front of him. “Start a tab?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
An hour later, Angel put out the little black smoke, settled up with cash and left Hal’s bar. Maybe he’d go home and watch reruns on the Jukebox network. Why not? Millions of ordinary people obviously loved to watch TV about guys like him who bottomed out in deadly serious shit with seriously deadly bad guys. Maybe he’d turn that around and watch optimistic shows about funny and functional families on Juke.
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