by Carl Sargent
“Our pursuer this afternoon can be found in Chelsea.” he said cheerfully. “One Monsignor Giovanni Seratini. a cultural attaché for the Tuscany Republic. Something of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? I was followed by this chappie on the way to pick up you two, and before the day is out an icon of the Holy Roman Church comes waltzing in to say, ‘Rakk off, chaps, or it’s a thousand years of purgatory for you.’ ”
“Eternal damnation in the flaming fires themselves, actually.” Michael said laconically.
“I rather think we should visit Monsignor Seratini and make some enquiries of him.” Geraint said.
“The car had diplomatic plates.” Michael pointed out.
“Oh, yes, well, I wouldn’t have got the woodentops of the Met in anyway. If you want something more complicated than knowing the correct time these days, you do not ask a London copper.” Geraint replied. However, one of the fringe benefits of working with the MoD most days is that one gets access to some very interesting personnel?”
“MoD?” Serrin wasn’t familiar with the British acronym.
“Ministry of Defense.” Geraint explained. “Now, the MoD has a long list of ex-military personnel who work in, shall we say, semi-official security. They won’t do anything that actively messes with officialdom, but they don’t worry too much about what currently passes for the law. Especially when it comes to diplomatic immunity and dastardly foreigners. I know of some ex-SAS men who should be just the ticket. They even have enough sense not to kill our Italian term on sight and to realize that we’d like to talk to him, which is a lot better than you can get from most military lardbrains. Excuse me while I put through an encrypted call from my bedroom phone.”
“Isn’t this a bit premature?” Michael said. “I mean, it could be just coincidence. Not much to base a raid on.”
“I don’t think so. Our friends car was parked outside the building all last night. Harold got him on the security cameras, He’s had the place under surveillance, and then followed me. Dammit, we can’t have one of His Majesty’s ministers being spied on by a representative of a foreign power, can we? Have to put a stop to it. It’s my patriotic duty, Geraint replied in a suitably, not to mention deliberately pompous tone of voice. There’s also an easy way to cover our tracks, as it happens. There’ve been suspicions concerning alleged elements of the Tuscan embassy in London regarding certain art thefts in recent years, Nothing the Met specialists could prove. But the word is that no one would be terribly surprised if some, shall we say, competing criminal element, ahem, took a shot at finding out if there are any tasty Old Masters on the premises. Especially since Seratini has an interesting Interpol file implicating him–nothing proven, again–with certain smuggling operations in the Italian states. I’m sure my associates will be able to dress things up to look as if that’s what will have happened by the time they’re through.
“How long have we got anyway?”
“Nine days.” Michael said. “Didn’t I already say that?”
“Right, then. Would you like to spend a few of them digging on our friend Seratini or shall we take a reasonable chance and go say ‘Howdy’ to him now?” Getting only a nod in reply, Geraint turned and left the room.
“This is going to be interesting.” Michael said after the Welshman had left them to their drinks. “Midnight rambling again.”
“Just like old times.” Serrin grinned. “This time yesterday I was peacefully examining some shellfish down by the rocks. Now it’s magical assaults. Latin warnings, and trolls with big guns in Chelsea.
“It’s all right, lekker.” he added as an aside, hugging his wife to him. “We’ll be fine.” She looked a little anxiously at him, and nestled into his warm side. But for all her apprehension, Kristen could never have survived so many years as a Street kid in Cape Town’s predatory culture without strength and resourcefulness to spare.
“You know, I think it’s about time we got the whole story.” she suddenly demanded of Michael. “Everything you know, from the top.”
“You’re right.” he said. “it’s overdue.”
He began at the beginning, and told them the full works. By the time he was through, Geraint already had the guns.
“The repairmen have gone. I’m expecting half a dozen very large gentlemen with military weapons and attitude to appear in the parking lot in a black van very shortly.” he said as he offered them the latest range of hardware. “Coming?”
“Couldn’t keep us away.” Serrin said cheerfully.
6
Just before three in the morning, the black van rolled quietly into Cheney Walk, and Geraint lowered the window to reassure the resident security patrol. His government ID seemed to pull slightly less weight than the leader of the goons with him, who knew the senior guard on duty.
“We have a little semi-official business with a certain foreign gentleman, Charles.” the man said meaningfully.
“Sure, Jim.” the ork security guard said impassively. “Try not to disturb the neighbors, eh?”
The van rolled another few meters forward, and the rigger parked it a little way down a side street.
“Now, lads, let’s get this straight.” Jim said to emphasize the final briefing. “As little noise as possible and keep the casualties down. Disable at all times. Use the grenades and the tank shots whenever possible, and let’s keep this nice and quick and painless. For us, anyway.”
A dry laugh came from a dark-haired elf toying with an elaborate weapon that appeared to combine a grenade launcher, integrated taser, and trank-shot barrel all in one, and that was before the manufacturers had added stabilizers, IR sights, and whole range of other gizmos. Geraint had been impressed by the size of the elf’s muscles to even carry the thing, though the gyromount harness was obviously helping with that. That he could still move with amazing swiftness when encumbered by the monstrosity was a testimony to his wired reflexes.
It was a well-balanced squad, Michael thought. Two trolls for strength and power, two elves for speed and reaction, a dwarf who appeared to be a combined engineer, quartermaster, and tactician rolled into one, and a single human who looked as big as the trolls and as fast as the elves, not even Counting the chromed rigger. Judging by Serrin’s thoughtful look, Geraint guessed that one of the elves was a magical adept at the very least, probably assensing even as they were approaching the building. The team ordered the nobleman not to come in until they’d disabled anything that moved inside number 16, and he was only too happy to comply. The flag of the Tuscany Republic hung outside, but that wouldn’t do the occupants any good. it wasn’t the official residence of the ambassador Geraint had reassured them that while a raid might cause a slight ripple, it would be nothing he couldn’t handle.
The black-swathed, armored figures slipped out the back of the van and merged effortlessly into the night, leaving the rigger behind to monitor the scene from a dozen different angles and taking downloaded data from the head cameras of two of those approaching the building. Within seconds the familiar tinkle of breaking glass announced that a gas grenade had hit the first floor of the building even as rope lines were being fired to enable the elves to strike at any targets upstairs.
“Good, aren’t they?” Geraint whispered as they watched the monitors’ grainy image of broken windows and black figures darting into the building. “I think we can venture forth ourselves now. Right through the front door. Do you want to wait here?” He looked at Kristen, who shot back a look of disdain.
“Don’t be patronizing.” Serrin admonished him. “She once saved my skin by shooting someone in the head.”
“As you wish.” Geraint said mildly, Climbing out of the van, Like the others, he wore light body armor, and Serrin had already locked a bullet barrier spell around himself and Kristen. They raced around the side street and made for the front entrance, already opened by one of the trolls who had a supercharged taser hefted at the ready.
“Not much resistance.” the troll growled rather disappointedly as they appro
ached Then the sudden chatter of handgun fire came from the basement of the building.
“You spoke too soon.” Geraint said as he made for the inside of the building, gripping his machine pistol more firmly with one hand while fastening his respirator with the other to ward off the effects of the trank gas billowing down the stairs. Passing through the hallway, he dimly took in the large reception room to his right, where the dwarf had three terrified clerks bent over a table while he toyed with the trigger of a Predator and began handcuffing them. Geraint made for the stairs where the elf with the integrated arsenal masquerading as a single weapon stood, casually dumping a grenade down the stairs and standing back to blow open the doors at the bottom. The explosion was less than Geraint anticipated, the door flimsy and easily blown apart, with debris mostly flying into the underground garage rather than back up toward them. By the time he reached the stairs, the elf was already through the shattered doorway, hunting the prey that had escaped and sought to flee by car.
The whir of a taser line hummed through the semi-darkness at the figure racing toward the parked vehicles. Geraint could just see the man duck and the line whiz over his head; the elf cursed and decided to dispense with precise targeting. A second gas grenade went flying into the parking lot, but the man pulled something up around his neck that looked to Geraint like a respirator. Then, from above them, it seemed for a moment as if the entire building shook and reverberated. Geraint had never been in an earthquake, but be imagined this must be what one would feel like. it really did seem like the entire place might fall down around their ears at any moment. He stepped smartly out of the stairwell behind the elf, who let off a burst of gunfire to scare his target, then began to run at him like a cheetah with a jalapeno enema up its tail.
A deep, grinding sound like two rock faces trying to sandpaper each other to dust came from upstairs just as their quarry managed to get into the car, start it up, and steer the vehicle toward the garage doors, with the elf still in hot pursuit. The SAS elf dropped to his knees and launched another grenade shot as the car veered crazily toward the exit. It didn’t look as if the doors would open properly before the car got to them, and even if the elf missed, Geraint judged that the driver would quite possibly get his head ripped off together with the roof of his Westwind.
The cacophony of Sound made the Welshman turn and take the risk of making his way back up the stairs, leaving the fleeing car and its passenger to their elven pursuer. Upstairs, it seemed as if half the roof had collapsed. Plaster, wood, stone, and a once-fine chandelier lay strewn in the hallway. Geraint gripped his gun again and advanced up the stairs. Of the others, save for the dwarf completing his work, there was no sign.
When he got to the landing, the scene was astounding. Every door leading off it was open, and in one bedroom that approached palatial splendor he could see one of the trolls laid out cold with a seeping pool of blood spreading from his back and neck. Incongruously, in the bathroom someone had seemed to take serious objection to avocado green bath fittings by blowing them into ceramic shrapnel, but it was the scene in the large sitting room that caught his eye. The place was filled with broken glass and smashed furnishings, and there were at least three prone bodies in it. Of the ones moving, Serrin and the other elf were engaged in what appeared to be a desperate struggle. Michael was lying slumped in a corner but there was no blood on him and it looked as if he were merely knocked out cold. Kristen had her Predator gripped in both hands, waiting for a clear shot.
Serrin was standing rock still engaged in a magical struggle with a bizarre figure, a human-like form that seemed to be shaped of muddied clay, trying to claw its way toward him and Kristen. The other elf was flinging himself, long serried knife in hand, at a suited, dark-haired man crouched across a table from him, his gaze fixed on the clay figure. Even as Geraint approached, the clay figure managed to force its way to Serrin and strike him with one of its limbs, knocking the elf to the floor. The other elf leapt over the table and buried his knife in his opponent’s right shoulder blade only a hand’s length from his heart. As Kristen and Geraint poured bullets into whatever it was that had struck Serrin senseless, the man screamed and the clay creature wavered and began to topple. As it fell backward, almost as if in slo-mo, its form dissolved into a wave of rolling, liquid clay, pouring into a huge puddle of formless, slimy mud that seeped over the Persian carpet.
A haze of blue static began to shimmer into form in the center of the room. What Geraint had taken for simply a design in the weave of the carpet he now sensed was some kind of magical design, a ritual inscribing, though he knew little of such things. The knife-carrying elf, however, knew a lot more.
“Get the frag out of here! Move!” he screamed, grabbing the inert form of the group’s leader as he retreated. Mercifully, the man seemed only stunned and was already able to move with the elf’s help. Geraint didn’t have to be told twice. He reached down and drew Michael up under the arms, dragging him back onto the landing, leaving the slighter form of Serrin to Kristen. The three of them struggled out with their burdens, the elf going back a second time to pull out his troll comrade as well. The static was forming into what looked like ball lightning and was beginning to spin in a crazily off-kilter orbit around the epicenter of the room. The man in the suit lay groaning, barely conscious, flowers of blood blooming down the front of his once-perfect white shirt. Geraint rushed to help the elf, and they managed to drag the heavy troll out of the room and slam the door shut in time.
The room exploded. Its contents spewed out over the length and breadth of one of the wealthiest, most exclusive, and generally quietest streets in all of London, and the detonation was enough to send them all flying across the landing. Geraint hit the door frame of the bathroom and just missed getting his hands sliced up on the porcelain fragments from the broken toilet bowl. Serrin managed to roll with the punches and came to rest a meter away from him, but not before hitting him hard and winding him. Up the stairs, the dwarf and the second elf were rushing to their aid, and after them the rigger– responding with amazing speed–was there too. Conscious, unconscious, and walking wounded managed to stagger into the street. Lights were beginning to appear from every building around them.
“Anyone dead?” Geraint said desperately.
“No, but that’s a minor sodding miracle.” the elf he had assisted said grimly. “We hadn’t expected so much magic in the place. Serrin and I had our work cut out just to bloody contain it all. Let’s get the frag out of this drekhole and worry about the details later.”
The group’s leader was just about conscious, and the ork from the security patrol was advancing on him with worry etched into his face.
“Frag it all, Jim, I said keep it quiet!” he complained bitterly. “How the frag am I going to explain this?”
“You know the drill.” Jim said, grunting with pain, and handed the ork a grenade.
“Fifty thousand.” the ork said. Geraint handed him a credstick, but the ork refused.
“Not now. The police will be round any minute.” he said. “Tomorrow. Jim’ll bring it round.”
“Fine.” Geraint shrugged, struggling to help everyone into the van. The first curious onlookers were just opening their doors. The ork marched off, summoned his group, and dumped the grenade. He and the other guards reeled away from the anaesthetizing gas and were all slumped on the ground within moments. Sirens were beginning to raise their howl of protest from the surrounding streets. The van’s rear doors shut, and the rigger raced the vehicle like a bat out of the abyss.
“Well, I think we’ve certainly done enough damage to bugger any cover story that we were after their Old Masters.” Geraint complained. “Did we get our man?” he howled above the noise of the accelerating engine.
“Bastard got away.” the elf said impassively.
“Where’s Gungrath?” Geraint went on, trying not to fall out of his seat.
“Took a couple of hostages away in one of the cars.” the elf replied, explaining the
absence of the second troll, who had recovered with astonishing speed. “Look, we’ve got to get to our repairman.”
“You got it.” the rigger yelled.
“There’s something wrong with the van?” Geraint said anxiously.
“Nah, ‘im.” the elf said, jerking a thumb at the troll samurai with blood coating his chest and back. “Stopped some very heavy-duty AP. I’ve patched him, but we’re going to need serious surgery here. And that’ll cost you, term.”
“Whatever it takes.” Geraint agreed.
“Drek it, I’ve got four last-response police APVs in the radar locks and we’re going to be lucky to get out of this.” the rigger said desperately as he cajoled more speed out of the vehicle. “Get out of my way. you dumb hag!” The car in his path narrowly managed to swerve out of the way of the racing van.
The elf grinned at Geraint. “Don’t sweat it, he’s never crashed yet.”
Serrin started from his stupor and looked dumbly around him. “Didn’t quite work out, did it?’ he said stupidly.”
“Not to worry.” Geraint said soothingly “We got some people we can talk to. Unfortunately, our Monsignor Seratini appears to have escaped.”
“Managed to stick a bug tracer on him.” one of the elves said happily. “Roger here can track him down within a hundred klicks. Where’s he now. Rog?”
“Somewhere off the Old Kent Road.” the driver said after a momentary glance at his array of monitoring panels. “Jeez, we’re being hauled in here. They’ve got locks on us and there’s a chopper on the way. Mister. I mean Your Lordship, you’re going to have to do some fast talking pretty soon. I can’t evade this lot. There’s another one every second.”