by Janene Wood
The return to a meaningful existence was so gradual, he barely noticed it. The constant presence of the Scrappers did nothing at first to temper his recklessness and disregard for his own safety; the only difference being that when he found himself in the thick of things, he had men he trusted fighting by his side. Though not truly suicidal, he had made a conscious decision to leave his fate up to God; he certainly didn’t care one way or the other. He would do what he was paid for, and if he didn't make it through, then so be it. Certainly the Scrappers were convinced he had a death wish, but his fearlessness was infectious and they followed him anyway. Convinced he commanded the devil's own luck, they would have followed him to hell and back. How else to explain their safe return to their bunks each night, when so many others failed to do so?
Who knows how long he might have continued the same way, living day to day, skirmish to skirmish? Only for as long as he was able to dodge the bullets and grenades, that's for certain. The odds against him grew worse every day. If not for the Scrappers, he’d be dead right now, no question. It took time, but they made him reevaluate his very existence, making him realise he not only didn't want to die, he wanted to live.
Strider bestirred himself at last, crushing the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray on his lap and putting it aside. His mind returned unbidden to yesterday's debacle at the warehouse. The fact that the perp responsible for Errol's death was a shadowbinder was not only worrying, it didn't make sense. Not that binders didn't kill – their lack of conscience, particularly with respect to human life, was renowned – but they were solitary creatures for the most part, and paranoid, preferring to keep to themselves and ignore the affairs of men. A binder running any sort of commercial enterprise, let alone a syndicate as far reaching as this one, was unheard of.
Strider couldn’t wait to get his hands on this particular individual. It was going to be a long and extremely unpleasant conversation. For one of them.
Unfortunately, the likelihood of such a conversation taking place was diminishing minute by minute. In between visits to the hospital to check on Jake, who had been admitted for treatment and observation, he spent most of the day at the Bureau of Justice offices, perusing page after page of mugshots in an unsuccessful attempt to identify the silver-haired binder. And all the while, his mind kept going back over every step of the op, trying to determine if he could have done something different, something that might have changed the outcome. Again with no success. Leaving him with one conclusion: he should have called the whole thing off before they left Marseilles.
Strider closed his eyes for the first time in more than 36 hours and considered going to sleep right there on the balcony. It was tempting, but then he pictured how stiff and cold he would be by morning. It was no more than he deserved, but torturing himself wouldn’t bring Errol back. With a sinking heart, he realised he now had the unenviable task of informing Errol’s mother she had lost two sons. God forgive him, but he wished there was a way to avoid that conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time he had faced a grieving family with blood on his hands, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he hoped it was the last.
The sudden ringing of the phone inside the house jolted him back to the present. After a moment’s indecision, he elected to ignore it. Anybody who needed to talk to him could wait until morning when he was certain to be in a less self-pitying frame of mind. And decidedly more sober. But each shrill ring ate away at his resolve until he found himself hurrying inside, unable to break the habit of a lifetime.
“Qu'est-ce-que c'est?” he said brusquely into the phone.
“Strider. It's me,” replied a deep voice in unaccented English. It was Makamu Zende, Seigneur of the Guardians; the last man Strider wanted to speak to right now. That will teach him to answer the damn phone.
“Chief. I take it you've heard then.”
“The BoJ local bureau chief read me in. You should have called me yourself,” said Makamu reproachfully.
“I was hoping to identify the killer first. I thought it might help make amends.” Strider swallowed before confessing, “I fucked up, chief.”
“That’s not my understanding of the situation. From what I heard, you did everything by the book.”
“Exactly which book is that? Because even the Bureau's standards aren't that low.” The ties between the Bureau of Justice and the Brotherhood were close, but it was impossible to avoid the usual inter-agency rivalry. The two organisations might occasionally work cases together, but most BoJ agents had no idea what the Brotherhood of Guardians was really about. It was easier to keep them in ignorance than try to explain things they were better off not knowing and probably wouldn't believe anyway.
“You can tell me all about it when you get back to London. This was your last op, remember?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Strider calmly, “but I was hoping you might reconsider now that I have a killer to hunt.”
“And then what? Even if you manage to find him, there's nothing linking him to the boy's death. The only remaining evidence is circumstantial. Listen to me, Strider, what happened at the warehouse is tragic, but nothing you do will bring him back. You've been reassigned; accept it.”
“Chief, please! Just give me a few weeks,” Strider implored. “If nothing useful turns up, I'll be on the first plane to London.”
There was an almost inaudible sigh on the other end of the phone, followed by a long pause. “Very well. You can have a fortnight,” said Makamu reluctantly. “Don't make me regret this.”
The connection was abruptly broken and Strider stared at the phone thoughtfully. While he was grateful for the brief reprieve, now it had been granted he wasn't at all sure how to proceed. How was he supposed to find one man, who had no desire to be found, in a crowded city of several million people? And if the perp had left the country already? The odds went from impossible to a snowball's chance in hell.
Strider hung up the phone and reclaimed his seat on the balcony. It was tempting to pick up where he'd left off and resume his silent recriminations, but the clock was ticking now and he couldn't afford any further indulgences. It was time to start thinking like a killer.
Time to Regroup
Friday, 9 November, 1979
Jake spent just the one night in hospital. The shrapnel wound in his side was a serious injury, but Guardians healed fast so he was confident he would be fit enough for hunting again within a couple of days.
Strider picked him after lunch and brought him back to the Residence for an informal debriefing. Time was short and they needed to discuss what happened at the warehouse and how best to find Errol's killer. The pain meds gave Jake a slightly dazed aspect, and though he reluctantly admitted to being in a bit of discomfort, he refused to lie down and rest. Instead, he made coffee for them both and they sat at the kitchen table arguing about what went wrong.
“I know you want to take the blame, Strider, but from where I'm standing, it wasn't your fault. Errol might have lacked experience but he knew the stakes and understood what he was getting into. He could have opted out but chose not to. That's on him, not you.”
“But I guilted him into going through with it,” insisted Strider.
Jake shook his head in disagreement. “I really doubt that's true, Marc. Don't forget I know you. I know how much you've lost in the last few years and I know you'd never unreasonably risk some kid you care about. Ergo, the risk wasn't unreasonable.”
Strider closed his eyes, unable to refute Jake's logic but unwilling to agree with it. He had spoken to Errol's mother earlier in the day and couldn't get the sound of her crying out of his head. How does a person go on after losing a husband and both her children? No one should have to endure that sort of pain. He was well accustomed to grief himself, but losing a parent and a lover, no matter how deeply you cared for them, didn't come close to the devastation of losing a child you had borne and nurtured for their entire life. He didn't need to have children of his own to imagine the depth of Errol's mother anguish.
And it was his fault, at least in part, no matter what Jake or Makamu said.
The slam of the front door and the sound of voices coming up the stairs saved him the necessity of a response. A young female voice called out, “We’re back!”
“In here,” called Strider. A few moments later, two young women appeared in the doorway.
“God, it's cold out there,” said Skye Starr, a petite young woman with leaf-green eyes. She slipped out of her over-sized coat and threw it carelessly onto the back of a chair.
In an ordinary kitchen, four adult bodies might have been a crowd, particularly when two of them were tall, well-built men, but this house had its genesis in another century and the room could have comfortably fitted another dozen people. The entire house had the same generous proportions, with high ceilings, wide picture windows and vast expanses predominating. It was three stories, ten bedrooms and five bathrooms, and fitted out with all modern conveniences. All the Brotherhood's accommodations were maintained to the same high standard, and while they would never grace the pages of House and Garden, they contained all the creature comforts. Residences like this one were the closest most Guardians ever came to experiencing “home”.
Guardians weren't the only residents, however, and Strider's team was not the only Alliance team to base their operations at this particular residence. A total of eight people currently lived here, only half of whom were Guardians. The remainder were from a little-known sector of society, known as the Alete, who were born with, or had acquired, the ability to see demons and slay them. The Alete and the Brotherhood of Guardians were members of an ancient coalition, formed with the sole purpose of hunting and destroying demons and shadowbinders.
Each Alliance team consisted of two dyads – a dyad being a partnership of an Alete and a Guardian, each of whose abilities and strengths complemented the other's. They lived and worked together, acting on information gleaned from the news media or from tips provided by clergy, the rare, well-informed law enforcement official, the Bureau of Justice and most particularly, rival binders, who lived in a constant state of open warfare with their counterparts.
There were several residences in Paris, and most large cities in Europe hosted at least one Alliance team. It was brutal work, both physically and emotionally, and one's team-mates quickly became one's family. They relied on one another totally.
“Oh, good, you’re both here,” said Myrren Fox, the remaining member of Strider's team. Of above average height, she had olive skin and thick, brown hair that fell down her back in a confusion of tight corkscrews.
“Well, that's another day of my life I'll never see again,” lamented Skye. Skye was Jake's Alete, while Myrren was partnered with Strider. “My feet are bloody killing me,” she groaned as she bent down to untie her silver-studded combat boots. Kicking them into the hall, she removed her beanie to reveal short blonde hair streaked through with green. Her peaches-and-cream complexion contrasted starkly with her black, polo-neck sweater.
It was hard to believe the two women were cousins, albeit distant ones; they looked nothing alike and their personalities were poles apart. They shared a few common traits: they were both attractive girls in their mid-twenties, they both did the same demanding job with a frightening degree of intensity, and they both carried themselves with an ageless confidence that had been instilled into them from birth. The girls hadn't been needed for the Marseilles job, since Strider had believed only humans were involved.
“So did you learn anything?” demanded Strider without preamble.
Skye shook her head. “We've been over every inch of this crappy city and talked to every non-hostile binder we could find, but none of them admitted to knowing the man you described.”
Strider frowned. “You think they were being straight with you?”
Skye shrugged. “When have you ever known a binder to tell the whole truth? Overall, I’d say they were being truthful, since it's not in their best interest to hold out on us. After all, if we eliminate the Russian, it's one less rival they have to contend with.”
“They didn't give you too much of a hard time?” Strider's guilt over what happened to Errol had amplified his usual concern for his team's safety and he didn't expect the feeling to go away any time soon.
“They were charming as ever, but knew better than to raz us too much,” said Myrren.
“Pity,” said Jake. “We could have gone back tonight and taught them some manners.”
“I'm pretty sure that's what they were trying to avoid,” retorted Skye.
“Are you sure this creep we're looking for is a binder?” asked Myrren. “He doesn't really fit the profile, does he? I mean, the way you described him – business suit, no ink or metal – he sounds way too conservative. And have you ever heard of a binder resorting to a gun?”
“This case is somewhat unusual,” Strider reminded her. “The man’s in business, so I can only assume he's trying to blend in with the mainstream. Besides, couldn’t his appearance be an illusion?”
Myrren looked doubtful. “He'd have to be a pretty powerful witch to keep it in place for any length of time, and if he's that good, why didn't he just kill you in some way that didn’t result in the destruction of the entire building? Why burn the place down and nearly kill himself in the process?”
“So you think conjuring the fire might just have been a trick that got away from him?” That possibility hadn't occurred to him before now, but he hadn't exactly been thinking straight since seeing Errol's ruined face.
“Someone had to have taught him the little he knows, so he's obviously got connections, but it doesn't necessarily follow that he's a shadowbinder himself,” said Myrren.
“What do you reckon, Jake?” asked Strider. He realised suddenly that he would soon have to do without his friend's advice. That would be tough; they’d been together since the first days of the Scrappers, making the arduous transition from mercenary to Guardian together, including twelve months of grueling training and initiation rites. They had lived and worked together for the last three years, strengthening their already iron-clad bond into a connection that neither time nor distance could erode.
Jake shrugged. “I think Myrren makes a compelling argument.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Skye. “If we're agreed he's probably not a binder, then who is he? What's our next step? We can't give up now; Errol deserves justice.”
“We're not giving up,” said Strider decisively, “but we are going to have to do some old fashioned detective work, starting with those vehicle registrations we took down on the night of the fire. I’ll get the Bureau to run them for us and we'll take it from there.”
There was a general murmur of consensus and Strider nodded in approval. While the chain of command was inviolate – meaning his opinion was the only one that ultimately mattered – he preferred it when they all agreed. And while disappointed that Myrren and Skye didn't bring back any useful intel, he was still hoping to get what he needed from some other source. He had never led an investigation of this kind before, but suspected it was just a matter of logic and perseverance. His team was smart, motivated and well-trained; if anyone could find a needle in this particular haystack, they could. He looked at each of them in turn and knew they would all do their best to get the job done.
“Okay,” he announced, “enough work talk. Who wants a drink? I think we deserve one after the last few days.” He retrieved a bottle of vodka from the communal liquor supply before going in search of glasses.
The bar was always kept well stocked. After a grueling hunt, a shot or two was often the only thing that kept the nightmares at bay.
36 hours later, they finally received the call from the Bureau they had been waiting for. The green Renault, last spotted outside the riverside warehouse, was registered to Paul Durn, a 23-year-old student from Nanterre, in the western suburbs of Paris.
The owner of the silver BMW was still a mystery. It was registered to a German company, which was in turn owned by a
Liechtenstein-registered entity called Lupinum Enterprises. Unfortunately, that's all they knew. The Liechtenstein authorities weren’t known for their cooperation with law enforcement so the BoJ was unable to learn anything further. It would take time to unearth the names of the individual directors. Which brought them back to Paul Durn.
Strider and Jake headed out early, with a reasonable expectation of finding Durn at home; if he was like most college students, he would still be in bed, sleeping off the night before. The address was a group house near the university and Durn's green Renault was parked out front. One of his house-mate's answered the door and let them in, no questions asked. The place was a hovel and smelled like dirty socks.
They found Durn in the kitchen, smoking a joint. Surprisingly, it took very little encouragement to get him to answer their questions. He admitted to being an acquaintance of Halil, the Russian's right-hand man, and that he was present in the warehouse on the night in question, helping to repackage the uncut heroin for transport to London. He claimed he didn't know anything more about the man in charge than his name: John Smith. An obvious alias.
When questioned about Errol's death, Durn said it happened really fast. He wasn't sure, but he thought the other youth had tried to secrete a baggie of drugs under his shirt while “Smith” was occupied. The Russian saw him, lost his temper and beat him violently before shooting him. Not wanting to end up the same way, Durn didn't make a fuss or ask any questions, fleeing the scene as soon as the job was finished.
Unfortunately, Strider believed him. Or at least he believed Durn was telling the truth as far as he knew it, which wasn't quite the same thing. Either way, it meant they were no closer to finding Errol's killer than they had been three days ago.
Marking Time