by Voss Foster
Which made complete and total sense, but still made them all complete and total assholes in my book. "We're talking genocide, Gutt. That's what these people want."
"And if Jörmungandr is summoned and then led into the Kingdoms, it will be genocide dozens of times over. This is the type of potential crisis that led to Jörmungandr's sealing in the first place. No one is going to invite it in."
Again, it made sense. So I just had to nod and suffer with the rage and fear that I had no god damn outlet for. "Is there any way to at least get the preets here notified so they can head back without inciting public panic? If they won't take us, they'll at least take them back, right?"
Gutt stared for a second too long before nodding, his face softening just a touch. "Word is going out on magical networks. Some will stay, most will likely return to the Kingdoms. That side of things is handled."
"You should go, too. And Casey. He's a hag."
"He's a quarter hag. Purer Midgard would likely be disinterested in his survival, and the Kingdoms wouldn't risk it regardless. As for me…I have a job to do. The US Government has paid me very well thus far, and I don't intend to spit on all the good they've done for me." He smiled tightly. "What about you? Wishing you were still in counterterrorism?"
That was the real question, wasn't it? Did I want to be back there, doing that job, fighting the good fight and following the path I'd set out for myself years ago?
Or was I really better off here, where the whole FBI gave you sidelong glances on the best days, the public barely wanted to acknowledge your existence, and the media were kept at arm's length…but shit got done? The OPA was the only department actually capable of making a difference right now, today, with this Jörmungandr situation. Not major crimes. Not counterterrorism. Not even a dozen departments all working together.
Just the OPA. Just…us.
Swift saved me from having to answer that on the spot, luckily. "Dash, my office. I need you."
I shrugged to Gutt by way of apology, hopefully, then turned and walked my ass into Swift's office.
"Close the door."
Okay…so it was serious. I clicked the latch closed, then sat down opposite him. "What's going on?"
"We have two days to stop them from summoning the big snake and killing everyone."
"Thanks for clarifying how shitty our situation is."
"They're already under pressure to get this done. I say it's time we apply a little more. And pressure means we contact the media. I want you to do it."
"Me? Why the hell do you want me to do it?"
"You are the closest thing we have to an everyman in this department right now."
I scoffed. "These magical terrorist bastards don't care if I'm an everyman or not. They're probably more upset that regular old humans are still around in the first place."
"That's what I'm counting on." A manic grin flashed across his face. "I want them shaken out of their norm. I want to upset them. I want to rattle them so much with the sheer resilience of a human—someone who survived their poison twice—that maybe they jump the gun. Maybe they make a tiny mistake we can exploit."
Wow…so he was really just a little nuts. "Are you sure that's the plan you want to go with?"
"Hell no, Dash. The plan I want to go with is shooting them all in the heads, but since we don't know where they are, who they are, or what they even look like, this is the plan I'm settling on." He folded his hands on top of his desk like this was a settled matter. "I need you looking good and professional for the press conference. Say whatever you have to to get them off kilter."
"Swift…this might work, big emphasis on might, but if it doesn't…are we prepared for them to attack immediately?"
"Not a bit. But we're as prepared as we're going to be able to get in less than two days. I've already told the New York Field Office to do what they can to clear Times Square. They're posting agents around the area as we speak. If there's a chance to intercept this before the shit hits the fan, we're taking it."
I sighed. "I hate this crap, Swift. I hate all of it."
"It wasn't exactly on my bucket list either. But this is the job, and at least for now, you're still an OPA agent. So I need you looking presentable and not so…frankly, Dash, you look tired."
"I am tired, sir." Exhausted. Fed up. Stressed out. But Swift was currently my department head, and there wasn't anyone I trusted more to get us all through this mess. So it was time to throw a little faith his way. "Nothing a couple pots of coffee won't fix."
He nodded. "That's the spirit. Media folks are already en route to the FBI offices. After all, the public needs to know what's going on."
In spite of the world-crushing weight filling the office and forcing all the air out of the universe, I couldn't help but smile just a touch at that. "Of course they do. That is our policy, right."
Swift grabbed his phone and started scanning across his computer screen. "Whip out some quick talking points and send them my way. Just to make sure the message we're sending is as impolite as I'm aiming for."
Impoliteness seemed the least I owed these terrorists after almost dying twice. "Yes sir."
I stood stiffly in the briefing room, waiting around until everyone settled and we got started. It was me and Swift on one side of the kidney-shaped table, and the mob of journalists on the other side, crowding their way into the briefing room, snapping pictures, bustling microphones, and adjusting bulky cameras that barely fit inside. And just talking way too fucking much for the end of the world.
Swift, also all cleaned up and squared away, stepped in front of me and raised his hand, and by God all of them actually quieted down. Once the room was mostly silent, he began. “I'm special agent Nathanael Swift, head of the Office of Preternatural Affairs. We've called this conference because there’s news that the public needs to hear. Agent Dashiel Rourke from the counterterrorism unit will fill you in on the specifics.”
Showtime. I stepped up, doing my best to ignore the hushed whispers and flashing camera lights. Suffice it to say, Carlson wasn't putting me in front of the cameras to tell the world about the latest terrorism threat all that often. Or ever. I was a little shell-shocked by the whole thing at first, but hopefully it just looked like I was getting everything together…not mildly panicking.
But the words did come eventually. “As you know, New York City has recently been plagued by a series of poison gas attacks. After the third of these attacks, the OPA stepped in to take charge, as it was clear that this was no longer a traditional counterterrorism investigation.” I flitted my eyes down to the quick, chicken-scratch notes we compiled before the conference. “These tragic attacks have continued in spite of our best efforts to stop the parties responsible. As of this morning, we have been made aware of a large-scale poison gas attack planned for Times Square.” Cue more hushed whispers from the crowd. “Local FBI agents and police will be stationed around the area twenty-four-seven in order to prevent such an attack from taking any more innocent lives.”
Now came the part to really tighten the proverbial screws on these sons of bitches. Or at least damn well try to. “I am one of the survivors of these poison gas attacks. I was lucky to have limited enough exposure that I have yet to see any lasting damage. However, I urge everyone to stay away from Times Square until this matter is entirely cleared up and the parties responsible are in custody. Counting myself, only three have survived exposure to the toxin. Seventy-five have died, including one of the perpetrators of the attacks.”
And this was the part that got weird. Like seriously really weird. Like they didn't even really do this shit in the movies because it was so far out there. On the other hand, I couldn't deny that Swift was probably right. If the people trying to summon Jörmungandr were actually listening—which was a coin flip, as far as I was concerned—then why not take the chance to speak directly to them?
“On behalf of the OPA, I would also like to deliver a message to the individuals behind these attacks. We are aware of you
. We have discovered the source of your poison. And we are in contact with experts in the Hidden Kingdoms to prevent as much damage as we possibly can. While we will never restore the innocent lives lost, we will stop you. And we will stop you in time.”
I scanned my eyes across the crowd of reporters, making eye contact with as many people as I could, then nodded. “Thank you for being here today.”
Off I went. Behind me, I heard Swift rattle off some canned reply about not commenting on an ongoing investigation. I knew as well as anyone that he just didn't want to deal with the reporters. We’d given them more information than they normally would have gotten out of the OPA. They could take that and be happy with it, run their stories, get the word out.
I went back to Swift’s office to wait and, within a few minutes, he walked in, shut the door, and sat down. He fixed a hard gaze on me. Then his face immediately softened and, in spite of everything that was going on, he offered me a smile. A big bright smile, just like the one he had when I walked in, a stupid green counterterrorism agent who punched a sorcerer in the face. He was amused, which I guess was a pretty good way to be if you were going to die soon.
“That was good, Dash. On message, convincing, and you probably even managed to get a little bit of empathy from some of those vultures in there.”
“I just went through the notes.”
Swift sighed. “But you read them so well, and you look exactly like the public wants an FBI agent to look."
"Well, you can thank my mother for that. She did all the work."
Swift nodded. “That conference will hit the airwaves and the internet and all that crap soon enough, and then we just hope and pray that something actually comes of this."
"And we stalk Times Square."
"And we stalk Times Square." He folded his hands on top of his desk and looked me square in the eye. "But first things first, I want to get something cleared up here, Dash."
Okay…this was super comforting and not at all worrisome. "Whatever I can help with."
"You and the OPA—where is this heading?"
"What do you mean?"
"You had a four-point-oh GPA in college. In high school, sure, just turn in your work and that's that. But in college? You can't do that and be dumb. You know exactly what I mean, Dash: are you going to stay with us, or are you going to go back to counterterrorism if we all make it out of this intact?"
I guess I didn't get to escape that question, even in the face of the apocalypse. I sat down and stayed silent for a little while, trying to parse through my thoughts before I finally got in and laid it out. "I wanted to be counterterrorism for the FBI. That was my goal. That's why I took national security studies."
"I figured as much."
"I had my reasons for it. Maybe I still do." Counterterrorism agents weren't quite as well-known as the BAU or even some of the Organized Crimes folks, but it came with a certain level of recognition for what you were doing nonetheless. You got to help, and people acknowledged your help.
Unlike the OPA, where everything was in secret.
"Frankly, Swift? I can't think about that right now. Where I'm going to be tomorrow isn't important unless we can actually get to tomorrow. And if we're going to get to tomorrow, then I need to be OPA today." And successfully, I managed to skirt the question again.
Swift nodded thoughtfully. "All right, then. We'll come back to this once we've saved the world." He waved lazily toward the door. "Gutt, Bancroft, and Kimmy have been parsing through the suspect list that Vellius gave us. See if you can't help out there. And tomorrow, we move into Times Square, too. The R and D gals should have had enough time to finish up some more protective gear for us by that point."
"Sounds like a plan."
It didn't take much doing to get the list winnowed down. They'd managed to take off everyone dead or otherwise accounted for before I got there. While I couldn't cut everyone off of that list, I pulled out the suspects that sounded the most likely…and honestly, one of them was a clear frontrunner.
"Selenus of Nedelwald." Gutt clacked away and brought up a photo of a particularly gaunt, pale-skinned ghoul with a shock of white, scraggly hair. "He worked upper level containment for nearly twenty years before retiring, and he hasn't been seen since. Are you sure this is who we're looking for?"
"Nope. But it's the best I've got." Well-placed inquiries around the Kingdoms had produced some useful information. Selenus was bitter and antisocial, and a very strong detractor of letting the Mundane and the Kingdoms cross in the first place. He didn't fit the model for a foreign terrorist that we normally worked from, but he did fit a domestic terrorist, like an abortion clinic bomber. Older, zealotous, well-to-do without being overwhelmingly wealthy. And he lived the same sort of quiet life one would expect from the people who actually went through with these things.
The loudmouths stayed loudmouths. The quiet ones…committed murder.
I scanned back over the list I'd jotted down on my notepad. "If it's not him, my next best bet would be on Gurnilla of Droshheim, but I feel like she's too well-documented, not extreme enough. She's too…boisterous."
After a few moments, Gutt nodded. "Then we begin with Selenus. He's a Class-B. A natural proclivity for decay and destruction magic, even more than you see in most ghouls, but otherwise little of note in regards to his casting."
"Decay. Is that how he managed to get the seals open like that? Vellius said sometimes, they just decay with age. Could he have sped it up?"
"It's possible, though I admit I was never of a high enough rank to be privy to all of this information." Gutt scratched his chin. "But it's not impossible."
Well that was super conclusive. "Okay, we know his past, we know his magic, we have images of him. Is there any way we could track him down specifically?"
"Tracking an individual magical signature is nigh impossible. It's only really done with Class A preternaturals, and then it's only possible because their magic is so massive, and often unique." He popped his massive knuckles one by one, then went back to the keyboard. "However, we'll have everyone keep an eye out for ghouls matching his description."
"Isn't that profiling?"
Gutt shook his head. "Only if you think all ghouls look the same."
I kind of did—melty, rotting flesh people with creepy sunken eyes—but hopefully the more experienced OPA agents weren't quite so clueless when it came to identifying different preets. "Any way to do this better than walking around preet neighborhoods, looking at ghouls?"
"I know you've only been with the OPA a short time, but have a little more faith than that, Dash. Kimmy can get access to the Times Square security cameras. If he's there, we can catch him." He tapped the enter key, finishing whatever he'd been doing, then spun around to face me. "Now come on. We'll all need rest if we're staking them out tomorrow morning."
I nodded, letting the realization sink in: we were doing this. We were going to stake out Times Square and, if all went well, stop some motherfucking terrorists.
"I'll grab the coffee."
Chapter Fifteen
Between police work and FBI work, I'd been on my fair share of stakeout missions and shit like that. But this was something else entirely. Even though we'd announced to the world that we were going to be monitoring Times Square at the press conference, we still had to try and stay as covert as possible. Avoid getting ourselves killed, and avoid as much public panic as was possible.
Which is why I was up high in a building in Times Square and running on next to no sleep and next to all the caffeine at eight in the morning. Swift had put me in with a marksman from the New York field office. It was nice to have backup, and somebody who knew what they were talking about, but I was also under direct, secret orders to only let her have the rifle if I was at least eighty-five percent dead. Swift trusted us more than he trusted…literally anyone else, it seemed. Even me, green as I still was. But the company was good…even if she wasn't OPA. We'd take all the help we could get.
G
utt and Kimmy had also set us up with a whole mess of monitoring equipment. Kimmy had indeed patched into the security camera feeds, most of them with permission. So I had eyes everywhere in the Square. And Gutt had some magic tracking equipment, but dumbed down for my ridiculously Mundane ass. I had a circle pulsing pretty regularly with blue light, like a very slow heartbeat. That was apparently the baseline magical reading for Times Square, and if that changed, we could be in trouble.
But in the end, I was a marksman, and my part of this was pretty dead simple: kill anyone who tries to summon up white poison smoke, and don't die in the process.
The civilian presence was minimal, at least. I guess when the FBI said clear out, you cleared out. Although part of me recognized that we definitely had enough law enforcement here to complete the ritual. They only needed twenty-eight more. I checked my new gear, embroidered through with all kinds of runes to hopefully protect me from the poison gas, if we couldn't stop it.
But still…Casey and the other medics could only save so many of us, if it came down to it. We wouldn't have come at all, wouldn't have given them the ammunition of our bodies to kill, but we knew about the suicide capsules. We knew they were willing to take drastic measures to see their cause put through.
We were here to kill them before they could kill themselves.
Agent Whitehead, the marksman who was on duty with me, spoke softly. So softly I almost didn't hear her asking me a question. “This is a pretty bad situation, isn't it?”
“I'm sure it could be worse somehow.” I flitted my eyes between the window where I had the rifle pointed, the screen of security cams, and Gutt's magical monitor, still pulsing away. I didn't even look back at Whitehead as I spoke. “I don't know how exactly it could be worse, but if you give me enough time I'm sure I could tack something on here.”