Embracing the Shadows

by Gavin Green

  The relatively small and empty place was dark; light from an open backroom door allowed me to see basic shapes. One of those basic shapes was a woman, twenty feet from the door. She sat casually in a folding chair next to a card table. Without being able to see much detail, I could still make out that she was long and slender, had her hair pulled into a ponytail, and wore some sort of loose pants and a windbreaker. She was in the process of sharpening a long knife with a whetstone when I came in.

  "Who're you?" I asked, trying to sound polite as I stepped further into the open space. Not sure if I did, though. My social skills were always a bit sketchy.

  Ignoring my question, the woman lazily jabbed her knife toward the door to the back like she didn't give a shit. "They're waiting for you," she said quietly. Then, like I wasn't there anymore, she returned to making her blade razor sharp. What a fucking charmer. If there was an orphanage on fire, she seemed like the type who would've brought marshmallows.

  Viggo and a stranger were in the back room. It was another bare space, but the ceramic floor and wall spigots suggested it used to be a kitchen. Instead of sinks and grills and all that shit, a large and sturdy table sat in the middle of the room. The stranger sat on the far side of it, with Viggo standing next to him. "Good evening, Mr. Brock," Viggo said, making it clear we were using aliases. "This gentleman," he gestured to the stranger, "is Special Agent Jerome Rutherford of the FBI."

  From what I could see of him, Rutherford was an average-sized, dark skinned black guy in his late thirties with a shaved head, thin mustache and round glasses. I thought the normal look on his face would've been one of intensity and intelligence, although at the time he appeared to be a little confused. He eyed me with some apprehension, probably able to discern at least some of the weapons under my coat.

  As I sat across from him and nodded a hello, Viggo continued. "This location is used as an FBI meeting place, where Agent Rutherford and his associates meet with informants. Tonight, however, the roles are reversed. The hidden cameras and listening devices have been removed. Agent Rutherford and I have come to an understanding. Is that not so, Agent?"

  "It is, Mr. Stone," Rutherford replied in a deep bass voice. He was quick to answer; being a new minion had a very strong effect on the guy. Maybe he was used to having control, and being suddenly obedient was something he needed. You know, like how hot-shot lawyers or CEOs go to a dominatrix. That's the best guess I've got; I'm not a damn therapist.

  "And, as we have discussed, my cohort Mr. Brock will be my liaison if I am unavailable," Viggo continued. I was pretty sure that meant if he was down in the sewers. "Mr. Brock," Viggo addressed me, "the good Agent has been informed of our current needs and has been given the necessary data to complete the task given to him." The task was obviously to identify the Quinn terrorists.

  In front of Rutherford was a phone next to a DVD in a case. "Do you have my number, Agent?" I asked.

  "No sir, Mr. Brock. I was told to exchange the number on this new phone with yours. I suggested to Mr. Stone that normal emails aren't secure, so any information should be passed along in person. If you don't mind, I will only use this phone to give time and date to meet here without revealing the address."

  "That sounds good to me." I looked up at Viggo and asked, "Was there anything else, Mr. Stone?"

  "Yes, but only that you should expect to hear from Agent Rutherford by morning with positive results. Plan to meet with him again soon after." He looked down at Rutherford. "Trade numbers and be on your way, Agent."

  After Rutherford and I gave our phones back to each other, he hurried out of the room without another word. I didn't hear him say anything to the woman, either. Two seconds later, the front door opened and shut. Not caring if that woman overheard me, I just had to ask, "Who is that lady out front, sir?"

  He cocked his head slightly to one side. "Surely you are not so naïve or proud to think the only minions that I have acquired are the ones in this city. Runa has served me since the Black Death."

  Okay, I was naïve and proud.

  TRAILER

  Agent Rutherford sent me a text before I went to bed that night. It simply said, 'Task is complete. I have positive results.' I replied for him to meet me again in ten hours. I knew Viggo wanted his culprits ASAP, but I still needed to make a plan with whatever Rutherford found.

  The door to the vacant store was open again, so Rutherford was already there (he'd given a spare key to Viggo, who locked up the night before - the key was then given to me). The Agent seemed calmer and more composed than the night before. Not that I was worried about him; I was just glad I didn't have to deal with a nervous wreck who'd been told too many supernatural secrets.

  There was a file on each of the terrorists. As I suspected, they both had criminal records. Hell, they were both still on parole for the same crime - a murder that was knocked down to 2nd degree manslaughter. Ya gotta love our legal process. Some of their individual priors included weapon possession, assault with a weapon, battery, burglary, and eluding. In most cases, the charges were reduced - some down to misdemeanors - in order to flush the two pieces of shit through the system.

  The guy was Mitchell (Mitch) Whitney, 36, dishonorably discharged from the Army at 19 after one year in. Police knew him to be an outspoken homophobe and white supremacist. The file had a recent line-up photo of Mitch, and a list of his tattoos. Under listed habits, he was suspected of meth use, had a gym membership, and tried getting into a couple local fight teams to get some MMA matches.

  The woman, Maxine (Maxi) Knut, wasn't much better. She and Mitch had the same parole officer four years back; that's how they met and hooked up. Prior to Chuck's violent and racist influence, Maxi was a freelance scumbag. I guess being a diagnosed kleptomaniac with a bipolar disorder and anger issues pretty much set her course. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. She was a sociopath, the same as her boyfriend.

  Mitch and Maxi lived in a trailer home a few miles somewhere beyond the suburbs. Once I got home, I used google maps for the layout of their address and made a plan. The setting was great for me. It was a rural site, so neighbors weren't a problem; straight roads, letting me see any traffic; lots of trees and ground foliage to dampen any noise, not that I wanted to make any. Their place sat alone on a small lawn, with a thick band of woods separating their backyard from some train tracks. About a quarter mile beyond that was an old farm road with no other houses nearby. I planned to go that night.

  Loaded for bear and toting Traeg's loaned toys, I locked the truck and headed into the field. Feeling a little exposed, I hurried between the rows of some low crop to the thin tree line ahead. The train tracks beyond that were recessed about five or six feet. I had cloud cover, so concealment was pretty easy on that dark night. The quiet and the open space behind me reminded me of some military missions that I didn't want to dwell on. I kept moving across the tracks, up the far bank, and into the woods.

  The night-vision goggles really helped me over uneven ground and avoid twigs. There was light ahead, so I kept my head down until I was near their edge of the woods. Finding a good spot, I took my goggles off and looked through the leaves. I was near one back corner of the trailer home. A light was on over the sliding glass door; Mitch was out back, attaching a 20 lb. propane tank to his grill. From inside, I heard the muted noises of music playing and voices talking. I turned on the little sound amp and pointed the hand-held dish at the trailer.

  There was definitely someone else inside with Maxi. Great, they had company. I could tell their guest had a deep male voice, especially compared to Maxi's, but both their words were garbled from the Metallica CD that was playing. Safe in the woods, I waited for a better time to make my move.

  I thought maybe I'd be bringing Viggo three people instead of two. That thought died when the back door slid open and the guest stepped out, followed by Maxi. Nope, definitely not three people - maybe none at all. To be technical, I wouldn't have called the unexpected guest a 'person'. I was pretty sure that Jack Fletcher ha
dn't been human for a very long time.

  ASSAULT

  Damn it, there was a hemo involved. And not just any hemo, either. It made sense that Fletcher was behind the attack on Quinn Industries. Among other radical ideologies, he had a deep-seated hatred for anyplace that created a little pollution. Viggo putting Fletcher in his place at the Gathering probably focused his anger to go after specific targets. I wouldn't have been surprised if he was also responsible for dumping a body on a property that my commander had openly claimed.

  I pointed the dish at them to hear what they were saying. ". . . not to light that thing until after I left," Fletcher said angrily to Mitch. "I've told you I'm not fond of open flames."

  "Yeah, sorry - forgot. But it's just a grill. I - I'm not settin' the woods on fire or nothin'."

  Fletcher clamped a hand around Mitch's neck, lifted him off the ground and tossed him a few feet back onto the lawn. "You're pathetic, Whitney," he stated with a growl while Mitch rubbed his bruised neck. "I know you don't speak out of insolence, so it must be sheer stupidity. A fool and a slut; what a pair I've chosen. You may burn your overpriced meat after I'm gone. Now get up."

  Maxi just stood on the small set of stairs, not moving. I guess to take Fletcher's attention away from Mitch, she meekly said, "We could really use the rest of that money, if it ain't a bother."

  The burly Outsider turned his shaggy head to her. "Ah, so you can buy more steak, marijuana and cheap beer? Never fear, I keep my word. You'll be given the remainder of what I promised soon enough. No matter what, I want you both ready for the next mission in three days. Have I made myself clear?"

  Mitch and Maxi both nodded their heads. Fletcher gave each of them an uncomfortable glare, and then walked out of sight around the far side of the trailer. I couldn't see any cars from my position, but I didn't hear one start up, either. It was surprising that Fletcher was on foot; it would've been a long ass walk to get back to his parks in the city. Not wanting him within earshot, I planned to wait a while longer. That time would also give the couple time to get mellow from pot while their steaks cooked.

  Much sooner than I expected, Mitch said the meat was ready. He apparently liked his steak black and bloody. Maxi came out with a platter, but no lawn chairs or anything. Shit, they were going to eat inside, where cell phones and any weapons were. I didn't want them to have the slight chance of getting to one or the other before I got to them. The time had come.

  I charged in fast from the dark - much faster than any normal guy - and caught them both by surprise. Using the butt of one of my 9mm's, I hammered Mitch in the forehead. As he crumpled and dropped his spatula, I spun to Maxi. She was still holding the platter with two hands, eyes wide and mouth hung open. Without hesitation, I swept her legs. The platter went flying. She landed on her back with a grunt. My silenced gun was in her face half a second later.

  Maxi had a stunned look on her thin face, which was framed by short, greasy brown hair. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her teeth were bad. She might've been cute once, a long time ago. Life hadn't been very kind to her, though. At 32, Maxine Knut looked 40 and going downhill fast. Too damn bad.

  Trying to be professional, I calmly said to her, "Roll onto your stomach, arms out from your sides." When she hesitated, I added, "Don't be stupid, Maxi. This is the easy way."

  As she slowly began to comply and roll onto her side, I heard Mitch groan "God dammit" behind me. He must've had a skull like a fucking Samoan. He was already getting to his hands and knees. I leaned over and hit him one more time at the base of his skull.

  Just as I delivered the knock-out blow, Maxi yelled. I turned back. She'd pull a .22 revolver from the back of her jean shorts and squeezed off two quick rounds before I could kick her arm away. I momentarily ignored the sharp pain in my ribs, using my other leg to kick her in the side of the head with my combat boot. That fucking bitch shot me. I kicked her again. And damn it, the report from that .22 was loud.

  I was stupid, so damn stupid. Between the two, I figured Mitch might've been carrying a pocket revolver. That's why I went for him first. My black shirt was wet on my left side. Half a foot around to my back, it was wet there, too. I was pretty sure the bullet passed between two of my lower ribs.

  Hoping no one heard the shots, I secured Mitch and Maxi with zip ties and gags. Even with me being a little stronger than normal, pulling them both toward the woods made my wound flare with hot pain.

  I stopped, released the limp bodies, and tried to slow my breathing. I shut my eyes, concentrating on closing the entry and exit wounds like Viggo taught me. I stood there on a dark edge of the lawn and felt a last small trickle of blood being forced out as the bullet wound closed. My ribs were still sore, but I felt a hell of a lot better.

  Mitch was bulky with muscle and a bit of a beer gut, so I dragged him through the trees first. After tossing Maxi down next to him near the train tracks, I went back one more time. I wanted to turn off the grill, pick up the platter, pocket the revolver, and generally tidy up in case a neighbor came snooping around. You know, get rid of any suspicious signs. I also planned to run inside the trailer to see if there was anything lying around that might've told me what their "next mission" was.

  I was halfway between the woods and the trailer's small deck when I noticed movement. The shadowed shape of a large animal came through some trees on the far side of the backyard. Large animal - yeah, right; it was the biggest fucking wolf I'd ever seen. It was staring at me with glowing, lava-orange eyes. I'd seen those eyes before. They belonged to the bad-ass hemo who'd left a few minutes before. I was so screwed.

  FIRE

  The wolf sniffed the air and took a few leisurely steps further into the light. With its tongue lolling out, I swear it was smiling at me - a hungry smile. And then, in just a matter of a few seconds, the wolf arched up and silently transformed into a crouching Jack Fletcher. He was still smiling at me.

  No one ever explained to me that a hemo could turn into a giant wolf, so seeing one revert back into human form like a horror movie trick left me flat-footed. The trick was especially good because when Fletcher changed back into normal form, he was wearing clothes. It was his same old outfit of faded black jeans and red flannel shirt, but I wasn't concerned about his lack of wardrobe at the time.

  "I don't want to take an animal shape while I'm tearing you apart, Beck," he said in a Scottish-accented voice full of dark humor. "I want you to hear my laughter while I'm gutting you." He sniffed again and turned his head toward the area of the woods I'd just come from. "It would be inconvenient if you've killed them, but I'd expect no less from you, Beck. You've been a pain my arse nearly from the start." With a wider grin, he began moving forward. "Let's remedy that, shall we?"

  I figured a hemo in wolf form could run me down no matter how fast I ran. So instead, I pulled the Super Shorty from my back holster. Fletcher, near the deck by then, hesitated, but his smile quickly returned. "By all means, shoot me if your hands are steady enough," he said with a growl in the back of his throat. "That worked so well for you last time," he added sarcastically. Yeah, the time I put four rounds in his chest and he barely noticed. Something like that wasn't easily forgotten.

  Thing was, I had no intention of shooting Fletcher again.

  Pivoting the Shorty a little to the left, I put a big slug into the propane tank, up near the top of it. No, it didn't blow up like you'd see in movies, but a thick stream of propane gas blasted out of the ruptures. In less than a second, the flames from the still-lit grill caught the gas. An arc of flame was sucked to the tank below, creating a sustained ten foot pillar of yellow fire roaring out of it.

  Fletcher literally freaked out. He turned back to wolf form and took off like his tail was burning.

  I didn't waste any time, either. Chock full of adrenaline, I was through the dark woods in a few seconds. I tossed Mitch and Maxi's limp bodies down by the train tracks, not caring about their conditions other than not killing them. With the same strength borne of fear, I launched
them up the other embankment. A line of crops probably got fucked up when I dragged the two bodies across the field.

  Paranoid of seeing orange eyes back in the tree line, I threw the couple into the back of the truck and got the hell out of there. Once back into suburbia, I pulled over on the side of a highway to take a few deep breaths and calm down. Downing half my flask helped.

  Hoping Viggo wasn't down below where there wasn't any reception, I called his cell as I drove. He answered on the second ring and, in vague terms, told me to meet him at the condemned apartment building where I brought that Realm security guy.

  Viggo and the minion Runa were waiting for me when I came in the back entrance. He sent her to bring Mitch and Maxi in, and then pointedly looked at my shirt. I told him I was okay and that I wouldn't take anyone for granted again. Then I described the short scene with Fletcher. "I knew your kind didn't like fire, but . . . damn."

  "Those with loose control of their emotions tend to have stronger reactions to it - a survival instinct, if you will. I have had time to temper my own reaction to fire, enough to garner some modest skill with the Gift of Flames. Lighting a fireplace, as I did at the Gathering, is nearly the extent of my ability."

  "It was still pretty impressive, sir. Nearly everyone in the room took two steps back."

  "It had the intended effect," Viggo said to finish the topic. "You have done well by me for your work this evening, Leo. Some time away from duties has been earned; five nights should do. Feel free to take your leave. Runa will assist me with the questioning of Mr. Fletcher's minions."

  "I could help you question them if you'd like, sir," I offered. "I have some experience with interrogation."