The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  Rather anticlimactic, she thought, and had to admit she was actually a little disappointed.

  The sword itself was nothing all that special to look at. It looked like a standard broadsword any number of medieval warriors or knights would have carried during that era. She was about to move in for a closer look when she heard Reggie voice the same question rolling through her mind.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes, Agent Blackburn that is it,” Ambrosius said in a voice filled with reverent awe. “That is Arthur’s sword. That is Excalibur.”

  His tone of almost religious fervor gave Sommers the urge to genuflect, though she did not see what was so special about this sword that would cause such a reaction. To her, the sword Grant held was the same as others she’d seen on display at museums. Heck, this whole thing could be an elaborate hoax, and the sword could be nothing more than a Hollywood prop, for all they knew.

  As she was beginning to second guess this whole scenario, she felt a pressure on her waist like she was being grabbed from behind, followed by a sharp sting along her throat. In stunned disbelief, she saw a hand holding a wicked looking knife materialize as if from thin air.

  “Good work, gentlemen,” said a voice as smooth and calm as the death it promised. “Now hand over Excalibur or your pretty little friend here dies.”

  —Chapter 26

  No one immediately reacted. The Ghost’s unexpected appearance had thrown them all for a loop.

  “What the hell…” Sommers said, instinctively beginning to pull away from the knife at her throat.

  “Easy now, Agent Sommers,” the Ghost said. “I don’t want to kill you…yet. But don’t think for one second I won’t slit your throat and bleed you right here and now.”

  The confidant tone in the man’s voice left no question as to the validity of his threat. She had participated in countless interviews and interrogations during her career, and had absolutely no doubt the man would do exactly as he said if she continued to struggle. His perfect calm left her chilled and she froze in place.

  “Very good, Agent Sommers. I see Agent Blackburn has trained you well.”

  The Ghost had pure malice in his voice when he mentioned Reggie’s name, an obvious hatred and longing for retribution that went deeper than mere rivalry. The way Reggie stared at her captor with obvious hatred spoke of a betrayal both men felt and wanted resolved.

  She shifted her eyes to gauge how the others were handling this new drama. The driver stood motionless, waiting to take his cue from Grant, who had not moved and still clutched Excalibur tightly in his hand. Ambrosius seemed to be in a deep concentration. The professor was scared, as well he should be. It was several long seconds before Reggie finally spoke. “Well, Granderson, I’m glad you showed. To be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  She felt the pressure around her waist increase and the tip of the knife dug into the soft skin of her throat, drawing a small bead of blood as the Ghost tightened his grip in response to Reggie’s taunting words.

  “I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer, Blackburn. I’ve waited a long time for this, and make no mistake this time I will kill you.”

  “Then let’s get this over with,” Reggie said. “Let the others leave, and you and I can settle this alone like we should have done years ago.”

  “Fine with me, but I want the sword first. Once I have possession of Excalibur, your pretty little partner here and everyone else can walk away.”

  She did not believe that for a minute. The Ghost had no intention of letting anyone walk out of here if he could help it.

  “I suggest, Mr. Grant, you do as he says and hand over the sword,” Reggie said.

  The look Grant leveled at Reggie said there was no way that was going to happen. He would sacrifice her and everyone else in this room if it meant keeping Excalibur safe. Grant was a soldier willing to die for his cause. Unfortunately, if they did not come up with a viable plan soon, they might all share that same fate.

  “Look, he said he would let you go if you give him the sword,” Reggie continued.

  “I don’t care what either of you are saying,” Grant said angrily. “Excalibur is going nowhere.”

  “I said give him the sword!” Reggie shouted, lunging over the table at Grant.

  Reggie’s unexpected maneuver provided Sommers the opening she was waiting for. When Reggie moved as if to wrestle Excalibur away from Grant, she heard the Ghost’s sharp intake of surprised breath. His grip around her waist loosened and the knife at her throat dipped.

  She did not hesitate as she fell back onto her self-defense training. As soon as she felt the pressure let up, she brought the heel of her shoe slamming down into the Ghost’s shin with as much force as she could muster. She was rewarded by the man’s grunt of pain. His leg buckled. She drove her elbow into his stomach, forcing a rush of exhaled air, and then dove to the ground as far away from her attacker as she could get. As she hit the floor, she was already reaching into her coat to free her gun.

  At that moment all hell broke loose.

  She scrambled up to one knee, bringing her firearm to bear in hopes of getting off a quick kill shot. Chaos reigned all around her. The Ghost took the same knife he had been holding to her throat, and plunged it up to its glossy black hilt into the chest of the man who had been their driver. The man staggered back a step before toppling over face down nearly on top of her. The impact of the hard floor caused the blade to continue on its deadly path, the bloody tip protruding from his back.

  She tried to scream a warning as the Ghost turned his deadly attention onto Ambrosius. Her voice was lost in a sudden gust of wind which stole the air from her lungs. The strength of the gale picked up the Ghost and flung him over her head and against the far wall. The brackets of one set of fluorescent lights snapped, and they came crashing down on top of Grant, who dropped Excalibur. The other set of lights began to flicker on and off, adding a strobe light effect to the surreal scene.

  Ambrosius held both arms out in front of him with his index fingers and thumbs forming a triangle. He shouted a word she did not comprehend and what looked like a bolt of white lightning shot forth from the triangle. She felt her hair stand up and the air crackled as the bolt of electricity flew past her and exploded against the far wall. The concussive force of the blast knocked her backwards onto the floor as she tried to rise to her feet.

  A gun fired, joining the incessant ringing in her ears. She thought the sound came from the direction where Reggie had been standing. She tried to stand again, but her head was spinning and yellow dots danced before her eyes. Someone grabbed at her arm and she saw Professor Foshay kneeling at her side. He was speaking, but she could not focus on what he was saying and so the words were lost as he helped her back to her feet.

  Ambrosius attempted to close the distance between himself and the Ghost, who was against the far wall where the wind had blown him. Smoke wafted up from a nasty looking burn on his left arm. Reggie had ducked behind the table, using it and the metal box which had contained Excalibur as cover.

  Foshay tried to drag her in the direction of the open door and the relative safety of the hall. Her ears finally popped and her hearing returned in full in one loud confusing wave of sound: Ambrosius chanting in that same strange guttural language, Reggie shouting for the British agent to get out of his way so he could get a clear shot.

  She was shocked to find she still had her own firearm in her hand. Meanwhile, the Ghost produced a handgun of his own from beneath his scorched coat. Sommers pushed Professor Foshay aside and took aim. She was shaking, afraid she might hit Ambrosius by mistake, but if she did nothing, the assassin was going to have a perfect kill shot lined up.

  She squeezed the trigger. The discharge was thunderous. The bullet flew wide, pinging the wall a foot from the Ghost’s head, startling him. Ambrosius abruptly stopped chanting, his concentration apparently disrupted.

  She was hurriedly lining up another shot when the Ghost lived up to his name a
nd vanished.

  “Everyone out now!” Reggie screamed. She had never heard him so close to panic and it frightened her.

  “I’m not leaving without Excalibur!” Instead of panic, there was an unmistakable sound of desperation behind Ambrosius’ British accent.

  Sommers did not know what to do. The last few crazed moments had left her dazed and confused. She heard a painful groaning and saw that Grant was regaining consciousness. He had a nasty gash over his left eye, the blood from it turning his face into a crimson mask.

  The chamber grew eerily silent and calm, like the weather right before a severe thunderstorm unleashed its fury. Sommers trembled from the strain, her adrenaline beginning to subside. She knew from experience that within a few seconds the shaking would stop and she would once again be in control of her senses.

  Then another gun shot rang out, and Reggie disappeared in a red mist.

  “NO!” Sommers screamed. Professor Foshay tackled her to the ground.

  Several more shots fired in rapid succession. Foshay grunted, and she felt a warm dampness soak into her clothes. Ambrosius began chanting again and the air became charged with some unnamed energy. She saw Reggie’s legs sticking out from behind the table. She heard the wind return, growing in intensity. But then it was cut off as yet another shot rang out, this one from a different gun. In his confusion, Grant had fired at Ambrosius, mistaking the British agent for the Ghost.

  Sommers pushed against the floor, trying to shift Foshay’s weight enough so that she could scramble to her feet. The professor grunted again, but at least she knew he was still alive. She was not so sure about Reggie however.

  A final shot sounded as if it came from directly behind her. Grant’s head snapped back as if he had been kicked. She could see a perfect bloody circle between his eyes before he slumped to the ground.

  She had lost her weapon when Foshay tackled her. As she was about to retrieve it, she felt the warm metal of a recently fired gun press into the back of her head.

  “I don’t think that’s a very wise idea, Agent Sommers,” the Ghost said.

  She froze.

  Ambrosius … where’s Ambrosius? He was nowhere within her line of vision.

  “Don’t bother looking for your friend,” the assassin said, as if reading her thoughts. “That fool I just killed took care of him for me. Bad luck for you, as he was the only one who might have had a chance to stop me.”

  Her heart sank down into her gut. Foshay gasped in pain as he tried to roll to a sitting position, but the Ghost kicked him like punting a football. The professor went sprawling, unconscious. Her instinct was to turn and fight back against the Ghost, but she knew she would be dead before she even would have the chance to look him in the eye. She was no good to anyone dead. The only way out of this with even a chance for survival was for her to play it cool.

  “Take the sword,” she said, and hated the fact she sounded as if she was pleading. “We are in no shape to try and stop you. Take Excalibur and go.”

  “Oh, I intend to, but first I have some unfinished personal matters to attend to.”

  Bright white light exploded behind her eyes as the Ghost slammed the grip of his gun into the back of her head. She fell forward onto her hands and knees, not quite losing consciousness, but she was in nowhere near any shape to prevent what happened next.

  The Ghost circled around to where Reggie was still lying on the floor and fired four times at point blank range into his massive chest. She wanted to scream with rage, but her over-taxed body rebelled and all she could manage was a choking sob of despair. Reggie’s body jerked with the impact of each shot. The look of pure unbridled joy on the Ghost’s face was something she knew would haunt her nightmares for the rest of her life.

  When the gruesome execution was finished, the Ghost moved to Grant’s body and retrieved Excalibur. Sommers tried again to rise to her feet, but it was useless. She fell from all fours to a sitting position with her legs splayed out before her. The pounding in her head matched the beating rhythm of her heart.

  She was spent both emotionally and physically, and had nothing left to offer in way of resistance as the Ghost approached. She did not even try to fight as the assassin raised his handgun level with her head. With another vicious grin, he pulled the trigger. She waited for the bullet to rip through her skull, putting her out of her misery, but all she heard was the “click” of an empty clip.

  “I guess it’s your lucky day, Agent Sommers,” was all the Ghost said before striding out of the chamber with Excalibur.

  She sat motionless until the sound of footsteps faded. Then she rolled over and threw up, every painful heave increasing the already overwhelming pounding in her head. She knew there was no way she would be able to get up, so she half-crawled, half-dragged herself to Reggie’s body.

  She knew before she got there he was already dead. When she saw the ruin the assassin’s gun had turned Reggie’s chest into, it became all too real and she could not hold back the tears. Despite the blood, she rested her head on Reggie’s now still chest and sobbed uncontrollably.

  She remained that way until the Boston Police showed up and called for the paramedics.

  —Chapter 27

  As the large British Airways Airbus A321 leveled out after its take off, the Ghost eased back in his seat, relaxing. He could not think of any other moment in his life he felt so content. He knew he was smiling like a school boy holding the hand of his first crush, but he did not care. The events of the last few hours had left him feeling truly happy for the first time in years.

  He leaned his head back onto the soft cushion built into the headrest of his oversized first class seat. Closing his eyes, he called forth the images of Blackburn’s last moments on this earth. The way the man lurched like he was being shocked on an operating table as each bullet pierced the bloated body had been a thing of beauty. It had not quite been the death the assassin had envisioned for the man he hated above all others, but it would suffice. Seeing the light fade from Blackburn’s eyes to the dull emptiness only death brings was satisfying enough.

  Excalibur was his, and at the moment secured safely in the cargo hold. He had not wanted to give the sword up, but there was no way in the post 9/11 era he was going to be allowed to bring a weapon of any kind, much less a broadsword, with him to his seat. But he’d felt so good after killing Blackburn, he had not even minded handing Excalibur over to the airline attendant. It was a good thing he had disposed of his firearm in route to the airport, however.

  All he wanted to do now was return to his club in London and collect his fee from those fools of the Na Ri` Laoch.

  If there were no further delays, he would be landing at Heathrow in seven and a half hours. Things could not have gone smoother.

  His only regret was leaving the female agent alive. It was unlike him to leave loose ends, but this one was minor. He had Excalibur and Blackburn was dead. He had achieved both his objectives when taking this job. It was irrelevant that Agent Sommers had survived.

  He knew the Agency and was confidant that his former employers, for all their blustering, would not come after him. It was not their style. If this Sommers proved to be the meddlesome type, he would eliminate her as well.

  As he enjoyed the mental images, he frowned slightly. It did nag at him that he could not recall seeing the body of the other man. The one who, like himself, had access to some sort of magic. He had seen the strange British agent get shot and fall to the ground, but could not remember noticing him after that.

  When the flight attendant came by and took his drink order, he dismissed the whole notion. He was not going to let such a trivial matter invade his glory of putting an end to one Special Agent Reggie Blackburn.

  As he recalled the blood pouring from the wounds in Blackburn’s chest, he closed his eyes and settled for a nice long nap. He deserved it after a successful and productive day’s work after all.

  The pressurized interior of the private plane did little to help the con
stant throbbing in her head. Amy leaned back into the leather seat, closing her eyes, hoping she would be able to sleep for the hour it would take to return to Washington and her meeting with Director Smith.

  The events of the last 48 hours were a blur. Her only reminders were the continuous ache in her head and the gut-wrenching sense of loss she felt throughout her entire body. The image of Blackburn lying so still on the cold floor of the chamber flashed across her memory and she had to choke down a lump of emotion beginning to build in her throat. She knew if she let one tear slip out the floodgates would open, and she would not be able to stop.

  She remembered waking up in the sterilized room at Massachusetts General Hospital, feeling like she had been run over by a steamroller like Wile E. Coyote in the old Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner cartoons, except that she did not have the ability to peel herself off the ground and re-inflate her body. She still felt flat, as if everything inside her had been forced out, leaving her completely empty or better yet, hollow.

  She’d suffered a mild concussion as a result from being pistol-whipped by the Ghost. Apparently, she was not as hard-headed as everyone believed. She had been out cold for close to 24 hours, with the doctors becoming increasingly concerned, until she showed signs of waking up.

  When she did wake, it was not all that surprising to find she was not alone. Sitting in her private hospital room was Professor Foshay, sporting a few bandages of his own where a bullet had been surgically removed from his right shoulder. Thomas Nicholas, the incognito leader of the Franklin Knights, was also there. Both men had seemed pleased to finally find her coming around, but the feeling was not mutual. Seeing them only made what had happened all too real, and even though it caused her head to hurt so bad she saw white spots dance around her vision, she broke down and cried.

  She appreciated the fact neither had tried to pat her on the back and tell her everything was going to be all right. Instead, the professor had gotten up and closed the door to her room so she could have some privacy to grieve. Though it must have been incredibly awkward for the two men, they sat quietly, waiting for her to regain her composure. Unfortunately, she remembered thinking, that was something she was unsure she would ever be able to do again.