The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  It did not take long after that for The End to break out into total chaos.

  The Ghost moved to his desk and the awaiting bottle of poisoned champagne which had been chilling in the bottle of ice.

  “Before we make our transaction, I hope you forgive me this one indulgence,” he said, grabbing the bottle. “This is the finest champagne in my private stock. Shall we toast to all of our good fortunes as we close this mutually lucrative deal?”

  He popped the cork and quickly filled the four glasses before his guests had time to disagree, maintaining a friendly and hospitable smile the entire time.

  The three members of the Na Ri’ Laoch accepted their flutes of champagne without complaint. He could tell O’Connor was not happy about the delay, and the man’s overly cautious nature was starting to grate on his nerves.

  In a show of confidence the Ghost brought his own glass to his mouth and feigned taking a sip. He was careful not to allow any of the sparkling liquid to come into contact with his lips as it would have meant his own certain death. To the casual observer, it would have appeared he had imbibed.

  He watched with satisfaction as two of the Na Ri’ Laoch drank greedily; downing their glasses in long gulps. O’Connor, however, set his glass down on the black lacquer end-table without so much as a sip. The Ghost knew the man was going to be trouble. He was going to have to end this charade as quickly as possible.

  “The sword if you please,” O’Connor said.

  The Ghost thought he picked up on a threat hidden in the man’s heavily accented words. Any pretense of this being a friendly business meeting was now gone.

  “Of course,” he answered. He set his glass down and moved behind his desk, removing a print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night and inputting the numerical code to open his wall-safe.

  As he was lifting the polished chrome handle, the two Na Ri` Laoch who had drunk the poisoned champagne begin coughing. A knowing smile worked its way across his face.

  With his back still to the terrorists, he opened the safe, reached his left hand in, and removed Excalibur. The famed blade caught the light and glinted magnificently like a precious gem. He heard a sharp intake of breath from O’Connor, and a rustling of fabric as the man stood up. The next thing he heard was the satisfactory sound of choking and wheezing as two of the terrorists fell victim to the poison.

  “Colin,” one choked out, before collapsing to the floor.

  “What have you done!” O’Connor shouted.

  Using the momentary confusion to hide his movements, the Ghost reached into the safe with his right hand and seized his Nighthawk Custom 10-8 handgun. Then he spun around to face his adversaries.

  O’Connor’s two cronies were facedown on the floor, white froth seeping out of their mouths. But the terrorist leader was better prepared than the Ghost had given the man credit for.

  Though shocked at the sudden deaths of his compatriots, O’Connor had pulled out a handgun of his own “What have you done?” he asked again, this time in a hushed whisper.

  “I’ve evened the odds a bit,” the Ghost replied, bringing his own gun to bear.

  O’Connor never wavered, and though he hated to admit it, he had a grudging respect for the man. Of course, it would not stay his hand from blowing the terrorist’s brains all over the office walls.

  “Easy,” O’Connor said. “All I want is the sword. We both can still walk away from this with what we want.”

  “Really? Because what I want is to put a bullet between your eyes.”

  Like a gunfight at high noon, they faced each other down. If a tumbleweed had blown between them, the scene would have been complete.

  “I see.” O’Connor’s shoulders sagged in what appeared to be an acceptance of his fate.

  Instead, for the first time in his illustrious career, the Ghost was caught off guard as O’Connor looked up and fired.

  A sharp and searing pain ripped through his left shoulder, causing him to release his grip on Excalibur. The sword landed silently on the carpet. The impact of the bullet knocked him backwards, off balance. He returned fire, but his shot went wide and he fell to the floor.

  O’Connor dove for the only cover available, behind the leather sofa. The Ghost fired a couple of shots in that direction to keep O’Connor pinned down so he could move into a better position for a kill.

  The pain in his shoulder was like fire burning all the way down his arm. He could not believe O’Connor had gotten the drop on him. This fact only served to infuriate him further, and in a blind rage he stood up and slowly moved around his desk until he stood in front of the tinted windows.

  “Come out, coward,” he said.

  Surprisingly, O’Connor took the bait, and jumped up from behind the couch. The man looked like one of those ridiculous targets found at a shooting gallery.

  They fired simultaneously. The Ghost’s shot was truer, and he saw blood spatter hit the wall behind the terrorist. He thought he hit O’Connor in the midsection, which meant it might not be a killing shot.

  O’Connor’s blast whizzed by the Ghost’s head, shattering the window. Glass landed among the dancers below. That had been too close for comfort and he decided discretion was the better part of valor. Activating the magic of his bracelet, he vanished.

  He watched O’Connor stagger over to the broken window. He wanted to shoot the man and end this whole disaster, but the loss of blood was taking its toll. He could not maintain the necessary level of concentration to keep the magic camouflage in place and still aim.

  Instead, he slipped the pistol into his pocket, then reached into his jacket and grasped the ivory handled straight razor he kept for the more personal touch.

  He was getting light headed. If he did not act soon, he might pass out, which would seal his own fate.

  With that in mind, despite the room starting to spin, he moved in for the kill.

  The frightened clubbers, once they had figured out the bullets and broken glass were not part of the evening’s festivities, stampeded like a herd of cattle. Sommers found herself in danger of being knocked down and trampled by the frenzied mob as they all fled as one in a panic to the nearest exit.

  She pulled out her own weapon, and when the clubbers saw this they gave her a wide berth, flowing around her like a strong current around a protruding rock. In seconds, she and Ambrosius were alone on the dance floor, bathed in the swirling disco lights. The music had stopped and the club was now eerily silent.

  She looked up at the shattered window again, and saw Colin O’Connor staring back at her, clinging to a nasty looking automatic handgun like a lifeline. She went into full on police mode, dropping to one knee and raising her firearm to line up a shot.

  The move was unnecessary, however. As she watched in horrified shock, O’Connor straightened up stiffly and leaned back at an odd angle. The brightly lit room gave her a good view, but she did not see O’Connor’s attacker. It took only a second for that fact to register, and she knew without a doubt who else was in there with the terrorist leader.

  “Ambrosius!” she yelled, not looking at the British agent, afraid to take her eyes off the grisly scene above her.

  “I see it,” Ambrosius replied, and she heard his voice shake.

  O’Connor jerked in some kind of spasm. A crimson arc shot from where the man’s throat had been. O’Connor went rigid, then either fell or was pushed through what was left of the tinted window.

  His body landed with a sickening crash on the raised DJ booth, causing a shower of sparks to fountain up from the destroyed electronic equipment. Amy knew O’Connor had been dead before taking his plunge but she still winced and had to fight back a wave of nausea.

  She fired blindly into the area O’Connor had just fallen from. She knew the Ghost was up there somewhere and hoped she might get lucky.

  “Agent Sommers, let’s go!” Ambrosius called.

  They both sprinted in the direction of the stairs.

  The Ghost sat with his back against his desk. He knew
he had only seconds before Sommers and her British lackey made their way upstairs.

  The pain in his shoulder was now matched by a similar burning in his right thigh. He could not believe how his normally good fortune had turned against him. One of Agent Sommers’ shots had clipped the upper part of his leg. This night, which had started so promisingly, had turned into an utter disaster. He knew he should not be surprised by Blackburn’s protégé’s appearance. Leaving the damned woman alive was a mistake he was going to have to rectify.

  The tingling sensation around his body told him he was still under the spell of his bracelet. It took every ounce of his strength and concentration to keep the effects in place.

  He tossed the razor away, knowing it would be useless. His only chance now was his Nighthawk Custom 10-8, and getting into a position where he could shoot as the two bothersome agents came through the office door.

  With that in mind he reached for the gun, then began the arduous task of crawling to one of the leather chairs facing the door. From there, he would have a clear shot.

  —Chapter 33

  Ambrosius hit the stairs first and sprinted up without slowing, Sommers hot on his heels. For all she knew, they were rushing into certain death, but there was no way she was going to let Reggie’s murderer escape. If the Ghost was somehow able to slip away, he might simply disappear for good, and she would lose any chance at avenging her friend and mentor.

  The stairs emptied into a short hall with one door at the end. She nodded at Ambrosius, letting him know she was ready. She saw desperation mirrored in his eyes. This might be his last chance at redemption as well.

  Ambrosius swung the door open. She heard the gunshot, heard Ambrosius grunt in pain, saw him slump with a growing stain of red spreading across his white shirtfront.

  Without thinking, she crouched and threw herself through the door. She heard another gunshot, and felt the bullet fly past her head, barely missing her as she landed behind a desk. She hit the floor and rolled to her side with her firearm ready. Motionless, she strained her ears in an effort to hear any sound which might give her assailant’s location away.

  “Agent Sommers, we meet again,” the Ghost said. It sounded like he was somewhere near the far wall. “Agent Blackburn would be so proud. It’s a shame he couldn’t be here to see you in all your glory.”

  The taunt was meant to antagonize her into doing something stupid, but she knew if she was going to get through this alive she would have to keep her wits about her. In an effort to get a better view, she shifted her weight and tried to look under the desk. When she did, her leg bumped into something hard. She spared a glance, then stared in amazement at Excalibur lying next to her.

  She grabbed the hilt of Arthur’s sword. Immediately she felt a strange sensation overtake her body. She nearly let go, like she would have let go of a scalding hot coffee mug. Deep down, however, on some innate level, she knew that was the wrong thing to do and held on.

  She heard the brushing of fabric across leather and knew the Ghost had just risen from wherever he had been perched. She peered out from behind the antique desk. The smell of its varnish was thick in her nose and made her want to gag. With Excalibur in one hand and her gun in the other, she surveyed the room.

  The two bodies on the floor were the men she had seen with O’Connor earlier. She also saw the bottoms of several pieces of expensive looking leather furniture and, remembering, the sound she had heard seconds before knew where the Ghost had been.

  “What’s wrong, Agent Sommers? Don’t you have any last words? You should be happy. In a few minutes I’m going to send you to see your fat friend.”

  His voice seemed to be coming from the opposite side of the leather furniture. She knew she was running out of options as well as time. She considered strafing the office with gunfire in hopes of getting in a lucky shot, a horrible plan that would more than likely get her killed. Still, it was better than lying here waiting to die.

  She was on the verge of jumping to her feet when the faintest trace of movement slipped into her line of vision. At first she was not sure if stress was causing her eyes to play tricks on her, but then she caught the flicker of movement again, and stared at the spot. She felt some sort of internal pull deep down inside. A euphoric feeling encapsulated her, starting with her left hand and then sweeping across the rest of her body.

  She had no idea what was happening, but realized she could see the Ghost.

  He appeared almost translucent, surrounded by a glowing yellow outline. Excalibur vibrated softly in her hand, and the Ghost became even clearer. She realized with awe Excalibur was coming to life, giving her the ability to see past the Ghost’s own magic, making him visible.

  The assassin crept along the windowed wall, stalking ever closer to her hiding spot. From the way he seemed to be leaning against the windows for support, she thought he might be wounded.

  Glass crackled as the Ghost moved past the shattered window. He was almost on top of her, struggling to maintain his balance and having a hard time holding his weapon steady. But, in a few more steps, he would have a clear shot.

  Sommers did not waste any time. She rolled, aimed and fired two shots into the assassin’s midsection.

  The Ghost was thrown backwards off his feet. His gun went flying from his grasp.

  Whatever magic gave him the ability to be invisible dissipated, the glowing outline fading as the assassin’s physical form came into view. He was on his back with his head propped up against one of the tinted windows. His rasping breath was filled with a gurgle of blood and she knew he was still alive. It sounded like he was trying to speak, but could not form the words.

  She slowly climbed to her feet, and felt a touch on her shoulder. It was Ambrosius, looking none the worse for wear, appearing to be completely healed from his wound.

  Without saying a word she handed over Excalibur. Ambrosius took the sword and she measured the look of awe in his face. His part of their mission was over. Now it was time to fulfill her own vow.

  She walked over to the Ghost and watched without pity as the assassin struggled for every precious breath of air. She looked directly into his eyes and was disgusted to see him smile.

  “For Reggie,” she said, before emptying her remaining bullets into his chest.

  She continued pulling the trigger long after the gun was empty, until Ambrosius put a comforting hand on her arm.

  The Ghost was dead. She turned and looked up at Ambroisus. He clutched Excalibur like it was his child. She looked at the gun in her hand and flung it across the room.

  Then, as her strength began to ebb and her emotions overwhelmed her, her knees buckled and she slid down to the floor and wept. She stayed like that for a long time.

  —Chapter 34

  London’s Metropolitan Police Counter-Terrorist division arrived on the scene a short time later. With the recent terrorist activity of the past couple of years, they were taking no chances and had shown up in full force.

  Ambrosius explained the situation, though what cover story he used to explain Excalibur Sommers did not know. She was too busy fighting off a mini-breakdown to really care.

  After obtaining a brief statement, the Counter-Terrorist division agreed to take over the investigation and clean up the scene.

  Ambrosius escorted her back to their vehicle and subsequently drove her to a hotel. She heard him talking to her in a soft and soothing voice, but she was oblivious.

  When she saw the bed waiting in her room, she collapsed on top of it. She was asleep in seconds.

  Somewhere in the thick fog of unconsciousness, a familiar yet incessant ringing pulled her out of the blackness. The journey back to a state of wakefulness was not a short or an easy one. The ringing continued throughout.

  When Amy finally opened her eyes, the hotel room was bathed in shadow. She had a vague memory of where she was, but could not remember how or when she had gotten here. Her head hurt and her body ached, but she felt more rested than she had in a long t
ime.

  She sat up and swung her legs around so she could sit on the edge of the bed and answer the phone’s annoying ring.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice cracking from lack of use.

  “Ah, Agent Sommers, I’m glad to see you are finally awake,” a familiar British accent said from the other end of the line. “I was hoping you might join me in the restaurant for breakfast.”

  “Sure. Just give some time to get cleaned up.”

  “I will meet you in the lobby in an hour.”

  “Works for me,” she said.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror above the dresser, and was not surprised to see she looked as disheveled as she felt. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d had on during the confrontation with the Ghost at The End.

  After a much deserved hot shower and a clean outfit, was refreshed and felt human once again. The death of the Ghost and the retrieval of Excalibur were now fresh in her memory. With a renewed resolve she walked out of her room and caught the elevator to the lobby to meet her partner.

  Ambrosius was sitting on a nearby sofa perusing a newspaper. What appeared to be a long rectangular looking guitar case was on the sofa next to him. When he saw her, he stood up, grabbed the case by the handle, and flashed the biggest grin she had ever seen. His mood seemed infectious and it was not long before she found herself smiling as well. It felt good after the stress of the last few days.

  “Are you ready to eat?” Ambrosius asked.

  “I could eat,” she said. “I would also pay top dollar for a cup of coffee.”

  “Then let us away.” He led her to the restaurant, where a hostess seated them and a waitress brought fresh coffee. They ordered and were left staring at each other in an awkward silence as the waitress walked away.