Age of Blood

by Weston Ochse

  “Which version?” Walker asked as he tried to will whatever it was to stop by the window so he could pinpoint it.

  “Alan Moore version.”

  “That was early eighties. Good stuff.”

  “How’d you like Swamp Thing?”

  “At first I was like, what do I care about some tree with legs that talks and roams about the swamp. It just didn’t interest me.”

  “Yeah. Swamp Thing is like that at first. But then it grabs you.”

  “With both hands. It was the whole idea that there were all these superheroes everywhere, but it was Swamp Thing who knew that there was this little girl who was the Antichrist and was going to destroy the world.”

  “The quintessential underdog.”

  “Man, he was underneath the underdog.”

  And finally, there it was. The figure of a man standing by the window. He seemed to be almost looking at Walker. He stepped closer to the window and Walker could make out features. It was a man, but his face was all wrong. It was as if he were … wearing someone else’s face and it was a little lopsided.

  “Got them. I see one. Radio it in to Laws.”

  Now it was Walker’s chance to see if he could find some more. He wanted to know which rooms they were using. He also wanted to know if there was a concentration of them, or possibly where the girl was being held. He spied another seven figures over the next hour and managed to locate a central area on the third floor that had the most activity. But that was as good as he was going to get from his vantage point.

  It was time to get a little closer and see what was on the other side of the building. Plus it was getting dark, which would be to their advantage.

  “Ready to play a little Swamp Thing?” he asked Yank, as he stood.

  “What? Oh, we going to go peek into windows?”

  “Something like that. You game?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Work your way to the south and then behind. We’ll be in contact the entire time and I’ll make sure your way is clear.”

  Yank decided to leave his HK topside. He was out of place enough being himself. Carrying a combat rifle would probably raise even more suspicion. He rechecked his coms, made sure his do-rag was covering it, then hurried back across the roof. He was over and gone in less than a minute.

  Walker watched as Yank moved across the street and down the lane. When he got to the intersection that led straight into the asylum, he turned right, then ducked behind the tractor garage. Walker scoped the way clear and let Yank know he could move to the tree line.

  “Nice and easy. Pretend you’re a lost Mormon instead of a U.S. Navy SEAL ready to hurt someone.”

  “Never seen a black Mormon before,” Yank said softly as he strolled toward the tree line.

  “Must be two or three,” Walker said, intent on ensuring Yank made it unnoticed. “Maybe even four or five.”

  The foliage wasn’t thick. A combination of acacia and some sort of evergreen made for something just thick enough to camouflage a person, if not hide them completely. Someone looking close could see the outline of a human form, but then again no one should be looking that close. If they were, it would finally give Walker a chance.

  “Okay. Move slowly. Don’t disturb any of the outer branches.” Walker doped the scope for a closer look at one of the windows in the asylum. He only had a view of the edge of the side windows and couldn’t see inside, but he was almost certain he saw— “Stop!”

  Yank halted about six feet into the tree line.

  “Step a foot to your right. A little more. Good.” Walker swung the scope back to the window. Did he just see what he’d thought he’d seen? He silently begged the person in the window to show himself, but whoever it was had some decent discipline. “Okay. Move carefully now. You might be watched from the window on the second floor. Third from the right.”

  Yank took a few more steps, careful to always keep a trunk between him and the building. “Someone in the window. Shit—they have a bead on me.”

  Walker thought quickly. First of all, anything they were about to do would absolutely destroy any element of surprise. But that paled in comparison with getting Yank hurt, or worse. Walker had three choices, four if you counted doing nothing as a choice, which he refused to consider. Yank could either move away slowly, move away quickly, or move closer.

  “Talking about the speed again. You said Ramon was running at comic book speed. Was it like the Flash?”

  “What? Yeah, definitely like the Flash. Or in the movies when someone runs so fast that it can’t possibly be real? It’s like that. Are you sure now’s the time to talk about this?”

  “Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to be the Flash. Not like the Flash, but become the Flash. Zero to sixty in less than a second.”

  “Which direction?”

  “Toward the building.” He heard the silence and knew Yank wanted to ask a question but knew better. This was all about trust. “Wait until I say move, then don’t stop until you’re kissing the wall. Roger?”

  “Wilco.”

  Walker sighted in on the window. He let his fingers flit near the bullet drop compensator knob, but decided against it. The range was close enough where the feet per second would make up for any drop before the round reached the target. If only he had a target to shoot. He sighted in, ready to fire.

  “Ready. Set. Move.”

  Yank shot out of the woodline toward the building faster than Walker would have thought possible.

  A sound suppressor appeared from the window. As it tracked Yank’s movement, more of it showed, until a clear half of the rifle barrel was visible. Problem was that it couldn’t keep track of Yank. That is, until Yank stopped moving. As Yank hit the wall, the shooter leaned out to take a shot. That’s when Walker sent two rounds into the target’s face.

  “Catch,” he said.

  The shooter dropped the weapon, a Soviet-era Dragunov. Yank managed to catch it, then stepped out of the way as the shooter toppled to the ground next to him.

  “Pick up the trash and bring it here,” Walker said. “Move.”

  Yank tossed the man over his shoulder and ran back into the woods. With the long rifle in one hand and his other holding the dead shooter in place, there wasn’t any way to hide what he was doing. So he made the best decision possible. He buried the rifle beneath some brush, then adjusted his grip on the dead man so it looked as if he was helping home a drunk friend.

  As if on cue, a car approached on the road and drove by the pair. Walker watched through his scope, aware that if needed, he could reach out and silence whoever it was who would raise an alarm. But those in the car merely glanced at Yank and the dead man, then kept going. Once they passed, Yank crossed the road with one of the man’s arms draped across his shoulder. Never mind that blood from the dead man’s chest wounds had soaked Yank’s shoulder.

  When Yank reached the bottom of the fire escape, Walker left his post and went down to help him bring the body to the roof. By the time they’d pulled the man over the lip and onto the hot tar, both he and Yank were breathing heavily.

  They laid the man out on the roof and examined him. About six feet tall, he wore black dickies, black combat boots, and a black T-shirt beneath an untucked gray button-down shirt. A shock of black hair rested above a youthful face. Partially hidden by the collar were several tattoos, each of them a stylized Z.

  Walker and Yank looked at each other.

  “Zeta?” Yank asked.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Walker said. But what was he doing in a building suspected of being a hideout for an Aztec cult believed to be holding the senator’s daughter? “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yeah. Where’s Ramon?”

  “We need to report this. Holmes is going to want to know.”

  Yank removed a camera from his cargo pocket and took pictures. They couldn’t take the body with them, but the tattoos could indicate who the man was and who he worked for. He snapped photos of each of the
tattoos; then they removed the man’s shirt, where they also catalogued another dozen tattoos, many of which sported a Z of some sort. When Walker was finished, they waited for J.J., who was coming to replace them. It took twenty minutes, but once he arrived, both Walker and Yank bugged out, making their way back to the home of the Knights and prepping Laws over the MBITR as they went.

  28

  ALAMOS, MEXICO. KNIGHTS’ CASTLE. DUSK.

  By the time Walker and Yank returned, the shadows of the buildings had already darkened the streets. With the dark came a chill uncharacteristic of the coastal areas. The nature of the high desert allowed for forty-degree temperature swings, and although it was probably only sixty-five degrees, it felt much colder since they’d spent the day in the upper nineties. When they went in the door, they headed straight to a coffee urn they’d seen when they’d left. They had just finished pouring themselves steaming cups of joe when they heard a friendly bark.

  Both Walker and Yank turned.

  A Belgian Malinois with a short, light tan coat beneath a harness came spilling down the stairs toward them. For a second, it seemed as if the dog might tumble into a mess of broken legs, but she was too much the athlete. She caught herself, skidded a few steps, then plummeted toward them, grinning from ear to ear, tongue flailing.

  Both Yank and Walker tossed their cups aside as if they were primed grenades and knelt, where they were momentarily assaulted by the happy welcome of the team dog, Hoover. After a moment, they stood, Hoover wagging her tail furiously and lapping up the coffee they’d spilled.

  “Hoover, show some decorum,” YaYa said from the landing. Walker noted that his color was a little off, but he seemed otherwise okay. It looked like he might be shaking off whatever bug it was that had him. “Hey, guys.” He walked over to them to shake their hands. As he passed Hoover, lapping up the coffee, the dog moved out of his way.

  “YaYa, how’s it hanging?” Walker asked, extremely pleased to not only see YaYa, but to have the team once again back together. “You go see the docs at Balboa?”

  YaYa nodded. “I hear I missed the sea monster.”

  “Wasn’t no sea monster,” Yank said. “Some giant salamander is all.”

  YaYa blinked and gave Yank an odd smile. “You don’t think that’s a sea monster? Giant Aztec salamanders in the Sea of Cortez are pretty far-fucking-fetched.”

  “Everyone here?” Walker asked, looking up the stairs.

  “If you mean did your girlfriend come on the mission to hold your hand, then yes. She’s up there setting up computers with Musso and two others.”

  Walker both wanted to see her and didn’t, and in that moment he knew not only that she was a distraction, but that there’d come a time during the mission that he’d be off his game because of her. His hands made fists of frustration at the thought of it, and when he realized this, he made them relax. He turned to see if anyone was watching him, and of course everyone was. He knew he was turning red.

  The question was did he go upstairs or stay downstairs. He was saved from making the decision when Holmes spoke into his earpiece, commanding him and Yank to report. Walker indicated for YaYa to follow, and all three of them passed several Knights lounging in wide leather chairs on the way to a room set up as the command center.

  Like the other rooms, this one had fifteen-foot ceilings made of wood. A map of Alamos was up on one wall. On it were strings tacked to different sites; those led to index cards with notations. On the opposite wall was an even larger map of Mexico, broken down by region. This had more strings, making it look like a giant cat’s cradle run amok. Several tables were set against one wall, while a central table dominated the space. On this were arrayed a variety of weapons, ammunition, and clips, including several swords and odd-looking daggers.

  Holmes stood next to Laws, both of them chatting with Ramon. Behind them making a notation on an index card sat Vega. As Walker and the other two SEALs entered, the men looked up.

  Laws spoke first. “Welcome to the command center. Not exactly NORAD, but it’ll do.”

  “Let’s see the pics,” Holmes said.

  Yank pulled out his camera and began to scroll through the collection, pausing at each one.

  “Recognize this one?” Holmes asked Ramon, who was hovering over the team leader’s shoulder, trying to see the small screen.

  After a moment, Ramon shook his head. “So many kids these days want to be an enforcer. What kind of weapon did he have?”

  “A Dragunov,” Walker said. “Yank buried it at the scene.”

  This caused Ramon to think. “Pretty advanced weapon for a low-level thug. I’d have expected an old hunting rifle. The boy could have inherited it, but we’ll never know.”

  “How do you explain that he’s even at the asylum?” Yank asked.

  Ramon looked as if he’d been slapped, and glanced at Holmes, who returned his gaze. Ramon made a face as he answered, “I can’t. Hell, I don’t have to. There are places in Mexico you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a member of a cartel, much less the Zetas, who are still one of the largest.”

  “It’s a little bothersome that a member of the Zetas is here and you don’t know about it,” Laws said, stroking his chin.

  Ramon sighed. “I’m on the outside looking in. I learn about things by hearing things. No one actually tells me anything.”

  “You mean you don’t have any friends left in the cartel?” Holmes asked, feigning shock.

  “No, I do. But I—”

  “Then go find out why the Zetas are partnered with this group we believe kidnapped the senator’s daughter.”

  “Right now?” Ramon asked, a confused look on his face.

  “Yes, now. You got something else you have to do that’s more important?”

  Everyone watched Ramon leave the room, at first stiff-legged with anger, but by the time he was at the door he was cool, as if it was all his idea.

  After Ramon had been gone for half a minute, Holmes gestured for everyone to sit around the central table. Once they were in their seats, he asked, “Now what was all that about when you were talking about the comic books and the speed?”

  Walker and Yank glanced at each other. Walker had forgotten that anyone could hear their conversation, making the list of those listening a lot longer than he’d planned. If Holmes had the uplink switched on, that list could include even the White House. In the future he needed to remember who could be listening in before he opened his big mouth.

  Seeing the grin on Laws’s face, Walker realized that he knew what he was thinking.

  “Ramon moves too fast,” Yank began, staring at his hands. “He runs like a … cartoon. I’m not sure how to explain it without using comic books as a reference, but it’s like he was being sped up and everyone else was being slowed down. It was just so out of place.”

  “Could it be because he’s a werewolf?” Laws asked.

  “The hell you say,” YaYa said, surprised. “You mean that guy is a werewolf? I thought he was the agency contact.”

  “It appears that he’s both,” Holmes said.

  “Fucking agency,” YaYa said under his breath.

  “Not unless the other guy was a werewolf, too,” Yank said, answering Laws’s question.

  Laws looked at Holmes, then back at Yank. “What other guy?”

  “The Zeta facilitator. Juan Carlos. I saw Ramon chasing him and they were both moving that crazy fast shit.”

  Holmes took a moment to digest the information. When it seemed he had it right, he said, “Describe again what you mean as moving too fast.”

  “Fast,” said Yank.

  “Crazy,” said Walker.

  “Shit,” added YaYa. “I saw the same thing in the City of Industry. The Zetas cartel hijacked the chupacabra bones and set up some sort of laboratory. Looked like they were working on the bones in some way. We had a firefight and one of the Zetas took off like he was the Flash on crystal meth.”

  “If this has been going on for some time,”
Laws said, turning to Holmes, “how come we’re now just hearing about it?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Do you think they’re using the bones to make some sort of, I don’t know, super serum?”

  Laws had his fist beneath his chin, concentrating on something. “I seem to remember something in the Anasazi history about a ceremony that made them travel extraordinarily fast. I wonder if that had anything to do with the ’cabra?”

  “Clearly it’s a Zeta thing. We’re going to have to have a conversation with Ramon. Meanwhile, get SPG on it and have them work with the techs from the Salton Sea to see if there’s any truth to this.” Holmes rubbed a hand against the back of his head. “So YaYa, while we’re talking about your mission, NCIS is reporting an odd thing.”

  “What’s that, boss?”

  “They’ve misplaced an entire NCIS agent.”

  YaYa glanced at each of them. “Misplaced an agent? I don’t understand.”

  “They don’t know where your contact is. She seems to have disappeared.”

  “Do you mean Alice Surrey?”

  “The very same. Know anything about that?”

  Walker jerked his head toward YaYa as he noticed something he’d missed before. He felt a little something. Not a lot, but there was certainly a feeling emanating from the SEAL.

  “Nothing at all, sir. She left me at the airport. Dropped me off at LAX.”

  “There’s no record of you being on a flight, Chief Jabouri,” Laws said. The use of YaYa’s full name and rank made everyone sit up a little straighter.

  “It was too long before the next flight, so I ended up taking a rental car and I drove to Coronado.”

  “Which rental company?” Laws asked.

  YaYa shrugged. “One of them. I was still sick. I’m sure I have the receipt back at the Pit. What’s the third degree for?”

  Laws relaxed. “We’re being asked some questions is all. We want to be able to back you up in case there’s a witch hunt.”

  “Witch hunt.” YaYa laughed humorlessly. “Last thing I need.”

  Laws’s eyes narrowed; then he addressed the group. “We have about thirty mikes and then we’re going to reconvene on the asylum. If the senator’s daughter is in there, we need to move fast. In the interim, Vega’s reinforced J.J. with several of his own men. They don’t want to go in, but they’ll make sure no one gets out before we get there.”