Wight

by Dorien Vincent

And he was away, for the stairwell, firing back at the Southern Eagle and striking him in the face - that Eagle would be able to sweep his position with a thermal scope and find the body, so he could not live and give anything away. A second sniper? Loose end. Tset was going to tie his off.

  There were Beagles coming up the stairwell, Tset fired directly downward with high-impact shells on automatic, killing two three floors down and slowing their ascent.

  The working grenade, pinless, rolled over the edge of the roof landing and plummeted down the middle of the stairwell. It detonated before hitting Ground and stopped them even further. Tset went deaf for a moment by way of concussion.

  When Tset glanced over, the real sniper was coming around.

  Tset pulled his sidearm and put a bullet through the man's face.

  One hand was already tucked into the pants of the corpse, into the other, Tset put the gun.

  The body went up against the door with the second grenade in its pocket.

  When the bomb went off Tset had ducked, but was still almost thrown down the stairs - he scrambled back up over the sagging railing and gathered up his last device: the insulated plastic bag.

  He could barely breathe or see for the smoke, and the bag going over him offered no respite. He stumbled outside and rolled off of the roof.

  He dropped, unnoticed under cover of smoke, into a waiting trash container, hitting a solid steel bedframe.

  As he sank, he pulled the bag tight, wriggling past the bedframe but running out of oxygen from his test of the frame's integrity.

  He laughed once at how wild things had gotten, but kept his precious breath, eventually blacking out.

  Police investigated the scene for their standard 6AM to 6PM run, found nothing of Tset, didn't get around to the trash container, and left, informing the American Bureau of Investigations, which operated out of Brussels and hadn't been able to put a report through to America for about a century, of their findings:

  -

  "The sniper, identified as Gray Alan Nelson, apparently went insane, shot the senator by hotwiring his rifle (it was badly damaged in the fire so exactly what he did is unknown - there are no recognizable signs of tampering), killed several of his fellows, then blew himself up with a hand grenade after performing auto-erotic asphyxiation and shooting himself with his sidearm. Per witness account, Nelson was one of your reprogrammes. This would explain his sudden instability."

  -

  The biting police report did not have a good effect on the nominal American officials: they, few in number and without support, financial or otherwise, launched back, demanding rights to enter The City and investigate. Their bile was ill received in turn, and they were denied for a week, locked up in the old American Embassy. So they called the Whitehouse, referred to as the 'Greater European Embassy' by the Americans.

  However, two days after the hit, a full five before any on-order ABI agents would've arrived, Tset was sleeping in garbage. He woke up to a truck's rumblings, pulling out of his bag frantically. He climbed up through the trash, finally reaching air and sunlight.

  Carefully, he made his way to the edge of the bin he was in and peered around - he saw the truck, and saw a street sign pass by at eye level.

  Seeing he was late, Tset tore off his American uniform, helmet and everything else, stashing it deep into the garbage.

  He took another glance around. No one was watching, he skipped down from the side of the thing and landed on the street, starting off at a smooth stride and adjusting his white silken tie, his ribs smarting sharply.

  No one saw him until he stopped off at a Migros for a CoOp milk chocolate bar with hazelnuts.

  He didn't even smell, and he'd checked, too. Nothing made people suspicious like a man who was well-dressed but smelled like garbage. It was a weirdness Tset hoped to exploit one day.

  He walked a block, stepped up some cement steps to the door of an old tenement, and slipped inside, he then laid low in this safe-house for two months solid, watching the news and eating canned food.

  Tset had not returned to his hotel - he had been going out of the country, and he left it at that those five days ago. Since he didn't trust the GPS scrambler on his phone, he mailed it back to himself after returning from the country club, and of course, his bike was parked in the garage beneath the tenement.

  For now, he enjoyed his two months of quiet revelry, living on canned fruit salad and soups and emergency rations and Italian MREs, his favorite being Shrimp Fettuccini In A Light Pesto Sauce.

  The newsreels were excellent. The 'Americans' were paralyzed, the foreign-politico arm of the government, unelected and undemocratically self-appointed as such, wanted to force entry to Europe, they were so unrespected on both sides of the ocean that the Europeans weren't interested in catching the suspected 'true assassin' and the American people were so negligent of what has always been jokingly 'foreign policy' in America that their civilian militias were camped outside the White House with their guns at the first sign of activity.

  They carried signs like 'Wilks Was a Shithead Anyway' and 'You Go To War And We'll Make You Look Like Wilks' and 'I Perforated Wilks' and 'Fuck You Guys' and 'I've taught my 14-y-o to shoot to kill - have you?' and 'I Still Can Vote NO On Jackasses In Office' (a Second Amendment quotation followed) and 'Remember Nelson McPsycho.' But instead of being violent, they simply sat around, cleaning weapons, playing cards and talking with one another, waiting to see which way the 'government' wanted it.

  There were police there, but they were also carrying signs, and their sidearms were unclipped.

  Tset thought the American rabble army was his favorite group of people in the world right then, even if they were crude and barbaric and somewhat confusing in their anarchic heirarchy. He laughed. Their external government was crippled. It was excellent.

  NOT Hiring

  Terms And Conditions

  One day, Tset walked back into Haliburton. He was dressed in his green linen shirt, a pair of boot cut jeans, his boots and sunglasses. His sleeves were rolled up.

  He walked right up to the receptionist, as no door man had been there, she looked up, taken slightly, "How may I help you?"

  "I need to see my employers, I just got back into town."

  She nodded, punching some buttons on her telephone, "Mr. Tset is here to see you..." She looked up at him again, "They'll see you now." She punched the button to call the elevators. Tset realized he'd figured out the code by watching her hands. He shrugged, no matter.

  The doors chimed, he thanked the receptionist, entered.

  Again, the doors slid closed, a slight jiggle, but too smooth a movement to track.

  The doors slid open, the busy office scene, then the halls with the plush grey carpeting. Tset left bootprints.

  He knocked twice and entered. With no preamble: "So, how has everything gone since I left for France?"

  The two men stared at him, saying nothing for a moment, then one spoke, "This is your doing?"

  "What?"

  "The mission was accomplished with all parameters met. There is no evidence of any foul-play, the laughable 'ABI' have stripped the scene and found nothing to point to any second-party killer, just the psychotic sniper. Their one lead, a trash truck recorded in the area, has already had its contents recycled."

  Tset dipped his head slightly, "I know. That's how I planned it." He wore a grin of sheer bliss.

  "On top of that, they did a satellite trace of the area and found no active cellular or radio devices in the area besides those of residents and passersby."

  Tset nodded again.

  "The only possible witness was shot to death on the scene without collecting any evidence and their chief of security was found dead that same day."

  Again, a simple nod.

  "Francois says he saw you tracking your target during a party before the hit, but no evidence presents itself from that night besides the fact that you were entirely incognito. We had a hard time taking apart the ID encryption and loop
s."

  "So?"

  "What do you have to say?"

  "I probably read too much, but on top of that, am I hired?"

  "You most certainly are."

  "Excellent. So what now?"

  "The terms and conditions."

  "Oh, alright."

  Tset sat down in his chair, putting his elbows on his knees and his hands together beneath his chin, listening as they explained.

  Essentially, Tset was a free agent, they would send him contracts and notifications and he could accept or reject any missions he wanted to. As well, the mission spooler was available for his access all the time for any times he wanted to get work.

  Who he bought his contracts from would be given no indication of who their operative was - that was purely Haliburton business and would be encrypted and stored in solid-state.

  Already, his phone and card were his and had no remote connections to Haliburton's servers.

  His private affairs would be his private affairs otherwise.

  If ever his particular skills were needed for a mission, he would be called in and would be briefed, at which point he could set his prices, within reasonable limits.

  His guidelines were that he was never to compromise the security of Haliburton. He was warned that doing so would result in his death and that this office itself was a front and that the Haliburton network was a web from which no specific entities could be found. Their computer databases were too well protected and would destroy themselves upon successful unauthorized access.

  They also warned him that if he did well, he may build himself a reputation.

  Whatever he did in the field was his own business. He could hire himself out to other firms, but could never use his Haliburton connections as reference.

  The result of a security breach would be a charge of a hundred-million Eurodollars, loss of his accounts and accesses to Haliburton's databases.

  If Haliburton's security were ever compromised otherwise, he would be called upon to assist in its defense.

  As well, compromization of other Haliburton agents without forewarning and approval would lead to his becoming a high-stakes target. Any agents he worked with would be entrusting their identities to him, the only others with knowledge of their connection being these two operators of Haliburton.

  Precinct Zero was a special division of Haliburton, specializing in top-priority hits and missions.

  "Yadda yadda, okay, what if I want to kill someone? Do I need to come ask?"

  "No. But you cannot at any time compromize your security."

  "What if it's another agent?"

  The sternest of silences. "Who might that be?"

  "No one in particular. The only two I've met so far have been high-caliber and helpful. But, if in the field, I find someone stepping out of line, crossing me, or crossing you, and I've got my Commando, or even a brick in hand, that individual will suffer a further, far more concussive, lumbar/cranial inversion."

  The men laughed, the humor was quite dead in them, but it shown through, sick, "We understand. Do as you see fit."

  "And, payment, last and hopefully not least."

  "Your last mission bagged you another million Eurodollars. It was a suicide mission, and though it was an avenue we didn't plan on traveling, despite its directness, having crossed it now makes things much easier for our clients. They appreciate your efforts, though they'll never know your name."

  Interlude

  Nightmare Demon

  Tset parked his bike. The parking meter blinked at him, demanding change in a ruddy sullen way. Tset decapitated it. He hated these things.

  He had a few blocks to walk but wanted some time to think and sort things out before he talked with Tristram again.

  He soon found he was being followed, however. A pale individual with feral eyes and in black leather crept behind him at a brisk pace, watching, slavering.

  Tset was annoyed and distracted now - though somewhat inspired. His thoughts: Had Tomas 'Vambo' Heilman been a vampire? Was this one, too? What about Jessie's murderer?

  How many were there?

  Tristram had mentioned them. Maybe he hadn't been kidding.

  Now that he had connections and money and equipment, next time he met one, it would fall. And hard.

  The idea gave him goosebumps, good ones. His lips pulled up, whether in a snarl or a smile, no one could know nor would they bother to find out. He hadn't thought he'd been so affected by Vambo, but here it was: A rage of his own.

  Tset did not change course. He continued, getting chills in his spine. The hunter's eyes were locked on him and anytime Tset caught his blurred reflection he felt more chills in down deep.

  But, 'Hold on...' The reflection was blurred in that window and in that puddle however Tset and the environment were clear. In fact, the thing was not blurred - it was... '... hollow, somehow, missing definition and weight.'

  Now Tset felt the warmth in his cheeks. His jaw went taut and he hurried, wanting to get to Tristram's as soon as possible. His anger crept up on him faster than his pursuer.

  There was the sign, 'Feel free to go the fuck away. (Sometimes open 24h)'

  Tset went down the steps and into the warmer bookshop, the lit fluorescents buzzing above him. Tristram came out and greeted him, "Yo buddy! What the fuck brings you into this hole of town?"

  Tset leaned on the counter, "I need some cigs, can I write a check?"

  "A check? Fuck you."

  Tset looked insistent so Tristram handed him some paper.

  "I'm gonna have to fill this out with account numbers and all that."

  Tristram nodded, looking curious, "Yeah man. Any other news?"

  Tset wrote:

  Just then the room cooled down, the creature had walked in. It nodded to Tristram and slipped off to the side, surreptitiously lifting and scanning, with a look of disgust, through a cookbook entitled 'The Vegan Bible.'

  Tristram wrote back:

  Tset didn't turn around to look, he hadn't even heard the thing beyond a light sluffing of wet cloth.

  Over all this Tset and Tristram were chatting about things, magazines, guns, Tristram complaining that Tset kept making mistakes on the check.

  "Okay, that'll be all. Here's your cigs and your change."

  Instead of cigarettes, it was a 1911 clip with little silver slugs nosing the top of it, not lead, and instead of change, it was a number of light-but-abused silver rings. They had nicks and in the nicks was black tarnish. They were antiques.

  Tristram wrote something on the 'check' and slid it back, "Sign here, señor."

  Tset signed:

  Tset slipped on the rings discreetly. Putting the mag in a coat pocket, he turned and walked out, passing close to where the vampire, looking horrified, lurked with a book of fine-art paintings of ugly nude 17thC women with baggy, matronly breasts.

  Tristram waved good bye to Tset, and a few seconds later, to the vampire, who slammed the grotesque art book onto a shelf as he left, sneering behind him.

  Back outside it was getting colder. Tset felt his fingers chill as the wind hit his new rings. He rubbed his hands together, blowing on them and hanging a sharp left into an alley.

  The vampire got there a second later, but his eyes could not pierce the darkness for the stranger. He saw perfectly, but felt as though his vision was clouded.

  There was something odd about his prey tonight.

  Then a sharp crack as his jaw broke, the vampire stumbled and fell to the floor.

  The prey had come out of nowhere and decked him hard. And that burning? He felt his jaw, it was broken, and not fixing, and the skin was burnt through and dead in three even-sized divots.

  He looked, but the prey was on him, hitting him in the cheek this time, cracking his head sideways, breaking teeth, dragging and rutting flesh. He was lifted by his shirt.

  The vampire screeched like an injured cat and grabbed the thing's arms.

  But it lifted him up, halting his movement, constricting him, by jus
t a grip on his elbow and throat.

  He struggled and pushed and fell back - off-balance again. And another thunderous jab to his chin, making his sharp-edged world heave.

  Then another blow, this one to his temple.

  The blood began to flow from him.

  An uppercut to his chin, knocking him back.

  The vampire lay in the filth of the alleyway, realizing he was stunned for the first time since his transformation, in real pain for the first time, everything darkened and lurched and brightened and yawed.

  He vaguely made out a metal thing in the hands of his prey.

  Then he heard a slide rack back.

  The last thing he saw was a silver bullet approaching his eye with blinding speed. Literally.

  His whole world went out.

  Tset noticed the vampire bled little from the silver wounds. The side of its head where his silver hollowpoint had derailed its night was blasted out and in tatters, but it only bled from the mouth where Tset had hit it so many times, and not like the other one in the cage he'd bitten. 'Vambo'd also stopped bleeding when skewered. Interesting.'

  A few minutes later he walked back in the store. His shirtsleeves were torn but he was otherwise in perfect health and whole.

  "You fuck him up?"

  "But good, man."

  Tristram laughed, "Right on! I heard that report."

  "I gotta ask, T, how many of these things are there?"

  "Why? You wanna hunt 'em?"

  "I'd be happier'n a clam to. I'm at Haliburton now, officially, and hunting these things is why I ended up here to talk to you. The one I just met won the Dumbfuck Timing of The Year Award."

  Tristram was grinning, slightly, "Well, you're the first Precinct Zero trainee I ever saw. I thought, tonight, you'da either chickened out. Otherwise I wasn't ever going to see you again, man, they don't fuck around."

  "Doubtless."

  "Anyway, yeah, I'll help you hunt 'em, 'specially now you got killer's connections. I don't know where they are, but I know how to find 'em. I can also give you some names of people who'll be more helpful to you in terms of like, techniques, methods, finesse and other shit I pay no attention to."