Wolf Angel

by Mark Hobson

  He could feel how intoxicating the atmosphere was, perhaps it was a form of mass hysteria, but one look at the mutilated body of Officer Joos belayed any notion of other-worldly powers. This was murder pure and simple, fed by psychotic madness yes, but executed with merciless violence.

  He watched as Lotte swirled in front of him. She was laughing now, the sound of her voice deep and hollow in the skull. Gradually she slowed down, gliding smoothly across the room and then went past him, and Pieter turned to watch as she disappeared through the curtained doorway behind him, still embracing the skeletal remnants.

  Strong hands grabbed him from behind then, and he looked to see Bart had a hold of him. He wrapped his huge arms around Pieter and clasped his hands together across Pieter’s chest, locking his arms to his sides in a vice-like grip. Trapped like this, Pieter could do nothing as Bart used his huge bulk and strength to bodily lift him from his feet, and carried him through the curtains after Lotte. Behind them, the masked followers came in a line, suddenly quiet.

  Along the short and carpeted passageway, then down the small flight of steps, and through the large iron doorway back into the small square room. The others filed in behind them, some holding flickering torches that they’d removed from the walls outside, and in their orange glow Pieter saw again the circle of chairs surrounding the pit in the floor.

  Lotte was seated in one of the chairs. She had removed the goat-skull, and she smiled beatifically at him. In the chair beside her was the decomposing corpse, the bones and old garments slumped down in the seat. In the flickering torchlight its empty eye sockets seemed to move, as though watching Pieter.

  Someone handed back her robe and she slipped it around her shoulders. Several of the masked figures seated themselves, and the rest, those holding the torches, took up positions around the walls.

  Bart carried Pieter towards the edge of the circular pit. Glancing down, Pieter once again saw the manacles there, and his stomach knotted with mounting fear.

  Bart flung him down into the hole and then jumped in after him. Pieter tried to rise, but the other man’s strength was too immense, and although he struggled and tried to resist, it was all too easy for Bart to force him down. First he manacled his left ankle, and then his right, and then he did the same to his wrists, the last iron clasp snapping shut with a resounding snap. Bart then jumped back out and dusted off his hands with a satisfied look on his smug face.

  Pieter lay there on his back with his arms and legs spread-eagled. From his position, and because of the lip of the round pit, he could not see the legs of those seated, just their upper bodies.

  Silence had fallen. Nobody spoke or sang, and everybody was still. The only sound Pieter could hear was the thudding of his heart, beating faster and faster in his ears. His eyes darted from face to face, seeing all of the demon masks looking down at him. Even the corpse seemed to have tilted its head for a look. Pieter’s gaze came back to Lotte.

  She wasn’t smiling anymore. Her small mouth was a narrow slit in the centre of her beautiful face. She looked sad, her eyes pitying. There was a tiny crease between her brows.

  When she spoke, breaking the quiet, her voice was a mere whisper.

  “Life from death and death from life.”

  She reached out a hand and grasped the handle beside her chair, and with a grinding of metal, she yanked it back in one solid movement.

  There was a small sound beside his ear. Pieter turned his head, and saw the tiny grate that he’d noticed earlier, just in the side of the pit, he saw it turn and open. There was a gurgling, then water started to pour out through the grate. He felt it swirl around his body, the coldness making him catch his breath, and it swished as more and more poured out of the hole. As it started to slowly fill the bottom of the pit, getting deeper and deeper, Pieter suddenly understood and a blind panic seized him.

  He pulled his body hard against his restraints, lifting his body upwards, but the chains securing the manacles into the concrete base of the pit were very short, mere inches in length, and he could barely move. Not even enough to raise himself into a sitting position. He looked around desperately, thinking fast. Where the hell was the water coming from? The grate must open into a small pipe, which fed water probably from the canal. Lotte pulling the handle had obviously opened a valve. Was there a drainage hole of some sort? Surely there had to be?

  Pieter glanced down between his feet and saw a small, square-shaped metal plate set flat into the concrete base. On the top was a rusty-looking ring, no doubt used to pull the plate up and empty out the water. But there was no way he could do that, not chained and restrained like this. This led him to one incontestable conclusion.

  He was in serious trouble.

  Lifting his head he looked towards Lotte again.

  “Listen, don’t do this. This is fucking crazy.”

  Her eyes considered him, but now they were as blank as her face.

  “You’ll never get away with this. Cop killers never do. You’ll go down for life, you’ll never see the light of day again.”

  Still he received no response, so now he looked around at the circle of seated people, at their inscrutable, demon-masked faces. “None of you will! If the police don’t just kill you first! Listen to me, what she’s doing is crazy, all of this crap isn’t going to bring that thing back to life! She’s just using you, she thinks you’re stupid fools, to be used in her crazy scheme! And when she’s done with you, she’ll just throw you aside! You mean nothing to her, you’re like shit on her shoe!! God damn it, don’t just fucking sit there and let this happen!”

  Nothing. Not so much as a flicker of movement. They were as still as the corpse sitting alongside them.

  And by now the water was splashing over his legs and arms, and up across his chest and around his hair and jaw.

  Pieter yanked at his chains, he twisted and pulled and strained with every bit of strength, and he lifted his head clear of the rising water and craned his neck to lift his shoulders up off the concrete base. The chains didn’t budge at all. He arched his back and kicked back and forth with his legs. He sagged again, noticing the water was close to reaching the level of his face, so he pulled once more, but to no avail.

  He sank back down. His breathing was coming fast now as fear seized him, water was gurgling over his cheeks and across his mouth and nostrils, so he spat it out, and lifted his head up as far as he could.

  Jesus!

  Above him, the circle of onlookers watched in silence.

  ◆◆◆

  In keeping with his style of leadership Dyatlov led the assault from the front.

  The three separate teams – Red, Black and Zero 1 – had gathered on the cobbles of Nieuwmarkt, where during the daytime the wooden market stalls stood. At this time of night they had been packed away, and any members of the public strolling across the large open space had quietly but forcefully been asked to leave, and the surrounding streets closed off. Then, with his squad leaders gathered around, the former Russian Spetnaz officer had issued final instructions.

  Red Team, which he would lead, were designated the primary assault squad, and were made up of fifteen men. They would enter their target through the large red doors at the front of the building, beneath the big overhanging canopy. They would secure the ground floor and the lower level. Black Team would gain entry through two smaller doors around the back, and their task was to clear the upper floors. Zero 1, consisting of twenty men, were to be held in reserve, and their job was to remain outside and to be ready to offer assistance when and where it might be needed. This team would also cover all possible escape routes out of the large building should any of the bad guys manage to get away. Zero 1 had a number of medics in their squad too, and once Phase 1 of the assault was over these individuals would move in to tend to the wounded. Police casualties were anticipated to be high.

  Their target was the huge building that dominated the market square. It had the appearance of a small castle. At the centre was one huge circul
ar turret capped by a massive slate roof pointing into the sky. Positioned at equidistant points around its circumference were four smaller and narrower turrets, with a large square blocky keep jutting out between two of these, which contained the front entrance. Red-shuttered windows covered the whole edifice.

  At various times during its life, the building had served as a medieval city gate, where merchants would have their goods weighed. It had also been used as a place where surgeons and medical students performed public dissections. For a while it was the site where murderers and thieves would be executed, their heads lobbed off with a guillotine on the cobbled square. More latterly it was renovated as a popular café where tourists and office workers would gather for lunch. Named The Waag, it was one of Amsterdam’s principal sightseeing spots. Crazy to think that it was currently being used as the main HQ for the most wanted criminals in The Netherlands, who were hiding right in the heart of the city.

  With their instructions received and passed on to their men, the two main assault squads quietly took up position. Wearing breathing masks and night-vision goggles, the heavily armed men placed small directional explosive charges on their designated entry-points, and set the timers at ten seconds.

  In near-perfect synchronization the charges blew in a huge rippling, explosive blast that crashed out over the square. The shock wave blew out several windows of nearby buildings and set off multiple car alarms. The doors of the building caved inwards, blown off their hinges, and Dyatlov, being the first man, threw in first a flash-bang and then a tear gas/smoke grenade, and went charging through the entrance with his assault rifle tucked into his shoulder. Without needing to look he knew his men were right behind him.

  The Waag

  ◆◆◆

  The series of powerful explosions shook the huge building, causing the ancient walls to shudder, and trickles of dust fell from the ceiling of the small room onto those seated below. A grinding and rending noise came from the passage just outside, and more dust billowed through the iron doorway in a dense cloud.

  For a handful of seconds nobody moved, frozen rigid with shock.

  Then Lotte came to her feet, and her countenance had changed: now a heavy scowl marred her beautiful features, a furious anger bubbling to the surface.

  “They’re here,” she spat. “Bart! Arm our people!”

  Bart, who was the only one grinning with the thrill of what was happening, pointed down into the pit, at the chained-up man now completely submerged under the water. “What about him?”

  “Forget him. He’ll be dead in a minute anyway. Go! Go! Your sister is in danger!”

  This was enough to spur Bart into action. He took one final glance down at the thrashing, drowning figure, and then charged through the iron door. The robed men and women followed him, along the short passage where part of the ceiling had come down and back through the curtain into the larger round room. He led them underneath one of the arches leading to the catacombs. Here was a small wooden door set into the old stone wall, and he pulled this open and darted into the storage room beyond. This was their arsenal, rack after rack of modern assault rifles, semi-automatics, Uzi snub-nosed machine guns, grenades, RPG’s and SA-7 Grail shoulder-launched missiles, Russian-made RPK light machine guns, plastic explosives, handguns of numerous kind, and tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition. Bart went to the nearest gun rack and started handing them out. Other robed figures went over to the locked cases and filled their pockets with grenades and magazines of ammunition, whatever they could grab their hands on. The building was large, a veritable rabbit-warren of corridors and annexes and staircases and hidden alcoves, and they each knew the place like the back of their hands. Anybody assaulting the place would find themselves heading into a death trap. They may have breached the entrances, but after that, they would pay for every inch of ground they gained in blood.

  Weapons arsenal

  ◆◆◆

  Pieter was aware that something was going on. He’d felt the concrete beneath him shudder, and the water in the pit had washed violently from side to side, some of it splashing out onto the floor of the room. This was a godsend – if only a brief one – for suddenly his face was clear of the water as the level dropped several inches. He snatched in great gulps of air, coughing and gasping, and when the water cleared from his eyes he saw that the room was now empty of people. He looked around, but from down in the pit he couldn’t really see much, apart from the rotting corpse still sitting there. The others, including Lotte, had fled.

  Yet lying there and still chained to the floor, with the water still gushing out through the grate, his respite was set to be short-lived.

  Once the reverberations from the blasts echoed away, the silence inside seemed just as deafening to Dyatlov. He moved forward cautiously. The smoke was so thick that without the night-vision goggles clamped over his eyes, he doubted he be able to see anything. As it was, the world was a strange, flickering green-coloured place, criss-crossed with the beams from his and his men’s laser sights.

  Sliding down one wall, and with another assault-team member similarly hugging the opposite wall, he eased forward along a short corridor.

  Part way down, the passage was interrupted with a short flight of stairs going upwards, before the corridor continued, then disappeared around a bend to the right.

  There was no sound of fighting coming from anywhere else in the building, no shooting or yelling or more flash-bangs going off. Just this peculiar quietness.

  Dyatlov froze. Footsteps somewhere, rushing up a staircase from the sound of it. Then running feet overhead. He jerked a thumb upwards, indicating the floor above them. Black Team should be up there dealing with that. Their job was here on the ground-floor level, as well as down in the basement area.

  He finally reached the turn in the corridor and he whipped around the wall, aiming straight ahead. A closed door confronted him at the end, and he and his squad approached cautiously.

  In the wall behind them a hidden panel slid silently aside.

  Three or four masked figures wearing their dark robes emerged from the shadows, raised their guns, and opened fire into the backs of the knot of police just ahead.

  The corridor erupted with violence and noise. Taken completely by surprise, a handful of Dyatlov’s men went down in a spray of blood. The sound of gunfire and screaming overwhelmed his senses, and this was taken up throughout the building as the din of battle shattered the tension.

  Dyatlov, being at the front, was shielded by those behind, and he spun and ducked. There was total pandemonium in the corridor, with several of his men lying prostrate on the floor. Charging towards them were three figures dressed in bizarre robes, their faces hidden behind dark masks. As they ran full pelt along the hall they were firing from the hip, the muzzle-flashes blinding him through his goggles.

  Dyatlov fired on instinct, preying he didn’t hit any of his own men, and was rewarded with the sight of two of their attackers going down. A third was flung back against the wall, two red bullet holes blooming across their chest. Slowly their legs buckled and they slid down to the floor, leaving a slick trail of blood on the wall.

  The corridor was thick with swirling smoke but the shooting here had stopped. Elsewhere he could hear the sound of prolonged firing, plus the dull concussion of grenades. Over his communications ear-piece came shouted instructions and warnings, relayed from the fighting above:

  “Shooters to the left!”

  “Room clear! Two down, condition unknown!”

  “Grenade, grenade!” Another thud of an explosion. “Six in the corridor, three on the stairs. Zero 1, send a half squad!”

  Fuck! Dyatlov thought. What a fucking shit storm!

  He made a snap decision. He ordered four of his squad to proceed through the closed door they had been approaching, while he and the two remaining men would come with him through the secret panel from where the gunmen had appeared. Wherever it led to. As for their wounded, protocol was for them to press on regard
less, and not to stop and administer medical aid.

  Dyatlov stepped around the dead and dying and tried to ignore the moans of agony. As he passed by he again noted the robed figure slumped down in a sitting position against the wall. The person’s demon-mask had fallen away, and he saw the face underneath was that of a young woman, perhaps only a teenager, with short hair and a deathly-white face.

  Dyatlov shrugged inwardly. This was no time for introspection. They had a job to do.

  Carefully he and his two team-members stepped through the wood panel.

  On the other side, a set of stone steps led downwards. Part way down was a small landing, and a turn, before they continued to the basement level.

  Leading the way, Dyatlov slowly descended, his breath coming in harsh gasps and his heart pounding in his chest. He reached the landing and was about to continue when a sudden burst of automatic fire opened up on them from below, shattering the wall just inches from his head. Chips of plaster and brick flew into his face, stinging his cheek. He flinched back, and his heels jammed back against the step behind him, and he went down on his backside, a fucking sitting duck he thought. But one of his colleagues, named Dirk he remembered, fired two quick shots, and Dyatlov saw another robed figure slump to the floor at the bottom.

  While he was picking himself up Dirk dashed down into the shadows, and then reappeared seconds later.

  “Clear!” he shouted.

  Dyatlov joined him with the third team-member. “Thanks,” he mumbled quietly.

  The three of them stepped through another open door, this one disguised to look like a brick wall, and stopped. They were at the end of yet another passage. To their left part of the ceiling had come down, spilling wooden joists onto the floor. Beyond this was a curtained partition. Immediately to their right, a heavy iron door, partially ajar. Dyatlov lifted two fingers and pointed left. He went through the iron door on his own.