“So much for waiting for backup, I guess?”
Beckwith grabbed his phone, tapped out a quick text message to Argosy, and slid his Glock out of its holster. “Let’s do this, kid.”
Helen
San Francisco, California—Wednesday evening
The new arrival was tall and broad-shouldered. Dressed all in black, he wore a long topcoat and carried a shiny black walking stick. A glistening, polished obsidian ball topped its length and nearly disappeared into the span of his broad hand. His head was clean-shaved, though he affected a closely-trimmed beard of steel gray hair.
Walter, Helen and her crew, and the new arrival studied each other in silence before she took the initiative to speak. “We’re having a private meeting, sir. You’ll have to come some other time.”
The new arrival cocked his head to one side and smiled. “We seem to be at a bit of an impasse, then, love,” the tall man said. Despite the subdued class of his outfit, his accent was pure Cockney. “I’ve come too bloody far to leave empty-handed, and you don’t seem predisposed to letting me conduct my business this very night.”
“Maybe you should leave, then,” Kelsey hissed. She cupped a handful of roiling liquid fire in one hand. Helen gritted her teeth at the display in front of a mundane, then checked the reaction. If her display of power intimidated the Brit, he didn’t show it. She looked at the newcomer with fresh eyes and resisted the urge to wince.
“Put that away,” Helen said, keeping her tone mild. “We’re just talking here.” She licked suddenly dry lips. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Knight?”
He raised an eyebrow, then winked. “I don’t suppose I should be surprised to be recognized in a fine establishment such as this. Though I must confess that I can’t imagine why dear Walter looks so terrified of you lot.”
She smiled in genuine amusement, though it was undercut with more than a little fear. “Well, there are seven of us, Aleister. My name is Helen Locke. I’m traveling incognito, at the moment.”
Knight gave her a significant head-to-toe glance. “I’ve heard of you,” he said dismissively. “Incognito’s the word, I suppose.” He winked again. “Lucked into some of Lizzie Bathory’s old notebooks, eh?”
“Perhaps.”
“Care to compare notes?”
She batted her eyelashes. “Why, Mr. Knight, we’ve just met. You don’t expect a girl to spill all her secrets on the first date, do you?”
He shook his head and smirked. “Next time, perhaps.” Knight’s tone grew more serious. “Word is, you’re not set up as well as you once were.”
“Oh, but we’re getting along so well. Your reputation has only brushed the surface of your foresight, good sir. Surely you didn’t come all this way to thump your chest and piss on the bushes.”
He bared ferocious white teeth. “I can take seven. I’ve faced longer odds.”
Her blood went cold, and she willed herself to keep her face composed. “I believe it. But there’s no need for that. And surely you don’t want to create an incident when you can simply claim what you came for and be on your way. Our business need not interfere with yours.”
Knight turned his head and stared at Walter. “That right, is it?”
“They’re not here for anything of yours, Aleister. This is bad timing, that’s all.”
“More than you know,” Helen confirmed. “From your nonchalance, I’m guessing dear Walter hasn’t told you about the federal agents in the vehicle outside.”
“That so? You about to sell me out, Walter?”
“No, no—nothing like that, Aleister. Please believe me.”
“Perhaps as a show of good faith, you can claim what you came for and leave via the rear entrance, Mr. Knight.” Helen turned and favored Walter with a smile. “And I’m sure Walter will be more than happy to give you a significant discount.”
Despite the overwhelming odds facing him, the shop keep’s eyes boggled. “Are you out of your mind, woman? Do you have any idea what the thing cost?”
“Shut up,” Helen pushed. “Don’t speak until I release you.”
Walter’s lips slammed together, and he brushed at them with trembling fingers.
Aleister Knight chuckled in approval. “Well, well. I see the rumors have understated things a bit.”
“You have no idea, my dear.” She indicated the door to the rear half of the shop. “Shall we?” He nodded, and she signaled the girls to stay where they were. “Move it, Walter. You and you, come along, as well.” The two familiars flanked the trembling shopkeeper and shoved him into the back room. Antique furniture, much of it in various states of repair and restoration occupied workbenches throughout the back of the building. The area was no larger than the front of the shop, but it was much less cluttered and didn’t feel quite as claustrophobic.
Helen indicated a hulking steel safe that lined the wall next to an old roll-top desk. “Move it aside, boys.”
The familiars took hold of the steel block and heaved. The contents clunked and rattled as it pivoted, then fell to the floor with a floorboard-shaking crash.
Walter moaned behind clenched lips, but Helen ignored it. She glanced at Knight and indicated the bare drywall where the safe had once stood. “Our friend here is a middling talent, but he does have a nifty little spell to patch holes in his wall. Tear open, hide, repair, repeat as needed.” She chuckled. “He also has the tendency to talk too much when he’s drinking.”
She indicated the appropriate area, and the familiars punched into the wallboard, tearing back chunks of paper and gypsum. Their efforts revealed a small shelf, set about waist height between two of the vertical studs. A handful of butcher-paper wrapped rectangles—about the size of books—leaned against the stud on the left, while a long cardboard cylinder leaned to the right.
“The tube, I assume.”
Knight dipped his head in a restrained bow. “I’ll be sure to spread the word that you are one not to underestimate, love.” One of the familiars handed him the cardboard tube. As he tucked it under his arm, something inside vibrated, on the razor’s edge of the audible range.
Knight grasped her hand delicately in one of his own and brought it to his lips. “The experience has been enchanting, shall we say, my lady. If you ever find yourself on the other side of the pond, look me up.”
She smirked. “Perhaps I will,” she said. “Your exit is that way, Mr. Knight.”
He hustled through the rear of the building and pushed the exit door open. It hissed shut behind him, then settled back into place with a much louder clicking noise.
Helen turned to the hole in the wall and pulled the paper-wrapped parcels out one at a time. There were five in total, and she handed them off to one of the waiting familiars. Need to get the girls to name them or something. “I have to say, Walter, I’m actually a little bit impressed. I figured you’d have sold this stuff out from under your buyers to save your own skin.” She glanced over, realized her error, and added, “You may speak now.”
His lips parted, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m bent, not stupid. You have any idea what those savages do to magic they deem to be too dangerous? They destroy it. These spells are living, breathing history. In some archive, or reduced to a pile of ashes, they’re nothing.”
The sudden rhythmic pounding that made its way through the walls of the store froze Helen until she realized that it was. Gunfire. In a rage, she rounded on Braun. “Where’s the alarm, Walter? You sell us out?”
He raised a placating hand and shouted. “No! Of course not! I…”
She didn’t bother to wait for his explanation. She flicked her hands in a quarter-circle at the wrist. Spectral force caught Walter, lifting him off his feet. He tumbled twice before slamming face-first into the fallen safe. Blood splattered across the black paint, and he choked for air through a mouth suddenly filled with shards of bone and splintered teeth.
He’d live, but not for long. Either way, she had more important things to concern herself with.
> “Come along, boys. Someone just started a war.”
Agent Beckwith
San Francisco, California—Wednesday evening
It was all going swimmingly until the back door of the full-size van opened and disgorged a pair of identical twins.
Beckwith’s entire focus had been on the front of the antique shop, but to his credit, he pivoted in the street and trained his sidearm on the two new arrivals. A car honked at the gathering. The driver must have recognized the weapons on display after the fact because he shifted into reverse and peeled out.
“Federal agent,” Beckwith barked. “On the ground, now!”
Neither of the two reacted, other than to spread apart as they stalked closer. Out of site, the van’s side door slid open, and he heard a pair of heavy boots land on the sidewalk.
The odds were starting to look worse with every passing second. The twins rushing him had halved the distance. “On the ground!” he repeated, but neither seemed inclined to obey. He twisted slightly at the hips and fired twice. Blood bloomed on the right twin’s chest. He had a split-second to recognize that the wound didn’t so much as slow him down before the attacker reached him and snatched his shooting hand. He tried to fire again, but pain surged up his arm. Beckwith cried out, then a titanic blow to his chest drove the wind from him and lifted him off his feet.
He landed on the opposite sidewalk, and the impact sent still waves of agony cascading up his injured arm. He tried to lift it, to fire again, but it wouldn’t obey his mental commands. Beckwith looked down, and just as soon wished that he hadn’t. The attacker had shattered his radius and ulna at the wrist, and his hand flopped, empty and useless.
He looked back to the road and saw his sidearm laying on the yellow line. It might as well have been a mile away for all the opportunity he’d have to get to it.
The attackers bent low to the ground, and he realized all at once that their motions were like nothing human. They were feral, intent. The blood dripping from the wounded one had turned from crimson to a deep, putrid shade of black. Familiars. Ah, hell.
They eased toward him in an almost playful fashion. And why not? As far as they were concerned, there was no way for him to get out of this mess.
Even federal agents had to think twice about hauling military-grade hardware around in a major metropolitan area. For that reason, Beckwith had ordered Reed to stay back at the Crown Vic. Rolling on his side, he pushed himself to his feet with his good arm and shouted, “Light ‘em up, Ranger!”
As posh and touristy as Haight Street was, a couple of gunshots were not completely outside the realm of possibility. Methodical, aimed bursts from an assault rifle were not quite so easy to ignore. If there was any shouting or screaming from the busier areas to the west, he couldn’t hear it over Reed’s shooting.
Cradling his arm to his chest, he sprinted toward the Crown Vic. The M-4 rattled, then fell silent. Reed popped a fresh magazine in and resumed firing in the space of a few footsteps. Glittering brass already littered the ground at his feet.
Beckwith stole a glance to his right. Reed stitched a row of black-seeping wounds up one familiar’s torso. It staggered forward, then collapsed. Before it hit the ground, Beckwith saw enough bullet holes in its torso to make him wonder if Reed had enough ammunition.
The younger agent looked his way, then shouted, “Move your ass!”
He took Reed at his word. He snapped his head forward and redoubled his efforts. Every step jostled his broken arm and sent waves of agony up to his shoulder, but that was far more palatable than having two of those things get their hands on him.
The blast of fire hit the Crown Vic when he was still twenty feet away. The intense white flames lapped up and over the driver’s side of the vehicle in a fashion that seemed more liquid than was natural. Reed recoiled from his position on the hood, and the fire surged toward him. The front tires exploded with sudden bangs, and his shriek joined the cacophony as blazing tendrils split, then wrapped around his body. Without time for another cry, the heat intensified and the stench of burnt pork washed over Beckwith as the figure of his young partner collapsed into a pile of ash.
Beckwith recoiled, turning to face the road and planting his back against the wall of the nearest building. He had a snub-nose .357 in an ankle holster, but he didn’t know if he’d be able to draw it and fire with his off hand. Reloading was out of the question.
The first familiar put a boot on the edge of the sidewalk, but both of them froze, cut off by a high-pitched shriek. “Stop!”
He glanced over in time to see the stacked blonde cuff one of the other women on the side of the head. She leaned in and muttered something in her ear. The second woman shot daggers in Beckwith’s direction, but she nodded and stepped back.
“Secure him, boys.” The blonde took a prim step up onto the sidewalk as each familiar grabbed an arm. He grimaced at the renewed agony and wished he’d run a bit faster. He suspected that burning alive with Reed would have been a more desirable fate than what he was about to suffer.
“Ease up on his arm. That’s no way to conduct a conversation.” The familiar shifted its grip upward, and she nodded in satisfaction. “There, that’s better. What’s your name?”
He gave a moment’s consideration to refusing to answer, but what was the point? She’d just compel him to speak. “JD Beckwith.”
“A pleasure. You can call me Helen.” She paused as though waiting for a reaction, then narrowed her eyes. “You don’t seem surprised by my name. Division M, I presume?”
“Yes.” He said it through gritted teeth, but the admission was an easy one, to his chagrin.
“How long has your team had my picture?” He shrugged and said nothing. With a sigh, she continued. “I’m going to give you a moment. If you don’t answer the boys will have a contest to see who can tear an arm off first.”
“Not long. A couple of hours, maybe.”
She smiled. “Now, isn’t that better? Would you happen to know the whereabouts of my son, Agent Beckwith?”
He blinked in surprise. “I—no, I don’t.”
“Pity. Who might know, do you think? Newquist, perhaps?”
He winced at her mention of the boss’s name, then wondered if she knew anything or if she was fishing. Either way, he’d given up the store with his reaction. Reed would have done better here.
“I see.” Helen patted his jacket pockets and retrieved his cell phone. “Code?”
A heretofore unknown well of strength rose up inside him, and he clenched his teeth. The rest of his life most likely numbered mere minutes, but he could damn sure not go out like a coward.
She glanced up, gauged his expression, and sighed. “Code,” she said, but this time, there was more weight behind the word. The volume was no different, but it was suddenly the only thing Beckwith could hear, and when he opened his mouth to obey, a wave of happiness overwhelmed the terror and agony gripping his body. “5-8-7-0-4-6.”
“Excellent.” Helen flicked through screens, stopped, and smiled. “Perfect. Now, Agent Beckwith, this is going to be a bit uncomfortable, but it will all be over soon.” She raised the phone. The flash illuminated, dazzling his eyes. When it didn’t turn off, he realized that she’d activated the video function. Before he could ponder much on that, a spike of cold something pierced his brain. He stiffened, the agony building to a crescendo. When his lips began moving, the voice that issued from his throat was his own, but the words did not belong to him. He struggled to scream, to change the message, but everything was cold, and there was nothing he could do.
The flash went out. The frigid sensation departed with it and left him with a dull aching sensation in his head. He sagged, physically exhausted. It took a herculean effort to raise his eyes, but when he did, he saw Helen Locke tapping away on his phone. It beeped, and she smirked in silent satisfaction. “There. Thank you for your assistance, Agent Beckwith.” She looked over her shoulder. “Kelsey?”
The chastised girl replied, “Yes
?”
“Burn him.”
CHAPTER 11
Helen
San Francisco, California—Wednesday night
The van had taken a couple of rounds in the exchange with Division M, and nothing screamed ‘look at me’ to a cop more than a vehicle with bullet holes. A few pieces of duct tape made a good enough patch to keep gawking do-gooders from calling the police.
A veritable storm of flashing lights was visible in the rearview mirror until Helen turned north and headed toward the financial district. The conference she’d attended while still working for the university was paying off in full. The streets weren’t entirely unfamiliar to her. With the aid of the navigation screen in the dashboard, she’d gotten them well away from Walter’s shop in short order.
Despite the lateness of the hour, she found an open parking garage and pulled the van down to the lowest level. The potential that Division M could come down on them at any moment hovered over them like the Sword of Damocles, and though she felt confident that they could more than handle themselves against anything the government could bring to bear, any fight would be an untenable delay in her timetable.
“Keep an eye out,” she muttered to Kelsey, in the passenger seat. “There isn’t a lot to choose from down here. We may have to split up into two vehicles.”
Giselle called out from the rear of the van. “What about Bo and Ed?”
She turned in the seat, frowning in confusion, then realized. The ill-fated Division M agents had injured two of the familiars, and apparently, the girls had given them names. “They’ll heal faster than you or I would. Patch the big holes as best you can and give them some beef jerky.” She glanced at Kelsey. “You named them?”
“A thru F,” the little witch said with a grin. “Al, Bo, Cal, Deke, Ed, and Frank.”
“Whatever,” Helen muttered. It was easier than calling them ‘hey, you,’ at least. Maybe we can get some name tags. “Here come a couple of people,” she observed. The man and woman stepped out of the glass-enclosed elevator foyer and leaned into each other as they moved across the parking garage. They moved out of her line of sight. Kelsey craned her head to one side.
Night's Black Agents (Paxton Locke Book 2) Page 9