by Peter Hartog
My eyes tingled as I focused on the targeting display. I noted the proximity sensors tracking the distance between me and the incoming welcoming committee, blockages of sightlines, as well as options for round type, sniper scope, infrared, and night-time modes. It was like being thrown into one of those virtual first-person arena games the kids all raved about, except with live rounds and real-life bad guys. I felt a momentary queasiness while my eyes adjusted, but adrenaline overrode it as instinct and training took hold. With gun and badge in hand, I stalked across the short distance between us and certain death, then rounded the corner.
“SCU!” I announced in a commanding voice, brandishing the badge. “Drop your weapons, get on your knees, and put your hands behind your heads.”
Two rough-looking men wearing black camouflage, combat boots, and carrying semi-automatics stopped in their tracks.
“Do I need to draw you a picture?” I growled, the anger rising in my voice. “You’re under arrest. Drop your goddamn weapons and get on your goddamn knees!”
In that moment, confusion fled from their eyes, replaced by desperation.
They didn’t hesitate, and neither did I.
Using the precise aiming guidance of the targeting sensor, a red line visible only to my retina which ended at the center of the first man’s forehead, I shot him before he could pull up the weapon in his hands. The gun exploded with a loud crack and a jerk of my arm, but I was ready for the recoil this time. He crumpled, blood and bits of brain decorating the wall like an Escher drawing. In the same motion I fired again, and the bullet tore through the second man’s chest.
I faced the camera on the wall and blew it to smithereens.
“Holy shit, Doc!” Leyla exclaimed as she and the others caught up to me.
Her pale features turned a shade greener at the sight of the two dead men and the twin pools of blood saturating the corridor.
“So much for them,” Deacon stated.
“Yeah,” I replied, and holstered the gun, my mouth set in a grim line. “Watch my back.”
A quick search of the first man’s pockets produced a holo-ID that displayed the name John Adam Smith and a local address. Crackling communication broke the echoing silence. I looked for its source and noted the earpieces each dead man wore.
I grabbed the other guy’s piece since it was less messy.
“Mahoney needs to get me one of them when this is over,” Deacon said.
“You’d give up the truncheon?” I asked, some tension leaving me as I reattached the badge to my belt.
Deacon shifted, twirled the consecrated weapon, then offered me a sunny smile.
“Not on your goddamn life, Holliday.” His tone sobered as he gestured toward the bodies and the camera with one hand. “They’ll come in force now.”
“Let them,” I said. “But if I’m right, that won’t matter. This place is about to become a ghost town.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Deacon chuckled dryly.
My gaze softened.
“Crain’s been using mercs, and it looks like they’re all wired to the same network.” I held up the communications device. “There’s got to be a control room here, and at least one or two exit routes to the streets above.”
The earpiece spat and popped with life again as several people hollered at once.
“Clear the line! Clear the fucking line!” a man’s voice shouted. “Facility is compromised! Repeat, facility is compromised! Initiating shut-down protocol, and alerting gold command.”
“Rumpelstiltskin,” I muttered darkly. “Has to be.”
The man repeated the order, then the communicator went dead.
“What has goldjoy got to do with any of this?” Leyla asked.
“Not sure, kiddo,” I answered, glancing back at the earpiece I’d discarded. Things started to make a little more sense, just not enough for me to connect the dots. “But I think I know at least one thing Crain’s stashed down here.”
Our run-in with the cleaners and the theory that the ECPD communications network had been compromised by meddling third parties was one thing. But armed mercenaries in a secret underground complex run by vampires and who-knew-what-else was entirely different.
Wait, did I just think that?
“Vampires and drug lords.” I took a deep breath, then gave Deacon a rueful smile.
“Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet, Holliday,” he chuckled. “Come down to Birmingham someday. I’ll show y’all a good time.”
I shook my head in bemusement.
“What now, Doc?” Leyla asked. “You think Rumpelstiltskin is even here?”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “I don’t think Rumpel hangs out with the hired help.”
No more guards came at us during our brief respite, which meant Crain’s mercenaries were following the evac order. And there remained the odd feeling Besim picked up from whatever lay down the opposite corridor.
“Those men were stationed in there for a reason.” I nodded toward the door, sounding more confident than I felt. “We need to keep the pressure on them while their pants are down.”
I checked the ammunition counter on the HUD, although I hadn’t used much so far. All systems were operable and at full efficiency.
Good, because we were going to need it.
I set the gun to semi-automatic with a satisfying click.
“Shoot our way through?” Deacon grinned. “Now you’re talking, Holliday!”
I grimaced, looking from Leyla to Besim, and finally back to him. “Stay behind this door until I say it’s okay to follow.”
Before I moved, Besim reached out and wrapped her hand in mine.
“Be careful, Thomas Henry Holliday,” she said, surprising me.
We locked gazes for a moment, then moved to stand beside Deacon. I nodded to them, crouched low and pulled the door open carefully, gun leading in my other hand. I crept forward, poised and calm. Warmth tingled through my hand where Besim’s fingers had rested.
It felt both strange and soothing.
The room beyond was dim and quiet, broken only by the soft and steady thrum of working machinery from below. I switched to night vision. The world around me became tinged in a heavy, grainy yellow-green. On the far wall was a closed metal door, twin to the one I had passed through. A raised metal catwalk high above the floor ran the length of the room’s outer perimeter. Double security cameras were placed at each corner near the ceiling, pointed at a door, or to the room below. They oscillated slowly, red lights fluttering above each device.
I was about to signal the all-clear when movement across the way caught my eye.
A cascade of bullets peppered the wall and door inches above my head. Crying out, I dove to the side. Several more bullets splattered the railing and catwalk, sending up sparks, just missing me. In an instant, the SMART gun’s targeting system locked onto the gun-toting maniac who was using the opposite metal door for cover.
Lying on my side, I bellowed, “Armor piercing!” and squeezed the trigger.
A violent burst of heavy-duty shells blasted both door and man. The satisfying squeal of metal was music to my ears as the bullets obliterated the obstruction, and the mercenary hiding behind it. I counted a slow three, holding the gun toward the door with a steady hand. Smoke wafted from its nozzle in a lazy spiral. No answering gunfire greeted me. I took note of the messy smear painting the wreckage that once housed the door, then looked around.
The subdued lighting cast long shadows, creating pockets of darkness in the corners. I slunk low along the catwalk toward the lone stairway leading to the room below. Indistinct shapes moved, but no one shot at me. The ambient sounds of the room became more pronounced—the clink of glass, liquid bubbling and frothing, the thud of something heavy being dropped, and a steady, whirring grind of gears and machinery.
I reached the top of the stairs, gun at the ready. Night vision revealed humanoid-shaped outlines shuffling between dozens of long tables. I switched back to normal vision to get a better look at the room
.
The metal tables were covered with all manner of equipment, from beakers, flasks, and tubes to small distilleries, burners, condensers, and receivers filled with liquid. A working conveyor belt crossed the room lengthwise. As I watched, covered plastic tubs trundled along and through a square depository hole in the far wall. Two large steel coolers stood to either side of a closed door near the back of the room. None of the shapes let out a cry or said anything.
Jackpot.
“All clear,” I whispered into the earpiece.
I found it strange no one came rushing up the stairs or reacted in any way. Whoever was down there seemed content to wait on me.
Despite my previous misgivings, it was time to call this one in.
“EVI, send an emergency message to Lieutenant Sam Gaffney in the Downtown Narcotics Division,” I instructed in a clear voice. I figured if anyone were listening at this point, we might as well give these guys something more to worry about. “Tell him the Special Crimes Unit has discovered some hard evidence regarding the goldjoy case, and to get here right away.”
“Detective Holliday, Lieutenant Gaffney is not scheduled for duty at this hour,” EVI’s garbled voice explained. “He is currently at his private residence, and his life signs show he is asleep. Should I contact the active officer on duty instead?”
“EVI, you wake Gaffney’s sorry ass up, provide my current location, and have him bring his entire narcotics team,” I ordered harshly. “Officers have engaged heavily-armed personnel and need backup right away. Transmit the recent fire fight to help motivate him.”
“My apologies, Detective Holliday,” EVI replied.
“It’s fine, sweetie,” I said, softening my tone. No need to take anything out on her. She was just doing her job. “Please relay the message first to Mahoney, then wait five minutes and send it to Gaffney.”
There was no point in keeping Special Crimes on the down-low now. Between our encounter with the cleaners, and now this, we were officially on the board. Bill would handle whatever fallout followed. That’s why he got paid the big credits. Hell, I’d let Gaffney and the narcotics team take all the glory. Mahoney could spread the love around, call the whole thing a joint effort between the newly-formed SCU and those guys, and a huge win for ECPD. Knowing Gaffney, he’d eat all that shit up anyway. That self-absorbed prick never shrank from the spotlight. Besides, we had bigger fish to fry, presuming we made it out of here alive.
Deacon and the others joined me at the top of the stairs. The former Protector stopped cold and pointed to the floor below.
“Lord Jesus,” he swore, aghast. “Look at them!”
The indistinct shapes I’d seen through the night vision resolved themselves into full-grown women and pre-adolescent girls. All were naked and emaciated, stick-like scarecrow figures with scraggly hair and sunken eyes. I watched in horror as the women worked mechanically—like stringless, macabre marionettes. They filled small syringe tubes with golden liquid from thin, dangling hoses, and stacked them neatly into small plastic containers. Once full, the other girls covered the containers and placed them on the conveyor belt.
My jaw set in a firm line as my temple throbbed.
“I’m going down there.”
Leyla’s hand on my arm stopped me. A sliver of intense cold followed her touch. I shivered.
“If any guards were still around, they would’ve shot at us already,” I said, removing her chilled hand gently, while indicating the cameras throughout the room. “Just keep an eye on the doors in case someone decides to crash the party.”
As I slowly descended the narrow metal stairs, none of the workers reacted to my arrival. It was eerie watching them labor in silence. There were no smiles or grimaces, no grunts of effort or small talk, and none of them ever looked at each other. Their slack and drawn faces held little more than dull resignation, as if even an end to their misery would be as meaningless as everything else.
One pale-haired little girl paused in her movements, and watched my approach with dead, indifferent eyes. She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. A closed container was clutched in her skinny arms. I gave her what I hoped was a friendly smile. She dismissed me without blinking and placed the box on the conveyor belt.
“Hey there, sweetie,” I spoke softly, holstering the gun as I approached her. “My name’s Tom, and I’m a police officer. I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”
I kept my movements slow and deliberate, and crouched before her with a creak of old knees. She regarded my silver badge with the same dead expression, then resumed stacking the small golden tubes into a new empty container.
I noticed a thin hose filled with a dull crimson and gold liquid running from her inner thigh into a squat metal machine set in the floor beneath the table. The machine’s face held a monitor indicating what I took to be her vital signs, as well as other numbers whose purpose I could only guess. Even to my untrained eye, the numbers appeared low.
I craned my neck to see all the workers were attached to similar devices, with dozens of hair-thin filament hoses connecting each monitor to the next. Long glass tubes sprouted from the tops of the devices, and up through the bottom of the table into other pieces of hardware. From there, additional hoses full of the mixed liquid were connected to more machinery. The whole thing reminded me of the George Washington Bridge linking Washington Heights to Fort Lee, except instead of using steel cable and concrete, this was puzzled together by some mad scientist using tubes, hoses and wires.
The child moved past me to deposit another container onto the conveyor. As she did, I noticed dozens of cuts and abrasions marring her face.
I peered at her more closely, and gasped.
“What the hell?”
“Holliday, what’s going on?” Deacon’s voice floated down from the catwalk above.
I brought the badge closer to the girl. In its silver radiance, the number 9 was etched in what I hoped was ink on her forehead, just below the hairline.
“What’s happened to you?” I whispered hoarsely.
She didn’t respond.
I drew the badge down and along her body. Puncture wounds decorated her malnourished and bruised neck, wrists and inner thighs, as if she’d been bitten repeatedly by a large animal.
Or a vampire.
“Get down here!” I shouted, choking on the hot tears boiling down my face. “All of you, get down here now!”
Chapter 26
The light from my badge limned the little girl’s thin face in silver, the number 9 stark against her pale skin. I stood up, took a steadying breath, and edged backward a few steps. Once outside the range of the light, hungry shadows fell on her like a tide, restoring the gloom. She resumed her work, while the embers of my anger settled into a slow, dull ache.
Leyla rushed down the stairs to my side, crystal tears forming on her cheeks. I drew her close. She sobbed into my shoulder, and the onrush of her despair was a physical blow. My legs buckled, but I held up and lay my cheek against the top of her head briefly, my own spirits diminishing in return.
The Insight was absent. I was glad there wasn’t a need a for it. Rumpel’s drug lab and his zombie workers were bad enough. Seeing this unfiltered through the Insight’s magical lens would’ve sent me over the edge. The Insight had always been finicky, and I was never certain when it would show up, or why. Some days I thought I had it under control, and others, like right now, was just a crapshoot. I knew madness lurked at the end of my road. It was the price I’d eventually pay for everything the Insight had indelibly printed on my soul.
“But not today,” I muttered with grim resolve, shelving those thoughts for another time. “Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.”
There was no rest for the weary, or the wicked. Besides, rest was for quitters.
And I had a job to do.
Besim moved past us, calmly taking in the room, the equipment and the workers. She knelt before the girl who had stopped working at the Vellan’s approac
h. Still and mute, the child’s eyes were downcast and lost.
Leyla stepped away from me. The negative feelings she had projected onto me vanished like an afterthought. Only the bitter chill, my smoldering anger and a burning desire to hunt down Rumpelstiltskin, Orpheus, and anyone else involved in the case remained. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed Deacon had taken a position on the last two steps. He appeared ready to leap into action, taut as a wire.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” I asked him, hooking the badge to my belt. The silvery halo surrounding me winked out.
For the first time since I’d met the man, Deacon Kole was at a loss for words. I had expected some profanity-laden tirade about my ignorance of the wider world, and how monsters were very real. Instead, a strange look crossed his face. Deacon shifted his weight, as if unsure how to stand. His eyes locked with mine. We shared a moment, two men helpless in the face of unspeakable abuse and pain.
“Number Nine,” Besim addressed the girl in a soft voice, breaking our trance.
My skin prickled. At the mention of the name, the child looked up.
“I am Besim. I will not hurt you.”
She gently examined Nine, lifting one stick arm after the other before leaning toward the little girl’s chest, head tilted. After a few breaths, Besim traced the fingers of her left hand over and around the crown of Nine’s head several times, then tenderly down her cheek. Despite the shadows, Besim’s face and neck tattoos stood out prominently, the whirling patterns filled with a strange, ambient light. A faint humming sound grew at the edge of my hearing. It grew in timbre and depth, and I realized it wasn’t coming from the machinery.
Besim had begun to sing.
It was an ethereal melody akin to the one back at Armin’s. The song’s gentle fingers reached deep inside of me, tugging at memories of people and places long past. Besim’s music carried me to all the nooks and crannies of my mind where those memories slept, knocked off the dust, and coaxed them to life.
I saw my mother, hale and whole, when her cheeks were still rose-colored, and her blue eyes were filled with joy. I watched Harry grumble good-naturedly while playing another round of cribbage with Abner at Uncle Mortie’s. Long nights at the ECU library poring over stanza upon stanza of iambic pentameter, and the joy of discovering Shakespeare and the other literary giants for the first time. The mouth-watering aroma of an original Vito’s meatball pie pulled hot from the oven at his restaurant down on Brighton Beach Avenue. My mouth filled with the phantom flavors of oregano and garlic as if I’d just taken a bite. Images of Kate surfaced, of those secret moments when we’d steal away from Wallingbrooke for a few quiet hours together.
