Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “The trap is rather eloquent if you think about it.” Another pause as he listens, nodding, then, “They had to have known something unusual had been added to the library but not what it was, so they set the trap to lie in wait in case it was ever found, thus destroying the item and whomsoever else may have been unlucky enough to be caught in the fire,” then in a musing tone that implies compliment, “Like a very patient fisherman.

  “Well, I don’t know,” he adds after another pause, “If they had just blown up the library, they may not have gotten anyone in the blast. This way, they know at least one person is there. I do not know exactly how they think, Mother, but they do love to kill us if given the chance.”

  “Yes, it is worrisome that they were able to set the trap at all, but the house is gutted, and it seems a poor idea to rebuild. Charleston is working to find us a suitable replacement. Just stay with Nicole until then. I’m sure you two will love to have more time together,” he says in a somewhat teasing tone, and the expression drops after a moment of listening, traded for something very serious, laden with emotion.

  “It was him, Mother. I don’t know how to explain it, but it was him. Somehow, he was triggered to appear, but it … felt like Dad,” he explains, more emotion trickling into his voice. “He was eager to show me the book. I don’t know when or how or where he found it, but it had been in the library all this time. I suppose he was waiting until the right moment to tell me.”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” after further waiting for his mother to talk, “You know him better than I do. You tell me why he did it,” and more time passes as she speaks, “I suppose it may well be related to the breakthrough regarding the second book. We’ll know more tomorrow after my appointment.”

  He listens more, going back to the computer, more tastes taken of the liquid in the glass, and he pulls up files, looking at a photograph along with textual information.

  “I do not believe in coincidence,” he says, “They must know, too, or they highly suspect. Still, this seems too careful, too … slow for them, so I figure their intelligence lags behind ours. If they knew the book was in the collection, they’d probably just steal it.

  “Well, yes, I suppose they know it is there and have discerned the security is too much for them to risk,” he speaks, a subtle cast of sarcasm to his voice, but it is easily detected by one who knows him so well. “Yes, Mother,” he says, exhaling, a short roll of his blue eyes, “I know the school is very wealthy and prestigious, so they may indeed have rather strong protection in place for their collection of rare books,” though his tone suggests he is humoring her.

  “I’ll get as close as I am able tomorrow, and if it turns out it is one of the Three, then I will inquire through the proper channels, make an offer or try to buy or extensively borrow the book or some such,” then a pause as he listens, “Of course that is not normal, but if it is one of the Three, then we must do whatever is within our power. I’ll offer to give the school an endowment if I have to.

  “Hmmm,” he ponders after further listening, “That’s not a bad idea. Let me examine the book first, then if needed, Nicole can come here, but you know that means you’d have to take care of the grandchildren. I am sure you’d hate that,” and now the sarcasm is more evident, along with the teasing, and were anyone else in the room, they’d hear the laughter from his mother emerging through the device, only to dissolve into a normal tone of voice, as he gives ear. “Oh, he’s fine,” then in something of an aside aspect, “I wish he were enrolled at this school, but yes, well, we’ll see about motivating him to not wastes his gifts some other time, or you feel free to give him a call.”

  He chuckles at his mother’s response.

  “Yes, Mom, you sleep well, alright? Give my greetings to Nicole and everyone else. Yes, you, too. I love you, too. Good night.”

  He ends the call, going back to studying information on his screen, drinking more deeply of the dwindling contents in the glass. He pulls up a photograph of the Curator of the library’s rare book collection, reading the dossier attached. He is surprised at the bright red coloring of her long hair, not having expected something so unconventional. Judging from the information about her, they have someone very serious about such tomes in charge, but he has no clue as to any security measures. Still, he is more curious to keep others out. He does not plan to skirt the law in this, so long as he is able.

  *****

  The black Kawasaki Ninja ZX-6R follows the semi-trailer truck at a decent distance along the gently curving roads here outside the city. It is night, and no normally discernable lights emit from the motorcycle, for it is in stealth mode. The customized resonator muffler gives forth little more than a minimal purring as the bike pursues in the wake of the large truck. Its driver’s goggles allow enhanced modes of vision that dispel the usual impediment of driving in the dark without the benefit of conventional illumination. The twin headlamps at the fore of the vehicle are there, but it is obvious they have also been customized. A small device beneath the trailer emits an electronic signal in case sight of the truck is lost.

  The tailing proves easy enough as they finally enter the city. The driver dares to follow closer, though the size of the semi-trailer keeps it from making any sudden turns, even if it were engaged in pro-active efforts of evasion. From what has been discerned prior to this transport trip, little caution has been employed.

  The truck eventually makes it way to the warehouse, still here on the outskirts of the metropolis, driving through the entrance. The metal gates slide closed once the carrier is through, rolling and jiggling, ending in a loud report of the locking mechanism activating.

  “Do you see anything?” emerges a voice over a comlink.

  Two men hold position atop the main building, garbed in dark clothing, looking out over the direction from which the semi-trailer has arrived. One holds a pair of large binoculars, the other peers through a sophisticated scope attached to a suppressed sniper rifle. “Nothing,” replies the man with the binoculars after taking a moment to scan and looking at his comrade for verification, “Anything from the cameras?”

  “Negative,” replies the voice, “We’re monitoring. If anything comes up, we’ll sound the alarm.”

  “So will we. Out,” answers the spotter, then mumbling to the sniper, “Do they think we’re stupid?”

  “Shut up.”

  The motorcycle that had lately been in pursuit of the transport stands now quietly on the other side of a block of buildings across from the warehouse, its theft-deterrent measures engaged. The rider is atop a three story structure, moving low and slow, nearing the edge. Once there, observation is made through quite small binoculars, different modes of view engaged with the touch of a button. Cameras are noticed. They have been seen before, but their increased numbers are evident. The team atop the building is also made, despite being somewhat well hidden. The spotter is too eager, rising up and sweeping with the reflective binoculars too openly. They must be anticipating an arrival.

  An alternate plan is quickly devised, along with considering abandoning the mission. There is doubt that this is merely increased security measures for its own sake. They have finally figured out they are being targeted, despite their time of success and the continued bribes to local law enforcement.

  A frontal assault had also been considered – take out the sniper team and a few cameras, then scale the gate and engage. There is worry, though, for the safety of those inside who are innocent. The risk is too great.

  The motorcycle is left where it is, the rider moving back along the ground, keeping to shadows, though it seems no one is about. The jika-tabi make very little sound on the concrete as the driver sprints across an area of potential exposure, continuing obliquely from the warehouse, moving along the street to gain a different angle of approach.

  It appears that the occupants of the warehouse have placed their expectation on an approach from the front. The number of cameras from this angle is fewer, the wall about the rear tran
sitioning from metal to concrete, visually estimated at around four meters high. Some time is spared for surveillance, taking note that the team on top of the building appears content to only observe a limited field from the forward vantage.

  The rider moves toward the wall with an even, medium speed stride, having chosen an approach that holds in a generous blind spot of the cameras. The left foot finds high purchase, the other coming up as well from the momentum, propulsion carrying as hands work in tandem until they find the top of the wall. The figure crouches low, holding still and quiet, observing for any sign that presence has been detected.

  And there is the semi-trailer, backed into an open bay, its cargo already emptied. Bright lights illuminate that area, even as the large, rolling garage door remains open. A person is spied outside, smoking, a Vz. 61 Skorpion strapped over his right shoulder. The infiltrator atop the wall does not move, merely watching as further drags are taken on the cigarette by the sentry. The man’s eyes scan about somewhat, even coming close to peering at the intruder until the smoke break is done, and with a toss of the butt, he turns and heads back inside through the docking bay, ignoring the adjacent door. Voices are heard from within, and then the cacophony of metal erupts onto the night quiet as the garage door is closed.

  Time to move.

  The figure scurries atop the wall, keeping low, then shifts left with an effortless smoothness, dropping to the inside of the wall, landing upon bent knees, rocking forward a bit to balance with hands, holding place now in an area of shadow. There are other lights here, but they are not as radiant, and a quick scan shows one method of ingress along the warehouse’s brick back wall – a single door positioned in the center, above which hangs a lamp and a camera.

  The FN P90 submachine gun strapped tight to the figure’s torso is taken in both gloved hands, aimed at the camera, the red dot and infrared sight clearly showing the way. A coughing sound is produced by the subsonic ammunition fired through a suppressor, and the camera is rendered ineffective.

  The reaction is somewhat quick, though it does belie the level of readiness and training on the part of the defense here. The team atop the building rushes over, making far too much noise, peering down over the rear of the building, both looking near and far for any sign of an intruder. They see nothing, for the shooter has moved back, staying close to the wall, returning to the loading dock area.

  Two doors then open in quick unison. The rear spills forth two guards, both armed with Skorpions, and one must assume the team on the roof has given some sort of a clear sign to them from their observation above. The two men swing their barrels about, searching somewhat erratically, seeming little concerned with protecting one another or even themselves and blindly hopeful of spotting an intruder.

  The door leading into the garage area gives passage to the one who had just been outside on smoke break, but before he may do much searching, he is surprised from behind by an expert choke hold applied along with full body weight upon his back. He instinctively reaches, hands clasping at the arm about his throat, releasing his hold on the SMG. It dangles there by its shoulder strap. His reactionary struggles are miniscule, ineffective, and within seconds, he is unconscious. Zip-ties are quickly applied to his wrists and ankles just as the other guards begin to realize something is going on.

  Tactical lights shine over the supine body of the guard, moving about as the two on the ground rush over to investigate even as the sniper team atop the building adds their own bright spotlight to the scene. No one else is there.

  “Yuri’s down, tied up,” the spotter speaks into his comlink, “Someone’s on the premises.”

  “We’re going into lockdown, sounding the alarm,” replies the voice on the other end. “Get the intruder, alive if possible.”

  And then a noise permeates the area, not too loud, but loud enough to effectively do its job. Lights also snap on where most of the building had been held in darkness, but there are still areas where one may remain hidden. The two men on the ground rush inside the open door leading to the bay, while those on the roof claim duty over the outside area. They pause once inside, angling weapons up to the noise of approaching footsteps, though it proves to be another guard coming in on the second floor, looking down from a catwalk. They trade rudimentary acknowledgement and hand signals, then get back to business.

  It takes a moment for the one to realize he is alone, and he begins another sort of search here in the large area.

  “Clay?” he calls out, looking around, jerking the barrel of his gun about. “Clay!” he tries more insistently, and then he sees something back in the dark distance, behind a long, tall shelf baring of various items and boxes.

  The form moves, moaning.

  “Clay?”

  He flicks on his tactical beam, shining it to see the his colleague, held at the wrists and ankles by zip-ties, obvious signs of having just regained consciousness and experiencing trouble grasping it.

  “Shit!” comes the adequate assessment, and he turns just as his ears pick up the sounds of approaching feet.

  His finger goes to the trigger of his weapon, and then the gun is knocked from his hands, flying free and scraping across the concrete floor. He barely registers the black-garbed figure, moving so quickly. He tries to strike out, and his attempt is easily dodged. He turns in the direction the blurry intruder has moved only to feel a sharp pain in his side, followed all too quickly by a bloom of pain in his sternum, then his left knee. He crumbles, and the hit to his temple helps him complete his journey to the ground. He is quickly tied and left.

  He cries out, a mixture of pain, frustration, and anger, but no one responds.

  A couple of guards later, and the intruder creeps slowly down a hallway on the second floor. There are openings to either side, no doors, and within most of the cramped rooms are girls and women of various ages, though none look to be older than their twenties, despite the condition of their appearance, and many seem frighteningly young. Some of them lull in the apparent stupor of drugs, others are alert, eyes open wide, watchful, fearful, but all of them are bound in one way or another.

  The infiltrator holds a black-gloved finger over the place where a mouth would be behind the obscuring mask, an easily understood sign. There is no real noise from the women, other than the whimpering cries of some. None of these are probably the recently unloaded “cargo”.

  The space at the end of the hallway turns out to be some sort of break room, with the worn drip coffee maker, Styrofoam cups, small television, and other such common accoutrements for killing time. The unarmed man in here looks as though he is probably the driver of the truck. Once his threat potential has been assessed, the intruder moves into view, looking about.

  The driver cries out, startled, then pushes back against a countertop, trying to increase the distance between himself and the other. He then pulls a knife from a set nearby, brandishing the piece of cutlery. The intruder looks at him briefly, the distance far too great for the man to do any real damage with the impromptu weapon, even had he the training. The man stares, head tilting, brow furrow beneath the cap on his head.

  “You …” he speaks, gesturing with the knife, “You … you’re ... what the-?”

  And a black object is suddenly in the intruder’s hands, aimed, a button pressed and the prongs shoot out on wires, delivering a debilitating shock. The man is taut, held like a bow string, teeth and jaw clenched as the other walks nearer. The button is released, and he slumps, incapacitated. The zip-ties are quickly applied, prongs removed, and the stunner reset.

  A few more minutes pass before it seems all that may be left is the sniper team and those behind the locked door. A door which presumably leads to the command center of the warehouse. Cameras have been disabled along the way, just like the tied up guards.

  “Who is it!” a voice from within demands to the gentle rapping on the door.

  Yes, someone is indeed inside, and moments later, a loud crack of noise indicates the locking mechanism being bre
ached, the controlled force of which thrusts the door open. Gunfire responds almost immediately, and a small object is slid inside the room, exploding with a loud flash of blinding light. The intruder then rolls on the ground from the perpendicular hallway some three meters distant, firing the suppressed P90, wounding the two men in the legs.

  They cry out, falling, still randomly firing their SMG’s, but the attacker has rolled back out of view, simply waiting until they have quickly expended their magazines.

  “He’s here!” a pained voice speaks, “Control room … gaaah,” more outbursts of pain, coupled with the cluttering noise of rushed panic as at least one of the men tries to reload.

  The steady sound of jika-tabi announces the arrival of the intruder, and the one trying to reload sucks in a breath through parted lips and gritted teeth, reeling back as much as he is able until he is struck with the butt of the gun, lapsing into unconsciousness. The SMG is quickly aimed at the other, who greets this with hands raised.

  “I surrender! I surrender!”

  “Turn around; hands behind your back,” emerges a powerful command from behind the mask, the words clear, strong, and confident, delivered from deep within the chest.

  The man nods, feebly, but he displays some confusion. His hands are jerked down sharply, and he grunts in pain as his wrists are tied. A cell phone is retrieved from one of many pockets on the infiltrator’s black, non-reflective suit, buttons pressed, then it is set down on the counter near the man.

  “The police are on their way,” comes the whispered announcement, the man cringing, for the assailant has leaned near, no doubt to also transmit this to the sniper team.

  The intruder stays crouched somewhat low, looking out over the impressive windows to the north and east side of the command room. One can view a good portion of the large warehouse from here, but not all of it. Of course, the cameras were meant to make up for that.

  Is the sniper team waiting, approaching, or did they flee? Exfiltration must occur before the arrival of law enforcement. They would not treat the intruder kindly, for vigilantism is against the law.