Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  The purring motorcycle rockets down the roadway, much further from the city for this jaunt, around 400 kilometers, a few good hours of travel, the trek begun well after dark, arrival slated for well before sunrise, though the window of opportunity is still narrow. Such parameters generally prefer to be avoided to mitigate risk, but urgency grows with this one.

  The vehicle gets left some distance away, off the road in a secure area amidst a small, though thick stand of trees. After parking, the H&K G36C is retrieved from the bag slung over the rider’s shoulders, fore grip, suppressor, and magazine affixed with the apparent ease of familiarity. The landscape out here is mostly flat and cleared as pasture, farmland in use or waiting for its chance to produce. The darkly-garbed rider jogs easily over the earth, coming in from the lightly forested northwest side, the jika-tabi giving forth short-lived, crunchy sounds from the soil and turf.

  The single story farmhouse in the distance is a good choice, what with the easily observed angles of approach in all directions, it being situated here a couple of kilometers outside of the nearby hamlet. The lone figure, though, arrives in the dark of night, the special goggles strapped to the head giving excellent vision. Some sparse illumination does emerge from the small hovel, but it is obviously not intended to thwart intruders. Still, the vigilante is not reckless, and with the appearance of the sniper team and extra cameras and guards at the warehouse, it is obvious they are aware of the attention and taking some counter-measures.

  The wooden structure is longer than it is wide, the front door off-center toward the left side as it faces toward the dirt road that leads to it. A meager porch raises up from the ground to the entryway. The small, southern face shows a single window. Two more are on the front, and the back is similar with a door in the center, three steps leading down from it.

  The approach is slowed as the rider nears, stopping some thirty meters away, crouching, fingertips of one hand pressing against the ground to aid in stability, silently surveilling, listening. This position is held for some time, evidence of patience, until movement is spied within the small house, and the rear door opens. The figure lowers slowly and smoothly to the ground until nearly flat upon it, still watching.

  The lone person, a man, comes out, a Skorpion SMG slung over his shoulder, the weapon at his lower back. It does not seem he is on patrol, merely stretching his legs. He ambles around, moving further away until he stops before a rise of scrub brush, squaring his feet and reaching for his fly with obvious intent. He manages to get mostly done with his urination before he loses consciousness, collapsed to the ground by the quick, silent approach of the figure, any noise made lost to the spluttering sound of his bladder relief. Zip-ties are applied, and the figure moves to the house.

  It will likely not be too long before the knocked-out guard is missed, so the expediency rises. The window to the right of the door is somewhat obscured, but not completely blocked. The night vision goggles are raised, for the single light emits from this room, and a quick peer inside reveals three other men sitting about a dingy, wooden table, bottles, money, and cards giving clear indication of how they pass their time. They exchange quiet words, looking to merely be engaging in casual conversation as they await the return of their fourth. They are all armed. A pump-action shotgun is spied atop the table, along with more Skorpions, though they may be carrying pistols or knives as well.

  The other window is entirely covered by what appears to be a thick, fabric secured from the inside, and it may be a reasonable bet to think the quarry is in this portion of the house. Still, assumptions may lead to danger. Time is short, but more quiet observation is conducted, the figure pulling forth a fiberscope and slipping it through a weakened portion of the window frame to peer inside.

  Darkness cloaks the room, but a narrow cot may be discerned up against the north wall, tucked in close to the west barrier. A covered bundle lies atop it, the light colored hair visible on the portion of the head that is revealed just at the top of the dark blanket. It is obviously the girl, and the slow respiration shows she is alive. The rest of the room is obscured in darkness, but it is quite small and seems incapable of thoroughly hiding anyone from the view of the scope.

  The vigilante retrieves the thin, lengthy tool, scurrying about to the south side of the house even as a plan of attack finds itself formulating. A small breaching charge is secured to the window frame, the fuse-wire lit, and the figure rushes to the rear, waiting at the southern-most window. The loud report comes quickly, mere seconds after the explosive is planted, wood and glass shattering into the room, bringing along an obscuring cloud of detritus along with the obvious concussive force of the tactical bomb.

  The noise covers the coughing spurt of sub-sonic shots being fired through the window, assault rifle held firm, the stock of the compact weapon having been unfolded just before use, aim enhanced through the ACOG, the internal phosphor adding extra illumination. After a series of such expulsions, the attacker uses the barrel to clear out the glass from this window, leaping through with an obvious agility, moving in rapidly, kicking away noticeable weapons that may be in reach of the now supine men.

  Two appear to have been rendered unconscious, the one nearest the window suffering the brunt, and a concerned glance is spared to the bloodied man, though he does breathe for now. The one who had been seated furthest away is splayed out on his back, also obviously breathing and bloodied. The third is in a heap a bit a ways from the toppled table, having fallen back from the charge then taking shots to his legs. He is struggling to move, leaving a thick trail of blood, grunts and moans emerging. He looks up, fright taking his wide eyes as he spies the assailant.

  “No, no!” he pleads, his right arm stretching out, the hand an ineffective defense to the pointed assault rifle.

  The gun is held aimed, even as the vigilante’s left hand drops from the fore grip, and the small, black-painted electroshock weapon is retrieved and used. The wounded man is rendered unconscious rather quickly, and the figure rushes over, momentarily setting down the main weapon in order to pull out the prongs and reset the small device before putting it away. The guard is zip-tied, then checked quickly for any life-threatening wounds.

  Attention is now turned to the other two, and a pistol is noticed near the right hand of the man who had been on the other side of the table, the gun less than a foot from his waist. A few quick steps closes the distance, the H&K again in sure hands and ready to be used, as the handgun is kicked away.

  And the man moves in that moment, motion like a blur as he grabs the ankle of the supporting leg to trip the intruder. Training is evident as the figure reacts instantly, rolling backward and rising in a practiced motion, aiming the G36C at the guard who had been lately playing possum. The gun is knocked away by a powerful kick that causes the other to reel back. The man proves very fast, springing his greater size and bulk to action with his own display of experience.

  A powerful right hook curves forward, the eyes of the highly-trained guard focused like locked steel on his opponent, but it is dodged with a fast duck, taking advantage of the height disparity, bringing up a quick knee to collide sharply with the body. The man takes the hit well, delivering a fierce hook to the torso of the intruder, causing another backward reel and loss of breath, and before a counter-move may be done, the guard takes down his masked opponent, moving atop and choking with both hands, leveraging the weight of his upper body into the deadly hold.

  The vigilante crosses arms atop the dangerous grip of the guard, pushing down, but the other proves too strong, resisting the attempt, hands squeezing off the much needed blood supply and oxygen. Making another quick effort, hips are raised up as high as they can go and brought down with force, striking down with elbows onto the choking arms at the same time, adding power from the abdomen into the movement. The guard’s arms bend from this, and the pressure from the choke is released.

  In that instant of opportunity, the vigilante quickly retrieves the knife strapped to the left shoulder
of the combat harness, stabbing the guard in the upper right arm, burying the sharp, black blade in the bicep. The knife stays in as the man jerks away, and the masked figure brings a knee up high, then thrusting out with a sharp, driving kick to the chest, pushing him back.

  The guard manages to get to his feet quickly, a grimace of anger given to his opponent as he jerks the blade free, holding it now as his own weapon, blood upon it catching the meager lamp light in the room. He rushes, and the vigilante rapidly pulls the 9mm Glock 19 from its leg holster, pointing, holding with both hands, pulling the trigger, and hitting the attacker three times in the chest in tight arrangement.

  The man goes down, struggling for breath, blood spraying from his mouth even as the desperate attempts at respiration produce a horrible sucking sound from the wound. He does not have long.

  Holding the pistol poised and pointed, the figure cautiously moves closer, bending down just enough to grab the knife and re-sheathe it. The pistol is then returned to its holster as the figure runs a quick self-assessment, checking for broken ribs, rubbing on the neck, the black, tactical gloves allowing for sensitivity and precision. Another moment is spared in checking on the mortally wounded man, but nothing may be done at this point to aid him. The other two are given a quick examination, making sure the zip-ties are secured and they are reasonably stabilized from any serious damage. Then, retrieving the assault rifle, the figure heads to the only other room, finding the door unlocked.

  The girl is awake, but her appearance and lack of alertness indicates she is under the effects of drugs. The figure approaches cautiously, both to not needlessly frighten the young lady and in case of any further traps. The man who has been shot displayed awareness and skill far beyond the other sentries. A presumption is made that he was here in anticipation of this arrival, here with intent to kill.

  Soothing, whispered words are issued from behind the mask, further attempts to reassure the girl. She shows signs of coming around, though the stupefying fog of intoxication still shows evident upon her. A pair of steel handcuffs hold her secured to the metal frame of the small bed, attached to her left wrist. The vigilante returns to the other room, finding the key on the one who had been rendered unconscious by the breaching blast.

  “C … call,” emits a pitiful grunt and whine from the other man, the one who has been shot in the legs and shocked, “help … need help.”

  He is no threat, and the figure moves back in to release the girl. Another of the disposable cell phones is used, summoning local emergency services. Their remoteness may result in some time for arrival, but they are not so totally isolated that it should take too long. It is quite possible they were already called in response to the noise of the explosion and pistol shots.

  “The police are on their way,” speaks the whispering voice from behind the mask, “You’ll be fine.”

  The young lady blinks once, very slowly, having trouble with it and having to work to do so. Her head lulls to the right. She manages to weakly nod, moving to try to sit on the edge of the bed, and the person is quick to help. She rubs her left wrist where the cuff had been, then swallows, heavily lidded eyes moving to look again at her savior.

  “Let me get you some water,” speaks the voice, and the figure goes to the kitchenette in the main room, finding a reasonably clean glass and splashing some water into it from the faucet.

  At least the water is clear, and the girl accepts it, needing help to bring it up and have a sip. Sirens are then heard in the distance, and the figure gently guides the girl’s other hand to also hold the glass of water, positioning it in her lap. The reward is an attempt at a smile, and this is more than enough.

  By the time the local police enter the farmhouse to assess the bloody scene, the vigilante is gone.

  *****

  Skot is greeted at the secure door to the Rare Collections room by an unfamiliar face, a young woman with dark blonde hair and something of a plain, if not utilitarian appearance to her.

  “Good morning, Mr. Felcraft. I am Amanda Honeycutt. Miss Perhonen sends her apologies, but she took an unexpected sick day today.”

  “Aaah, I see,” he replies, making a very good effort of hiding the sharp spike of concern which rises inside him. “Well,” he smiles politely, “I do hope she gets well soon, and very nice to meet you.”

  She returns the smile, then leads the way into the room.

  He offers her thanks, seating himself at his usual table, setting up his laptop, the advanced machine surging to life and readiness quite quickly. He is prepared when Ms. Honeycutt brings him the book. She also offers him coffee, which he graciously accepts, then gets to work.

  After a time, he finds himself having difficulty focusing on his continued study and analysis of the book. Certainly there is some tedium associated with it, though he does enjoy the imbibing of the knowledge, and trying to piece together and cross reference the clues is quite stimulating, but if he is honest with himself, his thoughts keep drifting to her. He wonders if she is alright. Should he bother her with a phone call, maybe a text? He also is given to ponder why she did not text him to let him know she’d be out. Certainly their one date does not constitute a serious, personal relationship, but such a notice could have been delivered out of professional courtesy.

  He realizes then what he is doing, even as he completely ignores the book and forgets that Ms. Honeycutt is in the same chamber going about some of her own busy work. He has grown attached to Lilja, and it seems, perhaps even a touch possessive. He smiles thinly, shaking his head. She certainly does not deserve that, but it does make him consider himself and the obvious affect she is having on him. He is disappointed to not get to see her and spend time with her today, and that is the crux of it. He hopes she misses him, too, in some small way, and he hopes she is well. If she is out again tomorrow, he will contact her. For now, he resolves to trying to put that sufficiently out of his mind to get back to his work.

  The secrets of the book are not forgiving, the pieces of the puzzle hardly evident enough to cloud such things with other thoughts. He pours over diagrams, illustrations, categorization, even sections of more poetic verse. The mystery eludes him. He wonders at the sudden fortune that after so many decades upon decades, two of the Three are suddenly within reach, and though it had proven naïve, he had held hope that merely examining the contents would catalyze the revelation.

  As it is now, he spends many hours of most days, since he has been here, collecting information, gaining familiarity, reading and rereading, and then he compares these to similar examinations of the other book. That one, of course, is not with him due to obvious security reasons, but he has a very good digital version as well as means of access to the original if need be.

  After some length, he decides to call it an early day. He thanks Ms. Honeycutt, packing up his laptop and pulling the strap of the case over his shoulder. He holds a piece of scrap paper upon which are printed the locations of two books in the library which may help him. Lilja had given him a temporary pass, allowing him to check out the regular books of the library, though if any are needed by student or faculty, he has to return them right away. It does not take him long to find them, and he is in no rush, feeling rather comfortable amongst rows of books, and he heads to the front with the two tomes – a translated version of Demoniality: Or, Incubi and Succubi by Ludovico Maria Sinistrari and Observations Upon the Prophecies of Daniel and the Apocalypse of St. John by Isaac Newton. He has both of these books in his library back home, or did before the fire, and he suspects they may prove useful.

  He comes up short when still some distance from the checkout counter, noting something of a surprisingly long line there, but this is not what causes his hesitation. A particular man stands with the others, who are obviously students, and he holds a few books of his own, intent upon borrowing them. Skothiam recognizes him by sight, one Denman Malkuth, the man bearing of fine, raven-black hair which he has coifed as though he were an actor or model, his entire presentation on
e of refinement. His wears a textured, dark gray tweed three piece suit, the shirt a lighter color to offset the even darker, solid tie. He appears alone until a trio of students near him engages him in conversation. He responds with instant and obvious charm as he speaks to them, seeming all the world like a lofty, accomplished professor who still has not lost touch with those whom he instructs.

  It is all an act, of course.

  Skothiam manages to turn away without garnering any notice, doubling back and moving over to some nearby shelves where he may silently observe. He notes than Denman only speaks to the students when he is spoken to, a subtle sign of his intent for any who may be carefully watching. The line finally moves enough for him to get to the counter, and he again puts on that disarming smile, going through the necessary protocol to temporarily procure the books he has brought forth.

  Skothiam narrows his eyes, peering, but the distance is too great. He wants to know what books his rival may be getting. This might let him know if Denman is on the same trail as he, but if there were any doubt, such is shortly thrown aside, for the well-dressed man turns back into the library after completing his transaction. Skot maintains his silent surveillance, watching as the other strides unerringly to the downward staircase, heading undoubtedly to the Rare Collections room.

  He curses mentally, but he does not give pursuit. He would assuredly be discovered if he were to do so. He also does not want to risk being found out, so he sets his own two books on a nearby cart, making a quick exeunt.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Felcraft,” bids a nearby voice, and he jerks his head up to see Marcel offering a warm farewell.

  He cringes inwardly, though certainly the intonation has not been loud enough to carry all the way down into the lower floor. He nods his head once, putting on a polite smile, then heads out of the old building.