Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  Thus cleaned and prepared, the sword is re-sheathed and placed back in its holder, stored horizontally, edge up. It will not remain so long, for it shall be taken on this evening’s mission. Though it is regularly maintained and sometimes used in practice and training, it is rarely taken along on operations. Tonight, though, shall likely prove one of the most dangerous outings ever, and so it shall be brought, carried in its special place over the back, a pragmatic necessity for many reasons. The vigilante is well trained in its use, though a reason for that shall hopefully not arise.

  The data has been gathered. Reconnaissance has been conducted. Informants have been consulted. It is obvious things have been changing, and it is not a slow change. It is, though, rather expected, in retrospect. The crime ring has turtled. They have gathered themselves into a more centralized location and concentrated their raised defenses.

  Not only had some more abandoned locations been found during other outings, but the recent increase of product influx had tapered. Since they had not proven capable of stopping the vigilante, they had changed the locale of their operations. This sort of adaptability and dynamism must surely not be a foreign concept to those in their line of business, and so the effort had been set to finding these new sites. The analysis suggests there is now one compound, one place that is handling most, if not all, of the operations, one-stop-shopping, as it were.

  Some time has been spent verifying this, for even as it may seem convenient, it also means a concentration of strength. Once it had proven accurate, a method of approach had to be developed, if such an attack saw the light of day at all. It was one thing when the vigilante had been less known, the targets smaller, more numerous, more like guerilla hit-and-run tactics on less important targets. Now, this would be an assault on the main fortress. Some very serious consideration had been given to not taking this approach at all, to putting everything together and delivering the information to the police. The files have been so collected, and if this evening’s foray does not prove adequately successful, the messages will be sent. And not just to the police. If worse comes to worst, other parties will be notified.

  A reason for that shall hopefully not arise.

  *****

  “Maybe we ought to just kill the girl,” speaks a voice, the tone one of calmly discussing the possible mowing of a lawn.

  “No, no, that should not be done.”

  Gnegon looks up from swirling his glass, the clear contents not interrupted by any ice or other flavorings, the expensive vodka not so delicate as to change its subtleties of taste from this mere motion. He also wears a very fine tuxedo, looking all the world like he is ready to head to an evening of celebration and entertainment, which he is.

  He fixes his narrow eyes on the inspector, the Interpol man also dressed very nicely, more so than his usual daily flair, also holding a preparatory drink in advance of this evening’s festivities.

  “Why not?” he asks, then after a short moment, “Do you like this girl, Gaspare?”

  Duilio smirks, a subtle curl to one side of his lips, “Oh, no, she is exciting, to be sure, but she is not exactly … my taste. Perhaps if I were twenty years younger.”

  The two share a short laugh at this.

  “No,” Duilio repeats on the tail end of the shared chuckling, “The vigilante will come again.”

  “How do you know?” the crime boss presses, any trace of levity gone from his features.

  “A hunch,” Duilio finally answers, and then he brings his drink up to his mouth, pausing as he notes those steely eyes still on him, so he shrugs. “What harm will it do, Gnegon? Are you so scarce of space in this compound of yours that you need to do away with her so urgently?”

  “It has been three days,” Gnegon points out, “Last time, the vigilante came to rescue her within hours.”

  Duilio perks his eyebrows, tilting his head a bit right, another sort of shrug, then drinking from his glass of wine, swallowing with a nod, “I know, I know, but what harm does it do, hmm? You could keep her as a prisoner for a few weeks, even, then do with her as you will.” He casually waves his free hand.

  “It’s a risk keeping her alive.”

  “A risk?” Duilio retorts, releasing a short series of low chuckles. “Oh, Gnegon, how so? She is a fellow pest, just like the vigilante, and now you have caught this one and put her in a cage. And what a glorious cage,” he holds out his hands, “I must congratulate you. This location is quite wondrous.”

  This seems a genuine smile to the other man’s lips, and he raises his glass in a subtle toast, which is returned by the inspector.

  “Yes, I suppose there is no reason to be hasty,” the man concedes, “Things are looking good for us. We are centralized, well-defended, and we are in the process of culling our unnecessary supply. Things are looking better than they have in quite some time.”

  “There. You see?” Duilio grins, “And you stand to make some good money tonight.”

  “Hmm, yes,” Gnegon mulls, “Some of our finest specimens are up for auction. I don’t like keeping the beautiful ones around very long.”

  Duilio smirks more openly, letting forth another quiet chuckle, nodding slowly, “You are a wise man. They are more a danger to you than this other pest you have as bait. You will be rid of them and make a bundle in the process. Let these others fight over the pretty birds, hmm?”

  “Yes, yes,” Gnegon nods, another grin trying to take his generally dour face.

  “They will fight with their checkbooks instead of guns, no? And you will reap the reward!”

  And the two share another short bout of laughter, this one more boisterous than before.

  “Good, good.” Duilio nods, then he glances at his watch, “Shall we be getting on to the festivities, then?”

  Gnegon ponders a moment, still deciding executions and the potential stays thereof, then he blinks, moving his eyes to the expectant ones of the agent.

  “Alright,” he agrees, downing the rest of his vodka and leaving the empty glass on a nearby end table.

  *****

  Ernst’s shod feet move slowly over the cement walkway. He doesn’t pay too much notice in his almost zombie-like shamble, but he ought to feel fortune he is wearing shoes this time. Most of the people hereabouts pay him little mind. He pays them even less. He knows they are there, knows they are people, but beyond this base recognition, they do not concern him at all.

  He knows something bad happened at his room recently, and he has now found a new one. He doesn’t remember exactly what happened, nor how he came by his new place, but that also does not concern him very much. What does compel him is the growing feeling in his mind, a feeling which spreads out and encompasses his entire body then leak free from him like a glowing effluvia, seeping out toward those beginning hints of haze that he sees.

  His trek takes him along a meandering route, but he is finally interrupted in his reverie by another of the blinking flashes in his peripheral vision. He looks up, not too quickly but still moving with more rapidity than typical, and he sees nothing. He then feels an acute, growing pressure in his head, beginning in the upper left and spreading. He spies more glimmers, then, some like a dancing buzz of static, but with a few blinks and shakes of his head, all is gone. He stands there for a moment, his left hand brought slowly up, as though moving through some syrupy morass, to rub at the bridge of his nose. He then presses the fingertips into his forehead and temple there on that same side, trying to massage away the terrible compulsion that lures him.

  He looks up then, eyes again blinking, his aspect more focused as he glances around, clearly trying to find something. He then stops, staring into a distance ahead and somewhat to his right. He sees something there, aglow, and it holds more luminance than would seem necessary for being a lit place at night here in the city.

  His feet begin moving again, and he knows, without comprehending it in any normal way, that he is headed there. He gives little thought to what he may find, what he may do once there. He does no
t even think on why he is even out and about this night. He is moved, as though he were some marionette on ectoplasmic strings connected to his very nerves, tugging at him with an undeniable insistence.

  The path he takes curves toward the right, going down a lengthy, gentle slope. There are still others out on foot, some vehicles passing by on the street. The traffic even increases, the businesses more numerous here, and then with just as much lack of notice, he is heading back up, having turned a sharp right, and is away from the density. He plods on, head down, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his zipped hoodie, his tall, almost skeletal form laboring with a slow, ceaseless determination to get where he is going.

  He turns another corner and looks up, eyes squinting. The fog has grown here, but his destination beams with a bright aura, a corona of light that acts like a harbinger even as it draws him in. The place is large, but he cannot make out all the details what with the intensifying mist and the illumination. He must just go to it, then he will better see. He cannot avoid its hypnotizing enchantment. He even hears it, like a gentle buzz, a welcoming hum, such is its potency. Why is it so well-lit, he wonders.

  He tucks his head back down, continuing his inexorable march.

  *****

  The place is large, comprised of more than one building on the expansive grounds, though the main structure quite obviously houses the vast majority of activities and operations, various sections and rooms, different floors, for their own specific functions. This front portion, though gated and guarded, is quite elegant, meant for the reception of guests, clients, and thus is it appointed as such.

  The foyer is possessed of state-of-the-art detectors and scanners, though they are all hidden. It would not do to force such important visitors through a crass form of disrespect. The entryway and first room, vast as it is, shows to largely be composed of a rich brown wood that is so dark as to appear black in the soothing lighting, the colors of the antique-seeming décor mostly darker blues, blacks, shades of white and gray, though shocks of crimson are throughout, adding a deliberate punctuation and tone to the effect.

  There are posh, leather seats here, even a lengthy couch, but few of such offerings are partaken. Most of the guests are dressed in elegant finery, some of the women even also brought along willingly to partake of the evening’s offering, though others, especially those who show clad in nearly nothing, may not entirely be present of their full freedom. Even those, though, show some degree of cultivation in their visage, even if a deeper examination of the made-up eyes might reveal bleaker depths.

  There is a grand staircase here, its wide progress leading in a generous curve to the second floor, dark wooden steps partially covered in a richly red material, the contrast evident enough, even as the edges almost bleed together. Hosts, servants, guests, even guards hold place in this ‘receiving’ room, engaged in various modes of drink, conversation, luxuriating to different levels of the basting preheat, but for those who wish to press further, the way is open.

  The second level leads into an even larger, more impressive room, openings in it showing their way back to the first floor and up to the third, giving this chamber a very spacious feel. The vast exposure that leads down shows an encased topiary, winding walkways suggesting pathways through the enclosure, giving up smaller areas that reveal exotic and rare animals held to limited range within the transplanted garden.

  The main space of this floor, exposed and open as it is, proves to be further grounds for entertainment, illegal gambling tables that would rival the finest of casinos, an open space in the back of fluctuating, colored lighting for dancing, and rising up a few, broad steps to a sub-section that gives up the main bar, the large, square station offering approach from three of its sides, the rear taller and possessed of various artwork in the same opulent vein as the rest of the more public areas – bold paintings as though from some bacchanalia, statues of thickly segmented zmey, the dragons’ three heads coiling out in eager tumescence, some of their mouths open, ready at any moment to expel their burgeoning fire.

  A smattering of patrons stands about the bar, drinks held, some single pours or mixtures contained in eloquently simple-seeming, yet fine, stout glasses, others of a more mixological flair displayed in somewhat ostentatious vessels. A few of the drinkers appear inclined to not set down their glass until the contents are completely consumed.

  The third story shows a broad balcony going all the way about the interior of the spacious quarters, allowing those upon it to peer down at all the goings-on, if they are so inclined. There are also walkways and doors leading to other delights on this, the topmost level for general public entertainment, and yet just as one may not access the topiary from the first floor foyer, one may not gain access to all of the second and third floors through this entertainment avenue.

  Another door, one more closely guarded and for only those select clients who have prior qualified, leads to a further area that opens to a darker, sumptuous chamber. There are more places to sit, and another bar from which to request beverages, as well as waitresses in addition to the bartender. This room, though, is not yet in full swing, for the night is yet young, and the large, black stage at the rear is presently lit by one downward lamp, inviting limited sight and perhaps even fantastical speculation. In time, the raised section will be better illuminated and used to display the various slaves available for more permanent procurement.

  The guests are of an eclectic mix, not merely hailing from the predominate places that make up the majority of origins in this already cosmopolitan city. They do all share a few commonalities, though, wealth seeming to be foremost amongst those sparse similarities, mayhap a liberal view on some morality also being another. One person in particular has a rather interesting take on ethics, and though it might appear fluid to some, it is actually quite rigid in its own right.

  “William C. Webb,” says the rather attractive lady in the very form-fitting black dress, “Ah, here you are,” as she finds the name on her list, offering the man an increase in pleasantry of her already quite warm smile.

  “I had rather thought I was right here,” the impeccably dressed man says, giving a charming little smirk and rise of his groomed eyebrows to the woman.

  She gives him a reasonable chuckle, noting that the man is indeed handsome, but well-dressed, attractive people are certainly not in short supply at this soiree. She proffers a very elegant, yet small and unobtrusive pin which he allows her to attach to the front of his jacket just near the boutonniere. He knows it is a tracking device as much as something to identify him.

  “Do enjoy your evening, Mr. Webb,” she bids.

  “Ah, it’s Professor,” he speaks in a very cultured Transatlantic accent, “of Anthropology, if you must know, from Princeton,” and he offers her a very tempting smile.

  “Of course, Professor,” she says, lowering her chin a bit, giving a subtly coquettish view of her eyes beneath her luxurious lashes.

  “I do expect to find some rather interesting observation for study,” he adds, letting that smirking curl touch his lips as he moves inward, his hazel eyes casting about in a seeming casual study that belies much more focus than the charming rogue persona he affected for the receptionist.

  As if this were not enough of a hint at his secret nature, the edged weapon he carries within his bespoke Anderson & Sheppard tuxedo jacket does not set off the sensors in place here at the foyer, and thus the falsely assumed Professor Webb enters the compound unimpeded.

  Members of faculty from prestigious universities are not the only ones to enter the grounds this evening under false pretense; however their credentials may have been obtained, and the darkly-garbed figure pauses in the rear approach, still outside the main building but having gained entry beyond the surrounding wall. This person would surely set off the sensors, what with the weapons and other items bristling upon the form, notably the back-sheathed katana, but the front entrance will not be used. Two guards had been narrowly avoided, the intent to penetrate as
deeply inside without giving any alert to presence. The normal methods of subduing would surely eventually lead to a noted absence at regular posts or duties, and this mission will take more time than most.

  Two outlying buildings stand within the compound’s barriers – a security station, and a larger, less protected one that acts as covering for vehicle storage and maintenance. The former had been avoided, but as the infiltrator had pressed in, the other had been visited, a small explosive device left attached to one of the slumbering trucks, near the fuel tank. This is the second such item to be placed, the first hanging silently against a rear portion of the property’s heavy fence, waiting for its signal.

  Slow, careful steps are taken, lights and cameras avoided, as the patient route is followed to gain a way inside the main building. A notice of sound, and the figure presses back against a nearby crate, the short, diminutive size working in their favor to hide them from the lone, armed sentry who wanders by. An earpiece is noted as well as some body armor, a holstered stunner, and the strapped Skorpion held at the ready. Defenses have assuredly been stepped-up.

  Movement is not resumed until the steps of the guard are no longer heard, the figure coming out of the shadow of the large crate, peering in the direction both that the sentry has gone as well as from whence they came. It looks clear, and the soft reports of the jika-tabi can be heard as the figure moves quickly to cover some open ground, getting into the shadow of the tall main building. A glance is spared upwards, the roof four stories high, a difficult obstacle to approach from that angle. It is known, though, that there is a loading dock none too far away, and that is the main plan of ingress, making the way through the more day-to-day business-oriented locations that will likely prove less occupied at this time during the gathering.