“Afterwards, I was no longer so angry—it’s been years since I felt that good.” Jonah nodded.
“That’s what I’m talking about. That some serious Hoodoo the three of you have got going.”
“I don’t know that it means much—from my end at least.”
“What the experiences mean to you is less important than what they mean to others. The level of contact you are experiencing—intermittently—is beyond anything an Archaic should ever have access to. Beyond that, the women and you are experiencing a connection which is very nearly Platonic—this has not gone unnoticed by either Metas or Archaics.”
“The Americans and UN?”
“Word is filtering out from people who’ve heard you talking in your sleep—there’s even been a claim—unsubstantiated—of you levitating in your sleep.”
“Hardly believe that’s possible.”
“Credibility isn’t the point—mythos is. Yours rivals Zakara’s.”
“How is that possible? Soon enough it will begin to leak out that he’s Shaitan and for the Metas the significance of that name is without rival.”
“Not if his magic cannot harm you.”
“What is the point of this conversation?”
“I’m wondering if your status will be able to leech off followers from both Neruda and Botrous.”
“But Zakara’s are fanatical, and kept in line by fear of those such as Thin Man, William, Shea, Carla—at one time, and others.”
“Perhaps, but too much fear can create its own problems.” The observation was double edged.
***
“It would’ve been better without the bush.” Cynthia complained. Matt thought she was probably right. Looking out from the Germantown Café there was a smallish park across from the Madison Street side of the restaurant, beyond which were several low warehouses, and past this the city skyline—this had been one of the selling points of the restaurant. However, someone had the bright idea of placing a large, now bare, bush at the far end of the park which significantly interfered with the patrons’ enjoyment of the skyline. Even with the sun down it left a black scar between the eastern and western aspects of the southern view. Beyond this the skyline glittered—though the full effect of this was hampered by Madison’s harsh sodium street lamps.
Matt enjoyed it, but he wasn’t certain Jonah was, not with the girlfriend ragging on him. Cynthia, who Feargal had picked up back in Pedro-Woolley as a means south, had been introduced to Salt; then disappeared until he got back from LBL. At this time, she started popping up as a secretary; then girlfriend. He had never taken the Jungian for a Mandarin, but then he’d not paid much attention to anything beyond his own nose—unless it was attempting to kill him; then only when it was unavoidable. The arachnid would be a case in point. He still had nightmares about LBL—his comfort was so did all other members of the team.
Cynthia was much changed since the Northwest. The tint of her skin was slightly bluer; the red pupils were more dramatic in their cobalt seas; the burnt-orange nails were still un-lacquered. She was no longer sporting bags under her eyes, or a nervous tick. He supposed the latter came from living in a town that wanted nothing more but for her to be gone. “The food,” Matt offered in an attempt to help his friend, “is supposed to be very good.” The woman shrugged and looked back out the window. Something was up between the two of them and Feargal had been dragged into the middle of it, which explained the last-minute invitation and the urgent sound in Jonah’s voice. Obviously he’d managed to get himself hooked up with a woman that was going to take a lot of work.
After a moment, Jonah turned from Cynthia—seeming to have given up attempting to placate her—and back to Matt and the Chablis. As they clinked glasses in a toast the woman turned back. Her radar had told her that the men were going to ignore her and that, for whatever reason, was not playing well. Placing an outstretched arm on the back of Jonah’s chair she arched her back to present her breasts at the best angle in the low-cut cocktail dress. Not taking the bait, Matt smiled squarely in her eyes and the attitude was noted in these with disapproval. “What should we toast to?” She asked Feargal’s cold gaze.
There was a familiar thump, hard and hollow, at the front door and Matt was turning, hand reaching for his Sig P250. As he turned there was a woman’s scream from the front door and another thump was followed by the familiar sound of a body collapsing. The front of the restaurant woke up to the fact something very wrong was happening, while in the back, where they were, heads were only beginning to turn. Even as Feargal stood he could hear Salt doing so behind him. The minder at the entrance to the side dining area was already moving, cautiously, out; then was thrown back and into the diners in the front corner of the section. Matt’s weapon was out; so was Salt’s—he heard the Meta pull the slide. Pushing off to the other side of the room, and away from a direct line of fire, Matt steadied the weapon with his free hand and waited—nothing.
Then one of the side windows exploded, and he knew they’d been flanked. At this he spun in time to see both Cynthia and Jonah fall. Blood was on the table cloth, from the wound in the woman’s centre mass. Blindly he squeezed off a couple of rounds, but the shooter was already re-positioning. Matt, however, saw them and tracked the figure skittering west along Madison. When it slowed he squeezed off a round and the head jerked back carrying the body with it. They were dead. Feargal turned back to the entrance to the dining section, but there was nothing. As he stepped forward a grenade bounced into the room. Seeing this, he jumped out the window, followed by Salt—who was again moving. Rolling on the sidewalk Matt attempted to keep moving to get some distance between himself and the windows when the blast took out what remained of these—raining glass and body parts down on him.
As he stood, deafened by the blast, he could see Jonah stagger out of the dust and debris. With the Meta located he turned back to the street—there had to be more waiting for them. There followed the zinging whine of a round striking tarmac. The debris cloud was getting in the way, but there was something moving at the far end of the intersection, just at the entrance of what appeared to be the warehouse parking lot. Running, stupidly, forward—followed by Jonah—Matt let go three more rounds. Halton, in better days, had always taught him to count his rounds.
Making the far end of the cloud he staggered to a halt as a round came so close he could feel the wind from it. It was William, the right side of his face twisted slightly—he assumed from the New York Meta-device, and Thin Man. Behind Patrick Wilson was Carla Faveretto. With a scream from Jonah he raised his weapon and shot at Thin Man. The round missed him, as he was climbing into a car with William, but caught Carla in the head throwing her backwards. Without waiting the vehicle jerked forward, rubber grabbing the tarmac hard.
***
“How ya feelin’ there, Carla?” Feargal smirked down at the woman. Her wild hair was a little longer and unkempt, and the nails on her hands seemed a bit longer. The head bandage sank a little lower on her right side, just over the ear, the top bit of which had been removed by Matt’s round. “Bit of a headache?” The scar, he’d given her back in Dilmun that night at the spring, flushed a deeper red than the rest of her face, but she didn’t answer; wouldn’t even look at him.
“Come along, Carla, we’re all old friends here.” She tilted up toward Salt with hate in her eyes, but the sudden movement appeared to send a sharp pain through her, and the woman lowered her head with a soft moan.
With a snap, Feargal opened a tactical baton and placed this, firmly, on her right shoulder. “Eyes up.” Voice almost kindly. When she didn’t move her face, the man allowed the baton to stroke the injured ear—lightly. The reaction was immediate. With a sharp intake of breath and a strangled shriek she moved her head away. Staring up at Salt she sneered. “Traitor.”
“Name calling—mature.” Stepping forward, Jonah placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Please, let’s just speak for a moment.” Kneeling beside her—the woman’s hands had been zap str
apped to either side of the heavy Metal chair, and her ankles to the legs. She tensed, then struggled, against these but they held firm. Even if she had managed to break away there was Feargal, a guard on the inside of the door and several others outside.
Matt and Salt had returned her to M&W rather than the US/UN holding facility because they wanted time with her before the State mechanisms kicked into high gear. If anything remained when Matt was done they were welcome to it. If not, then that was the way of the world; with this in mind the young Feargal wanted to take his time and not push too hard, too fast. Salt agreed to his terms only because the assassination attempt had startled him as well. Whatever was up with Thin Man coming all this way into enemy territory it had to have been serious. There were no shortage of theories, but the call for Feargal’s life had to be a prime mover, if not a first mover.
Squatting, with one knee resting on the floor, Jonah looked deeply into the woman’s eyes. “Yes, I suppose I am a traitor. However, let me offer you a little perspective.”
“What kind of perspective could you offer me?”
“We don’t leave our people behind.” She turned toward the floor, wincing at the pain. “Patrick,” she looked up at the name, “yes, we both know Patrick from Dilmun—Matt and William actually robbed his house with poor Katya’s help.” The woman smiled.
“She paid for that help.”
“Patrick did that to her—he was why she killed herself?” Matt asked. Not looking up she answered.
“A sketch—Thin Man’s become much more subtle.”
“You,” almost a moan from Feargal’s empty mouth, “call any of what I’ve seen subtle: cockroaches, deformed Archaics, spiders, tentacled Metas, any of that sound subtle?”
“Only what you’ve seen—he’s hectares of gardens with all kinds of Meta flora and fauna. You would be surprised. Maybe China will join them.”
Matt darted forward, but Jonah held up a hand. In this gesture, Feargal saw he was being baited and it took next to no effort. “You are wandering off topic, Carla.” Jonah spoke softly, taking her chin in his hand so she would look at him. “You were abandoned.”
“They will come for me.”
“They haven’t yet and it’s been almost a day. William was pulled out in a few hours.” She didn’t respond to the observation.
“But that’s not the issue—we would not have left you. There is even a deeper issue. We place a high value on people. What value does Zakara place on anyone—especially the disposable ones, such as yourself?”
“The Master will change the world and we will all be safe, happy, and free. But,” voice lowering, “not you, not him, not his child.” Matt considered what to do next, but allowed Jonah to finish what he’d started.
“Will he?” Carla looked confused; then it appeared as though she were just holding on to a fiction. Salt continued. “You’ve seen what he’s been encouraging Wilson to do. You have seen the Transhumanist he’s abandoned or killed to make ready for opening the gate. You have heard the rumours about what the Cinn are and what they will do once here.”
“Lies!” Startled by the shriek, Matt rocked back a step. But behind this outburst were tears. The woman’s head sagged. Placing a hand on her shoulder, the Meta did not shake it off, Jonah leaned back in and spoke gently.
“What was the Georgetown Café about?”
“Master Botrous has ordered the assassination of Feargal for fear he may stop the girl’s transfiguration. He has become very afraid since she began to spontaneously change; no one understands it.” Voice ragged with tears.
“Why is this transfiguration so important—he could use Matt again, or have more children?” Carla hesitated a moment and coming to her own Rubicon waded out.
“There are serious questions about Feargal’s genetic viability now his DNA’s been locked. His obsession with getting Leonor back hasn’t helped either—his commitment to the woman has surprised everyone.” Matt was astonished by the candour, and didn’t dare move for fear he’d break the spell. “Master Botrous cannot have any more children. Carrying Shaitan all these years has corrupted the body at the genetic level, and Zakara’s body is beginning to display signs of wear—it won’t, it is rumoured, last much longer.”
“He is Shaitan.” This slipped unbidden from Feargal, and the woman looked up—tears in her eyes—and nodded.
“Yes, and Master Botrous fears you may be able to kill him—that’s the real reason, I believe, for the order to kill you no matter the cost.”
***
“I have been able to verify much of what she’s told you now. There’s still, however, no firm time or specific location—excepting south of Monterrey.” The information was shared grudgingly by Roberto. For although they were still in negotiations neither parties were convinced these would go anywhere.
“Even those concerning Shaitan?” Matt asked, from the far side of the table toward the conference phone.
“The rumour of it, but that, I suppose, is the most we could hope for. It is what I’ve been arguing for, for some time now.” Feargal was uninterested in the victory lap.
“The reason for the contract on Feargal, as well?” Jonah asked.
“Seems that he’s been getting too successful with his attacks on the Transhumanists and his unwillingness to give up on his family, especially Leonor, is creating a fair amount of anxiety in the upper echelons of Shaitan’s people. There is another rumour I need confirmation on.”
“Which is?” Salt asked with a cautioning looked to Matt.
“Is Matt able to contact his family? By this, I mean in a manner other than traditionally expected.”
For a moment Feargal wondered what the old man meant by that, but then it dawned. He leaned back uncomfortably and shook his head toward Salt. Appearing to understand the other finally answered. “I’m not certain what you mean?”
“You are; that is all the answer I need.” A silence followed for a moment before Neruda continued. “We need to discuss the disposition of Ms. Faveretto.”
“We?” The heavy sarcasm in Salt’s voice took even Matt by surprise. “Sansa has her—we’ll determine what needs to be done.”
“Not your allies?”
“We are uncertain handing her over to the Archaics the best strategy.”
“Yes, with what she knows that could cause some real trouble for the disposition of Leonor.” Neither of the Sansa answered for a long, cold moment.
“She may not represent much useful Intelligence to either the US or UN, but she may,” Jonah observed, “be of value to us.” Matt looked up at that. “Her knowledge of the Transhumanist organisations and the final plans of Shaitan could be very useful.” Matt was uncertain why the Archaic governments wouldn’t find this useful as well, but let it go.
“The woman may also be worth trading for operatives that are being held by Botrous.”
“We are not trading her back to Zakara—not for anyone or anything.” Matt spoke softly, with an acid etched quality to the voice.
“She has been central to the Transhumanist agenda since Dilmun. The woman knows too much to allow her to go free again.”
“Then what do you propose...” Neruda never finished the thought. “You intend to kill her.”
“Matt,” a beseeching tone in Salt’s voice, “please, I can’t...”
“Don’t get in my way concerning this, Jonah.”
“But...” Neruda was cut off by Matt.
“She is too important to Zakara, and she wants my family dead—for many reasons, but not least because of what I did to her at Halton’s party at my place, and then for my having cut her at the spring. She is about as vindictive as I am. Carla has to die not for my anger—if I thought there was a way to let her go or turn her to our side I would do it—but for the danger she poses to our agendas.”
“This needs to be given some thought.” Salt attempted to argue, but the look on Matt’s face made him acquiesce. “At least give me until tomorrow to figure out the best way to do
this?” Matt nodded and ended the call before Neruda could object.
***
It was about midnight when Matt returned to M&W, alone. He never intended to wait for a full day to finish this; knew, also, Salt was just attempting to buy time to find a way to dissuade him, or have the Meta transferred somewhere out of this reach—probably to the UN/US Holding Facility. That would be a new kind of problem, one he would not easily pull himself out from under. He had learnt a lot of the Meta’s psychology over the past year, and knew enough to know he had to move first or he would, yet again, be outflanked.
Luckily everyone at M&W was so used to seeing him that he had no trouble gaining access to the cellblock. He was neither asked what he wanted or searched. This went beyond what regulations Salt and Sansa had set down—most of the Sansa, however, were nervous or outright afraid of Matt. The idea of his myth, which Salt had spoken of repeatedly and at some length, was more than just empty words. He learnt that this evening.
So, with the key to Carla’s cell and the tactical stuffed under his overcoat he enter the cellblock; then her cell. The woman had been sleeping on a Metal pallet painted a light grey, as were the walls of the cell. There was a single, bare bulb swinging from a gyprock ceiling. This should have been reinforced concrete as well, but the building was a retro-fit and they were still upgrading the new wing. As he entered, Carla sat up and stared at him—not frightened, but not hopeful either. She had to have been expecting it. After all, wouldn’t this be how it would’ve been if he were in a similar cell in one of their compounds? He was assuming they had compounds—though well hidden. When he slipped the tactical baton from his coat he snapped this open as the first alarum was heard in the building. Someone must have called Salt, he thought. “There’s no time to waste if you are going to do this.” The woman’s voice was small, but determined. Taking a breath, Matt stepped forward—raising his arm.
Is this whole town made of reinforced concrete?” Matt asked looking up at the Sheraton Birmingham Hotel.
End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity) Page 26
