by Evan Currie
“We know we need eyes on, and that’s us. We leave in four hours,” Masters said again. “Go pack your kits, draw what you need from supply, and don’t be late.”
They grumbled, which was exactly the reaction he would have expected from experienced operators, but moved out quickly. Also as expected.
Once the area was clear, Masters returned his attention to the tablet the admiral had given him, and began a more in-depth examination of the files within. He didn’t know what was going on up in Alaska, but someone had dropped the case on Karson, and he was the guy who’d helped assemble this little spook squad. That meant that someone saw more into this than he was seeing, and Masters didn’t like that one little bit.
While he was working, he felt more than saw Rankin approach from the side.
“What is it?” he asked without looking up.
“I don’t see Norton around.”
“Well, thanks for stating the obvious. He’ll be here.” Masters sighed.
“Four hours, man. That’s not a whole helluva lot of time,” Rankin pointed out. “I know you know this shit, but no one knows the other side of the veil like Alex Norton.”
“I am aware of that. He’ll show up in time.”
“All right,” Rankin said, shaking his head. “I hope you’re right.”
Masters watched him go, then glanced down at his watch. Damn it, Norton, where the hell are you?
KUMEYAAY HIGHWAY, SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
The convertible stopped alongside the road, and a young woman leaned out the passenger side, her concerned eyes focused on the man who was casually ambling along the interstate.
“Do you need a ride, mister?” she called, openly wincing at the black-garbed man, wondering why he hadn’t collapsed from the heat.
“No, I’m fine…,” he said as he turned. He took note of the presence of a second young woman behind the wheel, and the fact that both women were scantily clad. “You know what, I actually could use a lift. I believe I may be running late.”
“Where are you headed?” the driver asked as he walked over to the car and tossed his small shoulder bag into the backseat before hopping in himself.
“Coronado,” he said with a grin. “Some friends there are waiting on me.”
“Cool. We’re going into San Diego,” the passenger told him.
“That’ll do just fine, ladies,” he smiled. “I’m Alexander by the way. Alexander Norton, but you can just call me Alex.”
CHAPTER 7
NAVAL AIR STATION, CORONADO
“He’ll be here.”
Rankin’s sarcasm went right over Masters’s head as he lifted a heavy duffel out of the back of the open Humvee, letting the bag thud to the ground. He looked up. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“Oh don’t even…,” Rankin scowled, shaking his head.
“Grab the other bag,” Masters said. “We have a plane to catch, remember?”
The master chief snorted, but lifted the other bag out of the Hummer with a grunt. “Damn it, what did you throw in here? The whole armory?”
“Close enough,” Masters said as he hefted his personal duffel in one hand, picked up the extra in the other, and started to walk to the plane.
Rankin did the same in a huff, muscling up a few hundred pounds of gear before staggering off after Masters. “Damn it, bro, don’t blow this off. You’re good, but we need Alex, and you know it.”
“Look, either he’s here or he’s not,” Masters responded, not slowing or turning around. “Either way we have a job to do. You planning on turning your back on us?”
“Hey, fuck you!” Rankin hissed under his breath, glancing around to see if anyone else was close enough to hear him. “I was there in that damned Zodiac, same as you. I may not have dug in as deeply as you since then, but the two of us are standing on the wrong side of this damned thing. Don’t you talk to me like I’m some FNG who just pinned his BUD.”
Masters stopped, dropping the two bags to the ground, where they hit with a thud hard enough to kick up some of the dust and sand that had been blown onto the tarmac.
“Look,” he said, glaring at his friend, “I’m sorry if you think I’m giving you the mushroom treatment, or if you feel like you’re nothing but fresh meat again, but what the hell do you want me to do? Alex isn’t here, and we have a job to do. One way or another, I’m getting eyes onto the situation up north. You want to transfer out of this unit? Too fucking late. Put in your request when we get back.”
Rankin rocked back on his heels for a moment; then he slowly smiled. “So, you’re still in there, are you?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“After the way you dealt with the admiral this morning, I was starting to worry that you’d lost it,” Rankin admitted, “gone civvie on us. Nice to see that there’s still an officer in there after all.”
“Oh, fuck off, and get on the goddamned plane,” Masters growled, picking up the duffels again.
“Sir, yes, sir, Lieutenant Commander, sir,” Rankin said as he double-timed it on ahead.
“Pain in the ass,” Masters growled, picking up the two duffels at his feet and following the master chief up the stairs and into the cabin, where the rest of the men had already gathered.
“I see we’re getting first-class treatment on this run,” Nathan Hale said as he strapped down his rifle case and looked around the stripped-down cabin of the C-20 Gulfstream.
“It’s the fastest plane the admiral could lay his hands on, given the notice,” Masters said, heaving his duffel bags down on top of where Rankin had set his down. “Don’t get used to it.”
Nathan laughed. “Wasn’t planning on it. Any new intel on the mission?”
“Just that things don’t look good,” Masters said as he stowed his personal kit. “We’ve got to determine what the hell went down up there, and if it’s something for the regular authorities or if we’re taking this one ourselves.”
“Lovely.” Nathan took a seat, leaning it all the way back. “Wake me up when we reach Alaska.”
As the sniper settled in for a nap, Masters turned, freezing in place as he watched another person climb into the cabin.
“Captain,” he said coolly.
“Lieutenant Commander,” Andrews returned in a matching tone.
“With all due respect, Captain, there won’t be any liaising from here on out. You should remain in Coronado.”
“Your respect,” she said, “is noted. But the admiral wants an observer on this mission, and I’m it.”
Hawk Masters grimaced, looking away for a moment. “That goddamned idiot. He doesn’t seem to understand that the more people who get involved means the more people who die.”
“I’m going to assume that you’re not speaking about a vice admiral of the US Navy,” Captain Andrews said as she settled herself into a seat.
“Right, I was completely talking about someone else who decided to send a damned bookkeeper on a combat mission,” he grumbled as he turned away.
He shrugged it off — while he didn’t like it, he had known going in that Karson would saddle him with observers. Damn fool doesn’t know what he’s getting her into.
“Is everyone here?” he asked, forcing his mind to other subjects as he looked around.
The SEALs were all present, their gear loaded into place as they settled down into the small jet. Now that Judith was along for the ride, they had a full crew.
“Not everyone.”
Masters grimaced at the words that had been spoken under Rankin’s breath. I thought we’d dealt with this, damn it.
“Who’s missing?” Judith Andrews asked, frowning as she looked around the plane. As best as she could tell, everyone she’d expected to see was present.
Masters sighed, opening his mouth to explain, only to be interrupted by another voice.
“Yeah, who’s missing? Kinda rude, isn’t it?” a voice asked from behind him. “I mean, who would keep us all waiting and such.”
Hawk Masters closed hi
s eyes and slowly turned around. When he opened them he saw a man dressed all in black, with black hair and eyes so dark that the only color that accurately described them was, of course, black. The man was sitting on the other side of Masters, but the only door into the plane was behind him, and he knew for a fact that no one had just walked past him.
Right?
“How the hell did you get on this plane without me noticing?” Masters asked, taking two steps back so he could glance out the door of the Gulfstream.
No other vehicles were around, and no one was out there. He didn’t dare ask the man the question he really wanted to ask him, not with Judith Andrews sitting right there. How the hell did he get on this base without an escort?
“Oh, you know.” Alex waved his hand casually. “I’m sure you just didn’t notice me, what with that lovely lady there distracting you. She certainly distracted me.”
“Who is this man?” Judith asked, her tone one that was normally reserved for describing things like raw sewage.
Masters couldn’t help but smile as he looked over at Rankin and mouthed the words I told you he’d be here. Rankin flipped him the bird, but that was fine because at least he knew he had his whole team.
“This is Alexander Norton, Captain,” he said, not looking at her as he spoke. “Civilian consultant to the navy. He’s with us.”
* * *
It had been a long couple of days for Masters, and the flight north to Alaska felt even longer. They were an hour into it when his mind came back around to the attempt on his life the night before.
The mottled blade of the kukri he’d commandeered from the would-be assassin was like nothing he’d seen before. It almost looked like it was made of legendary Damascus steel, but not quite — for one thing, it was too heavy. As he turned the weapon over in his hand, sliding his thumb along the razor’s edge of the blade, he could tell it was a killing tool and nothing but.
He knew he’d never seen the assassin before in his life, never even heard of anyone besides the Gurkhas using kukris. Over the years, Hawk had undoubtedly made some enemies. There were men and things that wanted him dead from both sides of the veil, but he didn’t recall making any enemies who had the inclination or the resources to send others to do their dirty work.
He was deep in consideration of that little conundrum when a voice spoke up from beside him, snapping him out of the fugue he was in.
“Where in the other side did you get a hold of that?”
Masters looked to his left to see Alex leaning over, warily eyeing the kukri.
“You recognize it?”
“Yeah, it’s a Clan blade,” Alex said, “and I know for a fact that you’re not Clan.”
Masters shook his head. “Who are the Clan?”
“They’re a sect of sorts,” Alex explained. “They’ve been around for as long as anyone can be bothered to remember. There are some notes on them that go back to pre-veil days.”
“Damn,” Masters swore.
The veil was to the communities what the birth of Jesus was to a Catholic. They knew the day it came into existence, during the chaos of the last days of the Roman Empire, and a lot of people in the communities treated that as year zero. It meant that these Clan types had some real history.
“They’re isolationists, don’t mix much with the communities,” Alex explained. “We only know what we know about them because periodically they throw members out for failing certain Clan doctrines. Those people usually join the communities, but even then they don’t talk much.”
He eyed the blade for a long moment before going on. “They don’t take kindly to people snooping either. They send assassins to take care of troublemakers, men and women who like to use blades like that. So tell me, Hawk, why the fuck do you have a Clan blade?”
“A man tried to gut me with it just last night.”
Alex closed his eyes, swearing under his breath. “Devil’s spit, Masters. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
“I don’t know!” Masters threw up his free hand, gesturing in annoyance. “All I did was take the admiral up on his compulsory offer and fly out to Coronado. I’ve kept quiet since the last time we met.”
“Well, you stepped into someone’s outhouse, my friend,” Alex snorted. “I’d sleep with that blade if I were you.…Someone wants you out of the game in a permanent way.”
“Yeah, well I plan on it. This damn thing sliced through a good chunk of my forty-five,” Masters said, his tone a mixture of annoyance and admiration. “Can’t even find a nick on the blade.”
“You won’t either,” Alex said. “Clan blades are legendary. Literally, some people claim that Excalibur was a Clan blade.”
“The metal reminds me of Damascus steel,” Masters said, “but it’s too heavy.”
“It’s not,” Alex assured him. “Damascus steel is a poor copy of Clan steel. Clan blades aren’t indestructible, but they’re as close as anything I’ve ever seen. They’re prized within the communities, and rare enough that they don’t often slip out into the rest of the world. When they do, someone in the know goes after them and brings them back. What happened to the man who carried this?”
“I gutted him last night.”
Alex nodded. “Good. That’ll set them back a bit, hopefully between that and this little trip up north, we’ll be able to work out why they want you dead before they try again.”
“That would be nice, yeah,” Masters said, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Alex’s eyes wandered around the plane, settling on Nathan Hale, who was leaning back in his seat with a sword between his legs. The man in black shook his head slowly. “You’ve got an interesting group of playmates this time around, I’ll give you that.”
“What are you talking about now?”
“Your friend over there with the sword.” Alex nodded in Hale’s direction. “What do you know about him?”
Masters shrugged, looking at Nathan for a moment. “We were on a squad together for a few months, and we’ve done a few missions together. I know enough.”
“Uh huh, you know how he got that sword?”
“Yeah, some punk tango in the sandbox tried to gut him with…,” Masters trailed off, eyes falling to the leather-wrapped blade the sniper was cradling. “Are you telling me—”
“No,” Alex cut him off. “That’s not a Clan blade.”
Masters slumped, more than a little relieved. He had briefly entertained a vision of one of his own team members being an undercover Clan assassin.
“It’s a lot older than that, if I’m guessing correctly.”
Masters snapped over to glare at Alex, eyes wide. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve seen drawings of that sword before, and I recognize the symbol on the hilt,” Alex said. “They were etched on stone tablets, so either your friend is holding a replica of something most people don’t even know exists, or you’ve got a really interesting group here.”
Masters really didn’t like the slightly feral smile on Alex’s face, but there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it at the moment.
“But since the attempt to assassinate you isn’t a huge priority right now, care to tell me why we’re flying to Alaska?” Alex asked, changing the subject abruptly enough that Masters knew there was little point in pressing for more information.
Not that he knew what information he should be pressing for. He finally just filed Alex’s comment about the sniper’s sword aside for the moment, returning his focus to the mission.
“We don’t know.”
Alex closed his eyes. “I hope you realize that I had to ditch the hottest pair of coeds you’ve ever seen in order to catch this flight…and I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I hate flying. So if this is some sort of false alarm, you and me are going to be having some words. Clear?”
“Clear.” Masters smiled, glancing around the plane.
The rest of the team, Captain Andrews included, were either sleeping or trying really ha
rd to sleep. Outside, night was falling again as they winged north, and he knew that the Canadian border was still some distance away.
“Look, we don’t know what’s going on up there, but something is.…Probably something big,” he told Alex. “We’ve got what looks like bodies in the streets, and we just lost contact with a National Guard unit that was sent up to help the state troopers deal with riots. The last contact from the troopers was nothing but screaming. So whatever it is, a false alarm it isn’t.”
“Well, I guess that’s a good thing, for you anyway,” Alex said with half a smile. “I won’t have to kick your ass in front of your navy buddies.”
“You can bring it on any time you like — the day I can’t take you and that French pansy bullshit is the day I retire.”
“That was about ten years ago, as I recall.”
“Asshole.”
CLAN SAFE HOUSE
“How is what you’re telling me even possible?”
The shivering man bowed his head, trying not to look any more scared than he already was, but failing miserably.
“We don’t know,” he said finally. “Most likely the target got…lucky.”
“Lucky?”
The elderly woman sneered down at him, eyes burning.
“Robert Black died at the hands of a gene-trash buffoon who got lucky? Say that to me again,” she demanded.
The man swallowed, but kept his head down and remained silent.
“Say it to me again!” she snarled. “I defy you to have the sheer gall to say that to me again.”
When no response was forthcoming, she quieted down, sinking into the old antique chair from which she could survey the room.
“Where is the sailor now?” she asked softly after a time.
“He was deployed, Matriarch. We do not know where at this time.”
She let out an annoyed chuff of breath, but nodded. “Find out.”
“Yes, Matriarch.”
“And, Ruben?” she hissed.
The man turned back, his eyes wide with fear. “Yes?”
“When you do, do nothing. Contact me. Do not send anyone after this man, do not have anyone check up on him, do not even think in his direction. I will deal with this myself. Yes?”
