Porthos opened his mouth to speak, and Athos held up his hand. “No, you may not ask the soon-to-be-deceased on a date. And no, nobody else either. We need to be flying out of here no later than tomorrow night; The Leader has set us on an aggressive Hunting schedule.”
Porthos looked crestfallen. “I can’t believe it. I could have told her it would be the best time she’d have the rest of her life. When will I ever get the chance to use that line again?”
●●●●●
Clint Jones, the rogue Aliomenti who was the subject of the present Hunt, had purchased the large house and surrounding property for cash a year earlier, just as Athos had predicted. The house had been built in the nineteenth century, and the floor plan provided exactly what he wanted in a home. With wide, open staircases, ten foot ceilings, and ornate woodwork throughout, it provided ample space for his frequent social gatherings, and the vast surrounding grounds provided privacy for his continued practice and development of his Aliomenti abilities. He could practice without detection by anyone.
Or so he thought.
The Hunters had assembled in a hotel room three miles from Clint’s house to discuss the plan for the fugitive’s capture. The plan was straightforward. Maneuver the target into an area where humans were gathered in abundant numbers, preventing the target from using Aliomenti abilities to escape. All Aliomenti, rogue or otherwise, knew the importance of avoiding attention. Even Will Stark, the greatest rule-breaker of them all, would not practice skills such as teleportation in the presence of humans. Once the target was trapped, Aramis would apply his Damper to eliminate the possibility that a desperate fugitive might attempt to escape in non-human fashion. The suspect would be walked away from the human crowds to an isolated area.
Porthos would then recite the list of charges prepared by Aramis, which would stir memories of guilt or innocence at a cellular level that Athos could Read, and Athos would pronounce judgment. Porthos would record guilt or innocence at each pronouncement. The trio would escort the Hunt’s target into the Aliomenti-designed aircraft used to travel to retrieve the subject. The guilty party would be stowed in a waiting containment cell with full dampering. The Hunters and aircraft would return with the prisoner to Headquarters for a formal proclamation of guilt and the issuing of a sentence by The Leader. At that point, the guilty party would find their cell permanently installed in the prison wing buried deep under the massive Headquarters building, until their prison term was up.
If they recanted and repented for their errors, they’d be allowed out. If not, the cell would become their permanent home.
In their respective quests, The Hunters learned that Clint’s home had two entrances, and that no one person could watch both at the same time. That meant that if Clint was inside, he wouldn’t personally be able to watch both entrances for a possible appearance by the Hunters. The trio could go in through both entrances, and at least one of them would get in undetected.
Aramis’ research had turned up columns regarding the medical story of a young woman named Eva Elizabeth Lowell who had been diagnosed with an incurable form of cancer a year ago, and who had been resigned to her fate. However, doctors reported the cancer had vanished, and the woman was suddenly in perfect health. Reports were that the woman, who had fully expected to die in mere months, was struggling to adjust to her new reality of living. Further research turned up a photo of the woman, a woman of above-average height with platinum-blonde hair (”She’s off limits to you, Aramis,” Porthos had snickered. “The hair means she could be your sister!”) who appeared to be in her late twenties.
Armed with this information, Porthos had set off into the more populated and traveled areas in the region. He came home with a good deal of useful information — and several bottles of premium bourbon. “Straight from the source!” he said. “We’ll use this for our post-Hunt celebration during the flight home. Maybe we can get our friend Clint drinking heavily and Aramis can sit this one out.”
Aramis looked scandalized. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m just looking out for you, old man. You still look rather wan from the encounter with Stark, so I figured that if you could rest up a bit longer…”
Aramis frowned. “Who uses ‘wan’ in a sentence?”
“Too many letters for you?”
Athos sighed. “Did you find anything helpful, Porthos?”
“Yes. Our friend is having a party this evening. A costume party, to be precise. It’s Halloween, you know.”
Aramis glanced at him. “And… is that supposed to mean something?”
“It’s a day when humans dress up in scary costumes and walk around to each others’ houses and collect candy. I didn’t pack a costume, but the two of you look scary enough without doing anything special. The costumes should help us… if we use masks, nobody will be able to identify our faces later.”
Athos nodded, ignoring the jibe. “If it’s a large party, we’ll be able to get inside without incident, and Aramis can likely take a walk outside with his old friend. Once we’re outside the house with him, we have options.”
“We need to be careful, though,” Aramis cautioned. “Even if we get him outside the house, there aren’t any truly secluded spots nearby where we can teleport him away, or park the transport.”
Athos nodded. “Porthos, how long do such parties last?”
“A good party never ends, Athos. But more than likely it will run until the early morning hours, perhaps two in the morning.”
“Aramis, do you have the sleep inducer? Preferably the type that kicks in after a few hours?”
Aramis nodded. “The transport craft is well-stocked, especially since the formula proved useful against Stark – well, at least temporarily. We won’t run out again any time soon.”
“Then that’s the plan. We’ll join the party, each armed with a mini-syringe. Walk in, say hello to a few people without any lasting conversations — no matter how attractive she might be, Porthos — and find Clint. Jab him and walk away. If the house is crowded, it should be fairly easy to get close enough without anyone noticing we’re up to something. We need to use the smaller syringes as the larger ones would be noticed. When we’ve all finished, we should have a sufficient amount of serum in Clint to knock him out later. We can come back and collect him when the crowds have left.”
The others nodded. “Boring, but effective,” Aramis said.
“And what happens if things… go wrong?” Porthos asked.
“Standard pursuit. If the dosage is perchance ineffective, then we’ll have the darkness and isolation of his home to use against him.” He looked at Porthos. “Anything new on the woman?”
“Outside the fact that’s she’s gorgeous? Not really. The gossip I managed to tease out of the humans suggests she’d mentally accepted dying, and that her recovery was something she had neither wanted nor asked for. She knows who did it, though. There were a few murmurs about her dating our friend Clint for a time, but it’s moved to the ‘just friends’ stage now. It’s still likely she’ll be at the party, though probably without a date. Such a shame. Speaking of humans needing to die, where’s our Assassin?”
On cue, the man materialized inside the room, and all of them jumped. The man’s persona oozed hatred and death, and his appearance did nothing to lessen the effect. His head was shaved clean, and was covered by dozens of thick, deep scars that put Athos’ single scar to shame. But it was the eyes that made the man truly terrifying. The entirety of each eye was a deep blood-red.
The man had developed a powerful ability to project empathy Energy into his victims. He could increase their fear to the point where they were unable to fight, and the executions were quick and painless. The Hunters didn’t understand how that could be much of a challenge, but The Leader had impressed on them that The Assassin’s bloodlust could never be fully quenched. He would kill without reason, or mercy, or remorse, and ask for more. He wasn’t looking for a challenge; he was looking for mass slaughter.
&nb
sp; “Speaking of someone who doesn’t need a Halloween costume,” Porthos muttered.
“Where is the picture of the target?” The Assassin asked. He’d managed to hone his voice to have an icy edge to it, a tone so ingrained in him that he used it with the Hunters just as he did with his victims.
Aramis flipped through his notes and pulled out a printed picture of the target. The Assassin accepted the photo, looked at it once, and committed it to memory. “Where is the target presently?”
“She’s going to be at a costume party tonight at our target’s house,” Athos replied. “We’d recommend that you attend with us and follow the woman home when she leaves. Aramis’ research didn’t turn up an address for her.”
The Assassin merely grunted. That was his indication that he’d understood. The Hunters knew he’d prefer to simply exterminate the entire house of humans. Such actions were strictly against orders of The Leader, though, and nobody dared violate such orders.
“And no ‘accidents’ involving anyone nearby,” Athos cautioned. “Wait until she’s alone.”
The blood-red eyes stared at him with an even greater degree of malice, if possible. That was as near to consent as Athos could hope. The man had been warned; failures would be dealt with by The Leader.
“Rest up, gentlemen,” Porthos said. “We have a party to attend tonight.”
●●●●●
Porthos managed to convince the Hunters to modify their traditional attire to make it look “costume-y,” and a means of having a bit of fun with their work. Porthos managed to find a wide-brimmed hat with a feather and went as one of the Three Musketeers. “I’ll go as Athos, though I’ve heard he’s pretty dull.”
Athos, after much convincing, agreed to attend as a pirate. He wore a patch over his right eye along with some silks and a stuffed parrot attached to his shoulder.
Aramis insisted that his costume include his beloved top hat; they swapped out his glasses for a monocle and stuffed his pockets with fake paper money to create the look of a board game character. Like the other Hunters, he’d wear his short sword on his belt. “Tell them you’re a rich ninja,” Porthos suggested. “Nobody will believe it, because you look like a complete loser, but try it anyway.”
The Assassin went as a cold-blooded serial killer with blood-red eyes. “If anybody asks you, you’re wearing something called ‘tinted contact lenses,’” Porthos said. Nobody else said anything. The Hunters thought it unlikely anyone would engage the man in conversation.
They parked their rental car near the end of the driveway and walked roughly a half-mile to the house. “I can feel him close by,” Porthos subvocalized into the communicator implanted under his ear. “I hope I don’t gag at the smell.”
“Try not to lose control,” Athos said, putting as much sternness as possible into words spoken at such low volume. “And no chatting with the ladies. We have a job to do.”
“Yes, Dad. I’ll have the car home by midnight.”
“This party is going to attract attention,” Aramis muttered. “People will start to ask how he can afford such extravagance. This may qualify him for tentative charges under a few more laws.” He started to reach for his hat, before Athos cut him off. For now, they needed to inject the man with the sleeping serum, leave, and wait for him to fall into a deep sleep. They’d be able to incarcerate him and then identify additional charges later without fear that the suspect would pull a Stark and vanish.
The house was bursting with light, and loud music accompanied by a steady percussive beat greeted their approach. A burly man stood near the door holding a clipboard. His posture and build suggested that he wasn’t a man to trifle with. His gaze, a condescending sneer, suggested the man wasn’t impressed by the four relatively short men of lean builds. “Names?”
“We have some already, thanks,” Porthos said, and made as if to walk by the man and into the house.
The man’s arm shot up, barricading the door. “Only those invited may enter. Mr. Jones has made it clear that others are not permitted on the premises this evening.”
“And why would we be here if not invited?” Porthos asked. “This is not exactly a place you’d find by accident, is it?” As he spoke, he seeped Energy into the man, Energy that said that the four men were special guests of Mr. Jones, and should be allowed inside immediately and without incident.
“No, I suppose not,” the man replied. He looked at them with interest. “Mr. Jones did mention he had four special guests tonight who would not be on my list. I suspect that must be the four of you.”
“That’s us,” Porthos said, smiling. The other Hunters tried to look as if this was no surprise to them. The Assassin merely looked at the guard.
“Go on in, gentlemen,” the guard said, pushing the door open. “Do enjoy yourselves. And, sir?” He tapped The Assassin on the shoulder as the man passed. “That’s an incredible costume. It genuinely makes me fear for my life. Very nice makeup work with the scars.”
Aramis and Athos each took an arm and led The Assassin inside, before the killer demonstrated to the guard just how appropriate his fear was.
As Porthos had predicted and the line of cars outside had suggested, the inside of the house was packed with humans, all chatting amiably and loudly amidst the deafening music. Many were making strange movements that seemed coordinated in some fashion. “I fear they’re on to us,” Athos said into his communication device. “The movements appear to be a prelude to an attack.”
Porthos barely stifled a laugh. “It’s called dancing, you idiot! It’s something done for recreation and enjoyment. I have a dictionary back at the hotel if you need to look any of those words up.”
Aramis’ face betrayed a look of horror. “They must be violating a rule or a law somehow in doing this,” he hissed into his communicator. “We should look that up and…”
“Do nothing,” Athos said. “Humans being humans is not a crime, despite what The Assassin might think.” He glanced around, having noticed that The Assassin had left their group, until he spotted the killer standing on one of the steps leading to the upper floor, his blood-red eyes scanning the crowded entry floor for his target. “We need to find Clint, jab him, and then leave.”
“The party’s just started though,” Porthos said. “If we stay, we don’t have to wait to come back, and…”
“Jab and go, Porthos.”
“Right.” Porthos’ tone was sullen. “I’d suggest we split up and approach our friend separately. Don’t follow me.” And the Hunter merged into the crowd and began weaving through. Athos thought he’d spotted Clint already, but Porthos was actually making a direct route toward a beautiful redhead. Athos sighed, then glanced at Aramis. “You go next. Porthos, keep us posted on your progress.”
“I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Right, right. Your friend is on the opposite side of the room from me.”
Athos and Aramis both looked, and spotted Clint talking to a small crowd of men and women. He was deeply engaged in the conversation with the humans, which baffled the Hunters. Such actions with lesser beings couldn’t help him to continue to advance, and increased the risk of accidental exposure of the Aliomenti. Perhaps that wasn’t a concern for the Alliance, but the Hunters had other ideas. “You first, Aramis. Brush past him after you put on the ring and make contact; just be careful not to jab yourself in the process. Make your way toward Porthos after you’re done. I’ll go after you.”
They’d found the rings in the cargo hold of the transport and decided they were a much more efficient way to deliver the serum into Clint’s bloodstream. The rings were somewhat oversized, hollow on the inside, and featured miniature injection needles on the underside, closest to the palm as the rings were worn. They’d need only brush their hands on Clint briefly to initiate and complete the injection, a more natural-looking action than trying to depress the plunger on the smaller syringes.
Aramis did a
s commanded, slithering through the tight packs of humans, keeping his eyes on Clint without ever seeming to look in that direction. When he neared within a few feet, he reached into his pocket, slipped on the ring, and flicked the miniature needle covers off after removing his hand from his pocket. As Athos had noted, he didn’t want to inject himself with the serum.
Aramis moved between two men whose backs faced Clint; the target was looking in the opposite direction and wouldn’t see Aramis approach. Squeezing by, Aramis muttered a quiet “excuse me” as he slid through, and in the process his hand made contact with Clint’s shoulder. The miniature injection needles punctured Clint’s shirt and the serum entered his bloodstream, all of which happened in the fraction of a second Aramis’ hand lingered on the target’s shoulder. As he emerged on the opposite side, Aramis whispered. “That was easy. Athos, you’re up next.”
Athos maneuvered his way toward Clint as Aramis reached a comfortable distance away. He’ nearly reached the target when a young woman with platinum-blonde hair stepped in front of him. “I just love your pirate costume!” She batted her eyes at him.
“Er… thank you. You… you look very nice.” Now go very far away.
She blushed. “Thank you. Are you new to the area?”
She wants to have a conversation? “I’m actually feeling warm and need to step outside. If you’ll excuse me?”
“I’ll go with you.”
Athos suddenly recognized her. She was Eva Elizabeth Lowell, the young woman that The Assassin was supposed to kill. Assassin, follow me outside please. Your target is with me. Exit through the door on the side of the house opposite where we entered.
Hunting Will Page 5
