Killing Rocks

by DD Barant

  I pause. What I really want to say is, Don’t kill him. He’s a good man, or at least he used to be. He deserves a second chance.

  But I don’t. In the field, giving the other side a second chance can cost the life of somebody on yours. You can’t take that risk, not ever.

  “We know where the meeting’s going to be held, but not exactly when,” I continue. “We’ll be breaking into surveillance teams and keeping eyes on the spot from now until it happens. I’ve drawn up a tactical plan, but we’ll need to remain adaptable; this situation is both volatile and fluid.

  “Oh, and one more thing.” I unholster my Ruger and hold it up for everyone to see. “This is my weapon. Believe it or not, it’s enchanted with a spell that makes it seem ludicrous to anyone who lays eyes on it. It’s not. It can kill a thrope, a pire, or a lem from a distance, just as effectively as a crossbow or a javelin. So swallow whatever wise-assed remark you’re about to make—I’ve heard ’em all before. Besides, I’ve got plenty of my own.”

  “Where’s the meet?” Master Sergeant Zayin asks.

  “Right across the street,” I say. “The Chapel of Saint Assisi, open twenty-four hours a day for your matrimonial needs. Also available for private events on extremely short notice, especially when you’re willing to pay a hefty fee up front. Our intel says the meet will happen sometime in the next few days.”

  “I’ll set up some shielded surveillance wards,” Wolosky says.

  “Good. Once those are in place, I want a physical recon of the place, inside and out,” I say. “Wilson, you just got engaged.”

  “Gee, Agent, this is kinda sudden. Do I get a ring?”

  “No, but I can promise you one helluva honeymoon. Zayin and Epsilon, you’ll be in our support vehicle, the white panel van that’s parked outside. I want both of you available for cover fire at a moment’s notice—Epsilon, you’ll be in charge of disabling any vehicle they might try to flee in.”

  “I could cover more area from a higher vantage point,” Zayin says. “Maybe the roof of this place?”

  “Too visible. The van will give you cover and has hinged panels that’ll give you a wide field of fire. Sorry about the cramped quarters—hope you and Epsilon get along.”

  “We’ll manage,” says Zayin.

  “Charlie and I will coordinate—he’s my second in command. Any questions?”

  There are, but only a few; these are professionals, and if they have a problem taking orders from a human they keep it to themselves. We work out a shift rotation, Wolosky digs out her field kit and starts muttering incantations, and Wilson changes into something appropriate for an eager husband-to-be.

  And once everything’s in place, we settle in to wait.

  * * *

  Wilson brings back a video he shot with a spycam concealed in his gimme cap. The chapel’s laid out more like a strip joint than a church—small tables in the back, two obligatory pews up front with a wide aisle between them, and a small raised stage with a lectern. It does have a nice stained-glass window behind that, depicting what I guess is Saint Francis blessing the union of two thropes. Restrooms just off the entrance, and they’ve got a full bar with slot machines in the foyer. Classy.

  Charlie peers over my shoulder; I’m sitting at the table in our improvised ops center. “Looks like there’s a door beside the stage.”

  “Yeah. Private area, no doubt. I’ve got Wolosky working on it, but she says it’s been magicked up with anti-surveillance. She’s got eyes on the fire exit behind the building, though.”

  “Any word from Gretch?”

  “Asher was spotted at an airport in Denver. Tair wasn’t with him, but someone else was.” I pull up the security video Gretchen sent me; it shows Asher, in a black business suit, crimson turban, and full beard, striding down the airport concourse with a woman keeping pace three steps behind him. At least I think it’s a woman; she’s wearing a full chador, every square inch of her except for a narrow band around her eyes covered in white cloth.

  “Gretch is sure that’s Asher, but has no idea who his friend is,” I say. “Or where they went, for that matter. They didn’t leave on any commercial flight, but they don’t seem to be at the airport anymore, either.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We know where they’re going.”

  “We hope.”

  Charlie sits down across from me and pulls his sword out of the scabbard sewn into the lining of his jacket. It’s a gladius, a double-edged Roman short sword with a triangular tip. He digs a whetstone out of a pocket and begins to sharpen it. “Any ideas on her identity?”

  I shake my head. “No. Lover, bodyguard, human sacrifice … no idea. We’ll just have to be ready for anything.”

  “You should get some sleep.”

  “Not likely—” I do my best to stifle a yawn.

  “Try anyway,” Charlie says. “Battlefield rules—grab your shuteye when it’s available. You might not get another chance for a long, long time.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, getting to my feet. “Going to bed right now. Wake me when the apocalypse hits.”

  “If I remember.”

  I throw a halfhearted snarl his way and head for our room. It’s only about 9:00 PM, but it’s been a long day and I didn’t get much more than three hours of sleep last night. Charlie’s right—better to get some Z’s while I can.

  I pass out as soon as I hit the pillow. Some indefinite time later I’m woken up by the phone ringing. I grab it, thinking it must be the front desk—Gretchen or anyone on my team would have used my cell number. “Hello?”

  “Special Agent Jace Valchek?” The voice is female, and not one I recognize.

  “Speaking. Who is this?”

  “My name is unimportant. You may be more familiar with my traveling companion—Mr. Asher. Or perhaps you know him as Ahaseurus?”

  I have a flash of pure, unadulterated dread. Nobody in law enforcement likes to be caught exposed, and right at this second I feel like I’m standing naked on top of Mount Everest. This woman knows exactly who and where I am, and in a world full of sorcery that’s like having a conversation with your head stuck in a noose. It takes a conscious effort not to throw the receiver across the room—I’m half convinced it’s about to change into a snake and try to throttle me.

  “Go on,” I manage.

  “I have no wish to be your enemy, Jace Valchek. In fact, I wish to be your friend. Let me prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Meet with me. I will provide you with information no one else can possibly give you. It will enable you to accomplish your heart’s desire.”

  I bite back a reply involving a school for male strippers and a gallon of tequila. “Fine. You obviously know where I am; come in and we’ll talk.”

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea. You and me, alone, in fifteen minutes. Don’t tell your crew—if you’re shadowed, I’ll know.”

  I believe her. “Where?”

  “The fountains in front of the Bellagio. That should be public enough for you if you’re worried about an ambush. Come on foot—you won’t be able to find parking.”

  “How do I know I can trust—”

  She hangs up.

  I put the phone down on the cradle slowly. No point in trying to do a trace—she’s obviously not stupid.

  The question is, am I?

  * * *

  The answer, apparently, is yes. Just how stupid is an answer yet to be reached.

  If this mystery woman knows where I am, she must be using some sort of magic to keep tabs on me—guess the ritual Eisfanger performed on me before I left Seattle didn’t work. Or maybe he’s just outclassed.

  Whatever the explanation, if I tell Charlie or anyone else, I’ll get there and she’ll never show. On the other hand, if it’s true that somehow I’m the target of this little summit, then this is the perfect way to get me to step into a trap.

  It boils down to two options: go, possibly get some inside information that could make the operation a slam-dunk and ensure th
e safety of my team; don’t go, inform my team, and risk complete mission failure due to a no-show or a full-on battle. If I go, I’m only putting my own neck on the line—if I don’t, I’m gambling with everyone’s.

  Still, it doesn’t strike me as being that dangerous. I’ll be out in the open, armed, and very alert. I’ve got Charlie on speed dial and I’ll be holding my phone. And for added insurance, I write a quick note and stick it in my luggage—if I go missing, Charlie’s sharp enough to search through my things.

  I grab my weapons and head out the door. Charlie will probably figure I’ve just gone out to grab a coffee; he knows my habits all too well. He won’t start to worry until I’ve been gone an hour or more—hopefully that’ll be enough time to meet Ms. Chador and return.

  The Bellagio is only about a ten-minute walk from here, straight down Las Vegas Boulevard; I can even enjoy a few of the sights along the way. Yeah, I think I’ve got everything pretty well figured.

  Come on foot, she told me. And like an idiot, I did exactly that—giving her a ten-minute window when she knew not only exactly where I’d be, but that I’d be alone. If you were flying overhead, you could almost see a big dotted line connecting a giant cartoon A (the motel) with a giant cartoon B (the Bellagio fountains). That slow-moving X about a third of the way between the two? That’s little old me.

  Guess what happens next?

  THREE

  I don’t remember getting jumped. Whatever she hit me with, it was powerful and very, very quick.

  I come to with that slow, achy kind of sluggishness that’s more like evolution than waking. First stage: shapeless prehistoric blob, swimming up from the inky depths. Second stage: vague awareness of gravity, light, limbs that don’t quite work right on land. Third stage: primitive mammalian brain. Aware of immediate environment, limited understanding of same.

  By stage four I can communicate with the members of my tribe through a system of grunts, whines, and barks. Unfortunately, none of my tribe seem to be present at the moment, so my eloquent if simple dissertation on my predicament goes unappreciated.

  “Whuh?—Oh. Oooooh. Uff.”

  My eyes are open, but it takes me a second to identify what I’m looking at: stucco. Specifically, a stucco ceiling—the kind of bumpy plaster surface that for some reason people think looks really excellent overhead. Maybe it’s some kind of caveman genetic memory.

  I try to move, with limited results. That’s because I’m lying on a bed, with my hands tied to the bedposts on either side. In my underwear.

  Stage five, cognitive thought—or what passes for it in my head, which I apparently use mostly for generating sarcasm and storing old TV theme songs—kicks in. It tells me I’m in a great deal of trouble. Maybe if I lie here for a while I’ll evolve some actual intelligence and I can think my way out of this mess.

  Nothing happens. I think stage five is about as far I’m going to get in this lifetime—and that’s looking to be a lot shorter than I’d hoped.

  I lift my head and look around. I’m in a hotel room, or what appears to be one. One double bed, with me the current occupant. Looks more upscale than my motel room—maybe something on the Strip?—but the drapes are closed so I can’t tell for sure. Hell, I might not even be in Vegas anymore.

  The bathroom door opens, and a woman walks out in a billowing cloud of smoke. No, wait—it’s steam. She’s dressed only in a towel, slung sari-style around her hips, and has an extremely contented look on her face.

  “By the seven breasts of the Goddess of Wet-Nursing, I love hot showers,” she says. She looks around my age, five foot two, tops, and maybe a hundred pounds if she drops the towel. Her hair is medium length and blond, her breasts impressive, her overall build that of an athlete. I’ve got better legs, but only because they’re longer.

  “Who the hell are you?” I snarl. I don’t really expect an answer, but I really feel the need to snarl at someone.

  “Name’s Azura,” she says. She smiles, which makes her look unbearably impish. Good Lord, I’ve been kidnapped by Tinker Bell. “Sorry about knocking you out like that, but you’ve got something I need and I didn’t think you’d give it up willingly.”

  “I really hope you’re not after one of my major organs. My gallbladder or spleen I might be convinced to part with, but everything else is pretty much spoken for.”

  She laughs. “Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe. What I need to borrow is your identity.”

  She drops the towel, then starts getting dressed.

  In my clothes.

  “You’re about three sizes too tiny to wear those,” I say. “Not that anyone’s going to believe you’re me, anyway—”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised at what I can convince people of,” she says. “Safety pins, safety pins…” She picks up a hotel sewing kit from the dresser, fishes one out, and pins the skirt into place. “There. Shouldn’t fall off, anyway.” She slips into my blouse, and then my jacket. She looks like an eight-year-old playing dress-up.

  “Oh, very convincing. My own mother would swear we were twins.”

  She grins at me, then walks back into the bathroom. “Maybe a little makeup will help,” she says. “You know, a bit of mascara, some eyeliner…”

  “—steroids, plastic surgery, a pair of stilts,” I snap.

  She walks back into the room. She—

  No. I look back at me.

  She’s a perfect duplicate. Hair, face, height, everything.

  “How about now?” she asks, and her voice is mine, too. “Amazing what a little time in front of a mirror can do, huh?”

  “I guess this is where I say, You’ll never get away with this.”

  “Can we skip that part? Seems pointless.”

  “Agreed. Let me go and I won’t beat you senseless with a random object.”

  “Can’t.” She shrugs with my shoulders. “I really don’t have much of a choice, Jace. We’re both after Ahaseurus, but what’s at stake is a lot more important than whether or not you get to go home. If I had time—and thought you’d believe me—I’d stay and explain. But the meeting is happening in less than an hour, and I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait—I thought you were already close to him. Why do you need to pose as me?”

  “Oh, I’m not who you think I am. Don’t feel bad, though—I’m not who most people think I am.”

  “You’re human.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “I’m not. Pires and thropes don’t have that kind of skill with illusion glamours, and they don’t shapeshift into forms other than hairy ones. You’re Maureen Selkie’s replacement, aren’t you?” Selkie was the werewitch who used to work for Stoker—until I killed her.

  “Don’t know who that is. The only person I’m replacing is you, Jace—and just until I can get my hands on a certain shaman. Those bonds’ll untie themselves in two hours. Just be patient.”

  She slides one of my scythes out of the holster tailored into my jacket. It’s a modified eskrima stick: about two feet long, made of ironwood with a conical silver tip, holding a recessed foot-long blade that snaps into place at a forty-five-degree angle and turns it into a scythe. I carry two—one for each hand—and I’m trained in kali, the art of Philippine stick fighting. “These are nice,” she says. “An old friend of mine would appreciate them. I’ll try to get them back to you when I’m done.”

  “Don’t bother,” I say. “I’ll come get them myself.”

  She sighs. “If you must. I’ll try not to break them.”

  And with that, she leaves. No death threats, no warnings not to interfere, just the door closing behind her. Strange.

  She leaves my gun on the nightstand.

  That’s not so strange. Due to the global spell, no one takes it seriously—it’s a gimcrack, a cobbled-together piece of junk that will probably blow up in your hand. That’s the kind of reaction I’ve come to expect—but even if Azura doesn’t intend to use it, why not take it with her as part of her disguise?

  I don’
t know, but I do know I have no intention of lying here while she screws up my op.

  I consider my options. One, holler my lungs out; two, try to wriggle out of these ropes; three, try to get a hold of my gun.

  I try the hollering option first. Five minutes of shouting my lungs out gets me a sore throat and nothing else; either Azura’s got some kind of silencing spell on the room, or people in my immediate vicinity are even more blasé about what happens in Vegas than a high-roller on a heroin binge.

  The second option actually makes the ropes tighten up. More magic, no doubt. That leaves choice number three.

  Well, two years of yoga has its advantages, and my feet are bare. I’m limber enough to get them over my head and then around to the nightstand—do me a favor and don’t try to picture it, all right? Then I get a toe in the trigger guard and haul the thing onto the bed.

  Undoing the safety isn’t hard. All I have to do then is aim at my own hand with my feet, and shoot the ropes without hitting my own limb. Or chest. Or head.

  Did I mention that my gun is chambered with .454 rounds? True, the bullets themselves are hand-carved teak with silver tips, but the load is so powerful that even the gas that’s ejected from the firing chamber is enough to sever a finger if you hold the thing wrong. And I’m going to aim with my feet? I’ll only get one shot, too—the recoil will knock the gun across the room. I better make it count.

  I spend the next few minutes trying to get the gun into the perfect position without accidentally setting it off. When I’m finally ready and looking down the barrel of the Redhawk, I stop for a second and take a deep breath. This is probably the craziest thing I’ve ever tried to do—even if it doesn’t work, I’ll probably lose a toe from the gas ejection—

  Hey, moron, a little voice in my head says. If it’ll sever a finger or a toe, what do you think it would do to a rope?

  I relax my toe-grip and take a moment to realize how close I just came to probably blowing my own arm off. Then it’s time to do some body contorting again … but this time I’m trying to get the gun into my right hand without dropping it.