The Eville Protection Plan

by Holand Peterson

  “And precisely what do you mean by that?”

  “Well, you know … he’s … stubborn,” Alex replied, choosing his words carefully. Moody chuckled with mischievous delight, taking her eyes off her work for a moment to catch Serene’s reaction.

  “Damned right he is … along with many other less-than-admirable qualities.”

  “Anyway, I’m sure we’re going to be on our way shortly. Soon we’ll leave this place, sort things out with the UEL head honchos, put this entire mess behind us and before you know it things will be back to normal … well, what you call normal, anyway. You’ll settle down in some big, creepy, weird house, fully loaded with a kickass lab. Moody will be whipping up something wonderful in the kitchen. Dante will be darting about stealing anything he can get his legs around.”

  “And where will you be in this idyllic scenario?”

  Alex thought for a moment before answering. “With Marco, chilling out with a beer in a room far, far away from your work. Like, really, really far.”

  “Some assistant you turned out to be,” she replied with a smile and a wink. “But that does sound like a little slice of paradise right now.”

  “Heck, I bet you Hammett and Vega are working out the details of our departure as we speak.”

  Chapter 4- The Void

  That self-righteous UEL bastard; shooting him in the goblin-licking leg … in the dark, with a bloody rainstorm pouring down. How the hell did he get such a lucky shot? And it was luck, not skill. It hurt like a son of a harpy, too. Funny, fifteen years as a New Brasov officer and he’d never taken a bullet until now. Hurt every bit as much as he’d heard. This was going to be one hell of a night. Then again, was it even night anymore? He seemed to recollect bits and pieces from a makeshift infirmary, dark shapes leaning over him to remove the bullet. Seemed like a long age ago. Then he had been left in a room for what felt like hours on end … to recover, perhaps? It was all jumbled and foggy. What a damned mess everything had turned out to be. That dummy Hanssen didn’t follow encoding procedures when informing their Cosa Nosferatu contact on Necrosia’s whereabouts. How many times did he show that fool precisely what to do if Necrosia were spotted? Naturally, the incompetent sap was nabbed by the authorities in but a matter of hours following the transmission. And, of course, he spilled his guts after all of five minutes in the interrogation room. Never should have brought him in on this. Tried to get out of town, to lay low after being ratted out. But that damned Cyclops … well, the best laid plans, as they say.

  Weisman knew how it would all go down, now that he had been caught and his great plan had blown up in his face. The arrogant Cyclops would parade him through the New Brasov station, making as large of a scene as possible, heaping on the humiliation. Then he’d be led to one of several interrogation rooms, tossed in roughly, left alone to stew for a bit. After waiting in an uncomfortable metal chair for a half hour or so, smelling the stale, urine-soaked air, brooding under the gloomy lights and staring at depressing gray walls, the idea is that he’d begin to get unnerved. Then Hammett would barge in, putting on the most intimidating performance he could muster, in an effort to get all of the details regarding his connection to the Cosa Nosferatu. If that initial tirade proved unsuccessful, someone else would be brought in to play the “good guy,” acting like he was Weisman’s best friend in the world and wanted nothing more than to help him out of a tough situation. If it weren’t for the fact that the man was a mute, he’d have put all his money on that Spaniard, Vega, playing the part. The bastard. Nonetheless, it would prove interesting to see whom Hammett brought in for the role. Weisman ran through an entire check-list of events in his mind as he lay, hands bound, blindfolded and gagged in the rear of Hammett’s vehicle. He, of course, understood how things worked better than anybody and had been personally involved in countless interrogations over the years. It was all a game of the mind, really, and he could play it masterfully. That pompous Cyclops couldn’t get him to talk if his life depended on it. Just let him try. Then, once he was ready to talk, he’d lay down all the cards and cut a deal. He’d probably end up with little more than a hand slap when all was said and done. Oddly enough, Hammett hadn’t spoken a single word since entering the vehicle. Maybe that was part of his game as well?

  The sedan screeched to a halt and Weisman breathed deeply, preparing himself for what lay ahead. The only part that really concerned him was the inevitable looks he’d receive from his fellow officers, the shock and scorn. He had worked alongside many good men and women through his career, developing a great many friendships in the process. But, in the end, a man has to do what he must to get ahead in the world, and he certainly wasn’t on the fast track with his New Brasov officer salary.

  The car door closest to his head opened, the blindfold quickly yanked off, revealing Vega’s formidable silhouette. The Spaniard leaned forward, head illuminated by the vehicle’s interior light, and his emotionless eyes drilled into Weisman’s own. Then, with only the slightest of grunts, Vega pulled the bound man off the rear seat and set him on the ground, allowing the injured man to lean against him for support. Weisman seriously considered showing his appreciation by spitting into the UEL pig’s face, and only held back from the shock of discovering that they were not standing before the New Brasov station as he anticipated. Hell, it didn’t look like they were even in New Brasov anymore. Everywhere he turned, Weisman only saw flat, barren desert. Aside from the brightly shining stars, not a single light could be found in the distance. Vega removed Weisman’s gag and gave the traitor a curious look.

  “Wha—what is this place? Where the hell have you taken me? I demand to be taken to the New Brasov station at once, under UEL article X3-4A. This is … this is illegal, I’ll have you know.”

  Hammett walked past Weisman en route to the car trunk, a thin smile on his lips. The Cyclops shoved several items about and lifted out, with great effort, a black cube hardly larger than a shoe box. Hammett’s shoulders slunk forward as he hobbled away from the car, as though the cube weighed a ton.

  “I’m not afraid of you, Hammett. I have my rights and you know it. All of your grandstanding means nothing to me. By procedure I have to be taken in to the nearest station for questioning. Hey! You listen to me when I’m talking to you!”

  With a heavy grunt Hammett dropped the cube on the ground. The resulting sound was enormous, echoing through the night. Once the ensuing cloud of dust had settled, it became clear that the ground around the cube had sunk several inches. Next, the Cyclops reached into his overcoat and pulled out a small, black triangle. He slid the basic shape across the top of the black cube and then quickly took several steps backwards.

  “The hell is going on here?”

  Beneath their feet a tremor rose up from the depths of the earth, rising like a shiver up their legs and spine. Small rocks and other debris littered about the dry ground began to roll toward the cube. All sounds suddenly vanished, and the air itself felt spent, as though the three men had been placed into a vacuum. A tremendous boom and the cube doubled in size with a burst of energy. After a pause came another boom and the cube doubled itself again. Six more times the cube expanded, until at last an impenetrable, pitch-black room stood before them. Then, all at once, the atmosphere returned to normal, and all three took in a deep breath.

  “As you can see,” Hammett broke the silence after several moments of labored breathing, “it would be in rather poor taste to operate one of these down at the station. Now in you go.” The inspector grabbed Weisman by the scruff of his neck and harshly tossed him toward the void. The traitor’s body vanished immediately, swallowed whole by shadow. Hammett took another deep breath and slowly followed.

  Weisman lay on hard, cold ground, enveloped in darkness deeper than any he had experienced in his life. What was more, a great force seemed to press on his body, as though gravity had been substantially increased. Even breathing required tremendous effort.

  “Weisman, listen to me very carefully.” Hammett�
�s voice boomed, yet still nothing could be seen in the void. “There will be no plea bargain, no negotiation. We have your accomplice and his woman in custody. They cannot help you now. Additionally, Hanssen has provided a lengthy testimonial incriminating you as the “Mastermind” behind this idiocy. We have in our possession all the evidence we need to indict the four of you for conspiring with the Cosa Nosferatu … including a particularly damning recording of Hanssen reporting on the movements of Necrosia and her associates, which was broadcast over a known CN channel, followed by a sizeable ‘anonymous’ donation to each of your banking accounts minutes after the transmission. Quite simply, you have spent your final hours on this earth, and nothing you say or do can change that. Furthermore, within this void nothing in heaven, hell or any other realm can see nor hear what transpires between us. You are, in the most absolute sense, condemned and alone.”

  “You … you’re bl—bluffing.” Each word came out in a gasp. “You’re …too … by the—the books. U … E … L … outlawed … ex … executions decades … ago.”

  “Indeed, I have never killed another living being in cold blood, nor shall I ever do so.” Slowly the Cyclops’ face grew visible, illuminated by the faintest pale green light. “And while I wholeheartedly endorse your premature death, such a decision lies beyond my sphere of influence. Pity. To compensate for this disappointment, once my business with you is complete, you shall be … banished, as it were. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. Now, you can tell me everything I need to know right now, or I can make the next few moments the most unpleasant of your life. And I’ll still acquire what I need. Your choice.”

  Weisman attempted to form a smile with his aching lips. “You … you can … go…screw … a … harpy.”

  “Ah, yes. Eloquent and intimidating all at once. Your mother must be proud. Very well, since you refuse to cooperate willingly, I’ve decided to play a little game. You familiar with ‘twenty questions’?”

  Vega had watched Hammett step into the void several moments ago. There was no telling how long this might last. Sometimes they cracked immediately, or it could go on for more than half an hour. You could never really predict it. Shrugging his shoulders, the Spaniard walked back to the sedan and sat gingerly on the hood. A half moon hung in the sky sleepily, several wisps of cloud blanketing her beauty. The stars, no longer having to compete against the lights of the city, sparkled like a sea of diamonds. He smiled. It felt good to rest for a moment, to appreciate the splendor of tranquility.

  “I’m not going to ask you again!” Hammett straddled Weisman, his massive brown eye inches away from the traitor’s face. “Do you work for Constantine? Do you?! No? But you work for one of the nine ‘lords’ of the Cosa Nosferatu, don’t you? Don’t you?!” Weisman’s eyes trembled, and a gurgling noise emitted from his throat. He tried to resist, to fight back, but the Cyclops’ eye seemed to reach in, to grasp the truth from his insides and pull it out. “That’s a definite yes. All right, then. Are you going to tell me which one, or am I going to have to run all nine names by you one by one?”

  From his coat Vega pulled a leather-bound journal, along with a pencil covered in bite marks. He flipped through the pages, many of which contained sketches of all kinds, until finding a blank. With a twinkle in his eye he now set about trying to capture the cloud-enshrouded moon with a series of slow, curved motions with his writing hand. Having completed his moon, he placed the pencil in his mouth and held aloft the journal, comparing his rendition to the genuine article. It looked good. Very good, in fact. The Spaniard let out a contented sigh, and with a grin running from ear to ear set about shaping some clouds on the page.

  “Vasile? Really? Well, that is interesting. Getting more aggressive all the time, it seems. Very interesting indeed. Do you know what their next move is? Do you? Are they planning an attack on the New Brasov Station? Are they here?” Hammett’s brow wrinkled in desperation, hands shaking from the strain. He forced his will ever deeper into Weismann, clawing into the depths of his psyche. “Do you know, damn it?” At long last the inspector released his gaze, the traitor convulsing. The man didn’t know. Didn’t know a damn thing. He was simply a set of eyes and ears to pass valuable information to Vasile, nothing more. “Goblin-licking …” Hammett stood, face contorted with anxiety. He shot one last glimpse at the sputtering man, then turned about and stepped out of the void.

  Vega had to put his pencil’s eraser to his first cloud—something about it just wasn’t right. His next attempt came together magnificently. Nodding in approval, he set about adding another cloud to his masterpiece when Hammett came stepping through the void, appearing thoroughly spent. Disappointed, Vega softly closed his journal, and returned it to the interior of his coat. Hammett, meanwhile, waved the black triangle in his hand before the giant black cube. Like the sudden burst of a balloon, a great gush of air rushed forward, returning the cube to its original size.

  “Nothing,” Hammett grunted, dropping the cube into the sedan’s trunk. “Not a goblin-licking morsel of information we could use. Damn it. The only thing I discovered is that it isn’t just Constantine we’re dealing with, but Vasile as well. Everybody wants a piece of Necrosia, and they will happily slit their mothers’ throats to get their hands on that insane woman. We can’t wait any longer. Necrosia has to be moved. Immediately. Every hour we wait gives the enemy that much more time to regroup. But with the media camped at the station’s footsteps, and every lowlife in existence monitoring all traffic in and out of the city … how we could move her in secret is … hell, do you have any brilliant ideas?” Vega pursed his lips and rubbed his chin methodically. “No. Too obvious. They would have thought of that. No, that wouldn’t work, either … not enough time. I want Necrosia out by midday tomorrow.” Vega frowned, staring off in the distance blankly. “Then, once we do get her out of town, transporting her safely to UEL headquarters, without the enemy catching wind of it … hell.” The Cyclops rubbed his temples in slow, circular motions, eyelid shut tight in thought. “Moving her under an armed UEL escort is out of the question. May as well paint a giant target on us and announce to the CN that hunting season has begun.”

  It started in one corner, nothing more than a slight twinge, and then, gradually, as the thought evolved and took form, spread across his face. Vega turned his eyes back to the Cyclops, a mouth full of white teeth, and placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder. Hammett opened his eye and his face went from shock to awe in one fluid motion. “You’re actually serious? That’s … that’s … son of a harpy, that just might work.”

  Chapter 5- All Good Things Must Come To an End

  “Get up! Everyone out of bed. Now.”

  “Wha … ?” Alex sat up in his cot with a start, and with squinting eyes tried to make out the large, blurry object enveloped in bright light.

  “Up. The three of you are being moved.” Hammett stood in the doorway to Officer Lee’s office, with two more New Brasov officers behind him in the hallway, all displaying stern, unfriendly faces.

  “Now?” Alex asked. “It’s one in the freaking morning.”

  “Who pissed in your coffee?” Moody growled from under her covers, followed by a string of unintelligible mumbling.

  “Alex, wake up Necrosia.” Hammett pointed at Serene where she lay on her own cot, mouth open, eyes covered with a sleeping mask. “If you don’t have that woman on her feet in the next twenty seconds I’ll drag her out of this room by her hair.”

  Bewildered and more than a little frightened, Alex slid out of his cot and shuffled over to Serene. He glanced back at Hammett, who scowled at them with his arms crossed, and began shaking the woman’s shoulder. It took considerably longer than twenty seconds to rouse the inventor from her deep slumber, during which time the Cyclops grunted like an enraged bull.

  After a great deal of prodding, Serene finally pulled the mask up to her forehead. “The devil is going on?” she snarled, shooting Hammett a venomous look. “I’ll have you know I was in the middle of a
magnificent dream.”

  “He says we have to move … now,” Alex explained with a shrug.

  “Good. I’ve grown tired of this stuffy old office. It’s beginning to smell like hunchback and dirty socks.” Moody kicked her blanket off and shot the woman a profane gesture. “I assume you’ve found a more comfortable living arrangement?”

  The Cyclops smiled. “Quite the contrary. The three of you are being moved into a private cell in the building’s basement, where you shall stay until you are escorted from this facility. From this moment on you are to have absolutely no contact with anyone other than myself or Officer Lee.”

  “Ah, crap,” Alex groaned. “I told you, Serene. I told you! I knew this would happen.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Serene argued.

  “God! Freaking … Damn it, Serene! You had to keep bending the rules … had to keep pushing the boundaries … and now you’ve screwed us all over. Thanks a lot. This is just great.”

  “Hush! Keep this up and I’m docking your pay.” The inventor waved her hand at Alex, as if she were a queen and could silence her doting subjects with but the slightest motion. “Now, if this is about the pulsating growth on the ceiling of the women’s lavatory, I can explain,” she continued, turning her attention to the inspector. “In point of fact—”

  “Stop!” Hammett boomed. “Shut up! Not another word from any of you.”

  “Word,” Moody blurted out in defiance, sneering, her tongue sticking out at the Cyclops.

  Hammett pointed his index finger at the hunchback and formed such an intensely intimidating expression that Moody immediately sucked her tongue back in and lowered her eyes sheepishly. “Come.” He jabbed his index finger toward the floor, and the three fugitives quickly fell in line without a peep.