by Siegel, Alex
Blake saw a tiny light behind a ventilation exhaust stack. Somebody was holding a penlight pointed down.
"Gentlemen," Blake said. "It's nice meeting you."
He and Phillip approached a circle of about a dozen men and women, although some were hard to see in the dark. Most were in their twenties or thirties.
"I assume I'm speaking to the White Guerrillas," Blake said.
He heard murmurs of agreement.
"Why did you bring the kid?" Dean said.
He was wearing a black sweat suit, black shoes, black gloves, and a black ski cap. The silly outfit made him look like a cat burglar.
"He has as much at stake as me," Blake said. "His parents were killed by sorcerers after all."
Dean made a sour face. "You promised me intelligence."
Blake leaned forward and lowered his voice. "The government is controlled by sorcerers. That much should be obvious. The White House should be called the Magic House instead. There are satanic rituals practically every night in the Oval Office."
All of the Guerrillas had wide eyes and eager faces.
Blake continued, "Surprisingly, the most powerful sorcerers aren't located anywhere near the White House or Congress. That would be too obvious. They operate out of an agency you've never heard of: the Bureau of Physical Investigation."
"Where is it?" Dean said.
Blake took a map of Washington, DC out of his pocket and spread it out on the roof. There was a big red X marking a spot in the western suburbs.
"The headquarters of the BPI," he said. "Not a soft target, but a very valuable one. It's rotten with sorcery. Blowing it up should be our number one goal."
"What kind of security do they have?" Dean said.
"The best. It's a top secret government facility built for the sole purpose of protecting the most powerful sorcerers in the country. Just getting close will be tough. We can expect to get shot all to hell, but that's not the worst part."
"It gets worse?"
Blake nodded. "The most important parts of the facility are underground, buried in bedrock. You could kill everybody in the building and still miss the most valuable targets."
"You have a plan?" Dean said.
"Indeed. We get a big truck and cover the front with armor. It has to be strong enough to reach the building intact."
"Sounds like a suicide mission."
"Not if the truck is remote controlled." Blake winked. "The back of the truck will be filled with explosives, enough to demolish the building and collapse the tunnels underneath. We simply crash the truck into the target and blow it up." He wiped his hands symbolically. "Problem solved."
"A car bomb?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "How much dynamite are we talking about? Or are you thinking C-4? Either way, it will be very difficult and expensive to acquire that much explosive."
"Not necessarily." Blake took another sheet of paper out and handed it to Dean. "That's the formula for making an explosive which should suit our needs nicely. It's a mix of ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder. Both can be legally acquired in large quantities, and we'll need a lot. I want a big boom."
Dean stared at the paper. "You've thought this through."
"I have plenty of motivation." Blake patted Phillip on the head. "There are some details that still need to be worked out though. We need a safe, discreet place to work. Our biggest difficulty will be not getting caught. Our enemies are watching, and we have to construct a giant bomb right under their noses."
That comment sucked some of the enthusiasm out of his audience.
"Listen," Blake said, "I'm not going to lie. This mission won't be easy or simple, but it's worth the risks. For too long, sorcerers have enslaved the rest of us. Their evil has infected this great country and poisoned its relationship with God. Separation of Church and State? Obviously, that was written by a sorcerer. Gay marriage? Another conspiracy to destroy the natural order. And it's not just the government. The left-wing media is also beholden to the sinister brotherhood. That's why you never see anything about them on the so-called 'legitimate' news. It's a giant cover-up. If something isn't done, it will just get worse and worse. Our children will be rounded up and sacrificed on the Devil's bloody altars. Sorcerers will brainwash the masses with their diabolical trickery. My daughter was too close to the truth, and that's why she was killed. I firmly believe I was put on this Earth to stop the madness. Join me in this noblest of quests."
He stopped to catch his breath. He resisted the urge to give himself a round of applause.
One by one, the White Guerrillas nodded in affirmation.
"I have a barn in the woods," one man said. "We can build the truck there."
"I can get some steel plate," another man said, "and I can weld it."
"And somebody needs to build the remote control," Blake said. "I'll work with Mr. Dean on acquiring the materials for the explosive. I might know some suppliers."
"That will be helpful," Dean said.
Blake smiled.
The group discussed details for a few more minutes and everybody was given an assignment. The meeting eventually broke up. Blake and Phillip lingered behind to have a private conversation with Dean.
When they were alone, Blake said, "You're the money guy here. I assume you'll be paying for the materials."
"That's true, I suppose," Dean replied in a tone of resignation.
"I know a guy who can supply us with ammonium nitrate, and I can probably set up a meeting for tomorrow, but he won't take a check. You'll have to pay in cash."
"How much cash?"
"The stuff is cheap," Blake said. "It's basically fertilizer. Ten grand should cover it. Why don't you stop by the bank tomorrow and make a withdrawal? I'll meet you there."
"What time?"
"Let's say 10 AM."
"Fine," Dean said. "Third National Bank on Quarrier Street."
"Wear casual clothes. Don't attract attention."
"Of course."
Blake and Phillip walked off.
* * *
Blake was sipping a cup of coffee. The morning was cold but sunny, and he was enjoying the fine weather. He had learned long ago to savor the small pleasures life offered. His time on Earth could end at any moment.
Phillip was standing quietly next to Blake. The two of them rarely talked because there wasn't much to say. Their minds traversed duplicate paths, and they could guess what the other was thinking. Blake still appreciated the companionship though. He had lived a very lonely life, and any kind of friend was better than none.
Charleston wasn't much of a city, but it had its charms. He amused himself by watching the people and making up stories about them. He imagined a young woman with red hair was a serial killer who poisoned men who displeased her. A short, bald man in a suit looked like a guy who might defraud rich investors. A homeless man sitting on the sidewalk was a federal agent performing covert surveillance.
Gary Dean came out of a bank with a large steel briefcase in his hand. He was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and both looked a little tight on him. He obviously hadn't worn those clothes in a while.
Blake waved, and Dean came over.
"Do you take your grandson everywhere?" Dean said.
Blake nodded. "I swore on his mother's deathbed I would always care for the child." Blake stroked Phillip's brown hair. "He has nobody else to look after him. You have the money?"
Dean patted the briefcase. "Did you set up the meeting?"
"I did, and I rented a truck to haul the fertilizer. Follow me."
The three of them walked around the block to a parking lot on the other side. A big blue moving van was parked across two spots. Two men in denim jackets were sitting in the cab.
"Who are those guys?" Dean said.
"Labor and personal protection," Blake said.
"Protection? From what?"
"My enemies. We'll ride in a separate car. There isn't room for us in the truck."
Blake went to a green Chevy Malibu and sat in
the front seat. It wasn't as nice as the cars he usually drove, but he was trying to keep a very low profile. Dean sat in the passenger seat, and Phillip rode in the back.
Blake turned the ignition key. He had already entered the destination into the navigation system, so he just had to select it. He drove off obeying the directions. The big blue van followed close behind.
"I probably should've asked before," Dean said. "What line of work are you in, Mr. Beltz?"
"Vengeance is my vocation these days," Blake said. "It's a full-time occupation."
"You told me sorcerers killed your daughter. What exactly happened?"
Blake stared straight ahead at the road. "I'd rather not talk about those dark days. The memories are too painful, and my grandson is listening. The boy has been traumatized enough. Let's talk about you instead."
The car arrived at a bridge which crossed a wide river. The slow-moving water was a murky green.
"What about me?" Dean said.
"How did you come to hate sorcerers so much?"
"I'm not sure if hate is the right word. It's not that personal. I've never really met one."
"Yet you want to kill them," Blake said.
"Because it's the right thing to do. Sorcery is an abomination, an affront to God. Sorcerers are the Devil's minions."
"Who taught you that?"
"My parents," Dean said. "They were good, solid Christians. Prayed every day and never missed church. They made me swear to Jesus that I would fight the good fight against evil."
Blake turned the car onto a highway and picked up speed. The navigation system was giving him directions in a pleasant female voice.
"I see. So sorcery is more of an abstract concept for you. You don't have any personal experience."
"I certainly heard plenty of stories. In fact, a sorcerer was caught performing blood rituals not far from here."
"Really?" Blake said with feigned interest.
He had seen all kinds of training techniques, and none of them had involved blood. Sorcery was an intellectual art primarily. Physical gimmicks and rituals were only used to aid mental focus.
"Yeah," Dean said. "The guy was drinking goat blood. He had pentagrams tattooed all over his body."
"Did that give him special powers?"
"He claimed he could fly at night when the moon was full."
"Impressive," Blake said. "What happened to him?"
"He was run out of town. I'm not sure where he went."
"Oh."
Nobody spoke for a while. Blake looked at the scenic countryside of West Virginia as he drove. A patchwork of dense forest covered steep, rolling hills. Some of the trees had lost their leaves for the winter, but there was still plenty of greenery.
"I'm wondering," Phillip said in his sweet voice, "do you think you'd recognize a sorcerer if you saw one?"
"Sure," Dean said. "I think so."
"How? I'm afraid of them. I want to know what to look for."
Blake suppressed a smile. Phillip was toying with his prey.
"They show the signs of the Devil," Dean said. "Inverted crosses, flames, and the all-seeing eye. Shadows surround sorcerers at all times."
"Scary," Phillip said. "What kind of powers do they have?"
"I'm not sure. Hypnosis, certainly. They curse people and steal their souls. But you actually met some sorcerers. What was your experience?"
"It was all darkness and smoke. All I saw were glowing green eyes. Then my mother was gone."
"Oh." Dean paused. "I'm so sorry."
"That's enough conversation," Blake said. "We're almost at our destination. When we get there, let me do the talking. You just hand over the money."
"Got it."
Blake turned off the highway. The big blue van was still right on his tail.
He made several turns onto increasingly narrow roads which ascended a steep slope. He reached the edge of an old quarry and stopped. The entire top of a hill had been scraped off, exposing the bedrock. Long straight marks showed where blocks of stone had been cut out.
A battered, ancient pickup truck was waiting. The driver hopped out and walked over. He was an old man wearing jean coveralls, and a baseball cap was jammed onto his unruly gray hair.
Blake stepped out of the car to meet him. "Hi!" Blake said cheerfully. "I'm here for the merchandise."
"And I'm here for the money," the old man said.
Dean joined them and handed over his briefcase. The old man opened the case and counted the bundles of cash inside.
"I'm satisfied," he reported. "You can take the fertilizer."
The blue moving van had parked alongside Blake's car. He gestured for his men to start transferring the fertilizer. They retrieved clear plastic bags full of white pellets from the pickup truck. The bags were labelled, "Ammonium Nitrate - 50 pounds." The muscular assassins didn't have any difficulty carrying the heavy bags.
"That's the good stuff," the old man said, "just like I promised. Grade A, chemically pure, straight from the factory."
"I trust you," Blake said.
Forty bags were loaded into the moving van. He didn't actually know if he could make enough explosive to destroy BPI headquarters. The place was a fortress built to withstand anything smaller than an atomic bomb.
When the transaction was done, the old man drove off in his pickup truck.
Blake turned to Dean. "Where are we delivering the ammonium nitrate?"
"It's a barn in the hills," Dean said. "I'm pretty sure I can find it."
Chapter Nine
Blake parked the car in front of a wooden barn which was possibly as old as himself. Only traces of the original red paint remained on the warped grayish boards. One side of the barn sagged a little, and piles of stones under the wall were the only thing preventing it from collapsing.
A pasture surrounded the barn, and a dense forest lay beyond the pasture. The hilly land had no flat spots.
Blake got out and tromped through weeds to reach the barn. He peered through the open door. He didn't see any light bulbs, and the only illumination came from sunlight streaming through a high opening. Cobwebs decorated the corners and roof beams. A little bit of straw was scattered across the dirt floor.
"This is it?" Blake said.
Dean came up behind him. "I know it's not much," Dean said.
"How are we supposed to do precise, delicate work here? The roof isn't even waterproof, and are those owl droppings?"
"We'll fix it up a little. We can cover the roof with plastic."
Blake frowned. "I suppose. The location is certainly isolated. I'll have my men unload the fertilizer, and then we'll drop you off in town. After this, you and I are done for the day."
"You have something to do afterwards?" Dean said.
"Yes. For one thing, I have to find somebody who can sell us fine aluminum powder. It's a bit of a specialty item, and we'll need a lot."
Blake turned and headed back towards the blue moving van.
* * *
Blake and Phillip walked into their furnished apartment in downtown Charleston. Blake had signed a six-month lease even though he intended to stay only a few days. He hadn't paid a penny, of course. A touch of mind-control had convinced the rental agent to accept the first payment a month late, and Blake would be long gone before then. He rarely spent money these days and never his own.
The apartment had hardwood floors which were scuffed and needed refinishing. A brown couch faced a small television in the living room. An attached kitchen wasn't big enough to cook a proper meal, but he didn't like to cook anyway. He generally had food delivered. Ugly track lighting reminded him of the 1970's.
"That went well," Blake said.
Phillip nodded. "Should we wait a day or proceed to the next stage in the plan immediately?"
"It's hard to say. We'll get the aluminum tomorrow."
"The BPI will need some time for its investigation. At least a day."
Blake scratched the stubble on his chin. "Let's plant the evid
ence now, and you can do your performance tomorrow evening. That should work out perfectly."
"If there are no mistakes or surprises."
"We can always make adjustments if necessary."
"Maybe we should do some contingency planning," Phillip said.
"I don't want to do any more planning right now. Everything has gone smoothly so far, and that trend should continue."
"But...."
"Be quiet and follow orders," Blake said.
He went to the single bedroom. He slept on the queen-size bed, and Phillip used an air mattress on the floor. Blank white walls reminded him too much of a prison cell Blake had spent five years in. There was a window, but it faced the wrong way and didn't admit much sunlight. The carpet was yellow, but odd brown stains encouraged him to keep his shoes on.
Blake went to his suitcase which was still packed. He wanted the ability to leave on very short notice. He dug into his belongings until he found a paper bag. He brought the bag to the kitchen, and Phillip came forward eagerly.
Blake took out two plastic jars with bright orange labels. One contained a white powder which he knew was pure ammonium nitrate. The other jar held gray powdered aluminum. He grabbed a plastic bowl from the cupboard and carefully mixed the powders in the proper ratio. He used about a quarter cup of ammonium nitrate and just a teaspoon of aluminum. He stirred the mixture with a spoon until it was completely blended.
Phillip frowned and backed away.
"Why are you worried?" Blake said. "This stuff is supposed to be very safe."
"I still don't have to stand right next to it," Phillip said.
"Coward."
"You would know. We're the same."
Blake smirked. It was exactly the kind of thing he would say.
"What would you do if I died?" Blake said.
"Go on without you, I suppose. Just leave the Russian Eye someplace where I can find it."
"I created you. You should be more reverent."
"My apologies, sir," Phillip replied with a hint of sarcasm, "but I didn't exactly volunteer for the job."
Blake rolled his eyes. There was no point in continuing the conversation. He was basically arguing with himself.
