“Our agency has tracked a group of known mercenaries to a small town in eastern Romania,” tilde said excitedly.
LeMay let out a sigh of relief. “Then, you should call the C.I.A.”
“We have, Agent LeMay.”
Special Agent Martin LeMay had the distinct feeling he was going to get an incredible headache after he asked his next question. “Then, why call me?”
“Two of Thor Odinsson’s ships, Mjölnir and Odin’s Hefnd, have been docked there for the past week,” tilde said. “The mercenaries gathered onboard his ship, before disappearing into the Carpathian Mountains in two Chinook helicopters, yesterday. My superiors have called yours; requesting you join us in Romania. I suggest you bring warm clothes, Mister LeMay; it’s my understanding it’s going to be unseasonably chilly where we are going.”
He hated being right about the headache.
After Tilde hung up the phone, LeMay reached into the trash, retrieved the half-eaten doughnut and tossed it to the flock of pigeons pecking at the ground outside his window. Then he looked to the sky, picturing an invisible omnipotent being, watching over the seven billion people on Earth he calls his children, then yelled as loud as he possibly could: “What the fuck did I do to you!”
* * *
N.S.A. Director David Bjorn sat at his desk, rubbing his temples with the palms of his hands. His head ached, and his eyes were wary from reading too many reports. He desperately missed the old days, when all he had to do was point a finger at someone and say: “Do it!” or “Get it done!” and not have to worry – too much – over the outcome. It would be done, o heads would roll.
Nowadays, Congress had a thousand sub-committees so far up his ass, a proctologist would have a snowball’s chance in Hell making a case for him to get an exam. All he had to do was ask a senator what he saw, while he was in there.
David took a sip of coffee, checked his watch, and sneered at both. The coffee was stone-cold, and he had yet another meeting with a committee to discuss spending.
The coffee was one thing; he blamed himself for letting it go cold. The blood-sucking bustards on the Hill, on the other hand, expected the finest security agency in the world to operate with a fist-full of quarters and a gum wrapper. With a stupid smile plastered on our faces, like we don’t realize just how badly we’re being fucked over!
The pre-paid cell phone in his jacket pocket rang, causing David’s heart to skip a beat. C.I.A. director, Vince Lydle, was the only person in the world to have the number; making this a sign of very bad things to come.
“Hello,” David said.
“The ball has been dropped,” Vince said without hesitation.
The blood in David’s veins froze; when it came to bad news, this was as bad as it got. “How exposed are we?”
“We may as well be standing in Times Square with our pants around our ankles,” the C.I.A. director replied. “I was just blind-sided by an agent from Interpol – Interpol, for Christ’s sake! How that bunch of talking monkeys got involved, is beyond me. Apparently, Jacques’ team is in the Carpathian Mountains, after visiting a certain ship that’s supposed to be still parked in fucking Portland. Did you know about this?”
David could feel one of those headaches he got every time he sat across from those retards in congress coming on. “And not call you?” he snapped. He drummed his fingers on the desk, his mind racing. He could contain this on his end, and Vince would do the same. The rub was Interpol; God only knew how many of those idiots were involved already. Those idiots have blown more operations than cheerleaders have football players, and now they were about to fuck-up plans that were in motion since before he was born.
“I thought you had a leash on that boy!” Vince snapped back. “He’s been nothing but trouble for years.”
David sighed. “Since I’ve heard no word from her, we have to assume she’s been made. I suppose, it was just a matter of time anyway.”
“That’s because you used a fucking amateur! An agent would’ve kept him in line.” David did not have to see Vince’s face to know he wore a smug look when he said it.
“Angantýrsdóttir made the last one you sent in less than three minutes.” David was glad Vince could not see his smile; it would only make matters worse. “You know, Vince, instead of pissing and moaning, you should be happy this will be over soon. If Thor Odinsson is in Romania, that means he has what Vali was looking for. This is the best thing to happen to us.”
There was a long pause before Vince said: “Or it’s the end of the world. Either way, you know somebody is going to start putting the pieces together. When word gets out of what we’ve been up to the past 35 years, the president, himself, will be in the firing-squad.”
“I’m actually surprised we made it this far… It’s time to clean house, my friend,” David said, then hung up the phone. He removed the battery, then slipped it into his pocket. It would be destroyed within the next few minutes, but he had something important to do first.
The N.S.A. director used his regular cell phone to make the next call. His eyes drifted to the three framed photos on his desk. The one of his wife, Emily, made him smile; she would forever be the love of his life. The one of his Son, John, made him proud; he was going to make a great naval officer. The one of his Father and him, holding a giant red salmon, made him sad; Vali Odinsson took that one on David’s ninth birthday, and he would give just about anything to be that innocent and naive, again.
“Hello,” the female voice said, after four rings.
“Gunner Bjornsson, please.”
“One moment, sir,” the woman replied.
“Hello?” a scratchy old voice said.
“Hi, Dad.”
“David!” the old man said. “How are you, my boy?”
“I’m great, Dad. I just called because it’s been a long time since I told you I love you.”
There was a chuckle on the other end. “I love you, too, David.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” the N.S.A. Director said, clearing his throat, “but I don’t have a lot of time. I need you to call Bryndis and tell her, her cousin David loves her. Would you do that for me, Dad?”
“Oh, my God!” Gunner said. “It’s, finally, started!”
“Yes, Dad… it has…”
Chapter 25
The Second-Quarter Moon
The gray twilight turned black, shrouding the mountains in a mass of shadows caused by the waxing moon. The air was cold for being a few days away from the summer solstice, but it had been a long, harsh winter, and snow still piled deep in the higher altitudes. The smell of flowers floated on the gentle breeze, bringing promises of warmer days. They were just that; promises. Sometimes promises were as devoid of substance as Odin’s wretched soul.
Deep in a cave, amidst the bones and fetid air, golden eyes opened slowly. The time for much-needed rest had ended; the time for retribution just begun. A thousand years stuck in this realm, hunted by mortal men day and night was too much to bear.
It had been such a simple plan in the beginning: Destroy the humans, claim this realm for his own and rid himself of the fear-fueled hatred of Odin and the rest of the Ǽsir for good. It would have worked, too, had Odin not interfered, pledging the rights to Valhalla to those that fought for his weak-minded cause. Part of Hróðvitnir wondered if Odin had the audacity to honor that pledge to the thousands of men that died; a larger part cared not, the Fenrir that followed him to this realm received no such honor.
Now, after a brief respite, the hunt begins anew. When will these mortal humans learn not to interfere with matters that do not concern them?
Hróðvitnir stripped his muzzle back, baring gleaming-white fangs that had been the doom of thousands of mortal men. Grünja was dead, and now he possessed her memories. She died well defending herself from the mortal man calling himself the son of Odin, but dead was dead, and nothing could bring her back, not even the son of Loki. Now, this false God owed a blood-debt Hróðvitnir had every intention of collecting.
Grünja’s memories troubled Hróðvitnir; the liar calling himself a God had a scent he knew all too well, though a thousand years had passed since it had been smelled by the beast that caused the Ǽsir to tremble with fear. This mortal that killed Grünja has the blood of Jorick son of Ivar running through his veins, which means he has to possess that cursed thing.
Hróðvitnir shuddered. He knew his father’s own luck helped him escape all those centuries ago; the chances of it happening again were near nonexistent. These mortal men now had machines that flew faster than any bird, and weapons that should make the Ǽsir tremble with fear more than he ever dreamed to do.
Worse, these mortals slaughter each other by the millions in the name of their gods; their thirst for death and destruction rivaling his own. If Odin has rallied them to his cause once more, Hróðvitnir knew there was nowhere on Midgard he could be safe. Not this time.
A wave of fear flooded Hróðvitnir. He snarled, his eyes darting, as if expecting to see the Ǽsir surrounding him in the darkness. He never wanted this war; only what belonged to him. Odin was to blame for this mess; the old man feared Ragnarok to the point of madness, ignoring the fact he would be the cause.
Hróðvitnir reached deep down to the pit off despair – so far down he could sense his sister Hel in her own prison – and brought forth a furious rage to crush the fear, just as he would crush the false Thor. Then he would kill Odin for the millennia of torture his grandfather had put him through. The Ǽsir would be crushed to dust, and Midgard plunged into eternal darkness.
Then – and only then – would he find peace.
Chapter 26
All the Wrong Questions
From the second the plane landed in Bucharest, Martin LeMay felt eyes all over his every movement; two days later, that feeling had only grown stronger. He could’ve chalked it up to paranoia, or too many times spent in the bush with enemies all around, but Tilde Heitman felt it, too, and suddenly everything that could be mere coincident came under scrutiny.
The team was good; it took several times to see the same woman with different clothes, hair and facial disguises, before his suspicions were confirmed. If Heitman had more field experience, they could’ve snagged the bitch. Even if they didn’t get any information, they’d have a bargaining chip… of course, that’s assuming the organization gave a shit about her.
They were being watched now, though much more carefully than before, Martin was sure of it; the hairs on the back of his neck hadn’t been this prickly since being forced into making a hasty retreat down a blind alley in Kandahar.
If that weren’t bad enough, both his and Heitman’s phones had been hacked and wiped clean, then disabled altogether. So, they dumped them on a train headed for Warsaw, then made their way to Constanța; LeMay was not about to keep a personal locator with him, he’d been on the other side of this game too many times to fall for that shit. They tried to check in to their superiors via land-line and “borrowed” cell phones, but never got through to them, or anyone else for that matter. Someone wanted them isolated and helpless; the question was who?
This was enough to piss off any man!
Heitman kept pointing her finger at Odinsson, but this wasn’t his style; if anything, the asshole would’ve been waiting at the airport for them with a bottle of champagne, then offered to drive them to Constanța, himself. No, this operation reminded LeMay of something he would’ve done a lifetime ago, which kept him and Heitman sharing a room, and sleeping in shifts. If their tail was playing by a familiar playbook, he and Heitman were safe enough until they led the way to the final destination. If not… LeMay was well versed in improvisation. Too well versed!
The last thirty hours had been the hairiest; Heitman’s Interpol contact had vanished from the face of the earth, and the local authorities’ welcome had been lukewarm, at best. At first, the two detectives to offer any assistance at all, Razvan Lungu and Dragoi Valiselescu, had very few answers. Then the trickle of information shut down completely, after a few too many questions about the missing agent and the sudden popularity of the docks. Then it was strongly suggested they leave the country, as fast as possible.
LeMay realized they had pushed all the wrong buttons when he discovered their rooms had been broken into. Nothing was missing, of course, but someone had been searching for something, and left the room with a few very discretely hidden surveillance transmitters.
LeMay promptly shifted evasion-mode into overdrive, dumped everything but their passports and cash, spent hours checking them into four hotels all over the city, and “acquired” a car and more cash during the night from a few men that had “acquired” them from someone else. Like they say: karma’s a bitch!
Their current location was a cramped, flea-riddled shit-hole – even by eastern European standards – but it offered the best vantage point to keep an eye on Odinsson’s ships docked a few hundred yards away. If he had more resources, LeMay could’ve lost their tail for good; he only hoped that it bought them enough time for him to get them the fuck out of this mess.
He leaned back in the chair, trying to ignore the smell of urine and other bodily fluids, peering at two ships secluded from the rest of the freighters through a borrowed pair of forty-year-old Zeiss binoculars. Mjölnir was quiet, with little signs of life. The large freighter docked on the other side, Odin’s Hefnd – Odin’s Vengeance according to Heitman – had plenty of action onboard, though.
Else Obermeijer was supervising a small team of men loading the missile launcher and mini gun mounted to the Blackhawk. Tensions were high, and one of the men must’ve said something wrong, because Else shouted and pushed him out of the way, then started to load the mini gun herself. When she finished, she had the men load several crates into the helicopter – the larger ones had their IDs burned off: missiles most likely, the smaller were definitely ammunition for the mini gun. Say what you will about soviet technology, LeMay thought, adjusting the crystal-clear binoculars, but they really knew how to spy from a distance.
Heitman was clinging to the idea Odinsson was dealing arms; a ridiculous notion LeMay admitted, but there had been enough weapons leaving that ship over the past two days to start a war, so it was easy to see how the young woman came to that conclusion. LeMay believed Odinsson discovered who was behind the body in Copenhagen, and was about to wipe them from the planet. Why else conduct your business in plain sight, if not to intimidate the shit out of your intended target first?
Whatever was going on, Odinsson had absolutely no fear of the local authorities, and with good reason; before being told to leave the country, Martin and Tilde had been informed the two ships in the harbor flying the flag of Iceland carried diplomatic status, and were off limits under international law. LeMay had no idea how Odinsson pulled that one off, but he begrudgingly admired the spirit behind it.
As soon as the Blackhawk was loaded, Else Obermeijer lifted off, heading west like the Devil was on her tail. A few moments later, a Chinook touched down on the deck of the freighter, and LeMay saw a ghost, two in fact.
Gary Schneider and Bill Collier – Two men LeMay was well associated with; good men, and the finest soldiers LeMay ever served with; both reported dead ten years ago. – piled out of the big cargo helicopter, and began to hustle the other men to get the chopper loaded as fast as possible. If you’re not dead, where the fuck have you two been for the past ten years?
The fact that Schneider and Collier became mercenaries was nowhere near as disturbing as hearing the story of how they died from Colonel Don Rice, after he brought their bodies home from Afghanistan, personally. Whether Rice fabricated witnessing Schneider’s and Collier’s deaths on his own or was quoting a script was irrelevant; he lied, and that was a bitter pill t
o swallow for someone that admired the colonel’s integrity the way LeMay did.
Seeing both of his former squad members wearing those ridiculous berets with the hammer and lightning bolt flash was enough to make LeMay’s blood boil; they lost that right to wear any uniform when they deserted the army. A very big part of LeMay wanted nothing more at the moment than to rip them from the heads of those traitors, then shove them down their fucking throats!
He turned from the window in disgust. His eyes fell on Tilde Heitman sleeping on the bed both he and she hoped had clean sheets since the last time a prostitute brought a ship’s hand to this room. She was curled into a tight ball, clutching the grip of the pistol under her pillow. Her hair was a tangle rat’s nest from the non-stop tossing and turning, she had dark circles under her eyes, but was still the second most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
LeMay went back to watching the ship. Collier was unbuttoning his CCU blouse; that man would sweat and complain about the heat in a freezer. LeMay sat upright in the chair, moving closer to the window; sure his eyes were playing tricks on him, but they weren’t. The man was wearing the challenge coin LeMay had given him, after their first mission together, on a chain around his neck. He said that gold-plated disk was worth more than a chest-full of ribbon, and he’d be buried with it.
Collier eased close to the ship’s railing, ignoring everything behind him. He turned, shouted to the pilot, and a few second later, the pilot tossed him a pair of Steiner 20/80 binoculars. The former teammate panned the shipyard, then focused on the streets. LeMay eased further into the chair as the man scanned the buildings. Something Collier saw spooked the man; he turned, shouted something that brought a shit-load of men from below, all armed to the teeth.
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