Hammer of the Gods

by B. D. MacCallum

  Thor threw open the door, helped Sorina down, and headed toward the charred skeleton with long strides, Nwabudike falling in beside him. Thor did not need the amulet’s power to read the Nigerian captain’s mind as he scanned the rubble with a discriminating eye; he was thinking the same thing.

  Dylah headed for the small band of locals to assure them all the right people would be compensated for total silence, and Thor remembered the old saying about tangled webs.

  Sorina stared at the destruction and the people behind the tall fence. She started to catch up to Thor.

  “Please don’t, Miss Sorina,” Bonchance said, his eyes darting about. “Something is wrong.”

  “He’s right,” Martin LeMay said, stepping out of the helicopter, a green and black shemagh covering his face, his eyes scanning everything. The man had done his best to keep himself closer to Thor than a tattoo since that night in the cave. When Thor asked why, he just mumbled something about making up for past sins.

  “You can’t go in there, sir. It’s not safe,” the young man with a machine gun slung over his shoulder said with an Irish accent, trying his best to intimidate the on-comers with a hard look.

  Thor and Nwabudike passed him without a word, stepping through the steel door frame, warped by the blast. The heavy steel door lay on the ground a few yards away, charred and twisted, with mangled hinges and shredded dead bolts; more proof the thing had been locked down tight during the explosion. Nwabudike noticed this fact as well, then shot Thor an expressionless glance that spoke volumes.

  The entire back wall had been blown away, and the afternoon sun filtered through the smoke and dust. The groaning twisted steel trusses indicated the roof was on the verge of collapse, but Thor was compelled to go further into the debris. Heat still radiated from the concrete slab walls and floor, making the pair mindful where they stepped, which would not be far from the doorway.

  Nwabudike grasped Thor’s upper arm in an iron grip. “That would not be wise,” he said keeping a wary eye on the weakened trusses, wincing at yet another groan.

  Thor flashed a smile. “My Gods will protect me. You can step outside, or stay close to me.”

  The stench of charred flesh and explosive residue permeated the vapor rising from hot spots on the debris-strewn floor. Thor stepped over the remains of a plastic crate, noting the severed forearm poking out from under one corner. There were plenty of ruined weapons strewn about, but there should have been much more considering this place was supposed to be packed with them.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Thor announced, and they promptly made a quick retreat.

  “This was a tactical strike,” Nwabudike said softly. “They hit the areas I would have targeted.”

  “Would you have taken most of the weapons before you blew the building?”

  “It depends if I needed them or not.”

  Thor gave the man a sideway glance. “Interesting answer.”

  “Here’s something else interesting,” Nwabudike almost whispered. “We are being watched.”

  “By the crew pretending to restore power, and the fishing boat,” Thor said quietly. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. “Did I miss anyone?”

  Nwabudike snorted softly. “Not that I noticed. There may be others, however.”

  Thor stepped up to the Irishman that tried to stop him from entering the building. “Where are the bodies? I want to see them.”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” the man said with a sneer. “But who the fuck are you?”

  “The man that signs your check, you bloody fool,” Dylah said approaching with a quick stride. It was a lie, of course, Jacques had managed to turn a few men operation into a lucrative business that had deep pockets all their own

  The warehouse rumbled and shuddered in its death rattle, and the roof collapsed, taking the remaining walls with it. A cloud of dust rose, swirling in the gentle breeze, and Nwabudike gave Thor a quick glance. Thor returned the glance with a slight smile.

  With nothing left to guard, the man led Thor to a semi-trailer filled with body bags.

  The body in the first bag Thor unzipped was missing an arm, but the building’s condition had required hasty retrievals. Upon further examination, Thor noted the man had a broken neck, though his head remained attached. The second body was similar.

  Thor continued his gruesome task with the keen eye of a pathologist searching for clues, examining wounds on the bodies and shredded bits of clothing. Dylah stared as if he had lost his mind when he spent two solid minutes sniffing a charred piece of uniform.

  A few bags contained no more than a torso and few bits of parts that had been obliterated during the blast; nothing short of a DNA test could confirm they belonged to the same person, but Dylah’s team deserved every respect just for doing what they could.

  The eleventh bag held a body that had been torn to pieces, but not from the explosion; the lack of shrapnel in the charred flesh suggested the poor bastard may not even have been in the building during Thor blast.

  Thor stared at the body, studying the way the ribs had been broken and the belly ripped open. He turned the body, revealing long gashes in the charred flesh, supposedly by claws, but they were too narrow, too neat for a man that was fighting for his life. This man was already dead, then mutilated to make him appear the victim of the beast. Whoever did it, however, guessed wrong as to just how massive Hróðvitnir is: a huge mistake on their part.

  Thor turned the body again, ignoring the abashed looks from Nwabudike and Dylah as he sliced through the char, and reached his hand inside. This isn’t the first time I was up to my elbow in a man’s stomach, just the first time he was already dead when I did it.

  Thor removed his hand, holding a 9mm bullet between his forefinger and thumb. Nwabudike nodded slowly, the glint of understanding in his narrowed eyes. Dylah appeared ready to take her vengeance out on the world. Thor was glad to have that woman on his side. Now, if she could learn to control that temper of hers, he would be slightly less nervous about Jacques’ protégé going off half-cocked and ruining everything.

  Thor closed his hand around the copper-jacketed projectile, letting his mind drift.

  Visions of the attack floated before his eyes. It had been swift, merciless, and totally by surprise. These men never stood a chance. The warehouse had been cleared of all but enough explosives to make it appear all had been lost in the blast. Too bad they did not leave a bit more to ensure the total destruction of the building; they may have gotten away with the ruse: quite the sloppy ending to an otherwise brilliant plan.

  They were in a hurry to leave.

  Thor saw the face of the man that fired this shot into the poor soul in the bag. He had cruel eyes, and smiled as he hacked at the dead man’s body with dull instruments; enjoying every moment of the brutality. When he finished, he wiped the blood from his hands with a torn piece of uniform. He paid particular attention to the sterling silver signet ring on his left hand, clearing blood from the engraved sword running through the Othala rune, like it was the most important thing on earth.

  Revulsion swept through Thor, oozing from every pore of his body. He had seen an exact replica of that ring during his vision dream, worn by Colonel Helmut Burkholtz on the night he failed to capture the mythical Fenrir.

  So, the Ahnenerbe seemed to be alive and well, and still searching for the creature. Which means some idiot still thinks Hróðvitnir can be controlled!

  The final piece of the puzzle fell into place, and Thor stared at the horrific image of vile hatred, betrayal, ignorance, and a mountain of dead bodies stretching toward the heavens. He saw how seemingly random events were nothing but threads in a giant web designed to trap him, force him to play a game meant for Gods. Best of all, he understood every mistake he had ever made, it would keep him from making more.

  He cursed himself for trying to change the rules of this game. If he had spent more time pondering the lessons he was taught as a child, he would have understood this was not his game at all, i
t was Hróðvitnir’s. He was just a minor player in a very large game: a pawn. But even a pawn can put a king in checkmate! And that was the point of this entire endeavor!

  Thor rose to his feet, the bullet clenched in his sticky fist. He jumped from the back of the trailer, tossing the projectile to the ground with a grunt of disgust.

  “Do you have an idea who did this?” Nwabudike asked.

  “Ever heard of the Ahnenerbe?” The words left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Nwabudike closed his eyes, sighing. “I would beg you to tell me you are joking, but that request would be in vain, wouldn’t it?”

  Thor took a deep breath, letting out slowly. “That it would, my friend.”

  Dylah’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t those psychotic freaks crash and burn with the rest of the Nazis?”

  Thor stooped over a puddle and rinsed gore from his hand with the muddy water. “Apparently not.”

  Nwabudike took a bandana from his pocket, handing it to Thor. “Then our situation had grown considerably worse.”

  Thor dried his hands, then stuffed the cloth into his pocket. He puffed the cigar back to life, his eyes drifting to Sorina. Martin and Bonchance practically had her pinned to the side of the Blackhawk, shielding her with their bodies and prepared to fire at anything. “Not necessarily. I know exactly what to do, now.” Just like you said I would, Chelsea.

  “Which is what?” Dylah asked.

  “The Ahnenerbe want the inherited land, and they want Hróðvitnir.” Thor’s lips curled into a cruel smile, an evil intention burning in his eyes that made Dylah appreciate her choice of sides. “I’m going to give them both.”

  Chapter 41

  Night of the Long Knives: Part Two

  10:56 P.M. GMT: Moscow

  General Vyecheslav Mihaylov found himself staring at the ceiling of his luxury apartment for the sixth time since going to bed three hours ago. Try as he might, sleep would elude him. He knew it would be a fruitless venture before slipping beneath the sheets, but his wife would worry if he did not at least pretend to try.

  He knew once things were in motion, it would happen very quickly. He spent years planning and preparing for the inevitable events to unfold, and he thought he had everything in complete control, until someone attacked one of Jacques Montrose’s bases, coming in from under the radar. According to Dylah Stigg, it had been a well-executed, professional, and a personal attack on Thor Odinsson. What made the woman say that was beyond him, but she was as bad as Jacques, making arguing pointless.

  Vyecheslav hated to be blindsided like that, especially at this point in the game. It made him wonder what else had been overlooked, and that was a bitter pill to swallow for someone that prided himself for being prepared for anything.

  So far, he could find nothing to pin blame on any known organization, but he would discover the ones behind the attack. He was far from sloppy, like his American counterparts; you could march an army under their noses, and they would deny it existed until it was rammed up their asses.

  Vyecheslav slipped from his bed, heading for the toilet, the second time this evening. When did I get so old?

  He closed the bedroom door behind him softly, trying not to wake his wife, Anfisa. Just because he could not sleep, did not mean she shouldn’t. He shuffled down the hall, the coolness of the hardwood flooring making his toes tingle with delight. As much as he loved his wife, the woman drove him mad with how many blankets she piled on their bed.

  He turned the knob on the bathroom door, never feeling the bullet to the back of his head. His lifeless body thudded on the floor, and a lone figure slipped out the front door.

  * * *

  12:17 A.M. GMT: Washington D.C.

  C.I.A. Director Vince Lytle sat alone at the quiet end of his favorite watering hole, staring at the last half of a Rueben sandwich.

  It had been an event-filled day of finger-pointing, disagreements, and people not worth a damn lined around the block to have their asses kissed. Neither the mediocre sandwich nor the third double whiskey could cut the taste of shit from his mouth.

  Everyone wanted answers they were nowhere near prepared to hear. The worst part was being summoned to the President’s office – like a fucking clerk – to defend the agency from a dozen allegations, ranging from neglect to conspiracy; it was amazing how each one of them honestly believed they were more than a figurehead, right up to the day their collar got jerked. Once Vince figured out who’s pocket this new President was in, he’d put an end to the jumping for good!

  That’s what you get for trusting others to do their fucking jobs!

  Vince let the half-eaten sandwich fall to the plate; he would be up for most of the night as it was, there was no need to pile indigestion onto the mix. Besides, all the bullshit food he had been eating lately was making him fat.

  He downed the last of the whiskey, noticing Even Livingston rushing toward him over the rim of the glass.

  Now what?! He sat the glass down with an irritated thud.

  The agent leaned close. “We have a problem, sir. General Vyecheslav Mihaylov was shot to death an hour ago.”

  Disbelief plastered on the director’s face. “What?! Where?!”

  Livingston kept a stoic expression. “Executed: one shot to the back of his skull. In his own apartment of all places.”

  Vince sighed. “I’m being beckoned, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Yes, sir. Agent Jeremy has the car double-park out front.”

  Vince laid a fifty dollar bill on the table, then followed younger man from the bar. He ducked into the back of the Lincoln Town Car, Agent Livingston jumped into the front.

  The car pulled away quickly, heading for the White House, the tires squealing slightly as they sped around a corner. A few seconds later, the car was obliterated in an explosion that shattered building windows on two blocks, and tore through the sewer buried beneath the street.

  * * *

  12:31 A.M. GMT: Bruxelles

  “Hello?” Eva Van Den Broeck said groggily into the phone.

  Her eyes drifted to the clock on the bedside table. Damn! It had been just over an hour since she forced herself to bed, taking two sleeping pills to ensure a much needed rest. This thing with Vali’s grandson had turned into a circus; trying to keep a lid on it was becoming a nightmare.

  She was getting too old for this shit. Twenty-eight years with The UN, most of that goddamned time on the Counter-Terrorism Committee, she had enough on her plate to deal with, without tossing the boy’s troubles into the mix. If the stakes weren’t so high, she would’ve told Vali to go the Hell the first day she met with him.

  “Eva, things have gone from bad, to un-fucking-believably bad,” Richard Worthington nearly screamed into her ear.

  “I can’t see how they possibly could be,” Eva replied, stifling a yawn.

  “Vyecheslav and Vince are dead: assassinated.”

  “What?!” Eva sprang up-right onto the bed, not sure she had just heard her long-time friend and member of MI6 correctly.

  “We think, whomever is after Thor Odinsson, has found us out. Get out of there, now. Get to the safe-house. Léonard and I’ll be there a few hours. Eva… Be careful.”

  “You, as well,” Eva said, her voice quivering.

  She tossed the covers aside, nearly jumping from the bed. She raced to the wardrobe, flinging the doors wide and hastily grabbing her clothes, not bothering for to pack spare. Anything she needed later could be gotten then. Time was of the essence. If it were true that someone had found them out, they would be coming for her soon.

  The bedroom door opened. Good, her husband Michael, was home, there was no need to fetch him along the way to the safe-house.

  “Michael, my darling, we…”

  Eva’s blood ran cold. The masked man standing in the doorway was definitely not her husband.

  Eva thrust her hand into the wardrobe, retrieving her Beretta. Two bullets entered her back, and the pistol fell to the floor. She fell to her knees, a tre
mbling hand reaching for the weapon. A third bullet entered the back of her skull, and she collapsed in a lifeless heap.

  * * *

  12:33 A.M GMT: Arlington

  N.S.A. Director David Bjorn entered the side door of his Arlington home. It had been an incredibly long day, filled with nothing but a string of bad news. He was exhausted, hungry, and in desperate need of a stiff drink.

  The house was dark and quiet. His wife was at her sister’s in up-state New York for, at least, the next few days. He made it a habit of sending her off whenever things turned ugly, and this was getting uglier than he could have imagined. Thor Odinsson already had his hands full dealing with… Hell, I don’t even know what to call it! Now, someone has declared war on the boy, and David had no idea whom. He gritted his teeth with irritation. The timing was too perfect to be coincidental.

  He tossed the keys onto the silver tray setting on the stand next to the door, loosened his tie, and slipped out of his shoes. The balls of his feet cracked on the carpeted floor as he headed down the hall toward the kitchen. He poured a generous glass of bourbon, feeling at least a bit of the day’s tension fade as the warmth flowed down his throat.

  The phone in his jacket pocket rang. “Now what?” he grumbled.

  He sat the glass on the counter, trying not to be conspicuous he noticed a shadow that did not belong in the next room. Whomever it was had to be a professional: they had gotten past the alarm and waited patiently for a clear shot. At least, Linda is at her sister’s…

  David’s hand darted for his gun a fraction of a second before the bullet ripped through his chest. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor.

  The stories of dying instantly from a shot to the heart were bullshit! He could see the shadow coming toward him, feel the rough kick on his shoulder to turn him over, and see the dark face glaring down at him before everything went dark.