“It gives 30 second emissions that cook a man solid as a potato,” he explained, with a fiendish grin. Mr. Renault enjoyed our line of work just a tad too much to be considered normal.
Father Donaher was carrying the usual M1A flamethrower, his favorite weapon for general combat and a sawed-off double barrel shotgun rode in a holster at his hip. Mindy had a triple quiver of arrows on her back, her ever-present sword slung at the waist and a bandoleer of wooden knives across her chest.
Donning combat armor over my street clothes, I put a .44 AutoMag at my hip, a derringer in my boot, checked the action on a M203 and kissed it hello. A combination M16 machine gun and M79 40mm grenade launcher, this handy little deathdealer had gotten me out of more tight squeezes any even the friendliest of lubricants.
A mixed clip of 5.56mm ammo went into the M16 machine gun and a bandoleer of 40mm grenade went across my chest. A thermite shell was thumbed into the underbarrel launcher.
Everybody was wearing a cross.
It was an odd fact, but since Count Dracula, the very first vampire, was Catholic and violently allergic to garlic and white roses, all of the subsequent vampire created by his biting people and their biting people, and so on, all have the exact same weaknesses. Too bad it wasn't bullets.
Also, I also found it amusing that so many folks got Count Vladimir Dracula and Prince Vlad Tepes confused. Yes, both operated in the same section of the world at the same time. Both were named Vlad, and Tepes had the nickname of Dragqul ‘The Dragon'. But the two were entirely different people and bitter enemies. Vlad was the equivalent of ‘John’ in those days. Yes, indeedy, if I ever get to travel through time again, their grand finale duel in the Transylvanian Alps was the very first event I would go out of my way to avoid. Those two guys were dangerous and seriously crazy.
“Should we alert the locals to the possibility of a terrorist attack,” Mindy asked, preparing a haversack of magical supplies for Raul. “So they'll have the ambulances, fire department and such ready.”
“Negative,” I stated, testing the spring action on my signet ring. “For the same reasons I couldn't call you over the phone or radio. If the Tanner part of Mystery Man is listening it'd blow the whole show.”
Upon arriving, we left Amigo to guard the van and moved individually out of the side door of the vehicle and into the dank alley. When the street was clear to both binoculars and sunglasses, the team scampered into the road, Ken thumbed up the manhole cover and we quickly climbed down a steel ladder. The eighty pound manhole cover was replaced with gentle fingertip pressure.
We descended past the electrical service duct, beyond the massive water pipes and finally into the sewer. Almost immediately, we were glad we had brought along the gas masks. The murky water swirled with stuff best left unmentioned and more poured from the open pipes set along the curved brick wall. Slime was on everything.
The breadcrumbs that Raul was going to leave were smears of petroleum jelly, ultra-violet light made the material infused with an unearthly blue glow. It was an age old trick. The jelly was waterproof and barely visible even in direct daylight, but made for perfect tracking in the dark.
Only it wasn't dark, the damn brick lined tunnel was brilliantly illuminated by wire encased light bulbs set every few meters in the ceiling.
“Cut a power cable?” Mindy asked, proffering her sword.
Ken raised a mauled fist. “Smash them, sir?”
“Unscrew the bulbs?” Father Donaher asked.
That I approved. It would be mildly suspicious, but much less so than seeing seven heavily armed people marching your way.
“Get hard, people,” I ordered and my command was answered by a chorus of metallic clicks. “Silent penetration, one meter spread. Mindy on point, Ken get the bulbs, Donaher on flank.”
Turning the ultra-violet lantern to maximum power and minimum aperture, I scanned the walls at chest level. Then remembered that it was our Belgian basketball player doing the writing and tried a bit higher. Barely discernible, I found an arrow marker on the wall pointing northwards towards upriver. Below it was scrawled, ‘evil man this way. ugh. tonto.’ Mages, sheesh.
With Mindy prominently in front, I sloshed along behind Sanders, safe in the expanding zone of darkness. Constantly checking the bricks, I soon found another jelly smear which read, ‘clothespin!’ Since tiny sniffs of the city sewer's ambiance was reaching my nose in spite of the gas mask, I heartily agreed with the sentiment.
Approaching another ladder a half block later, I found more writing on the wall. An arrow pointed upward, accompanied by the words ‘beats me, chief'.
“It's a blind entrance to throw off pursuit,” I explained to the massed troops. In essence, all we had done was cross the street. My opinion of Mystery Man was going higher and higher. This guy was good enough to be a CIA spy.
We followed the trail of greasy markers up to the street and into another alley. Stout doors backed the rear of stores, each boasting heavy padlocks and signs announcing the name of the electronic alarm service used. This close to the Saddle Brook border, I guess it was necessary. The alley lamps were easily disposed of by the simple process of Sanders flicking a knife upward, cutting a wire and then catching the knife as it fell. Masked by darkness, we proceeded. The glowing markers got lower and lower, until they stopped at the delivery entrance of a modest two story building. No sign. Nearby, sitting on top of a cardboard box was a small gray striped tomcat.
“Hello,” the animal said in a tiny, but recognizable voice.
Without a comment, Ken continued on along the alley killing more lamps. Good man. That made it appear that the whole block had suffered a power outage.
I kept the M203 level. “The quality of mercy is not strained.”
“Ah ... oh hell, I forget the answer code,” the feline meowed plaintively.
Jessica instantly shot the beast with her taser. Stunned, it fell off the box and into the big hand of Michael Donaher which closed about the soft neck. George put a silenced pistol barrel into its cute snout, Mindy placed a knife blade against the fuzzywuzzy throat.
“Pax!” the kitty whimpered around the muzzle of the .45 pistol. “My name is Raul Horta, Thursday is my night to feed the lizard, I once turned Jimmy Winslow into a frog and our subscription to TV Guide has expired.”
“More,” I demanded, working the bolt on my M16 assault rifle. “And better.”
The kitty squirmed uncomfortably. “Okay, okay! My real name is Sir Marnix Charlemange Saxe Coburg and I'm the bastard son of Leopold III, the rightful king of Belgium!”
We relaxed and everybody released our absent-minded pal. Wiping sweat from his furry brow, the cat leaped straight up, the body blurring and growing into Raul. He was still disguised as a punk rocker.
“Report,” I said, doffing the gas mask.
“They're inside,” the mage said, taking the haversack from Mindy. Turning the rigid canvas satchel upside-down over his head, the supplies tumbled out and Raul was now shaved, showered, shampooed, wearing fresh clothes, combat armor, dripping with bags, pouches and had a silver inlaid flask in his grip. He took a quick swallow and slid the container inside his clothes. One has to forgive dethroned aristocracy the minor eccentricity.
“Who exactly?” Jessica asked, scowling at the building.
I knew how much she wanted to do a mind probe, but that would have been just as bad as trying the radio, firing off a flare gun, or just plain shouting that we were here.
“The football team and some sushi chef,” Raul said.
I arched an eyebrow. “Hoto's surviving slave.”
“Probably.”
“But not MM himself?”
“Nope.”
“So what do we do now, sir?” asked a skyscraper of blackness roughly the same size and shape of Ken.
Pitting my back to the wall, I took the vacated box for a seat. “We wait until Mystery Man arrives and then blow him to bits.”
“As simple as that?” Ken asked suspiciously.
Resting the M60 on a hip, George shrugged. “Yep. It's 90 minutes till the equinox. Since his gang is here. He'll show.”
“But if he does not?”
“We lose,” I said bluntly.
There was an awkward moment of silence.
“Status?” Mindy asked, removing her encumbering boots.
Grim as death, I opened the breech of the grenade launcher and thumbed in a fat 40mm round. “I officially declare this situation a Mad Dog alert. There is no order of attack. Anybody with even a wild chance of getting Mystery Man, go for the kill, and that includes if one of us is in the way and will die also. Do it anyway.”
“Why?” Father Donaher demanded hotly.
We explained about the World Mage Spell. As the group digested that unsettling information, I pulled Raul aside.
“I want a favor,” I asked softly. “We kill Mystery Man. But afterwards, I do that football player.”
While Raul considered the request, I checked the load in my .44 AutoMag pistol. Silver jacketed wooden bullets, soaked in Holy water with an explosive garlic center.
“Agreed,” the mage said with a frown.
“Thanks,” I said, slamming the clip shut. “I owe you.”
“No,” he said in a graveyard voice. “You owe her.”
Steadfast, I looked at my friend. “Agreed. But if I die, you get him for me?”
Leaning on his staff, Raul nodded. “With pleasure, pal.”
What are you two talking about? asked Jess.
The matter is Privacy sealed, I thought in tight control. Just like birthday gifts. None of your damn business.
She gave me a hard stare, then Raul.
Later, I promised.
Though unhappy, Jessica didn't push. God, I love that woman.
“Ed, how about a routine eight?” George asked.
Abruptly, I returned to the business at hand. “Sounds good. Groups of two, one on one coverage. Simultaneous strike. Donaher and Katrina into the cellar. Raul and Mindy take the alley on the left. Jessica and Sanders, that building to the right. George stays here, I'm on the roof.”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Done.”
“Check.”
“Roger wilco, chief.”
“But what about the front door?” Ken inquired, stepping protectively close to my wife. The tiny Oriental smiled in kindly amusement at the gesture. Him protect her?
“He has to get in somehow,” the priest noted pragmatically, as he minutely adjusted the pre-burner on his flamethrower. “Why should we make it difficult for him to enter an ambush?”
The point was well taken. As the team moved silent into the night, I started climbing a rusty fire escape. Judiciously, I eased my shoes down on the outermost sides of the metal steps where the metal should be its strongest and thus least likely to squeak. Reaching the roof, I chose a pool of shadow by the maze of pipes constituting an antique air conditioner the size of a Buick. This was almost always a good place to hide. PIs learn the damnedest things from the criminals we catch, get drunk with and sometimes date.
Just as I comfortably positioned myself there came the sound of flapping leather wings. Turning about, I found myself face to face with Mystery Man changing from a bat into a kimono draped battlesuit holding a pulsating red leather book.
“Sonovabitch!” we cried in unison.
THIRTEEN
Kimono flapping, Mystery Man gestured and I pumped a 40mm grenade into his belly. The shell went straight through the battlesuit and exploded against a brick chimney flue. His own body acted as a shield to protect me from ceramic splinters, but I staggered under the concussion, still wildly firing my M16 at a figure I could not see properly. Not that such had ever stopped me before.
Running out of ammo, I drew the AutoMag as Mystery Man heaved a bottle at me. Impulsively, I fired and the glass container shattered, the contents forming gaseous scissors which snipped and cut at the point of impact. Mentally, I thanked George for making me practice all those nights at the target range.
Taking careful aim, I triggered two more thundering rounds at MM as he shifted into multiple images and shimmied downward into the building. Dropping the spent magazine, I slammed in a fresh clip and noticed that my shoulder was bleeding from a nasty laser wound. The energy ray had penetrated combat and body armor, but the puckered hole wasn't very deep and the intense heat of the laser had cauterized the muscles so there was no immediate bleeding. The pain was minor, so I decided to ignore it for the present. After the battle, I'd whack myself with some astringent lotion, sulfur powder, Healing potion, pizza and beer. An Alvarez cure-all special.
Suddenly from above, I heard a rustling of leaves that quickly grew in volume and tempo until I recognized it as millions of leathery wings beating frantically. Uh-oh. Reloading the M203, I noted that the stars were being blotted out by swarms of bats, and from the increasing barks and howls, it seemed as if every dog in Ohio was coming our way. Mystery Man was pulling no punches. We were about to get hit with the full unbridled fury of a master vampire.
Ignoring the rooftop door as far too obvious a deathtrap, I trained my M16 on the roof itself and spent four clips chewing a circular pattern into the tar and tile. With the sound of splintering wood, the round patch fell and crashed to the floor below. Peeking in, I saw the jagged circle had landed next to a large desk, but the rest of the office was empty. Damn.
Grabbing the edge of the hole, I lowered myself and dropped the last couple of feet. Just then, some bats flew into the room and I machine gunned them in flight. But it took another whole clip to remove the nimble little buggers. Two minutes into the fight and I was already in danger of running out of ammunition. NG. Gotta stopper that hole and fast.
Rummaging in my pouch, I found two Willy Peter grenades. Pulling the pins, I tossed them upward and onto the roof. In a dull thump, the two white phosphorus bombs spewed fiery blossoms, and a zillion bats screeched in annoyance. A rain of fire and dead fluttering bodies sprinkled through the opening as I added a 40mm shotgun shell to the woes of my aerial attackers. That'll teach ‘em to mess with the Bureau. Back to the belfry, boys!
Thumbing in a fresh shell, I did a quick check of the office. The walls were covered with sports posters of football players and there framed ticket stubs. For the World Series I guess, sports was not my hobby. But it explained how he chose the Pumas. Dozens of metal framework shelves were jammed full of books and papers and a massive mahogany desk was overflowing with the same. A wall-spanning counter was neatly arrayed with mailing supplies, scale, postage meter, bales of string, boxes of manila and padded envelopes. A small vault supported a tiny refrigerator. Oh how I wanted to get into that safe, but it would have to wait till later. Murder first, then pillage.
Putting a burst of 5.56mm tumblers through the sole door and the wall on both sides, I kicked the portal aside. Nothing but empty corridor was in sight. Faintly from below, I could hear shattering glass, wild animal howls and Mike Donaher intoning a deadly blessing. Way to go, Father!
Moving fast, past book-filled alcoves and a hundred file cabinets, I reached the stairs. Down below the yammering and chattering of machine guns, explosions, the crackling of lightning and strange screams. But there was also the high-pitched whine of laser beams and I knew the football team was fighting back.
Shooting the door of a utility closet off its hinges, I climbed on top of the makeshift sled and slid down the steps in a bumping jostling journey of four seconds. D-d-damn! F-f-forgot t-t-to r-r-remove k-k-knob!
Reaching the main floor scrambled but alive, I tumbled away from the door, rolled to my feet and glanced about, but MM was nowhere to be seen. However, everybody else was here. Football players jumped from wall to wall, hissing and firing brilliant light rays from their hands. Bullets riddled bookcases and pages went flying in high velocity military editing. Posters were ripped, crystals smashed, kilometers of slick brown audio tape arced into the air from unwinding cassettes, the door to the lavatory was g
one completely, display tables were overturned and I had no idea which side was winning.
Stumbling out of the hallway came George with an alligator firmly attached to his armored leg. An inhabitant of the local sewer, most likely. I had always known people should never flush those things down the toilet. At point blank range, George was pumping .45 slugs into the reptile's body, but it seemed to have no effect. Taking aim, I placed a 40mm grenade into the soft skin of the alligator's pale belly and the beast went to pieces. Prying the bodiless head from his leg with a Bowie knife, George nodded his thanks. I gave a salute with my assault rifle and then butt stroked a screaming senior in the face. His fanged teeth went flying. Years ago, TechServ had replaced the plastic shoulder-rests on Bureau rifles with old fashioned but deadly wood stocks, with internal steel bracing, of course.
A long metal barrel shattered a window and watery fluid splashed upon a pair of the undead. Crying in unbearable torment, the vampires melted into a puddle on the floor that was probably going to be hell to clean. Beyond the jagged glass, I saw Jessica. Guess she had forgotten to inform me that the stabilizing agent in her MSG/DMSO concoction was Holy Water. But the secret ingredient was not hidden from the vampire connoisseurs.
Amid the ruin of the occult bookstore, Mindy was sword to sword with the vampire sushi chef, both opponents moving with blurring speed. A football player stumbled close and his body fell apart. The clothing of the beefy player was in tatters, exposing coaxial cables lining his arms and legs. Great, cyborg vampires, for this I graduated college?
Sparks flying, the two martial artists swirled in a flashing whirlwind of clanging steel. A jade statue of Ra got a rude lobotomy, Buddha received an instant diet and a bookcase was cleaved in twain. I tried for a shot, but it was impossible. The two master swordfighters were going round and round each other like debating lawyers paid by the hour. A display case of crystal pyramids showed them inverted for a moment, before the two crashed though the front window and into the street. Neither slowed, nor missed a stroke.
Doomsday Exam [Bureau 13 #2] Page 17
