He ran his hand over his shaved head—the final part of the costume. That…and the steely-eyed glare. Though Alfred had been a Christian for fifteen years, he could still play the bad-guy part. To make a difference in the war between Light and darkness—that's why he'd become an agent.
Alfred slowed his jeep in front of a guard station where two men with automatic rifles stood watch in the winter cold. The iron gate across the road was anchored well on both sides, but it didn't extend as a fence into the forest on either side. One hundred yards ahead and to the right, he could see the corner of a stone castle, Xacsin Castle.
"Little late to be out here driving around," one guard barked in German. "This is private property."
"Shut up and open the gate," Alfred spat. "I'm expected."
The other guard held up a clipboard.
"Name?"
"I'm Snake. That's all you need to know."
They shined a flashlight in his face, studied his features, his bald head, and glimpsed the snake's head emerging from his sleeve. One guard retreated two steps as the other lit a cigarette and watched Alfred closely.
"You want me to take that cig from you or you got a second?"
The guard grit his teeth and lit a second cigarette, then passed it to Alfred. Alfred wasn't a habitual smoker, but it had been a superficial prop more than once for the young agent. He took a long drag, knowing his every move was being scrutinized.
"I heard of you," the guard said. "Thought you were in prison. Amsterdam or somewhere."
"Well, I checked out," Alfred said, smirking. "But you can still smell it on me, can't you?"
Alfred chuckled as the guard nervously backed away to the other man's side.
"Let him through." The other guard waved. "It's too cold to stand here like this!"
The gate was raised and Alfred flicked his cigarette at the station house as he drove by. He laughed as the guards cursed.
Driving quickly up to the castle, Alfred took in everything. His orders hadn't told him to gather intel exactly, but the phone number wouldn't have been included if Alfred wasn't supposed to recon for whatever extraction team was incoming. Though he had a secret scramble-phone, he wouldn't make any calls until he had something worth reporting.
The castle appeared to be dark. As he approached the front massive, wooden doors, he could see the silhouettes of armed men against the night sky. They stood on the ramparts above him with their winter coats and rifles. He counted three near the front and a fourth sentry farther down the wall.
The double doors swung outward electronically. The doors, as thick as his fist, appeared to be wooden at first, but upon seeing them open in his headlights, Alfred could see the wood only covered the steel core. He drove through the opening into a stone-laid courtyard—the castle keep. Spotting a garage to his right, he parked in front of the garage doors next to two four-wheelers. Collecting his duffel bag, he stepped out of the jeep. Since he'd skied and been otherwise active his whole life, his six-foot frame was athletic and muscled, but not overly stocky. When he wasn't on assignment, he was training in one capacity or another.
Two men, both with shaved heads, approached him from across the keep.
"You Snake?" one asked in English.
"That's right. Got a place I can collapse for the night? I'm exhausted."
"I'll take that," the other said, and made a move to carry Alfred's duffel bag.
Alfred's rigid hand shot forward and stabbed the man's larynx. The second man reached under his coat for a weapon. Kicking with his steel-toed boots, Alfred connected on the man's right knee. The man doubled over, but only to meet Alfred's up-coming knee. The man's head snapped back, his nose smashed and pouring crimson. The other man was still on his feet, clutching his bruised throat and gasped for breath.
Ready for retaliation, Alfred stood with his feet slightly spread for action, still holding his duffel. A man whistled on the wall behind him.
"Hey, Snake! One of those fools fetches coffee for us, so don't mess them up too badly."
"They'll get more from me if they don’t learn some manners." Keeping his eyes on the two, Alfred didn't look over his shoulder. "Where's Xacsin?"
"Where everyone is at this hour. Sleeping. Barracks are through the door next to the garage. Find an empty cot; it's all yours."
The two men in front of Alfred began to recover and back away, to give Snake more space. Alfred walked to the barracks door and entered a long, narrow hall filled with single bunks—twenty in all—but only half were filled with snoring men. If Alfred hadn't already made an example of someone, he would've woken one of these men and picked a fight. But he'd already made his statement. First impressions were important. Nobody would mess with him now. He was in. He was Snake.
After finding a bunk on the end, he lay on his back for a time before he fell asleep, and prayed that he wouldn't be forced to do anything too horrible in his undercover state. After slapping a couple guys around, he hoped that would be enough. Now, the most he wanted to do was put on a scowl and find whatever captives were in the castle that needed his help. From what he'd learned of the fortress, it'd once been a prison—two hundred Prussian inmates on four levels. But the castle had surely been renovated since those harsh days.
#######
On the sidewalk outside, investigative reporter, June Ellerman was focused on entering the Manhattan COIL office building. Her dark hair with hints of red highlights was pulled up into a tight bun and she carried her tote bag. She had no reason to acknowledge the average-looking, middle-aged man passing her as he exited the office.
"Come on, June," the man said without stopping. "I'm your escort."
Surprised, June paused, turned around, and then followed the man who had just spoken to her. He carried a silver briefcase and had a backpack on his shoulder. She tried to see his face but he was already climbing into the driver's side of the Pontiac parked close by. June set her bag in the back seat with the man's backpack, then climbed into the front passenger seat. Glancing at the expressionless man beside her as he drove, she remained silent until she realized they were going to the airport.
"Please don't tell me we're leaving the country."
"Yes."
"I thought I was going on an exercise around here. I wasn't told to bring my passport."
"You don't need it." He pointed at the dash. "Glove box."
She opened the glove box to find a rubber band around a small bundle of identifications. Thumbing through them, she saw they were all for her, with alias names.
"These are flawless," she admired.
"That's because they're real. Have them memorized before we get to Paris."
"If they're real, then COIL must have some serious contacts. Who are you exactly?"
"My name is Corban, but I'll be Christopher Cagon on this trip."
"Corban," she repeated thoughtfully. "Corban Dowler. You founded COIL."
"Did I?"
"Wow, I get escorted by the legend himself! I'll be on my best behavior."
At JFK Airport, they boarded a commercial jet and sat several rows apart. Corban seemed to have staged it that way. June wasn't even able to get an interview on the flight over the Atlantic. He was letting her watch, she decided. She'd learn more watching than listening to him ramble, anyway!
In the Paris airport, she followed him by a few paces through the terminals and eventually through a personnel exit, which led them directly onto the tarmac. He walked to a massive blue hanger wherein sat a number of private jets. No one except a handful of plane mechanics was around. Corban led June to a bench against one wall to wait. The bench was near a bathroom and a coffee machine. They took advantage of both, and only then, out of earshot of the mechanics, June finally opened her mouth.
"So, am I gonna get the silent treatment for the whole operation or can we talk now?"
"You don't have any recorders on, do you?"
"No, I'm running cold turkey on this, if you must know."
"It wasn't
my idea for you to tag along, Miss Ellerman."
"Yeah, I know. It was mine. And you can call me June. As for tagging along, this isn't my first exercise. I've done this sort of thing before."
"I know what you think you've done before. I know what you did in Bogota, and I know you survived in the Andes while injured. Those exercises, as you call them, were in the company of heavily armed units and patrols. You were a reporter, you were wounded, and resistance fighters rescued you as they fled guerrilla fighters. You're lucky they didn't leave you for dead, but I guess we know why, don't we? Your producers paid them off to get you home. The people we're up against, June, won't take money, any amount, to cease their cause. They're committed to the death."
"So, you know about me. And you know I can handle this…whatever this is. Actually, I'm glad we're in Europe. I can't stand the jungle."
"You're not one of us; you're an outsider. Some of the fellas are going to be a little irritated that you're coming along, me included, until we get used to you. I expect you to follow orders and help out where you can. If you can't step up, we drop you."
"I can take orders." A moment passed. "We're joining a team?"
"A team is joining us—if they haven't all been killed trying to get here."
"C'mon. We're in that much danger just sitting here?"
"You'd be surprised how much. A lot of people want us dead. They want us dead because we've saved the lives of Christians that they wanted dead. Yes, we're in that much danger. Things have been done recently that we're about to expose. Our foes will do everything they can to keep their evil hidden, in the darkness."
At that instant, a short, muscled Mexican with a crew cut and ungroomed mustache walked around the tail of a jet and approached them. Beside him, he rolled a cello case almost as large as he was. His face was solemn and tired-looking, and his ear was bandaged. He parked his cello against the wall and relaxed on the bench on the opposite wall from June.
"Are you a musician?" June asked.
The Latino, about her age, gave June the once-over.
"It's okay, Scooter," Corban voiced. "She's with us."
"In that case, no, I'm not a musician. I'm actually tired of carrying this thing around."
"What's in the case then?"
"A cello." Scooter pulled the case in front of him and opened the cover. He strummed the strings of the beautiful instrument. "See? It's quite a beast, huh?"
June looked closer.
"Naturally, I'd say there's something inside the cello."
A smile crept across Scooter's face.
"She's a smart one, huh?" he said to Corban, then addressed June. "Excuse me, ma'am, for ignoring you. Boss, who exactly is this? I thought you said this was an inside job, that I'd know everyone—just me and the boys."
"My name is June, and I'm a civilian observer tagging along. I don’t think I gave your boss much of a choice in it, either."
"Oh, I get it." Scooter's eyes narrowed. "You mean you're here to audit us, maybe as a reporter." He scoffed. "Believe me, I know the look. I saw plenty of your type in Iraq and Afghanistan. Think this is going to be some sort of party? You know how many men we've lost in the last two years? Sure, we've saved a lot of people, hundreds, but standing next to us with a camera isn't worth it, lady. What's going on, Boss?"
"I haven't shared anything with anyone yet. We'll brief once we're on location. Until then, June, meet Scooter."
The two chatted casually, June prying so delicately, but Scooter avoiding so expertly. Then another man arrived who looked like a pilot, or mechanic, his knuckles still greasy from what was probably jet engine lubricant. June caught his eye. He was tall, blond, in his early thirties, and had a gentle air about him. Behind him came a giant of a man they called Bear.
Corban briefly introduced the blond as one of their pilots, Fred "Memphis" Nelson. And the other man, Bear, was the other pilot, Johnny Wycke.
The two pilots were livelier than the others were, and brightened the mood. With eyes sparkling at the potential news sources, June realized right away that she was in the presence of seasoned military types who didn't often have someone with whom to share their stories. And they seemed to have the approval of Corban to talk if they felt like it.
June kept a careful eye on Corban. He seemed on edge and sat by himself on the end of the bench, sipping his coffee and watching the mechanics across the hangar. Oddly, he spoke little to the others. Quiet and distant, he was the boss, and the men were respectful of him. She knew respect didn’t come easily from military types. Corban had proven himself, though she couldn't imagine how. It would seem that there was more to him than his ordinary appearance let on, she guessed.
A black man as large as Johnny Wycke came in next. This was Bruno, she was told. He had a quietness about him, sad eyes, and his big hands hung at his sides. Bruno gave a quick pat on the back of each man as if it was a family reunion. When he came to Corban, he shook the older man's hand, then jerked him upright for a mighty bear hug amongst laughter from all. Corban took the comedy in stride and polished the big man's bald head with his forearm during the embrace.
Memphis and Johnny crossed the hangar to run diagnostics on the jet they were about to board. June stayed with Corban as he greeted the final two members of their team. Rupert Mach was introduced as the head of COIL's office in Berlin. She was informed that nothing happened in Europe that he and his agents didn't track. He had a Gestapo air about him, since that was his training before joining COIL. His squinting eyes seemed to analyze June as she tried to get more out of him, but she failed.
The man who arrived with Rupert was Brauch Schlenko, who Rupert introduced as one of his operatives. Brauch didn't speak to June, only glanced at her, and then looked away. He was a wiry man in his late-thirties, and wore glasses over what June thought of as icy eyes.
With introductions behind them, everyone began to board the jet. June stayed back with Corban until they were alone.
"That Memphis guy. What's his deal? He's one of the only guys not wearing a wedding band."
"What're you doing, spouse hunting?" Corban scowled.
"Fine. I'll talk to him myself. What about this Brauch Schlenko? Not the kind of guy I'd trust with my life, by the creepy look of him. Just how does he fit into things? What's his specialty?"
"He's a man with a past. Like all of us. Be glad he's a Christian and on our side now. You ready for your first life and death situation?"
June blinked at him in confusion. Corban wasn't moving from his bench.
"What do you mean?" She tried to read his body language since she couldn't read his face. He didn't seem the type to joke around. "What's wrong?"
"Our lives depend on your ability to follow orders in the next few minutes." He looked into her eyes. "Are you ready?"
"Yes." She swallowed, her heart beating faster.
"Walk calmly to the jet and find Scooter. He's the first one you met."
"Right. The non-musician with the cello."
"Tell him, whisper to him in secret, that the mechanics sabotaged the plane, and he has to take them out."
"I…thought you guys didn't kill." June said nervously, her eyes wide.
"Already questioning? Watch and learn, June. We have our own mechanics, yet those boys were wrenching under our fuselage. Can you find Scooter?"
"But I'm only an observer."
"If the mechanics are waiting for us to gather on the plane before they ambush us, then they'd have us all in one place, especially if I have to approach the plane to tell Scooter myself. I didn't put it all together until a minute ago. Go, June. You're not only an observer anymore. They'll kill you as sure as they'll kill us if you don’t do what I say now."
She nodded. The weariness from the flight had long vanished. Her eyes were darting about, her hands trembling.
"Calmly, Miss Ellerman. Casually."
#######
Corban studied the mechanics near the tail section of the COIL jet beyond June. There were four m
en, but he could see only the legs of two of them at the moment. He could also see an open toolbox on the ground at their feet. In the hour that Corban had been on the bench, the mechanics had tried to stay close to that particular toolbox, but they had never retrieved anything from it. Occasionally, one or two of the men would tinker with one of the jets, but the others stayed close to that toolbox, chatting as if they were taking a break.
June reached the COIL jet. She was staying calm, Corban thought approvingly, though maybe she was a little rigid. Nothing detectable by anyone else, he figured. Climbing the steps, she disappeared inside. Corban could see Johnny and Memphis through the cockpit glass. Suddenly, Scooter appeared in the cabin's door where only Corban could see him from across the hangar. He stared at Corban until Corban nodded three times. Three clicks on their radios always meant, "Yes." Scooter understood and vanished again.
Slowly, Corban stood and stretched nonchalantly. Since he wasn't armed, he couldn't join the fight. But it meant he would need to find cover when the shooting started. The wheel of another jet was twenty paces to his right. It would provide enough cover, as well as offer a front-row seat. If he was needed, he could dash forward. Starting to wander toward his cover, he tried to time it perfectly with Scooter's attack. All of their gear had been placed inside the jet. Corban visualized Scooter flinging open the NL-3 and NL-2 cases and tossing the weapons into the men's hands. What would his old friend and ex-assassin, Luigi Putelli, do in this type of situation? The old Italian would be a good asset here, Corban mused, if only he knew how to find the man.
Leading the assault, Scooter emerged from the jet first, descending the stairs with an NL-2 hidden against his ribs. Bruno was three steps behind him. They were the only ones left of the original Flash and Bang Team since the other three had been taken in London, but they were not beginners. Johnny, and then Brauch, came next to back them up. Four against four. As soon as Brauch's foot touched the hangar floor, Scooter spun toward the mechanics, who still didn't suspect anything. Scooter laid down cover fire with his machine pistol, working to his right toward Corban. The other three swung NL-3 rifles horizontally, and were able to make precise shots with their longer, more accurate, barrels.
DARK HEARTED (The COIL Series) Page 7
