Stripping naked, I hit the shower and scrubbed myself painfully clean. Then I carefully dyed my black hair the color black. Next, I smoothed a clear suntan lotion on my normally dusky hands and face. I slid on a padded corset, and slipped on shoes with hollow heels twice the thickness of regular shoe heels. Getting dressed in brand new cloths, clear non-magnifying contact lenses went into both eyes, and lastly, I removed my wedding ring, using a tanning cream to color over the pale band on my finger. Then placed the ring back on.
Carefully, the gang scrutinized me from head to toe. Perfect!
To a casual observer, I appeared as always. But, to a trained observer, I was obviously in disguise. My hair color had none of the minor color differences of natural hair. Obviously it was dyed. The same with skin tone. I was wearing contacts, so black was not my natural eye color, and I had an old scratched wedding ring with no pale skin band underneath. Plainly false. Shoe lifts meant I was short. And the padded corset indicated I was fatter than appeared, and was trying to hide the weight.
Plus, I had a bulky Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver in a shoulder holster build for a slim automatic pistol. Nobody would switch holsters, so a Magnum was obviously not my standard gun.
I had just successfully polished the mirror. I looked exactly like myself, only nobody would believe it. That is, nobody smart, which is what I was counting on.
Padding to the main bedroom, the gang was waiting for me. Raul was chanting over a coffee pot filled with a foul smelling brew, Jessica was loading a hypodermic syringe.
Tossing my necktie over a shoulder, I unbuttoned my shirt and lifted my body armor. The material was soft as silk, and could stop anything this side of an elephant gun.
"This may hurt,” Jess said, wiping my amazingly muscular torso with an alcohol swap.
"Do I get a lollipop afterwards?” I asked.
Gently as possible, Jessica impaled me. Ouch! “Sure. But only if you don't cry."
Tried my best. Whew. Who makes those things? Nazi war criminals? Then my skin went numb as the novocaine took effect. Ah, much better.
As Jess stepped aside, Katrina moved in to sketch a diagram on my chest. Kind of tickled, actually. Then Raul took her place, and used a brush to paint over the outline. Even through the novocaine, I could feel the occult brew sizzling into my tender skin. Goodbye, summer tan.
"Is this going to leave a scar?” I demanded, when he finally allowed me to lower my body armor.
"Gosh, I hope so,” Raul said, pouring the rest of the concoction into the sink. The enamel began to peel off.
I stopped my buttoning. “What! Why?"
"That will make it last longer,” Raul said honestly, tossing the brush into a waste can. A piece of old newspaper flared into ash.
"Swell. Thank you, Mr. Wizard."
Doffing an imaginary plumed hat, Raul did a sweeping bow. “At your service, sahib."
After checking the load on my Magnum, I bowed my head as Father Donaher did a little prayer over me, lifted a pants leg as George strapped on an ankle holster and accepted a fistful of pens from Mindy. She had personally filled and primed each, thereby greatly reducing the chance of a dysfunction. Katrina poured some powders into my shoes, a potion in my mouth, and a lotion down my back. My chest burned, my head ached, and I was starting to feel a bit slimy. Yuck. The things I do for America. Then Jess gave me a glass of water and some extra-strength aspirin. God, I love that woman.
After issuing some detailed instructions to the gang and receiving a priority kiss from Jess, I went outside, hailed a cab, went downtown, bought another car, and drove boldly to the known headquarters of our hated enemies.
Briefly, I again wondered what Donaher thought was so damn important?
* * * *
Strategically, I parked my car a good block away from the mansion, stopping directly under an old oak tree whose spreading branches offered a pool of shadows from the overhead street lamps. Every little bit helps.
Dominating the street was a brilliantly illuminated billboard announcing that this was the headquarters of The Brotherhood, a non-profit, charitable organization, and equal opportunity employer.
Openly, the Brotherhood was a publicly chartered organization dedicated to the study of magic, parapsychology and the occult science. Their agent provocateurs never went anywhere without a lawyer, which made for interesting firefights. They actively sought the company of news reporters and protected themselves with the continued association of innocent civilians, a dirty trick that worked much too well.
Their Kansas City base shared land with a unique orphanage for the blind and a training center for the physically handicapped. Both of these noteworthy institutions were supported by the blood money of the Brotherhood. Totally unconcerned with the welfare of these trusting people, the Brotherhood looked upon them merely as protective coverage. This way, the Bureau couldn't simply drop a plane full of napalm upon the mansion as these sister organizations would also be destroyed. The matter had been discussed in detail.
The Brotherhood of Darkness was sneaky, tricky, and damn annoying. They used our own laws against us. If I tried to strongarm my way in, a horde of lawyers wearing pinstriped polyester would descend, each loudly demanding to see my search warrant, holding order, writ of habeas corpus, FBI badge, driver's license, fishing license, birth certificate and anything else they could think of. If trouble occurred, a TV news team would be there within minutes.
I couldn't bluff my way in or use force. With all of their magical and technological defensives, I couldn't sneak inside. That left only one remaining option. The most dangerous and difficult of all. Knocking on the front door and asking for admittance.
* * * *
Strolling across the street, I noted that the fence was made of brick and about six feet tall, which was exactly as high as the law allowed. But topping the brick was an additional two feet of iron picket fence, crested with shiny swirls of concertina wire. Hardly more than an endless razor blade, concertina wire would slice through leather gloves, and the hands inside, with frightening ease.
Halogen light clusters, which are very difficult to shoot out, dotted the double fence every eight meters. There was only one gate, big, heavy and made of stainless steel painted a non-descript black. There were no hinges. The massive two-ton slab of metal was lowered and raised from the concrete apron of the driveway by a set of hydraulic motors big enough to lift the fence, much less the gate. Of course, there were armed guards.
Standing brazen in a cute little brick gatehouse, whose inner walls I knew were plated with Soviet Army reactive armor, was a man and woman in baggy uniforms carefully designed to hide the body armor underneath. Openly, the pair carried Ruger .38 service revolvers. Legal, if kind of wimpy. But in the arms locker of the gatehouse was a nasty assortment of military deathdealers, and a large cache of thermite bombs powerful enough to fry God. Pitbulls watched from stout steel chains, but those were no danger as long as the leash held.
As I came close, the woman started talking into a hand radio, video cameras swung my way, and the man rested his thumbs in his belt so that his hands were closer to his pistol.
"Good evening,” I said politely, offering my hand.
Hesitantly, he took it and we shook. The goof.
"Sir,” he replied stiffly.
Radiating innocence, I beamed a smile. “I would like to see Dr. Bolt, please. Is he in tonight?"
"Do you have an appointment?” the man asked, reclaiming his hand. Too late!
"No,” I said honestly.
"Then I am sorry, sir, but Dr. Bolt is a very busy man,” apologized the guard. “Perhaps if you called his secretary in the morning for an appointment?"
Hell would freeze first, bucko. “I'm afraid the matter can not wait,” I said amiably.
The woman was on the radio again.
"And you are, sir?” asked the man asked, a hand resting on the wide leather belt, only inches away from his gun.
Casually, I reached inside
my sports jacket and withdrew an amazingly clean FBI commission booklet. The badge was real and the card showed my picture. But there the identity process ended.
"Special agent Emmanuel Rodriguez,” I stated. “Federal Bureau of Investigation."
The guards grew more attentive. The Brotherhood could not know for certain, but I was sure they harbored notions who the Bureau was a subdivision of.
"And exactly what is your business with Dr. Bolt?” the woman asked, speaking for the first time. She had a stern voice, and was clearly used to be being instantly obeyed.
"Private,” I said, letting the cold ring of authority enter my voice.
Stepping close, they held a private conversation, so I gazed at the stars overhead. Such a beautiful night. What was the chance of a meteor hitting this place? Sadly, none.
"If you would just wait a moment, Officer?” the man said, as the woman stepped into the gatehouse and started dialing the phone.
"Agent,” I corrected, sliding the commission booklet into my breast pocket so that the shiny badge was always visible. “Of course."
Personally, I sure hoped somebody got rude real soon. This artificial smiling was starting to make my jaw hurt.
In less than a minute, four more guards appeared on the other side of the fence, and I was informed that Dr. Bolt would be delighted to see me. Anything to assist the police! Yeah, right.
The gates opened with the sound of a bank vault, and if the new guards didn't quite frog-march me across the lawn, they sure came close. Naturally, I didn't get much chance to view the external grounds, but that was not important. I had already seen the aerial photos in the Bureau file room. Mostly it was plush lawns, manicured hedges, and splashing fountains. But lining the broad front walk was a double row of bronze statues depicting the signs of the zodiac: Aries the ram, Taurus the bull, the Gemini twins, Cancer the crab, Leo the lion, a nude woman for Virgo, another dressed woman holding a pair of scales for Libra, a scorpion for Scorpio, a nude man with a quiver and bow for Sagittarius, Capricorn the goat, a scantily dressed woman pouring water from a jug for Aquarius, and this really big fish for Pisces.
I'm not much of an art buff, but they were beautiful sculptures. Although it didn't take much surmise on my part to guess that in case of trouble the whole damn zodiac would come to life and the horoscope of any invader would read ‘Time to die, bozo'. Nuff said.
The front doors were made of aged seasoned oak, thick enough to stop a medieval battering ram. And while I wasn't wearing my sunglasses, somehow I could still tell that the butler was a zombie. Or else, truly British. Sometimes the distinction is difficult to make. I offered my hand, and he gave it the most perfunctory of clasps. Ha! Got you!
The foyer was Italian marble, a French crystal chandelier filled the ceiling overhead, and suits of olde German armor stood at rigid attention in recessed niches in the wall. I was starting to get the idea that Bolt was more paranoid than the Bureau. Did we actually rag his case this much, a pleasant notion, or did he have more enemies than just the Bureau, an even more pleasing idea. Hmm.
The guards stayed at attention in the foyer, and I shook their hands goodbye, then tagged along after the icy butler. At the top of the stairs, more guards were waiting and we shook hello. I am such a friendly guy. Then we formed a procession down a hallway full of locked doors and portraits whose beady eyes followed every move I made. Faintly, I heard the telltale noise of a machine gun bolt being pulled. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea. Below, on the ground floor, the great front door boomed shut with the noise of a coffin lid closing.
Eek! I hate symbolism.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER EIGHT
As we strolled merrily along the corridor, the guards managed to accidentally-on-purpose bump into me several times as they attempted to take an inventory of what I carried. A partial inventory, anyway. I had more weapons and equipment than these yutzes could ever imagine. I only hoped it was enough.
Turning a corner, we passed through a cleverly disguised X-ray machine and ankled past a hidden machine gun nest and several infrared scanners. This might be more difficult than previously imagined, and I still didn't know what I was here for!
At the end of the corridor was a simple wooden door marked ‘office'. The four guards took positions outside the room, while the butler opened the door, and followed me in. Ah, at last.
Foolishly, I had half expected the private office of Mathais Bolt to somehow resemble a mad scientist's laboratory with bubbling experiments, a dissection table overflowing with blood-stained retorts, shelves made of human bones bowing under the weight of forbidden volumes of alchemy and black magic. Actually, the place was rather nice. A bit conservative for my taste, but not bad.
The walls were lined with bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes in a hundred colors and a dozen languages. The floor was a plush velour carpet which hid my ankles, and so soft it made you want to lay down with your best girl. Almost felt alive. Centering the left wall was a fireplace you could cook a car in, and the right was dominated by a Belgian tapestry large enough to hide almost anything.
Over by the far wall, bracketed by a pair of balcony windows, was a massive slab of mahogany pretending to be a desk. The flawless surface was polished mirror bright, the only items displayed were a gilt-edged leather blotter with green paper, and a gold pen and pencil combo set in a rectangle of white marble. I was sure that all of them were deadly weapons.
Behind the desk, Mathais Bolt was waiting for me. His eyes were the very first thing anybody noticed. They were overly large, set deep into his skull and never blinked. Creepy.
A slim dapper man, Bolt was wearing a velvet smoking jacket and silk lounging pajamas. Geez, who still made those things? If his mouth was too broad for smiling, he did it anyway. Mathais had hair coal black, with streaks of pure silver at each temple. Dr. Bolt was smoking what smelled like an herbal Egyptian cigarette in an ebony Chinese holder almost a foot long. Although wearing no rings or watch, Necro-Man had a plain band of copper adorning each wrist. Ah, magic bracelets. Same as mine. This could get interesting. Depending upon your definition of the word. Was a nuclear war interesting? In the movies, sure. Live? No way.
Puffing on his cigarette, Bolt reminded me of a big snake preparing to eat a small bird. And I was the guy wearing feathers. Briefly, I considered if he had forged the bands himself, or stole them from the cooling bodies of dead Bureau agents? Either way made him a man to be reckoned with. And disposed of as soon as possible.
As I walked towards the brooding, sophisticated killer, for a moment I toyed with the concept of gunning him down on the spot, but dismissed the notion. Not only was it illegal, and bad manners, but also he had yet to tell me what I was here for.
That was when I noticed the Playboy calendar on the wall. Wow. August was a good month. Maybe the old necromancer was sub-human at that.
Grandly, the leader of the Brotherhood of Darkness gestured towards a plush chair that was so softly cushioned it would be impossible to get out of in a hurry. Our battle had begun. En garde!
I parried by accepting the seat and snuggled in deep. That should put Mathias at ease, and put him off guard. Ha! Bureau 13 agents were deadly even if stark naked, upside-down, and chained to the wall, and that's the way we liked it! No, wait a minute, I hadn't put that quite correctly. Oh hell.
"Good evening, Agent Smythe,” Mathais Bolt said in a tone so soothing that I instinctively braced against Mind Control.
Then I came fully alert. Smythe? Yikes! A straight lunge to the heart! I hadn't used that name since my old Chicago days as a PI. Did this carrion magician actually know me? No, wait, I had used that name during a few Bureau missions. He only knew of me. Whew.
"Who?” I asked with a puzzled expression, dancing aside and keeping my guard raised. “I'm sorry. Your butler got the name wrong. Its Emmanuel Rodriguez, Special Agent, FBI."
"Of course,” he purred, oozing charm. “My mistake. I will fire the
incompetent bungler immediately."
Slash, and miss. I covered a yawn as my riposte. Nice try, bozo. But if he was attempting to incur my sympathy and thus weaken my resolve, he had the wrong man. We Symthes are a fighting people.
"So why is the Bureau,” he stressed the word, “giving me a visit at 10:30 at night?” Thrust.
"Official business,” I said gruffly, placing my shoes on his desktop and deliberately marring the perfect finish. Parry and lunge.
Dr. Bolt turned red in the face, and then puffed himself to quiet complacency. “Indeed? And what is the nature of this business, pray tell?” Maintain guard, backstep.
Going for the kill, I gave him a death's head grin, honed from a thousand poker games and specifically designed to freeze the very blood in your veins. Had actually worked once on a naive vampire.
"Ever hear of a Bureau 13?” I countered bluntly.
Astonished, Dr. Bolt dropped his cigarette holder, and then yelped as he burned his foot. First blood!
"Why, ah, yes,” he responded, opening a drawer in the desk, and extracting a slim manila folder. “I have even been made privy to a file amassed on a quote Bureau Thirteen end quote."
Nice grammar, but whatever information was in that folder bode ill for me. There were a dozen defenses in my repartee, so I choose the classical best. Offense.
From the hum in the bracelet on my left wrist, I could tell that Bolt was protected by a magical forceshield a bazooka shell couldn't get through. The desk was ancient wood, hard as nautical nails. But the file was tagged with a red edge, denoting a non-duplicable original.
With the flick of a wrist, I activated the second function of my cigarette lighter and aimed a stream of liquid fire directly towards Dr. Bolt. A burning lance of chemical flame washed over the man, his prismatic shell deflecting the fiery onslaught, but the report flared into ash.
Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three] Page 9
