by Craig Zerf
In front of the desk, two armless office chairs. Behind the desk sat a man in a bespoke suit. Not tailored in Jermyn Street or the like, most probably fashioned by some shop in the East End. A reasonable job but not the best. However, it was necessary because the man behind the desk would be unable to purchase suits off the rack. Six foot seven and over three hundred pounds of muscle. His name was Benjamin Kowalski. Everyone referred to him as Big Ben and he was Mister Stopes’ man on the street.
Big Ben was busy counting out a stack of cash. When he finished he bound the wad with a rubber band, stuck it in an envelope and scrawled a name and number on the outside. Then he leaned forward and shook the hand of the man sitting opposite.
‘Pleasure doing business, mister Patel.’
The man nodded and left without speaking.
‘Jamie,’ called Ben. ‘Fetch missus Johnson.’
Jamie threw a military style salute and jogged into the community center, holding his jeans up with one hand as he ran. In one of the small halls in the center stood a group of around thirty people. Merchants, grocers, scrap metal dealers, builders, prostitutes, pimps and muggers. A proper cross section of lower to lower-middle class London.
And all of them paid Mister Stopes a nominal sum of ten percent of their weekly turnover. In return he and his men insured that no electrical fires started in their premises. Or that none of them suffered mysterious work related accidents such as broken fingers or noses. Also, Mister Stopes could arrange to have trash delivered to your premises. In ten ton dump trucks. And no one wanted that.
But the relationships went deeper than that. He also made sure that no other criminal element bothered his clients. And, if you were in a real financial pinch and could prove it with audited books, then Mister Stopes could organize a short term loan at rates that were less than double the going bank rate. He also remembered everyone’s birthdays, christenings and even anniversaries. Because Mister Stopes had long ago learned that you could achieve more with a carrot and a stick than just a stick.
Most of the people were standing or sitting in silence. Sipping tepid, weak tea from polystyrene cups and nibbling on dry biscuits. There was a doctor’s waiting room atmosphere. Or maybe Head Master’s study. Tense, nervous. Hoping that nothing would go wrong.
Jamie beckoned. ‘Missus Johnson.’
She stood, put her tea down on a side table and followed baggy trouser boy out of the room.
Missus Johnson was of late middle age attempting to look like she was in her late twenties. High heels, skintight purple skirt, a bulging panty-line. Shimmering white blouse, unbuttoned low to expose her cheap breast argumentation that she got on a trip to Greece. Her mouth a slash of crimson, eyes a nightmare of thick eye-shadow and false eyelashes like spiders resting on her eyelids.
Both Jamie and Big Ben thought that she was a bit of alright.
The middle aged bottle-blonde sat down opposite Big Ben and crossed her legs slowly, pushing her breasts out as she did.
‘Good evening, Ben,’ she simpered, batting her eyelids. Then she opened her purse and pulled out a thick sheaf of twenties. As she held out the wad someone grabbed her hair and yanked her out of the van.
Ben started to stand up but with a blur of movement someone was sitting opposite him and his mind felt like it was clamped in a vice.
‘Sit.’ Ben slammed himself back into his seat. Behind the man he could see another stranger holding missus Johnson up by her hair, her feet a foot above the ground. She was squealing like a piglet and her one eyelash-spider had crawled down her face onto her cheek, leaving a trail of black behind it.
Ben glanced towards the two men in the front of the van but they, like him, seemed to be nailed to their seats. Then two more strangers ripped the front van doors open with a scream of tortured steel. Ben frowned as he noted that the doors had literally been torn from their hinges. A feat that was humanly impossible. Or so he had thought.
Both the driver and the muscle were dragged out. The strangers picked them up by their necks and shook them like rag dolls until he heard their necks snap under the force. Then they simply dropped their lifeless bodies on the sidewalk and stood still. Waiting..
‘Good evening Big Ben,’ said the man seated opposite him. ‘My name is Nathan Tremblay. But you shall call me Capo. Now, Ben, you and I are going to have a little cat.’
Ben struggled to hear clearly as, directly outside the van, missus Johnson’s volume of squealing started to increase as her hair slowly pulled away from her scalp.
Nathan frowned slightly. ‘Alan, for god’s sake shut that bloody woman up.’
There was the sickening sound of a neck being broken and the dull thud of another corpse hitting the sidewalk.
‘Thank you, Alan. Now, as I was saying, Ben. We are going to talk. Now I want you to think very carefully before answering because everything that you say, and I do literally mean everything, will be a life and death decision. Do we understand each other?’
Ben nodded.
‘Speak, Ben. I do not trust non-verbal communication.’
‘Yes, Capo. I understand,’ rumbled the huge man. He could still feel the massive power of Nathan’s compulsion. It scared him. But more that that it compelled him to want to please this strange man. It felt as if this man’s approbation was the most important thing in Ben’s life. He would do anything for him.
Nathan smiled. He was genuinely pleased. ‘Very good, Ben. Now, where does Mister Stopes live?’
Ben hesitated slightly - then, ‘I can take you there, Capo.’
Nathan nodded. ‘Bit if a hesitation there, Ben my friend. See that doesn’t happen again.’
‘Yes, Capo.’
‘Right, Ben you drive. I shall sit in your seat, one of my chaps will sit up front with you and the other four will follow.’
Ben stood. Then he hesitated slightly.
‘Oh no, Ben. I sense a hesitation.’
Ben shook his head. ‘No, Capo. It’s just that…well, you only have six men. That’s not many. It's pay night and Mister Stopes will have at least twenty men at his place. All armed.’
Nathan smile. ‘Oh, how sweet of you, Ben, you seem to actually care.’ Nathan looked across at one of the men standing outside. ‘Alan.’
‘Yes Capo.’
‘Did you hear? Ben was warning us. Quite the turncoat isn’t he? Already a useful member of our little clique.’ All of the men laughed. ‘I wouldn’t worry about the numbers, Ben,’ continued Nathan. ‘I think that you will find that the six of us quite comfortably outnumber Mister Stopes and his men. Now drive.’
It didn’t take long to get to Mister Stopes’ residence. A fifteen story apartment block on the corner of West Square Gardens. Big Ben simply pulled the van up outside the entrance, jumped out and opened the rear door for Nathan. All seven of them walked in, Ben leading the way.
The lobby was impressive. Polished marble, gilt mirrors, tapestries and a large water fountain in the center.
The concierge, a tall man dressed in a black suit with blue trim, walked up to them. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You can’t just park the van in front of the doors. Come on, Big Ben. You know the rules,’
Nathan blurred into movement, striking the concierge in the middle of his chest with a flat hand. The man took off and smashed into the fountain. Seconds later the water changed from clear to bright red as the man’s blood pumped from his broken body, tinting the display.
Big Ben led them to the bank of elevators, pointing to one off to the side. ‘Private,’ he rumbled as he took out a card and inserted it into a slot that caused the door to open with a soft chime. They all crowded in and Ben pushed the single button marked Penthouse.
The escalator doors hissed open to revel a large double volume lobby. Two men stood in the center. They were of a type, short, wide, beefy. Round, bland faces. Like cabbage patch dolls on steroids.
The one started to greet Big Ben and then did a double take. ‘Oy, Ben. What’s wiv the crowd? Mister Stopes did
n’t say nuffin about these blokes. What gives?’
Nathan gestured with a tilt of his head. Alan, sort them out.’
The Nightwalker blurred forward and the two men dropped, blood gouting from both of their severed necks, painting the marble floor.
‘Lead the way, young Ben,’ said Nathan. ‘Step lively, places to go and people to kill. Come on now.’
Ben showed them through to the main reception room. It was magnificent. Large, open plan. Picture windows along the one side looking out across London. Twenty plus people were gathered together, and the air was thick with cigar and cigarette smoke.
Standing in the middle of the room was a short, thick set man in a handmade silk suit. He was smoking a comically large cigar. Like a bulldog with a bicycle pump in its mouth.
He turned to look at Big Ben and raised an eyebrow. ‘Who the hell are these people?’ His voice was low and rasping, like he had just recovered from a fit of coughing.
‘We’re gatecrashers,’ said Nathan.
‘Well, you’re not welcome. Bugger off. Now.’
Nathan chuckled. ‘So rude. And you didn’t even ask what we wanted.’
‘I don’t care,’ rasped Mister Stopes. ‘In fact, you’ve already outstayed your time with us.’ He pulled an automatic pistol from a shoulder holster and pointed it at Nathan. ‘Time to start begging for your life, you ponce.’
The Nightwalkers started to move but Nathan shook his head and waved them back. ‘Tell you what, Stopes my old mate,’ he said. ‘Let me just remove my shirt and jacket first so that I don’t get blood on it. Then you can blast away.’
There was a nervous ripple of laughter from the crowd and Mister Stopes frowned. ‘Are you trying to take the piss, boy? Because I am deadly serious, no one messes with Mister Stopes in his own house.’
Nathan placed his folded shirt and coat on the floor, exposing a body of muscle and sinew, with skin so white as to appear transparent. You could see the blood traveling along his veins and the striation of his muscles stood out like a backlit medical chart.
‘Man,’ said Mister Stopes. ‘You are one creepy looking mother.’ He pulled the trigger. The pistol boomed and a tongue of flame etched across the room. The 9mm slug struck Nathan in the center of his chest and exited via his back in a spray of gore. He dropped to his knees and Mister Stopes shot him two more times on the way down. Mister Stopes pointed the gun at the Nightwalkers. ‘I’m actually in a good mood,’ he said. ‘So I’m going to let you live. Take your boss’ body and get the hell out of here. Ben, you clean up and then you and I are going to have a chat.’
Nathan stood up. ‘Change of plans,’ he said. ‘I am going to have a chat to everyone here and you, Mister Stopes, are going to die.’
Stopes grunted in surprise, pointed the pistol at Nathan and fired again. This time Nathan didn’t bother to go down, he simply walked slowly towards Mister Stopes, a slight grin on his face. Stopes shot again and again until the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Nathan’s chest was covered in blood but aside from that there was not a single blemish.
‘Oops,’ said Nathan. ‘Out of bullets. Now it’s my turn.’ His fangs extended, and he latched into Mister Stopes’ neck, ripping and tearing and grunting as he fed. The Nightwalkers stood around him and stared at the rest of the people in the room. Daring them to do anything.
But no one moved. The spectacle before them was so out of their comfort zones that they had simply shut down. Made puppets by the impossible that they had just witnessed.
Nathan dropped Mister Stopes’ exsanguinated body to the floor, threw his head back and screeched. The picture windows shivered and the humans in the room covered their ears in a vain attempt to keep out the feeding call of the Nosferatu.
Then he stood up and let his gaze roam the room, noting well the terror evident on everyone’s faces.
‘My name is Nathan Tremblay,’ he said. ‘But you will call me, Capo.’
Chapter 22
‘It seems pretty simple to me,’ said Tag. ‘From what we’ve deduced, Nathan wants to control the London crime syndicates and families, so we stop the crime. Ergo, Nathan don’t got control over nothing.’
William shook his head. ‘Nice idea,’ he agreed. ‘But sir Jasper reckons that there are over thirty thousand policemen in the Metropolitan area. And if they can’t stamp out the crime how could we even make a difference?’
‘Easy,’ insisted Tag. ‘We be superhero, secret agent, mega-enhanced crime fighters. Also, we can venture outside the usual channels a little. Get things done quicker. No paperwork, no waiting years for trials, no reading of rights. Man, we could burn through these criminals in a few weeks. Bish, bash, bosh.’
Emily laughed. ‘Bish, bash, bosh?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Tag. ‘Find them, punish them, move on.’
‘You know, William,’ said Em. ‘He’s got a point. I know that I could cover twenty, maybe even fifty times more area than a human police patrol in one night. Troy and the Pack as well. We can see in the dark, we can smell trouble, literally. And then there’s the gargoyles. How many of those in London?’
‘There are many gargoyles in London,’ interjected Muller. ‘But this smacks a little of vigilantism to me. Wouldn’t we be taking the law into our own hands?’
‘In a way we would,’ agreed William. ‘However, we are MI7 agents, so strictly speaking, we are the law.’
The church knight shrugged. ‘Tenuous but I’ll accept that.’
‘Right then,’ said Tag as he stood up. ‘Let’s do it.’
‘Whoa,’ countered William. ‘Steady on, old chap. Plan first. Let’s sort out the whole, when, where, who and how before we go galloping through London like some sort of natural disaster.’
Tag sat down. ‘Sorry. That be true.’
‘Good man,’ said William. ‘Right, this is how I see it happening; if we are going to operate in London, then we need to move the Pack up to the city. Troy, break the Pack down into teams of five or so. Then book hotels for them all. Nothing too fancy. Two, three star places, we don’t want to stand out.’
‘Couldn’t we have smaller teams, say two wolves each?’ Asked Troy. ‘After all, no amount if street thugs would be a match for a single wolf let alone two. Then we could cover more ground.’
William shook his head. ‘No way. What if they run into a bunch of those new generation bloodsuckers? Five is the bare minimum. Perhaps six or seven is better. Then when they patrol, make sure they have at least two wolves up high, on the roofs above ready to help.’
‘Right,’ agreed Troy. ‘Forgot about the vamps. We’ll definitely run onto them at some stage.’
‘Good. Get a map and grid the area out. Assign each team an area. Then I want you, Em, Tag, Bastian, Muller and Sylvian at the Shadowhunter penthouse. You guys can also patrol but I envisage you more as a rapid-response team. Anything goes wrong then you get there fast. Em, can you liaise with Coldstone and the gargoyles? Oh, and finally, Tag – leave Missus Jones at home. Sir Jasper would go mental if you brought down a firefight in the city.’
***
‘Right,’ said Nathan. ‘Big Ben, introduce me to these nice people.’
Ben nodded and stepped forward. He started at the one end of the room, pointing at each person as he called out their name, what they did and their connection to the ex-Mister Stopes and his organization.
‘Paul Levy. East side of the river. Drugs and prostitution. Been a member for over ten years now.’ He proceeded to the next man. ‘Jack Barlow. Protection. SOHO and surrounds. Runs a gang of around thirty boys. Been a member for eight years.’
Nathan shook each man by the hand, not caring that his entire arm was drenched in sticky, red blood that stained everything that he touched.
The gang members were all too terrified to react in any other way than either stunned silence or a deferential nod and a whispered, Capo.
The last person to be introduced was the only woman in the group. Of medium height. Slender. Pencil skirt,
above the knees. Fashionable but flat shoes. Skin as pale as a shroud, a short black bob and lips painted a deep, fallen-soul scarlet.
‘Miss Penelope Garden,’ introduced Big Ben. ‘Protection. Wimbledon and suburbs. Also confidence and hacking. Fairly new to the group.’
She curtsied and greeted Nathan, her voice husky, her breath all musk and wood. ‘My Lord.’
Nathan stopped and grinned. ‘Penelope,’ he answered. ‘I have a feeling that you and I shall be getting along just fine.’
‘Perhaps we can have a drink together afterwards,’ suggested miss Garden. ‘Just to touch base, as it were.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Nathan.
Penelope smiled and her eyes flashed a tiny hint of victory. A touch of belief that she was in control.
‘What blood group are you?’ Asked Nathan.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You heard me. Blood group?’
‘I think, O positive.’
Nathan nodded. ‘Good. Yes, I think that we shall meet afterwards. For a drink.’
The expression on miss Garden’s face fell as her momentary surge of confidence melted away to be replaced by fear and trepidation.
‘But first,’ continued Nathan. ‘We need to talk about how things are going to be run from now on. Big Ben here shall be my mouthpiece when I am not with you. He speaks with my voice. If anyone disobeys or even hesitates when he gives one of my orders, then that person, their family and their friends will become fodder for the brethren. Now do not worry overly much, I am not going to change things to any great degree. Instead of paying tribute to Stopes you shall pay to me. My Nightwalkers and my Bloodwraiths will also be patrolling my streets at night. They will take care of anyone who is either not part of this organization or anyone who is attempting to carve out a solo career. In other words, you work for me or you don’t work at all.
