Reign of Evil - 03

by Weston Ochse

  He couldn’t keep his voice from cracking as he said, “Jen?”

  Holmes closed his eyes and nodded.

  Walker gulped for air. He felt like he was falling. How ironic he wore a suit made for it and it wasn’t helping. “How?”

  “They don’t know. She and her friend and a group of others were all murdered visiting Stonehenge.”

  Suddenly he had something to grab on to. “Did you say ‘murdered’?”

  “I did.”

  “Do they have the—”

  “They have no idea.”

  “By ‘they’ you mean MI5?”

  Holmes nodded.

  “What about our intel? Do we have any?”

  “If we did I know it’s well above our pay grades.”

  “To hell with pay grades. She was my fiancée … and I want to know. I need to know.”

  “We may never know.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Regardless, this exercise is over. Team leader to pilot.”

  “No!” Walker felt a sense of panic. He had to have something normal. He needed something planned. He had to jump. He glanced at the open door, then back at Holmes. “Let me do this.”

  The voice came from the cockpit and through their com systems. “Team lead, this is pilot. What’s your command?”

  Holmes gave him a steady gaze.

  “What? You think I’m going to kill myself?” Walker felt his lip curl. “You think I’m going to swan-dive so I can be with Jen in a better place? As romantic as that sounds in movies, it’s bullshit. Someone has to be alive to pick up the pieces. Someone has to be the one to get revenge.” He paused and couldn’t keep from one last desperate whisper. “Is she really dead?”

  “Yes, son. She’s really dead.”

  “Let me jump. Just let me fucking jump.”

  “Team lead, this is pilot; I say again, what’s your command?”

  “Pilot, this is team lead; continue mission.”

  “WILCO.”

  When they reached altitude, the light above the door blinked red.

  Walker made to stand and move, but Holmes gripped his arm. They both wore masks, but Jack could feel the intensity in his commander’s eyes.

  “We’ll get through this, Jack. We’re your family. We’ll help you any way we can.” Holmes held on for a moment, then let Walker go.

  They both stood and crouch-walked to the door. When the light turned green, Walker stepped out and let the wash carry him back and down. He knew Holmes was right behind him, but there was no way to see him. Not through the darkness. Not through Walker’s tears.

  Fifteen seconds later he deployed his chute and felt it jerk him free of his fatal fall. He stared at his altimeter and watched as it indicated his descent. Sobs overtook him at 25,000 feet. At 21,000 feet he thought about pulling the release on the chute. Maybe there was a heaven. Maybe there was an afterlife. God knows he’d discovered that there was so much more to this world since he’d joined Triple Six. If there were demons and shape changers why couldn’t there be a heaven?

  Holmes’s voice brought him back. “Walker, you’re off course.”

  Walker checked the GPS compass on his other wrist. He was way off course.

  Holmes’s voice was filled with urgency. “Walker, what are you doing? We talked about this.”

  He guided his MC-6 in the proper direction. “Course corrected,” he said, then nothing more.

  If there was a heaven then he had time to get there. Time probably moved a lot differently in such a place. It might only be a moment for Jen. Then a voice reminded him that it could also be an eternity, but he ignored it. What had initially seemed a comparison of love and revenge and a question of which was stronger had been reconciled. Love was revenge’s fuel and by god he’d loved Jen like no one else. He pictured her waiting for him by the famous San Diego statue of a sailor kissing a nurse. The way Jen’s red hair had lain against the white nurse’s uniform she’d rented from a costume store. The way she and Jack had kissed, mimicking the statue. That had been a hell of a day.

  By the time he hit 10,000 feet he knew what had to be done. By hook or by crook he was going to find out who killed his fiancée and when he did he’d do the same to them and everyone else involved.

  He’d do it or die trying.

  CHAPTER 2

  BROMLEY, ENGLAND. MORNING.

  Member of Parliament Gordon Miller felt like his head had been stoved in and his brains replaced with porridge. He and that sweet little waitress from Lions Head had drunk enough G&Ts to fill a water tank last night. Now, waking up to the frigid morning and an even more frigid realization that he’d failed to respond to not one but twenty-seven texts from his dear wife, especially the last one, which said: You might as well go fuck yourself because you’re never going to fuck me again, made his morning complete.

  Sigh.

  She’d said the same thing twice before and it had proven expensive to get back in her good graces. Real fucking expensive. He’d have to test his mettle and see if her golden triangle was worth it this time.

  The bathroom door opened and Veronica stepped out naked, her raven hair still dripping. She held a towel to it as she regarded him, already in his suit, chewing breath mints and guzzling water.

  “You gonna run out on me, governor?”

  He shook his head. She had the dark skin of a Gypsy and the night moves of an alley cat. He wanted nothing more than to have another go at it, except for the fact he was fresh out of little blue pills. What’s a fifty-five-year-old overweight MP to do? Plus, he needed to get home and not with the smell of strange on him.

  “Sorry, luv. Mother called and wants me home.”

  She gave him a smile much like the one she’d offered him in the pub. It promised absolutely everything. “We going to do this again soon?”

  Gordon couldn’t help but smile. “I hope so. Just need to figure it out.”

  “Don’t leave me hanging, governor. A girl loves to be treated like a woman by a rich man. Especially a rich man who’s on television as much as you.”

  So she knew. So much for his pretense of being a simple businessman. And the damn girl was smiling again. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  She turned and went back into the bathroom. He couldn’t help but watch. Even if his body wouldn’t cooperate, his mind was creative enough to fill in the blanks.

  His cell phone buzzed. He checked it. Wifey.

  Your shit is on the back porch.

  His fingers hovered over the phone as he prepared to answer her. But then it buzzed again. His secretary had sent the schedule for the morning, including an updated time for his conference with the Muslim League about increased funding for their defense account. What another pain in the ass. Not that he didn’t mind their considerable support to his campaigns, but they insisted on taking an incredible amount of his time. Still, if he wanted to remain in office this was something that had his full support, which also meant he couldn’t afford to miss the appointment.

  He texted his secretary to confirm. He also asked that she text his wife and tell her that he’d worked late and stayed at the office. Roxy was a good secretary and would do it with no questions asked. Of course, she’d expect a significant holiday bonus.

  Damn but this was proving to be one of his more expensive days. It was barely dawn and he already owed three women. He couldn’t help but chuckle. Of course he could have it the other way. No job. No women. No sex.

  He took one more gulp of water, then stood. He straightened his tie in the mirror by the door, then grabbed the keys from his overcoat pocket. He left the room and entered the cold Bromley morning. The wind whipped the fog in the parking lot, making it move as if great objects were passing through. A ship’s horn broke the early morning. So did the barking of a dog.

  He had to search for his Mercedes. He’d been in such a rush to get into Veronica’s knickers he hadn’t paid much attention to anything else. He chuckled.
Yet another reason he was proud to not be American. Them and their damned paparazzi. If he’d been in the American Congress he’d never have a chance at these dalliances. The first time he’d try he’d be on Facebook and Twitter and Twatter.

  There. He spotted his car three rows up.

  Dogs began to bark incessantly. As if in answer, a baying came from deep within the fog. The dogs barked madly. He turned in a full circle. What was going on with the dogs? One thing he hated was strays. Not a time to be bit if he could help it.

  The baying came again, this time followed by a horn. It didn’t sound like a ship’s, though. Was there a foxhunt nearby? Why would someone do it in this weather? Never mind that the hunts had been made illegal.

  He became aware of figures moving within the fog. He only caught fragmented glimpses of them, but they seemed to be carrying weapons. The fog billowed and covered the cars.

  The baying came closer, now with the sound of claws scraping against the pavement as the hidden creatures bore down on him. He had a moment to think, then turned and ran right into the side of a car. The impact drove the air from him. He fell but clawed his way to his feet.

  Someone yelled behind him, then sounded a horn.

  The baying was now all around him.

  He held his hands up in front of him.

  “Okay. Okay. Enough of this.” An animal brushed his leg. “Do you know who I am?”

  The fog parted for a moment and he beheld a man dressed all in green, like a hunter. He wore holly-patterned clothes and an iron crown on his head. But what drew the MP’s eyes was the great rack of horns on the white stag the man rode. Even as the MP stared, the man brought a hunting horn to his lips and blew. The stag’s eyes blazed red, then the beast lowered his antlers and charged.

  The MP screamed and turned. He managed four steps before the tips of the antlers pierced his back. The pain caused him to stagger, but he was unable even to fall. The stag lifted him and picked up speed. Soon they were careening through the fog, baying beasts running all around them. He wanted to scream for them to stop. He wanted to beg them to let him go. But amidst the clatter of hooves and the blowing of the rider’s horn, he felt his spirit ripped from his body. By the time the stag shook his great head and dislodged Miller’s body many miles later, he could barely remember who or what he’d been. All he knew was that there was a hunt, he was part of it, and it gave him so much joy that he bayed.

  CHAPTER 3

  TUCSON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. DAY.

  Timothy Laws watched as Jack Walker reached airport security, then was waved through. Such a fucked-up thing to happen to such a great couple, Laws thought. The universe was a fickle bitch. As was their controller. Holmes had been on the phone for two hours last night trying to get clearance, but Alexis Billings had ordered them to stand down. Where SEAL Team 666 might be able to go into places like Myanmar or Mexico with little political blowback, conducting operations in Mother England was another thing altogether. They were forbidden to lift a finger, England was handling it, and they were not to get involved. End of story.

  But no one said that Jack Walker couldn’t go on a little Bereavement Leave to England. And no one asked permission either. After all, it was an administrative function, which could be approved by the team leader.

  Holmes grabbed Laws’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We don’t want to miss our flight back to San Diego.”

  Laws turned and confronted him. YaYa and Yank stood nearby and stepped forward. “Listen, why don’t you put us all on leave? I’m feeling bereaved.”

  “I’m fucking bereaved too,” Yank said.

  “Me too.” YaYa placed his right hand on Yank’s shoulder. “Bereaved times ten.”

  Holmes lowered his gaze. “As am I, but we can’t all take leave.”

  “Why not?” Yank asked. The white scars on Yank’s African-American face stood out when he was angry and now they looked like a road map of rage. “There isn’t a place on the planet we can’t be in twenty-four hours. In fact, if the balloon went up, it would make it easier if we were in the same place.”

  “What he said,” YaYa added. Ever since the replacement of his left arm below the elbow by DARPA doctors, Yank had been helping YaYa by using martial arts as therapy and they’d become as close as brothers.

  “It’s not that easy,” Holmes began, but Laws interrupted.

  “Sure it is. It’s as easy as we make it. We all go on leave and help Jack out. If we happen to get into a firefight then it was one of those wrong-place-wrong-time things.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. I have the bigger picture to keep in mind. It’s what one does when he’s the leader. There could be political consequences for our actions. We also don’t want to bite the hands that feed us.”

  Laws knew his boss and best friend was right, but he didn’t like it at all. Helpless was not a feeling he appreciated. “So we just do nothing?”

  “I never said that. We’re going to do something. It’s just that I don’t know what it is yet.”

  “Is that a promise?” Laws asked.

  Holmes looked up sharply. “Is this kindergarten? Is it recess? Do you want me to fucking pinky swear? This is a goddamn military organization, Laws. I am the commander and I said we’re going to do something. Do. You. Get. That?”

  Laws grinned. “You look good when you’re angry.”

  Holmes’s face remained granite hard.

  Yank interjected, “Meanwhile back at the Batcave, Jen’s people are working on getting data from the NSA. They should have something by the time we get back.”

  Holmes sighed. “We’ve been told to stand down.”

  “Getting information is not an operation. Using the information is,” YaYa pointed out.

  Holmes shook his head and walked away. “We’re going to miss our plane.”

  The others caught up.

  “I know you have a plan,” Laws said, unwilling to let it die. Then he saw it. A twinkle in the corner of Holmes’s eye. Laws laughed. “I knew you had a plan.”

  They walked another twenty feet and Holmes asked, “You’re not going to ask me what it is?”

  “No. I figure when it’s set, you’ll let us all know.”

  “Finally. Someone acting like this is a military unit.”

  “Hoo-aahh,” said YaYa and Yank simultaneously.

  They were indeed a military unit. Lieutenant Commander Sam Holmes, the blond-haired, square-jawed paradigm of a SEAL, life dedicated to the cause of freedom; Chief Petty Officer Ali Jabouri, or YaYa, Arab-American, dark skinned, dark hair, built like a runner, trying to prove that he was as apple-pie American as everyone else; Petty Officer Second Class Shonn Yankowski, African-American, shaved head, tattoos, burns along the left side of his face from a house fire back home in Compton; Senior Chief Petty Officer Tim Laws, blond haired, lanky, unable to forget anything he ever read or saw; and Petty Officer First Class Jack Walker, blond haired, dead fiancée, hair-trigger sniper, and supernatural early warning device. Together they were SEAL Team 666 and by god they better have a plan, because they were the last line of supernatural defense for America. And if they didn’t have Walker when they needed him, then they didn’t have a team.

  CHAPTER 4

  HEATHROW INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. AFTERNOON.

  Ian clocked Walker the moment he left the plane. He had an unmistakable military gait. He was a man on a mission and for the most part kept his gaze focused on each step in the process. Deplane. Get baggage. Head through customs. Find rental car counter. Get car. Inspect car. Drive car.

  Ian understood. He’d had to act that way enough times in the past, especially with the recent loss of four Section 9 contractors. They were down to three members and needed their numbers increased badly. But with all the budget cuts and the new culture of austerity circulating England like a fiscal plague the likelihood that their hidden line on the defense budget would be filled was slim. But, until then, he’d have to make do. Losing men who were committed to the defense of a
nation in battle was one thing. Losing a wife or fiancée was completely different. He couldn’t imagine the emptiness he’d feel, which was why when Holmes had called him Ian had dropped everything to see what he could do to assist.

  Ian pulled two car lengths behind Walker as he maneuvered his rental onto the M3 toward Southampton. Unless he’d been here before, he must be using a GPS, because he was going in the right direction.

  What had Holmes said? “Do what you can to help him, Ian. He’s impetuous and in his current state, there’s no telling what he’ll do.” Not only had Ian been asked to babysit a U.S. Navy SEAL but also to keep the man from doing something irrational. Ian owed Holmes for pulling his ass out of a tight spot in Somalia. Perhaps this would make them square. Regardless, he rode a wave of compassion as well as a little guilt for the poor man’s fiancée dying at what should have been a safe event.

  He envied Holmes and his SEAL Team 666. They had resources and military backing. When they identified targets, they went after them. For the most part, there weren’t too many organizations who opposed them and their country. The problem with being a much older nation like Britain was that those who opposed her were frequent and many. Opus Dei, the Nine Unknown Men (three of whom they knew), the Priory of Sion, the Followers, Dee’s Men, the Golden Dawn, Ordo Templi Orientis, the Rosicrucians, the Hellfire Club, the Fenians, and any number of druidic orders were constantly stirring Her Majesty’s pot. The men of Section 9 had been a sad lot. That they’d had success was more a matter of the occult groups getting in one another’s way, rather than anything Section 9 had done.

  Founded in 1569 by Sir Francis Walsingham, Section 9 had defended Britain for centuries under many different names. Their current nom de guerre had come from the organization’s name in World War II. MI9, or Section 9, as it was called, had reported directly to the War Office and was overtly responsible for aiding resistance fighters. While there were those in Section 9 who did this, the majority of personnel and resources were allocated to stopping Hitler’s Thule Society, who had been intent on helping the Reich reach her pinnacle through magic and artifice.