Reign of Evil - 03

by Weston Ochse

  Rasping coughs. “Look at the man in the pictures and look at me.” More coughs. “What you see is a younger, handsomer version. Plus, that young man doesn’t have my particular sickness.”

  “Very sorry for your—illness, sir.”

  “It comes and goes. Now the correspondence.”

  Sounds of papers shuffling. “If you can sign here, please, sir.”

  “Fine. Give.”

  More paper shuffling.

  Then a sharp intake of breath.

  “There you are. And thank you very much for your time.”

  “Leaving so soon?”

  “I have several more of these to deliver.” Sound of footsteps on a wooden floor. “I’ll let myself out.”

  “You don’t understand,” began the raspy voice. “You can only leave when—”

  The door opened, then slammed shut. “Start the engines. We need to leave. Now.” Laws was walking as fast as he could.

  YaYa picked himself up from the ground, then began to run.

  They made it to the SUV at the same time, jumped in, then Yank sped away.

  Holmes turned around in his seat.

  “What was it?”

  For one of the first times Yank noticed fear in Laws’s eyes. They’d been in plenty of situations and the man had seemed always in control and capable of taking anything thrown at him. Seeing his fear stirred the butterflies in Yank’s stomach.

  “What was it?” Holmes repeated.

  “I think … I think it was a vampire.”

  CHAPTER 15

  WOODY’S BOATHOUSE, LAKE ARROWHEAD, CALIFORNIA. AFTERNOON.

  Laws still wasn’t certain what he’d seen, but the uneasiness it had created within him had sent his Spidey senses thrumming. He’d seen Ms. Murphy lock the door from the inside behind him when he’d entered, but what she hadn’t seen was the wad of Silly Putty he’d shoved into the space where the lock would go. It was a good thing too, because it had appeared that Mr. Van Dyke hadn’t intended for him to leave.

  Van Dyke’s appearance was that of a two-hundred-year-old version of the man in the pictures. The man standing next to Schwarzenegger and Nicholson and Magic Johnson had a vibrancy the man who’d stood before him lacked to such a degree, he might as well have been the husk of who he’d been. And why?

  They sat in a booth in a corner of the bar by windows facing the water. They’d only ordered waters, much to the displeasure of the sixteen-year-old waitress who snapped gum like it was an Olympic event.

  “Let’s go over it one more time,” Holmes said.

  His back was to the corner, and he occasionally glanced up to see who was entering and leaving. So far no one had sat by the booth next to them. It was mid-afternoon and there wasn’t much traffic.

  Laws took a drink of his water as he glanced at his three teammates. He was normally cool and collected, living by the dictate WWSMD—What Would Steve McQueen Do. Growing up in Hollywood, Laws had been surrounded by the uncool, the wannabe cool, and the supercool. Although he’d never met McQueen, Laws’s father, who’d worked on several of his films, including Bullitt, told him that the man was the coolest he’d ever met.

  Laws began slowly describing the man’s appearance. “I just thought he was sick, but then as he was signing the document, I happened to glance at one of the pictures. I could see my reflection perfectly, but his was smudged. I remember blinking my eyes several times, thinking it was me, but no, it was as if someone had come and wiped their hand across his image.”

  “I thought vampires didn’t have a reflection,” Yank said.

  “That’s fiction written by people following the tradition of Stoker,” Laws said, unable to keep from being the Encyclopedia Supernatural.

  “Our mission logs reference human smudging in reflective surfaces,” Holmes said. “But it could refer not only to a vampire, but to someone possessed, like with a demon.”

  “Like that makes it better,” YaYa said. “Thanks for the clarification.”

  Holmes sipped thoughtfully at his water. “No problem.”

  “Let’s talk this out, though. If it is a demon, what kind? Given we’re dealing with druids, it could be anything, not necessarily those from Christian ideology. Perhaps like the thing that had you,” Laws said, nodding his head at YaYa.

  The young man absently rubbed his prosthetic hand. “The obour,” he said softly.

  YaYa had been infected with an ancient forest demon on his first mission while they were operating in Myanmar. The creature’s malignant influence had become so bad, YaYa had been co-opted by a shape-changing Los Zetas hit man, which almost led to the death of the entire team. In the end, the only way YaYa could fight the demon was to remove the site of infection, which was his left forearm.

  “Although we have the entire pantheon of demons from which to choose,” Laws began, “considering we’re dealing with druids, one would have to believe it would be a nature spirit of some sort. Remember any readings on those, Boss?”

  Holmes shook his head, then held up a hand.

  A family of four, mom, pop, son, and daughter, trundled by and took a seat two booths down. Both kids were sulking. The waitress was on top of it and took the orders for two double martinis like it was a military operation and was moving fast toward the bartender before Laws continued.

  “Me neither.” He leaned back. “Then I guess we follow SOP.”

  “Wait,” Yank said, looking from Laws to Holmes. “There’s a Standard Operating Procedure for dealing with demons?”

  “Of course there is. Why wouldn’t there be?”

  “Well, it’s just that…” He seemed to fight for a way to articulate what he wanted to say. “It’s just that we’ve been flying by the seat of our pants for the last few missions, so the idea that we have manuals and SOPs for these things is … well, incredible, I guess.”

  Laws grinned for a moment, then turned to Holmes. “FNG just said it’s incredible. What do you think about that, Boss?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Remind me when we get back to the shop that we’re going to begin practicing immediate action drills.”

  “Like how to remove someone’s head from their ass?” YaYa said, staring plainly at Yank.

  “Or how to remove someone’s foot from their mouth?” Laws added.

  “More like weapon improvisation against catalogued supernatural enemies.” Holmes sighed. “Yank’s right in a way. Although I prefer to call it operational flexibility instead of flying by the seat of your pants, we’ve barely had a breath since our last op. Last time we practiced at all was in New Orleans against the undead.”

  “Scenario development?” Laws asked.

  Holmes nodded. “Think about how we’re going to build the training around specific circumstances and environments.”

  “I can get Musso to begin working on that for us. I hear we’re getting a replacement for Jen as well. Someone named Riley Ferguson.”

  They all stared at nothing for a moment; then Holmes spoke. “Everyone order something. I’m going to call back for our go bags to be delivered. We’re not leaving this mountain until we’ve engaged the demon.” He stood up and pulled his phone from his pocket as he headed out the door.

  “You heard the man,” Laws said. “Let’s eat.” He kept his smile on and his eyes bright, but inside he felt the darkness in the creature known as Van Dyke. Soon they’d know it was his real name.

  CHAPTER 16

  BANKS OF THE KENNET RIVER, MARLBOROUGH, ENGLAND. DUSK.

  Adam Neville’s passion had always been fishing. The major contributing factor for him quitting his job in London ten years ago had been the lack of acceptable trout fishing nearby, not to mention the sheer mass of shuddering humanity. He’d moved to the country, bought a home on the Kennet River, and proceeded to spend his days telecommuting to the brokerage and his mornings and evenings communing with the fish. It was in these moments as he slung a nymph into a ripple of water that he felt the most content.

  Of course his mates
would be on him for using flies, since the season ended October 1, but being a coarse fisherman wasn’t in his veins and he couldn’t stand trying to catch anything other than trout or her cousins, salmon and char. Carp and perch and dace and sanders were dumb enough to eat empty hooks. With flies it was a game of strategy, in which sometimes the fish won and sometimes he won. With bait and other techniques it was hardly a challenge. If he’d wanted to fish merely to catch fish he would have learned how to net the fish and spared the cost of a decent rod.

  He glanced back at the warmth of his house, his wife, Sarah, staring blithely at him through the patio door, glass of chardonnay in one hand, cigarette in the other. She’d detested the move from the city. He smiled weakly as he shivered from the cold. He couldn’t be sure if it was the weather or her stare. She sent him a steely grin, then turned away from the window to the fire. He sighed, realizing it was only a matter of time before she left him.

  But of course he’d always have the fish.

  He cast a small unweighted nymph in the clear water and let it drift over the ripple. A swirl of silver, then it hit. His rod bent double as his heart soared. The feeling never changed. Not from the first fish up to this most recent one. It was always a luxurious and rewarding feeling.

  He reeled the fish in, letting it play long enough that it could have gotten off if it had shaken its head and body the right way, then pulled it onto the bank. It was a brown, probably eighteen inches. He put his left hand gently on the body.

  The fish stared at him, its mouth opening and closing in exhausted gasps.

  Adam slid the barbless hook free, then released the brown back into the water. He watched as it disappeared. He stayed squatting, watching the poetry of the river for a time before he stood.

  Maybe just once more.

  He moved fifty feet down the river, leaving the shadow of his own home. He noticed fog coming from the west, hugging the water. He cast toward it, as if it were a geological feature rather than a weather phenomenon. He let his nymph drift a moment, then recast. By the time his fly hit the water, the fog had moved to obscure its position. Then the fog covered him and the river, moving on.

  He sighed, reeling in the nymph and hooking it to the place just above the reel on his pole designed to hold it. Although his fishing was done, he didn’t want to go home. So instead he stood in the cold, shivering slightly, listening to the land and trying not to remember the words of his wife just an hour ago.

  “You’re bound and determined to drive me bloody insane. How can you pass the opportunity up? It’s double your salary!”

  “But it’s in Hong Kong,” he’d said. “There aren’t any trout in Hong Kong.”

  “Trout. Trout. Your fucking trout. I think if you could find a trout with tits and a slit, you’d get rid of me in a second.”

  The words had so shocked him that he’d stood there speechless until she’d laughed at him. The laughter broke the spell, sending him outside.

  “That’s right. Go and find your trout mermaid.”

  Then the silence of the Kennet River.

  It was true. He’d done well for his Chinese trading firm. Because of him, they’d been able to buy two buildings in the heart of the London Financial District, allowing for local representation that gave them leverage when trading on the Heng Seng, Nikkei, and Shanghai Composite Stock Exchanges. He’d even married one of the senior partners’ daughters. And now they wanted him to be a vice president, would provide him a car and driver, and would even set him up in an old estate overlooking Kowloon Bay that had once belonged to a sheik and before him an opium king. It was truly what dreams were made of and she had a right to be angry.

  But was it his fault if all he wanted to do was fish?

  He heard the sound of hounds in the distance, followed by a horn.

  Foxhunting? The Marlborough Hunt Club didn’t have anything scheduled this close to Christmas. Plus, the hounds didn’t sound like any he knew. He listened to them bay again and couldn’t place the breed.

  The sound of the horn came again, but closer.

  He peered into the fog, trying to make out whether it was coming from across the river or on his side. Water and fog always played tricks with sound.

  He suddenly felt something brush past him. Then another thing. This one knocked him off balance, forcing him to stumble to his right, where he knew the river was. He fought to keep his balance and would have regained it had he not been pushed one last time.

  He hit the water sideways. He lost his grip on his rod but was unable to reach for it. He’d lost his breath, the cold of the water paralyzing him. He tried to suck in air, but his head went beneath the frigid water. He scrambled for footing but couldn’t find it against the mossy bottom.

  Then he heard her calling from the nearby bank. “If you won’t go to Hong Kong, then I’ll go without you.”

  His arms began to move finally as they freed themselves from the sudden shock of the water.

  The sound of hounds came much closer. The horn sounded like it was right on top of him.

  Sarah screamed and began shouting, “No!” over and over again until it was cut off by what sounded like dogs fighting over a stick.

  He finally managed to get his feet under him. By the time he reached the bank, the fog was dissipating. Such a strange weather phenomenon, especially the way it had thrown sound. It was as if the hunt had been right here. He pulled himself up and climbed to his feet, shivering uncontrollably. He ran toward the warm glow of his house. Once he got warm and had a few glasses of scotch, he’d go find his wife and have a word with her. Then when he was finished with that he’d go online and order a new fly rod. He had a spare, but now that he’d lost his best rod he had the chance to order one he’d had his eye on. It was a thousand dollars, but it was a piece of art.

  Shivering uncontrollably, he’d almost made it to the steps of his patio when he heard a growl from behind him. He turned, almost falling because his frozen feet refused to cooperate.

  It was a hound, but like no hound he’d ever seen. As tall as a Great Dane, it was part human, part beast. It had what looked shockingly like human arms for its front legs and a gray hairless body. But what captured him was the gaze from the dark eyes in the almost simian face. It was recognition. He knew those eyes. And then it leaped, grabbing him by the leg and dragging him east toward Silbury Hill. He tried to scream, but he was dead within the first hundred meters, his head having banged against the ground over and over until it split open. That he could still see did very little to calm him. That is, until he felt himself jerked and pulled and hammered until he was no longer being dragged but was running beside the other hound, a beast he had once called his wife.

  CHAPTER 17

  CHICKSANDS RAF. NIGHT.

  Walker had been helping the witch organize the warlock loot for two hours when Ian and Trev returned. Trev went straight down the hall to Preeti’s command center. Ian came to the common room. Behind him were two steely-eyed men in thick-soled shoes who Walker thought had to be cops. The last man was dressed in a Savile Row suit and overcoat and appeared impeccably manicured. From his hair to his hands to the cut of his attire, it all screamed money.

  Walker leaped to his feet. “Ian, how are you—”

  Ian held up his hand. With his chin high, he went to the sideboard and poured himself three inches of scotch. Without turning around, he slung it back and swallowed.

  “So this is what it’s come to,” the posh man said, glancing around the room in distaste.

  The men who Walker had thought were cops stood behind him. Probably ex-cops. Bodyguards. Muscle.

  “You once had the ear of the Queen,” he continued, “and now you’re in the basement of an old officers’ club. Looks like you bollixed it up good. How pathetic.” When he spied the witch, his entire demeanor changed. “Now who’s this pretty little dish?”

  She’d stood when they’d entered the room. She fell right into the shy schoolgirl act and smiled sweetly. “Sassy Moore
, Your Highness. But you can call me Sassy.”

  The two bodyguards exchanged glances.

  A look of pure lechery came upon the posh man’s face. “I like your name.”

  “It’s more than just my name,” she purred. “It’s who I am. Sassy.”

  Walker felt the power in her words.

  The man took a step forward, then halted. His eyes narrowed; then he turned to Ian. “You trying to work me, Ian?”

  Ian had watched from the sideboard, a refilled glass in his hand. “Never in a million years, Sir Robert. We’re at your service, as always.”

  “What is she then, a witch?”

  “I don’t have to be a witch to be hit on by you,” answered Sassy. “I’m sure each and every schoolgirl in Sheffield knows your number, Sir Robert.”

  He glowered at her as he backed up until he was bookended by his bodyguards.

  “And look at the right proper benighted Englishman,” Sassy continued. “Taking time out of polluting the countryside and despoiling young girls just to see us.”

  “Enough!” Ian shouted. He shook his head and sighed as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders and he could carry it, just in a different position. Addressing the room, Ian said, “Allow me to introduce Sir Robert MacDonald from Sheffield. He’s here to shut us down.”

  Walker jerked his attention back to this MacDonald character. “He can’t do that.”

  “Let me assure you, I can bloody well do that and more. I am doing that. Your kind was once needed, I agree. But times have changed. We’re in the modern era. There’s no reason for a unit like yours in this time of instant information and computers.” He spread his hands. “And if something were to happen, CCTV would pick it up.”

  Walker thought about the disturbance they’d tracked. He almost brought it up, but something told him to keep it quiet.

  “Plus, we hate to see such an egregious loss of life. What is it, Ian? You’ve lost three people in three months?” Sir Robert shook his head in a mockery of utter sadness. “Too many lives lost. Just too many. I think you’re way past your prime.”