by Weston Ochse
Trev and Preeti came in from behind. Sir Robert and his men, who made room for them, then resumed their place.
“Is this everyone?” Sir Robert asked.
“All that’s left.” Ian’s voice was even, his demeanor implacable.
“Pathetic. No one’s going to blink an eye with me shutting you down, Ian. To believe that a unit composed of a psychopath, a cripple, a pet American, and a witch servant all led by an old drunk was responsible for the supernatural protection of England is hysterical.”
Trev made a move toward Sir Robert, but one of the bodyguards stepped in front of him at the same time as Preeti grabbed his arm with both of hers, letting her crutches fall to the ground.
Everyone stared at them a moment, then back to Sir Robert.
“You have twenty-four hours to pack up your things and put them in official storage. I have orders for you three.” He held out his hand and the other bodyguard handed him three slender envelopes. Sir Robert then handed them to each of the remaining members of Section 9. When he was done, he smiled, King of Smug. “You’ll be thanking me for this next year. This is best for England.” He turned and exited the room. His guards went with him.
Walker broke the intervening silence when Sir Robert was well and gone. “You. Cannot. Be. Serious.”
“I’m afraid so, chap.” Ian set his glass down carefully. “Sir Robert has been working to shut us down for the last three years. When he began we had thirty people and had strong representation in parliament, fighting for funding lines.”
Walker still couldn’t believe what was happening. “So what changed?”
“Everything. Nothing. It wasn’t a single event. It was a bunch of small things, really. Reassignments. Reallocations. Promises for future personnel if we shifted some current staff to other defense-related operations. Re-elections. Most of those who’d traditionally watched out for us either retired, passed on, or weren’t re-elected.”
“I hate to ask this,” Walker began, “but I came over here to find out who killed my fiancée. Now we know the Wild Hunt is on the loose. Are we just going to stop?”
Trev stepped forward. “Yeah. Can’t we complete this last mission and show Sir Asshole how valuable we are?”
Ian shook his head. “He doesn’t care. This is a personal vendetta and I’ve never been able to get to the heart of it. Walker, it’s game, set, and match. Sir Robert played us and won. There’s just nothing to be done.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Preeti said. She glanced in Walker’s direction and smiled secretly. He felt a moment’s hope. “There have been some developments.” She looked at her crutches on the floor and then to the chairs around the table. “Can we sit?”
Ian stared at her, then went into motion. “Of course, Preeti.”
Soon everyone was sitting around the table.
Ian had provided glasses for everyone and had poured an inch of scotch in each. “Before we begin”—he took up his glass and held it—“to Jerry.”
Everyone raised theirs as well and they clinked glasses. “To Jerry,” they said.
Once everyone had drunk, Ian composed his face. “We’ll have services the day after tomorrow. No, that’s Christmas. The day after that then, on the twenty-sixth.” He turned to Preeti. “You now have the table, madame.”
She brought them up to speed about what she and Walker had discussed and done earlier. Then she said, “With the help of my brother, who telecommutes from the Home Office and is so good with computers I might as well be a child by comparison, we were able to track down some additional disturbances. Trev, will you run and get the map on my desk?”
Trev got up and hurried out. He was back in less than thirty seconds with a map he placed in the center of the table. Seven markers were in place at Woking, Chipping Sodbury, Bromley, Shapwick, Marlborough, Penrith, and Notgrove.
“I tracked disturbances from each of these events to nearby mounds.”
“Wait a moment.” Ian had raised a hand. “Events?”
“Right. We know what happened at Woking. In Penrith, an orphanage for displaced Nigerian children disappeared. It’s believed to be a highly localized F5 tornado which only damaged the orphanage, even though it was wedged into a tight little neighborhood.”
“What?” Ian shook his head. “An entire orphanage gone? Why aren’t we hearing about this?”
“It’ll be in tomorrow’s news. All of this has occurred only in the past seventy-two hours. There could be more, but these were the only things we were able to discover in the little time we had.”
“Continue,” Ian said.
“In Chipping Sodbury a local businessman and his associates were found ripped apart on the golf course. Owners of an Indian restaurant in Shapwick went missing. I’ve been there, by the way, and they have the best vindaloo. In Marlborough a local resident and his wife were found mauled on the bank of the Kennet River. In Penrith there were reports of a man being chased down the street by misshapen hounds, which the police are discrediting because they were called in at three AM by several drunken witnesses. In Notgrove the parish priest reported odd howls and the blowing of horns. There’s only three CCTV cameras in Notgrove, so there was no tracking. They all went fuzzy at the same time.”
Ian pointed to a spot southeast of London. “What about Bromley?”
“Saving the best for last. The body of MP Gordon Miller was found gored in a parking lot by a hotel. Looks like he’d spent the night with a local girl, then was killed when he went outside.”
“Are you telling me that we believe that the Wild Hunt killed a Member of Parliament?” Ian asked.
“I don’t think the Wild Hunt gives a shit about an MP,” Sassy Moore said. “They don’t even know what a parliament is.”
“How come we’re just hearing about this?” Trev asked.
“The Home Office has it under wraps until they can determine what caused the wounds.” Preeti frowned distastefully. “It was reported his insides were torn out.”
Ian nodded. “This might change everything. If we have a supernatural event or entity which threatens English sovereignty, then we need to be around to combat it.” He stood and grabbed the map. “I need to make a call. Wait here.”
After Ian rushed from the room, Sassy leaned back and crossed her arms. “You know what’s going on, don’t you?”
Everyone looked at her.
“The Wild Hunt is building itself. For some reason it’s not large enough.”
“Building itself? You mean like recruiting?” Walker asked.
She shook her head. “It’s long been held that the Wild Hunt only comes around when changes need to be made. It often comes back a mere shadow of itself, becoming stronger as the souls of its victims come to populate the Hunt. Some become hunters, others become stags, but most become hounds.”
“Wait.” Walker struggled to parse the information. “All of the victims?”
She nodded. “It was why we saw what we saw, the rush and rumble of a beast hunting. It was the connection to your fiancée.”
The knot in his chest turned to iron. “They’re using her soul?”
Her expression remained grim. “And those of everyone else they kill.”
“Why do they need their hunt to be so large?” Trev asked.
“It depends on what their endgame is. We still don’t know their motive.”
“We might,” Preeti said, interrupting. “It’s not something you would notice, most likely, but it’s something I hit on right away.”
“We’re all ears, sweetie,” the witch said.
“The businessmen in Chipping Sodbury were Jordanian. The wife of the man in Marlborough was Chinese and he worked for a Chinese bank. The MP was an outspoken proponent of immigration rights. The orphanage that just vanished was Nigerian run and operated. The owners of the restaurant were Indian. I’m sure once we discover what happened in Penrith and Notgrove, we’ll also see a similar trend.”
“All immigrants,” Walker said.
“Or if they were,” Trev added, “they were in support of non-Anglo-Saxon activities.”
“What are we concluding?” Walker asked. “That the Wild Hunt is a supernatural white supremacist welcoming committee?”
The witch grinned. “You Americans have a way with words, but it’s as apt a description as I’ve heard.”
But Walker still didn’t get it. “Why would the Wild Hunt care? Do they even know who Indians or Jordanians are?”
“Don’t you get it? They’re a tool. Someone is using them,” Preeti said.
“The Red Grove,” Trev said.
“And until we can find one of them and ask, we’re going to be guessing at the endgame,” the witch said.
Ian entered the room. “We have a stay of execution.” He wore a satisfied smile. “I spoke with Lord Robinson—Deputy Minister of the UK Border Agency—and explained the situation.” Ian glanced at Walker. “I hope your team is going to be able to help, because the only way he’d accept my proposal was if I included them. Without them, we’re only two operators and not enough to make a real difference.”
Walker felt something growing inside of him. He recognized it as hope—hope that avenging Jen’s death would be much closer with the coming of SEAL Team 666. “Are they invited?”
“Yes.”
“Officially.”
“If your man in the Senate wants to confirm, he can contact the office of Lord Robinson.”
Walker grinned from ear to ear. “Hell yeah! I need to make a call.” He made to get up, but Ian had put a hand on his shoulder.
“Call’s already been made, son. I spoke to Ms. Alexis Billings. She’s aware of everything I just said.”
Walker pushed his empty glass forward. “How about another drink?”
Ian grabbed the bottle. “How about drinks for all of us.”
CHAPTER 18
TWIN PEAKS, CALIFORNIA. NIGHT.
Navy Senior Chief Genaro “The Genie” Stewart escorted SEAL Team 666’s go bags, additional weapons, and the Belgian Malinois, Hoover, in the MH-53J special operations variant Pave Low helicopter. Built like a defensive end, he passed out the gear with a no-nonsense attitude. YaYa knew him from previous missions before he’d joined Triple Six. A SEAL from Team 7, Genie wasn’t read on to Triple Six’s mission, but at Holmes’s request through NAVSPECWAR for sniper support, Genie was coming along. He’d already suited up in black fatigues and body armor and stood by while the others got into theirs.
One by one, the SEALs from Triple Six introduced themselves. Not that they had to. They were from a special brotherhood. But knowing the man next to you enhanced the connection. When it was YaYa’s turn, Genie gave him a hug. “Been what … since the P.I.?”
YaYa grinned and shook his head. “Three years. Has it been that long?”
Genie pointed. “Heard about the arm.”
Although he’d left the rest unsaid, YaYa had experienced it enough to know how to answer the unanswered questions. “It’s strong. The boys and girls at DARPA really know their business.”
“With all the casualties from Iraq and Afghanistan, they’ve had plenty of practice.”
The sobering statement cut short any further conversation.
Finally, everyone was up-armored, wore MBITRs, had sound-suppressed 9s strapped to their right thighs, knives strapped to their left thighs, and checked their sound-suppressed HK416s. Outside their armor, they wore black Rhodesian military vests because of the multiple pockets for storing extra ammunition and other useful items. Pro-Tec skate helmets painted black did little to protect their heads but allowed for the mounting of a curiously alien-looking set of night-vision goggles with four lenses. Called QUADEYE, four 16mm lenses reduced the need to pan left and right by re-creating peripheral vision and incorporating the multiple feeds into a Heads-Up Display (HUD) similar to those used by combat helicopter pilots.
The team’s only odd uniform concession had been to wear ballistic masks that looked like hockey masks, covering their faces but leaving holes for the eyes and slits for their mouths and noses. Not only did the masks keep their faces from being recorded; they also gave the team the appearance of a Jason Voorhees look-alike contest.
Holmes’s mask was black with a white slash across it.
Laws wore a mask with a green camouflage pattern.
YaYa wore a solid white mask in honor of Fratolilio, the SEAL he’d replaced who’d been killed by the chimera in Macau.
And Yank’s mask, from the tried-and-true tradition to fuck with the new guy, was so pink that it was fuchsia.
Genie, not being a member of Triple Six, didn’t have a mask but was given a plain gray ballistic mask to wear in the event he was needed inside.
Their CQB stack included Hoover, who was in the fifth-man position. She wore tactical body armor that protected her sides and chest. Her eyes were protected by specially designed canine ballistic goggles.
After a short drive, they left the vehicle and traveled the last mile through a stretch of wood.
Genie set up in a tree on the side of the house with the most windows. He carried the SEAL-issue SR-25 Stoner sniper rifle with a Leupold Mark 4 scope. He had a view of the front and back entrances and, after Yank secreted a camera on the far side of the house, also had a view of the area he couldn’t physically see.
The choice had been either to walk up and knock on the door, then force their way inside, or to break the door down and clear rooms until they found their quarry.
When Genie notified them that their quarry was in the first-floor drawing room, their decision was made for them. The sniper had a clear shot and was ordered to take it if things went south.
They removed their night-vision devices and cached them at the base of Genie’s tree. Yank and Laws were ordered to take the rear entrance, while Holmes, YaYa, and Hoover took the front door.
With their HKs sunk into the meat of their shoulders and the weapons at low ready, Holmes depressed the doorbell.
“Target not moving,” came Genie’s voice.
They waited about ten seconds and Holmes depressed the doorbell again.
YaYa felt exposed beneath the light on the front stoop. He’d have much rather they’d turned off the power and CQBd inside, instead of this awkward Jehovah’s Witness waiting on the front stoop nonsense.
They heard the sound of footsteps on hardwood, then the sound of several locks disengaging.
The door opened and the same woman from earlier stood there. But instead of screaming or showing fear, she looked nonplussed at the three scary men with weapons. “I’m sorry, it’s too late to call on Mr. Van Dyke.”
“Back door. Move,” said Holmes into his MBITR.
He pushed past her into the home. YaYa grabbed her by the arm and pushed her against a wall, knocking a picture to the ground. Quickly and efficiently he frisked her. Seeing Laws and Yank come in from the kitchen, he pointed upstairs. They hurried up and began to clear rooms.
YaYa put zip ties around the woman’s hands, then lowered her to the floor. “Sit here. Don’t move.” Then he joined Holmes and Hoover in the drawing room.
Van Dyke was sitting in his chair staring straight ahead. He didn’t appear to be moving. He didn’t even appear to be alive. Whatever his condition, it wasn’t anything Hoover appreciated. The dog stood ready to attack, a low growl coming from deep in her throat.
Holmes finished scanning the room, then grabbed a picture from the wall. He held it at an angle, which provided a perfect reflection of the man. Holmes set the picture aside, then checked for a pulse. He waved his hand before the man’s eyes, then prodded him in the chest. No response.
“No sign of smudging. Laws, report.”
The second in command came loud and clear over the MBITR. “Second floor clear. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Check the basement. We’ll stand by.” To YaYa he said, �
��You and Hoover clear the rest of this level.”
YaYa turned and motioned for Hoover to follow. Then, with his rifle at low ready, he pushed into the dining room, then to a library, then back around to the kitchen. He peeked into the sole bathroom on this level and opened the closets. All the while, he was aware of the nature spirit somewhere in the home. He didn’t know how he knew it, but it felt like a line of fear tickling his spine. He had to gulp several times as it felt as if it came closer. He wasn’t used to the fear. But then again, he also had never been possessed before. What the obour had done to him, at least what he could remember, had been so terrible it haunted most of his waking and sleeping moments more than any number of deaths or visions of dead bodies.
As he was moving back to the front of the house, Genie spoke breathlessly. “There’s something moving outside.”
“Define ‘something,’” Holmes said.
“Small tree with legs. Hell. Walking. Fuck me.”
“Easy, SEAL. Give us location.”
“Right outside your fucking window.”
YaYa entered the room in time to see Holmes run to the window to look outside. Then he raised his rifle as if to fire.
“Careful,” whispered Genie. “What the hell? It just fell to pieces.”
Then YaYa watched as the man in the chair turned to him and smiled. Then he stood and turned to Holmes, who was at the window three feet from him.
“Behind you!” YaYa fired a single round into the man’s lower leg.
Holmes spun, in time to catch the man as he fell forward. He held Van Dyke by the collar of his shirt and lowered him to the ground.
Laws and Yank burst into the room.
Holmes pulled Van Dyke into the middle of the room and laid him on his back. He was conscious and evinced both anger and pain.
Holmes pulled his mask free. “Ask the woman if there’s a medkit.”
“What woman?” Laws said. “She’s gone.”
“Genie?”
“Nothing here.”
“Fuck.” Holmes turned to Laws. “Find her. Take Hoover.” To YaYa he said, “Watch my six.”
Holmes removed the man’s shoes, then the blood-soaked sock on the left leg. Then he ripped the pants, exposing the lower leg. He had Van Dyke raise his knee, to allow for the bend to compress the vessels delivering blood to the affected areas. He glanced around, then grabbed the man’s shirt and ripped it, revealing a pale and white-haired torso. He balled a doily he found on a nearby table, pressed it into the wound, then wrapped it.
