by Weston Ochse
She listened, her brow knotted. When he was done she said, “It has the feel of truth. Listen, I know you don’t entirely trust me, but you have to trust me on this. The Tuatha does not care about us. We are humans, mortals. We are nothing to it, no matter how easily it’s able to manipulate us through its charismatic magic.”
“But you said it was telling me the truth?”
She smiled for the first time, her own smile so unlike that of the Tuatha. It was as if the Tuatha didn’t know the limitations of a human face. “You should know, Sam, sometimes it’s what they don’t tell you.”
Holmes hated this part of it. Why couldn’t he just plan a straightforward mission to take down a terrorist in Waziristan or pirates in Somalia? Why’d they choose him to lead Triple Six? He frowned inwardly and smacked down the little devil who was distracting him. He knew exactly why they’d chosen him. The same reason he couldn’t go into any casino in Vegas or Atlantic City. He had luck. No, it was more than that. He had the ability to miraculously pull victory from the jaws of defeat. This could be part of it. What had she said … it’s what they don’t tell you? In order to know what they don’t tell you, you have to know what questions to ask.
“What’d it leave out and why?”
“The why is the most important. Once you realize this, once you get it through your head, make it your mantra.” When she saw he was ready she said, “It will do anything to keep you from killing another Tuatha. Anything.”
Holmes thought about this for a moment. “How strong are you? Will it take over during the battle?”
“I’m strong, Sam. I’m stronger than most any you’ll see. And after all that, I’m also a fairly good person too. At least I have my moments.”
“I’ve known plenty of strong women who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and lived to regret it. What happened to you back there?”
“Think of containing the Tuatha as holding down a thousand-tentacled octopus. I thought I had all of them pinned down, but I must have missed one.… I triggered it when I tried to communicate with it. Well, it won’t be able to pull that one again.”
He’d take that one at face value. “What is it that it didn’t tell me?”
“While I was in there I saw flashes of things yet to be … alternates. Things that could happen. The Tuatha are vulnerable inside the mounds. How can I explain it?” She closed her eyes. “The insides of the mounds are like our outsides. It’s their normal universe. Inside they are as mortal as we are.”
“And their magic? The hounds?”
“The same.”
“Then we need to figure out a way to get into the mound of Glastonbury Tor.”
“I’ve been working on that and I have an unconventional idea.”
“What is it?”
“We go through a back door.”
“How are we going to manage that?”
“I’ll need to exert some control over the Tuatha. It might even hurt a little.”
“Are you sure that’s good?”
“After today, I’m positive.”
CHAPTER 36
POINT BRAVO, WARWICK, ENGLAND. 0400 HOURS.
They left Preeti and Genaro in the basement. It was obvious why Preeti wasn’t invited to the party, plus she’d be in a better position to support them where she was. In addition, although he was a U.S. Navy chief petty officer, Holmes was unwilling to send Genaro Stewart into combat untested, so he was asked to remain with Preeti, if for no other reason than to protect her, especially once she briefed the team on what she’d found.
While Walker and YaYa had been making their way back, she’d cleaned the footage, combined the two feeds, and run it through MI5’s biometric processor, which had just been upgraded with new software, thanks to a partnership with the Israeli Defense Forces—the pre-eminent biometric-capable organization on the planet. It wasn’t long before she discovered the identities of nine of the persons at the party. Five were Members of Parliament, three were high-ranking military officials, and one was the Deputy Minister for Education.
That this group reached the highest levels was both unsettling and expected. All along Ian and Holmes had found it difficult to believe that the Hunt was something a previously unknown organization could pull off. Ian and Holmes argued whether or not to contact Lord Robinson, but in the end Holmes relented. After all, this was Ian’s country and ultimately Ian’s battle. Triple Six had been sent in for support, even if Ian was the sole surviving member of the organization they’d been sent in to support.
Lord Robinson doubted Ian’s contention at first but came around when Ian offered to show him pictures, including the image of a naked Minster of Education, returning from a romp with some anonymous masked partygoer. Lord Robinson promised to send them additional help, as well as pulling together a group of trusted MPs and Ministers whom he knew to be honest and uninvolved. Ian tried to dissuade Lord Robinson from doing this, since he couldn’t be sure who was who, but the Lord would hear nothing of it. He’d insisted that he could judge character well enough to determine who was a devil-worshiping sot and who wasn’t.
When the conversation ended, Yank was the one who pointed out the danger. “As much effort as we’ve spent to find them, I can’t help but think they’re expending exponentially more trying to find us.” He’d pointed at Ian’s phone as he put it into his pocket. “Once Lord Robinson outs himself, it won’t take long for them to trace his phone calls and find you. The phone’s Global Positioning System will give you away like that,” he said, snapping his finger for emphasis.
Laws held out his hand. “He’s right. Let me have it.”
But Ian hesitated.
Holmes stepped in. “Got to give up the phone, Ian, or we’re not going through with the mission.”
Ian nodded. “I know. I just can’t believe it’s come to this.” He pulled the phone out and handed it to Laws. “To think I can’t trust my own people.”
Laws began taking the phone apart. “These aren’t your people. These are folks who want an all-white England. You have no more in common with them than I have with Jeffery Dahmer.”
“Well said, I suppose.”
Lieutenant Magerts offered Ian the use of his phone, but he had the same problem. His could be tied to Lord Robinson as well. So Laws eviscerated that phone of its sim card too. Preeti offered the men the use of her phone, so it was with a pink, rhinestone-encrusted phone that the mission began.
They were literally heading out the door when Preeti screamed and began to sob. Her brother had sent her a URL, which had recently propagated. When she’d clicked the link, it took her to a picture of Trevor. His face was beaten. His eyes were swollen. Blood was crusted in his nostrils. If there’d been any doubt before regarding the Red Grove’s desire for Trevor, it was now obvious that he was designated as Lord of Misrule. The sign around his neck said so. The conical party hat on his head was so out of place to make the image even sadder.
Walker placed his hand on her shoulder. “This means he’s alive. We’ll get him.”
“Do you promise?” Her gaze lingered on the image on the screen.
“I do. I promise.” As he said it, he caught the gaze of Laws, who shook his head slowly. Walker knew good and well that he shouldn’t have made that promise. But he was serious about it. He’d lost his girlfriend to the same people who now had Trevor, the same people who were the architects of the largest coordinated serial killings in England. Walker was going to be a success if it killed him. And if he died, at least he’d ensure that he’d take some of the bastards from the Red Grove with him.
CHAPTER 37
WARWICK CASTLE, WARWICK, ENGLAND. 0430 HOURS.
Ian didn’t plan to survive the day. But that didn’t matter. He’d lost everything he’d cared about and he wasn’t about to lose England. A corporal drove them to the marshaling area, which was the parking lot of Warwick Castle. Magerts had thirty men and they’d need every one of them. They were in full kit and each carried an SA80
and a knife. But Holmes had different ideas about what weapons might work, based on a conversation he’d had with the Tuatha. So Ian woke the director of the Warwick Castle museum and forced him to open the museum to them. At first the man was squeamish about what he’d been asked to do, but after Ian pulled out a letter signed by the Queen authorizing them to do anything he so desired in the defense of England the man had no choice but to comply.
Ian had used the letter–what they affectionately call the Queen Letter—on less than a dozen occasions. She’d signed it back in 1973, long before he was part of the organization, but it was designed to provide them agility of movement, despite the ponderous reaction of British bureaucracy.
He first went to the display case and pulled out every sword he could find, noticing that many of them were irreplaceable national treasures. Lot of good they were doing gathering dust. He then ordered the curator to lead them into the storage rooms, where they found two dozen swords used by a local reenactor group who came together once a month to use the ballistae and pretended to attack the castle while others dressed up to protect it. The swords were cheap and had dull blades, but they had points on them. At least there was that.
Then, with thirty-three swords, he had all the Marines don the scabbards as best they could. Magerts passed around a roll of 550 cord, which they used to form sword belts. Soon they had the blades slung over their backs.
“Give yourselves a few minutes to familiarize yourselves with them,” Ian bellowed. “Just don’t cut yourself or a fellow Marine.”
He turned to Magerts, who wore an immense smile.
Ian had chosen Guy of Warwick’s sword for himself. Although several of the other swords, including the one carried by Magerts, had enough gems and gilt on the scabbard that he could probably trade one in for a London flat, Guy’s sword was old, flat iron. The grip had long ago lost any padding and was only black metal, as was the pommel and guard. The blade was of the same material but still held an edge. All told, the sword was fifty inches of black metal. It didn’t look like much, but Ian had a special place in his heart for the mythological hero of the twelfth century who was purported to have killed the giant named Colbrand, the Dun Cow, and even a dragon. If even a sliver of the legends was true, then this was the only sword Ian could see using this day.
“What are you so happy about?” Ian struggled to make his own sword belt. “I never thought I’d see the day when my Marines went to war wearing swords.”
“We’ll be lucky if they don’t kill themselves with them.”
“You’ll be surprised at how fast they pick it up.” He nodded toward them.
Ian turned and his mouth fell open. The Marines were moving the blades through the air in complex patterns. Although not at all similar to any way Ian had seen swords function, it seemed no less deadly.
“We’ve been doing Filipino Kali Arnis training for the last nine months. They learned some stick-fighting sequences. Looks like they’re applying the principles to their swords.”
Ian regained his composure and shook his head. “Isn’t it ironic that after four thousand years of weapons evolution it’s the simple sword that’s going to make the greatest difference?”
Magerts winced as one of his men dropped a sword. “Let’s hope they don’t have to use them too much.”
“They’ll use them as necessary. Using them might just be the only thing that will win the day. Have them form up. I want to speak to them.”
Magerts brought his men to attention.
Ian finished making his sword belt. He took his time putting it on, well aware that the men were watching him. When he was ready, he marched to the front of the formation, where Magerts stood waiting. They saluted; then Magerts stepped aside. Ian put the men at parade rest.
He took a moment to regard them, acutely aware that he might be leading them to their deaths, just as he had the men of Section 9. That he was the sole surviving member of his unit made him feel small and unequipped to lead, but there was no one else. He fought against an avalanche of self-doubt—after all, how effective could he be if he’d lost his whole team? Still, one incongruous part of him demanded he stay on the path. Whether it was the spirits of his men or his own damned desire to continue the mission, he needed to finish it. He believed with every molecule of his unworthy body that to quit was to lose England. Somehow, he had to convince these men that their lives might actually be forfeit, and a necessary loss for the preservation of England. It was a hard thing, but such was the lot of a soldier.
So it was with a heavy but proud heart that he addressed them. “You should be with your family. You should be getting baked ham, drinking too much, and making bets about who falls asleep first. You shouldn’t be here. Let me say it again, you shouldn’t be here.” He paused. “But you are here and you’re here because you are professionals. I thank you for that. The reason I thank you is that when you die, no one will thank you. They’ll never know that you tried to stand in the way of a supernatural force created for selfish ends.
“The things you are going to see this night, should you survive, will haunt you for the rest of your lives. But know, Marines, that without you, England is surely lost. With you, we have a chance to win her back. Now get ready to fight hard.”
Thirty curious faces were now stunned. Several of them glanced at their partners, but no one was laughing. He wasn’t sure if his speech did the trick, but it was something he’d felt compelled to do. He’d have wanted someone to tell him if he’d been in their place.
He brought them to attention.
Magerts stepped in front of him.
“Not exactly a Saint Crispin’s Day speech, was it?” Ian asked.
Magerts’s face was stone cold. “They need to understand the seriousness. I think you provided that.”
Ian turned the platoon back over to the lieutenant.
After a weapon and ammo check, they boarded into three vans and a car. The vans were white with dark smoked-out windows. The insides had been stripped and allowed room for ten Marines to sit. Each van had a driver. The car was a white BMW sedan also with smoked-out windows. The vehicles all had military license plates. Magerts would drive the BMW with Ian in the passenger seat.
Ten minutes later they were heading for Glastonbury Tor.
CHAPTER 38
SOUTH FROM WARWICK, ENGLAND. 0530 HOURS.
Walker drove with Laws in the seat beside him. Holmes, Sassy, and Yank were in the middle row. The last row held YaYa and Hoover. Walker kept glancing in the mirror at Sassy. Her plan was simple, but Walker doubted they’d be able to execute. It was based on too much theory. He’d rather charge through the front door, but the hounds had already proven to be unaffected by their rounds. Now they were on their way to meet a fellow witch who lived in Godalming. She was going to provide some items that would assist them. Then it was off to Sassy’s Boondoggle, as he was privately referring to it.
Her idea, once posed, was co-opted and coordinated into the larger effort. While Ian took the platoon of Marines to secure the home south of Glastonbury Tor, arresting as many of the partygoers as they could, Triple Six and their pet witch were heading for Bratton Castle in Wiltshire. The castle had been built in the Iron Age, but the hill fort it had been built upon was constructed during the Bronze Age, which according to Laws, meant about two thousand years before Christ.
What very few people knew was that the hill fort was erected on an even older Tuatha mound. Sassy had drawn a map of all the mounds she knew of and this one had been the nearest to Glastonbury Tor. The idea was to use the Tuatha inside Sassy to enter the mound, then use the Bratton Mound as a transit point to Glastonbury Tor.
That is, if the Tuatha had the power to get into the mound.
And if the Tuatha could bring them with it.
And if the Tuatha cooperated.
And if they could figure out how to travel through the mounds.
There were just too many ifs.
“You know, if you squeeze it hard e
nough I’m sure it will bleed.”
Walker glanced at Laws. “Huh?”
“The steering wheel. If you were planning on strangling it, then you’re done.”
Walker loosened his hands. He glanced in the mirror, then whispered, “I just don’t think this will work.”
“It might not, but I think what really bothers you is the whole going-through-the-mounds thing.”
“That’s doesn’t bother me.”
“Then you need your head examined.” Laws glanced behind them, then leaned close to Walker. “We’ve never done anything like this before. Sure, we’ve run, walked, crawled, and jumped into the mouth of danger before, but we’ve never traveled through an interdimensional portal. You realize that that’s what they are, right?”
Laws had put his hand on Walker’s right arm. Walker shook it off. “Now who’s the excited one?” But Laws was right. That was what was bothering him. He’d dealt with magic and seen it done, but he’d never really been in a position to use magic for his own ends. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t find ourselves stuck inside a hill.”
“You’re a complaining lot of military men, aren’t you?” Sassy said from the backseat. Her words dripped with condescension.
Walker felt his grip tighten on the steering wheel once again. He was about to say something when Laws jumped in.
“It’s been like this since Christ was a corporal, Miss Moore. We talk about it now and get it out of our system; then we’re clearheaded when the fighting starts.”
“I just never thought this was how you acted.”
“You’ve been influenced by the movies, I can tell. You expect us to be stoic, silent, strong, rugged. That sort?”
She nodded. “That’s closer to what I expected.”
