by S. C. Stokes
Familial duty was a powerful force in its own right. Add to that the call of an arcane bloodline and it could be overwhelming. Bloodline magic had a way of shaping your path. Normals called it destiny. Wizards often called it duty. Perhaps Dizzy's would take her back to Nigeria. It was likely the same pull her mother felt.
I'd met the Alasas many times, but knew little about her parents in spite of it. Her father Enofe was an expert at speaking without actually saying anything, a talent as useful for diplomats as it was for spies. Her mother Omolade was reserved, but exuded the same strength of character that drove Dizzy.
“Whatcha thinking?” Dizzy asked.
“Just thinking about what you said,” I replied. “I never understood what caused your family to move to London in the first place. Don't get me wrong, I’m glad you did. But you have such strong ties to home, I’m surprised you ever left.”
“I’ve often wondered myself. All I know is something happened that had them fearing for our safety, so they left. Mum has never quite got over it, though Dad certainly seems to feel at home in England. I think he's become quite fond of society life in the big city.”
“You don't mind it yourself, Dizzy,” I replied. “Never takes too much nagging to get you to come along.”
Dizzy shot me a wink. “I do it for you, Seth. Who knows what trouble you would get into without me.”
“Without a doubt.”
The plane descended. The ground was in view now as Gulfstream raced for the tarmac. The jet kissed the runway with only the slightest bounce as its front wheels touched down.
“Say what you will about Murdoch but he’s one a hell of a pilot,” I said as the jet rolled along the runway.
“He's mad as a hatter,” Dizzy replied, leaning forward conspiratorially, “but I wouldn't fly with anyone else.”
The Gulfstream taxied down the runway to its private hanger. The largest hanger bay at Blackbushe was reserved for the Caldwell fleet. Murdoch taxied into the hangar as a convoy of black SUVs pulled up before it. Perfect timing.
As the plane came to a halt, I grabbed the duffel off the workbench. Eager to get my feet on British soil, I made my way to the front of the cabin. A ground crewman in coveralls was driving a set of stairs to the aircraft.
I cracked the door and pushed it open. The stairs rolled into place against the jet’s fuselage and I was just about to step out onto them when a hand grabbed my shoulder. Turning, I saw Murdoch standing behind me in the cabin, his brow furrowed with worry.
“What is it?” I asked.
“They're not Caldwell plates, Seth,” Murdoch replied, nodding at the vehicles. “And they should be.”
I glanced at the convoy. Sure enough, none of the SUVs bore the personalized plates of the Caldwell fleet.
It was not my father. The realization dawned on me like a ton of bricks. I felt my blood run cold as the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
If it wasn’t my father, who was it?
The lead SUV’s window rolled down and the squat barrel of an M-16 emerged—leveled straight at me.
7
I was yanked off my feet as Murdoch dragged me back into the plane, pulling the door closed with his other hand. I crashed to the floor of the cabin, still trying to process what had happened.
“Stay down,” was all Murdoch got out before the staccato bursts of assault weapons split the early morning air.
The fusillade of heavy weapons fire bracketed the plane like sleet on a tin roof. Dozens of rounds punctured Gladys’ hide.
“Who on earth are these clowns?” I bellowed as Murdoch sheltered behind the bulkhead between the cockpit and the cabin.
“I don't know, but them shooting Gladys is really starting to piss me off,” Murdoch called back, the red rising in his cheeks.
Dizzy hunkered into her seat using the recliner for added buffer. “We can't stay here, Murdoch. They’ll pummel us to pieces.”
My heart pounded in my chest as the gunfire eased. The gunmen had to be reloading. The shock of the ambush was starting to wear off, leaving only the adrenaline coursing through me. Crawling like a worm, I made my way through the plane’s cabin cursing my luck as I went. Not that I really believed the presence of this welcoming party was a coincidence, but because I just couldn't catch a break.
From the moment I'd laid my hands on the mask, everything had gone to hell. Lara, Section 9, the scrambled fighters, and now this ambush. It was as if the mask itself was a beacon for mayhem.
Rising from the floor, I stole a glimpse out the window trying to work out who or what we were up against. At least a dozen men had disembarked from the vehicles and taken up firing positions around them. Each of them was clad in black body armor and tactical helmets. Emblazoned across the chest of each soldier was a large red cross. The design was not that of the kindly charity. Instead, each arm of the cross tapered out to a wider point. The image reminded me of a modern version of the Templar Knights of Hollywood fame. The symbolism of the ancient organization had been a director’s playground, and these chaps had clearly taken a leaf out of their playbook.
Each soldier carried an assault rifle and were steadily pumping round after round into the plane.
Whatever they wanted, they had little concern for whether or not we were alive to accommodate them. It had to be the mask. What else could they want? I had accumulated my fair share of enemies over transactions that had gone awry, but I'd been in New York up until six hours ago, and only a handful of people in the world knew I was heading home.
Section 9’s Director seemed a likely culprit. Could these men be his operatives? It was possible but unlikely. If Lynch had intervened to spare me from a watery grave, it was unlikely that he would have authorized the deployment of a unit of shock troops on foreign soil. Particularly that of a well-established ally. Sure, the Director might make a play off the books, but it seemed far more likely that he had made good on his threat and simply spread the word and outsourced the job to the global market.
He didn’t have to kill me himself, simply let someone else do it and take the mask, then he could recover it with impunity. No harm no foul. Or at least, no repercussions from Lynch.
Gunfire stitched its way down the Gulfstream's flank. My very real concern was that they would find a fuel line. Gladys was a private jet, not a fighter plane. She had a few aftermarket modifications, but she was not designed for a siege. That said, the craft was doing better than I had expected.
There was a deafening crash and the tinkling of broken glass hitting the floor. I searched the cabin; the windows were still intact.
“It's the cockpit,” Murdoch shouted.
He opened the door to the cockpit, and shards of the shattered windscreen were everywhere.
Two of the commandos broke from their cover behind the SUVs, rifles raised as they advanced on the plane.
“They're going to breach!” Dizzy said, looking out a window.
Murdoch pressed himself flat against the bulkhead. “More than likely.”
We needed to return fire, something to slow them down, but opening the door was just begging to be shot. The two commandos reached the base of the airway steps that led up to the Gulfstream’s door. If we could hold them off long enough, we could buy time for my father to arrive.
Focusing my mind on the stairs themselves, I drew on my power. The images of a campfire danced in my mind as I chanted, “Fuego!”
Flames blossomed from the base of the steps. As I fed power into my spell, the tongues of fire grew, and the conflagration swept up the staircase. Fueled by raw arcana, the fire needed little else. Halfway up the stairs, the commandos were caught in the blaze. Their screams filled the air as the two men flailed about in a futile attempt to pat out the blaze. The spell reduced the flimsy construction to a pile of molten slag, rubber, and two commandos that were a little more than well-done.
There was a gap as the gunfire ceased.
“That's given them something to think about,” I said.
/>
“Let me give them one more.” Murdoch lifted a Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle from its storage locker in the cockpit.
With the glass blown out, he had his own improvised gun nest. Compared to the assault rifles, the Barrett was a cannon. The weapon roared and the head of one of the commandos crouching behind the lead SUV crumpled under the impact.
“That's for Gladys, you little fecker,” Murdoch said.
Three down. Only nine or ten to go. A weathering hail of fire hammered into the cockpit as Murdoch dove for cover. The lead SUV’s engine roared to life.
“What on earth?” I muttered, looking out the window.
The black four-wheel drive had a commando at the wheel and was coming around. As he brought the lumbering SUV about, he stepped on the gas. The vehicle launched forward, accelerating.
“Hang on tight,” I said as I realized his intention.
He wasn’t leaving; he was creating another entry point. The SUV’s berserk charge slammed into the front landing gear of the Gulfstream. The delicate structure simply wasn’t designed to withstand the battering ram that had been thrown at it.
The plane shuddered as the vehicle sheared straight through the landing gear. It lurched forward, teetering off balance as its nose crunched into the hangar floor. The private jet now rested on a thirty-degree incline, its nose at ground level providing the assault team a serviceable entrance. They didn’t need a set of stairs now. They could breach the plane through the cockpit.
The commandos fanned out, covering each other as they advanced.
Dizzy rose to her feet, fighting the tilt of the plane and headed for the rear of the craft. “Enough of this.”
“What are you doing?” I asked as she slid past me.
“I'm the huntress, not the prey,” she replied, cracking open a locker.
She strapped on a Kevlar tactical vest and lifted out her recurve bow. With nimble fingers, she strapped a black leather quiver across her back. Three straps held it in place as they crisscrossed over her chest. A dozen arrows fit snugly in the quiver. Dizzy was not a fan of guns, but in her hands the bow was both quiet and deadly.
Murdoch climbed out of the crumpled cockpit, retreating into the cabin. “Where do you think you're going, young lady?”
“We need to get out of here,” Dizzy replied. “There's only nine of them, but if we sit here, we’ll be cornered like rats in a trap.”
“How do you plan on doing that?” Murdoch pointed at the closed door of the cockpit. “They’re breaching now. You’ll be walking into a firing squad. Come with me. We retrofitted a ladder into the rear landing gear. We can slip down it when they breach and make a break for it through the hangar.”
“You’ll be just as exposed,” Dizzy replied, running her hand along her bowstring. “Seth, give me a distraction so I can make a break for it. Then I’ll keep them occupied while you get clear of the jet.”
“I’ve got you covered,” I replied, searching for a serviceable distraction. My gaze settled on the second SUV.
Perfect.
Focusing my will, I drew on my power, channeling a fine lance of energy that seared straight through Gladys’ flank, aiming for the vehicle.
“Now,” I shouted as the crimson lance tore through the vehicle’s tank and ignited the fuel within.
“The door, Murdoch.” Dizzy shouted, already running down the aisle when the SUV exploded. The nearest commando was floored while the others were showered in glass and shrapnel.
Murdoch wrenched open the door to the cockpit as the commandos sought cover but found none.
Dizzy reached the cockpit, her whispered command drowned out in the furor of the explosion. Her form shrank as she shifted into a hawk. The transformation was seamless and smooth.
She shot out of the cockpit and into the sky, climbing toward the morning sun. The commandos caught the motion but struggled to track the small creature, unable to stare into the sun to follow her movement.
The assault team squeezed off a few rounds blindly after her and resumed their advance on the plane.
Nine commandos approached the plane. Above them Dizzy banked. In the blink of an eye, the hawk was gone and Dizzy hovered for a moment in her human form. In one fluid motion she drew an arrow from her quiver, nocked it, and let it loose at the commando beneath her. Dizzy began to drop, but the arrow was already flying when she shifted back into her hawk form.
The arrow flew true. The steel head found the flesh between the soldier's tactical helmet and his body armor. The arrow tore straight through his vital organs and he collapsed in a gurgling heap.
The tactical team turned on Dizzy who was already beating a retreat, weaving and darting through the air. Gunfire ripped across the tarmac, but Dizzy banked and turned, leaving the weathering hail of bullets in her wake.
“Time to go,” Murdoch shouted, leading the way through the back of the aircraft. With the jet on an incline, it almost felt like a scramble to climb into the rear of the Gulfstream. Passing the workbench, I grabbed the duffel with the mask and slung it over my shoulder. Murdoch grabbed an assault rifle from the armory and charged onward.
Murdoch stopped by the toilets and opened a cabinet. Inside of the small storage space was a narrow shaft.
He placed a hand on my chest. “I’ve got the lead, cover me.”
He descended the narrow ladder through the plane’s guts. Once he was clear, I followed him into the darkness. We emerged in the compartment that stored the landing gears when they were retracted. Lying down, I looked over the edge and could see the hanger around us.
The commandos were still harrying Dizzy as she led them on a wild goose chase, bullets chasing her as she cut and wove through the sky.
Murdoch reached for the landing gear, intending to shimmy down it to the ground, but I stopped him.
“You’re the one with the rifle—you cover me. Once I’m on the ground, I can shield us both.”
Murdoch’s mouth opened to protest, but I swung out onto the landing gear. I misjudged the distance and slammed into the steel strut with a thud, not nearly as quietly as I had hoped. It wasn’t a fireman’s pole, but it would have to do. On the plus side there were plenty of struts that offered serviceable hand and foot holds while the landing gear itself mostly hid me from view. I lowered myself down to the hanger floor, and as my boots hit the ground, I heard Murdoch swing onto the pole above me. He hit the ground and we broke from the cover of the wheel for some pallets stacked further into the hangar.
We’d barely made it twenty feet when a voice behind us shouted, “They're making a break for it.”
“You two watch the bird. The rest of you, take them down,” an authoritative voice bellowed at our back.
I raced for the pallets, sliding to a halt behind them as automatic weapons fire pockmarked the crates, sending splinters and dust everywhere.
Murdoch hefted the assault rifle and squeezed off a few rounds of his own, over the top of the crate. Another commando dropped to the tarmac, clutching at his thigh. He was wounded, but certainly not out of commission.
Peeking around the edge of the pallet, I drew back quickly doing my best not to get my head blown off while tracking the commandos’ progress. Taking turns, they pummeled our cover, keeping us suppressed while one of their number broke off to flank us. If we sat still, we were as good as dead.
As the commando on the left moved into position, I considered my options. As a wizard being shot at, it’s always tempting to try and reduce one’s enemy to a pile of smoking ruin. Unfortunately, raw elemental might wasn’t my strong suit, and I tended to fatigue fast throwing that kind of power around. Overdo it and the improperly channeled arcana would reduce my brain to a puddle of gravy.
Being outnumbered only made the situation more precarious. I needed to deal with the threat while conserving as much power as possible. Spotting the bandoleer on the commando’s chest, I had an idea. Raising my palm, I formed an image of it in my mind and whispered the spell.
T
he image was of the two MKII fragmentation grenades strapped to the bandoleer across his chest. Or more specifically, the pins that prevented the weapons from detonating prematurely. With a flick of my wrist and an effort of will, the pins fell to the ground.
The commando glimpsed down, and tried to process what had happened, his eyes locking on the two pins between his boots. The grenades detonated, leaving him a tattered mess.
Then there were seven.
I looked for their leader, the one who had been shouting orders. He’d broken away from the pack and had made his way back to the SUV. The vehicles boot was open, and he was fiddling with something in the back of the four-wheel drive.
“Murdoch, what’s he up to?” I asked, hoping he had a better angle.
“No idea,” Murdoch replied, but he squeezed off a few rounds in that direction.
The commando’s head whipped around as Murdoch’s shots hit the vehicle. Calm under fire, the commando reached into the vehicle and drew something out of the trunk.
An RPG-7 rocket propelled grenade launcher.
“Mother of…” Murdoch muttered as the commando hefted the weapon.
A plume of fire and smoke bellowed out the back of the launcher as the rocket-propelled grenade hurtled right at us.
8
My breath caught in my throat as the weapon fired. More reflexively than consciously, I summoned a ward. Attempting to absorb the warhead’s blast in a direct hit was suicidal. It would simply require more arcane juice than I had left in my tank. The effort would likely kill me just as readily as the RPG itself.
Deflecting the warhead would have to do, but I had precious little time to make up my mind. In the absence of better options, I took a chance. The warhead meant certain death. A shield, well, likely death. But it would have to do.
“Proteger!”
Arcane energy was drawn to me as if I were a vacuum. Framing the shape in my mind, I wove a latticework of power before the pallets, and set it at an angle.
The grenade hit the shield and detonated. I felt arcane energy being sapped from me like the air being sucked from a chamber by a hungry fire. The ward took the brunt of the blast, but there was simply too much. The shield cracked with a hiss, the remnants of the explosion filtering through the dissolving spell and obliterated the pallets.
