Times of Peace: Volume 1 of the side adventures to The Mercenary's Salvation

by Anthony M. Johnson

Chapter 14: Siesta

  May 24, 2001

  6:09 P.m.

  Cerdo Con queso, Los Angeles, California

  "Buenas Noches, señores. Como están?"

  "Bien, bien... Pero necesitamos mas tiempo para leer los menús… También, hay dos mas que van a llegar en como diez, quince minutos."

  "Bueno, tenemos la comida. Sabe que quiere tomar?"

  "Esprite por cada uno... Gracias."

  "De nada."

  So, you kill hundreds of prostitutes, drug dealers, and animal/child abusers in the course of a few hours. You torture several of them, slice their fingers and hands apart and go so far to curse their souls as they depart. You burn down several buildings, blow a few others up, and cause several traffic accidents that will take several hours to even move the wreckage. What do you do after such a costly, dangerous, and violent afternoon?

  Because Jack and company just went to a low end diner, the one that honestly didn’t care about pets or cleaning the tables between visitors. With Max sitting beneath his seat, a doggie bowl full of water already given by the hostess, the one eyed soldier sat at what he felt was the head of the circular table. The two seats to his side filled by the ever pristine and proper Fred C. Dornez, still in his regular vest coat and collared uniform, and Trevor Daines, back to wearing a heavy Tan Yellow trench coat as to avoid the stares of the other patrons at his damaged body.

  The two seats directly across were the ones reserved, though neither of them seemed to be meant for the missing FBI agent. Scratching his growing soul patch, a tuft of hair that would be gone by the morning, the Vampire wearing the Bright Blue aviators in the darkly lit, crowded yet clustered restaurant asked

  “So…. Where’s the peon on?”

  “On the phone still, I think… Assuming he hasn’t taken the car.” Jack replied, his eye focused on his menu as he read the names quietly aloud to himself. Such a comment caused the cautious Blond to tilt his head, looking through the blinds of the dirty patched window outside and checking that the vehicle was, in fact, still there.

  It was, meaning that Mr. Lopez was indeed still talking with someone. A lover perhaps? His boss?

  “I know Argentinians could take a long time to cook, but I didn’t know they dragged so long on the wire. Thought they talked fast.”

  “They do.” Fred replied as he closed his menu, the first as always to figure out what he wanted. “Annoyingly so; we Spaniards may have a sort of lisp to our accent, but at least it’s crisp and understandable. Argentinians blur their words like they’re burning off the eleven hours of sleep they get every night.”

  “Hm, I always found Peruvians to be quicker… Chileans too…” Jack replied, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably in his tight Pink striped shirt. The itchy checker box flannel he’d been wearing since the racing ring got to him; he wasn’t sure the replacement he found at a thrift store, one two sizes two small, was any better.

  If he noticed the first cropping’s of his chest hair sticking out from his split shirt, the top three buttons undone just to make the garment fit, Jack would have reverted immediately. His desire for food outweighed his conscious image, so his companions simply snickered every time they saw someone casting the soldier an envious or blushing stare as the man asked

  “Hm… Fajitas or tres chimichangas? I haven’t had an authentic chimichanga in months… but a steak, chicken, and pork fajita for eight bucks is just too good to pass up.”

  “Wait, authentic chimichanga?” Trevor repeated, adjusting his glasses as to read his own menu better. “Chimichangas were invented in the United States. How can they be authentic if they weren’t even invented in Mexico?”

  “Well… it’s Span-Am. That’s all Mexican restaurants in the United States are anyway… the American version of Spanish cuisine.

  “Speaking of which… what were you saying about Mr. Span-Am himself, Fred?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if our guests show up before he does. Reason why I only asked for five seats.” Fred replied, reaching his hand out subconsciously and grasping nothing as he realized that the tortilla chips had yet to arrive. The Boss hadn’t noticed; Trevor did, unfortunately, and stuck his tongue out in delight as the Butler blushed and kept on talking.

  “The Argentinian was listless and slow, almost a zombie the whole time he helped me return the captive you found at The Long Halloween to their homes. I believe Mr. Lopez is suffering from classical shell shock, which is to be expected since you did send him to kill about a hundred or so pimps and dealers in the course of a few minutes. Our Federal Agent killed more in one minute than he would have in his entire life.”

  “Whelp… Fabio had a very narrow view of life… I expanded it.”

  “By having him commit a massacre?” Trevor joked, to which the man in Pink shrugged.

  “Back in my day, when we didn’t know what we were going to do with our lives… we killed Nazis and Communists… sex deviants are the next best thing at this point.”

  “Hey, don’t have tell me. Just a joke; when I had to get my crap together, I smuggled drugs from Amsterdam to the US. Not like my plans were any cleaner.” The Blond answered, just as their drinks arrived. The Sprite went all around, one for every place, as the bowl of the magical chips was finally set in the center, the Spaniard conceding that South America surpassed his homeland in this regard. Munching, small bite after small bite, the only one of the three to wear a pony tail ate another chip as he asked

  “Of course, you ended up working with Roger Piddock in founding a the most effective spy unit in the history of Earth… while you, Mr. Daines, founded a criminal organization that nearly took down the five families of New York City. Should we expect anything as great from Mr. Lopez?”

  Jack took the chance to nab a chip, his eye drifting up and finding the coming approach of the man in question himself, suit coat in hand with a calm smile on his face. This was the most relaxed Fabio had seemed since the soldier had met him; in fact, it was the first time he even saw him with his tie loosened and collar undone.

  Time to probe. “You look happy, Fabio… pull up a chair, tell us the news.”

  “I would, but I actually have a flight to catch.”

  That surprised all three of them, the group collectively crunching down a tortilla chip as they blinked, unable to say anything as they waited for the man to explain. Fabio did, with a chuckle, as he scratched the back of his head and answered

  “Thought a lot about what you said today, sir. Not just about justice, but my heritage. I’m still not sure if I agree with you, and I still feel guilty about what we did at that club.

  “But I realize now that I at least have the power to change things if I want to… and that I have the responsibility to my people to do so. I just got off the phone with Constantine Moore; effective immediately, I died in one of the cars shot up by La Mara 18 today so I can serve as an undercover agent in Argentina, serving as his eyes and ears while doing any good I can.

  “You called me an Aztec Prince. Time to see if I can earn my kingdom.”

  The commander could cheer to that, raising his glass of Sprite in the air and whistling. “Well, then may the fuerza de los Latinos be with you Fabio.”

  “It’s not Fabio anymore… me llamo Joaquin. Joaquin Lopez.”

  That was all that needed to be said. Jack took a long swig of his of clear glass, the Argentinian saying his farewells as he shook the hands of the other two. With that, and a doggie treat for the ever loyal Max, the man waved goodbye and was out the door, a chime ringing as another angel found its wings and began its next assignment. Another happy ending, one of many for the day that was no more than a fairy tale.

  Until the bell chimed again a minute later, two men entering as the assembled men fixed their eyes on the visitors. More wealthy strangers to that homely place, more older men who had cleared the barrier of thirty and fifty, respectively, as they took their places in front of Jack, a Greek and an Englishman joining the amalgam of cultures. The former
was more impressive, a good six feet and then some, with broad shoulders fitted into a Brown suit coat and Copper Red shirt fixed over strong muscles cultivated through years of activity.

  The senior, who appeared the oldest of the group, still had a light in his eye helped by the aviator jacket he wore, the flags of both the US and UK displayed upon his shoulders, his mug wizened yet lacking the many wrinkles that befell those of his aging generation. A pair of smart, plotting Gray Eyes starred from the light skin, definitely human through hinting at some kind of power that wasn’t vampiric, the kind he shared with his best friend Jack Wallace.

  It was with a measure of joy and price that the bearded man greeted the newcomers. “Roger Piddock and Constantine Moore… now we can really call this a fiesta.”

  “At least we would,” Roger replied, smirking as he picked up a menu, “If you had picked a more respectable establishment to dine at. Really, for having an unlimited budget, you sure do pick the oddest joints to dine at.”

  “Could be worst.” Constantine added, the Brown haired and olive skinned man following suit of his partner, “The last time Jack invited me to dinner, we wound up at a noodle stand in front of a football stadium. I had food poisoning for two days.”

  “Wait, how does a Level 6 Indigo FTM get food poisoning?” Trevor asked, ignored. The waiter had arrived, delighted to find two more customers willing to impart of their wealth to this humble shop, as she asked in her native tongue

  "Mis amigos. Como fueron su día?"

  "Largo. Fueron mas que cinco horas en barco. Pero, sabe que quieres Constantine?" Roger asked, having picked up the language at some point over the last several thousand years. For as old and knowledgeable as he was, however, John Constantine Moore had not.

  “Never did find Hispanic food to be enjoyable. Too much rice… I’ll just get a taco.”

  "Bueno, todos sabemos. Quiero el..."

  The lady wrote as she heard, a lot of food for the very active, very hungry group. With a wink and a nod, she headed off once she had heard them all as the five assembled turned to more important matters, their boss heading the plan as he began once more.

  With a sip of Sprite before, of course.

  “So… lot’s to talk about. Richard tell you about Volgin yet?”

  “I wouldn’t have bothered making the trip here if I hadn’t.” The Olive Greek replied, looking left and right to make sure no one was looking. Comfortable and inconspicuous, the man held out a hand beneath the round, cheap table as a small beam of Brown light enveloped it, a paper folder filling the empty palm. Dropping it on top for the group to see, the pictures scattered and escaped their holder to reveal a face that only Big Boss recognized.

  An egocentric racer, though this time he was in a tight suit eating lunch with an older gentleman in a café in New York, the 22 club. Far from his resting place here in LA.

  “Oliver, the FTM Golem that worked for Volgin… I don’t know the other one.”

  “I do.” Trevor growled, tapping the man’s mug with anger. It was a hard face, one that had seen many battles; an ear was missing with part of the cheek burned, though the older veteran tried to hide those scars with a long top hat that worked well with his own business attire, if only making it seem he was from a long forgotten era.

  Of course, that was the purpose of his organization. “His name is Jared Ostwald, older brother to Jacob Ostwald.”

  “Who?” Half the group said, Constantine smirking as the Blond complained

  “The twitchy tyke who turned Sylvia Vantel into a synthetic cyborg? The one who saved her after the Robber Barons kidnaped the real Adrian Vantel?”

  See A World of Strife for more details, though the rest of the table knew enough to permit him to continue.

  “Jared is a good kid; he typically stays out of the Barons affairs, focusing more on technology that will help humanity. Jared, however, is another one of the original Magi and the only reason Jacob ever got selected by Sylvia in the first place.

  “A medical doctor with three additional majors between Anatomy, Biology, and Chemistry, Jared is a genius with photographic memory and an almost complete understanding of how human biology works. While Jacob may make the best machines, Jared can make the best humans; he can take any normal person and make a super soldier out of them without using any strain of FTV or EEV. You don’t have to ask why that makes him one of the three Head Baron Magi.”

  “So how do you know so much about him? Never cared to bring him up before.” The Butler Fred asked, still in the lead for most chips consumed. To that question, Trevor simply tapped his crippled shoulder, moving it about slightly as the sleeve dangled about, missing the absent arm.

  “I used to vend my product to him, at least until he thought my prices were unfair and told me to decrease them by half. I said no, he got mad and started looking for a Judas within the 34th street saints. I know that the man had a part in the boat explosion that made me this.”

  “Which doesn’t surprise me at all.” Constantine added, waving a hand as he absent mindedly nibbled on his own tortilla triangle. “I have evidence suggesting while Jacob is the public acting director of 9 Lives plus 1, Jared is the true brain child conducting illegal experimentation in the background. Some of it’s… licensed by the CIA, while some is too inhumane even by Black Ops standards. I’ve stumbled into warehouses full of creatures that had all but lost their traces of humanity.

  “Which begs the question of who is supplying him?”

  “It would have to be Colonel Satan Volgin.” Roger bitterly replied, ignoring his soda and opting for the jug of water that had yet gone untouched. “And if not him than his proxy, whatever Satan is stuck managing this time line. Which means…”

  “That we can officially declare… that The Robber Barons are receiving aid from Volgin and the Devil… and have just graduated from being a nuisance to public enemy number one.” Big Boss explained, shifting back into his seat as he dropped a free hand, scratching the dog beneath him for comfort. It was certainly a sobering thought; no one dared to speak for a few moments, opting to retreat to either drink or chips with salsa, until Roger found his thirst quenched and said aloud, his attention directly mainly at Mr. Wallace,

  “Which means we need to speed up the plans and take out the Barons ASAP. Looks like no vacation time for any of us; we’ll have to pull in a lot of resources if we want to avoid any unnecessary collateral or attention that’ve we’ve been liberally amounting…. Maybe resort to our less than traditional methods.”

  “Meaning?” Trevor asked, adjusting his glasses.

  “That I just got benched… that I’ve been attracting too much of Volgin’s attention.” Jack answered, having deduced the suggestion from the look the aged man gave. “I pushed it too far today… and now the Barons and whoever else is in Volgin’s employ will be preparing for me specifically. I showed off too much… which means I can’t fight again anytime soon.”

  “I’m sorry to say that it’s worse than that, my friend.”

  Though that caused the group, save Constantine, to give quite the startling look, they had to wait for the news until the waiter was gone. Going around the table and giving all their orders, it was an excruciating minute before Roger even dared to open his mouth again.

  When he did, it wasn’t quite what they wanted to hear. “Shall we say grace?”

  Trevor openly moaned, while the remaining few simply mumbled and accepted the old fashioned man’s habits. With arms folded, they listened as the elder gentleman drug on and on, a simple prayer for the food turning into one that was meant to bless the poor and the needy, the sick and afflicted, the widowed and orphaned, and all those who suffer throughout every world. A five second blessing became nearly five minutes before Roger Piddock finally finished, opening his eyes and picking up his utensils as he dug into his Bistec Mexicano, taking a bite as the rest of the group starred at him.

  “You know you can eat. I made sure to bless the food this time.”

&nbs
p; “Mr. Piddock… we’re still waiting for the bad news you meant to share.”

  “Oh. Completely forgot. My apologies.” The Englishman casually answered, sticking another piece of spicy beef into his half toothless mouth. It wasn’t until he swallowed that he at last said

  “The Multiverse is a complex creation, one that hangs precariously off the scale known as balance. Mess around too much, change the preprogramed history, alter the circumstances even slightly… and the whole thing tips over, launching worlds in every direction until the entirety of existence breaks down into the basic units God himself used to formulate everything before Genesis one.

  “What kinds of things drive the scale off key though?” The rhetorical question accusing, the man with Snow White hair taking his knife and pointing to the three trouble makers in succession, starting with the Blond to his side.

  Trevor, “Using spells to bind souls to Earth…”

  To Jack, “Overspending your natural energy and invoking the Language of Heaven for an instant refill.”

  At last, for Fred, “Changing the plan for Fabio and convincing him to return to Argentina when he was meant to die in the states within the month.”

  “Wait, Fabio was going to die?” Trevor said in question, ever the one to lag behind in situations like these. It wasn’t of any fault of his own; he was the only one that wasn’t at least five thousand years old.

  Or more.

  “Yes, and Mr. Fred cheated to learn that. That is what this all is, really. Cheating.” Roger began, Constantine taking over as he finished his first of three tacos. The rest couldn’t tell if he was frowning because he didn’t like the food, or was unhappy with their job performance.

  “You don’t have to hear it from me to know you can’t cheat God or the Times. Thanks to your actions today, you’ve managed to further destabilize the equilibrium of the universe by six percent. That’s the biggest increase since Cato’s EEV AV clone went rogue and joined the Barons; we only have fifteen more points to go before we completely cause destabilization, something that would set back the instrumentality project by decades.”

  “Or even centuries; we spent two hundred and ten years putting Fabula back together after you blew it up the first time. Still trying to fix the damage caused there.” Roger commented, another juicy bit of meat entering into his mouth and torn to bits as the metal fillings painted White to look real did their job better than the real teeth. Trevor was slightly envious, watching him eat, though his mind caused him to ask

  “So what does that mean for us?”

  “Well, if your boss agrees to it, we’ll be speeding up the plans a bit and making some adjustments to try and fix the timeline back to where it should be.” Constantine answered, putting his hand over a picture as he spoke a word in Greek. It attracted a dirty stare from Roger, the whole point of his sermon not to waste their mutual powers, though given how insignificant this act of transformation was even the Englishman knew that the universe wouldn’t be affected at all.

  Probably.

  “Since Jack will be enjoying the civilian life for at least a few years until things can calm down, I want you to come work for me Trevor. Between your experience leading the 34th street saints and the small mercenary band you formed after in your lust for revenge, I could use a man like you to be my second in command. Keep our base and Shadow Bastion running while I’m out in the field.”

  Quite the offer, one that caused the dirty Blond to even take his glasses off as he put them on the table, taking the small list the Greek Vampire had summoned by his one good hand as he read the names to himself.

  “What are these?”

  “The entirety of our personal at the moment.”

  Trevor laughed, thinking it to be a joke. “There’s only six names on here with yours at the top.”

  “So you can see why I really need you, Trevor. Barons have been hunting down our men mercilessly. By the end of the year, that list might even be shorter. Get how important it is to have a tactician like you around?”

  The man nodded, though not in agreement he would sign on. He still needed to check in with the other Boss present, the one he still currently served, as Trevor looked to face the man who had ordered the chimichangas in the end.

  “Boss… you okay with this?”

  “Only if you are… not like I’ll be doing much besides courting Padma for a while… Roger made that more than clear. You should go for it… if only to get a girl yourself. What was her name?”

  “Stella Carson.” Trevor replied, smiling as he nodded once more, dropping the paper and putting his aviators back on. The former model was in, happy to be a member of Shadow Bastion, as he became their seventh soldier and second in command in an interview that lasted all of a minute.

  Yet that still left Fred out of the picture, the Spaniard looking directly at his son at his side as he acknowledged their special relationship, a rare occurrence given how seldom they met up with each other.

  “Then how about us, Mr. Mo- son. Time to get the Reaper team back together?”

  “As fun as that would be, Father… you’re better sticking with Big Boss.” Constantine sighed, scratching his cropped hair as if trying to think of a way to make it work. “Unfortunately, Volgin made his threat against Padma and our loved ones clear with that little display Richard showed me today. We need you to continue acting as the Boss’s security detail. Make sure no harm comes to him or anyone close.

  “If I could trust anyone else more than you, I would… but you are the best man for it. Besides, who’ll make breakfast for Jack without you.”

  “Hey!” The one eyed bearded soldier bitterly replied, the butler laughing in intimate knowledge of how true it was. Two of the three had thus received their jobs, leaving only the Big Boss himself as Roger finished his steak, only two thirds gone due to having opted to eat all of the complimentary veggies that had been provided.

  “As for you Jack, it’s imperative that you avoid using the language of Heaven to augment your powers beyond their natural capacity. Every time you do, things will grow more and more unstable… and you know what happens if a complete failure occurs.”

  “Yeah. I do… but I’ll be fine. Really… I was thinking about laying off the violence for a while anyway, get to know Padma better and things like that… I won’t complain about being sent to the sidelines for a while.”

  That went much smoother than he anticipated. Happy, with the work done, the Englishman in slacks and a flight jacket raised a toast, water that he wanted to meet soda as he said

  “Then let us get desert and enjoy our night. As my people used to say, l'chaim? Can we toast to life?”

  “I would… if you weren’t forgetting one thing. Want to discuss 9/11?”

  If a bell could toll for every time a conversation became awkward, it would have rang louder than the set in Notre Dame the moment that Jack had brought that up. Constantine, checking his watch, found himself muttering some excuse about checking the car as he stood up to leave, beckoning to both Constantine and Trevor to follow. While only the former knew what the phrase meant, the American being like his native people and yet to see the horrible future that lay in wait, the both obeyed and left the establishment with mostly empty plates at Jack and Roger remained.

  The two Veterans of World War II, the men who had worked so long together and came this far. Even now they were known to have a spat, this being one of them as Jack pushed his plate away and asked

  “Richard told me that 9/11 was approved for this timeline. I know with Volgin, it’ll be useful… but from the way my brother spoke with me… it seemed as if God had consented to its occurrence before the rest of us found out about the Devil’s master….

  “Is this because God knew we would discover Volgin’s involvement… or because someone like you mentioned the issue to him.”

  “That would imply I could sway the judgement of God, which I can’t.” Roger replied, trying to hide behind doctrine. It didn’t he
lp.

  “You can’t sway judgement, but you can change blessings… and you and I both know how much we enjoy destroying our enemies. Answer the question; is 9/11 going to occur as a way of combating Volgin and calling the people to repentance… or because you simply asked Father to let it happen and usher in the age of counter terrorism you so enjoy…”

  Roger tried to pick his words carefully, failing again and again as the seconds past. Five, six, maybe ten were gone and wasted before the Englishman that looked to be twenty years the elder simply breathed out, a small fog escaping his mouth as he told the truth.

  “Yes. God decided that between Volgin and the wickedness of this world, he had no reason to prevent the events of 9/11 from occurring. I didn’t bring the issue up originally… but when he did, I made my mind known in that I think this generation deserves such a tragedy to awaken their faculties.

  “Does that make you mad? Have I lost a bit of your opinion because of it, Jack?”

  “No… I’m not disappointed, nor am I happy… Just thinking about what was said to me today…

  “How can you tell us apart from the bad guys anymore, Roger… we’re killing and destroying more than they are… were we always like this, or have we really begun to change in our tactics.”

  “I think you just miss the old war time propaganda.” Roger suggested, pointing to the flags on his jacket. “You just aren’t getting influenced by your superiors like you used to.

  “We always mention how we miss the Nazis, how much easier it was to kill them than the foes we fight today. Only reason it was is because we had the films and the radio programs, the posters and public speakers all telling us about how evil they were. Truth is, they weren’t that bad… for all the evil they wrought, they’re nothing compare to what we face today.

  “Nazi Germany outlawed animal abuse, while you yourself sent men to take care of dog fighting rings. They discouraged tobacco and other drugs, while you met enough persons today peddling that sort of debauchery. Even in sex, the difference is clear; Nazis wanted families, albeit Aryan ones, while the sin of The Long Halloween should be forgotten.”

  “So what… are you saying Nazis were better than the scum I wiped out?”

  Roger laughed, shaking his head. “Of course not. That would imply the Nazis weren’t guilty. I’m simply pointing out that though they lacked concentration camps, La Mara 18, Volgin, and all the others you fought are just as bad if not worst. The only reason you don’t feel that way is because the media and the government is trying to paint these groups in a better light. Nothing else to it.”

  That wasn’t enough to satisfy the one eyed man, glancing down for a moment as his good orb focused on the pouch of throwing pocket knives he never left home without. Patting the container, he looked up and asked

  “So why do I have this inkling of guilt that won’t leave me alone… like I shouldn’t have gone so far as I have?”

  “To that, I recommend your brother. Let the psychologist figure it out. He’s supposed to be good for something, right?