Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  In much the same manner as Alec gained entry to his apartment, Quain acquires passage into the flat. It is in a nicer part of the city’s available residential districts, but it doesn’t take up too much space relative to its neighbors. It is actually somewhat sort of hidden, being surrounded on two sides by taller, larger structures, one of the other sides being the edge of the area, thus nestled near a wall, leaving only the one approach.

  He suspected security measures, especially in this nice of a part of town, but his initial checks had found nothing registered for this domicile. Somewhat odd, but it would make his job easier. It also makes him wonder, though, if there really will be anything worth finding. He half expects to enter a sparse, clean, barely used place, possibly kept for the address and little else.

  At first, it seems that way. The dwelling is very clean, looking more like a model home than one occupied, the décor rather cold, lacking. He notes quality tiling on the foyer, possibly marble. The furniture in the front room is nice, wood and glass, some metal, and just enough to keep the room from feeling too empty. A single, abstract painting hangs over the fire place. He can’t make out much of it in the dark, and he doesn’t spare any time in contemplation of it.

  The kitchen is nice, what one might expect. His cursory peeking into cabinets, flicking on the sleek, small light he has brought, shows him space nearly bereft of anything, and what is there is nothing out of the ordinary. He even opts to look in one box, wondering if something untoward has been placed inside instead of cereal. He sees only the expected flakes.

  He takes his time, trying to be thorough. He feels comfortable enough that no one is home. He’d spent time surveilling the place before undertaking the break-in. He’d never seen anyone coming or going, more fuel to his suspicion that this place is not really even used.

  He finds the master room, and it is bearing of a very nice bed, the head and foot boards looking strong with the coursing metal cast to look like vines, the duvet a rich color, probably crimson as best he can tell. There is an end table, a dresser, nothing else, all drawers empty. The closest, also large, holds only a few stray hangars. Compared to the rest, this could be a jackpot.

  He wonders again if he is wasting his time.

  Maybe Therese’s P.I., Macar, found nothing, figured the hacker was wasting his time and has not made it any sort of priority to check in with her. Quain doesn’t want to discount the girl as being paranoid, but … no, he stops himself. He even told her to feed him leads, that detective work is following up a lot of stuff that goes nowhere, checking and checking again. It’s the job.

  He finds himself also wondering about his suspicions of her. He’d first felt that spike, like his cop’s hunch flaring into brightness, when they’d initially met – could the vigilante be a woman? Is it her? Is she reaching out for help? The more he’s spent time with her, he must confess, the less he’s thought of that. He does wonder, though, because some of the information they received about the vigilante makes him think that hunch may still be correct.

  When he enters the next room in his check, such considerations leave his mind.

  Here’s something, for sure. The room is also large, possibly more so than the master bedroom, and though he doesn’t see anything immediately illegal, he is given pause. He snaps on his light, angling it about, still standing just a few paces inside.

  Whereas the rest of the house looks unused, merely a prop, this room feels rich with ambience and vitality. Amidst the décor on the dark walls, four pieces stand out, one on each, holding sway high up and in the center, marking the four cardinal directions. First he sees the massive head of a lion, and for all he knows, it is indeed such, having been preserved by a taxidermist. Flaring out behind the noble head are two glorious wings, also looking to be those of an actual animal held in similar preservation. He is no expert, but they look as though they have come from a bird of prey, possibly a falcon or eagle.

  He next sees another large head, this one having once belonged to a living bear, though it appears rent across much of one side, an open exposure of flesh and bone, its deadly teeth bared, holding bones of their own, as though a final treat offered before its own death. He steps closer, examining, noting that the bones in the mouth look like human ribs. He wonders if he should a sample.

  The next is another odd collection of large feline and bird – four leopard heads, placed together in such a way as to give uncomfortable, gruesome implication that they are connected, as though a horrid birth defect has fused together an entire litter. As if to give further evidence, this piece has a neck and shoulders, showing with certainty that it is meant to signify one animal. The wings that lurch out from the backside do not offer any comfort upon viewing.

  Quain turns to the rest of the room, the far side being on a raised dais, supporting a powerful-looking pedestal, quite large, spreading across a few meters, its height well above his waist. It shows a sizeable surface, and he imagines it may be a workspace of sorts. Above it, on that far wall, is the fourth piece, and where he could at least recognize the animals in the prior three, this one is a beast of such an alien look he is not sure if it began in life as the others.

  Its maw is open, showing lethal teeth, but as Quain steps up to get a closer angle, he can tell they are made of dark metal, polished to a careful smoothness. As if these protrusions were not sufficient, it bares horns along its brow and head, ten in all, bending out in various directions, ending in sharp points. They do not look to be made of the same metal, something more organic. The thing’s flesh is dark, showing eyes of a piercing, sickly yellow. It is more a thing of nightmare than nature.

  He notes a pair of tiny doors below the head, and he opens one, then the other, revealing a small recess in the wall. It holds items. He finds a chalice and a dagger. Neither appear very ornate, merely made in strict allegiance to form and function. The blade may cut, the cup may hold. There is also a small leather pouch, and a quick inspection finds a dark red gem within. He is no jeweler, but he thinks this stone is worth a fortune. Though it heightens his suspicions, he cannot assume it is stolen or acquired in any other illegal means.

  He leaves it, going back to the raised area that looks so much like an altar. Amidst the trappings, he has glimpsed curious sigils and pictographs, the room holding a suggestion of precision, yet seeming like a controlled chaos. This chamber is full of secrets, the hidden, the occult.

  He bends sideways at his waist, then crouches, inspecting closely. It is as he suspected. The top of the altar may be removed. It proves to not be terribly heavy, but it resists. When he finally gets it to give, he feels the unmistakable release of a gasket seal, like the front door of a refrigerator. The scent hits him almost immediately.

  He reels back. He knows the odor of rotting human flesh. This, then, will be enough to warrant further investigation. He’ll just need to arrange a few things to make it all legitimate, but first, he looks inside.

  There is indeed a corpse, and from what he can tell, it is likely Macar. The description fits. It is so stuffed inside and contorted that he cannot tell much else, so to spare his nose, he drags the cover back, settling it into its seal. The snick of the connection barely precedes the shotgun blast.

  Quain reels back, pain blossoming from his belly. He falls, his mind blurring, adrenalin spiking. He’s dropped his light, but he reaches for his gun. He hears footsteps, quick. He tries to be quicker, even as shock threatens to overtake him. He gulps in breaths, and he feels the wrench of pain in his stomach. He’s been gut shot, no telling how badly. He knows those don’t end well.

  He manages, somehow, to get a hand on his pistol, but then he feels another pain as the foot steps down on his arm. The person crouches, pulling the weapon free. A tactical light from the shotgun is shined on him.

  “Ah, Detective Contee. I see Sladky did not, in end, do his job.”

  Volkov then stands, moving away, setting the pistol on top of the altar, as though perhaps an offering, or a prelude to one.
<
br />   Quain says nothing, merely reeling from the pain, his blood copiously leaking. He curls up somewhat, holding his torn gut, feeling things he should not feel, wondering how this can all be fixed.

  “Pardon shotgun,” Volkov says, “but I guessed correctly you were armed. I would prefer to have not shot you.”

  Quain blinks, thinking to murmur an agreement, but what’s the point? He grunts instead, teeth clenched. He tries to find his cell phone, desperately wanting to call for help. He can’t locate it. He wonders if Volkov also took it. His focus is fading. He fights to remain conscious, panting through his bared teeth. He feels something rigid in his pants pocket. Is that it? He tries to reach for it, his hand sloppy and slippery with his blood and bile. He can’t get a grip.

  “You have much energy in you,” Volkov speaks, again very near, Quain not having registered the return.“You are full of power. Pity I had to use shotgun. Some of you is wasted.”

  Volkov takes a hold of him, and Quain fights back, trying to hit and strike, digging within himself for vestiges of that very strength. Volkov is hit once, in the face, though it does little more than make a wet slap and spread blood. The crime boss calmly pulls back, then delivers a powerful punch down into the detective’s stomach wound.

  Quain cries out, the end of it hitching as though becoming a sob. He tries again to curl up, his hands going back to trying to hold his ruined abdomen, as though some blind attempt to repair, or at least to hold in what life remains.

  “You are second man who comes uninvited to here. I will need to find leak, plug it.”

  “No,” Quain tries to protest, but it comes out weak, barely vocalized. He pushes harder, fighting the pain and encroaching darkness, the sound rising to a growl of determination.

  Volkov remains placid, grabbing Quain’s right wrist and slamming the man’s own hand back down against his belly. Another howl of pain.

  “You care about this leak,” Volkov notes, perhaps ironically, “Someone you know. Not just some anonymous tip. Hmm. I will find it, but for now, you.”

  The blade of the dagger slides smoothly across Detective Quain Contee’s neck, slicing open flesh and veins so cleanly that the man barely feels it. Blood spurts then rains then spurts again. Volkov holds the wounded, dying man, bending him, trying to direct the flow of rich fluid, trying to catch as much as he is able in the chalice.

  This has not been as either intended, but Volkov will not let all this man’s power go to waste.

  *****

  He sits along the gentle rise of the hill, not on the crest, but in a natural cleft made as the side rises to its low peak. There are trees here, too, and brush, and it makes for a fine sniping position. For that is what he hopes to do.

  It is night, though early enough into the break from the sun, and he is garbed in all dark clothing, more deep grays than black, not wanting to stand out from being too dark, as though an inky shadow come to life, catching the eye. He doesn’t expect to be spotted, but they are not one hundred percent sure of the security. He is sufficiently far away, and they’ve done some initial intelligence gathering, so they feel reasonably confident. Besides, he is not the only one.

  “Nenad?”

  “Check,” he says back into the comm, peering through the scope of his Heckler & Koch PSG1, watching as very fine automobiles continue to pull up, their equally elegant occupants rising forth to attend the lavish gala.

  They use a special application to their smartphones, low-latency, asynchronous communication, the microphones hidden in their clothes, though Nenad does not need such secrecy in his position. The unobtrusive earpieces tuck neatly in the canal, significantly reducing the possibility of being noticed. The frequency is generated by the hardware, thus increasing the security.

  The couple is already inside, being amongst the earlier guests to arrive, though not the first, as that would have possibly aroused undue attention. The names on their procured invitations and the ones they are using as they are introduced to people are not their real names. “Tomas Schmidt” and “Livie Cloutier” are hidden away this evening. She gives a charming smile to the other couple they are meeting here near one of the bars, allowing Tomas his chance to check in with Nenad.

  As is usual with such operations as this, Eldon is not present here or remotely. He merely waits for the results, delegating field command to the more experienced and capable Tomas. Alex is present, and a quick check with him reveals that all is well on his end. The hacker is remote, of course, contributing his invaluable skills from his hiding place in the city.

  Their continued efforts had finally produced results. Nenad had found some interesting things about the vigilante, all sorts of stories ranging from the basically believable to the dark avenger being an angry spirit or demon. Tomas had found it quite ironic that criminals would consider someone out to get them to be a demon. What does that say of them?

  Information Alex had gleaned through the police had proven much more useful, and they had followed many threads to finally learn of this party. From what they can tell, this is not the man’s usual thing, but he had apparently been compelled to throw it, inviting many wealthy people not only from the City but some more distant areas. Tomas wonders of it, thinking such an event does not sit with what he thinks he knows of the man’s reputation and ways. Why have this gathering at all?

  Still, it has presented itself as a wonderful opportunity for them to do their job, so Nenad sits outside, ready to attack or even serve to protect them if need be. They are inside, mingling, carrying sufficient weapons to do the deed, searching for their prey and the chance to kill him.

  Their prey is not yet even there.

  “Oh, don’t be so grumpy,” Yelena speaks in Russian, a seductive smirk on her lips as she ties the man’s bowtie.

  “I am not interested in this,” Volkov says, sounding indeed something like a pouting child.

  “I know,” she says back, still grinning, looking very attractive and striking in her cocktail dress,

  The shimmery, white material clings to her body like a heavy liquid, the hem of the skirt stopping around her knees. This, along with her pale flesh, make-up, and bright blonde hair makes her seem a creature of ice.

  “At least,” she comments, stepping back, perusing him with a purse to her lips, “You look good.”

  He gazes back at her, the length of the stare encroaching into the territory of becoming a challenge. He finally blinks, his eyes taking her in within a very brief sweep. She notes it, her lips pressing into a smirk. She knows he finds her desirable, for her being able to not only sense his appetites but also satisfy them is the backbone of their relationship.

  “There is honor and power in this,” she says, “You will see. Now, come.”

  He follows her lead, and they take a car to the location. Yelena had found this mansion, procuring it for tonight’s soiree. The vast house and property had been left in an estate, no regular occupants desiring it despite its surface charm, so it has been placed on an exclusive market for just such temporary use. The price for one evening had been exorbitant, not to mention the deposits and assurances of liability, but there are more than sufficient resources available here.

  Nenad might grow bored with watching the influx of guests, despite the exotic and expensive nature of the automobiles and the fine appearance and dress of those emerging from such. He is not here, though, as some paparazzi or voyeur. He is here to hunt. He is patient, careful, and something about that particular vehicle seizes his attention. If this were not enough, then the reaction of the guards convinces him.

  “Possible target,” he announces, watching through the scope, the volume and cadence of his voice low and calm.

  “Copy,” Tomas replies through their comlink, going quiet, waiting.

  Darkness surrounds Nenad, such as it should be. The lights at the front of the immaculate mansion prove sufficient. They cause shadow, of course, and things may hide in shadow. The guards cast their eyes about, not overly concerned th
at anything may actually happen. They are a precaution, and they sense nothing amiss. Darkness hides, and darkness grows.

  Yelena emerges first, her coltish legs leading the way, gathering a good deal of attention. One of the more caring, or perhaps daring, sentries offers her a hand. She smiles at this, and the remainder of her delivery from the car is made all the easier. Volkov comes out after, no expression on his lips that might speak of amusement. In truth, were that so, the guards might become nervous. They’ve never seen the man smile. He stands, looking about more openly than his sentries, though he does not sweep for danger. He feels the need to more check his environ to merely gauge it, to determine if there is worth here, or if he is entirely wasting his time.

  The guards wait. Yelena waits, though she begins the trek up the broad stairs, seeing someone she knows. The two women exchange kisses of greeting, then she looks back to her man. She smirks, rolling her eyes a bit. Just as she is about to move back down to better guide him along, it happens.

  He steps forward of his own volition, joining her. She takes his arm, and the two head inside.

  “Nenad?” Tomas summons over the link when he spies the couple.

  No response.

  “Nenad!” He ducks his head down, turning away from the majority of the guests, still whispering, but more demanding.

  Still nothing.

  “Alex?”

  “Here,” comes the thickly accented voice.

  “Is something wrong with Nenad’s connection? Is he there?”

  The words are almost instantly repeated in French, Livie translating.

  “The connection is fine,” she informs, once Alex checks and gives his answer.

  “Why didn’t he take the shot?” Tomas muses, brow furrowing, “Nenad? Check in.”

  There comes the same reply as before – only dead air.

  Scheiße, he curses silently in his mind.

  “Shall we check on him? Do we abort?”