The following story is continued from Spirit of Fear: The Misguided Fox. It was a very long project, taking over seven years to complete, including the occasionally unplanned hiatus. As a result, the writing skill of its early chapters is... poor, now that I look back on them, but if you can get through them, I got a lot better as time went on. Nevertheless, I leave the early work as it is and move forward.
What follows here is the prologue to the next installment, entitled Spirit of Fear: The Lost Shadow. It contains elements from the Harry Potter franchise, copyright J. K. Rowling and her publishers.
Rated Teen for language and violence.
Spirit of Fear: Sigma
On a quiet evening, on a quiet street in a quiet part of Washington D.C., three figures walked out of a rather average looking office building. In the center was an older, square-jawed woman with a monocle wearing a dark green traveling cloak, while on either side were two men, both wearing long black coats, despite the warm Summer's day. The man on her right was roughly shaven with a gaunt face and messy black hair, carrying a rather long briefcase in his right hand, while the other man was very lined in the face with shaggy sun-bleached hair, and kept his right hand near his belt under his coat.
Leaving the building, they turned left and started down the street. Despite how suspicious they seemed, no one else on the street paid them any mind. It was far from unusual for such dark figures to stroll down this particular street after leaving that particular building. Every time someone left that building and turned left, they would walk precisely two blocks then turn left down the next alley. Sometimes people would walk out of that alley and enter the building. Nobody could ever discern why they went down that particular alley, for there was nothing down there. It was just a dead end. The people would walk down, turn the corner at the end, and vanish.
The peculiar behavior had persisted for years. When it started, and nobody remembers when it started, people were naturally curious. Anyone who tried to follow these strangers couldn't explain what happened to these people, only that they vanished when they turned the corner. Naturally, this made for a few good ghost stories for the local children, but after several years the novelty wore off and strangers appearing and disappearing down alleys became as commonplace and routine as a bus driving down the street.
The woman and the two men turned down the alley just as expected. When clear of the street, the man holding something inside his coat near his waist put his free hand to his ear and said, "Two hundred feet to target." The other man scanned the buildings around them.
"Contact!" the dark haired man shouted. Immediately, he pulled the woman to her knees while the other man pulled a wand from his coat and struck it against the wall, sending dozens of bricks into the air before them just in time to intercept the curses flying their way. Whatever bricks that didn't shatter upon the curses' impacts stacked to create a short wall behind which the three took cover.
The sides of the briefcase fell away, revealing a glinting black rifle. Its carrier hoisted it up at the same time the other man pulled a sub-machine gun from his coat. Both fired bursts into the windows where the spells came from, then the blonde-haired man ducked back behind the chest-high wall and put his hand back to his ear.
"Two contacts, confirmed hostile!" he said, while the rifleman continued to fire occasional shots at the windows, "north building, second floor, fifth window. South building, third floor, window at second fire escape."
"Copy that, Stinger. You and Snake keep 'em pinned down best you can," said a voice with a strong Texan twang over the radio in response. It came from a man in the stairwell of the north building. He was wide-jawed with grey hair in a crew cut, and even without his long black coat he would still be quite intimidating. "Hawk, we are go for intercept. You and Bulldog move up to the third floor and take 'em out over there."
"On the way, Cougar" came another voice over the radio.
"Time to roll, Cuda," Cougar said, and he hoisted up a light machine gun into his arms.
"Eight weeks of cakewalk gigs and the only action we get is on a VIP escort?" said Cuda, the black man in an identical dark coat as he loaded a magazine into his assault rifle and the two exited the stairwell into a long hallway with nondescript doors on both walls.
"Cuda, you're in the ambush team," came Stinger's voice over the radio between the sounds of spells and gunshots. "I don't think you have the authority to bitch when you're inside while me and Snake are in the line of fire!"
"My whole background is in ambush tactics," Cuda responded. "Remember that next time Cougar assigns you to be the bait."
"Yeah, and all those years in SWAT didn't do shit to prep me for shock and awe," Stinger snapped back at his frustrating squad-mate.
"Not saying they didn't," said Cuda. "Just that us Seals are better at it."
"Cut the chatter," Cougar interrupted them. The two men stopped at one of the doors, and each stood on either side of it. Cuda pulled a grenade from his belt and loaded it into the launch tube fixed to his rifle. "Hawk, status."
"Twenty yards," Hawk replied over the radio.
"Copy that. Engage on arrival. Cuda, let's light 'em up."
Cougar hoisted his machine gun up, and swung it stock-first into the door just above the handle, forcing the door open and sending the jamb into splinters. Inside the room was a man in plain clothes clutching a wand, crouched by the window and flinching at the gunshots from Snake's rifle flying into the room. Cougar then stepped aside, making room for Cuda. He took a bracing stance and fired off the grenade. It exploded right next to the crouching man and sent debris into the alley below.
"Good hit, good hit! Shifting fire to the south!" Stinger shouted, and both he and Snake trained their weapons on the third-floor window of the south building.
Inside that building was Hawk, who looked almost like he'd stepped out of a movie about fighter pilots with his reddish-brown eyes and swept brown hair. He carried an assault rifle slightly larger and more time-worn than Cuda's with a bayonet attached. He took position on the side of the door opposite the handle while Bulldog, a considerably taller and lanky man with neat black hair carrying a shotgun, took the other side. Hawk reached over and tried the handle on the door, which was unlocked but wouldn't open due to the deadbolt lock above the latch.
"Load a slug, Bulldog," Hawk said.
"Happy to do it," Bulldog said in his thick Brooklyn accent as he loaded a new shell into his shotgun.
"Stinger, give us some noise."
"Copy that, firing for effect!"
Immediately there was the sound of Stinger's weapon spraying the window in fullly automatic mode. Bulldog took advantage of the distraction and fired at the deadbolt on the door. The lock shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving Bulldog free to kick open the door with ease. Hawk moved swiftly into the room and opened fire on the second assailant.
In the alley, Stinger replaced his now empty clip. He listened to the gunfire from Hawk's assault rifle and saw the assailant, who heard the break in Stinger's fire and tried to stand up and fire back, fall halfway out of the window before Hawk grabbed him by the belt to roughly pull him back in.
"Room clear," Hawk called over the radio. "Wouldn't have taken so long if we'd borrowed a few gunships, Cougar."
"Too much collateral, Hawk," Cougar answered. "Threat's neutralized, Stinger. You and Snake are clear to advance. We'll wipe up the trash and police your brass."
"Copy," Stinger acknowledged. Then to the monocled woman they were defending he said, "We're moving up."
The three of them moved up the alley, Stinger in front and Snake in the back, both aiming their weapons at the windows above and scanning for new threats.
"Surprised they only sent two guys to take the old lady out," came Cuda's voice over the radio.
"Intel never said they were organized," Hawk said.
"Might've made more sense to hunt 'em down before they could try this shit," said Bulldog.
"Mission requires getting them caught in the act," Cougar reminded them.
"Since when do we give a damn about prosecuting the rats?" Cuda asked rhetorically.
"Could've charged 'em with conspiracy," Bulldog suggested.
"If you got a problem with why we do this, take it up with management," Cougar said.
"Cougar, we don't talk to any management, remember?" Cuda said.
"Good to know you understand," Cougar replied, and they all knew the debate was over.
Stinger, Snake and the woman continued to the end of the alley, turned the corner, and disappeared like everyone else who ever walked down that particular alley after leaving that particular building.
And the residents of the street paid the incident no mind at all. Strange people walked down that alley all the time.
The job of the United States Secretary of Sorcery had become considerably more difficult in the past several weeks. The British Ministry of Magic was in turmoil with rumors and declarations of internal strife and the potential for another civil war within the magical community that might once again spill into the general population, and American witches and warlocks were clamoring for an official stance from the Department of Sorcery. Secretary Warren Forsythe found himself in a difficult position. Anecdotal evidence and reports of violence were overwhelming, but Minister Fudge continued to deny the declarations even from some senior Ministry officials that a magical war was brewing.
Warren Forsythe found himself torn. Maintaining the good relations between England and the United States was indeed important, but even Albus Dumbledore, who had always been on cordial terms with the Department of Sorcery, was at the forefront of people telling cautionary tales of war.
As Forsythe read over a long file with lots of redundant information, the intercom on his desk beeped and out came the voice of his assistant.
"Mister Secretary, a representative from the Specter Service here to see you."
"Send him in, please," Forsythe answered in his polite Carolina voice.
A moment later, his office door opened and in walked Cougar. He wore a black suit with an emblem on his lapel indicating his rank as a captain from his time in the Army. His wand and a silver pistol were in belt holsters on his right.
"Heard you boys nabbed some bad guys," Forsythe said.
"VIP reached the target point as requested," Cougar answered.
"Yes, and I see here that Miss Bones made it safely back home after she left our protective custody."
"Yes, sir."
Forsythe looked up from his file.
"Virgil, you know me," he said. "Drop the stiff-upper-lip formality. Now where are we keeping the bad guys?"
Cougar paused. "Sir, the official report states that the suspects are K.I.A."
"I'm looking at the report right now, Virgil. I know what it says." Forsythe looked Cougar in the eye, and Cougar understood what he meant.
"The 'corpses' are in the interrogation ward. Room two-seven."
"Room twenty seven," Forsythe repeated as he wrote a note in the file. "Thank you, Virgil. I'll see about paying them a visit."
"Sir, if you don't mind my asking."
"Ask away, Virgil. Not like you ever tell any secrets."
"What was the purpose of her visit? Her government had no record of her coming here."
"Can't hide a thing from Sigma," Forsythe smiled. "No, she came on her own. She's agreed to help us out on a few things."
"Such as?"
"This," Forsythe said, handing Cougar another file. "Came in an hour ago from our Echo contact."
"Who's the contact?" Cougar said, glancing over the papers in the folder.
"Take a look. I think you're gonna like working with this guy."
Deep within the bowels of the Department of Sorcery was a room which only granted access to six people, five of whom were inside already. On one wall were six full-sized lockers, their contents hidden by the closed doors. In front of them were a few benches, on which were a few articles of tactical clothing and some body armor. Opposite the lockers was a large bulletin board covered in maps, aerial photos of buildings, pictures of various people, some with large red X's drawn over them. To the left of the board was a cooler filled with ice that didn't seem to melt and un-labeled beer bottles. Just above the board was a silver pistol mounted on a simple wooden plaque, branded with brass letters which spelled, "Wiley."
In the middle of the room were a few tables, at one of which was Hawk, cleaning his disassembled assault rifle. Despite it's age, he'd kept it in remarkable condition with just this kind of regular maintenance. Snake, meanwhile, sat on one of the benches sharpening a butterfly knife on a strop. Stinger read a paperback novel over by the lockers while Cuda and Bulldog played a cordial game of darts with a picture of one of the assailants from the recent mission pasted on the dartboard hung to the right of the bulletin board.
Cougar entered the room with the file that Forsythe had given him, pulled his wand from its holster and sent the various documents on the bulletin board off to one side with a wave.
"Sigma, eyes front!" he ordered them, and they took it for the suggestion they knew it was.
"Cougar, if this is another VIP gig," Bulldog said between darts, "I gotta feeling someone's not making it to waypoint B if you know what I'm talking about."
"Subject is white male, age fifteen with black hair," Cougar said, beginning his briefing. He began spreading the files out on the table and tacked a few onto the bulletin board. "U.K. Ministry of Magic flagged him for illegal spell use. Our assignment is to keep him out of their hands until he can get into friendly custody."
"Babysitting job?" Cuda remarked. "Sounds like we're doing someone a favor."
"This got anything to do with the last job?" Snake asked. If ever he spoke, it always cut right to the bone.
"Yeah, we'll be working with the same Echo contact," Cougar answered, handing a page to Hawk.
"Who was that?" Stinger asked, looking inquisitively at the file in Hawk's hand.
"Operative Echo Two-Eight-Seven," Hawk answered. "Last name... McGonagall."
"McGonagall?" Cuda piqued, finally distracted from his and Bulldog's dart game enough to pay attention to the briefing. "Not talking about Wiley, are you?"
"It's Wiley's kid."
"Bullshit. Forsythe made him an Echo?"
"Five years ago, he did."
"What the hell's that kid doing with a Class Echo?" Stinger said, abandoning his novel and approaching the table covered in papers.
"Says here on his application 'I want a pet dragon,'" Hawk said, flipping through the contact's file.
"He's definitely Wiley's boy!" Bulldog laughed.
"Looks just like him, too." Cougar said as Hawk pulled a photo from the file and passed it around.
"He's gotta be, what, sixteen by now?" Cuda asked.
"Eighteen," Hawk corrected. "Birthday's in November."
"Hey, that's right," Cuda remembered. "You guys got to see him last year. He doing ok?"
"Considering he was getting a visit from Forsythe," Stinger reminded him as Cougar hung a map on the bulletin board, "I doubt we'd be able to accurately judge how he was doing. Nobody's in that good a mood when Warren pays you a visit."
"Man does seem to bring bad news more often than most would," Snake remarked in his trademark calm.
"Location is an English suburb outside London," Cougar said in an attempt to get the briefing back on track, "so we got a lot of houses stacked right next to each other. This'll mean no alleys and nowhere for surprises to hide. Got a church three blocks away, so I want Hawk and Snake in that tower with optics and a thermal scope watching the sky and the ground. Stinger, you'll be in the house behind, disable the occupants if you have to. Bulldog, take position here on the street opposite the house. Cuda and I will be in the unit next door on standby to breach. This is Priority One, so roll out ASAP and you men can review the file on the way."
"You boys heard him," Hawk said, standing up to assume his duty as second-in-command. "Move."
Bulldog had dreaded being assigned to watch the front of the house. It always meant being stuck in a car all day, and England was in the middle of a heat wave. His old days in the Marshal Service involved the occasional stakeout, but rarely did it exceed twelve hours, as he was usually in pursuit of an escaped fugitive, and on hot days he was at least allowed air conditioning. But this was England, and to blend in they'd procured a rather piss-poor car, and it wasn't until after he'd parked it did he learn the compressor was shot, and he'd be stuck in the heat. Worse, the Ministry had a wide trace on the neighborhood, so Cougar had forbidden use of magic on this assignment. As a result, he was left in the sun all day, his shotgun under a blanket in the passenger seat, windows down, hoping for a stray breeze.
"All right, I'm bored," he finally called over the radio, desperate for any distraction from the heat. "Who's up for some 'I Spy?'"
"I think Snake and I would be at an unfair advantage," Hawk answered from the church tower. Surveillance was not his forte, at least not on the ground. He was used to keeping watch from several thousand feet in the sky from the comfort of the pilot's seat, usually with a powerful camera doing the watching for him. Instead, he lay on his stomach, peering through binoculars at the sleepy English suburb.
His silent companion, however, was perfectly in his element. Snake made a name for himself in the Marines, laying prone with his sniper rifle, staring through the scope for hours, even days without moving. He was usually alone, so he made for poor company. The only time he ever spoke was to announce movement down below or call in his hourly reports. The rest of the time he lay silent, staring through his rifle's scope like a sentinel.
"Bulldog, if you're bored, why didn't you bring something to read?" Stinger inquired. He'd finally lucked out with his post, having been stationed in a shady backyard of a home belonging to a retired captain from the Special Air Service, who happily hosted him as he watched the target house. It was certainly a more luxurious arrangement than his tenure as a SWAT police officer in Los Angeles, usually crouched in an armored van with ten other officers before rushing into a hail of gunfire or a tense hostage situation. The old man even served some refreshing lemonade when the sun was at its peak, though he wasn't about to mention that over the radio.
"Because he'd be ten pages into the book and start complaining that no one's got shot yet," Cuda piped in.
"Ease off the chatter," Cougar brought them all back into line. He and Cuda were holed up with the entire team's tactical gear in the house next door, belonging to a young couple who decided to take full advantage of a small lottery win to rush off on a second honeymoon. Two frame charges were set, ready to create a doorway into the house in question should the need arise.
Cougar had to ensure he'd teamed himself with Cuda lately, owing to his restlessness. Cuda never lived down giving up his life as a Navy SEAL, assaulting enemy positions under cover of night with a hail of gunfire flying in all directions. He was never comfortable with this sort of cloak-and-dagger work, but times had changed and brave heroics had given way to underhanded tactics.
And Cougar was not immune to feeling a sense of loss for days gone by. As a career Captain in the Army Rangers, he'd seen more than his fair share of action. But truth be told, he was glad to see quieter days. The burden of command wore heavy on his soul every time he sent his men into the line of fire. The early days were filled with uncertainty, never knowing for sure the enemy strength or numbers. This new age of information meant he rarely missed anything when an operation began, and he felt that much better when there were fewer unknown variables.
"Ninety minutes to sundown, Bulldog," Cougar added.
"Be nice when it gets here," Bulldog responded. "Either the heat's getting to me, or I'm getting old, 'cause I feel like I need a nap."
"Wanna borrow a blanket?" Hawk chimed in, hoping to give Snake something to smile about. As ever, the sniper was stone-faced.
"You know how fucking hot it is down here?!" Bulldog snapped. Hawk couldn't help but laugh.
"Chatter, Sigma!" Cougar reminded them. "Perception filter doesn't work on RF."
"Roger that," Hawk answered. A light spell had been cast on them that diverted the attention of passers-by. It didn't make them invisible, just made people around them less likely to register their presence. Anyone looking really hard would spot them, but they'd have to know to look in the first place. This lightweight charm, so small it couldn't be detected by aurors, was a staple for covert operations dating back to the early days of the Cold War, when the Department of Sorcery sent Specters to the Soviet Union to spy for the CIA. They could never get the damn things to work on radio transmissions, though.
Twenty minutes later, without needing a clock or a reminder, Snake clicked on his radio, "Sigma Lead, Snake. Reporting hourly status."
"Go for Lead," Cougar answered.
"No change in subject's position, remains on upper floor. Public residents have gathered on lower level, street side. Primary and secondary blast areas clear."
"Skies clear," Hawk added. Despite being somewhat close to London, air traffic over this sleepy neighborhood was rather light. It seemed major airline routes just happened to avoid flying over Little Whinging, which made it easier to decipher threats from regular air traffic.
"Streets clear," Bulldog finished. "And not that anyone gives a shit, it's still really damn hot down here."
"Copy all," Cougar said. "Two hours thirty to contact."
Time ticked by slower for some members of Sigma more than others, especially Bulldog. As the sun dipped, it pierced through his car's window and shone in his eyes for half an hour until it finally dropped behind the houses.
Hawk and Snake, meanwhile, were still in the full glare of the sun, being stationed in the church tower.
"Snake to Sigma lead, we have movement." Hawk looked at his watch. Something must be up if Snake was early with a report.
"Go for Lead," Cougar answered.
"Civilians are moving to the vehicle with intention to vacate the residence."
"Roger that, Snake. Bulldog, you got eyes?"
"Got 'em. Y'know, if you put the old man on top of the lady they'd look like a lollipop..."
"Are ya tryin' to tell us you're hungry, Bulldog?" Stinger teased him.
"No, he's right," Hawk said, having trained his binoculars on the family at the remark. "She's a stick, he's like a big butterball turkey."
"All right, all right, I'm starving," Bulldog confessed. "Can we at least expense some takeout when this is through?"
"Only if we itemize, Bulldog," Cougar chimed in. It was rare for him to contribute to the banter.
"I'm all right with that. Who the hell reads our paperwork, anyway?"
"Vehicle is in motion," Snake interrupted. He never contributed to banter.
"Vehicle motion confirmed," Bulldog echoed as the car rolled past emitting a small squeak. "And it's got a loose belt."
"Roger that," Cougar replied. "How's our subject?"
"No change, Lead," Snake finished.
"Copy. Keep eyes on."
"What kind of takeout you thinking, Bulldog?" Cuda asked.
"Kinda wanna try the Indian around here," Bulldog answered.
"...Okay, I'll bite," Hawk caved after a minute's silence. "Why do you want Indian?"
"English eat a lot of Indian, right? We should try the Indian here."
"We had Indian every day for a month last year," Stinger argued. "In India!"
"Stinger's not on board," Hawk clarified.
"Well, what does Stinger want?" Bulldog voiced, irritated.
"How about not Indian?!"
"Your gut still hurtin' from that job?" Cuda asked.
"Look, we're in England and we got some time before we have to roll out stateside," Stinger deflected. "We can find a bar and grab a couple brews."
"Don't they serve it warm over here?" Cuda countered.
"Warm beer?" Bulldog snapped. "Oh, yeah, that'll hit the spot."
"Doesn't matter what we get if nothing's open that late," Hawk interjected wisely.
"Why is the one guy sitting in the hot car all day making the case for spicy food?" Snake asked Hawk directly, without averting his gaze from his scope.
"Maybe the heat's gone to his head," Hawk wondered.
"He got hydro?"
"Probably not as much as he should if he thought he'd have air conditioning. And knowing him he'd be worried about having to take a leak."
The debate continued until Snake's next hourly report, after which it shifted back and forth, eventually falling upon which was worse: the job in India or the one in Greenland.
"Snow and ice as far as the eye can see!" Cuda made his point. "Never-ending snow and not a single trace of civilization!"
"I get it, Cuda," Stinger responded. "You don't like snow 'cause you're from Miami."
"What, and you like it, California Boy?"
"Stinger's trying to say there's no Indian food in Greenland," Hawk clarified.
"Eyes sharp, Sigma," Cougar finally interrupted, putting an end to the debate. "Fifteen minutes to contact."
"Roger that, Lead. Got eyes on the horizon." Hawk and the rest of Sigma put away their trivial argument and sharpened their senses. If anything was going to go awry, it would most certainly be now.
To be continued in "Spirit of Fear: The Lost Shadow"