34: Conflict of Interests

The sharp clack of wood striking upon wood echoed throughout the hall, joined with sharp, powerful yells as each blow was landed. The bamboo swords moved in quick, decisive motions, wielded by either opponent with a finesse that spoke of their extensive training and experience. Again and again, the opponents, both clad in traditional kendo swordsman gear, swung at each other. Each blow was deflected by the other, for this was a fight for entertainment and not competition. They were drawing it out, making a show for the attentive audience seated in the hall before them.

The audience totalled about thirty, mostly men in black formal wear, bowties, cufflinks, and the like. The hall was large and well-lit, with sunlight pouring in through the arch-shaped windows at the far end that looked out upon the lush, green gardens of the estate. Behind the two kendo fighters was the adjudicator, seated at a bench and dressed in a white kimono. He watched the fight closely, ensuring that all was played fair and according to the rules.

Two trained warriors at their physical peak, engaging in honourable combat. In the front row was seated Ernest Portier, and he watched the fight with keen interest. He was a man of about forty-five, with thin brown hair and a severe face, pale blue eyes and stark lines etched upon his visage. Even when smiling, he appeared stern, and his all-black choice of attire only compounded the image. Sporting combat was something he had always had an affinity for, as well as the thrill of the hunt. On the wall behind the audience was mounted the head of a large elk, joined by the splayed-out fur of an African lion. All of them Portier's kills from past exploits across the globe.

Despite the name, Portier was not French or even really European for that matter. He had been born in Louisiana and had moved to Florida some months before on business (but not before having traversed and spent time living in most parts of the country). This estate was his own, purchased with the wealth he had made on his various expeditions and business dealings. To his left was seated a somewhat taller, heavily set man with a shaved head and piercing brown eyes. He did not wear formal attire like the rest, rather his black coat and equally black undershirt was more of a utilitarian choice. He was, more or less, Portier's right-hand man in most matters pertaining to business, as well as his bodyguard. If Portier wanted something done, he sent this man to do it. His name was Arnold Van Rensburg, aged thirty-seven and formerly South African special forces. He watched the fight with only passing interest, as such sports were not something he had ever been particularly interested in.

The third man to make note of here was seated to Portier's right. This was a certain Josiah Lockwood, wealthy businessman and member of a certain secret society who had thus far been responsible for the ill-fortune of a handful of gargoyles the past few days. He was dressed in black formal wear like most of the others, eyes set upon the exhibition fight with intense interest. The two warriors moved on each other in quick yet deliberate movements, and with each powerful swing they let out a yell, a means of focusing their energy onto the blow. Clack-clack-clack, the bamboo swords striking hard and fast. 'Swords' was perhaps a misnomer, as they were more or less long, sturdy sticks.

The adjudicator suddenly let out a yell, holding up a hand. The signal to stop, no less. Both fighters paused, lowered their weapons and bowed to each other. Lockwood began clapping, triggering a wave of applause from the others with him. He rose to his feet, offering a smile to the fighter who approached him.

"Excellent, excellent fight my friends!" He stepped forwards, joining the fighter who pulled away the helmet that had been concealing his face. A young man with dark blonde hair and sturdy, handsome features appeared, face slick with sweat, hair sticking to his brow.

"What do you think of that, ladies and gentlemen?" Lockwood made sure not to forget about the two well-dressed women sitting amongst the audience. "A clean, honourable fight. Two evenly matched fighters duking it out, what's not to love about that?"

Portier and Vans Rensburg joined him. Portier had his usual scowl on his face, and he offered a handshake to the young fighter.

"I can see a future for you in the organization," he remarked. His voice was gruff, almost gravelly.

"We'll talk business later, Portier," Lockwood interjected. He turned to the audience, where the applause had ceased. "For now, I want to thank all of you for coming to our third annual kendo demonstration. I find this to be an excellent means of determining our finest young talent, and my nephew here, Shaun Austin, certainly fits the bill, don't you think?" He looked to the audience, and he saw several nodding heads.

"He's going to be running for state senate at the next election," Lockwood added, and he put a hand to the shoulder of his young nephew. "And maybe, once he's in office, he can work his way up to a Federal level? Perhaps one day become the President of this fine nation?"

Again, more nodding heads. Lockwood turned to Portier, offering his associate a smile.

"And I would be remiss to mention the man here who made this event possible, Ernest Portier," Lockwood said, gesturing his way. "Always a reliable benefactor to our business in this part of the country, and he was also more than happy to have his own home be host to this demonstration. And let's not forget his right-hand man, Arnold Van Rensburg, who arranged both security and catering for this event."

Another round of applause followed, with Lockwood smiling broadly and taking it all in. Portier and Vans Rensburg did not bask in it the same way he did. He knew the two of them preferred to be out of the spotlight, working behind the scenes and away from audiences.

"It is not all fun and games here, I'm afraid," Lockwood added, and his voice adopted a much grimmer tone. "No, my friends, we are living in dangerous times. There are monsters at the gates, people!" The audience became hushed then, listening with full attention, keen to hear what the most influential one of them here had to say. These visitors were all affiliated to the organization in some way, primarily through employment by Portier's own enterprises. Lockwood was simply a step above that and the only full-fledged Illuminati member in the room. Portier and his people, on the other hand, were simply a subsidiary.

"We saw it seven years ago, when they came out of the night and slaughtered innocents," Lockwood continued, his voice growing impassioned. His vague New England accent seemed to fade then, and it adopted much harsher tones. "We saw it before then, when an entire clan of those monsters wreaked havoc in New York City. It was Devil's Night that allowed our current President to win the election that year, that his hard-line stance against those creatures of the night drove many people to his side. Yet, I believe he is not doing enough to stop them. They're out there people, oh yes; do not be fooled into thinking the danger is under control. And now, now I have reason to believe that there are more than just gargoyles out there. In fact, there is an entire world unseen from our own, a world of monsters and magic that brings with it all manner of terror!"

He could see they were all listening. Good. The more these people understood, the more useful they would be.

"Pagan gods and creatures of folklore," Lockwood said, and he started to pace up and down in front of the audience. Portier, Austin and Van Rensburg watched on, intrigued. Some of what he said would be news to them, although some of it would be things they already knew. He wondered if Portier would believe it, as the man had often been more of a sceptic than most.

"Entities capable of levelling cities with a single thought. Beasts that no mortal weapon could harm. Gargoyles? Well, they're just the tip of the iceberg!" He paused, allowing his words to float in the air, to settle in the minds of those present. He saw some startled expressions, but no one appeared to disbelieve him. No, they all bought it.

"I have sat on this information for a long time, but enough is enough. The time is coming for the world to take notice of the danger these creatures bring with them. A secret war is being fought behind the scenes, beyond the eyes of us mere mortals. Creatures make plays for power, as do some associates of mine who know the same things I do. The time is coming for decisive action, and I want allies in this fight. I want all of you, those of you who love this country and who want to see it saved from the menace these monsters bring. Gargoyle or otherwise, I want your help because this is not a war that can be won by any one individual. It must be fought with an army, and I see before me the makings of one.

"A plan is already in motion, one that would see delivered to us a weapon that could turn the tide against the monsters in the dark. One that, under no circumstances, can be allowed to fall into the hands of those very monsters. Tell me, fine people of the United States, do you want your world destroyed? Do you want your neighbourhood razed, your wives and sons and daughters killed or raped by monsters who are amused with such actions, monsters who see us as little more than cattle to be exploited and slaughtered for fun or for food?"

"No, sir!" The shout came from an increasingly worried looking man in the middle row. Lockwood nodded his head, pleased at the response.

"And that's all it takes, people! Stand up and say it with me: No!" The audience followed suit: "No!" And so, Lockwood started a chant, with all the audience members joining in, repeating: No! No! No!

It was amazing to see, at least in Lockwood's eyes. This worked for him, as he would genuinely need allies in what he intended to do. He knew his Illuminati cohorts would not be pleased with his plans, if they ever found out about them. Nor would the imps, who would happily flay him alive if they caught him acting against them. Yet, the notion of immortality and potential demigod status was all too much to pass up, certainly not to his own superiors.

"What are you playing at, Lockwood?" Portier's voice caught his attention, low and gravelly. Lockwood spun about to face the man, all while the audience continued their chant. "It sounds crazy."

"It may be, but it's all true," Lockwood countered. "We have forces moving into play as we speak. The fate of the world is at stake, and I don't know about you, but I don't want to live under the yoke of things that are not even human."

"Gargoyles, huh?" Portier's mouth curled with the hint of a smirk. "What do you plan on doing to get rid of them?"

The question went unanswered for now, as one of the manservants appeared at the group's right. He had a small note in one hand, and he passed it to Portier who quickly read it. He frowned, before passing it onto Lockwood. The note, brief as it was, told him all he needed to know, none of which was good.

"I take it that means your plans are already in trouble?" Portier asked him, with a small hint of smarminess in his voice.

"It could have been anyone," Lockwood replied. The impassioned tones had gone, replaced with something much colder. "We need more information."

"It does say a gargoyle may have been involved," Portier said. "Looks like even they knew about your special package."

"Whoever has it, they won't have it for long." Lockwood turned to the windows, where the light of afternoon had started to fade. A gargoyle was involved in the loss of the package? That was unlikely, seeing as it had happened in broad daylight. Still, he would not rule anything out. Certainly not the involvement of those wretched imps, whom he regretted even helping slightly. He had a part to play on the Illuminati side of the matter, and that meant playing along with those despicable creatures. Once he had what he needed, he would do away with them all: imps, gargoyles and, of course, his own Illuminati cohorts. He would be the one calling the shots in the end, just as soon as he reacquired the package.

"I hope I can count on you three," Lockwood said, turning to Portier, Rensburg and Austin.

"You can always count on us to be up for a hunt, Mister Lockwood," Rensburg said, his South African accent readily apparent. The man had adopted a smile that was almost as malicious as the ones Lockwood had seen on Korily. Humans, it seemed, were as capable of ruthlessness as any imp, or gargoyle for that matter.

As soon as the sun dipped below the Miami skyline, Goliath was up and awake. He emerged from his stone-sleep with a groan, stone crumbling off of his form. He was still atop the roof across from the luxury apartment complex Martin Hacker was supposed to be staying in, and as he stretched his limbs and wings he set his gaze upon the building itself. The sky had just turned dark, and as he watched during the minutes that followed his awakening, he saw a light go on down at the ground floor. However, the figure that moved in front of the window was a young woman, scantily dressed it seemed, which caused Goliath to feel a little intrusive despite his good reason for being here.

Twelve hours. That was about how long it had been since he had last been active, and that was twelve hours his son and his mate had spent in captivity. Would they still be alive? That question lingered over every thought he had and every move he made; here he was, almost an entire country away from Manhattan, following up on a lead that may not even work out. What if he got nothing out of it? The entire venture would be a waste, and Vincent and Elisa would have suffered all that time for nothing.

He could not think like this, not now. He had to remain hopeful and he had to set his mind on the mission. That was what it was, really: a mission, which would bring with it a lead. And in turn, he would be just that little bit closer to getting his family back.

It was about half an hour of waiting before his patience bore fruit. A car, a sleek black sedan, appeared down the street, headlights on. It made a smooth entrance into the driveway of the luxury suites across the road, casting a striking white glow across the gate. Goliath watched, eyes narrowed, as the driver tapped in a code at the keypad by the gate. It slid open slowly, making little to no sound as it moved. With that done, the car glided on into the underground car park. From this vantage point, Goliath had not been able to get a positive ID on the driver. He considered taking a chance here, and so rose to his feet, allowing his wings to spread.

With a strong flap, he launched himself off of the rooftop and glided the short distance to the rooftop of the luxury suites. From here, he could simply drop down upon the balcony of the topmost suite, and so he did, standing in the shadow just off to the side of the sliding glass doors. They were locked, unsurprisingly, the rooms beyond cast in darkness. He only had to wait a couple more minutes for the occupant to appear, the lights within the living room coming on in a flash, sending light spilling onto the balcony.

Goliath kept in shadow, peering around the edge of the doorway, watching as the man entered the lavish living room with a relaxed demeanour. He remained oblivious to the presence of the gargoyle outside, and instead threw aside his navy-blue suit jacket and loosened his tie. Stepping over to the kitchen at the far corner of the living area, he set the coffee maker going, a loud whirring and bubbling noise escaping it.

Goliath recognized this man as Martin Hacker. There was no mistaking it, and for a moment Goliath felt he knew him from somewhere. Perhaps, somewhere along the years, he had met the man in passing; it seemed likely, especially given his apparent connection to the Illuminati. For now, Goliath simply watched him as he went about his evening routine, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the now quiet machine before switching on the television and turning over to a news channel. Goliath's attention drifted to the television there, drawn to it by the report being given by the female reporter whom filled the centre of the screen.

There had been some kind of shooting that afternoon, just over by Miami Beach. Several dead private security guards, as well as two dead officers. Even Martin appeared intrigued by the news, and he watched the screen attentively, cup of steaming hot coffee in his hands.

Goliath saw that the man was distracted, which presented a good opportunity. He had never been one for subtlety, which was perhaps why he adopted the approach he did. Taking a few steps back, he threw his weight against the glass, sending it shattering all around him, hundreds of shards spilling onto the carpeted floor of the living room. Martin spun around, eyes widening, yet he had little chance to react before Goliath was upon him, pinning the man to the floor with one hand raised threateningly, claws out.

"Where is my son?" He barked, his eyes flaring with a brilliant white glow. Martin, pinned under the weight of the gargoyle, looked somewhat lost and confused. Goliath put his hand to the man's neck, his grasp tight but not to such an extent as to choke him completely. "The imps, where are they?"

"The imps?" Martin frowned.

"Yes, the imps. The creatures, the gremlins. Whatever they are, they have my son and my mate. You will tell me where I can find them." His voice was laced with fury, a fury he had been keeping bottled up for some time. His entire life had been turned upside-down over the past few days, and the anger and dismay he felt had been building to a crescendo. It threatened to spill out now, to drive him into an action that would likely leave Martin dead and himself without any leads. With that in mind, he paused, whereupon he took in a few deep breaths and allowed himself a chance to relax.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Martin said. Fear was thick in his voice, and Goliath got the impression that this was a man who was rarely fazed by anything. His work with the Illuminati likely had desensitised him to all manner of things, yet none had apparently compared with being faced with a raging gargoyle with an intent to kill.

"The Illuminati, Martin Hacker. You work for them."

"No…" He was about to say more, but Goliath did not let him. Instead, he took one of the man's arms in one hand before he rolled him over, twisting the arm around his back to almost the point of breaking. Martin shouted in pain, his muscles tense from the strain and discomfort.

"Do not lie to me," Goliath said, the venom thick in his tones. "You work for them. I know it, you know it. And you will tell me what I need to know, or I break every bone in your body." He paused, allowing this threat to sink in. "It's your choice."

"I don't know about any 'imps'," Martin replied, his voice faltering. "I don't know about your family, either. I'm just here on business, and it's got no relation to anything of yours."

"Then surely you know something that can lead me on the right path?" Goliath kept Martin's arm held at that awkward angle. With a single move, he could dislocate the man's shoulder. With a twist, he could break the arm entirely.

"Anything would be helpful, Martin Hacker," Goliath added, furthering the strain upon Martin's arm. He heard the man groan, and Goliath could almost feel the shoulder ready to give way.

"I can give you an address," Martin said. "And a name. Josiah Lockwood. He's higher-up than me, he'll know about what you want."

"His address?"

"It's an estate outside of town. One-two-nine Palm Manor Boulevard. He'll only be there for a few more days."

Goliath considered breaking the man's arm anyway, but he decided against it. He was not a monster, even if many humans thought him one. He released Martin's arm and rose off of him, allowing the considerably fazed human to rise to his feet.

"This Lockwood, he can help me?" Goliath asked him, his voice a little more controlled now.

Martin made a show of brushing off his shirt, now thoroughly creased from his recent meeting with the floor. His glasses had fallen away, and he bent down to pick them up, wiping the lenses of dust with one sleeve.

"It's all I can give you," Martin said. His face scrunched up in agitation, and he shot Goliath an unfriendly glare. "You better leave, gargoyle, before I call the NEAB. They can have a collection team here in minutes, and they'll be more than happy to haul your oversized ass to prison."

"There is one other thing," Goliath said, rearing up on the man. He visibly flinched. "The decryption key. You know of it?"

Martin stuttered on his answer, and Goliath knew then that he was holding out. Again, he grabbed the man, this time by the neck. He threw him against the kitchen countertop behind him, pinning him to the surface. Although his claws would have been more than adequate to slash the human badly, he instead used his free-hand to pull out the largest of the knives from the nearby wooden knife-block. A tactic of intimidation, no less, as Goliath really had no intention of using it on the man.

"An Illuminati decryption key. I was told you may have it. Where is it?" He held the large chef's knife over Martin's face, such that the point of the blade hovered over his eye by a mere inch.

"I don't…" He spoke quickly, fear causing his voice to come out a little higher pitched than he would have otherwise done so. "I don't have it anymore. A courier has it."

"Where?"

"New York. He's going back to New York. It's likely already secured. Other than that, I can't help you. It's out of my hands, literally."

Goliath could see very clearly that Martin was telling the truth. The fear in his eyes, in his voice, it made it all too clear that he spoke truly. Before he released him, Goliath plunged the knife into the countertop mere inches next to Martin's head, embedding the end of the blade in the glazed surface. He then stepped back, allowing the human to stand upright again. Martin was panting heavily, his heart racing.

"You best watch yourself, Martin Hacker," Goliath warned, scowling. "Because if they come after me, I'll find you. And when I do, I won't be so friendly." He turned around then, heading back out for the balcony. Martin watched him leave, the gargoyle's tail swishing agitatedly behind him as he moved.

Goliath went to find the man who would point him to his son. Spreading his wings, he dropped from the balcony and glided over the street again. Behind him, Martin Hacker composed himself before he strode over to the phone and put in a call for his head office. For his part, things had just become a lot more complicated.