36: Thrill of the Hunt
Finding the estate was easy enough, even during the night. Goliath glided high over the city, heading towards the more luxurious homes that were further to the city's south-west, in the direction of the Everglades. His encounter with Martin Hacker replayed in his mind over and over again, and he once more found himself doubting his purpose here. His son and his woman were in the hands of vile creatures; he had to find them, had to save them. Yet here he was, being sent from one questionable source to another, following on some vague trail towards the Illuminati. He knew he had to remain hopeful, that was a given. However, the longer he spent out here the more that gradually creeping wave of depression began to seep into him, threatening to take hold and plunge him down into that deep, dark abyss of despair.
He preferred to know who his enemies were, and so often in the past it had been clear. Whether that or been the likes of Demona or Thailog or Sevarius, or even the many criminals who roamed the streets of New York City; he had always known who the true 'bad guys' were, which had made Xanatos' change from foe to semi-friend an unusual one for Goliath. And yet, looking back over the years it seemed like the most natural outcome. Was Xanatos out there, trying to find him? He had sent Brooklyn his way, after all, perhaps he was working his own angle in an attempt to help Goliath?
It did not matter if he was, Goliath thought, his mood turning glum. Beneath him, the suburbs began to thin out, much of the quaint homes cast in the glows of the many streetlights that lined the roads. Traffic was at a minimum out here, and there were few, if any, tall structures this far from the city limits. Goliath glided freely, wings spread, his tail serving as a rudder to allow him more precision turns during flight.
The estate was far from any other house, situated on a large tract of land complete with a small stream running through it, effectively splitting the greenery down the middle. The humidity seemed a little more intense out here, with the swamps of the Everglades visible off in the distance, going on for some miles. Goliath descended over the estate, that of a large beige and white mansion situated at the end of a long driveway. The home consisted of two floors, the front bearing with it an appearance not too different to the old plantation houses of the 1800s, albeit one that had been greatly expanded upon and refurbished over the years. There were a handful of lights on about the grounds, particularly around the exterior of the house itself. In that light, Goliath sighted the odd guard on patrol. Private security no less, men dressed in black who prowled the mansion grounds and were no doubt aided by a sophisticated security system.
Goliath brought himself down to the rooftop, landing gently and quietly upon the slightly sloping tiled roof. The central section of the mansion was tiled, but the additional wings to either side were flatter and distinctly more modern in design. Goliath looked about carefully, searching for any sign of danger. No guards were up here, so that at least suggested his arrival had gone unnoticed. Further along the roof, upon the east wing, he saw a small emerging rectangular structure from the roof itself. A door was set within it, and with it Goliath figured was a way inside. By the door were a trio of outdoor chairs surrounding a small table. Upon it were a couple of empty glasses and an ashtray packed full of old cigarette butts. Presumably, the roof was a popular resting place for the occupants of the opulent mansion.
Goliath crept over to the door, doing what he could to remain light on his feet. This was difficult, given his overall size and weight, not to mention the fact that stealth was not entirely his forte. The door was an older metal one, fitted with a fairly ordinary lock. He could not open it from the outside, unsurprisingly. Goliath considered simply forcing it open, an action that would be easy enough for him, although it was likely to make a lot of noise. That was one thing he wanted to avoid for as long as possible.
Instead, he moved over to the edge of the roof, looking down upon the grounds at the rear. There was a guard below, standing in the light of a solitary lamp fitted against an external wall of the house. The man puffed on a cigarette, gazing out onto the darkened grassy field ahead and the hedgerows that bracketed it. Goliath could see from his vantage point the balcony that went around the house at the floor beneath the roof. Slowly, he climbed over the edge, using his claws to grip into the rooftiles and then the wooden weatherboards that cladded this part of the home. Keeping his grip, he hung freely over the edge, before he found his feet upon the rail at the edge of the balcony. He only had to bring his hands down from the edge and around the narrow pillar to his left, before he jumped down onto the balcony ledge. All of this he accomplished with barely a sound, the guard below remaining oblivious to the gargoyle lurking about above him.
The balcony wrapped around the entire house at this level. Goliath checked upon the nearest door, the curtains drawn over the window set within it. This one was also locked, which encouraged the gargoyle to move along. The next one, a little further down the length of the house, seemed more encouraging. The lights were on behind it, and through one window he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be an office of sorts, albeit much more opulently decorated. There was a man inside, slim with dark brown hair, his face bearing a look of serious concentration as he tapped at the keys of the piano before him. The room around the man was adorned with hunting trophies, with the head of a tiger propped up on the wall nearest to the grand piano. A bookshelf packed full of old books was behind a mahogany desk further past where the room's visible occupant was seated. That occupant was playing a slow, playful melody at the grand piano, hitting the keys in such a way that Goliath got the impression he was simply improvising a tune. Were their others inside with him?
Goliath could not see too much more through what little the partially open curtain provided. He reached for the handle, startled to find that it was unlocked. If anyone here was Josiah Lockwood, then it had to be the one in the elegant office, surely?
Goliath took a breath and pushed open the door. He stepped into the well-lit room, the carpet soft underfoot, the various hunting trophies on full display around him. The man at the piano perked up then, his head turning to regard the surprise visitor with something close to a smile. He almost did not appear surprised, at least not until Goliath met the man's piercing eyes and noticed what he took to be a pleasant surprise visible within them. He had not been expecting the gargoyle, certainly, but he was apparently not at all concerned that he was here. Unlike the encounter with Martin Hacker, whom he had pounced upon straight away, Goliath found himself a little disarmed by this stranger's carefree reception.
"I thought I locked that," the man said, his voice carrying with it an underlying gravelly quality. He rose to his feet and stepped away from the piano. He wore a white shirt and black trousers, the collar of the former rendered loose and comfortable. Goliath saw no visible weapons on him or anywhere in the room, at least not in immediate view. The man was alone in here, apparently having been toying with the piano on his lonesome.
"Who are you?" Goliath asked him, the door swinging closed at his back.
"A strange question to ask, seeing as how you just broke into my home." He strode over to his desk, and there he gestured to a pitcher of brown-tinged liquid. "You want something to drink? The scotch I recently purchased is excellent."
"I'm looking for someone. Josiah Lockwood."
The man's eyebrow quirked, his recognition of the name obvious.
"You're looking for him, are you?" He paused, giving his own question some thought for a moment. "Interesting. He was just talking about gargoyles earlier today. You might say he sees your kind as a very serious threat."
"You know him?" Goliath took a few more steps into the office. The door into the corridor was off to his right, and his eyes went to it then, for he half-expected armed guards to come barging inside. None appeared, not at this stage anyway.
"He's a close business associate," the man replied. He pulled off the top of the pitcher and began pouring himself a glass. Goliath's nose caught the scent of the scotch whiskey right away, and he was, in some small way, reminded of home.
"My name is Ernest Portier," the man added, as he placed the pitcher aside. "I run a private security firm. Portier Security Solutions, perhaps you've heard of us?"
Goliath shook his head. The man, Portier, picked up the glass in one hand and took a whiff of the liquor. He cocked an eyebrow at Goliath, holding up the glass in offer.
"You sure you don't want any? It's very good." He took a sip from it then, all while he kept his harsh, piercing gaze set upon the gargoyle. "It's not often I offer a trespasser a drink, but seeing as how you're of a unique breed, I thought it reasonable. You certainly haven't threatened me with harm so far, which again, is unusual for a trespasser. Let me guess: you flew in? Glided down onto the rooftop?"
Goliath did not offer him a reply. The man was right, of course. His knowledge of gargoyles seemed to be a little more substantial when compared to the bulk of the human population, especially seeing as how he had never actually met one in person before.
"Yes, you did, didn't you?" Portier appeared to be sizing him up, taking in the gargoyle's burly form with his calculating eyes. Was he expecting a fight? Goliath would not hurt him if he continued to be this civil, yet the civility of this encounter only unnerved him. He watched Portier carefully in turn, keeping his attention to the man's hands in particular and where they may be moving towards. For now, Portier had one hand on his glass and another absently tapping fingers upon the glazed mahogany top of his desk.
"If you want to find Lockwood, you've come to the right place," Portier added. "Let me guess: your name is 'Goliath'. I think I saw you on television once, many years ago. The gargoyles of Manhattan, heroes or so they said. What happened?"
The question caught Goliath somewhat off-guard. It was such a broad, open-ended question that Goliath was not sure where he would even start with an answer. A lot had happened that had changed not only his life, but the lives of all those within the clan. And those changes had not necessarily been for the better, either.
Goliath had allowed himself to become distracted. The door of the office flung open suddenly, allowing three of the armed security guards to come barging inside. Immediately the gargoyle turned about to face them, anger surging through him at this sudden intrusion. A growl escaped his throat as the three men stood back, keeping their distance. None had drawn weapons, although Goliath saw their hands hovering down by their waists, putting them close to whatever guns they wore.
"I've been meaning to meet one of your kind for a long time, Goliath," Portier said. He put his glass of scotch down, before he walked towards him, stopping a short distance away with his guards on either side. "Now, looks like fate just dropped one of you right into my lap. Amazing, truly. Good things come to those who wait, or so the saying goes."
"What do you want from me?" Goliath asked him, gritting his teeth. These men he could take easily, he knew it and so did they. That meant they had not come in here looking to fight, not unless they were carrying some means with them to level the playing field.
"I'm still deciding," Portier answered.
Another visitor appeared at the doorway then, this one an older man with short grey hair. He was dressed in a red silken smoking jacket, an old-fashioned pipe in one hand. He puffed on it lightly as he entered, his previously calm eyes widening when he sighted the gargoyle.
"Portier, what the hell is this?" He stormed into the room, flaring with anger. Goliath turned to him, realising then and there that this was the man he wanted. Josiah Lockwood, in the flesh, presumed Illuminati higher-up. He certainly carried an important air about him, even one that might be considered 'aristocratic'.
"Just an unannounced visitor," Portier said, glancing the older man's way. "Goliath, the gargoyle, right here in my home. Truly an honour." He returned his gaze to Goliath, offering him a thin smile that, coupled with the man's piercing blue-grey eyes, was hardly reassuring. "What do you think, Josiah? He was looking for you."
"Was he?" Lockwood turned to Goliath, stepping into the room in earnest before he stopped a good few paces from the guards currently before the gargoyle. "Why do you want me, gargoyle?"
"My son." Goliath supposed he should be straight-to-the-point here, there was no use dallying around the subject. "You know where he is. You know where I can find the imps who took him." The look of abject fear that flashed across Lockwood's eyes made it very clear right then and there that Goliath was right. No answer was forthcoming, of course. Lockwood was not the kind of man to spill the beans for anyone, even if the person demanding answers was a seven-foot-tall gargoyle built like a brick shithouse.
"Sounds like some very personal business," Portier remarked.
"He's a danger, Ernest," Lockwood declared, all while scowling at Goliath. The guards were between him and the gargoyle, although Goliath knew he could lunge forwards and break through them easily enough. However, he did not want to kill the old man. Rather, he needed him alive. Lockwood was an Illuminati member, pure and simple. These other people he was not so sure about.
"Where is my son?" Goliath asked, his voice low, his anger simmering on the surface.
"Your son is part of a greater plan," Lockwood replied. "You, on the other hand, are not." He turned to Portier, making a dismissive gesture towards the gargoyle. "Kill him, Portier. He's a threat who could derail everything. Kill him and be done with it."
Goliath saw the guards tense, their hands moving close to their waists. A jacket lapel on one was pushed aside, revealing a black metal stun gun underneath. If he was going to act, he would have to do so quickly, otherwise he would lose this opportunity.
With a bellow, he charged forwards, throwing aside two of the guards with ease. His movements were lightning quick, driven by rage, his eyes flaring their brilliant white. One of the guards was sent flying off of his feet, before he slammed into the far wall and took down with him a framed painting. The other slammed head-first into a glass coffee table, the top shattering loudly, blood erupting from several cuts that were sliced into his face. Goliath was upon Lockwood quickly, one hand clutching the old man's throat before he pinned him against the wall. The impact rattled the whole wall, with Lockwood clasping futilely at the gargoyle's powerful grasp.
"Where is he?" Goliath roared. More guards poured into the room then. Goliath looked into Lockwood's terrified eyes, sensing that he knew the answer. However, something jabbed him in the upper back, and he spun around to watch as Portier stepped away quickly, a satisfied smirk on his face. Goliath released Lockwood, allowing him to fall to the floor gasping for breath. One hand went for the syringe that now protruded from Goliath's back and he plucked it away, seeing that it was empty. Whatever was in it was already inside him, and he wondered then just how bad his luck had to be to fall into the clutches of an enemy yet again.
"What are you doing?" Lockwood scrambled to his feet, his voice strained, hands rubbing at his bruised neck. "Kill him, damn it! He's too dangerous to be kept alive!"
"Kill him, and waste the sport?" Portier stood back a bit, watching as Goliath wobbled on his feet. The gargoyle could feel the tranquilizers numbing him, yet they were not potent enough to put him under entirely. He fell to his knees, the muscles there no longer able to support him. Even as his muscles seemed to give out, he remained lucid, his vision clear and his mind sharp.
"This gargoyle has spirit," Portier added, smiling broadly. "And that's what I want to see. A real fighting attitude. One of the finest warriors history has ever seen, right here in my home. This is an opportunity that I, personally, cannot pass up." He paused then, eyeing Goliath as he struggled to retain his footing.
"I've travelled the world and hunted the most dangerous animals this world has to offer," Portier declared. "Lions, tigers, bears, elephants; everything and anything, I've hunted it. All you have to do, Goliath, is look around this house and see the fruits of my adventures." He sounded proud of this, gesturing to the various trophies dotted about the room. Goliath was on all fours now, his arms barely able to support him. Paralysis was setting in, and a feeling of overwhelming failure was taking root within him. He had failed to protect Elisa, failed to protect their son; and now, he was allowing himself to be caught again, tranquilized like some kind of animal. The entire world, it seemed, had turned against him. Everybody wanted a piece of the legendary gargoyle.
"But you know what is by far the best game?" Now Portier had moved in close, and he leaned down, placing his head near to Goliath's own. He had nothing to fear from him now, because Goliath's arms hung limp at his sides, barely responsive. "The best game, Goliath, are human beings. People. There is nothing more thrilling than that of the hunt, especially when that prey is as smart and as dangerous as you yourself are. Animals are one thing, but people are, as they say, the most dangerous game. I have organized such hunting parties all over the world, in places where these kinds of activities are easily hidden: Chechnya, Bosnia, the Ukraine, Syria, Yemen; war-torn nations where a hunt can be carried out unnoticed, as just another dash of chaos amongst the confusion of war. There are many people who pay good money to be involved in something like that. Not all of my wealth has come from running a private security firm, oh no."
"What do you want?" Goliath tilted his head up as much as he could, holding Portier's gaze all while trying to stave off the impending paralysis.
"You're an opportunity, Goliath," Portier replied. "I know Mister Lockwood does not approve, but this is my home, and you are something I cannot simply dispose of. A gargoyle, the most famous one of them all, comes into my home as if sent by God. More than a human being, and all of the people I've hunted have been those with the skills and experience necessary to put up a fight. War veterans, former police officers and the like; but you, you're more than that. Stronger than any human, yet just as intelligent. You, Goliath, will be the best hunt I've ever conducted."
"I'm not…" Goliath struggled to form a cohesive sentence, as he struggled to work his vocal chords. "I'm not here for your sport."
"This is ridiculous," Lockwood interjected, eyes wide with outrage. "Just kill him. Give me a damn gun and I'll do it right here, right now." He looked about the room at the others, his attention flitting over the guns the guards wore and then to Portier, who regarded him with an almost pitying look.
"You're a guest here, Lockwood. Remember that." Portier's voice became stern. He was laying down the law here, making it clear just who was in charge.
"And you work for me, Portier. Which is why I say you're making a grave mistake."
"Goliath is my problem now, not yours. You're free to go and do whatever it was you were going to do." Portier spoke dismissively, apparently unimpressed with the old man's intentions. "Don't try and undermine my authority within my own home." There was a thinly veiled menace to this statement. It was a threat, one that told Lockwood that he was best to keep his mouth shut and his nose clean in this instance. Portier, it seemed, did not care much for the Illuminati hierarchy.
Lockwood realised he was outnumbered here, for all the guards were glaring at him now.
"You can't seriously think of making sport of him," Lockwood added, sounding a little more dubious now. "He can fly. How is that going to make for a fair game?"
Portier appeared to consider this for a moment. Scratching at his chin thoughtfully, he suddenly turned and went over to the far wall. From there, he picked up an old cavalry sabre that had been hanging upon the wall, just another display piece. Evidently, the blade was still razor sharp, and Goliath saw it glinting in the light, the surface polished to a reflective sheen. His arms collapsed under him then, leaving him paralysed yet awake, his wings hanging limp against him. As Portier advanced upon him, he realised very quickly what the man intended to do.
"We'll level the playing field a little," Portier stated. He stopped by Goliath, and there he nodded to the guards nearest to him. Two of them grabbed one of the gargoyle's wings, pulling it up and stretching it. What surprised Goliath the most was how little he felt of this, even though now his heart was pounding in his chest. The thought of what they would do to him, it was almost too much to bear…
Portier slashed up the gargoyle's wings with ease, working the blade with a finesse that spoke of considerable familiarity with swords. What irked Goliath most was the fact that he did not feel any pain, that instead all he could feel was the sensation of blood spilling forth, going down his back and pooling upon the carpet around him. He could not see what had been done to him, he could barely even feel it. What he did feel was a mounting despair, that the wings that had made him what he was were being crippled all while he could do nothing but lie still, paralysed.
Portier lowered the bloodied sabre after a moment, seemingly satisfied with his work. The gargoyle still had his wings, but they were marred with enough fleshy, bloody slashes as to be useless. He was aware of the creature's capacity for tissue regeneration whilst in its stone-encased hibernating state, but even that would struggle to repair this damage for some days to come. He had considered cutting the limbs off entirely, but he had decided against it. Not even he would be so cruel. What he wanted was an even playing field; he could not have the prey flying off to safety, yet he did not want to cripple him so badly as to unbalance the game further.
"You happy now, Lockwood?" Portier spun about to face the older man. Lockwood said nothing, he simply offered an irritated frown in reply before he spun about and left the room. Portier watched him leave, feeling some small amount of satisfaction at having gotten his way. Lockwood had the resources, but here in this place Portier called the shots. And if Lockwood had no need for the gargoyle, Portier would happily take him off of his hands.
"Restrain him, and make sure it's done properly," Portier ordered, looking towards the four guards who stood surrounding the paralysed gargoyle. "Lock him in the shed by the stream. I have some important calls to make. And keep him under guard. Lockwood might pull a stunt if we leave him unattended." He would be bringing everyone in on this one, every contact he had within the country at least. Previous clients who had paid well to have the opportunity to hunt a human being, clients who would be more than happy to pay more to hunt a gargoyle. This would be the greatest hunt of them all, and they were a stone's throw from the premium hunting grounds that were the Florida Everglades.
Goliath's arms and legs were tied together with several layers of rope. The guards were taking no chances, and it took about five of them to carry him out of the room. He could do nothing, say nothing as they carted him away to further captivity, trailing blood from his shredded wings. All in the name of some sick, twisted game. A game that Goliath had unwittingly become the very goal of.
Arnold Van Rensburg was a reliable man; Lockwood knew this much from past experiences with him. There was a reason why Portier had elevated the former soldier to his closest associate over the years, not to mention his military record from his years in the South African special forces made it clear he had all the skills necessary to carry out the work required.
The same reliability could be found in the younger Shane Austin, if somewhat untested in his case. Both of these men he found in the living area of Portier's estate. He strode into the room to find the two men lounging about this late evening, the television on in one corner with Austin's gaze fixed upon the tennis game being broadcast. Rensburg had a disassembled shotgun upon the table in front of him, and he was lovingly cleaning and polishing the various pieces.
"Gentlemen." Lockwood stopped before the pair, causing both to look his way. "I need something done. A loose end, if you will."
This statement caused Rensburg's eyebrow to quirk noticeably. Austin appeared less enthused, but listened carefully nonetheless.
"An old associate of mine may have inadvertently leaked information about my whereabouts to one very disgruntled gargoyle," Lockwood explained. "I need him found and dealt with."
"Is that what all the commotion was upstairs?" Rensburg asked.
"More or less. Your boss seems intent on playing around with his newest acquaintance. I, on the other hand, need this mess cleaned up. The associate I need dealt with is in Miami, and he was sent here by my own superiors to spy on me. Basic procedure by the organization, but in this case he has evidently been compromised." Lockwood saw no other way in which Goliath had been able to determine his whereabouts. Also, he could not allow the organization to know of his intentions to break away from them once he had the package in his possession. So, these private contractors (in the form of Rensburg, Travis and the others under Portier's employ) would be a somewhat 'clean' method of doing away with the leak. And, if his superiors learned of his involvement in the killing, he could easily claim (and provide evidence in support) that this associate had been compromised. By having him offed, he was simply cleaning up a mess and sparing the Illuminati from any fallout.
"It's Martin Hacker. I know you know him, Arnold. He's been on my tail for some time now, keeping an eye on my activities. He would have been the one to leak my whereabouts to the gargoyle. No one else in this city would have done it, and regardless I'm going to need to get rid of him if I'm to protect my own interests in this ongoing affair." Lockwood recited all this with a casual air. Martin Hacker was a fly in the ointment, one that threatened to grow into something much more dangerous. With Portier's people, he had an avenue to prevent that mess before it even formed.
"I don't know where he is right now, exactly, but I'm sure you can find him regardless. As always, you will be paid handsomely for your services. I will send you his details. Use whatever means necessary to close this loose end."
Rensburg nodded, a cruel smile playing across his lips. This sort of business was right up his alley. Austin, on the other hand, appeared far more measured. To him, this would be little more than a business transaction, nothing more.
"When do we get started, Mister Lockwood?" Rensburg asked.
"Right now, preferably."