"I don't really need to look
Very much further
I don't wanna have to go
Where you don't follow"
"I Have Nothing" - Whitney Houston
07 January 2000
Edinburgh, Scotland
"Have you been enjoying your vacation, Harlan?"
"Yes, sir," replied Earnshaw as he relaxed in the cushioned chair near Ottenbreit's desk. "The last week has been most reinvigorating. I will confess, though, that I'm getting a little antsy. I want to do something besides just drink fine liquor and smoke cigars. Though I enjoy both, they can make you soft and a little activity is good for the blood."
"Good. That is exactly what I was hoping to hear." Ottenbreit smiled. "The reason I asked you to come see me this morning is the time has come to put into action a little plan I've had in the works for a while. It's finally the right moment to put it into play."
"Oh?" Earnshaw leaned forward. "You have my attention." Ottenbreit explained the basics to him. When he was finished, Earnshaw burst out laughing. "That is brilliant!"
"I thought you'd like it," Ottenbreit commented. "I would like you to lead this little venture. Take all the help you think you need. And Godspeed."
"Thank you, sir. This should be most entertaining. I will report back in a few days."
"Excellent. Now get moving. I expect quick action on this."
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07 January 2000
Innsbruck, Austria
"Enjoy the meal, everyone," said Brad Miller. "I hope, at least, that it is the best lunch you have had in a long while."
"I guess we'll find out soon," replied Jasper Marion, eyeing all of the dishes laid out on the table.
"You've certainly gone to great effort to give us a variety of options," commented Tara Ingram, smiling.
"After your challenge a few days ago, I couldn't half-ass it. I had to go all out."
The others around the table chuckled. Gregory Zorig reached for a plate of toasted garlic bread and selected a piece for himself.
"Well, let's not waste our time gabbing about it and letting all this fine food get cold. Let's eat."
There was a chorus of agreement and everyone else helped themselves to platters of food and bottles of wine. As they ate, Honnecker made one comment.
"Be sure to save some for the security personnel. I'm sure they would like to partake of some of this finery, as well, when they get the chance. It may not be as hot by that time, though."
"I took care of that, sir," answered Miller, refilling his wine glass. "I made enough for them, too, and had it taken out to them."
Honnecker smiled at the Watcher. "That was most considerate of you, Mr. Miller."
Miller shrugged. "You've got to think of everybody in times like this or it plants seeds of discontent. No one likes to be left out of a good time."
"Very true," stated Honnecker. "I am sure they were appreciative of your efforts."
"On that note, I must add that I am thankful to have been invited to this little affair," said Scott Moran. "I'll admit that I did not expect it, being your prisoner."
Honnecker's smile remained in place. "We've said so before, Mr. Moran, our hospitality remains in place as long as your cooperation does the same. You have given us no reason to deviate from that."
Moran dipped his head in appreciation and continued eating. When most of the diners had finished with the main course, Miller stood and went into the kitchen to bring in the dessert. He pushed in a cart with a silver covered dish. Standing in front of the gathered Immortals, he prepared to show them his masterpiece. He smiled at his hosts as his hand hovered over the cover, letting the expectation build.
"This, I think, will be the perfect capstone to the meal," he said, lowering his hand.
Gunshots outside the villa interrupted his display. A second later, they heard an explosion. Honnecker stood immediately.
"Petrov, Marion, get Mr. Miller and Mr. Moran to safety. Now. The rest of you come with me."
The gathered diners wasted no time in complying with the general's orders. All of them, per Honnecker's directive, had hung holstered pistols and slung submachine guns on the backs of their chairs on the off chance of an attack. That preparation now saved them valuable time as each of them seized their weapons. Each Immortal also had their swords leaning against the wall near the table. They grabbed their individual blades and slung them over their backs before splitting up.
Miller and Moran followed Petrov and Marion as they led him to a pre-established location, a panic room on the other side of the villa. The room was easily spacious enough for the four of them and could accommodate at least half a dozen more. Marion waited until the two mortals and Petrov were inside before shutting the door and activating the locking mechanism.
"We're secure," he said to Petrov. "Activate the monitors. Let's see what's going on out there."
Petrov sat at a bank of flatscreen computer monitors, his fingers flying over the keyboard. In seconds, the cameras around the compound displayed their images on the various screens. He sat back and huffed.
"Got it," he reported.
"Okay," muttered Marion. "What do we have out there?"
"I see…probably two dozen hostiles out there." Petrov watched the activity for a few seconds. "The outer perimeter at the front is completely destroyed. Looks like all of the guards there are either dead or out of commission. And look at how the invaders are moving. How they're shooting."
Marion eyed the monitors for a few seconds. So did Moran and Miller.
"That's completely different from how General Ashton and the others have reported the Hunters working," commented Marion.
"That's because they are different," said Miller.
"What do you mean?" asked Petrov, looking at the Watcher.
"These are Harlan Earnshaw's boys. I recognize some of them," replied Miller. He pointed at one of the monitors. "That one is Christopher Argyle. He would have just returned from Algeria a few weeks ago. These are the Hunters with military-style training. You're not dealing with amateurs anymore. These are the new breed."
"Oh, shit!" said Marion.
"That's going to be a problem," added Petrov.
Marion gestured to three of the monitors. "It already is," he said. "The general, Zorig, Ingram, Channing, and those six security guards are pinned down behind that wall. Those are other guards from the rear of the compound moving in to assist them," he pointed at the other two screens, "but I don't think they're going to get there in time."
"Isn't there something we can do?" asked Moran.
"Not without leaving this room," replied Marion. "And it's not likely we would be able to contribute much to the fight ourselves."
"Fuck!" exclaimed Moran, watching the monitor helplessly.
"The Hunters are closing in on their position," said Petrov. "And they have them in a crossfire."
On the screen, they saw three of Honnecker's guards slump to the cobblestones, their blood staining the white stones red. The rest of the group rose into a crouch, firing their weapons in short bursts. Half of them bounded back while the others kept shooting.
"They're trying to make it back to the villa," said Petrov.
"It's not working," stated Marion, his tone matter-of-fact. "The other wing of Hunters is rushing them."
"Zorig and Channing are down!" Moran burst. "They're all over them."
"They just got Ingram, too," reported Petrov. "The general is almost to the door."
"Shit!" shouted Miller. "The Quickenings from all the others hit him all at once. There's no way he can get away now."
"They've shot him. He's down." Petrov's voice was grave. They sat silently, watching Honnecker's prone form twitch under the force of three concurrent Quickenings.
"Looks like they won't go near him while that's going on," said Moran.
"Would you?" asked Petrov.
"No, I guess not," the Watcher admitted.
"Look," said Miller. "The other guards are there now."
"There might be some little hope, then," commented Marion. The four of them watched, trembling, for agonizingly long minutes. Slowly, through sheer force of numbers and despite grievous losses, Honnecker's security men drove back the invaders. After half an hour of fighting, the Hunters finally withdrew. The four men in the panic room sat back with a sigh of relief.
Marion glanced at one of the monitors and walked over to the locked door. He entered the code to release the locks.
"The General is coming around," he said. "And we've lost some good friends. Let's go out and help him deal with the mess."
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07 January 2000
Queens, New York
John F. Kennedy International Airport
John F. Kennedy International Airport (colloquially referred to as JFK Airport, JFK or Kennedy) is an international airport in Queens, New York. It is the primary international airport serving New York City. The airport is the busiest international air passenger gateway into North America, the twenty-second-busiest airport in the world, the sixth-busiest airport in the United States, and the busiest airport in the New York airport system. More than ninety airlines operate from the airport, with nonstop or direct flights to destinations in all six inhabited continents.
JFK is located in the Jamaica neighborhood of Queens in New York, twenty-six kilometers southeast of Midtown Manhattan. The airport features six passenger terminals and four runways. Jonny Fairbanks could easily disappear for days in such a massive complex if he wanted. With all the herds of people going this way and that, he would not be noticed at all. That was not his intention today, however. He wanted to get through this menagerie as quickly as possible and onto his connecting flight. His only concern right now was making it past the security personnel without a lot of questions being asked.
He stood in line with the other boarding passengers, British passport in his hand, and waited for the couple in front of him to finish their walk through the metal detector. Fairbanks never liked this part of flights. He always felt naked without at least a knife on him; at the moment all of his weapons were stowed away with his checked baggage. The closest thing he had to a weapon at the moment was a fountain pen currently sitting in a bin with the other contents of his pockets.
The guard motioned for his passport. Fairbanks handed it over and stepped into the metal detector. It did not go off. He exited the machine and began collecting his belongings from the plastic bin while the man examined his passport. The document said that Christopher Ashton was fifteen years old which meant he did not have to travel as an unaccompanied minor, barely, but his size still garnered many suspicious looks from the security men.
"Going back home are you, son?"
"Yes, sir," replied Fairbanks. "I spent Christmas with my uncle and now it's time I got back home to my parents and back to school." He turned on a noticeable hint of a Geordie accent as he spoke to the man and smiled amiably. The guard returned the smile and shut the passport, handing it back to him.
"Enjoy your flight, young man."
"Thank you, sir," replied Fairbanks, taking the passport and moving along. He continued to smile as he walked. The man would be even more surprised if he heard how Fairbanks actually spoke. His real accent was such an odd compilation of sounds to the American ear that he did not sound British, more German, in fact. That was due to his originally speaking Middle English - which was similar to modern German - rather than Modern English. Fortunately, he had learned over the centuries to parrot the sounds of countless accents and could fit in with a multitude of languages when he wanted. Only around his friends did he relax and let himself speak more like his true self.
Now, he thought, I just have to get on this bloody plane and read a book for a while. Just have to wait until I get to London, connect to Paris, and I can link up with Darren and David. Hopefully, I won't have too much trouble finding them.
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08 January 2000
Paris, France
Claude Lebeau was not happy in the slightest. The case was spiraling out of control and he could not see a way to stop it. Bodies were stacking up in the streets and there were still no real leads as to the reasons for the violence or who was responsible. Even the arrests of two wounded men three days ago had not yielded anything of use. Lebeau knew these men were involved somehow but the men were saying nothing, only waiting for lawyers to come to their aid.
"Merde!" (Shit!) Lebeau cursed, reaching for his cup of coffee.
"Est-ce si mauvais?" (Is it that bad?) asked Palen from the desk beside him.
"Peut-être pire," (Maybe worse,) grumbled Lebeau darkly. "Nous sommes sur cette affaire depuis des mois maintenant. Jusqu'à présent, nous n'avons que beaucoup de corps et seulement deux suspects en détention. La seule chose que je vois relier aucun d'entre eux est un étrange tatouage bleu. Qu'est-ce que tout ça veut dire?" (We have been on this case for months now. So far, all we have are a lot of bodies and only two suspects in custody. The only thing I see linking any of them is a strange blue tattoo. What the hell does it all mean?)
"Un culte peut-être?" (A cult, maybe?)
"C'est un culte plutôt violent, si c'est le cas." (It's a rather violent cult, if it is,) replied Lebeau. "Non, je pense que c'est autre chose. Quelque chose de plus grand." (No, I think it is something else. Something larger.)
"Je ne sais pas à ce sujet," (I don't know about that,) said Palen. "Beaucoup de ces gars ont des épées. Cela me semble un culte." (A lot of these guys have swords. That seems like a cult to me.)
Lebeau shrugged. "Peut être. Cela me semble trop simple. Il y a quelque chose qui nous manque. Quelque chose que nous ne voyons pas." (Maybe. It seems too simple to me. There is something we are missing. Something we are not seeing.)
"Pensez-vous que ces deux hommes savent ce que c'est?" (Do you think those two men know what it is?)
"Ils doivent savoir. Sinon, pourquoi demanderaient-ils un avocat si rapidement? Ils doivent cacher quelque chose." (They must know. Why else would they ask for a lawyer so quickly? They must be hiding something.) He sipped his coffee again. "Si seulement il y avait un moyen de les faire parler." (If only there was a way we could get them to talk.)
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08 January 2000
Edinburgh, Scotland
The phone on Ottenbreit's desk jingled softly, interrupted his train of thought. He sighed and saved his work on the computer before reaching for the speakerphone button. Punching it, he kept his annoyance out of his voice as he spoke.
"Ottenbreit."
"Hello, sir, this is Gironelli."
"Emilio," said Ottenbreit, smiling to himself and leaning back in his chair. "How are things in sunny Algeria?"
"Not as warm as I expected, to be honest. It's only 9℃ (48℉) here."
"Oh? That's not much different than here," replied Ottenbreit. "It's 5℃ (43℉)."
"Yeah, I was expecting more of a heat wave than this. It's much colder at night."
"It is a desert, after all, my friend."
"Yeah, I guess so." Gironelli did not sound happy at all with his predicament.
"Don't worry, my Italian comrade," assured Ottenbreit. "You won't be there for long. Once your training is complete, you'll be right back here with us."
"It won't be soon enough, sir," replied Gironelli. "Anyway, the point of my call was to report that all fifty of us, including myself, have arrived safely and training begins tomorrow."
"Excellent. Harlan will also be there in a week or two, as well, to keep an eye on how things are going. It will be good training for you, Emilio. Count on it."
"Yes, sir. I will keep the boys in line and make sure they behave themselves."
"I know you will, Emilio. I have faith in you."
"Thank you, sir.
"Stay warm, Emilio."
"Yes, sir. Have a good day. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Emilio."
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08 January 2000
Augsburg, Germany
Maximillian Honnecker sat in an overstuffed chair, a laptop computer on his knees, and raised his weary head to Jasper Marion. His bloodshot eyes showed the extent of his exhaustion, the result of having taken three simultaneous Quickenings the day before.
"What is the status, Jasper?" he asked.
"Sir, we have transferred all operations cell personnel and activities to this location. We still need to move some of the larger equipment. That will take a few days, but it shouldn't be an issue."
"And security?"
"We're bringing the rest of your agency's security men here under a modified contract to provide security for this installation. That will bring the total number of guards up to one hundred seventy-nine. We're also installing additional equipment to hinder the likelihood of another attack like the one we had yesterday."
Honnecker nodded slowly. Grudgingly, he asked the next question. "And the accommodations for our losses?"
"Petrov is taking care of that. We lost forty-one men along with Ingram, Zoring, and Channing. Another twenty-two were wounded. He is handling medical care and survivor benefits for the families as well as burial. It is all being arranged."
"Good. And what about enemy losses?"
Marion blinked before answering. "Sir, we only found four enemy bodies on the grounds. We don't think the enemy took any of their dead with them. Maybe their wounded, but that's all."
"Four?" gasped Honnecker, stifling a cough. "That's all?"
"Yes, sir," admitted Marion.
"That's horrid," Honnecker groaned. "They massacred us yesterday."
"Yes, sir," said Marion, hanging his head.
Honnecker sighed. "I must report this to General Ashton," he whispered, eyeing his laptop with remorse.
Marion looked up. "Let me do that for you, sir. You haven't the energy right now."
Honnecker waved him off with a hand. "No, it's my responsibility. I'll do it."
Nodding, Marion walked away. He understood. It was the burden of command: taking the blame for the results of your decisions. Also, it was a leader not showing his weakness - in this case, his utter exhaustion - in front of his men. That was also part of leadership. While Marion understood it all, he also wished his commander would also let his subordinates take some of the yoke off his shoulders from time to time. Even great men need help. Greater men recognize when that time has come.
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08 January 2000
Paris, France
Hotel Raphael
David Ashton sat in his suite, letting time pass between Darren Dublin and Siobhan O'Banian. He knew that was the only thing that might mend the awful rift between the two of them. He had done his part to bring them together. Perhaps that would be enough to mellow the Irishwoman's fire and bring her to reason. Until then, he had to stay out of sight and let things happen as they would.
A ding on his laptop alerted him to a new email. Silencing the television, which by now had become much more of an annoyance than entertainment, he opened the message. It was from Honnecker.
General Ashton,
I will keep this brief for I am not in a condition which allows me to send a long report.
Yesterday, my villa in Innsbruck was attacked by Hunters. They were unlike anything we have seen before, much more disciplined and coordinated. They attacked us at midday and penetrated our outer defenses. Over sixty of my security personnel were killed or wounded in the fight. Three of my Immortal personnel were also killed: Tara Ingram, Lawrence Channing, and Gregory Zorig. I was near enough that I took the Quickenings of all three of them. Only the arrival of more security men saved me from being killed, as well. As best as we can tell, we only managed to kill four enemy personnel during the fight.
We were able to repulse the attack and have since relocated to Augsburg, Germany where we are setting up better security. We are fully operational. All phone lines and email addresses are active.
Both of the Watcher prisoners are unhurt and are still fully cooperative. In fact, they are more motivated to assist than before. I expect they will produce actionable intelligence for us in the near future.
I will report more information as it becomes available.
Honnecker
Ashton sighed and read the message once more. This was a bad development, to be sure. His first inclination was to go to Dublin and inform him. He stopped himself. No, this was not the right time. His gaze fell onto a photograph next to the laptop and remained there for several long moments. No, he decided to go to the other two suites and tell Barron and Abjer. He would wait before speaking to Dublin. The Irishman had enough on his mind at the moment.
End of Act 1
