TITLE:
Darkest Before Dawn #43 "The belly of the beast"
AUTHOR:
Nmissi
PART: 43/?
RATING:
R (For Series)
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,
what makes you think I'd share him with you?
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's
going.
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.
The security guards were no problem. He walked past
them at a brisk stride, and no one even looked up. But the hallway was filled
with people coming and going. Wolfram and Hart was a large and profitable law
firm, doing business worldwide. Hundreds of people poured through those glass
doors every day.
He headed for the rear elevator, as per the map Lindsay'd
drilled into his head, and encountered no resistance when he punched the
correct floor without benefit of the correct fingerprints.
Stepping from the elevator, he passed a group of women in
nice suits. They didn't seem to notice him, so he proceeded to the correct hallway.
When prompted for a voice ID, he pushed the button on the
small device in his pocket, and Lilah Morgan identified herself for the
computer. The electronic doors swung open, and Spike moved through them.
The archives should be located in the back office, on the
right. He headed that way purposefully, the new black leather attaché case in
his hand lending weight to his cover.
Lindsay's suit was more cover. It itched, and the slacks
were a little bit too loose through the middle, but otherwise it fit him well
enough.
He passed a full-length mirror and caught sight of his
profile with relief. He appeared to be another young up and coming law-type,
just another employee. Just as he should.
He walked right into the archives, and smiled at the
pretty receptionist as he entered the room.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
He gave her his most Williamesque smile.
"I certainly hope so."
He put forth his hand, and announced himself.
"Debrett. From accounting. I need some financial records.
Nothing major, you understand. Billings, mostly."
He smiled sheepishly.
"That time of the year again."
She laughed, and smiled back at him.
"Oh, yes. Tax season. My favorite time of the year."
She showed him to where the tax records were kept in hard
copy, and then left him alone.
He put the briefcase down, and popped its latches.
Carefully he removed the pistol from within, placing it inside the waistband of
the slacks, under his belt. He pocketed the ammo, and rechecked his other
weapons. Stakes, grenades, and crossbow. All fine, and ready to be used if the
opportunity warranted it. A small handheld tazer he slipped into his other coat
pocket. Then he removed a yellow legal pad and an empty file folder, then shut
the case and locked it.
Slowly he moved out of the financial records, heading for
the rear wall. He caught sight of the security cameras mounted at the corners
of the large room, and hoped Lilah was correct about having disabled them.
Lindsay had minimal knowledge of this area,
but Lilah had been more helpful. Early in her career, she'd done many hours of
research in the firm's archives.
A computer terminal under the window greeted him
cheerily, a screensaver of swimming fishes moving before him. He sat down
before it, and said a quick, silent prayer.
'Hey, you. God. S'me again, Spike. Er…William. If you
could be so good as to help me do this and get the hell out in one piece, I'd
be much obliged. If its not too much trouble."
Then he started working the computer system.
It'd been some time since he'd had good access to a
network, but fortunately Wolfram and Hart's mainframe was as old and revered as
its name. He knew the ins and outs of such a system well, and within minutes he
had filenames of an inventory for the archives.
Then he was prompted for a password he'd already located
in the machine's files, and supplied it.
The rear wall slid away, and a dark stone stairwell with
metal torches came into view. An antechamber held a small shelf, with several
boxes on it. He rose from his seat, and moved into the passage. He carefully
selected a pair of rubber gloves from the box on the shelf, observing the rules
clearly posted on the wall above. Then he took a torch from the wall, startling
a bit when it ignited instantly for him.
He descended into the darkness, wondering what the hell
he'd gotten himself into this time.
It was a long stone stairwell, winding down deep within
the earth. His heart thudded in his ears, and his mouth tasted like cotton, as
he made his way.
In his ear he heard nothing. Either the earpiece wasn't
working, or they had nothing to report to him.
Finally he came to a long hallway, as unlike the
stairwell as possible.
It was white, resembling nothing so much as a hospital
corridor. It was lined with doors, and each door had a number designation on
it. But they were not in order, it was not "1, 2, 3", etc…rather one door
displayed "7860", while its neighbor was labeled "6".
Horrible memories of the initiative complex made his
breath come short.
'Relax, mate. Relax. Nothing will give you away so badly
as fainting on their floor."
He tried the doors, but they seemed to all be locked. He
felt inside his pocket for his lockpick, a last minute addition to this
morning's arsenal, and was glad again Gunn had suggested it.
He picked the lock of the first door on the right, and it
swung open, revealing a storeroom. The walls were lined with books.
He'd never find it this way. His heart sank.
But he moved into the room, anyway, his eyes darting
around for telltale clues. The prophecy was very important, and whatever it
was, it had inspired recent activity in multiple accounts. So Said Lilah, and
so he believed her. Surely it would be more noticeable then.
He commenced his search.
The room held books on the occult, of various ages. Some
of them appeared to be no less than ancient; paper scrolls flaking in his
hands, in languages he could never hope to read. Some of them were written in
dark ink that resembled blood, and he noted with distaste the feel of a strange
sort of vellum that bound some of the better-preserved tomes.
He'd seen it's like in Nazi Germany, and he shuddered.
It looked as if Wolfram and Hart had lain hands on the
holdings of the Library of Alexandria. He pondered for a moment the Council of
Watchers, and wondered what price they would pay for access to this quantity of
occult literature.
He was stumbling blindly through medieval texts, and
records on the early Inquisition, when he became aware of a presence in the
room with him.
He turned slowly, a parchment still in hand, and regarded
the mild mannered man behind him.
"Can I help you to find something?" he asked, but his
voice was not friendly, not helpful. Instantly Spike knew this man to be
dangerous.
"Just having a look-see." Spike smiled maliciously back at
the fellow, who touched something on his wrist and spoke too softly to be
heard, before turning back to him.
"Backup has been called. But I think I know why you're
here."
Spike's voice lilted with anger.
"Do you, now? I wonder."
The gentleman smiled kindly.
"You're looking for the millennium prophecy, I gather."
Spike just watched him. Then men dressed as police
officers began coming into the room. But they were armed with wooden stakes and
tazers, which were not regulation police gear the last time Spike checked.
Well, anywhere but Sunnydale, anyway.
The gentleman was still smiling, and as the armed guard
surrounded Spike he noticed the rip in the older man's throat.
"So sorry I failed to introduce myself. My name is
Holland Manners." He said softly. Then he enquired quite politely, "And who
might you be?"
Spike gave him a "Big Bad" grin.
"I'm nobody special."
Then he went into action. He kicked the legs out from
under the nearest guard, and managed to snag his tazer. Then he tazered two
more of them, stepping on their prone bodies as he hastened to reach the door.
One of the guards managed to get a purchase on his
shoulders, and a second rammed a wooden stake into his chest, puncturing his
lung. He gasped for air, bleeding, as he broke the second guard's neck.
"He's human," somebody said.
Manners voice was pleased.
"Excellent!" he said.
It took four more men to restrain him, but Spike finally
went down amid kicks and punches, and the occasional tazer.
"Get him up, boys."
He was lifted, and hung between two guards. They shuffled
him over to Manners.
His hand came up alongside Spike's cheek, pinching it
gently.
"You wanted the Millenium Prophecy, yes?"
Spike was too wounded to argue, too wounded for a cutting
reply. He hung there wordlessly, desperately clinging to consciousness.
The man turned, and they followed him into the hallway,
then down the corridor.
He stopped at a white door labeled "7890a", then ordered
the men to stand back, as he produced keys and unlocked the door.
His hand on the doorhandle, he turned back to Spike.
"I think we can oblige you in your search."
Spike summoned his strength enough to mumble a question.
"It's in there?"
Holland nodded.
"Yes. We keep the Millenium Prophecy in here, under very
tight supervision."
He opened the door and the guards threw Spike inside,
upon the floor. Then they closed the door and locked it.
He sat up in the darkness, looking around.
This room was unlike the other. Not a library, not a
storeroom, this was a cell. The floor was dirt, the walls smelled of dank mold
like the staircase. And somewhere in the room, on the far side of it, he heard
a familiar snuffling sound.
Weeping.
Then the laughter followed it, and he choked on his words
as he called out pitifully to her.
"Dru?"