Chapter Three – Broken Bonds
"If the Witchblade did belong to me, you can be assured that it would not be on your lovely, little malnourished arm. And you can be further assured that your arm would be a great distance from your body."
Kenneth Irons (to Sara)
For a brief moment, she could feel no pain. Her eyes were closed and heavy with sleep. She was too warm and comfortable to move. She had only just become aware of a woody scent in the air. It took her a while to place the smell…incense. Her mind flashed to her childhood memories spent in the cathedral across from her elementary school. The smell of incense had brought her there. As she shuffled her feet down the aisle, in her school uniform, her footfalls echoed in the large domed place of worship.
"Sara?" Her best friend Maria had whispered her name, hoping to coerce her into a bit of mischief.
"Sara?" She heard her name again, but Maria had not spoken it. Her friend was giggling now. Her laughter wafting down the aisles, past the elaborate wooden carved pews and the angelic images forever cast in stained glass above. Whose voice had it been if not Maria's?
"Pez?" As she opened her eyes, she caught her first glimpse of the angel that had come down from the vivid, beveled stained glass from above. His face was a faint image, for she was nearly blinded by the intense light shining just behind him, casting a halo like effect around his delicate features. Pez? She questioned.
"It's Gabriel." She heard him speak to her more clearly.
She found herself trying to recall her catechism lessons regarding Archangel Gabriel. Before she had made too big a fool of herself, the face of Gabriel Bowman became clearer. His angelic good looks and hazel eyes gazed upon her with such innocence and warm familiarity. It was no wonder she thought she had died and gone to heaven. As she recognized him, a slow smile spread across his face. His long, black hair was tousled around his face as if he had just awakened…of course, he always had looked this way to her.
"Gabriel? Gabe?" She stammered.
She sat upright immediately realizing she was lying in a bed that was not her own. She regretted her decision to move for her head felt like it was about to burst, spilling what was left of her gray matter onto his clean bed linens. Ouch…That was not an image she needed to see this early in the morning.
"Wouldn't suggest trying that again. Here…this should help." He said quietly.
Gabe gently held a bundle of ice cubes in a towel atop her head. The chill sent shock waves through her head and neck but the numbness would soon be a welcomed friend. She put her hand on his, allowing him to pull his cold fingers free of their burden. As soon as he could see some relief in her face, he handed her two aspirins with a large mug of java and continued.
"Noticed you are a bit light on the jewelry today, Pez. What happened? And don't leave out anything on your avenging angel…I saw him leave after he brought you here." Gabe crossed his arms in front of him as he sat near her on the bed. He raised his left hand to his lips and awaited her response in his usual patient way.
Looking down to her bare wrist, Sara had to think about what he was asking…not being very clear on the facts. She remembered being in danger…the shootout…and only vaguely recalled her savior Nottingham. As she closed her eyes for a moment, she could hear Ian's whispers in her ear. Even now, her recollection of his gentle, quiet utterances gave her comfort. Her green eyes opened slowly.
"Nottingham was there…I think he saved my life." Gabe waited patiently as she found her own way to tell the tale.
Holding the ice pack to her head and taking slow sips of her coffee, Sara filled her friend in on the details of the ordeal that had nearly cost her life. As she was satisfied she had conveyed all the salient points; Sara grew quiet and worked on her coffee.
"That's a lot of fire power for one scrawny girl like you, Pez. I know you're tough, but eight guys? Come on…" Shaking his head, Gabe stood and walked to the nearest window, gazing upon a brightly sunny afternoon, a sharp contrast to the previous night.
"Yeah…that bothered me, too." Sara finished her coffee and set the mug on his nightstand.
"What? Me thinking you're scrawny or the fire power?" If Sara had been feeling better, she may have anticipated his strange sense of humor. She normally had a smart remark herself. She made a mental note to zing him another time when she was more herself. Paybacks are a bitch, Bowman!
"The fire power, smart ass…" He glanced her way with an impish grin as she continued. He knew he would pay later.
"I think Irons had something to do with this…but I can't figure out why." She stared absentmindedly at the foot of his bed. "I tell you what, Gabe. I think my ass was a goner…if it hadn't been for Nottingham. The last thing I remember is getting whacked in the head with what felt like a boulder. They could have easily taken me out. He must have stepped in somehow." She puzzled.
"Stepped in? Yeah, I'd say he did just that." Gabe had retrieved the morning Times and dropped the front page on her lap. The headline was calling it a massacre.
"Gabe…I'm going to have to ask you to keep this to yourself for now…until I figure out what's going on. Okay?" She asked.
Gabe trusted Sara. Ian Nottingham was another story. The assassin scared the hell out of him. He considered her request, then nodded.
"Yeah…that's cool. Not sure how I feel about Nottingham, Sara, but I'll let you do what you need to do. No problem." He approached her bedside and grabbed her coffee mug from the nightstand.
"Want another?" He asked…knowing what her answer would be.
"Does Madonna own a thong?" She smirked.
"That's my girl." Gabe grinned and turned toward his kitchen; glad his friend was here with him to enjoy his coffee…and discuss Madonna's lingerie choices.
*****
Kenneth Irons had spent the afternoon pouring over one of his most prized possessions, the ancient text that had first brought the symbiotic weapon known as the Witchblade to his attention. When he was a teenager, he had become accustomed to spending his summers in the Mediterranean at the home of Guillermo Joaquin Quintanilla, a close family friend. Of course, if his family had known just how close a friend he was to their only son Kenneth, they would have had the man shot. Guillermo had been a man of the world and knew many ways to give and take his pleasures. Admiring him greatly, Kenneth was more than willing to be taught the ways of the flesh by the man, despite their age difference. Guillermo proved to be a patient lover and allowed his apprentice many liberties as his confidence grew. With his exploration, Irons learned he preferred female companionship but was not adverse to the new and alternative experiences of offering oneself to another man.
One particular summer, after Guillermo had spent an extended and carnal afternoon pleasuring his young houseguest, he had spoken of his many travels and proudly opened an ancient text prominently displayed in his extensive library. It was Kenneth Irons' first exposure to the powerful weapon that would soon possess him.
Thereafter, Irons had become enthralled with the Gauntlet, seeking every bit of knowledge as to its existence. No lead was too small or insignificant for him to pursue. He chased every eye witness account, seeking every rumor or story that had been passed down through the years. His hunt grew cold at times, and dead ends were prevalent, but his interest never waned. At long last, he found Elizabeth Bronte through a newspaper clipping from the British Museum…and the rest is history, as they say.
The ancient text he now had in his possession was a part of his legacy from his mentor Guillermo upon his death. Prior to the man's untimely demise, Irons had found out his benefactor was going to leave him with a large sum of money, the summer home on the Mediterranean, as well as the ancient text that he had sought so desperately to possess. Of course, it did not take Guillermo long to have a fatal accident soon thereafter. How fortuitous! Irons thought to himself upon hearing of the man's fate.
After spending the afternoon researching the text for any references regarding abandonment of the wielder, Irons found enough to suggest that a wielder in the year 2000 would influence time and causality. And as a result, would be subjected to a great test…a test that would surpass any other coming before her. The text further spoke of the resurrection of a powerful talisman thought to be dormant. He could not interpret whether this Talisman would help or hinder the wielder. Nothing more was said.
What could he draw from this? A dormant yet powerful Talisman shall resurrect? He had thought himself to be an expert on the subject of Objects of Power. Acquisition of the Longinus Lance had been his goal for several years. He believed the Lance to be far more powerful than the Witchblade. Perhaps this is what the text had referenced. He vowed to step up his efforts to acquire the Lance, making it a mute point whether Sara got the Gauntlet back on her malnourished little arm. He would be able to defeat her…preferably leaving her in shame and degradation, smiling at the thought.
The wielder would influence time and causality? He was perplexed over this point but encouraged that perhaps he could be the one to mastermind her test…and perchance her demise if she fails. This expectation pleased him immensely.
Perhaps it was also time to find a replacement for Ian.
*****
After spending a considerable amount of time with Gabriel trying to recuperate, Sara had finally made it back to her loft apartment. Gabe had taken her to Mike's Pool Hall to retrieve her motorcycle before she headed home. She would have expected to feel better having iced down her bumps and bruises and taken several doses of aspirin, but she found herself with an ever increasing headache and a case of the shakes that was disturbing. Her temper had a short fuse also. Loud noises and idle chatter seemed to irritate her to an extreme…as if her brain chemistry was out of whack. A dull pain in the pit of her stomach had started escalating as she unlocked her front door. She found herself torn between chills and flashes of heat that sent her body into a chaotic state.
She had not confided her deteriorating health to Gabriel, for she suspected her need to retrieve the Witchblade with its symbiotic connection to her, had been the driving force behind her withdrawal like symptoms. Not understanding all this herself, she could not admit such a weakness to her friend Gabriel…not yet.
Another thing she could not even admit to herself, let alone her friend, were the circumstances surrounding the abandonment of the Witchblade. She could not face seeing doubt in his eyes for she already had it in her own. There was only one person that had witnessed the blade's betrayal. Nottingham was the only one with which she wanted to speak.
Ian's eyes and his heart would know the truth.
Checking her answering machine, she found several messages…all from her partner Danny Woo. She suddenly recalled that she had forgotten to call in sick today, leaving her partner in a lurch, without so much as a call. Danny had tried to cover for her, but soon was out of excuses. She dialed his number. He answered on the second ring.
"Hey, Danny. It's Sara. Sorry for not calling, partner. I was and still am under the weather."
"I was just scrambling this morning…didn't know where you were is all. What's up with you?" He asked with concern.
"I may have some kind of flu bug. I got the shakes…fever…chills. Not sure. May need to get to a doctor. What's going on? Anything?" She replied.
"I tried your cell. Do you have it off for some reason?" Her partner asked, never having a problem getting a hold of Sara on her cell phone in all the years they had worked together.
"No…I think I must have misplaced it. Can't find it anywhere." Sara knew this sounded lame. The silence on the other end of the line confirmed that. Danny had heard of other officers being careless with their phones on occasion, but this seemed so out of character for his partner Pez. Trying to cut her some slack and give her the benefit of the doubt, he continued.
"Did you hear about the massacre on Lincoln and 47th street? Six bodies, Pez. McCarty and I are working it together until you get back, I guess." Danny liked working with the rookie Jake McCarty but preferred his long time partner Pez.
"Well…count me down and out for now. Not sure when I can make it back." She tried to keep her voice even and steady.
Trying to cover the pain in her voice, Sara's head and stomach had her almost doubled over. Her upper lip and forehead had started to sweat. Feeling clammy and faint, she sat down near the phone to see if this would give her some needed relief.
There was a silence on the line. Danny was confused by his partner's response. In the last three years, Sara had only been sick maybe five days tops…and she was always eager to get back to work, preferring the tension of the job to the idleness of being home sick in bed. Something did not ring true.
"Are you alright, Pez? Is there something you're not telling me?" He asked. She could hear the concern in his voice. Her partner was damned perceptive, too.
"Danny…try not to read anything into this. Can't a girl be sick once and a while. I do get sick leave you know. Lord knows there's not much in the way of benefits to this job but sick leave is one of 'em. Just cover for me until I feel better, okay?" She pleaded.
She could hear a long sigh on the other end of the line…and could visualize the look on his face. She knew he would trust her on this…at least for a while. His concern for his friend and his partner would not let her string him along indefinitely.
"Take care, partner. Call me if you need anything." The line went dead.
She was alone with her thoughts once again. Her link to Danny and the outside world was severed for now.
Standing with a start and spinning, she thought she heard someone whispering behind her…near her right ear. Feeling a presence, she caught her breath, remembering the scuff of a shoe had preceded her harrowing ordeal last night. She could not make out the words…the muffled voices seemed to surround her. She grabbed for her gun and pointed it halfheartedly around her empty apartment…knowing the sounds may be of her own creation…coming from inside her head. She had always associated the voices with the Gauntlet, but with it missing, why was she still plagued by them?
Was she going insane? STOP! Make them stop…PLEASE. She pleaded to no one.
*****
The penthouse office of Kenneth Irons at Vorschlag Industries was massive and hidden down a hallway the length of a football field. The reception area resembled command central for NASA, complete with all the latest and even some cutting edge technology. Irons' office was located to the left of this and secured behind a pair of 20-foot stainless steel doors. The office décor was very spartan, modern and cold…a striking similarity to its occupant. Flat-screen security television monitors were placed strategically around the room with control panels determining the view. The high tech lighting was indirect and made the room appear dark if it were not for the diffused light projected into the room from an opaque overhead skylight above Irons' desk. Being interior to the rest of the prime office space in the building, the room appeared to have the capability of a defense bunker, the last bastion of safety should the building come under siege, complete with its own heliport on the rooftop.
Irons had struggled with his empathetic connection to Sara as she experienced her own living hell without the blade. This had been the case for a good portion of the night, but the bond to her had grown noticeably weaker and by morning was virtually nonexistent. He would miss his union with her. It had a certain erotic and voyeuristic quality to it. He had begun to let himself believe the weapon would soon be back in his hands once again.
Irons had spent the morning at his office reviewing the credentials of his security personnel. After making a few phone calls and soliciting advice, he had selected Randall Briggs from the group. Briggs was thirty-four years of age and had been with Vorschlag for three years in security. Standing six-foot tall and weighing two hundred and ten pounds, Briggs looked like he could handle himself. He was skilled in martial arts and was proficient in weapons…an excellent marksman on the range, at least. He had not been an ideal employee, but his evaluations reflected a person of ambition. Irons had found that hungry employees would do his bidding without question…within reason.
By contrast, Nottingham's obedience was born of his years of training since childhood…Irons' instruction had been stringent and extensive. He had created his faithful servant and a perfect assassin as if from a mound of clay. With cutting edge genetic engineering and chemical enhancements, Nottingham had undergone extensive psychological and physical tests to insure he was the very best. What could not be injected or taught to Ian was what he had an abundance of above all others. The one thing Ian had, that no one else would have, was his undying loyalty and devotion. Irons knew Nottingham would die for him without a thought for his own well being. One could not buy that kind of loyalty. Still, for the time being, Briggs would have to do until Ian returned. He called security and sent for the man. His private line rang.
"Yes?" Irons answered with conceit in his voice…as always.
"Mr. Irons? Dante here. I have some news you might be interested in hearing." The Captain was pleased to provide this little morsel to Irons, trying to get back in his good graces.
Irons had already spoken to Dante this morning, calling off the hit on Sara and initiating the surveillance on the detective. Dante's crime scene investigation made no mention of the finding of any bracelet, so Irons would not have to have to explain to the Captain why he would want to retrieve a piece of jewelry from the evidence room. With the police on the scene only minutes after the shooting spree, Irons was perplexed how the Witchblade could have disappeared until he asked about witnesses. Dante had informed him that several homeless men had been questioned. This bit of information, along with the names of the witnesses, might prove to be helpful, Irons thought.
Dante's little disturbance now, however, better be good, he thought. Hearing Irons' silence, Dante continued.
"Seems the FBI has issued some discreet alerts to law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for your freak assassin. He's wanted only for questioning…for right now. Seems there was an anonymous tip that Nottingham has left your employment…and may be disgruntled. Do you want us to find him? Maybe take him out?" Dante let Irons take this all in.
Irons detested the man's presumption. His referring to Nottingham as a freak was a direct insult to Irons himself, for he had created Ian. Dante never comprehended this. Irons always ignored the slurs but the man was really starting to annoy him beyond reason. Dante and all his men put together could not assemble enough skill to shed even an ounce of Nottingham's blood much less 'take him out' as the Captain so rudely put it. Once Ian was back, Irons wondered if he shouldn't order Nottingham to eliminate Dante and his men just for the sport of it. That would certainly be entertaining to say the least.
Trying not to be distracted by Dante, Irons knew that the FBI had him under close scrutiny for many years…perhaps decades. He had always prided himself on being several steps ahead of them. Now, with Nottingham out of his direct control, the FBI may have found a chink in his armor. Ian could conceivably assure himself immunity from prosecution in exchange for his testimony against Irons, turning state's evidence.
Other men would have been worried over this development, but Irons had no doubts about the loyalty of Nottingham. He had raised him from a child. His training and loyalty were too strong. With the FBI on the lookout for him, this was further reason for Ian to go deeper underground. He could spot a fed easily. No…his son would keep his distance from the FBI. He knew Ian would not betray him.
A stab of paranoia teased at the periphery of his mind, however. After all, he would also never have suspected Ian to be capable of his recent betrayal either, even if it had been precipitated by his own hand. All the more reason to get Nottingham back in the fold. After all, he was family.
"Let me worry about Mr. Nottingham. I appreciate your concern, Captain, but Ian would not betray me. I assure you." Before Dante could voice his retort, Irons disconnected the call. When his phone line showed clear, his secretary notified him of his next appointment. There was a knock on his office door.
"Enter." Irons raised his head and smiled, giving the impression of pleasantness. His subterfuge was similar to the female praying mantis that was more than eager to engage in a little foreplay before devouring her mate whole…while still in the act of copulation.
"Mr. Irons? Randall Briggs. You asked to see me?" The young man had piercing blue eyes and a very forthright approach. Directing Briggs to the chair in front of his desk, Irons began.
"You have come highly recommended, Mr. Briggs. I have a special assignment for you. Of course, this will call for your discretion." Irons lowered his head, tilting it to one side, as if he were about to impart a confidence.
"Of course, Mr. Irons. I have waited a long time to meet you. I understand Mr. Nottingham is away on assignment. I just want to offer my services in his absence." Undoubtedly, Briggs thought his offer was a show of confidence in his own abilities…when Irons perceived it to be cockiness. Nonetheless, Irons smiled, not giving away his true feelings.
"You feel up to that challenge, Mr. Briggs?" Irons waited for the young man to smile, feeling confident, before he continued. "Don't presume too much, Randall. Let's see how you do with this assignment, shall we?" The smile on Briggs' face vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Irons briefed Briggs on his new duties. He would be assigned to recover some jewelry of sentimental value rather than of real worth. Irons showed the young man a photo of the Witchblade as a bracelet. He had explained that a jealous lover, Sara Pezzini, had stolen the bracelet, and that he had wanted it returned for personal reasons. Irons explained that the detective had been involved in the shootout at Lincoln and 47th street and presumably had lost the jewelry from her wrist at that time. Irons also shared the names of the so-called witnesses so Briggs would have some leads. That was all he had to go on.
"Retrieve the bracelet without incident…and with complete confidentiality…and we'll see about your career at Vorschlag. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Briggs?" Irons pressed his fingertips together in the form of a steeple in front of his chin, staring at the young man, making Briggs blink.
"Yes, sir. May I ask a question, sir." Briggs was learning not to be so presumptuous.
"Please." Irons gestured with his right hand, giving the man leave to proceed.
"Am I to understand that the end justifies the means?" Briggs thought he was being clever. Irons had invented clever.
"Yes, Mr. Briggs. You can presume that. In fact, I believe that is part of our mission statement here at Vorschlag…if it is not, then it should be." He smiled, but it was not a friendly one.
As the young man left Irons' office, the billionaire wondered if he would be forced into making another employee contribution to a body bag. Briggs seemed to think he could replace Nottingham…Irons laughed at his presumption. No one would pressure him into replacing his Ian. Since Irons had a hand in his creation, then by rights it should follow that he was the only one permitted to have a hand in his demise. The absurdity of this correlation would have never occurred to Kenneth Irons. It was just his reality.
Leaving Irons' office, Randall Briggs walked more confidently than he should have, wanting to give the impression his meeting had been a success. Everyone had advised him to take it slow with Irons, to try and fly under his radar rather than doing a direct fly by the control tower, as he had just done. They had been right. Irons was an intimidating man…and he had forced Briggs to blink…more than once. Replacing Nottingham would not be an easy task, but Briggs had not always chosen the easy roads in his life. His overindulgent parents had seen to it that he never lacked for anything. Starting quarterback of his high school and college football teams, he was used to getting his way. Failure was never an option. He felt up to the challenge. He had to believe if it came down to face-to-face combat with Nottingham, that he would prevail. Briggs was sure he was the better man. He would just have to prove this to Kenneth Irons.
Having made his choice to displace Nottingham, however, he wondered if he wasn't the proverbial moth flying too closely to the flame. He only hoped scorched wings would be his only concern.
After all, he had a promising career ahead of him at Vorschlag Industries.