Chapter 14
Target: Spike
Sunnydale – May 21st
The Seventh Speaker put down the quill and dispersed the spell that carried its motions across the ocean to the Creator of the Circle. She rubbed her cramped hands – writing with the magic always aggravated her arthritis. Slowly she inhaled and exhaled to calm herself. Not all she had written to the Creator was true. The fact that Spike was still alive was a deliberate omission. If the Creator knew that she had failed in that task, she would have been dead already. The magic that transmitted the motions of her quill to his could be used for more intense transmissions – the kind that killed instantly.
She turned towards the man waiting for her to finish. He was tall, athletic, and wore his blonde hair in a military cut. His steel blue eyes were razor sharp as he looked her over. He wore black – black boots, black pants, and a black turtle-neck sweater. What would be considered fashionable in any Paul Mitchell salon had quite a different effect on him. Every inch of his taut frame screamed SAS Commando – mainly because that's exactly what he was.
Major Tom Sheffield had served faithfully in the service for twenty years, and he was accustomed to dangerous missions with limited information. However, even he was having difficulty with this assignment. Covert operations inside 'friendly nations' were not unheard of, but usually those involved extremist groups. Not once had a mission location ever resembled the suburban town of Sunnydale, or had the sphere of operation involved a bunch of normal-seeming college students. He was also used to working under non-military mission specialists. Usually that involved operatives from one of the main intelligence agencies in the world; never had they resembled the old woman before him.
At first he had read his mission brief with intense incredulity. Magic? Demons? Who'd ever heard of such things? His first thought was that it was a joke; his second that it was a test. But then he had seen what this woman could do, and he'd seen the creatures that hunted the night in Sunnydale. He also reviewed what little records were left from the Initiative, which had operated in this town. In short order, he'd come to accept that he had a job to do here – for England, and for humanity. And, like it or not, this woman, Madame LaFusce, was going to lead him to it, as odd as she might appear and as mysterious as she liked to act.
The Major had traveled here with a team of seven others. They operated in several configurations, but usually in pairs. His own secondary was Captain MacKenzie. The red-haired Scott was quiet and efficient, just like himself. But the Captain was also not so quick to accept everything that was presented to him. He had too many questions to make it much further in the service; some things he just had trouble accepting.
Madame LaFusce was one of those things. "This just dinna seem right, Major," he had said to Tom their third night in Sunnydale, his strong brogue coming through in the hushed whisper. "I know the orders came from command – I just canna believe that this is what the service intended us for."
"You of all people should be used to this," Sheffield replied. "You're the one who's the expert on the mumbo jumbo, aren't you?"
"Aye. And that's exactly why I don't like this. I've met people like Madame LaFusce before. There's no trusting them. Let's just check a wee bit higher up the command chain – that's all I'm saying."
The Major would have none of it, though. The orders were straightforward enough, and they had come directly from Sir Radcliffe. Their job wasn't to question them – their job was to do as the orders said. They had presented themselves to Madame LaFusce as directed, and from there been briefed on the situation. An American Congressman was, in fact, a demon that had escaped the attention of American authorities. The creature would be dealt with by the Slayer – a role the major did not quite understand yet. They were to render all aid and assistance to the Slayer as directed by Madame LaFusce. In the time they had been in Sunnydale, all she had directed them to do was to watch and wait, taking note of all they observed. But now she seemed distressed – something was going on.
"Major, what is the status of your men?" Madame LaFuse asked suddenly, breaking the Major from his stream of thoughts.
"At the ready, Ma'am," he replied automatically.
"When can they be ready for a small operation?" she asked quizzically.
"What type of operation, Ma'am?" he replied. Clarification before Commitment.
"Seek and destroy. There is a vampire on the loose that needs to be removed. I know exactly where he is; I need your men to remove him from the situation." Her voice cracked at the end, as the strain of the situation seemed to be getting to her.
"One hour, Ma'am," Sheffield replied after a quick mental calculation. When she didn't respond to that, he asked, "Shall I give the order?"
Her mind seemed to contemplate the question for a long time. Finally, she nodded. "Yes, Major. Give the order."
He removed the two-way radio from his hip and pressed the talk button. "Mac? Come in, Mac."
A brief crackle of static was followed by the reply. "Mac here. Go ahead, Sir."
"Mac," the Major began, then paused. He was watching the old woman's anticipation, and it sent a chill down his spine. "Mac, we need to go on a fishing trip in one hour. Get'em prepped."
"Roger that," the two-way responded. "What kind of hooks to pack?"
"Stakes," the Major responded immediately. "Wooden ones."
* * *
Fifty-five minutes later, the team was assembled around the briefing table. They were using the kitchen of the rental house in the older section of town, so space was limited. But the men were used to even more cramped quarters without the benefits of such luxuries as a roof or a floor. This was the Ritz Carlton by comparison.
The eight men were dressed in black commando gear, including body armor and ski masks. They each carried a backpack containing gear of all descriptions. More importantly, though, was the weapon selection. Six of the men carried what looked to be shotguns, but which threw wooden stakes at high velocity and packed a clip of eight of them. Two of them carried sub-machine guns. All of them also packed multiple pistols, at least one of which was outfitted with a silencer.
"Now then, gents," Mac began, "the target's name is Spike. He's easy enough to ID – all black outfit, leather coat - and, oh yeah, he comes up negative across the board on the life-signs scanners. The lad's a vampire now, but in two hours he's gonna be just so much dust. These new guns'll be a bit of a challenge until you get used to'em; so just concentrate on herding the laddie into wee corner and we'll pick'em off when we've got ourselves a clean shot. Clear?" The gathered men nodded in acknowledgment. "Okay. Major?"
Sheffield leaned forward onto the table, pointing at the blueprints. "We'll be going in three-two-three. Murphy, Johnson, and Baker will act as perimeter. You'll be Charlie team. I'll take Brody and Cook with me in the front as Alpha team. Mac and Jessup will come in the rear. They're Bravo team. It's a simple two bedroom flat belonging to one Rupert Giles. Mr. Giles is not a target, but if he gets in the way of a clean shot at the vamp we can consider him an acceptable casualty. But I'd rather neither he nor anyone else sees us pay this little visit, so let's make this quick, clean and simple. Got it?" A chorus of grunts replied in the affirmative. "All right, then, let's get a move on. Dismissed."
* * *
Spike looked up from the television as Giles came through the room, shrugging on his coat. "Where are you going?" he demanded.
"Out," was all Giles replied.
"You can't go out and leave me here all alone," Spike squeaked. Then, with some effort, reassumed his mask of bravado, "I mean, not that I'm scared or nothin', but don't you think you should hang around here a bit. There's a bit of football on later, if you'd care to watch. You can make us up some tea and I'll … well, I'll watch you do it."
"What's gotten into you all of a sudden, Spike?" Giles asked perplexed. "Surely you can't be afraid of this jornikof demon. He thinks you're dead. Besides, he's not anywhere near Sunnydale right now." Spike did not appeal mollified. "Besides, I need to go over to Xander and Anya's. We're having a strategy session, and no, you can't come."
"Why not?" Spike asked in an injured tone.
"Because you're more important to us alive," Giles replied calmly.
"So, what's that got to do wit – "
"And if I don't get an hour away from your annoying presence," Giles interrupted, "I'm going to go ahead and stake you myself. Now count your blessings and for God's sake, try to leave me some of the peanut butter."
"If you'd buy an extra jar like you said you would," Spike began, but Giles held up a hand in warning. Spike broke off, then started again, "I'll be quiet, I promise – "
"Spike," said Giles, drawing out the name with menace. "Don't," was all he said, and then marched out the door.
"Not bloody polite if you ask me," Spike said. "And I'll eat all the damn peanut butter I want," he yelled at the closed door, a futile yet still defiant gesture.
* * *
Outside, Giles climbed in his car and drove off, unknowingly under the close observation of Captain MacKenzie. The soldier next to him held a small parabolic dish towards the back window of Giles' apartment. MacKenzie spoke into his two-way with a chuckle, "Did you catch that, Sir? Seems as we could just lock the door and let poor Mr. Giles take care of the laddie for us."
"Keep the channel clear," came the Major's reply. "Let's stick to the plan. We are a go in ten."
* * *
Spike scraped the butter knife around the sides of the nearly empty peanut butter jar in futility. "All right then," he muttered under his breath. "I wonder if he's got some tucked away in the pantry." He walked over and opened a closet door where some spare foodstuffs were kept. That's when the power went out. "Bollocks," he said as he stuffed himself in by the hot water heater looking for the fuse box. The door closed all but a crack.
A moment later, a flash blew the front door open and three armed commandos came through in expert formation. Spike peaked through the crack to see them survey the room. They wore night vision gear and had their guns up to their shoulders. They moved carefully through the apartment. The sound of breaking glass in the back gave testimony to the arrival of others.
If they were human – and they certainly smelled human – Spike couldn't fight them due to the chip in his head. However, he wasn't about to let them simply hunt him down and kill him. On the other hand, they didn't look that dangerous; he'd taken more than one shotgun blast in his un-life. Just as long as they didn't try to stake him, he'd be fine.
One of the men moved close to the closet. They obviously weren't expecting him to be in it. And why should they? Taking a deep breath, he shoved the door open, stepped up, grabbed the soldier and gave him a vicious spin. The shock of pain Spike felt was brief and mild, since he hadn't actually hit the man. The other two turned, and Spike shifted into 'vamp face' to scare them, stepping so as to keep the now dizzy soldier between himself and the others. One of the others pulled the trigger on the shotgun, and Spike was shocked to see the dizzy soldier take a wooden stake in the chest – right where Spike had been standing a fraction of a second earlier.
The first thought Spike had was, "That was a close one." The second thought – the one that came out of his mouth – was, "Bloody Hell!" Time seemed to slow. The first soldier was falling with the impact of the stake, although his body armor had protected him from permanent damage. Spike's rapidly spinning brain grasped just what those 'shotguns' could do, and realized his peril. The third soldier was bringing up a machine gun while the other was pumping the reload action.
Spike turned, moving with agonizing slowness in his own perception. In truth, though, his vampire speed and reflexes far exceeded those of his human hunters. He was off and moving when the first rounds of the automatic weapon began to claw at the walls of Giles' flat. He dodged another stake, mostly by instinct, and grabbed his coat off the hook as he smoothly exited the door. Then he was off and running.
"Charlie team, this is Bravo leader," Mac's voice broke over the radio. "Alpha lead is down and the target is heading for the perimeter. I repeat, the Major is down. Bravo team is in pursuit – cut the undead bastard off!" Mac and Jessup raced out of the apartment in pursuit of Spike while the rest of Alpha team picked up the Major and carried him to the extraction point.
Spike was moving quickly, dodging down alleys as best he could. He knew that he had only a few moments head start. He had sensed the perimeter team upon coming out of the apartment, and managed to angle between two of them with a burst of vampire speed. They were in close pursuit, as were two others. He had to find a way out. He skidded around a corner and raced down another alley. He was just squeezing around some barrels when he heard a voice behind him.
"Hey Spike, I thought I told you not to come down here," the voice said. Spike turned around to see the tall leader of a small vampire gang coming up behind him. "Not unless you've got what you owe me, that is." The other vampires nodded in agreement, ready to join what was clearly a lopsided battle.
It took a moment for Spike to shift mental gears to the situation. Here he was, running for his life from a small battalion of vampire-hunting soldiers, and who should he run into but someone he owed money to. Of course, since that described half the demon population of Sunnydale, he shouldn't have been surprised. He brain ran furiously through the possibilities. "What do I owe you again?" he asked, in large part to buy time but in larger part because he honestly couldn't remember.
"One-fifty. Plus ten pints," the gang leader replied menacingly.
"Is that all?" Spike replied, stunned. Shrugging, he said, "Well, you got me. Tell you what, Marvin, isn't it? Well Marvin, this coat's worth double that. How about I give it to you and we'll call it even?" He slipped off his coat and tossed it to the gang leader.
Marvin was awed by his good fortune. He'd always thought that Spike's coat added a sense of menace to him – a menace that he could inherit if he only had a coat like that. And now, he had it – the key to making himself into more than just a vampire. With this, he could be a cool vampire.
"Go ahead, try it on," Spike said encouragingly. Marvin swung the coat on and smiled at the others in his small gang. "Got to run now," said Spike. He thrust himself through the barrels and around the corner just as the commandos burst into the other end of the alley.
"We have target lock," said Mac as Marvin, wearing Spike's full leather coat swung around to face the newcomers. In seconds, the entire gang was small piles of dust. The coat itself survived as mute testament to the slaughter, itself shot through with a wooden stake and pinned to one of the barrels at the end of the alley.
All would know what had happened to Spike.
