Chapter 12
All Hell Breaks Loose
Thursday, 3:58 PM
"Bloody Hell! That lousy son of a bitch!" Jenny Thatcher was in a towering rage. She screamed over the noise of the helicopter rotors, although the headsets they were all wearing made such volume unnecessary. The pilot did his best to ignore the conversation, intent on flying them to Worcester. There was no chance, though, of that happening. Jen was just too intent on expressing her emotions.
"He knew," she continued on, heedless of whether or not anyone was paying any attention. "Trimble and his entire crew have been working behind my back, trying to derail this investigation. There is no way that Crombey didn't know about that." She shook her head vehemently. She was more than angry – she had been betrayed; betrayed by her own superior, by her coworkers, by everyone, it seemed. She couldn't possibly trust any of them ever again.
Trusting them was the furthest thing from her mind right now, though. She was intent on two things. First, she was going to complete this mission. She was going to find Giles and MacKenzie and she was going to bring them to justice. She was going to recover the Weber Institute's property, and she was going to be bloody hero.
Then she was going to see Crombey and Trimble destroyed.
She had the connections to do it, even if it meant stretching every relationship in her life to the breaking point. That's what it would mean if she simply wanted to dispatch them for political purposes with no other mitigating circumstances. But there were mitigating circumstances – the men had all but committed treason. It would be nothing for her to destroy them.
She would destroy them, of course. They had done more than break the law, more than violate their oaths. They had embarrassed her. They had played her and turned her into a fool. No one got away with that. If it took every ounce of blood she had, she would see them buried.
First things first, though. She needed to get back whatever had been taken from the Weber Institute. That meant that she needed to corner Gretta Stevenson and find out what Rupert Giles had wanted from her, why he had called her and then she suddenly disappeared. She had more than enough evidence to hold the woman, to justify an arrest. The woman was a material witness to a terrorist act. She only had to get to her before anyone else did.
She had acted immediately upon hearing from Miles. She was shocked, of course, that one of her own agents had been kidnapped and held hostage by another team from the same office. However, she didn't let that paralyze her. She had immediately swung into action.
Fortunately, Miles had an extraordinary memory. He was able to communicate what he had found – address and all – over the phone to her. Her next command had been to mobilize local law enforcement. By now they should have the entire place cordoned off. Nothing was getting in or out – especially not Jonathan Trimble.
Her next action had been to order a team to pick up miles and take that stupid whelp Eric Montegue into custody. She had issued arrest orders for Trimble's whole team, including Trimble himself. They had then walked over and taken Darla into custody. She had no doubt that the woman was simply following orders, but that was hardly the issue. She needed to break this conspiracy, and she needed to break it now. It was the only way she could take control of the rest of the investigation. And she was determined that she was going to do that – no matter who tried to interfere.
"How much longer?" she snapped at the pilot. At least the pilot assumed it was directed to him, since he was the only one who could answer that question.
"Twenty minutes," he replied, keeping his tone as professional as possible. She was on an absolute warpath, and he had no intention of getting in its way. "Twenty five at the outside."
She sunk deeper into the passenger's seat, absently biting a nail. Good, she thought. In less than half an hour, I'll have everything under control. And no one is going to stop me.
* * *
Willow swallowed, trying her best to remain cordial in the face of absolute terror. She'd heard the tales of Mr. Gray from Spike. He was … dangerous. She reflected that saying that was like saying that a nuclear weapon could lead to a bad case of sunburn. Mr. Gray was as powerful as any demon – or god for that matter – that they had ever encountered. And yet, here he was, attempting to have what passed for a normal conversation with her.
Mr. Gray cocked his head at her, trying to assess whether or not his words had made any impact on her. She was, to his assessment, nearly too scared to do any good. That wouldn't do – no, not at all. He needed her to follow his instructions, and he needed her to do so without question.
He turned his gaze to the threads of fate, of destiny – the very fabric of reality. He could see how the pattern was weaving. While it was impossible to truly see the future, he could see what was being woven into the fabric of reality, and what picture it would likely form, at least in the short term. To his sight, the 'short term' was the next century or two, which he considered to be quite enough.
The thread of Willow Rosenberg was a bright silver, cutting in and out of the woof and waft of the rest of the universe. She had a pattern she was forming, and Arinoth was attempting to distort it. The man was pulling threads left and right; not the small ones of normal human destiny – Mr. Gray could care less about those – but the silver threads that meant the most fundamental differences in the future.
Mr. Gray couldn't allow that.
In this instance, it meant getting Willow into the hands of three very specific men – men whose threads of destiny were converging on this point in time and space. Those three men, and them only, would make the difference in the thread that was Willow. And she, in turn, would make the difference in the future.
She was being … obstinate. It was a flaw of the species, he understood. They couldn't just do as they were told, they had to negotiate for all the things that didn't matter in the long run. Like the rest of this coven – she wanted them to be kept from harm. In the end, their lives were short, and their threads made no more than the merest details on the fabric of the universe. And yet, Willow was insisting.
Insisting! Could you believe it? It had been nearly a millennium since someone had insisted to Mr.Gray and lived to speak of it. He sighed. Perhaps he was simply getting old, but a thousand years ago he would have annihilated her out of hand for merely thinking of it. And yet, here he was, listening to all of her arguments and passion – all purely intentioned, at least – and wondering what he should do.
Time was running short. Already the local law enforcement was gathering around the farm. The players in this drama – both the good and the evil – would be in place soon. He would need to take action, and that meant getting Willow to take action.
After a long moment, he relented. "All right," he said, drawing the words out of the very depths of his gravelly voice. "We can go tell the others, but they will need to find their own way out. I cannot make a path for you and for them at the same time." It was a lie, he could easily clear paths for both of them. It wasn't really in his interest to do so, though. He simply needed her to cooperate.
Willow nodded, her body still shaking. "Okay, let's go," she said. She turned and left the barn, walking towards the farm house. She half hoped that he wouldn't follow, but when she gave a brief look back, she saw him just a few steps behind. She resisted the urge to break into a run.
They went in through the kitchen door, but no one was there. She knew it was unlikely that they would be. They would be gathered in the living room ostensibly practicing, but more than likely gossiping. She led the way through the hall, but motioned for him to wait while she went in first.
Predictably, all conversation stopped as soon as she walked in. Only Gretta seemed to have the courage or conviction to speak to her. "What is it, dear?" she asked. Willows fingers twisted in front of her.
"There's someone here who needs to talk to you," she said. She was going to add more, but one of the other girls spoke first.
"What are you talking about?" the girl hissed. She had taken an immediate dislike to Willow, and took every opportunity to show it. "No one could have gotten past our wards without us knowing about it. You must be imagining things." The girl nodded her head in triumph, having successfully put the upstart colonist in her place. She was about to add more when Gretta intervened.
"Portia!" she snapped, "That will be quite enough." She turned her eyes on Willow, her voice trying to take a kind tone. "Despite her rudeness, Portia is correct. If anyone had approached the farm, we would've known." She smiled her best smile, but a moment later it fell. Her face paled, and she took in her breath with a sharp hiss.
Willow was alarmed by the sudden change and was about to respond, but a voice from behind her stopped her in her tracks. "Perhaps it would better if I explained," said Mr. Gray, walking into the room.
* * *
Although Ripper and MacKenzie had left well after Jonathan Trimble, the distance between Llandrindod Wells and Worcester was considerably less than the distance from London to the same place. So it was that they were the first to approach the police roadblock just beyond the farmhouse where Willow and the rest of the coven resided.
In their magical disguises they aroused no suspicion from the officers. They were simply given directions around the place they sought. They were careful to explain that they needed to go through that area, but there was no help for it. The tension on the small road was palpable.
MacKenzie and Ripper retreated to their Jeep, in order to strategize what to do. They stood by the doors, bent in conversation. They needed to find a way to get into Willow, but it seemed that the authorities were one step ahead of them. That simply wouldn't do. They had to come up with another way. MacKenzie considered the road before them and fetched a map from the glove box. Perhaps, with the jeep, there was a way through the cordon. They spread the map on the hood of the jeep, contemplating it, oblivious to what was going on around them.
* * *
Ethan Rayne peered deeply into the scrying dish. It was one of the oldest conjurings in the world. A silver bowl, filled with water, within which the caster could view what was happening elsewhere. Ethan had tied the scrying the bowl to the keys which he had cast, and which formed the focus for the magical disguises. By tying to the keys, he was able to spy on MacKenzie and Ripper.
In the bowl, he saw them interact with the officers, and then go over and begin looking at the map. It was the perfect opportunity for his revenge. He only had to act. Ethan smiled. He was going to enjoy this.
Within the circle he had cast, Ethan could invoke the magic he had already laid. The principle of binding had been used on the talismans he had created. He could symbolize them here, and what he did to the symbol would be done to the real thing, no matter where it was. It was the simplest principle of magic – create the model, tie it to the actual, and what was done to one was done to the other. Simple. Effective.
However, the keys that he had made as the focus of his spell would be difficult to manipulate. He had been forced by circumstance to create them in the presence of Ripper, who would have been able to tell if he was doing anything amiss. That was where the subtlety had to be employed – subtlety and careful pre-planning.
Within his circle of power, he took two small loops of string. He hadn't been able to manipulate the talismans he had made, but Ripper and MacKenzie hadn't even questioned the twine he had hung them on. That was a different story altogether. The binding was already complete. He simply had to manipulate them.
The keys had to be hung around their necks for spell to work. He reflected on that fact as he cut the two loops.
* * *
It was a sudden shock for the officer when he looked over at the Jeep and noticed the two most wanted men in the entire British Isles standing there. He could swear – and would, later on – that they were nothing like the two men he had spoken to earlier. Yet there they were, dressed in the same clothes, in the same position looking at the map. But where there had been two complete strangers a moment before, now stood Rupert Giles and Collum MacKenzie: wanted terrorists, armed and dangerous.
For their part, the two men were so completely absorbed in looking at the map that it took them several moments to realize that the odd sensation they had just felt was the their disguise talismans slipping off their necks. It seemed to dawn on them both at about the same time, and they looked at each other in a minor panic. By silent agreement, they started moving to get into the jeep. If they could get going before they were noticed, they could rethink their plan.
The moved as casually as possible, but they had already been noticed. The officer on duty began to blow his whistle, screaming, "Stop! Stop!" That alerted the other officers, and set Mac and Ripper to running. They leapt into their vehicle and revved it to life. Mac hit the gas and peeled, heading directly for the officers.
Ripper grabbed on to a handhold, trying desperately not to panic. Mac collided with the police vehicle that blocked the turnoff leading to the farm. He hadn't needed to tell Ripper to brace himself, his intentions were obvious from the moment they were discovered. They really had no choice – they had to get to Willow before Arinoth did. If the police were here, then it was only a matter of time before the MI-5 arrived. Once that happened, Willow would be on her way to Arinoth and no one would be able to stop it.
The collision had shifted the police vehicle aside, almost but not quite enough for them to pull through. Mac kept the accelerator pressed to the floor, and the Jeep's tires squealed and smoked under the strain. He wasn't about to give in, though. Steadily, over the next three seconds, a space was pushed aside enough for them to pull through. Those seconds seemed to last forever, as officers shouted at them and banged on the door glass with their batons. But at the last they shot through, like a cork erupting from a champagne bottle. The shouting officers were left behind in a flash.
"Good thing they didn't have guns," Ripper commented, his heart in his throat.
Mac looked over at him, his face grim. "They were just there to keep out casual traffic; they weren't supposed to be arresting anyone. They're the outer cordon. In a moment here we should run into Special Section. They will have guns." The British equivalent of a SWAT team, Special Section had formed the inner cordon. They were the ones who were prepared to go in after whomever and whatever was inside. They were only waiting for orders from MI-5, which would surely come as soon as they arrived.
Mac hit the brakes, sending the jeep into a mild skid on the dirt road. He used the moment to take a sharp turn, and then accelerated again. The jeep shot off the road and over a small cow path into the field beyond. The vehicle knocked the gate aside, which wasn't all that difficult considering how ancient and rusted it was. They began bouncing their way across the field, orthogonal to where they wanted to go.
"There's a rise up ahead, not much more than a hillock, but we should be able to go around it and make for the back side of the cattle pens. It'll be a stretch out in the open, and they'll be looking for us, but it's the smallest exposure I can come up with." Mac had been looking through that exact route on the map when their talismans had been magically cut from their necks. Ripper, familiar with the farm, had pointed it out to him, explaining the layout of the farm on the map. MacKenzie had formed that information into a plan. It wasn't a good approach, but it was the least bad. He had hoped that with some more study they might be able to come up with something better, but time had run out for that.
The promised hillock came into view. It wasn't very high, but it was long and ran in a crescent around the southeast section of the property. It would keep them out of view until they broke past the other side. From there it would be nearly a hundred yards before they reached the old dairy buildings. Special Section would be looking for them there. Without question, the other officers had radioed ahead.
Assuming they survived that, they still had to find a way to get back out.
* * *
Jonathan Trimble slowed as he approached the turnoff. Officers were racing about, shouting in obvious consternation. One of the vehicles had been smashed aside. An officer approached the vehicle to wave it on, but Trimble held up his identification. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Those two terrorists – they just broke through the barricade. Special Section is waiting to intercept them on the road." The officer pointed out the direction, which was actually quite obvious. "I thought you guys were arriving by helicopter?"
It took Jonathan only a moment to take in the full situation. If a Special Section cordon was already in place, then they had been discovered by Jenny Thatcher's team. Jen was undoubtedly the person in the helicopter who was coming. Giles and MacKenzie were already here, intent on keeping Willow from being taken by Turcey. That left him mere minutes – possibly seconds – to turn the situation around.
"Listen to me," he shouted to the officer over the confusion and sirens in the background. "The situation has changed. Give me your radio." He gave a quick sequence of instructions to the Special Section team. Then he hit the accelerator and took off down the road towards the farmhouse. He was running a gambit, but he really had no choice.
* * *
No shots were fired at the jeep as it raced around the end of the hillock and towards the dairy buildings. It was clear why – the special section was already on the move. They were closing on the farmhouse as fast as the jeep, armed and ready to take control. To Ripper and Mac, it looked like they had arrived too late.
* * *
Jenny Thatcher's helicopter landed halfway down the access road, close to where Ripper and Mac had turned off. She was expecting to see an entire array of Special Section vehicles and personnel waiting there. Instead, there was only one, with a handful of officers.
Incompetence! she shouted in her own mind. Could anything else go wrong? She leapt out of the helicopter, ignoring the safety protocols and charging up to the officer who was apparently in charge. Behind her trailed her assistant Bryan and Mr. Turcey, who had ridden with her. They were more cautious than she, but quickly hurried to catch up with her once they were out of the rotors' deadly range.
"Where the hell is everyone?" she shouted at the officer.
"Jenny Thatcher?" he inquired. She rolled her eyes and stomped one foot, then glared daggers at him. He waited patiently until she nodded. His hand reached to grip the service pistol strapped to his hip. At the same time, the other Special Section officers lifted their rifles, covering the three of them and the pilot. "You're under rest," he said, his voice steely, "by the order of Her Majesty's Secret Service. Do not move – we have orders to shoot."
Jenny was so shocked she couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to.