Chapter 13
Run, Run Away
Thursday, 4:20 PM
"Spread out, detain everyone. Find the American." Jonathan was shouting orders to the Special Section team, who had moved in to surround the house and barn. They moved out, dressed in body armor and masks, carry heavy infantry weapons. They moved forward with absolute precision, leapfrogging precisely, always keeping weapons to bear. Five men moved towards the front entrance to the house, another four to the back. Six moved through the yard to the chicken coop and the barn. Still others formed a perimeter around their personnel carriers and jeeps.
Jonathan paced back and forth, anxious about finding the girl before his bluff came crashing down around his ears. It was only a matter of time, he knew; he had a handful of minutes – possibly less than that. Everything depended on finding Willow Rosenberg and getting out. If he could, Giles and MacKenzie would come to him. Then he would have everything he needed to unravel this mess.
As he paced, he tapped out a text message on his wireless phone: 'Operation Compromised. Go to ground.' He sent it out to the distribution list for his entire team. Then, when no one else was looking, he tossed the phone away. That device was now compromised. It was the phone he had been issued by the agency, and they would be able to locate it at will.
They had probably located him with it while he was still driving, no doubt expecting to capture him here. He had arrived only moments ahead of them, and the lies he had told the Special Section unit were designed to simply buy him time. It wouldn't buy him much, but if he got out of here with the girl, that's all he would need.
* * *
Sergeant Brock Burgess eased through the barn door slowly, his weapon held at the ready. The muzzle was pointed down, not directly at the ground, but not held straight out, either. In a snap he could bring it up and to the ready, but holding it up too high would give him away as he came around a corner or near a doorway.
He was nervous, only a fool wouldn't be. These were dangerous situations. No one knew what they might encounter, how many men might be waiting for them, or how heavily armed they might be. Each step might be his last. But Brick was a professional, and that meant not letting the fear paralyze him. It meant doing his job, in the face of all the fear, following procedures and keeping his attention from wandering.
He eased into the darkness of relative darkness, his ears straining for any sound while he paused to allow his eyes to adjust. He took another step in, the ambient sunshine making the area darker than the outside, but by no means dark. Step by step, disappearing from the view of his support, just on the other side of the door. They were waiting for him to click his comm, to let them know he was positioned for the next officer. Then he heard a noise that froze him, something more frightening than click of a weapon or the tick of a bomb. He heard his name.
"Stay where you are, Mr. Burgess."
Brock froze, a trickle of sweat flowing down from his temple. His heart beat stronger and louder than it ever had in his life. He'd been called many things by the people he'd gone after, but all them had been generic, rude terms. Threatening, yes; but not personal – they'd never been personal. Hearing his own name sent a fear through him like he had never imagined. They knew him – knew his name, knew God only what else. He waited, not knowing what else to do, waiting for the situation to reveal itself a little more fully to him. Then a figure walked into view and he'd wished desperately that the situation had remained a mystery.
The … thing! – he could only call it that – was made of shadow and fire. And wore an immaculate suit. Its eyes glowed coolly, but everything else seemed to absorb the light around it. It walked into his field of vision, every movement oozing 'casual', and regarded him almost absently. It lacked features of any kind – only those glowing eyes – and yet Brock knew for certain exactly what its emotions were. It was indifferent to him – indifferent to whether he lived or died.
"Now then, Sergeant," the thing said to him, its voice chilling him like a grave, "speak to your radio, and ask for Mr. Trimble to come in." It waited, but Brock was too terrified to comply. They eyes flashed in irritation, and it flicked his hand at him.
Brock found himself speaking without any conscious volition. His mouth was moving, his voice speaking, but he was not consciously doing it. "Bring Mr. Trimble to the barn," his voice said. "Everyone else, stand clear."
A voice returned in his ear, clearly concerned. "Sergeant, that is not procedure. Stand clear, we are coming in."
"Don't do that!" his voice snapped back. "I repeat, stand clear. I need Mr. Trimble, but everyone else should stand down."
"All right, Sergeant," came Trimble's voice over the radio. His response effectively overruled any other orders that might be forthcoming. "I'm coming in."
The door edged open, and Jonathan Trimble stepped into the barn. He took in the sight of Mr. Gray, and froze – half-in, half-out. For the first time in this case – for the first time in his life – he considered the possibility that the magic obsession of the Weber Institute and the others in this case were not so far fetched. He considered the possibility that he was going to need magic in order to get out of this.
"Come in, Mr. Trimble." The voice was chilling, but Jonathan didn't dare resist. He was running out of time. He stepped fully into the barn. "Mr. Burgess, you can leave now. I would tell the others to back away … quickly."
To his credit, Burgess didn't immediately comply. He looked to the MI-5 agent, knowing that it was his job to protect him. He was terrified, but he wouldn't leave the agent unprotected, even if it meant endangering not only his life, but apparently his soul, as well.
"Do as he says," Trimble ordered. "I'll be fine." It was a bold statement, one which he had no way of knowing whether or not it was true. His logic was two-fold, though. This creature wanted them to be alone, and he was unwilling to jeopardize his most promising chance at getting hold of the girl. He also knew that it was only a matter of moments until his deception would unravel, and he didn't want to be standing around with a heavily armed officer who could easily arrest him when that happened.
* * *
"Let her go," ordered the officer as he set aside the wireless phone. "She's the real agent." The rest of the team lowered their weapons. "We're sorry – "
"Shut up, idiot," Jenny Thatcher shouted back. "Let's go get that traitor." She stormed past him and climbed up into the passenger's seat of the personnel carrier. The others were quick to follow her lead, and within seconds they were tearing down the road towards the farmhouse.
* * *
"What do we do?" Ripper queried as they watched Sergeant Burgess back out of the barn. "That must be where she is."
"I'm working on it," MacKenzie replied.
* * *
"Come forward, child," Mr. Gray said. Willow crept out from behind one of the walls, clearly nervous. Mr. Gray motioned her forward, and was pleased when she complied. Oddly enough, he actually liked her. That had never happened before, and he found it … distressing. He shook his head slightly, clearing his thoughts.
"Willow Rosenberg?" Jonathan inquired. She nodded. "My name is Jonathan Trimble, I work for Her Majesty's Secret Service." It was meant to be reassuring, but he wasn't sure if it really accomplished it.
"Uh … hi," she managed to squeak out.
Mr. Gray turned his attention back on Jonathan. "In a few moments, you will be given an opportunity to escape this trap. It will require my direct intervention, which is not something I am particularly pleased about. However, it cannot be helped." He paused here, inviting comment. Neither Jonathan nor Willow was foolish enough to do so. "Over by the dairy buildings there is a jeep containing two men, both of whom are familiar to Miss Rosenberg. When I tell you to, you will run to them."
"We'll never make it," Trimble replied. "There's two dozen armed men out there." Mr. Gray shot him a look. If looks could kill, Jonathan thought, then realized that in Mr. Gray's case they just might.
"They will have other … distractions." The statement, coming from Mr. Gray was well beyond ominous. Willow gulped audibly.
Jonathan opened his mouth to ask another question, but he was interrupted by a shout from outside. "Jonathan Trimble, you bloody traitor, come out now or I'm ordering them to shoot." Jenny Thatcher was in rare form.
Mr. Gray looked at them. "Be prepared to run." He walked to the barn door and raised his hand. "And Miss Rosenberg, remember all we've talked about. Now … go!"
Outside, Jenny Thatcher waited, her toe tapping on the ground. She was absolutely itching to blow Trimble into his next life. She checked her watch, noting the motion of the second hand. She wasn't going to give him a chance to come up with some daring plan of escape. She wasn't going to give him any time at all. She turned to the Captain on duty, preparing to give the order to fire.
Then the front of the barn exploded.
Two stories high, forty feet wide, and made of weathered hardwood. One moment it stood as a picture perfect sample of times gone by; the next, it was a hailstorm of splinters. None of the officers escaped. For the most part, body armor caught the projectiles, but enough of them caught bare skin or thin coverings to render a dozen cries of pain and splatters of blood.
Jenny Thatcher and Mr. Turcey were both hit, the sharp wedges of wood catching them like knives. Turcey was caught in the arm by a wood splinter nearly nine inches long. It embedded deeply in the muscle tissue, spinning him around and slamming him into the side of the personnel carrier. Jenny caught a glancing blow across her ribs. It was enough to draw blood, and she screamed – more in frustration than pain.
Jonathan grabbed Willow's hand and began pulling her towards the dairy barns. She was distracted by what was happening, eyes wide and in horror. Jonathan knew he couldn't allow himself to be distracted. This was their opportunity to get away, and he couldn't allow himself to miss it. He pulled her, and she ran, but her eyes were still focused on what was going on behind her.
"Here they come!" shouted Giles, pointing at the two fleeing figures. He needn't have bothered. MacKenzie was accelerating the jeep towards them, hoping to swing around and pick them up before the officers recovered. He didn't think he had a chance, but he had to try.
Mr. Gray walked forward, a blue ball of fire blazing in the palm of his hand. He waited for the officers to recover, to begin getting their bearings. He didn't want to waste a moment by acting too soon. He knew when the brains of the officers began to engage back, he could read thoughts so close to the surface. It was seconds – less than seconds – and they began to bring their weapons to bear. Mr. Gray dropped the ball of blue flame on the ground.
It disappeared into the Earth, but emerged again less than a heartbeat later. It erupted in two dozen places, beneath each officer and each vehicle. It wasn't lethal – not directly, at least. It was, however, devastating.
Jenny Thatcher, already injured and bleeding, felt the world beneath her erupt. She was spun into the air and slammed to the ground. The impact jarred her into near unconsciousness, stars swimming before her eyes. She couldn't breathe, the wind knocked out of her. Her ears rang so loudly she couldn't hear the shouts and cries of the men around her.
She turned, looking around her. Every vehicle was in flames, every man lying wounded and unconscious. And just beyond the smoke and haze she saw Jonathan Trimble leading a young woman at a dead run, heading towards an approaching jeep. They were getting away. Damn him, she shouted, but her voice was so hoarse that nothing more than a croak emerged.
Mr. Gray turned away and walked off, leaving behind the destruction. The threads of Arinoth and his servants were beginning to unravel. It was satisfactory. He reached out and took hold of a doorknob that only he could see, and pulled open a door in the fabric of reality. Floating in the air was an expanse of deep space, stars sparkling in odd juxtaposition to the fields. He stepped into it as casually as a normal human being might step into a room, and then closed the door, erasing himself from view.
MacKenzie slid the jeep in front of Willow and Jonathan, yelling for them to get in. He wasn't sure who the man was, but he was helping Willow, so he took it as a good sign and let him enter. As soon as they were in, he took off, back the way they'd come.
"Giles!" screeched Willow over the roaring of the engine. She reached around and grabbed him in a rough hug. "Oh my God, oh my God! You have no idea what happened."
Ripper reached around and patted her hand. "It's good to see you, too." His eyes were fixed on the road ahead of them. MacKenzie was going hell bent, trying to get back to the main road and make an escape before the officers could regroup. "Do you think we can outrun them?" he asked.
"I doubt it," MacKenzie replied, "but every time we say that today it works out, so there's no reason not to try."
Jonathan hunched forward, nervous about the situation, but hoping to help. "There's a helicopter at the staging areas," he offered. "Do either of you know how to fly it?" He didn't hold out much hope – helicopter pilots were not common – but if there was a chance, it might help them get away.
"That'll do," MacKenzie commented.
"So you know how to fly one?" Jonathan persisted.
"I didn't say that," MacKenzie replied, and then left it at that. He continued to focus on the road ahead. He could fly a helicopter, depending on how loosely one defined the word 'fly.' He spent a year stuck on the small island of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. The island was only three miles long and a fraction of that wide, the whole thing being a big British Naval base. The problem was, with the exception of the eleven or twelve bars present, there wasn't actually anything to do. Mac was well liked and had made friends easily, and so he had taken every opportunity for 'unofficial' flying lessons while he was there. While he couldn't be called 'accomplished' by any stretch of the imagination, he felt he had enough command of the basics to get them away.
The jeep pulled back onto the road, mud flying in all directions behind it. It was less than a hundred yards to the chopper, and MacKenzie drove straight at it without any indication that he had any inclination to stop. The pilot leapt from the away, attempting to get away from the inevitable collision.
At the very last moment, MacKenzie turned the jeep and slammed on the brakes. He very nearly tipped it over sideways, but it came to rest exactly as he'd planned. They all jumped out and headed from the copter. The erstwhile pilot turned back, realizing that not only had he been fooled, but that they were taking his helicopter. He was unarmed, outnumbered, and one of them was an MI-5 agent. He had no choice but to let them go.
They all clambered into the chopper, Mac taking the pilot's seat. By unspoken consent, there was no question of Jonathan joining them. He climbed into the front seat next to Mac, Willow and Giles climbing into the back. It took just a moment for Mac to orient himself to the controls, and then they were airborne.
The helicopter rocked back and forth, slewing to the side as MacKenzie tried to get back into the groove of flying. It had, after all, been a long time. "If anyone has any ideas about how to help us avoid detection, they would be welcome. I don't think I'm going to be able to out-fly a real pilot." He tried to keep his voice light, but the strain on his face was clear.
A moment later, the world seemed to drain of color and turn shades of gray and silver. "What?!" Mac cried out, the surprise nearly breaking his concentration.
"Sorry!" said Willow over the radio. "I … um, turned us invisible. It just has some side effects." Jonathan looked back at her, not quite understanding. "I'm sorta bending a bunch of the light waves in certain spectrums around us. It won't make us completely invisible, but it should make it pretty darn hard to see us. It just means that only certain colors of light will make it through to us."
Mac nodded. "Good idea," he said, "just let me know before you do something like that again, okay?"
"Okay." Willow nodded vigorously. She was with Giles again, and she had done a spell that hadn't gotten out of control. She was feeling pretty good about herself, considering that she was running for her life.