Chapter 15
Thursday, 6:20 PM
Ethan Rayne was dropped onto the cold, stone floor, where he promptly vomited up a half gallon of water. He coughed violently, water spraying out his nose and creeping its way painfully out of his lungs. He tried to take a breath, but was incapacitated by wracking coughs yet again. He blinked, his eyes trying to focus as he lay his cheek on the cool stone.
The puddle he lay in was swirling with blood. A dozen or more deep wounds criss-crossed his skull where the demon had held him with its massive talons. He'd been roughly handled, plunged in and out of the water repeatedly, until he had lost all sense of time and orientation. His eyes refused to see, though, beyond the black stone floor. The room seemed to be moving of its own accord, objects swimming in and out of his field of vision.
More pain gripped his body as he began to shiver, partially from cold and partially from fear. He had been given moments of respite before, but they had lasted mere seconds. Any heartbeat now, the mindless, purposeless torture would begin again. He tried to brace himself for it, but the fear and cold continued to drive his shivering, and he found that he didn't have the strength to brace any more.
He vomited again, stomach acid eating into his sinuses. The shivering continued, the stone turning colder as he lay on it, sucking every last bit of heat from his body. His jaw began to ache from clenching his teeth – a pointless effort to keep them from chattering.
He waited, behind him the massive demon growled a low, bass tremor that emanated from deep within its chest. Ethan wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew that the creature was enjoying this. It was enjoying its new plaything, like an evil child slowly breaking down a new doll. Ethan was the rag doll, and he really didn't like it.
He turned his head and attempted once more to focus his eyes. The room was moving less, and he seemed able to take a breath or two without sending himself back into wracking coughs. He blinked, once, twice, trying to get the blood out of his eyes. At last, he could see.
He saw shoes.
It took a moment for his mind to wrap around this sight, but it was, indeed, shoes. More than that, there appeared to be legs attached to those shoes – human legs. He didn't see the clawed feet of the demon, although he could hear them gentle clicking on the floor behind him. He saw, as he finally moved his vision up, a small, bald man.
The man smiled, the skin stretch across his head like it was two sizes too small, so much so that the smile seemed to bring it almost to the breaking point. It was a not a nice smile. Ethan would have almost have preferred seeing the demon's fangs.
"How are we feeling?" the old man asked. The question didn't seem to invite a response, only a pained nod. "Good." The old man walked around Ethan, not fast, but too quick for Ethan to follow in his currently injured state. "I'm very sorry for your mistreatment," the man continued, clearly not sorry at all. "I was unavoidably detained, and my pet had no one to tell him when to stop. Pity." He walked back into Ethan's view, stooped over, and smiled at him again.
Ethan shivered once more from that smile, and from the eyes. The eyes were deep, ancient, and swirled in a fire of carefully controlled madness. The man hadn't been detained, he had let the creature torture Ethan. It wasn't purposeless, for it had broken him. As Ethan looked into those eyes, he knew he didn't have the strength to resist the will behind them. He was finished before he'd even begun – the dunking had seen to that. He coughed again, his body curling into a fetal position, his eyes going out of focus once again.
"Poor, poor, boy," the old man spoke, the words belied by the arctic lack of sympathy in the tone. "All this, and I had one small, simple question for you. Would you like to know what it is? Would you like to answer it?" He waited, and Ethan nodded – anything to make this torture end. "Well, first I must congratulate you. It was a wonderful spell – simple, really, but delightfully executed. It allowed Mr. Giles and Mr. MacKenzie to slip past my first noose."
The old man stood and paced away, leaving Ethan to try to follow him once again. "I'm afraid that I'm quite … put out." The threat was apparent. Ethan had aided Ripper and that Scotsman, and that had angered the old man. If he didn't cooperate, Ethan was likely to find himself slowly dismembered. "The spell was unique, you know – it had a peculiar … flavor." The old man licked his lips, tasting the magic. "It was easy to find you because of that."
Find him they had, a small commando team. They had drugged him, trussed him up, and dragged out of his apartment before he knew what was even going up. He had woken up here, being dunked in and out by the huge demon. "You watched them, didn't you?" the old man asked. "There was a scrying dish in your apartment. You watched then, yes?" This question seemed to engender a response, so Ethan nodded.
The old man promptly changed topics. "My pet here is really quite unhappy," he said, gesturing to the demon. "He is not here of his own free will. I have taken that away from him. You can see the despair in his eyes, how he fears me." Well, that explained the collar, at least. Ethan looked over, seeing the demon well for the first time. He thought that the light in the demon's eyes was not fear, but hatred. God help them all if the thing ever got free of its bindings. The old man was continuing: "I do, occasionally, let him get his frustrations out, though. I give him people who displease me – people who don't chose to cooperate … fully." Ah, there was the threat. There was no question as to what would happen if he didn't cooperate.
"Now tell me, Mr. Rayne," the old man said, steel backing his voice. He leaned down, gazing once more into Ethan's eyes. "Where did they go?"
* * *
"I think we have the message set up," said Jonathan. He gave a piece of paper over to Willow, who read it: 'Have the package. Ditched Trimble. Meet for exchange. Wembly, tunnel 23, midnight.' He nodded to her. "How long to encode it?"
Willow smiled. "About twenty minutes." She thought for a moment, and then looked back at him. "Do you have a picture you want to use?"
Jonathan looked about uncomfortably, looking to MacKenzie and then to Ripper and then back again. "It's to be posted to a newsgroup," he began, turning slightly red. It was one thing to discuss this with his staff, another to discuss it with a young lady. "It should be a photo that blends into the group, only … it's a pornographic group. Mainly photos of nude women … with other women." He cleared his throat.
Willow looked up quizzically. "Which one?" she asked. Jonathan handed her a paper with the newsgroup name written on it. "Oh, well I know a couple of web sites where we can snag a picture that will blend in." She tapped rapidly on the keyboard, pulling up an adult web site. She clicked the 'members' link, logged in, and began browsing the photos there. "Tara and I used to browse this for … inspiration."
She was proud of herself – she'd managed to say something about Tara without breaking down into tears. She didn't notice the four deeply embarrassed men standing around her. "This shouldn't take very long at all. When do we leave?"
"As soon as you're done," Mac replied, tilting his head in one direction in order to grasp what was happening in the picture she had selected.
* * *
The wards on the house were formidable, or would have been to anyone lesser. But Arinoth simply waved them away. It was getting dark, and it had taken some time to get here. But it would be worth it – he could already sense that Sir Radcliffe was inside. He walked past the threshold, his 'pet' following behind, as his assault team spread out to prevent anything untoward from happening.
He paused in the entry, gazing about. It was as he remembered it, once long ago. Before the war – the first war. Sir Radcliffe had lived here with his wife, a frail, mortal woman. So foolish, so very sentimental. He had kept the place, even though Arinoth knew exactly where it was.
Not so foolish, perhaps. After all, Arinoth hadn't thought to look here. So perhaps it had been clever once; but no more. Now, it was simply his tomb to be. He had escaped the more subtle magic that had been employed. This time, however, Arinoth was going to attend to his death personally, face to face. There would be no escape.
Arinoth walked forward, his pet demon trailing behind. He knew where to find his nemesis, and walked straight to the study. The doors were unlocked, not surprisingly. He pushed them open. Sir Radcliffe sat in the big stuffed chair by the fireplace, he showed no signs of either surprise or worry. He had anticipated the visit.
"Took you long enough," Sir Radcliffe said, not without a trace of bitterness. "I really thought you were brighter than that." He sipped his tea, looking churlish.
Arinoth walked forward, slowly, deliberately. "It's over," he hissed.
"Don't be an idiot," Sir Radcliffe shot back. "It's been over for months. Our time is past, we just haven't gotten around to lying down yet." He shook his head sadly. "You just can't stand it, can you? The world doesn't need you; it doesn't need us. But you don't get it." He laughed, a small laugh. It was the first time he had used that particular colloquialism. He was actually quite proud of himself.
"MacKenzie has you outmaneuvered, always has. The man's a natural. It's pawn to queen four, you know. The game is over right then, even though you'll play another twenty or thirty moves." He smiled. "You were never in this one, Arinoth. You've been out of it from the beginning – you just don't know it."
Rage boiled in Arinoth's breast. How dare he speak that way to him! Deep down, though, a small voice spoke in his mind. The old thorn in his side was right – he had been outmaneuvered repeatedly during this encounter. Could it be over? Could he truly have no chance of achieving his dream?
"My vengeance is as eternal as I am!" Arinoth shouted back.
"You mean your ambition? That's all it is, just plain, ordinary, ambition." Sir Radcliffe said, smiling at his one-time friend. It was a knowing smile, a sad, almost wistful smile. It was the smile he died with.
* * *
Jenny Thatcher walked through the room, holding the translated note in her hand. She had them! Turcey, his arm in a sling, stopped her. He knew something was up. If it was what he was hoping for, he couldn't let her activate the rest of her strike team. They had tried that the last time, and Trimble had escaped. Jonathan knew MI-5 inside and out; there was no way they could catch him using a government team. No, Tuecey knew that this needed to be handled inside his organization. He would have to talk fast, but he was pretty sure he knew what buttons to push.
"Do you have them?" he asked, his voice hushed.
Jenny looked up at his eyes, debating what to say. She wanted this, and so far Turcey hadn't provided any help in the matter. He'd only been pain in the arse. But he had been with her when they were both wounded, unlike Trimble or Crombey. That counted for something. She nodded. "Wembley. Midnight." She showed him the transmission.
He looked it over, contemplating his good fortune. "Any chance this is a set-up?" he asked. It was almost too convenient.
She shook her head. "No. That's a secure drop that the Foreign Secretary has been using. The only one who knows that we've cracked it is Trimble, and they've managed to shake him. That message is genuine."
Turcey nodded his head. This was the opportunity he was looking for. Now he just needed to make the best of it. "All right," he said. "But we can't do this with your forces." She started to protest, but he held up his hand. "Trimble may not be the only traitor. You said yourself that you think Crombey is involved. Well, if we go off with all the forces you can bring to bear, he'll be undoing your effort before you can succeed." He raised an eyebrow at her, daring her to disagree. She didn't.
He looked around, then drew her even further into the corner. "I can get a team on the ground, with no one the wiser. They don't report to anyone you know, so they can't be betrayed. Just keep this message quiet, and this will all be over at midnight."
Jenny bit her lower lip, thinking it over. She wanted to succeed, she had to. There didn't seem to be any better options. "I have to be there," she said, laying down the line of her requirements. "I can't leave it all up to you. There has to be some official oversight, but I'm willing to limit that to me."
Turcey nodded. It wasn't ideal, but it was manageable. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he lied. "Now, go bury this. I'll get the team together."
* * *
The truck pulled up in front of Wembley stadium under the spread of night. It had made its way easily through the checkpoints. True to his word, Brother Mansfield had come to their aid. He had driven them in his own truck, hidden beneath a tarp in the back. He had taken it to his son's checkpoint, who had made a show of inspecting it, but with the assurances of his Father that they were doing the right thing, let him pass through.
The four slipped out the back of the truck on cats' paws, keeping to a shadow as much as possible. Waiting for them, just as they had requested, was someone to open the gate – Brother Thompson, head of the maintenance crew and good friend to the Mansfield boy. They slipped in, mere phantoms, as the gate was locked back up. Their aides drifted away like ghosts, seconds later mere memories. They were inside and ready to set up the trap.
MacKenzie led them through the corridors of the stadium, their steps echoing eerily. On Sunday, the place would be filled to capacity with roaring soccer fans. For now, though, all was quiet. Mac led them down a flight of stairs and through a door marked 'staff only'. It had been locked, but yielded quickly to his manipulations. They were in the physical plant now.
They progressed, trusting in his lead, through two more corridors, and then to a metal cabinet. Warning signs labeled it as an electrical closet. MacKenzie opened it, and then began removing screws from one of the panels with his pocket knife. "I worked on a construction crew here," he said, beginning to work on the second screw. "I had an opportunity to leave a few things behind for just such a contingency." He took out the third screw, and then started on the forth. "You really should do more background checks on the people doing that kind of work," he said, catching Jonathan's eye with a mischevious smile.
The panel came off, and behind it lay a mass of wires. Mac pushed them aside, revealing another breaker switch, incongruously set deep within the assembly. "Step back," he said, and everyone moved away from the area around the cabinet. He flipped the switch, and a circular ring in the concrete ceiling blew out with a loud crack. Immediately following, the inner round section of concrete fell to the floor.
Lying in its center was a large black duffle bag. Mac waggled his eyebrows, clearly pleased with himself. "I didn't have an opportunity to test it," he said, grabbing the bag and pulling back the zipper. "I'm glad it worked the way I thought it would." He began laying out equipment from the bag. Body armor, communications equipment, weapons, explosives.
Jonathan whistled. "You've had this hiding in the ceiling for how long?"
"Long enough," Mac replied. He clearly wasn't telling. "And no," he continued, looking up at the agent, "I won't tell you where the others are." Instead, he tossed Jonathan a pistol and several clips. "They'll be coming with an assault team, intent on taking the girl alive. Willow, you're not in any immediate danger, but I can't say the same for you, Ripper."
"I'll stay with her," he replied.
"Good enough," Mac nodded. He slipped into the body armor, loaded the rifle, and strapped on several other weapons. "I'll go round clockwise from here, clearing the assault team as quietly as possible. Jonathan, try to keep these two alive."
"Got it," he said. "I'll need to keep out of sight, they think I'm not part of this. Don't worry, though; I'll be watching over you even if you can't see me."
"Good enough, then. Let's get into position." Mac looked at each one of them. He didn't need to say 'good luck' – they all knew that their lives were on the line.
Arinoth was coming.