Chapter 16
To Deal With the Devil
Thursday, 11:33 PM
The assault team spread out through the stadium like ghosts, or the shadows of ghosts. They were all seasoned professionals, mercenaries trained on the world's battlefields. This was work they relished – in some cases, it was the only work they knew. They had defined their lives by it even before they had met Arinoth.
Now, the fever of true belief burned in them as well.
Zealots are dangerous, even under the best circumstances. A harmless man once captured by the fever of some ideal, some cause, became highly unstable. They were capable of anything – from great courage to great cruelty. A normal man in the grip of fever was a tool for destruction, just like the hoe or the scythe in hands of angry peasants, rising up against their oppressors.
But a sword was deadlier still. Take a well-trained man, a dangerous man already, and put him into the fire of fanaticism, and he became a wicked thing indeed – a razor edge on a broadsword, cutting swaths through his enemies. Then place that living weapon in the hand of a master swordsman, and you had something truly terrible to behold. Arinoth was just such a swordsman, and he wielded these men with brutal efficiency. They descended upon Wembley and disappeared into its shadows.
Turcey and Thatcher waited, out beyond the gates. They would know when the soldiers had their quarry in sight. They would know when the area was secure. They waited silently, not speaking. Jenny hugged herself deeper into her own doubts. The anger was still there, burning brightly inside her, but she wondered if perhaps she had gone too far this time.
She was completely outside official channels, and that made her nervous. In her fight to catch Jonathan Trimble, she had become just like him. She consoled herself by pointing out that Turcey and his team were hear by order of the Queen to assist them, and that she was taking their assistance as it was offered. It was right for her to accept it. She only needed to remember that.
Deep inside, though, something nagged. What was a private outfit doing with a highly trained assault team? Even with the Queen's blessing, what kind of group associated with mercenaries, here on their own soil? This wasn't the only team, either. She reminded herself of that. There had been the team at Rupert Giles' flat. They had been mercs as well, at least one of them well-known to MI-6 for his involvement in foreign wars. It wasn't just one team, something to be called a 'security detail' by clever corporate executives.
And the men themselves, she had seen them. There was something about them, about their eyes. They burned with a passion that was well-beyond the simple greed of ordinary soldiers of fortune. They burned with something otherwordly. Other than that burning, though, they gave every appearance to being … soulless.
It was an odd word, but it was the only one that would come to her. It seemed like they had nothing inside themselves but that dangerous fire in their eyes. What had they become? How had they reached that point? She didn't know, she didn't care. She just tried to keep herself from shaking when she thought about the looks in their eyes.
They were … evil.
She was associating with creatures of darkness, of that she was now sure. But she was in the right. Didn't that make a difference? Turcey had assured her that it did. He had seen the look in her face when she'd seen the soldiers, and had made an effort to reassure her that they were doing the right thing. But here, waiting, she wondered.
If these men were evil, then how could she be doing the right thing? What if that's what Jonathan had realized? What if he were doing this because he was right? She couldn't think about that, her anger wouldn't let her. No, she was going to see this through. She was going to prove that he was a traitor, that he had humiliated her and nearly killed her. She was going to show that he was no more than a terrorist himself. And if she had to align herself with evil to accomplish that, then so be it.
* * *
Inside, they swept out, moving up and around and through. They needed to close off tunnel 23, not just from the obvious entrances and exits. It needed to be covered from above and below, with shooter who had a clear field of fire. They needed to make sure that nothing got in or out unless they chose to allow it.
Clear across the stadium, directly opposite at tunnel 22, the first of the men moved into position. He lay down in the shadows, bringing up his rifle with the starlight scope. He scanned the area, the seats around the tunnel, the walkways, and the camera well just below and to the left. The only movement was there in the tunnel – two targets, a man and a woman.
He dialed up the magnification on his scope. Yes, those were the targets: Rupert Giles and Willow Rosenberg. He didn't see the third, but he was sure that man wasn't in his scope of view. He reached up to the mic pickups on his neck, activating the 'whisper' microphone. It was attached to either side of the larynx, allowing even the smallest whisper to be picked up by the radios.
"Targets in site. Area around the tunnel is empty. I have a clear shot." He waited for confirmation, which came a moment later. He adjusted his position, making himself more comfortable, keeping his eye to the scope. From the seats directly above him, Mac leaned out over the rail. A single pop sounded, the silenced shot producing no sound that could be heard beyond the immediate vicinity.
It hit the man in the back of the head, spattering blood and brains all over the rifle and scope. It did not, however, reposition the body significantly. To the others, looking out to tunnel 22, the shooter was still in place and ready. Only the most careful examination would reveal any differences.
Mac moved on.
* * *
The control room came to life as one of Arinoth's assault team began bringing up the stadium's systems. That included security cameras, lights, elevators, and emergency systems. He would be able to monitor the entire setup, to look and see if anyone was where they weren't supposed to be. The control screens flickered to life.
He began running the initialization sequences, his face bathed in the glow of the bright color startup logos. It was the only light in the darkened booth, and he didn't consider how it would look from the even darker outside. But the contrast, however slight, was sufficient for someone who was looking for it. For MacKenzie, armed with a rifle and scope, the man may as well have been standing in a spotlight.
The sound of the punctured glass echoed dismally in the small control room, but down in the tunnels of the stadium, nobody heard. The body lay on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out from beneath it, a surprised look on its face.
* * *
Turcey checked in with the assault team leader, wondering what was going on. "Talk to me," he ordered.
"We've got secure positions," a hollow voice responded back. "Everyone's checked in, although we're having trouble getting the booth systems to come up. We've got Giles and the girl, but there's no sign of MacKenzie."
Turcey considered. He didn't like not knowing where MacKenzie was. Anything could be happening. He considered the situation in the control booth – MacKenzie could be there. "Check in with everyone again," he said cautiously. "Get positive confirmation."
"Roger that." The team leader was silent for a moment, during which he had switched to another frequency in order to check in with each of the other team members. Turcey waited, growing impatient, but the radio squawked to life again. "All clear." It may have been the distortion of the radio, or possibly Turcey's irritation, or a combination of any of a number of factors, but neither he nor Jenny Thatcher noticed that the last phrase had been uttered by a different voice.
Inside, Mac pulled the body of the assault team leader out of sight. Eight had come in, and now eight were dead. He was beginning to think that they might just have a chance to succeed at this.
* * *
Turcey picked up his phone and punched a speed dial number. "We're clear to move in." The only response on the other end was the click of the disconnect. He didn't need to have a conversation about what was going on. There would be no positive confirmation to move forward, only a negative if plans had changed. Turcey knew what was supposed to happen next, he didn't need instructions. He started the car and pulled it around the corner and up to one of the gates. "Come one," he said absently to Jenny, climbing out.
He walked over to the padlock and whispered a word to it. It fell open as easily as if he had used the key. He pushed the chain link door aside, then returned for the other one. As he did, a black limousine and a black panel truck appeared as if from nowhere. They drove through the gate, heading across the large courtyard towards the access tunnels. Turcey hurried to follow.
The limo stopped nearest the access ramp leading up to the first row of access tunnels. Halfway down was tunnel twenty three. There Giles and Willow were waiting, waiting for a rescue that would never come. They were his now – Arinoth's. Nothing they could hope to do would lead to their escape.
The driver of the panel truck walked around the back and unlocked the door. He gave it a shove; it rolled up noiselessly. Jenny caught her breath when she saw what was inside. More soldiers, although not moving with the lethal grace of the assault team she had seen earlier. Three hopped out, guns at the ready. They weren't pointing them outwardly, though; they kept them trained on the interior of the truck.
At the demon sitting inside it.
'Demon' was the only word she could think of to describe it. It moved forward, its ebony muscles rippling, its taloned feet clicking on the metal. It had been squatting in the back, the only way for it to hope to be able to fit inside. Stepping out, it unfurled itself. Twelve feet tall, with large bat wings spreading from its back and spreading out at least thirty feet tip to tip. Red eyes seemed to gaze right through her as it sniffed the air, its forked tongue flicking out to taste the scents there. It bared its fangs, hissing and growling all at once. It wanted to feed, and Jenny thought that it might just choose to feed on her.
She was so focused on it that she didn't even think to look at the limo. It wasn't until she heard the voice that she realized that others had come as well. "Come, my pet. We have much to do." She turned to see an old man with skin too small for his tiny frame. He beckoned, and the creature walked to do his bidding. He smiled at it, and looked towards the stadium. The smile was not comforting in the least.
The others followed. Jenny looked back once more, into the panel truck, as she was walking away with them. There she saw what she had missed the first time – a battered and bloodied figure lying across the back, barely conscious. She looked over at Turcey, who was watching her.
"Informant," he supplied as a means of explanation. "He wasn't very cooperative." He gestured for Jenny to precede him.
She tore her gaze from him, then walked away. In her mind she couldn't help but wonder. Was he really uncooperative, or did they do that to him for kicks? Her resolve was beginning to shake; she didn't like this, not one bit.
It was an obscene procession, one which Turcey hurried her to the front of. They moved steadily, with purpose. This was the fulfillment of so much for so many of them. The anticipation was palpable. Jenny thought that if she stuck her tongue out, she'd be able to taste it on the air, just as that creature had. She would know soon enough.
It seemed like a marathon to walk all the way to tunnel twenty-three. Their steps echoed like a circus troop in a church, but Turcey had assured her that their quarry wouldn't be running. They didn't know where MacKenzie was, but he would be here. If not now, then soon. They would have them all.
Turcey didn't bother to mention that MacKenzie was no longer of any concern to them. Sir Radcliffe was dead. Soon they would have Willow. They would kill Giles and leave him, the blame destined to fall on the former commando. Once they had the girl, there was nothing more that he could do to them. Deprived of his guide and protector, branded a terrorist and a murderer, he would be adrift, without resources. He would be a wanted man, a hunted fugitive with no hope for escape.
MacKenzie didn't matter once they had the girl, and they would have her soon enough. They slowed as they approached the tunnel. Time seemed to shift gears for them. This phase was almost over, soon world domination would begin.
They moved into the entrance, entranced by what they saw. Rupert Giles and Willow Rosenberg, alone, unarmed, and completely surprised. Life was delicious.
* * *
Ethan Rayne lifted his head ever so slightly. Two guards had been left with him, one of them the driver of the van. At least that's what he could see from this vantage point. They were just at the end of the truck, sitting on the back bumper. One of them was smoking a cigarette.
His voice was hoarse with screaming. The pain had come, again and again, even when he'd done what they'd asked. It would continue to do so, for as long as he remained in their 'custody.' He was still useful to them, or dangerous, depending on how one looked at it. He had seen much, scrying on Ripper and MacKenzie. He'd heard much, and presumed even more. What he had inferred from the questions they'd asked him was more than enough to get him killed. His only hope lay in getting away, and now was going to be his only opportunity.
It was risky. If there were more than those two out there, he wouldn't stand a chance. And then he would be punished, he had no doubt of that. Given to that thing to be a new play toy. He wasn't going to let that happen.
But if he was right, if there were only those two, then he had an opportunity – one that might never come again. Ethan began to sing, a soft lullaby, just hushed under his breath. It was little more than a croak in the night from his ruined throat, but it served to focus his thoughts, his energies. He wove them, carefully, intermixing the ancient words into the modern tune. He crafted a net with the magic, and then cast it.
It took several minutes, so subtle was the magic. But slowly, surely, the two guards fell asleep. Ethan waited. If there was anyone else around, they would raise the alarm. He could feign innocence if that were the case, not that he believed that he would be able to get away with it. But he had desperation on his side, which often led to self-delusion. He waited. No alarm came.
Gingerly, he picked himself up off the floor of the panel truck and walked to the end. He picked his way between the two guards, one snoring, the other still holding his burning cigarette casually. He stepped out of the truck and looked around. Nothing, no one. He was alone.
Just beyond the gates was a car. He didn't know who's, but whoever it was would just have to live without it. He trotted across the courtyard to it, climbed in, and with a touch of magic started the engine, and he quickly disappeared into the night.
It was a good time for him to find someplace else to live for awhile.
* * *
"So kind of you to bring me my package, Mr. Giles." Arinoth's eyes glittered, and he cackled rather bizarrely. "If you will kindly hand her over, we'll be on our way." It was as much of an offer as he was willing to give. It was a lie of course, but he wanted to be polite.
"We're not going anywhere with you." The bravado in Ripper's voice was undone by the trembling of his hands. He was waiting for something to happen, anything. He didn't know what, though.
He didn't need to wait long. Three shots rang out, seemingly from nowhere. The two guards collapsed, instantly dead. The third should have killed the old sorcerer, as well. Instead, it disappeared in a brief twinkle of light. The old man cackled again, amused by the attempt on his life.
"It appears we've found our missing Mr. MacKenzie."