Chapter 17
Endgame
Friday, 12:03 AM
MacKenzie appeared wraithlike out of the shadows at the far end of the tunnel, emerging from within a neat row of seats. His body armor was in place and he held a high powered rifle at the ready. Giles and Willow pressed themselves close to the walls of the tunnel, trying to stay clear of the line of fire. The fact that he had already fired between them – three quick shots in a row – argued for his skill, or possibly their luck.
He stepped carefully, one step at a time, assuring himself of his footing and keeping the weapon targeted on Arinoth. He wasn't sure what had happened – magic of some kind, deflecting his bullets. Or absorbing them, more like. He didn't know what that meant for their options to get out of this – all he knew is that he had to buy them some time to think of a solution. What had begun to look like a golden opportunity to end this once and for all was now beginning to look like a trap – one of their own devising, but none the less sprung on them.
Turcey raised the walkie-talking to his mouth and pressed the call button. "Take him out," he growled. "Fire at will." He was angry, angry that his assault team had not only failed to notice MacKenzie, but that they were letting him approach without shooting at him.
MacKenzie activated the whisper mic. "They can't hear you," he said in a sing song voice which erupted from Turcey's walkie-talkie. "They're all dead," he added.
Turcey threw the device against the wall in frustration. Jenny Thatcher gasped. She was having a hard time understanding what was happening. The 'package' that had been stolen from the Weber institute was, apparently, this young woman. But how could that be? She was a person, not property. How could she be what all this was all about?
Jenny cleared her throat, hoping to negotiate the situation. "Collum MacKenzie, we can work this out." She put all her force and authority into her voice, but even she knew that it was simply not going to be enough. The old man shot her a glare – a warning for her to be quiet. She swallowed, and waited.
"Put that thing down," muttered Arinoth. "You might hurt yourself, otherwise." He gestured, and the weapon was tossed aside, out of Mac's grip. Mac reactions were like lightening. No sooner had the one weapon left his hands than he had pulled out two pistols, firing both in rapid succession. The bullets were to no effect, though.
Arinoth simply laughed. "You're pathetic instruments of destruction are nothing, my boy." He cackled again. "You are nothing." He waved his hand again, and pistols seemed to crack like ice crystals. Mac threw them away.
"It's over, Arinoth." Mac tried a bit of bluster, having little hope of its effect.
"Brave words. Brave indeed." Arinoth sneered at the commando, his disdain dripping like a badly installed faucet. "Would it help you to know that those are the same words your precious mentor spoke to me, just today? He, too, felt that I should simply give up, when my prize was so close at hand. But he neglected the same fact that you are, you insolent little whelp: It is over when I say it is over. Not before."
He turned and paced, walking over towards Willow, who shrunk from him. He laughed at that, and turned to pace back to where he had begun. "Sir Radcliffe had been a snake in my garden for far too long. His 'Special Projects' division was always interfering in my plans."
Jenny's mind reeled. The Sir Radcliffe. But he had been dead for nearly two years, killed in a terrorist bombing at his office. She couldn't understand what this had to do with MacKenzie and Giles, but apparently everyone else understood. She wondered if maybe Jonathan had understood, as well. Sir Radcliffe was a special envoy to the RAF, and worked closely on any number of national security projects. If they were always interfering in this old man's plans, then what did that say for what he was up to?
"My bomb should've killed him, I thought it had. Bah!" Arinoth spit, his anger keeping him talking. He'd lost control when he'd dealt with Sir Radcliffe, and in the end he had killed him without so much as saying a word. Now, he needed to vent – to gloat. He had won!
"You know how you kill a snake, Mr. MacKenzie? You cut its head off. In Sir Radcliffe's case, I took that quite … literally." He laughed again, and everyone else – with exception of Turcey and the demon – seemed to pale. "Would like to see it?" he asked suddenly.
He waited, anticipating an answer. None was forthcoming, which he found disappointing. Where was the fun in gloating if no one ever rose to the bait? Perhaps they just needed more baiting. "I kept it, you know. His head. I intend to mount it in my study."
Jenny shuddered. What was this man? He was a lunatic, it seemed. And a murderer. He had just admitted to being behind the terrorist bombing of Sir Radcliffe's office who, apparently, had survived until today. He had then killed him, by cutting his head off. Now he was going to mount it – a human head – as a trophy.
She looked over to Turcey, revulsion playing across her face. What she saw shocked her. He was enjoying it, enthralled by it. This was his master, and he was a creature in its own image. She had made a deal with the devil.
"I appreciate your efforts to track down my traitor, as well. Mr. Straznikof. It's a shame that your efforts were wasted so." He shrugged. No one spoke. He didn't realize that they were not up to speed on those events yet. He went on, oblivious to their confusion. "I had suspected him, of course, but he kept his thoughts well hidden from me. It was only today, when he thought that he'd been betrayed, that those thoughts rose uncontrollably to the surface. I could read them then, his guard down, his soul panicking. I could read him, and I punished him."
Jenny was repulsed even more when the old man licked his lips. Spittle had dripped as he spoke, and now he tasted it like it was ambrosia. "The burning, I can assure you, is very, very painful. He screamed for a long time, I understand." He cackled again, and then regarded them with intense, crazed eyes. "Which do you choose, Mr. MacKenzie? Will you have me decapitate you, and mount you to my wall next to your master? Or would you prefer to burn?" He laughed again, for a very long time.
* * *
Jonathan Trimble was wedged into a very uncomfortable position. He had followed MacKenzie's advice to the letter. Across the hall from the tunnel entrance, above one of the concession stands, he'd managed to get himself into a small space between the air vent and the wall. He had an impressive field of fire, but it would impossible for him to maneuver from there. He would have only a couple of shots, and then he would be discovered.
That's why Mac had discussed the situation with him at length. He was their ace in the hole. He could only be used once, and it had to be when it could truly tip the balance of the conflict. Mac had been very clear that his life was not one of those things, and neither was Ripper's. They were expendable. Only Willow was important. Jonathan was not to interfere if either Mac or Ripper were threatened – that would tip their hand too early. It was more important that he be kept in reserve until the last possible moment.
So he waited, and watched. He thought at first that he could get a clean shot at Arinoth when he arrived, but he'd held off as he'd been ordered. He was glad that he had. When he saw how little effect Mac's weapon had, he knew that he wouldn't have had a chance of doing any real damage, and he would've betrayed his location. That would've been disastrous.
But now, the tension was building. It would explode soon, and he wasn't sure of what he could do to help. His only real target at this point was Turcey. Killing him wouldn't really change things, though. So he waited, trying not to adjust his weight at all, for fear of making a noise.
It was difficult, because the heavy seal of the letter in his pocket was biting deeply into his chest. That had been another change this afternoon, as they had discussed the plan. Mac had instructed Giles to give Sir Radcliffe's letter to him. "I'm not sure what it says," he'd stated, rubbing his forehead and thinking, "but I've got a general idea. If it's what I think it is, then Jonathan here is going to have a lot more need of it than you will when this thing is over." They had agreed, and the exchange had been made.
Jonathan was beginning to regret that decision now. He had no idea what was in it, and he wasn't sure if it had been an opportunity to shift something of value, or something incriminating. Whatever the case, he had put it in his shirt pocket, and now it pressed mercilessly against his skin.
He wanted to move, he wanted to shout, he wanted to shoot – he wanted to do anything but wait. He was, though, a professional. He knew his job in this, and he was going to do it as he needed to. That meant keeping absolute focus, waiting until there was no other choice, and then not hesitating to do what needed to be done.
Slowly, steadily, he breathed.
He had been up for over forty-eight hours. The stress was beginning to wear on him. He couldn't take much more of this. One way or another, though, it was going to be over soon. Of that he had no doubt. He just hoped it worked itself out in a way that let him get a good night's sleep afterwards. The way things were going, he wasn't sure he'd be able to avoid nightmares even if they did win.
* * *
Ripper contemplated all that was going on, absorbing it all and looking at it with both practical and mystical experience. He knew there was a way out of this – there had to be. If there wasn't, Mr. Gray wouldn't have left them. The wheels were in motion for unraveling Arinoth's plans – they just had to see where they were leading. They just had to grasp the way out. For some reason, he knew with absolute certainty that it was his job to find that solution.
Arinoth operated too much in the mystical realm for either Jonathan or MacKenzie to really see any of his weaknesses. To them, he was a super being. They had only their conventional weapons to bring to bear, and he seemed immune to those. Rupert squinted, his eyes focusing on the unseen energies surrounding the magician. Yes, they were there, bold and swirling. He could just make out the aura of power.
It was very telling. Despite what he wanted them to believe, it was requiring extraordinary power and concentration to keep the spell alive. It was very broad based, having threads that seemed to prevent any kind of physical harm from coming to him. No weapon could penetrate that, not so long as his focus remained in place. It might be possible for someone to attack him psychically. There would be repercussions, no doubt. A being of such immense power would deal back any blow ten times over. Since the only person here clearly capable of doing that was Willow, the risk was beyond what he was willing to take.
There had to be another way, another person who could attack Arinoth, penetrate his defenses, destroy his concentration, and be able to suffer the counter spells and subdue him. That was asking quite a bit. Willow might be powerful enough, but she was untrained and in a very fragile state. More likely than not, Arinoth would simply strip her power and her mind and leave her an empty husk.
And then there was the final message from Mr. Gray. One word, and a Harry Potter reference, no less. 'Alohamora' – the spell to open locks. It made no sense. Why did these supreme beings always have to talk in riddles, anyway? And since when did eternal beings use pop culture references?
And then he saw it.
It all became instantly clear. All they had to do was survive the attempt.
* * *
Mac didn't dare back down. Too much was riding on this right now. His only hope was to be strong, bold, and to answer the challenge with one of his own. "You won't get out of here with her, you know. Not alive, anyway." His look was full of challenge.
"Is that so?" Arinoth spat back. "You cannot harm me. You've seen that already. Besides, Sir Radcliffe must have told you that I cannot die."
"True, but she can." The words were cold, but the effect was stronger than a slap in the face.
The old man hadn't considered that – hadn't considered the lengths they would go to in order to keep her out of his hands. Would they? Of course they would. He had no trouble believing that, because that was the length that he would go to in their place. Further even, if the roles were reversed. He saw himself in everyone, he saw in their motivations and actions what motivated him to action. It was a vile reflection.
He saw the others the way he saw himself, and that led him to conclude that MacKenzie was telling the truth. He needed to think, to not be rushed. Always, always he had planned these things out. He had manipulated generations to get a single offspring that met his needs. He had taken centuries to plan a move, placing every piece in place. But this – this opportunity was unraveling. Every move had been forced by circumstance, every maneuver driven by others. He would not be rushed!
He hissed, spittle flying at MacKenzie. His rage was driving him to fits. His fists clenched, and he thought to lash out. But he felt his control slipping, and he slammed it firmly back into place. If he lost his temper now, he could become vulnerable to their attacks. No, he would remain calm. He would work this out.
Willow had squeaked at Mac's announcement. She turned, burying her head in Giles' shoulder. "Would they really do that?" she gasped. Giles leaned over to whisper reassurances in her ear, at least that's what it looked like to everyone else. In actuality, he whispered instructions.
He turned Willow around, a grim determination in both their eyes.
Jenny Thatcher had heard enough. "That's it," she said, her voice building up to a bellow. "No one is taking her anywhere." All eyes, even those of the massive demon, turned towards her. Her confidence faltered, but she had begun, so she wasn't going to stop. "You're all of you murderers, and terrorists, and God only knows what else. I don't care who you know, or who you think you are. You're not getting away with this in my country! Not on my watch. You're all under arrest – I'm calling in Special Section." She reached for her wireless phone, but the old man's voice brought her up short.
"Turcey, shoot her already." It was a casual statement, the tone of a madman.
Turcey's hand was already in motion, bringing his pistol up to Jenny's temple. She flinched as a shot rang out, then another. But it was Turcey who crumpled, not Jenny Thatcher.
Chaos broke loose. Jenny dove to the side, clutching her phone and attempting to call for help. Arinoth screamed in frustration, his hands hooked into claws. It was Trimble. Trimble who had supposedly been left behind. Trimble who had known that the communications channel was compromised. That could only mean that everything was a setup. He would kill them, kill them all. Let the girl be damned along with them! He began to chant, to weave a spell of destruction that would level the entire stadium.
Willow, though, was faster. She didn't need to weave the spell, because she understood the magic at its most primal level. That is what made her so devastating when she'd been evil; it's what made her their only hope now. She reached out in her mind, grasping her target. She balanced the energy within herself against the energies there. She knew her desired outcome, and how that energy needed to be twisted in order to achieve it. The words of a spell were secondary, serving only to focus the will of the caster. If the caster truly knew, truly understood the energies and outcomes, a single word would unleash them. Her mind grasped all the outcomes, all the probabilities, and harnessed the mystical energies around her tightly. She twisted them, speaking a single word as she did, one that embodied everything she was trying to achieve.
"Alohamora."
A lock clicked, and the collar fell from Arinoth's demonic slave. It hit the ground with a dull clang of metal on concrete, echoing through the tunnel. But that sound went unnoticed. As soon as it unhitched, the demon was free, and the dull growl in its chest became a full throated roar of rage and elation. It was like a hundred lions had been let loose at once, magnified through a hundred megaphones.
The screamed disrupted Arinoth's spell, he faltered, and the threads of magic around him began to dissolve. He couldn't keep them together, his mind was distracted. The shield around him began to falter as well, to weaken with his distress. It wasn't much, but the demon didn't need much.
One massive demon arm swung out, its hand splaying fully across the old man's chest. The talons bit deep, puncturing his lungs, his throat, his abdomen. Any attempt he might have made to cast a spell was over. He had no voice, no breath. He was dying. He knew that he would recover from that – these wounds could not kill him permanently. His eyes were lit in triumph. He would have another day.
He was hauled aloft, and brought close to the demon's face. It spoke, its voice a deep bass rumbling off the walls. "Now you will truly learn of eternal vengeance." The words were thick with malice. The triumph in Arinoth's eyes turned to madness, and then faded entirely. He would awaken again, soon; and the demon would be there. It would be there forever more.