DISCLAIMER:
If you think I own 'Buffy' or any of the canon, seek psychiatric help :-) - but barring Wesley, Travers, and maybe Merrick, everybody here is mine, all mine.
Incidentally, mine is the Donald Sutherland 'Merrick', at least physically. The other guy just didn't cut it for me. :-D
02:31, MONDAY SEPTEMBER 29, 1995, LIMA - 14:31/29-09-95, ZULU
SUNDOWN CLUB, NAPIER, NEW ZEALAND
Clean-up operations were already well under way when a dark green sedan rolled up to the saw-horse barricades cordoning off the street. A Stormhawk trooper wearing the red-trimmed three-and-a-half lateral stripes of a Tactical sergeant stepped outside of the perimeter, his hand on the pistol-grip of his slung sub-gun as he crossed to the vehicle's right-front window. "You can't come -"
The window came down, revealing a face that every Tactical knew; the Stormhawk Security IdentiCard that accompanied that face was little more than procedure.
The Tactical's comment died aborning, and he stepped back quickly, snapping to attention. "Forgive me, Herr Direktor; please proceed."
"Danke, Feldwebel," the vampire smiled pleasantly, and waited for the troopers to clear a path before he drove on. Pulling up a few metres from the burnt-out Pathfinder, he dismounted and surveyed the scene with an eye for detail that could only be the product of more than fifty years of training and combat experience. A machine-rifle in a window overlooking the front entrance and side exit, he judged, taking in the four-wheeler's wreckage and the bullet-holes riddling the building's façade and mentally computing the firing angles. Stepping over and around the bodies being collected by Stormer G&R teams, he made his way down the stairs and contemplated the carnage in there as well, noting the slashed wire around the arena, the expertly blown cell-bay door, the scorch-marks from the phosphorus grenade, and the scattering of head-shot corpses.
Precise, swift, and an exercise in brutal efficiency - another Nga Kehua strike, he judged, smiling to himself a little. God, these people are good.
Officially, Stormhawk Security Forces' Senior Vice-President (Operations) was a native-born New Zealander named Eric Richards who was approaching forty years of age - and he had splendidly complete documentation to prove it. In point of fact, he had been born Erik Franz Rechner, in Wilhelmshaven, Germany, in 1920. Tall, lean and dark-haired, Rechner was outwardly in his mid-twenties in his unChanged visage, and would have been sternly handsome save for the mass of powder-burns and scars that covered most of his right cheek - a souvenir of a StG-44 that had blown up in his face during the 1944 Ardennes offensive. His manner spoke to profound competence, as it should have done: after all, he'd been a professional soldier for almost his entire adult life, and all of his unlife.
He had volunteered for the Luftwaffe's paratroop unit, the fallschirmjäger, in July of 1940, and he'd seen some of the nastiest fighting of the Second World War before the Freiherr had Turned him just before VE-Day. His part in the invasion of Crete had taught him the fighting qualities of the New Zealand soldier... a lesson most of his comrades in the fallschirmjäger had never had the chance to appreciate. Upon being granted his transfer to a Waffen-SS panzergrenadier regiment, he'd fought his way across Russia and halfway back before being shifted to a 'rest sector' in France... just in time for the Allied invasion. Arnhem had been as close to hell as he ever wanted to get: the Tommies had been worthy of the 'paratrooper' title, fighting tooth-and-nail (sometimes literally) for every house, every street-corner, every pile of rubble with consummate skill and the savage, fanatic courage of desperation. Every single instant was horribly clear to his memory: the smells and sounds and sights and terror of hand-to-hand fighting in more trenches and fighting-holes and bombed-out houses than he cared to count; the tearing agony of a Maori bayonet through the hip; his best friend, Maxi Dresbach, dying in a pool of his own gore, still confusedly clutching at the stumps of legs that Ivan mortars had blown away at mid-thigh; the ear-splitting, bone-rattling *CRANG* of an Ivan anti-tank shell punching through the armour of his half-track; Arndt and Mertens and Pannwitz screaming as they burned alive inside that tracked coffin; Sorsch's bubbling gurgle as the clattering treads of a T-34 crushed him to red jelly.
All of that notwithstanding, the idea of giving this news to his sire made him distinctly uneasy. Ever since this Slayer had been Called, 'Gerard Houseman' had had little but disappointments and frustrations, and that sort of diet soon got sickening. For that matter, he was getting fed up himself... but by the same token, he'd always enjoyed a challenge.
Clearing his throat, he caught the eye of the Tactical lieutenant who was in command of the scene; the human joined him post-haste. "How many casualties?" His English was only slightly accented, but the Templar rep looked distinctly out of place, dressed as he was in a grey Armani suit among all the beige-uniformed Stormhawks and so spotless amidst all this destruction.
"Outside?" The human took a moment to check his notes. "Seven of our troops dead and two wounded, one of those seriously. From the staff and internal detail, at least ten dead and the same missing; I don't think we'll ever know for sure how many patrons bought it. They used fire extensively: phosphorus grenades, improvised napalm, magnesium-laden mines, tracer bullets...."
"I presume a number of the 'workers' are unaccounted for. How many?"
"Nine. There's a blood-trail leading outside, but we're not sure if it was a worker or one of the shooters."
"Their total time on-site?"
"From the first explosion to our reinforcements losing sight of them, four minutes, five at most."
"How many of them were there?" He knew, based on what he'd seen, but he wanted to know what his troops had said - if only to see what sort of spin they'd put on this affair.
"Debriefs indicate at least a full squad, with heavy weapons."
"Bullshit," the vampire snorted to himself. He'd always been fond of English curses, they were so versatile.... "There was a sniper/look-out across the road, and this was done by two people, three at the most."
You have to admire their persistence, he thought, shaking his head as he considered the gutted club. Even the Russian partisans and the French Maquis were never like *this*. Two and a half years, and still they keep hitting us several times a week, sometimes elsewhere in the country but usually here in Napier. They're well-trained, disciplined, and highly motivated. A twinge went through the former panzergrenadier at that thought; he couldn't really blame them for their fanatical hatred for his master and his works, when he himself couldn't stomach things such as this club. And they're certainly well-equipped and funded, he added with a twisted smile. Most of their money and gear comes out of *our* coffers and armouries, and we're in no danger of depleting either in the near future. They have to know they can't possibly bring down the Ordo Astra militarily, or even Templar and its subsidiaries, yet still they keep hitting us. If I'd had them in my squad in Russia, I'd be sipping wine in the Kremlin by now.
"Sir?"
"What is it, Leutnant?" Rechner asked, looking back at the human.
"I was wondering what we should do once we've finished the clean-up, sir. What sort of gambit are we looking at?"
Rechner shrugged, quickly sorting through a dozen different scenarios in his head before going with the simplest. "Once you've done all you can with the evidence and the bodies, burn it. We'll tell the newspapers -"
08:31, SEPTEMBER 29, 1995, LIMA - 20:31/29-09-95, ZULU
SAINT GEORGE'S ACADEMY, NAPIER
{FIRE, ACCIDENT CLAIM FIFTEEN LIVES
Fifteen people, including seven members of Stormhawk emergency services, lost their lives in an incident at a commercial address early this morning. The building, a nightclub that was undergoing major renovations following a change of ownership, caught fire following an apparent electrical problem and suffered significant damage. At least eight of the renovation staff died in the blaze, along with three members of Stormhawk Security Services who entered the building to aid in its evacuation; spokesmen refused to comment on the possibility of a higher death-toll, saying only that recovery operations were still in progress.
The tragedy was compounded a few moments after the initial reports of a fire when another Stormhawk patrol vehicle responding to the emergency lost control and crashed outside, bursting into flames and killing all four officers aboard. }
Yeah, and I'm Diana, Princess of Wales! Ngaire 'Kelly' Hikurangi snorted laughter as she kept reading the 'Daily Telegraph'. The Telegraph belonged to Templar Media Properties, so its spin on the incident wasn't all that surprising - it wasn't like von Hausmann was going to admit the truth, much less let the authorities know it or the press disseminate it - but lies such as these were patently transparent. Especially when she, firstly, knew what that place had really been; secondly, knew who had hit it; and thirdly, recognised the sound of automatic-weapons fire when it jarred her out of a sound sleep at one in the morning.
Speak of the devil.... She suppressed a smile as her two friends came in, as always appraising their appearance.
The fifth-form girl who came through the door first wore the black lace-up shoes required by school dress rules, but eschewed the white stockings most other girls wore in favour of often-darned (but far more *practical*) work-socks. Her knee-length scarlet skirt was faded and worn, her white blouse had faded spots of engine-grease on the collar, the knot in her scarlet tie was askew, and the scarlet jersey with the Saint George's cross on the left breast had a *safety-pin* holding together its right cuff.
For all that she was still a month shy of her seventeenth birthday, Taz had reached her full physical maturity some months ago, and her five-foot-nine, hundred-thirty-five pound body was sleek and powerful, her movements having an almost predatory grace more sensed than seen, a feeling of controlled power. The legs under the skirt were long and well-muscled; though the rest of her body was hidden from proper view, her jersey hinted at a fairly nice bust and her stance and bearing had the poise of a martial artist... and an assurance which could all too easily taken for arrogance. Her lips were full, her cheekbones high and the cast of her face gamine; she wore her hair in a fiery dark-auburn French braid that reached her elbows, the glint in her grey-green eyes spoke to mischevious humour - and the stubborn lines of her jaw to the fact that the concept of 'back down' was absolutely alien to her.
Her companion, also a fifth-former, was slightly overshadowed by her presence, but Misha was well worth noticing... if you looked beyond the blindingly obvious. Certainly his clothes were nothing impressive: exceedingly battered 'Blundstone' shoes, winter-uniform grey trousers (second-hand and thread-bare), winter long-sleeved white shirt (with a frayed collar), a scarlet St. George's jersey (riddled with runs, and one elbow patched together by hand) - even his tie was faded and tattered at the hems.
Unlike his best friend, Misha still had some filling-out to do, but even at his current five-foot-six, he too was decidedly drool-worthy: he had the balanced build of a long-distance triathlete, a look of almost limitless resilience and stamina, and the same smooth economy of motion Taz had... but few people looked past the superficial: the absolutely colourless white of his skin, the sickly off-white of his close-cropped hair, the mirrored aviator-frame sunglasses that hid most of his face. His was a manner of diffident, distracted intelligence, virtually radiating a 'don't mind me, I'm just an absent-minded professor' feel.
She's a cougar, and he's a wolf, Kelly thought, not entirely fancifully. It never ceased to amaze her that none - *none* - of her classmates recognised that two of their number were such... such *predators*. Admittedly they don't go out of their way to advertise what they are, but anyone with a gram of instinct should be able to see it! Maybe it's a Nexus kind of thing - all the background magical energy in this town kind of clouds peoples' perceptions or something. The way people just mutely take Hausmann's fascist bullshit and ignore the goblins in their midst, it wouldn't really surprise me, she shrugged inwardly, flipping back a loose strand of collar-length, glossy-black hair.
Kelly wasn't all that hard on the eyes herself, though she would never be a supermodel. Though the school's Head Girl was an inch shorter than Taz, she was a touch more solidly built and almost as graceful; like most Maori, she was black-haired, brown-eyed and sepia-skinned, but her bone-structure was finer than the norm and she had an air of elegance and dignity that was only reinforced by gold-rimmed oval glasses.
Shaking off her split-second musings, the well-dressed seventh-former glanced towards the desk at the front of the classroom... and went still as she saw Mister Glasson's darkening expression. Aw, hell, don't tell me the new Deputy Headmaster's one of those disciplinarian types! she moaned inwardly.
"You there!" the man barked, straightening out of his seat to his full five-feet-four and glaring at the new arrivals. "Your names!"
It was his tone that brought every eye in the room to bear on him. Harsh, authoritarian, arrogant, it was the tone of a tin god bully... such as the youth of Napier were all too familiar with, these days.
Kelly stifled another moan as Taz's eyes came to bear on the teacher, and the contempt in her gaze was none too thickly veiled. "Zyrianova, Tatyana Alekseyevna, *sir*," she said sweetly, with a mocking little bow, and Kelly's eyes widened a little. Taz had no time for fools and no problems about telling them so, but if she pushed *this* one -!
"McKellar, Peter Michael, *sir*," Misha supplied without any inflection whatsoever... a tonelessness that told Kelly, for one, exactly what he thought of this new teacher's attitude.
"You're both on lunch-time detention. I will not tolerate lateness," Glasson declared, sounding very satisfied with himself.
"Respectfully, sir, we were unavoidably delayed -" Misha began.
"I don't care about your excuses!"
Misha took a calming breath, then finished, "- by a snap identity check a couple of blocks from school," as if he hadn't been interrupted.
Taz rolled her eyes and added acidly, "Or would you rather we'd declined to co-operate with the nice men holding automatic weapons?"
"Congratulations: you just got an after-school for insolence, too!" Glasson snapped, standing again.
Taz's lips thinned, and she shifted her weight a little; Misha caught it and raised his hand a fraction. Thus reminded of her temper, she subsided a little... though not much.
"As for you, boy, you're out of uniform. Go straight home, *right now*, and change into the proper seasonal uniform - and take off those sunglasses; this is a school, not Hollywood."
"I must respectfully decline, sir."
"The school dress rules -"
"I have a standing exemption; ask anyone here. I suffer from a genetic disorder known as Type-1-B oculo-cutaneous albinism." Glasson looked blank, and Misha sighed. "I'm an albino... *sir*."
Glasson flushed angrily; the boy's tone made it clear he was being considered a fool, and for him to offer such a preposterous excuse -! "A likely story, Mister McKellar." He came around his desk, leaned over, and snatched the shades from Misha's face, exposing his eyes to the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the classroom windows. The youth gasped and shielded his eyes with a wince. Glasson was too busy posing pompously to notice the subvocal growl that escaped several of the onlookers... including Taz and Kelly. "Albinos have red or pink eyes, Mister McKellar; yours are neither, and that makes you a damned liar."
"You're misinformed - *sir*. The 'redness' -"
"Oh, so now I'm ignorant?" Glasson posed rhetorically.
"Actually, it struck me as more of a lifelong kind'a thing," Misha returned cuttingly, his temper slipping its leash for a moment.
Glasson went almost puce, and he was about to speak again when Kelly took a hand... before things turned into a *complete* disaster. "Excuse me, sir, but neither your tone nor your language are called for. The school rules specifically state that no one, student or faculty member, shall use abusive language."
"And who the hell are you to be quoting the school rules to me?" Glasson sneered.
"I'm the Head Girl, sir. I'm -"
"*You're* the Head Girl?" He looked her over incredulously. "I might have known. Sit down, Hikurangi; I am the Deputy Headmaster of this school, and I will not be lectured by a student, much less a two-way tart like you."
Kelly went a little pale, and it didn't take a psychic to feel the sudden wave of resentment and hatred than ran through the students present.
"That was *definitely* uncalled for, *sir*," Taz bit out, her accent thickening by the moment.
"Really? We'll see if Mister Harcourt sees it that way. Hikurangi, you too."
A chunky, stolid man with thinning brown hair and careworn features, Gordon Harcourt listened to Glasson's account without his expression changing in the slightest, not letting a hint of his contempt for this strutting, self-important little toad show. The post of Deputy Headmaster had been vacant for almost four months before Glasson applied, and Harcourt had been too eager to cut his workload from 'crippling' to merely 'exhausting' to wonder why someone with Glasson's qualifications had been in and out of the educational establishment ever since receiving them. Now he knew, and it was too late to rectify that mistake... but on the other hand, he *could* limit the damage.
When Glasson finished speaking, Harcourt turned to the three youths standing before his desk and considered them for a moment. "Well?" he asked mildly.
Kelly motioned for the younger two to state their case first, and Misha, being the one who was better able to tread lightly, took the floor. "We *were* late, sir; Stormhawk officers stopped us on our way here and detained us for several minutes while they verified our identification, and they seemed disinclined to let us go without completing their checks. None of us used abusive language or swore at 'Mister' Glasson; in fact, while I don't want to sound like a schoolyard lawyer, you have a room full of witnesses who'll tell you that 'Mister' Glasson was unwilling to hear any explanation, called me a liar, and cast aspersions upon Kelly's personal conduct that would have been grounds to demand satisfaction by duel in another age. And while I admit both Taz and I may have been a little smart," he smiled crookedly, "it was purely self-defence."
Harcourt didn't let himself laugh. The ability to joke in the face of this sort of trouble was increasingly rare, but it could easily be mistimed. "Would the three of you wait outside, please? And close the door on your way out."
Glasson smirked at the trio as they filed out the door... a smirk that slipped, fast, when he saw that none of them looked particularly worried. Looking back to his senior as the door came closed completely, he was about to add another nail to their coffin... but stopped short when he saw the look of pinched fury on Harcourt's face.
"At this school less than two hours, and already you're an expert on all the students, including the Head Girl?" the Headmaster asked acidly. "Did you even know who you were talking to?"
"There are five hundred students at this school; how could I -"
"You could have tried ASKING!" Harcourt roared.
Outside, Taz let out a soft, impressed whistle as that shout carried to her ears. In fact, Harcourt's words had been so powerful that Misha and Kelly could make out what was said *without* benefit of Slayer hearing. "Sounds like Gordy's *really* pissed," the albino noted cheerfully.
Meanwhile, Glasson was almost staggering before the force of Harcourt's continuing tirade. "Because *if* you *had* bothered to ask, you would have found that all three of these students have exemplary disciplinary and academic records. Miss Hikurangi is the Head Girl, and thus a member of the Student Council; she is also a member of the Hawkes' Bay representative cricket team and *captain* of ours.
"Miss Zyrianova, despite being a fifth-former, is taking three *sixth*-form subjects and acts as an unofficial assistant to the Physical Education department, so she enjoys a modicum of latitude in her dress and manner. Mister McKellar's condition grants him a legitimate medical exemption to the school dress rules, he's taking two sixth-form and two *seventh*-form subjects, and he's fluent in at least six languages, which makes him the school's resident interpreter and virtually a member of the faculty!
"All three of them, Oscar, are also excellent judges of character and *superb* barometers of student sentiment." Harcourt took a moment to sit back down and moderate his anger. "What do we do here, Oscar?"
"We're teachers. We teach students what they need to know to become useful members of society," Glasson answered almost automatically.
"We're building tomorrow's citizens," Harcourt nodded. "And those three are *exactly* the sort of end-product we want. *You* may want to live in a society full of conformist, compliant drones, but while *I* am here, I will keep trying to mould our students into people *exactly* like those three: responsible, dedicated, and self-reliant, people who rise to challenges and seek their own answers."
Glasson was pale, and it took him a moment to find his voice. "B-but general discipline -"
"The school rules apply to *all* of us here, students and faculty alike; you shatter those rules for your own petty gratification and then expect them to protect you from the consequences? You're sadly mistaken, Oscar. Besides, those three know *exactly* where the boundaries of their leeway lie and while they may approach them, they have yet to overstep them. Unlike *you*, whom I can only describe as the worst sort of petty, self-indulgent, hidebound bully! Frankly, I'd be shot of you in a heartbeat, but I can't replace you this late in the year, so do yourself a favour: sit down, shut up, do your job, and take no action I could even vaguely construe as abusive of these students or any other. Your contract will be terminated at the end of the year, that much is a given... but if you're a good little boy, maybe, *just maybe*, I *won't* write to the Ministry of Education at the end of the school year and recommend the revocation of your teaching credentials for gross incompetence! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?"
Glasson was decidedly green by this point, and could only nod choppily.
"Fidelitas, Integritas, Fortitudo, Diligentia - Loyalty, Integrity, Courage, Diligence. Our school motto, in case you'd forgotten. Words and concepts that we try to instill into all our students; words that those three *live* and that I doubt you can even *spell*!" Letting out a huff of annoyance, Harcourt looked away from the younger man in contempt and went back to the door. "You three can come back in now."
When all three students were standing before his desk again - the younger pair in parade-rest stance, he noted with a flicker of private amusement - Harcourt spoke levelly, without any visible sign of his earlier fury. "Mister McKellar, Miss Zyrianova, you'll serve detention at lunch-time for your smart remarks, though in light of the provocation you suffered I'll only require half an hour from each of you. Miss Hikurangi, please accept my apologies; in light of the public nature of this incident, you'll also receive a public apology from Mister Glasson at this Wednesday's assembly." Glasson sat forward in his seat, about to protest, but Harcourt glared him into sullen acquiesence. "All three of you may return to class... and in future, please try to accord Mister Glasson the respect he's due?"
Taz sniffed. "I thought we already did, sir."
"Probably true, Miss Zyrianova, but I'll rephrase that: you will accord him the respect his *office* is due, hmm?" He looked at the trio over his glasses, and his smile fooled none of them.
"Yes, sir!" they chorussed, turning to depart. Kelly and Misha ignored Glasson as they left, but Taz couldn't resist the temptation to shoot him a smugly impudent wink as went out the door.
"\What a perfect fucking asshole that Glasson is,\" she muttered as they headed back towards the classroom to collect their gear.
"You said it," Kelly agreed readily; though she spoke not a word of Russian, Taz's sentiments needed little translation. "On the other hand, Gordy's always been a fair sort of person," she pointed out, trying not to sound smug... and not doing the best job of it, at that. She brushed past Misha, and her elbow caught him in the ribs. He gasped and went still for an instant, favouring that side. Kelly caught his pained expression and paused herself. "Misha, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, letting his breath out evenly. "I just got a little banged up over the weekend." Seeing her dubious look, he shrugged - then grinned suddenly. "Don't worry, Kelly, I plan to live forever... or die trying."
Kelly chuckled and kept walking.
"Uh, Kelly?" Misha said softly, touching her elbow gently.
"Yeah?"
"Could I get my wallet back, please?"
"Aw, damn...." Kelly groaned, reaching into her inside jacket pocket to retrieve it for him, wondering as she did why someone whose mother was worth a solid seven figures had a nylon wallet that looked like a refugee from a two-dollar shop. "Sorry - force of habit, I didn't realise I'd done it."
"Hey, I don't hold your criminal reflexes against you; you're from Auckland, you can't help it," he murmured dryly, and she chuckled ruefully. It had always been a point of perverse amusement to the three of them that, rather than a 'morally upright' girl with impeccable breeding and great connections, the student body had knowingly elected a bisexual Maori woman to be Head Girl of a school whose faculty and student body were predominantly Pakeha and theoretically Catholic... and in the process, had *unknowingly* elected a Head Girl who was also a practiced pickpocket, lock-cracker, burglar and all-around rogue. They also got a kick out of wondering what, exactly, that said about Saint G's in general and the students and faculty in particular.
"And if those leads you and your family develop keep panning out like they have been, we'd probably forgive you a murder or two," Taz added drolly, in a low voice.
"Just doing my part for the liberation movement," the seventh-former smiled, speaking at a similar volume.
"Don't get carried away with the titles." Misha shifted his shoulders a little uncomfortably. "It isn't like there's a lot of us."
"Yeah, but you're hitting Bloodsuckers Inc. almost as hard as they deserve," the Maori woman nodded, with a fierceness most people would have thought uncharacteristic of her... unless they'd known exactly how she'd learned about the shadow-world Taz and Misha lived in. "So I say 'vive la Résistance!' and more power to you."
"Speaking of which...." Misha reached into his jersey and produced a small leather wallet from his breast pocket. "I think you'll be needing this, Kelly," he smiled crookedly, tossing it to her.
The Maori woman blinked in surprise; she'd taught them both a fair few of her tricks, but she had no idea Misha had gotten so good as to lift *her* wallet without her noticing. Then she smiled, realising how to get her own back: she batted her eyelashes at him, simpering outrageously. "Find anything *else* you liked in my back pocket?"
"Uh... I... uhhhh...." He blushed a bright, flaming scarlet that was truly alarming against his complexion and swallowed heavily, almost visibly wishing he could disappear down between the floorboards.
Kelly stifled a grin at his embarrassment. While neither of these two socialised much, Misha's condition made him hyper-self-conscious, so he simply didn't get out enough to recognise the signals a surprising number of girls were constantly sending his way; you had to be about as subtle as Taz(!) to get his attention, and when you *did* bash him over the head with an innuendo, he got incredibly, endearingly flustered.
Kelly sighed as her thoughts ran that well-worn path again. Misha was utterly devoted to Taz, not only as an operating partner and best friend but as the woman he had loved and would love forever... and he would never be able to say a thing about it. Taz would never find a better man in a hundred years of trying, and she'd never know what was right under her nose unless someone bashed *her* over the head with it... and Kelly wasn't about to betray Misha's trust that way.
I just hope he works up the nerve to tell her before he misses his chance forever....
Even as she was thinking, a hulking blond youth in a First XV jersey shouldered past them, knocking Misha against the wall with a growled, "Fuck outta my way, mutant!"
And *that* kind of bullshit doesn't help either, the Maori woman added silently, glaring after the rugby-head as Taz helped her friend back to his feet. The name-calling only reinforced the impression that he was a freak, unworthy of someone like Taz... but he refused to let either of them call anybody on it, lest he look like he was hiding behind his friends, and he simply took everything they could dish out. All three of them knew what could happen if the wrong people paid the wrong sort of attention to them, and they tried to stay off the radar... but that didn't make watching self-absorbed idiots abuse her friends any easier to take.
14:47, SEPTEMBER 29, 1995, LIMA - 02:47/30-09-95, ZULU
CORNER OF DOUGLAS MACLEAN AVENUE AND LATHAM STREET, NAPIER
The watercourse that divided the Marewa and Napier South areas of the city from each other was more properly known as the Serpentine, but as long as Danny Szczodrowski had lived in the city, he and everyone he knew had always simply called it 'the creek'. Barely four metres wide and one deep at this point, it was the centre of a fifty-metre-wide grassy depression that was bordered on the Marewa side by MacLean Ave and the other by George's Drive; scattered as it was with trees and such, that District Council land had made an excellent playground in younger years. Four or five culverts traversed the creek, including this one at Latham Street, and Danny could remember climbing up and down the stones on its side like a budding Edmund Hillary.
But those had been simpler days with fewer cares, and Danny firmly muzzled his desire to glare at the trio of Stormhawk troopers lounging around the beige-and-ochre Holden Commodore parked on the grass next to the culvert railing. Fucking arrogant bastards think they *already* own this country....
One of the Stormers looked up from jab-chatting with his fellows, saw Danny coming, and grinned as he decided to break the monotony. The other two wore the usual Stormhawk ochre-trimmed beige jumpsuit and peaked forage caps and had Browning pistols strapped to their thighs; the man approaching the teenager was dressed in the ochre Kevlar utility vest and helmet of a Tactical, both sleeves bore the two-and-a-half bars of a corporal, and he had a sub-gun slung across his body. "Halt!" he called, raising one hand at Danny.
And wouldn't Grand-dad Ignacy think *this* was a nice little piece of déjà vu all over again? the fifteen-year-old thought with a touch of bitterness, noting the Stormer's German accent as he stopped.
"Identification," the Stormer said. It was not a request.
"Of course, officer," the youth nodded, digging out his wallet to produce his learner's driver's licence. He carefully ignored an impulse was to do the old 'Star Wars' routine about not needing identification; he'd heard stories about other kids who'd tried it, been detained by the Stormers for their trouble... and never been heard from again.
The sergeant got on his radio and ran the youth's details by the dispatch officer while Danny waited patiently. His attention went to the other Stormers for a moment, but they were just grinning and making smart comments in their own language, enjoying the show as their comrade exercised their power simply because he (and they) could. Off to the north, a helicopter rose over Bluff Hill, apparently from the Stormer base at what had once been Napier Prison. AS-565UB Panther, Danny identified automatically, his eye honed by his endless reading of military reference books, among other things. Military version of the Eurocopter AS-365 Dauphin. Two-man flight crew; in Stormhawk service, mounts a searchlight turret, FLIR, and rescue hoist and carries up to ten fully-equipped Tactical troopers.
After a moment, the Tactical looked back to Danny, taking in the gold-trimmed royal-blue uniform of Central Napier College. "What are you doing out of school so early?"
"Central starts its school day at eight and ends it at two-thirty, sir."
"Where are you going?"
"Baby-sitting job just down the street," he supplied levelly, jerking his chin at the houses beyond the Stormer; his bag tried to slip down one arm, and he barely caught it in time. "My clients' kids'll be home just after three, and I have to be inside and changed by then."
The Stormer looked him over for a moment, appraising his manner, then handed his licence back. "You may go."
"Thanks." You fascist Kraut cocksucker. Swallowing his hatred, Danny remounted his bike and pedalled off, carefully not glaring at the Stormers as he went.
A few moments later, freshly changed into his civvies, the boy sagged onto the Zyrianov's couch with a bottle of his favourite Bundaberg ginger beer and took a long draught, wincing at the familiar bite and cursing the fates that had ever brought those goose-stepping bastards to his city.
15:42, SEPTEMBER 29, 1995, LIMA - 03:52/30-09-95, ZULU
ZYRIANOV RESIDENCE
"\We're home, folks!\" Taz cried as they came through the front door.
Katya, Taz's niece, ducked her dark-blond head through the door of the study as Misha eased the door closed behind them, then dashed to hug them both 'hello' with all the speed her ten-year-old legs would allow, saying not a word the entire time. She wasn't much of a talker.
"Hey, kiddo," Misha smiled, kneeling to return the hug and ruffling her hair gently. "Where're Danny and Kolya?"
"Yo!" Danny poked his head out of the study and waved 'hi'. Frankly, he wasn't all that much to write home about: he was a little taller than average, with a round face, stubbornly cowlick-y brown hair and blue eyes that always seemed a little distracted. "Kolya's on the computer - he's got a little 'Wolfenstein 3-D' thing goin' on."
"Has he done his homework?" Taz asked sternly.
"Yes," he nodded patiently. "Maths and English both. And, uh," (Danny's voice dropped slightly as he produced a piece of paper) "I figured you two'd want to know about this."
Taz cocked a mental eyebrow as she accepted the note and drew both Danny and Misha to one side. Danny's father was chief air-traffic controller at the Napier airport, so he necessarily knew about all the flights that came in and out at exotic hours... which in turn meant that Danny routinely spotted all sorts of stuff for them. "Flight Victor One-One-Three," she read. "Arriving 00:30, origin... Johannesburg?" she queried, cocking an eyebrow at the fourth-former.
"I checked with Dad. Victor is short for VIP; it's an execu-jet, chartered from Stormhawk by an outside party for protected passage all the way to the destination. I couldn't get any details about who's on board or why they're coming, but take a look at that asterisk by the callsign." Danny gave them both a serious look. "That means it'll have an escort, probably some of those German-made Alphas they run for 'aerobatic demonstrations'."
All three snorted at that. Stormhawk might well put on aerobatic displays with those Alpha Jets... but their specifications were available to anyone who could read a Jane's, and none of the youths laboured under the illusion that those 'training/demonstration aircraft' had been shorn of their weapons capabilities.
Misha nodded to Danny calmingly. "We'll see what sort of a... *reception* can be arranged."
"Knock 'em dead, okay? The sooner these bastards get out of New Zealand, the sooner I can start picking my classes without having to look over my shoulder for the 'Specials'."
Taz nodded. "Thanks for this, Danny." The fourth-former took his cue, grabbed his gear, and took off for his place. "Misha, could you go through the twins' homework with them, please? I'd like to check my e-mail."
"Kolya won't like that," Katya pointed out softly. "He's just getting on a roll."
"This is business, Katya; he can play later."
Katya nodded and headed back into the study, followed by her aunt and Misha. They came through the door to see the kids arguing back and forth in Russian. Though fraternal twins, the two were almost as much of a study in contrasts as Misha and Taz themselves. The brown-haired, grey-eyed Kolya was possessed of his long-dead father's rakish charm and devil-may-care cockiness, despite his youth. "\Aunt Taz can *wait*! How am I supposed to save the world from those Nazi zombie experiments with all these interruptions?\"
"Try the 'save' function?" Misha suggested drolly, stepping up behind the boy. "You can blast the baddies another time, sport. Right now, Taz needs the computer."
"But Uncle Miiiisha -!" Kolya started to whine, looking up over his shoulder; as soon as he looked away from the screen, 'he' was cut down by a pair of SS goons.
"Kolya, stop complaining, save your game, and go check your homework again, okay? You've both got soccer practice in half an hour, and I don't want the star striker being benched because your grandmother got another report about your poor maths skills, understand?" His tone was gently patient, but firm.
"But -"
Misha turned his mirrored-glasses gaze directly on the boy, the set of his mouth going from firm to stern. Kolya instantly went silent and obeyed.
"Thanks," Katya smiled, watching her errant sibling flee upstairs as she resumed her place on the floor; a pad of paper and a couple of pencils lay on the carpet. "It's pretty hard to write short stories with all that noise in the background."
"Is that what they've got you doing for homework?" he asked, genuinely interested. Behind him, Taz smiled fondly and sat down in front of the computer, double-clicking the Internet shortcut.
"Yeah. It's fun," Katya smiled.
"D'you mind if I take a look at it when you're done?"
"Sure."
"\Nice work with Kolya,\" Taz murmured. "\You've really put the fear of God into him since Mama started working eight-to-six.\"
"\Fear of God, ha!\" he sniffed, careful to mind his language around Katya. "\The fear of *me* always gets better results.\"
"\I'm not afraid of you, Uncle Misha,\" Katya chirped.
"\That's because you're smart enough to do what you're supposed to without us having to play the heavy in the first place, kiddo,\" Misha grinned. "\I'm gonna go change, okay? Let me know if you've got anything interesting.\"
"Right-o," Taz nodded, waiting for her inbox to finish downloading. She was just a half-skilled user of Win95, but it was an afternoon ritual to her to check both of her freemail accounts: the one she used to jab-chat with people around the world, and the one she saved for business messages.
Misha reappeared at her shoulder just as she finished logging out, now dressed in pale-grey trousers and an LA Raiders jersey that had seen better days. "Anything?"
"'I don't like spam!'" she snorted. "Zippo."
"Well, that being done, I'd better stop by the George's Drive house, check for phone-messages."
"D'you really think Cerian's gonna bother calling?" Taz snorted. "I mean, did she even tell you she was going, much less where?"
"You never know."
"I guess. Stay," she offered impulsively. "Read Katya's homework like you offered. *I'll* check your messages for you - once I get out of this monkey-suit."
"You don't have to -"
"It's okay, it won't take long. You're better at the homework thing than I am, anyway," she noted ruefully, remembering the disaster that had been her last maths assignment. "I'll be back in fifteen, 'kay?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
She shot him a gentle wink. "Go on, go dote on my brother's kids."
A few minutes later, Taz returned downstairs in comfortably worn jeans and a pale grey singlet, fumbling her keys out of her pocket. She glanced into the living room as she went, smiling as she saw the way Misha was buried deep in Katya's short-story, snickering at some joke in the text. What a crew, she smiled indulgently. The very picture of domesticity. Wait - is 'domesticity' even a word? Feh - my mind, the random question generator!
The McKellar house was only a couple of streets over. It was a bright and warm afternoon, but Taz shivered as she unlocked the front door with the duplicate key Misha had had cut for her six years ago. Like her own house, this place was two-storey and quite sizeable, but while the Zyrianov's was well-lived-in and welcoming and decorated with family knick-knacks, Cerian's house was fresh from the pages of a decorator's magazine, all clean and precise and... *impersonal*! Hell, I've seen crypts that were more homey, she thought sourly, quashing the impulse to push a painting askew to break up the monotonous neatness. Misha would catch nine kinds of hell if it wasn't spick-and-span when Cerian got back - whenever that might be.
Finding the answer-machine, Taz glanced at the message counter - Zero? Colour *me* gobsmacked. - and turned back to the front door, absently noting as she did that Cerian *still* hadn't gotten around to having dimmer-switches installed for any of the house lights. Elena Zyrianova had had her house rewired to accomodate Misha's eye-problems at the start of 1988, as he stayed there far more often than he did at this 'home'; Cerian still hadn't bothered. Big shock *there*, too. That woman has yet to find a responsibility she can't duck - including Watcherly *and* filial. About all she seems to care about is the ego-stroking she gets from being anointed Lady High Priest of anthropology at Hawke's Bay Technical.
I wonder: are all Watchers this big a waste of skin?
12:17, SEPTEMBER 29, LIMA - 11:17, 29-09-95, ZULU
GREYMOOR MANOR
OUTSIDE OXFORD, UNITED KINGDOM
{"Sub-Coordinator (Training/Slayers) is here for your 12:30, Director."}
Elliot Merrick looked up from the folder he was reading with an irritated frown, then carefully tucked the file under his blotter. Let the game begin, Sub-Coordinator (Security/Operations) noted, keying the intercom. "Very well, Amber, send him in."
A moment later, his personal assistant pushed open the oak doors that protected the inner sanctum of Mentor's chief, giving Quentin Travers a bright smile as she ushered him inside and withdrew again. Travers didn't even notice her discretion, simply stopping before his colleague's desk.
Merrick didn't stand; he didn't offer his guest a chair. Those were courtesies to an equal, and in this office no-one was Merrick's equal, not even Chairman Wellesley himself. Instead, he kept his head down, pretending to read a report he'd signed off on more than two weeks before. "Quentin."
"Might I ask what this is about, Elliot?"
"A courtesy to my esteemed fellow Sub-Coordinator," the bearded Keystone smiled thinly, leaning back in his chair. "You've been... *upset* over the lack of information coming out of Napier, especially given the unusual circumstances surrounding Zyrianova's Calling."
"'Upset', Elliot? Try infuriated," Travers snorted, taking a seat unbidden. "She was supposed to be brought here for training, not left in place to remain completely incapable of fulfilling her destiny. Cerian deliberately violated my orders by leaving her unprepared -"
"On your predecessor's instructions."
Travers stopped mid-diatribe and stared at the younger man. "What?"
"It seems he was conducting an experiment. Most of the Slayers in our records were lavishly trained and equipped for their Calling, yet they all fell in short order - I believe the record for longevity is twenty months before we had to... take steps. That high rate of turnover is admittedly useful in some ways, yet we lack any sort of baseline to determine whether our training programme is all it could be. So, on St.John's orders, a number of candidate Slayers were left uninformed so that they would 'come at this cold' and establish just such a baseline."
"And why did no-one inform me before now?"
"You *do* have a certain... vested interest in the status quo, Quentin."
Travers was silent for a split-second, smiling thinly as he saw past Keystone's soft words and read the game. Travers' duties as Training/Slayers gave him nominal control of what Slayers learned and how, and why should he want to change traditions that had served the Council well for more than seventeen centuries? But by taking this approach, Sec/Ops not only got the 'control standard' so precious to its 'experiment', they also removed the education of the subjects from Training/Slayers' control and arrogated them and those educations directly to the subjects' field Watchers... all of whom answered to Security/Operations. If the experiment's results proved to be beneficial, Sec/Ops reveal its involvement to the Quorum and get all the credit - and a mandate to continue in the same manner, thus stealing that much more power from Training/Slayers. On the other hand, if things turned sour Training/Slayers would take all the blame, as it would look like Travers' people had fallen asleep at the helm by failing to locate and train the girls.
And Cerian was undoubtedly more than happy to help them gore my ox, he added snidely, remembering his former student with a sour curl of his lip. I taught her *everything* she knows that's more substantial than the words to 'Jerusalem', and how does she repay me? By siding with my enemies and spitting on the very traditions I sought to raise her in.
But all of that was beside the current point. "Perhaps I do have a 'vested interest'. In any case, we've heard not a single word out of McKellar in almost three years, and since another Slayer hasn't been Called we must assume that Zyrianova has at least survived this long... but without hard information about what's going on in Napier we can't make any judgements about this 'experiment' or the girl's methods."
"Which is why I've taken steps to reestablish contact with Zyrianova and McKellar."
"Those steps being...?"
"Since your former protegé seems so militantly disinterested in keeping us abreast of developments, I've taken the liberty of sending someone to make an independent assessment." Merrick didn't (quite) smirk as he made Travers wait for it.
"Who?"
"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."
Travers' explosion was all Merrick could have hoped for. "*Pryce*!? For God's - he's a *child*! And a none-too-intelligent one at that, I might add! What in heaven's name were you thinking?"
"That he's a lot brighter than you give him credit for, Quentin," Merrick said evenly, with only the faintest hint of a gloating smile. "Our school in Zürich does *not* make people Dux of their year for being stupid. And his youth is what makes him perfect for the task: as far as anyone knows, Pryce included, we've merely sent him out to Napier to garner some field-experience, hopefully enough to convince him of the seriousness of our calling."
"He hasn't even completed his basic Watcher's training!"
"Which is something you need to take up with Oliver, not me. How the boy could graduate from Zürich, *disappear* for a year and a half, then walk straight back into our training process bears closer examination," Keystone noted, almost to himself. "But in the meantime, the decision is made. In fact, he should be arriving in Napier in an hour or so.
"Don't worry, Quentin," Merrick added, seeing a hint of genuine alarm on the older man's face. "I've assigned him a couple of bodyguards. Your precious nephew will be perfectly safe for the duration of his stay atop the Hawke's Bay Nexus."
23:35, SEPTEMBER 29, LIMA - 11:35, 29-09-95, ZULU
FLIGHT V113, OVER THE TASMAN SEA
Henry Morrissey rapped on the execu-jet's bedroom door to wake his principal. "We're about an hour out of Napier, sir."
"Thank you!" came from within, and Morrissey went back forward to join his colleague, Christian Hahndorf, in the lounge. Morrissey rolled his eyes, and Hahndorf nodded; as many people as they'd had to babysit in their careers as 'bodyguards', this one was a prize idiot.
Behind that bedroom door, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce levered himself out of the (remarkably comfortable) fold-out bed, flicked on the cabin lights, and reached for his suitcase to retrieve his toiletries bag and a change of clothes. He had time for a shower and shave before the plane landed, and he'd learned that both, along with decent sleep, did a great deal to offset jet-lag. Though *why* we must arrive at this ungodly hour, I have no idea.
Even as their passenger was turning on the water, both pilots heard an unnerving beeping coming from behind them. The co-pilot turned in his seat and look back at the enclosed compartment that had replaced the normal crew-rest bay. "What've you got, EWO?" he asked over the intercom.
"SMART-S F-band 3-D radar ahead... also receiving signals from a C-band SPS-49(V)8 on the same bearing. Looks like one of our ships," the jet's electronic-warfare officer supplied, meaning a Stormhawk-manned Type-123 destroyer. "If it is, at this signal strength he's about two hundred and fifty clicks ahead of us."
The pilot automatically glanced at his heads-up-display's airspeed readout, running the maths in his head as he'd learned to do before being 'retired' from Soviet Frontal Aviation. At four-hundred-thirty-five knots, we'll enter his surface-to-air missile engagement envelope in... fifteen minutes, and overfly him in twenty. I just hope we're both reading off the same page of the code-book, or this could get really exciting really quickly.
{"Unknown rider, unknown rider, this is New Zealand warship Vigilant in international waters, please identify."}
"Vigilant - that's one of ours, all right," the pilot nodded, keying his radio. "Vigilant, this is Flight Victor One-One-Three, international VIP charter flight inbound Napier with three pax."
{"Victor One-One-Three, go to button seven secure."} A moment as both the destroyer and the VIP jet switched to a scrambled, coded channel. {"Victor One-One-Three, authenticate Juliet Niner Hotel."}
The co-pilot read down his knee-board to find the correct response code and showed it to his colleague. "India One Oscar."
{"Authentication... confirmed and valid. Victor One-One-Three, be advised we are vectoring your escort to you. They'll join from your high eleven o'clock in... twenty-three minutes."}
Blissfully unaware of the fact that his life had hung in the balance for a few moments there, Wesley had completed his ablutions, then seated himself at the aircraft's work-desk and dug out the 'file' he'd been given before leaving London to re-read it one last time. Not that it took long: 'file' was entirely too generous a term, since all he'd actually been given was an A5 envelope holding a single note-card:
{Tatyana Zyrianova - Slayer
Peter McKellar - trainee Watcher
Cerian McKellar, Ph.D - assigned Watcher}
Well, *this* is *wonderfully* helpful! the twenty-one-year-old Watcher-apprentice thought acidly, dropping the card back its envelope and digging a Zippo and a packet of panatelas out of his inside pocket. Lighting one of the slender cigars, he touched the lighter's flame to the corner of the envelope, dropped it into the desk's ashtray, and watched it consume itself with clinical eyes. Certainly can't afford for anyone to find *that*, or there'd be all sorts of hell raised! When the flames flickered out, he carefully crumpled the ashes until they no longer resembled anything even vaguely paper-looking, then stood to head forward. If he was going to be getting off a plane past midnight in the Slayer's town, he'd best have a cup of coffee or two under his belt.
00:35, TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 30, 1995, LIMA - 12:35, 29-09-95, ZULU
NAPIER AIRPORT
It would be natural to assume that an intercontinental-range VIP aircraft landing at a nominally domestic airfield would draw a certain degree of curiosity. But this was *Napier*, and with only a very few exceptions, the locals had learned that it was better for their piece of mind - and personal safety - if they paid no attention to the abnormal.
Two of the exceptions were crouched behind a crate in the primary cargo bay, looking very little like what the 'normal' world usually saw of them.
Taz had unbraided her hair and, as always on a caper, pinned it back in a ruthless bun. The eyes that usually gleamed with deviltry were coolly professional as they tracked the taxiing aircraft; her face was darkened with cam-cream. This wasn't a full take-down per se, so they'd gone with the basic 'Midnight Uniform #1' for better mobility and stealth: slacks, blouse and wool jumper over slimline Spectra vests, and souvenired USMC forage caps - every last stitch in midnight-blue, for better night-time camouflage, relieved only by black Danner combat boots and military-issue web-gear. Taz's webbing and utility belt supported a tactical thigh-holster holding her customised Glock-22, with two magazines strapped to the inside of her thigh; a modified ammo-pouch at her right hip held four stakes carved of white oak; a standard pouch at her left hip held three spare MP-5 magazines; and her Ka-Bar was sheathed on her left shoulder-strap, point up. Her MP-5SD6 rested against the crate, well within easy reach.
Beside her, Misha was also watching the aircraft, albeit through the viewfinder of a digital camcorder. His clothing and equipment differed from her only in detail; he preferred the HK Mark-23 .45 as a pistol, and the knife at his right shoulder-strap was a Cold Steel tanto... but the look in his eyes was the same. It was the efficient, dispassionately appraising ruthlessness of the professional Warrior.
"Jackpot," Misha noted wryly, his pitch softer than breath, all the while getting footage of the whole scene. "Remind me to buy our friend a crate of that battery-acid he drinks."
"Got'cha," Taz nodded, matching his volume. "Interesting bird."
"Yeah," Misha nodded, getting imagery of the execu-jet's details. He wasn't a professional camera-man, but the pictures would still be useful for later analysis. "Looks like they've got electronic warfare gear built into that fairing ahead of the tailplane. Templar livery, too," he added as the aircraft came to a halt. Indeed, the aircraft *was* in the ochre-trimmed beige of the Templar Trading Group... but for some reason, it lacked the swooping-hawk-clutching-a-lightning-bolt of the SSF.
"Show-time," Taz breathed into her boom-mike, advising Andrushka in his overwatching sniper-hide. The jet's airstairs swung down, and a pair of men whose watchful demeanours screamed 'bodyguard' emerged, their jackets unbuttoned and their right hands free; the larger looked like a human Rottweiler, his companion like a Dobermann. A moment later, a third man disembarked, and Misha zoomed in to get a better look at the VIP.
And doesn't *he* look like three-penny'orth of God-help-us, he smiled to himself. While the gunsels were pushing forty, this guy was barely twenty if he was a day; tall, bespectacled, dark-haired and a little vague-looking, he had the air of breeding that was virtually unique to the English.
A car had pulled up a few minutes ago to wait for the plane to land; now, it pulled out onto the tarmac to collect the new arrival. Misha noted, with a touch of surprise, that the young man seemed to resent his bodyguards' presence, much less their doing things like getting his bags and opening doors.
"Just a moment!" he frowned an instant later. Rottweiler had gotten into the car to go with the VIP to wherever they were bound; Dobermann had stayed. Now, as the flight-crew headed for the crew lounge and ground-crewmen in Templar livery started refuelling the jet and checking all the various widgets, the remaining bodyguard was digging something out of the baggage compartment. "What's he up to?"
"Beats me," Taz shrugged.
The growl of high-bypass turbines from overhead drew their attention. The charter-jet's escorts must have run low on fuel, because a few instants later, both landed and taxied towards the hangar next to the cargo bay. 'Aerobatic display jets' - *my arse*! Misha sneered, getting more pictures of the Alphas before they shut their engines down right outside and were pushed under cover by the technicians before anyone noticed. Officially, the Dornier Alpha Jet was a training jet, like the RNZAF's MB-339 Aermacchis, *but*.... Let me see: the external fuel tanks on the inner pylons, I'd accept, but the centreline pod for a 27mm cannon? The Sidewinders on the outer pylons? Yeah, right.
"Heads up!" Taz hissed, and the albino shifted his attention back to Dobermann. He was headed *their* way - and he was looking around for someone.
And here there are! Two other men came into the cargo area through a side door, moving towards the desk that sat barely four metres from where the Slayer and her partner were hiding. Both youths went very still as the men stopped at the desk, the one in the business suit sitting down and laying a briefcase on the desk while his companion - wearing a Tactical sergeant's gear and insignia - stood behind his shoulder.
Dobermann came to a halt in front of the desk, eyeing the Tactical for a moment before turning his attention on the suited man. None of the three looked like they had much in the way of a sense of humour.
The suit looked up with a superior expression. "\You are Hahndorf?\" he asked in German. Only Misha understood them, but what was happening was pretty self-evident anyway.
"\You are Lohrfeld?\" Dobermann asked in turn, his tone level.
"\I believe you have a package for me?\"
Dobermann - Hahndorf - laid his burden on the desk: a long, flat wooden case about a metre long and a foot wide, well-polished and decorated, a little travel-worn, but evidently an antique.
Lohrfeld tugged the case to him and popped the latches, inspecting whatever was inside. Nodding in satisfaction, he pushed at the briefcase he'd brought. "\As agreed: five hundred thousand D-Mark for you as a delivery fee, and five million pounds for your employer.\"
Hahndorf cocked an eyebrow and likewise popped open the case he'd just accepted. "\I think I'll count it. It's not that I don't trust you - it's just that I don't trust you.\"
Taz touched one hand to her headset, keying her boom-mike, four clicks, then three. Transaction in progress. Move in.
{*click*-*click*} Acknowledged.
She gave Misha his final instructions in military sign-language, not wanting to alert the keen-eared vampires. Her best friend/fellow operator nodded, shot her a good-luck wink, and moved off.
When she'd gotten 'ready' click-codes from both her companions, Taz took a deep breath to steady her nerves, then stepped into the open behind Hahndorf with empty hands and an innocent expression. "Excuse me, guys; Customs Service Special Branch, I'm afraid I'll have to see some identification," she deadpanned.
All three froze like possums in spotlights; the suit stared at her in fear and hatred, the two gunsels in tense unease.
"Slayer!" Lohrfeld hissed, snatching the wooden case to his chest, his face Shifting.
The word broke the tableau. The Tactical snatched for his sidearm; Hahndorf's right hand flashed under his jacket.
Taz crossed the two paces between Hanhdorf and herself in a blur. As his gun-hand came up and out, she swung both her still-empty hands up and around; the heel of her right hand struck inside his wrist, the heel of the left struck halfway up his forearm. The double blow snapped both bones in his arm and sent his pistol tumbling away. Taz reversed her right hand's motion, bringing it up and around in a smooth, precise arc, its bladed edge crushing in the side of the man's skull like an eggshell. The gunsel choked, spasmed once, and dropped straight down, dead before he began falling.
The Tactical caught motion in his peripheral vision, turned - and caught the leading edge of Misha's bladed hand right in the larynx. His windpipe folded in, and he crumpled, choking for breath that would never come.
Even as the two humans fell, Lohrfeld scrambled to his feet. In one motion, Taz's hand dropped to her hip, snatched out a stake, whipped forward in a smooth underhand cast. The throw was perfect; the stake caught Lohrfeld in the centre of his chest, a mere centimetre to the left of his sternum, and the case dropped back onto the desk with a soft *clunk* as he crumbled into dust.
All three bad guys down, and no-one heard a thing. "Damn, we're good," she grinned.
"Yeah, but now we've got to hide the bodies."
"Why?" Andrushka breathed, coming in through the same door Lohrfeld and his escort had come through, his scoped G-3 at the low port. "Just add 'em to the mess we're gonna make." He nodded at the hangar next door, where the Alphas were being turned around, and the two younger operators shared a fierce grin as they caught his meaning. Target of opportunity!
Short, stocky, and sixty, Andrew Hazelton was Taz's favourite and only uncle, a man with a kindly face made leathery by the elements and a fighting edge honed by forty years' experience at not dying - with the NZSAS. He had his tender side, though he hid it behind the usual cynical macho stoicism, but he was first and foremost a killer of evil men. Officially, he'd retired from the Army ten years ago and now worked as a longshoreman; unofficially, he was still one of the Squadron's go-to men and their leading CQB instructor. He'd said it himself: 'old operators never die - they just go back to hell to regroup'.
"Let's police these jokers first, huh?" Misha suggested, kneeling beside his victim to strip off his gunbelt and still-holstered BDA and go through his pockets for jewellery, wallet, valuables, and - most importantly - anything of intelligence value. The valuables would go towards their operating funds, and the weaponry to their 'deniable' arsenal.
Taz did likewise with her kill. She pursed her lips in a silent whistle as she retrieved Hahndorf's weapon: a selective-fire Glock-18, loaded with a nineteen-round magazine of 124-grain 9mm StarFire hollowpoints. Very nice. And hideously illegal for anyone outside of the military or 'security forces'. Tossing that into the bag Andrushka was carrying, she started looking Hanhdorf over for other items of - "This is interesting," she murmured, intrigued. "Two, bring that camera over here."
Misha obeyed, quickly getting footage of what she'd discovered: an intricate, multi-coloured tattoo just under the man's left collarbone. "I wonder what that's in aid of?" he mused.
"We'll worry about it later. Let's move."
Implementing Andrushka's suggestion wasn't all that hard. The hangar housing the two Alphas was guarded by a brace of Tacticals out front, and both jet pilots and half a dozen techs were inside, but that was why the two youths had brought suppressed weapons. The shooting was brief and (since only the Tacticals were armed) entirely one-sided, more in the nature of a massacre than a true firefight, but these men had chosen to wear the uniform that made them the enemy and with the memory of the Sundown Club and a half a hundred other capers just like it seared into their memory, the teens felt no inclination towards mercy. Andrushka and Misha quickly hauled all the bodies, including the two from the cargo bay, into the hangar and arranged them around the two Alphas while Taz rigged finger-charges on each bird's external fuel-tanks and set the fuses for fifteen minutes. With the fighters almost completely loaded with fuel and armed so heavily, the entire hangar would be incinerated when the explosives went off.
"Anvil, get on that other charge!" Taz hissed. "Start the fuse in three, two, one, *go*."
"Burning!" the veteran nodded. "Let's be elsewhere!"
With that, the trio collected the two cases out of the cargo bay and headed for Andrushka's ute, parked outside a house opposite the airport's main gate. Thankfully, the (vampire) Stormers walking the perimeter fence were well away from the gap the interlopers had cut then tied shut with flex-cuffs; they cut the cuffs and hauled ass out again, climbed into the ute, and were a good three clicks away by the time the charges went off.
Andrushka regarded the flash and glow in the rear-view mirror with a thin smile of satisfaction. "Smile, you bastards: you're on Candid Claymore," he smirked in his thick Cockney accent.
"Uh-huh," Misha nodded, with a smirk of his own. "The job may suck from time to time, but there are days when you've just gotta love the work." And what's more, taking out the Alphas and their mob makes it look like we were there for *them* and got the other three by accident - which casts doubt on whether we knew the execu-jet was coming and may keep them from realising that we've got a source in the ATC system.
"I wonder...." Taz said thoughtfully. Like Misha, she was sitting in the back seat, having already shed her web-gear; now she twisted in her seat and dragged Hahndorf's case into her lap.
"What's that?" Andrushka asked.
She popped the latches, not looking up at her uncle. "Well, Lohrfeld was paying big bikkies for this, right?"
"Five million quid, by what he said - and that *is* pounds Sterling, too," Misha confirmed.
"So what was he buying, and why?" She answered that question by flipping the case's lid open. "What the...?"
Misha pursed his lips. "*Very* nice...." he breathed, looking at the contents. Andrushka gave him a curious look in the mirror, and Misha glanced up for a second to explain. "Weapons. Old ones, and Chinese by the looks of them. A wu shu kien, nicely decorated but very effective-looking at that; a Chinese sabre; a three-section staff; and a pair of tonfa. Question is..." (he looked up at Taz, and his eyes were concerned behind his tinted goggles) "why are they worth so much, and what does Gerry want them for?"