"Sir, the Mayor's office called. They have received word from the harbor master. The package has arrived." The room was dark, lit only by the bluish glow of the monitors.
"Does that match our information?" Trick walked behind the vampires working at their keyboards.
"Yes, sir. Our sources onboard have notified us that the package is there. Double confirmation."
"All right, then. Transfer is tonight."
"Yes, sir. Preparations are complete, everyone involved is on standby."
Trick stopped and faced one of the computers. The flickering blue light cast moving shadows across his features. "Good," he said. "Tonight, we get our precious."
"That one hasn't moved," Buffy said.
"No, it hasn't." Angel's weight shifted. "And I don't see any sign of mechanical trouble."
"Huh," Buffy said. "I guess I thought it would be… I don't know… fancier? Better guarded?
"See?" Angel whispered. A shadowy group of figures detached themselves from the shadows and formed a loose perimeter around the ship. One figure moved toward the pier; at the same time, a small boat pulled away from the side of the ship, moving from its shadow into the moonlight-silvered water.
The high, humming note of the engine reached the Slayer's ears, delayed by distance. The small boat slowed and drifted next to the pier, and someone stood up in the bow. They held a long box, which they hefted up onto the boards. Trick's minion picked up the box, and the boat's motor revved as it slewed into a U-turn. The minion headed back along the pier. Buffy let out a slow breath and shook out her shoulders.
A panel van, maybe white, maybe silver, maybe gray, zipped through the gates of the shipyard and executed a long, looping turn. It came to a stop inside the cordon of vampires and facing the gate. The side door slid open and a figure clad in a dark suit and a long overcoat stepped out. "Whoa," the Slayer whispered, "the boss himself." The minion approached Mr. Trick and extended the box toward him.
"Here we go," Angel hissed. Buffy turned to her left in time to see the charge of the Reverend's forces. Trick's crew shifted to meet the attack and protect their leader. The two units met, and for a moment it seemed that Hampton's side would carry the day, then Trick's hammer moved from the shadows and crashed into the melee. "Just like he planned it," Angel murmured.
And then everything went pear-shaped. Another group streaked across the open ground, between buildings and over the concrete apron to join the battle.
"What the hell?" Angel barked, the need for silence forgotten or gone.
Buffy stared intently at the roiling bodies below, trying to separate figures from shadows and differentiate the foes. "Those aren't Trick's men. They belong to the Reverend."
The scene deteriorated quickly and became a rolling brawl. Trick turned and hopped lightly into the van, the door slid shut with an authoritative clunk, and the vehicle accelerated with a screech of tires and smoking rubber. A handful of the Reverend's underlings attempted to stop it, but two-and-one-half tons of mass propelled at maximum thrust flattened a few and left the rest in its wake. For a heartbeat, the battle paused; the combatants faltered, unsure of what to do, then joined again. Trick's forces began to fall back, fighting a rearguard action to cover their retreat.
It all happened so fast that the Slayer was stunned. "Do we… ?" she asked.
Angel turned to her and shook his head. "No. The Seal's gone. What happens down there doesn't matter. Trick got what he was after." His eyes shifted back and forth as he thought. "You get home. Call Giles. Everyone needs to know what happened."
"What'll you do?"
He cast a long look down the slope. "I'm going to follow Trick, but I need to go now. He's already got a lead." He took a step back into even deeper shadow. "You're headed home, right?"
"Yes," the Slayer said, "but–"
"I'll let you know when I find out anything." Angel vanished into the night. Buffy looked back toward the shipyard. Trick's force was almost gone; three vamps remained in the fight, defending a narrow passage between a long stack of shipping containers and the bay on the other side. It was a good spot; a few men could hold off a much superior force for days…
Or they could if their enemy had an iota of self-preservation. The Reverend's followers did not. They overwhelmed the three defenders with numbers, making faster work but losing more than was needed. Still, the three had done their job. When the last one crumbled to dust, all of Trick's soldiers were gone. Hampton's remaining fighters made aborted moves toward the fence, but realized their quarry had escaped. Snarls and growls arose as they began to prowl the shipyard, looking for some way to vent their frustrations.
"Okay," Buffy breathed. "Time for me to exit, before I'm pursued by a vampire."
Mr. Trick stalked through the main work space in the sub-basement of CRD. The wooden box was tucked under one arm; his overcoat streamed out behind him with the speed of his passage. Vampires looked up as he passed, then hurriedly returned to their tasks. He went into his office and the door slammed behind him with a commanding thunk! It remained closed for fifteen seconds, then Delilah raced across the floor, rapped on the panel, and opened the door in response to a command from inside.
Trick stood behind his desk; the box, a plain thing of boards and screws, sat on said desk. Trick had shed his overcoat and suit jacket; he held a screwdriver in one hand and a hammer in the other. He looked up as Delilah entered.
"Is that it?" she asked, her delivery slightly rushed.
"It better be," he said, then inserted the screwdriver at one corner and tapped it with the hammer. He repeated the process three more times, then laid aside the tools and pulled. The boards came loose with a screech. Excelsior spilled from the opening onto the desk. Trick glanced at Delilah, then reached in. His hands came up holding two objects: squat, rather dumpy pedestals about ten inches high, the base of each a circle with a diameter of roughly five inches, the top about an inch smaller. The metal was mostly dull, with hints of shine where hands had touched it. Semi-precious stones were set into the metal in rows, ascending by height: the bottom row, probably opals, was made up of stones almost as big as a hen's egg.
"What are they?" Delilah whispered.
"Probably brass," he said as he examined them. "Now, where are you?" He put one of them down and turned his attention to the one in hand.
"Is that it?" she asked.
Trick never looked at her, just studied the candlestick. "Yes… I can feel it." He turned it over in his hands. "But where?" He studied the gems inlaid around the circumference. "That's the problem," he muttered just loud enough for Delilah to hear, "Is it inside this thing? Is it one of these gems?" He rotated the candlestick, looking for any engraving, any flaw, anything that might indicate the source of the power that he could sense emanating from it. He shook it, then shook his head. He stared at it, then picked up the screwdriver and began tapping the handle against the bottom of the base. The sound was solid, non-resonant. Trick sighed and began the process on the gems. He was two-thirds of the way around the candlestick when he stopped. He stared at one of the opals and tapped it again.
"Sir?" Delilah said.
Trick shook his head and reversed the screwdriver; he placed the flat tip against the edge of the stone and pried. The opal popped out or, rather, half an opal. It landed on Trick's desk, bounced once, and fell to the carpet. Trick ignored it, focusing on the recess in base, packed with mud or something to keep the contents from rattling, packed centuries ago, a crude method, but effective, dried over the years, a shaft of blue light emanating from within. Trick exhaled slowly. "You clever bastards," he said.
"He has it?" Giles paced around his living room. Buffy, who was beginning to regret her decision to inform her Watcher in person, sat on the sofa, hands on her knees, and watched him. He suddenly broke away from his circuit, went to the phone, and punched in a number. "Yes," he said. "Trick has it. Buffy informed me. Yes, she's here now. Don't worry. We aren't going anywhere."
As the librarian hung up the phone, Buffy cleared her throat. "Um, so that was the call that put our incredible secret plan into action, right?"
Giles looked at her. "Not even remotely."
Buffy winced. "Really hoping for a different answer."
The Watcher sat in his armchair. "Tell me again, what happened?"
The Slayer's shoulders slumped. "For the fifth time, Angel and I were above the docks, up below Kingman Bluff…" By the time she completed the narrative, there was a knock on the door. Gerard Roland stepped in.
"Mr. Trick has the Seal? We are sure?" The Canadian Watcher looked from Giles to Buffy and back again.
"Well, he never actually reached into the box and held it above his head while yelling 'I have it, I have the Seal', but everybody sure acted like it was a big deal." The Slayer
"Everybody?" Gerard's forehead furrowed.
"Apparently, Mr. Trick laid a trap for the Reverend, only to find out that the Reverend had foreseen such a ploy."
"And had his own hammer and anvil," Buffy muttered.
"Yet Trick managed to escape."
The Slayer looked at the dapper Watcher. "Yeah, he had something up his sleeve the Reverend wasn't expecting… a van." She shook her head. "That internal combustion engine was a real wild card."
The two Watchers looked at each other. "We have not accounted for Hampton," Gerard said.
"No, we have not," Giles said. "It adds a layer of complication."
"Agreed." Gerard assumed Giles's role as Pacer of the Living Room. "What could he want with the Seal?"
Buffy raised her hand. "I'm gonna butt in here and say 'nothing'." The Watchers stared at her with blank expressions. "C'mon, ever since that weirdness at Christmas, he and Trick have been on opposite sides. They've spent so much time killing each other over the past couple of months that my job's mostly been protecting civilians."
Gerard looked at Giles and raised an eyebrow. "It is a good point."
"Yeah, it is," the Slayer continued. "Messing up the other guy's party? That's pretty basic motivation and the Reverend's been a pretty basic guy."
"True." Giles clasped his hands, forefingers extended, and tapped his chin. "So, what is our next move?"
Gerard spread his arms wide. "Now the focus shifts to Professor Calderon, does it not?"
"Yes." Giles stood up. "He is the key now."
"Is he really?" Buffy shrugged. "I mean, we're not even sure he has the spellage required, are we?"
Giles nodded. "That's a good point."
"Two in a row for me. Yay." Buffy mock-clapped her hands.
"We need to continue our surveillance of Calderon," Gerard said. "The Knights will be more than willing to do that, I would think."
Giles bit his lip and nodded slightly. "It would be helpful if we knew if Trick was trying to communicate with him."
"Oh, we can cover that," Buffy said brightly. "Oh, I don't mean we like the royal we, I mean, not me, but Angel went to follow Trick's van. He might be able to pitch in with the surveillancy stuff."
"You mean the surveillance?" Giles asked.
"Whatever." She stood up. "I'll get word to Angel that we want to keep an eye on Trick, okay?" The Watchers nodded. "Then I'm going to do that, then I should… ?"
"Go home," Giles said. "Get some sleep. One good thing about dealing with supernatural evil, very little of it takes place in the daylight."
"Fair enough." The Slayer turned, her hand on the doorknob. "Meeting after school tomorrow?"
"Yes," Giles said, "but just the three of us in this room, and Ms. Hollis and Mr. Warner."
Buffy raised an eyebrow. "You know Willow will feel left out."
"That may be," her Watcher replied, "but she's done quite enough already."
The windowless white van pulled into the parking lot behind the Sunnydale police headquarters. It slid to a short halt and two armed men jumped out before the vehicle stopped rocking on its springs. They stationed themselves to form the base of a triangle with the van's rear door as the apex. The driver leaned out the window.
"In position?"
"Affirmative." The guard who had replied shifted his grip on the shotgun in his hands. "Do it." The driver threw a lever and a muted hissing came from inside the van. The driver scrambled out of his seat, slammed the door, and stood by the rear of the van.
"Seems like overkill," he said. "She's got enough Klonopin in her to stun a rhino." There was a thud and the van rocked on its springs. "Okay," the driver said, "I guess that's why." The struggle inside the van diminished and finally subsided.
"How much gas is in there?" a guard asked.
The driver shrugged as he unholstered a taser. "I dunno. A lot." He looked from one guard to the other. "Put on your masks." Shotguns were slung as gas masks were donned. "Ready?" They nodded curtly. "Okay, here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna open the door and give it a five , count. That'll let the gas clear. If she comes out under her own power, well, that's why you're armed. Once it's confirmed that the prisoner is unconscious, we transport her to the back door, which will be opened. At that point, we transfer the prisoner to the local authorities and rake hell outta here. Any questions? Good." The driver put on his own gas mask, unlocked the rear door to the van, counted to three, and yanked open the door.
White vapor billowed out of the opening. As it thinned, the driver stepped up and looked inside. He looked carefully for a moment, shrugged, and raised the taser and fired. The guards heard the crackle of electricity.
"She was awake?" one whispered, the awe in his voice detectable even through the mask's muffling effect.
"Nah, at least I don't think so," the driver said as he reached into the van. "Better safe than sorry, y'know? Here, you help me and you keep us covered." With the guard's assistance the prisoner was hauled to the lip of the cargo area.
The inmate wore a dark blue smock and baggy drawstring pants with a white 'CCDC' stenciled on one leg of the pants and the back of the shirt. Her hands were shackled to the chain around her waist. A short length of chain bound her ankles. A blindfold covered her eyes and muffs blocked her hearing. A plastic mask covered her nose and mouth.
"You get her feet." The driver grabbed the prisoner under the arms and the two of them awkwardly toted her unconscious form to the door as the other guard kept his shotgun trained on the prisoner. As they reached the door, it swung open. Two burly men in Sunnydale PD uniforms accepted the transfer of the prisoner. As they carried her away, a sandy-haired man stepped into the doorway.
"Okay," the driver said. "I was told all paperwork was arranged and all we had to do was deliver the prisoner." The driver handed over a set of keys. "She's delivered."
"Quite right," the man replied. "Thanks so much. Drive safe."
"Yeah, sure."
As the van rocketed out of the parking lot, the man closed the door and walked past the cells. As he opened a door labeled Utilities, he began to whistle 'Everything's Coming Up Roses'. He crossed the small room, passed through another doorway, and descended a flight of stairs. The stairs ended in a large, bare concrete room. The middle of the room was occupied by a freestanding cell or, rather, a cage. A steel bed frame was welded to the bars that formed the cell floor. It was the only furnishing in the cell. A drain was centered under the cell and a spigot with an attached hose sprouted from one wall. Security cameras were mounted in all four corners, focused on the cell.
The prisoner's earmuffs, blindfold, and mask had been removed and replaced by a black hood, her body strapped to a dolly for the trip down the stairs. The officers unlocked the door to the cell and maneuvered the two-wheeler inside. As one of them began to undo the prisoner's shackles, the other snapped a manacle around her ankle. The cuff was attached to the bed frame by an extremely thick length of securing her, he began to slice up the sides of her jumpsuit, peeling it from her as the wrist and waist restraints were removed.
"The underwear too," the sandy-haired man said. "Get your mind out of the gutter. Leave her with an underwire and she'd gut you like a fish. Didn't you ever read Silence of the Lambs?"
The officer shrugged. The prisoner's underwear was snipped off and tossed out along with the jumpsuit. The two officers exchanged nods, then one loosed the straps on the two-wheeler while the other snatched off the hood.
Faith's insensate body tumbled onto the bed frame, the metal springs squeaking. The cops slammed the door, which locked with a solid-sounding clack. They swung around behind the Mayor, flanking him as they watched the dark Slayer sprawled across the metal platform. "Shouldn't be more than five minutes, I would think," he said.
It was just short of five minutes when Faith's foot began to twitch. "Impressive, really," the Mayor said to no one in particular. "She's been dosed with enough sedatives to render three normal people unconscious for hours."
Faith rolled over slowly, her eyes dull and unfocused. She blinked twice, shuddered, and raised her hands. Awareness flooded into her face. She looked over the bars. Her gaze fell on the three men and she sprang from the bed with the sudden grace and ferocity of a tiger. The ankle chain brought her up short and she sprawled on the floor just inside the bars. She winced and noticed that she was unclothed.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" she growled, rising to a crouch.
"Now, is that any way to act when we have bent over backward to provide these accommodations?" The Mayor raised his eyebrows. "Really?" He shook his head. "Vulgarity is the evidence of a small mind."
"Perverts," Faith snarled, yanking her leg against the chain.
"You won't be able to break the chain," the Mayor said. "We really overbuilt. And, because I don't like surprises-" He nodded to one of the officers, who stepped over to a switch on the wall and threw it.
The lights flickered and the room was filled with a low, throbbing hum. Faith's head snapped back, the cords in her neck standing out as her body twitched and jerked. The cop threw the switch again and the current ceased. Faith collapsed to the floor.
"Now, see, that's just a taste of what could happen," the Mayor said. "If we left it on for very long, I'm afraid it would burn your feet, or that cuff around your ankle might leave a permanent mark. I don't want that and you don't want that, so let's all just play nice until this is over." He nodded to the officers and the trio headed toward the stairs.
"Hey, weirdo," Faith barked, dragging herself to her feet. "Where do I use the bathroom?"
"Oh." The Mayor gestured. "That's why you have the drain… and we have the hose. A clean mind in a clean body is one of the keys to success."
