CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS
Chapter 13
Led by a superhuman giant with an immense revolver in his right hand and a sabre in his left, five federal agents and two NYPD detectives carefully made their way through the moonless dark around the perimeter of the silent, lifeless house. As they rounded the corner, the glow of high flames became visible, and seconds later, the sinister goings-on in their light about fifteen yards away. "Oh crap," Hellboy whispered matter-of-factly.
Malone gasped. "Jesus tap-dancing Christ, what the hell are they doing?"
"Sacrificing your agent – unless we have something to say about it."
They did. "Federal agents! Drop your weapons!"
"Police! Freeze!"
They did freeze for a split-second in astonishment. Lexi was the first to move, whirling toward the rescue party and breaking into a wobbly run down the lawn to them.
That broke the spell of shock on al-Ghul. Spitting an oath, he turned in the direction of the fleeing woman, raised the sword and swung it hard through empty air. In mid-run, Lexi suddenly paused, pitched forward, and collapsed to the turf; her head came away and rolled down the lawn, fountaining blood.
Screaming, Mansour whipped up his pistol and fired at the rescue party; his two confederates knocked Martin to the ground between them and had their guns up and shooting. Their targets dodged in all directions, returning fire. Their greater concern was for that uncanny sword in al-Ghul's grip; whoever he chose to strike at next would have no defense. With that in mind, Malone and Johnson took aim at the sorcerer and opened up, sending him diving for the cover of the boulder. John Myers added his fire. Behind the second rock Ghani cowered, weeping in fear as the bullets shrieked by.
Bonasera crouched in the shadow of a forsythia bush, her gun at the ready, and scanned the lawn for the remaining prisoners. "Agent Fitzgerald's on the ground between two shooters; Mac's down at that rock, and he looks hurt. Cover me, Flack."
"Cover us." Sam came out of the darkness, her own weapon raised.
"Any time, ladies," Flack whispered with relish. He watched them move out onto the lawn as he and Danny laid down covering fire. His practiced eye recognized that the three enemy shooters were panicked and completely untrained; with a wolfish smile, Flack drew a careful bead on the closest of them and squeezed the trigger. Abdelaziz crumpled; Flack and Danny then turned their attention to Samir. Hit once, then three times, he went down too.
The remaining gunman saw the two women hurrying broken-field across the lawn and ran to intercept. Sam looked up at a wavering pistol barrel – but she was faster. She pumped two shots through his center of mass and kept on going, swooping to Martin's side, pawing for her handcuff key. "Martin, thank God you're all right!"
"You can thank the guy hiding behind that rock over there," he replied with a weary relief. "No, the other rock."
Bonasera came to her partner, appalled at what she saw. "My God, Mac, what did they do to you?"
He was able to smile. "Not as much as they wanted to."
Crouching behind the second rock, pinned down by gunfire from three FBI agents and unable to get a clear eyeline on any of them, al-Ghul could not use the sword – at least not that way. But there were other ways…He muttered the summons; the hot haunted air began to bend and distort. The manifestations began to gather physically, coalescing into visibility and solid, deadly presence.
Sam almost dropped her gun, and flung her free arm around Martin. "Oh my God, Martin, that thing…"
His hands now free, Martin put them both around her, and somehow was able to look at the vast ciliated lump, waving and wobbling sickeningly in the firelight, its scores of wet orifices sucking and smacking and drooling acid to burn the ground bare around it. "Sam, meet Taranoushi, king of the jinn," he said. "Now run."
A few feet away, Bonasera stared at the suppurating horror that was sliding toward them, leaving a snail-trail of toxic scum and blackened earth, and instantly started emptying her gun in its direction; across the lawn, Flack followed her lead. Not a single wound marked where a dozen bullets hit the thing. "You're wasting your time, Stella," Taylor admonished. "Just get out of here fast and maybe it won't follow you."
"Not without you," she declared. Quickly she released his shackled hands and got her shoulder under his; raising him up with her, she ignored his protests and struggled as quickly as she could to get them across the lawn to the dubious safety of the house. In moments Martin and Sam had overtaken them, and Martin took up the weight of Taylor's other shoulder. They moved much faster now – and so did Taranoushi, whose wet and bubbling laughter mocked all their efforts. In defiance of all sanity, Flack came running to meet them, in spite of their shouts to get back, and joined Sam in covering their rear, still firing useless bullets in what was more a gesture of doomed gallantry than anything else.
"What the – what in the name of God is that!" gasped a paralyzed Johnson.
"I thought we'd been over that," Hellboy muttered, bringing his giant pistol to bear on the immense and growing mass of crawling legs, antennae, mandibles, and eyestalks that was even now chewing its way across the grass towards them.
Danny had gone white and was shaking almost too much to level his weapon, but somehow he managed to squeeze the trigger, then squeeze it again. The bullets slammed into the chittering, scraping mass of titanic insect parts and vanished into it, leaving not a scratch.
"Oh, for crying out loud." Gun in his right hand and sabre in his left, Hellboy snaked his tail around Danny's waist and gave him a good yank backwards. "Get behind me before you get yourself killed good and dead, kid. Let the Samaritan handle it." He tossed a command over his shoulder at the other FBI agents: "Keep al-Ghul pinned down – if he can see you, he can kill you!" Obediently they kept the bullets coming, and the red giant, satisfied, again trained his gun on the oncoming Chaarmarouch. The Samaritan's blast drowned out all the other weapons for a moment and tore a wide gap through the bristling core of the monster.
John broke into a wide grin. "Great shot, Red. Dead hit, center of mass!" But his elation turned to open-mouthed dismay in the approximately six seconds it took the wound to close up and sprout another array of spiky bug limbs.
"Crap," Hellboy announced. "Time for Plan B." Again he addressed the humans. "Keep al-Ghul out of action. Don't hit me." Then he tossed the great but now useless pistol aside and, raising the presentation sword of General George Washington, let out a bestial battle roar and charged the invader, full speed ahead.
Chaarmarouch's scraping laughter rose; the invader stopped its advance and stood its ground, many mandibles and claws arrayed to meet the attack. Once the unappetizing demon-thing had been torn to pieces, the same fate awaited the little pack of humans. The breach of the Wall could wait for a few days and the gathering of more sacrifices – or perhaps they could save three of these for the purpose and finish the matter tonight.
Hellboy slammed to a halt, letting his inertia pour through the steel in his hand; with another, louder roar he struck at the top of the tangle of spikes and filaments, eyes and claws. There was a shrieking like that of a whole out-of-tune string orchestra – a wide chunk of parts tumbled away and a sticky, damp black cloud tumbled out after it. Even before the two pieces of the Left Side being had hit the turf and the black fluid came after it, poisoning everything it touched, Hellboy had charged on, this time aiming for Taranoushi.
The slime-slobbering hulk was seconds from overtaking the five fleeing humans. It seemed to be holding itself back just a little, toying with its prey, and taking no notice of the scarlet earthquake barreling toward it. Hellboy held the sword in front of him with both hands on the silver hilt, feeling the power throbbing in it and him; he hit with the force of a Hummer meeting a mountainside at 80 MPH. Washington's sabre plunged almost three feet deep into the invader, and Hellboy dug in his boots to halt himself, then yanked back hard, ripping it up and out of the loathsome bulk and releasing another inky, wet cloud. He and the humans scattered to all sides to avoid the black toxin.
For a moment silence descended on the violated garden as the destruction of the invaders became clear. The wet black clouds were slowly sinking to the earth, spreading and killing the new spring grass, and rescuers and rescued realized that the great red being had done the supposedly impossible.
But in that moment of relief and gratitude, the guns had gone quiet, and a scream broke the spell as al-Ghul tore from his shelter behind the stone, his own crescent blade brandished high for an enchanted blow. There were answering screams of horror – then Hellboy whirled and flung his sword arm outward in a parry against the empty air. The dhu'l-fakar stopped dead in its arc, blocked. Steel should have clashed, but there was another second's silence. Then al-Ghul screamed again, this time in frustration, and turned his attention from the slayer of his Left Side beings to the group of FBI agents, locking his eyes on Jack Malone.
The scimitar rose again – but this time, the guns spoke again too. A fusillade ripped at the sorcerer; he was hit at least three times above the waist. Wailing, he dropped the sword and bolted away, running blindly into the night, red rapidly spreading across his white robes. Sam and Flack instantly dashed to intercept, but al-Ghul had a head start and stayed out of their reach…until he tripped on the outstretched wrist of one of his dead confederates. Stumbling, he plummeted forward – into the sacrificial pit and its flames. The would-be arresting officers tried to reach into the inferno to pull him to safety, and then justice, but searing heat drove them back, helpless. The screaming did not go on for long.
John came running toward the fire-pit, calling for Hellboy. "You're fireproof! Get him out of there!"
But he stopped when he saw his colleague. Hellboy was swaying on his feet, obviously exhausted and on the point of collapse. John ran again, changing direction to get to Hellboy, seize him by the arm, and help lower him gently to the earth as he dropped the sword, then lost balance. "Sorry, Boy Scout," he confessed sadly, "but I couldn't lift a feather now. Don't know what happened to my strength."
"You must have used it up. Rest now. I'll call the cleanup detail."
But even as he sat, slumped with fatigue, Hellboy shook his head. "Not that fast. No way. Must be something else at work…"
Stunned by the events of the night, Malone's team and Taylor's milled about, adrenaline dissipating and mild shock setting in. Everyone seemed to be at a bit of a loss, until there was a movement near one of the ornamental rocks. A slight, dark man was standing, then slowly coming forward. As everyone stared, he stopped, cleared his throat as if embarrassed, and announced himself. "I – I am Iftikhar Ghani. I wish to cooperate."
Malone quickly covered the space between them. "Glad to hear it, Mr. Ghani. We owe you quite a bit." Ghani just ran a hand through his hair and could not answer. Understanding, Malone nodded and said, "You don't need to make a statement now, sir. If you come with us – "
"Oh, but I do want to make a statement now." He swallowed hard. "I just want to say…I'm sorry." He looked around at the carnage. "So much death…"
"Consider how much more you prevented," Malone pointed out.
He nodded dully, but went on. "Still…those three boys dreamed of glorious martyrdom, and ended up shot like dogs while trying to defend an abominable act of polytheism. That Shaftoe – don't misunderstand, he was a beast and probably deserved to die, but not the way he did. And poor Miss Duhaine meant no harm, she was only doing what she thought she had to do…" He trailed away, tears coming.
"You could say the same of yourself," Malone replied gently. "Just relax now. Danny, you take charge of Mr. Ghani here until he's ready to make his official statement. Martin, of course we'll need one from you too. You all right, Sam?" She nodded to him. "Good. And where's Vivian?"
"Over there." Danny had recognized the suited figure off at a slight remove, quite near the fire pit. "What's that in her hands?"
Malone's jaw dropped as he recognized the object – to his horror. "Viv! What the hell are you doing?" All eyes were suddenly upon her; before anyone could make a move to intervene, a black and scarlet rectangle swung upward, seemed to hang in the air for a charged moment, then plummetted into the flames. A burst of fire flashed up as the book vanished; Johnson dusted off her hands against each other and swung back over toward the group, a satisfied smile on her face.
They all stared silently until Flack said slowly, "Agent Johnson…you just torched the only surviving manuscript copy of the complete original text of Al-Azif."
Malone nodded in agreement, clearly astonished. "Viv, that book is – was the property of the Kuwaiti government."
She met his gaze coolly with her own. "Oops."
"My sentiments exactly, Agent Johnson." Mac Taylor came over, with his partner's help. "Besides, I have a feeling that the Kuwaiti government won't be asking for that particular piece of their property anytime soon. We will be able to return the two swords to the Met."
"Not exactly, Detective Taylor," said John as he closed his cellphone. "Dr. Manning says that we can return the stolen one, but Abe wants a closer look at the Washington piece." A shudder – not of horror, but of awe – ran down his back. "Something to do with possible manifestation of the Primordial Will. Or something."
"While you were on the phone, Agent Myers," Bonasera said, catching his attention, "I hope you called for the paramedics. We've got a wounded man here."
"I'm afraid not, Detective. Standard BPRD procedure. Our own unit has to decontaminate the scene and impound the evidence. I'm sorry."
"I'm not," Taylor declared unexpectedly. "The last thing I want to do is to have to explain those toxic nonhuman remains. And the second-to-last thing I want to do is go to the hospital."
But Bonasera was having none of it. "Mac, you've been tortured, for God's sake! You're hurt, badly – "
"Nothing that can't be fixed with a coating of NeoSporin, a box of butterflies, and some rest, Stella. Now please, stop worrying."
"I hope that's not an order." She paused, sighed. "My God, it's been a long day – and night."
Bonasera was right. Rising light was pearling the sky; the secret BPRD vehicles John had summoned were still some time away. Now the flames barely cleared the edge of the pit where the body of al-Ghul waited to be dragged out and identified, and the book Al-Azif lay in irrecoverable ashen ruin. Sam surveyed the field in a slow, stunned sweep. "It's over, right? Please, someone tell me it's over."
Danny clapped a reassuring hand onto her shoulder. "It'd better be over."
"Oh, it is." Bonasera helped her partner to sit on one of the few remaining patches of grass not destroyed by the night's combat. "I don't know about the rest of you, but as far as I'm concerned, my report – in all its, shall we say, creativity – can wait for a while."
Malone gave the CSI an understanding smile. "Until you've had some sleep?"
"Until I've seen to it that this stubborn alpha male gets some medical attention." She gave Taylor's shoulder an affectionate touch. "Then until I've gone to the Penn Station K-Mart and picked up Team America: World Police on DVD – the unrated version – and watched it while having too much to drink. Then had some sleep."
"Sounds like a plan," said Flack. "Want some company?"
A scarlet face was split by a wide, toothy grin. "Well, all right!" Hellboy balled and pumped a mighty stone fist. "America! Fu – "
"Red. Please." A much smaller, paler hand – John Myers' – was firmly placed atop the limb of rock.
"Whatever." Sourly Hellboy opened his hand and swung a look around at his allies. "Now you all know why I call him Boy Scout."
"And now you know why we call you hero," Martin declared. "It'll be good to go home."
THE END
(Author's note: As of summer 2005, Metropolitan Museum of Art Item 36.25.1297, an inscribed ceremonial scimitar made for Sultan Suleyman I, occupies a prominent place among the Ottoman artifacts in the Hall of Arms and Armor. The presentation sabre of George Washington is no longer on display.)