Warlock of Omaha

By Hemaccabe

Chapter 5: Rolling on the River

I woke up early, got showered and dressed. When I came down, Miranda had breakfast ready for me. I don't know how she did it, I was way earlier than normal, but I was hungry and grateful and told her so. She was clearly proud of herself for figuring it out.

I took the truck to Jake's hotel. I called him just before I got there, and he was waiting for me outside. Jake was wearing a new Red Sox hoodie, jeans and cheap high-top sneakers. They looked like the best Target could provide and I was happy he had availed himself. Jake also was carrying a baseball bat. Well good for him. I was dressed in the same way I'd been the day before.

I parked next to the rental minivan and jumped out.

"Open up, I want to see the med kit." I said.

Jake took the key fob out and opened the rear hatch. I went and looked. He had everything I had asked for and more including some gloves and masks.

"Looks good. Help me get the bench out." I said opening the side door.

We wrestled the middle bench out and figured out how to fold the rear bench into the floor. I didn't say anything, but I figured between Jake, his girl and me, the odds of someone needing to be carried out would be high.

"Let's get going." I said, and we hopped in the truck.

I ran Jake through a nearby Mexican fast food place I knew had huge breakfast burritos. Jake got two and a huge soda. It was all gone by the time we got on the highway.

I drove across town on I-80, just beating the morning rush commute, to a river landing in Council Bluffs.

Jim was waiting, sitting on a concrete dock wall, his boat already in the water tied up.

I walked up to Jim and said, "We have to talk."

Jim looked at me quizzically, and then gave Jake and his bat a confused once over.

"I need a ride on the river today, but it doesn't have to be you." I said.

"Why not me?" He asked amused.

"I'm dealing with some bad business. It could go wrong, and you could end up in a bad place." I answered.

"Well, if I get arrested, I'll send you my legal bill." He replied smiling.

"It's not that kind of trouble." I answered. "If this goes wrong, well, it would be bad for us and then they might decide they have to be bad to you too."

"Does this have something to do with drugs?" Jim asked suspiciously looking at Jake.

"No. No drugs." I said.

"Then what is it about?" Jim asked.

A simple question really, but with a really complicated answer. He deserved an answer since I was asking him to put his ass on the line for it.

"There's a girl in trouble. Bad people have her. If we don't spring her, it could be really bad." I answered.

"You can't call the Police?" He asked.

"Nope. Lots of dead cops and a dead girl. We probably can't do it, but at least not lots of dead cops."

That made Jim lean back. I could tell he was thinking. Then he chose to believe me. I appreciated that.

"Then I'm in." He said matter-of-factly.

We got in Jim's boat. Jim's an older gentleman, probably seven feet tall and carrying a lot of extra weight. He doesn't move too easy but managed to scramble onto the boat. Jake hopped in like he was made to hop. I did it without much trouble despite carrying a lot of extra weight.

I said before that a really powerful mage can put up a shield that will bounce bullets. I have some nifty tricks that help, illusions that will make me look like I'm standing next to myself among others, but the mundane world has an answer for that as well, it's called armor.

The modern world of body armor is another one of those vast spheres of human endeavor. One could spend every waking minute focused on armor and just scratch the surface. The basics for me, though, seem that there are two competing technologies for personal armor, CFRTPCs and ceramic. CFRTPCs are the modern high-tech descendants of things like Kevlar. Generally exotic high-performance fibers backing up super strong plastics. Most notably they have recently been chosen by the US military for the next generation combat helmet, or ECH. Not everyone can buy such a helmet, I got access through a client and bought something similar.

The military used a steel pot style helmet from World War II to Viet Nam. After the steel pot's less than dazzling performance in that conflict, the military decided to put some brain power into designing a better helmet. The military tested a lot of different designs and materials and learned that the German style, or Fritz helmet, with it's ear and back of the neck protection was actually better. Then after spending a fortune on the research and deploying larger, better protecting Fritz-style helmets, went on to the next generation ACH helmet which has the same coverage as the steel pot again but has some Fritz-helmet styling. I weep for our soldiers.

The new ECH that is replacing the ACH is generally the same shape, just made of sterner, lighter stuff. Luckily, the manufacturer has produced a variety of styles including one very similar the US military's Fritz helmet. I got that one. They also make the helmet with a variety of exterior electronic hard points. Head protection and keen senses are two very key self-defense capabilities, so I didn't feel ashamed spending a lot of time on the helmet.

The military and their contractor have come up with something pretty amazing in the shell of the ECH. It's incredibly strong and expected to be able to shrug off rifle hits which is amazing. In great contrast to the brilliant technology of the shell, the padding underneath is child-like in it's incompetent design. Once again, I weep for our soldiers.

The NFL and it's helmet designers have learned a great deal in the last twenty years about making helmets that protect the heads inside from shocks and concussions. You can be sure I used all of that knowledge in my helmet.

A ridiculously large percentage of injuries suffered by US servicemen in our recent adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan were caused by explosions, like the ones caused by IEDs. One of the most common types of injury caused by explosion was trauma to the neck. With it's complete lack of neck protection, you'd never know that by looking at the ECH. The motorcycle racing world, on the other hand, has learned a huge amount in the last twenty years about protecting the neck and upper spine, I use all of that knowledge too.

Anyone who saw "Black Hawk Down" will be familiar with the predicament of the young Army Ranger who loses his hearing. Anyone whose familiar with responsible shooting in the civilian world knows one must protect one's hearing when shooting or near large sounds like jet engines and explosions. Luckily, there are electronic earmuffs available that will stop any large noise and can actually improve your hearing. Why every soldier doesn't have that sort of protection? I have no idea. I have that sort of hearing protection built into my helmet.

I've actually taken the hearing protection a step farther. There's a system available, it's centerpiece is a cute little stand with three mics pointing different ways. The system will locate a sniper based on a single shot. Considering the huge number of US soldiers being killed by enemy snipers, you'd think the system would be well deployed. I have found no evidence of that. The system is expensive, but it's basics could be run by an IPhone and a $10 array of mics. I have a ring of mics on my helmet that give me literally superhuman hearing, are linked into a heads-up display, and can help me locate any noise while they do the basic job of protecting my hearing.

CFRTPC's competition in the armor world are highly resilient ceramics. The US military's body armor and most vehicle armor is based on ceramic technology. I've tested a variety of the best ceramic armors. The best, in my humble but extremely well-educated opinion is from a west coast company who shall remain nameless but is quite famous and unloved by the US military. Most of my other gear has built in armor of the ceramic variety which they supply. The west coast ceramic armor people produce a great chest piece, mine is custom, which is the basis of my vest.

They also produce ceramic "scales" like fish scales which allows their armor to be remarkably flexible. My long coat uses a variety of plates and scales to maximize protection and flexibility.

My shoes have ceramic armor shanks and if you think I've already bored you, you have no idea how long I could describe how the toe armor in the shoes works.

All that said, I end up being a bit steam punk in appearance when I go out, which draws a few looks, but we live in an era when dress style is not terribly universal and tech guys are expected to be a bit eccentric. My long coat is based on a Victorian British gentleman's coat, similar to a duster. It looks like it's made of black, close cropped suede. I managed to include a small percentage of dark forest green metallic fibers, giving it just a hint of green. One will find that I'm quite fond of dark forest green metallic. I was able to include the green fibers because the coat's material is actually a synthetic which is fire resistant, cut resistant, very resilient and machine wash warm. My vest has a variety of cloth shells, but something green or blue paisley silk will generally be hiding the armor plate.

However, I could hardly wander around with a big military helmet on my head. I actually had the helmet, but couldn't figure out how to work it in. I have a second tier of armor which currently includes gauntlets and leg armor and the helmet lived, uncomfortably, with them while I tended to go out bare headed, in a baseball cap, or the Stetson hat when I wanted to look cool. My Stetson hat is a black, high beaver count, wide brimmed, round centered hat. It's about the size of a large Fedora, but the shape of a stove pipe cowboy hat. In the description, Stetson describes my hat as the type favored by gunfighters, card sharps and other near do wells which just makes me like it more.

When I was at the Bright Future Society meet in Chicago, someone was showing ways to make one piece of clothing look like another. Mostly it was for innocent fashion, how to switch quickly from casual afternoon to smart and fashionable for the evening. I used it to make my helmet look like my Stetson.

I tend to wear custom made black fatigue pants, with dark forest green metallic thread stitching, and high-performance green/grey suede boots.

The look was too distinctive for the boat. I didn't want the bad guys looking at me while I was looking at them. So, with just a bit of twiddling, my helmet became an old fishing hat and my vest an old fishing vest. Just some yoyos out on the river fishing on an early summer day.

We rolled up and down the river including a few sweeps behind the warehouse in question. The Fomor would believe their strength was water. People generally like to avoid water and would prefer to attack from land for many obvious reasons, not the least of which would be a desire NOT to tangle with the Fomor on the water.

As we passed the warehouse, I took the time to give the landing and the water a long hard look with my magical sight. The landing looked like it had no special protection but beneath the surface, hidden by the muddy Missouri river water was something that looked like a cross between a jelly fish and squid with lots of long tentacles and a body about the size of a bull. I couldn't see any specifics, magical sight doesn't work that way, at least not mine. The important thing is I could see was where it kept it's life.

Every creature, including people, keeps their life somewhere. I suspect it varied more in the old days. Now most people keep it in their head, which is why head injuries are so deadly. I have seen men and women, generally fat, who keep it in their stomach. I've seen a few women with it in their chest and more men who keep it in their groin. But mostly, the head.

I'm sure you've heard of or seen people who take massive multiple wounds and then survive and even recover. While others seem to take just one simple, small hole and die instantly. The reason is that a hit to the spot where the life is kept is very lethal, others, very survivable, particularly with modern medicine. I knew where the creature's life was.

I had Jim take us back to the landing.

We got off the boat and helped Jim pull it out of the water, clean it and tie it down to the trailer for the drive home.

Then I drove Jake and myself back into town. I stopped at a phone store and made sure Jake had an earpiece that worked well. Blue tooth earpieces are terrible for serious espionage and military applications, but they're cheap and easy to set up and can be very anonymous. Further, I didn't think these guys would have the kind of scanning tech that could pick it up or block it.

I dropped Jake back at his hotel. "We have a dinner appointment tonight at six. See you then."

Jake nodded as I drove off.

It was close to eleven AM when I got back home. I started work on the bolts. Found fried chicken and mashed potatoes in a pan in the fridge and put them in the oven as I showered and cleaned up from the morning activities. I ate the chicken and worked on the bolts through the afternoon. I left a message for Miranda that I would be out for dinner. I also called Jim and made sure he would be ready at 2am Friday morning.

As it got towards 5:30pm, I changed into my outside clothes, made sure my hat was back to Stetson and my vest back to normal.

I drove over to Jake's hotel. It took a while to get there. The evening traffic on Dodge is slow by Omaha standards, but I finally got there, and he was waiting outside for me, this time in a Patriot's hoodie.

We drove the short distance from his hotel to Jericho's. Jericho's is one of the few good steak places in Omaha. You'd think Omaha, practically the center of America's beef industry, would be full of great steak places and you'd be wrong. There are a handful of fancy overpriced places that produce a decent steak. There are a group of well-known places that are terrible despite reputations to the contrary and then a very small handful of good spots, like Jericho's. Jericho's has a full menu, but really, you go for the prime rib.

We got a table without issue, it being early and a weeknight in Omaha. I ordered us a couple of king cuts and some soft drinks. I had two agendas for the evening, one to discuss progress with Jake, the other to see how much he could eat.

"Well, do you have any questions?" I asked.

"Finally," he asked with obviously pent up frustration, "when are we going? I mean all the eating and shopping is fun, but I figured we'd be kicking in the door already?"

I had kind of anticipated what he might ask, so I had prepared an answer.

"I am building intelligence, as you may have noticed with our little scouting cruise this morning. I'm also assembling a plan. People who kick in doors blind tend to get shot in the balls. I like my balls where they are. However, if you don't wish to wait, I believe your bike now has a full tank of gas, good luck. If there's a faster, better alternative you're welcome to take it. Lord knows this is not my primary area of expertise, I'd be happy to turn over what I know to someone more skilled at this sort of thing and be done with it."

Perhaps sensing that I was edgy about the whole business, Jake assumed a more placating tone, "I know, I know. I'm just crazy worried. I really love her, and they must be torturing her or worse. I keep thinking 'I'll just go there myself and kick their asses!' but I know I'll just get my own ass shot off. I don't know how many guys they got in there, but I know it's more than one and they're armed and they're pros and they probably have magic death beams or something. If it was one guy in an alley, I'd be ready, but kicking that door in is just death and that's the last hope she's got."

I sat back. The steaks chose that moment to arrive and we set to.

After we'd eaten for a bit. I'm very picky about getting my baked potato just so. I finally looked up at Jake. He was just finishing everything on his plate. I didn't even ask, I just waved at the waitress for another plate.

"That's good meat." Jake said.

"Try and chew and enjoy it, it's even better that way." I said smiling.

As his second plate landed and I was chewing slowly, I said, "I can't say anything for certain yet but, I'm thinking Sunday. It gets really quiet on the river then. But it depends what the intelligence keeps turning up. We'll see. In the meantime, I need you to keep well fed, well rested and prepared. You get all frustrated, punch a hole in a wall, or a person, or get blotto and end up in a drunk tank, maybe decked a cop on the way in there. You're on your own. I'm not going by myself. I told you before, on the magic side of the tracks, there are a LOT of fates worse than death and first on the list is some buggity boo dragging you back to who knows where. Nobody will care enough about her to look, much less go toe to toe with the Fomor to get her back. We get one shot at this. I'm not Superman. Victory is not assured. My ass is going way out on a limb for you and I don't even really know you. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

We both leaned back in our chairs, arms crossed over our chests. I think my soliloquy had ruined our appetites.

So, I ordered pie. Their pie is really good too and we both ate in silence.

Yes. I lied. I trusted Jake, but I also knew he might get played. If we went tomorrow night, and we survived, well, he'd forgive me. If he ended up getting played by the Fomor and letting them think it would be a few days later and in doing so, played them. So much the better.

I let Jake walk the short distance back to his hotel and drove home. I laid out my gear on a shop table and reviewed it. Seeing if anything was enough out of sorts to need overnight love. Everything was okay, I keep a tight ship. Then I went to bed.

I spent the next day reviewing everything I knew and every piece of gear I would take. I unloaded the magazines, checked each one for wear and then disassembled them, cleaned them, reassembled and checked them again. Then checked each cartridge. Four magazines of 10mm on the belt and one in the gun, one round in the pipe. 76 rounds. Four mags of .50 Beowulf, one in the gun and one round in the pipe. 71 rounds. All stage 3

Every battery that could be charged was plugged in to charge. Every battery that could be replaced, was replaced.

Every piece of armor including leggings and gauntlets were reviewed. My gauntlets are based on some cool paintball gloves I had as a kid. The paintball gloves had leather palms, padded backs and hard plastic clamshells on the back over the padding. The paintball gloves were made of cheap leather, cheap sponge and cheap plastic. Mine were made of fire resistant, cut resistant synthetic, much fancier padding and ceramic backs that covered the back of the hand and all but the last knuckle. They would also make excellent brass knuckles. The finger tips are left bare, a risk perhaps, but I want the manual dexterity and sense of touch if something needs to be done on short notice that I just can't ever seem to get from full gloves.

The leggings were based at first on baseball catcher's leggings. A surprisingly practical and well thought out arrangement. Of course, mine had been made from materials like those in my gauntlets and unlike the square indentations of the baseball armor, mine were shaped to shed blows, not catch balls.

Every bit of armor was scrubbed, inspected, and any bit of wear was summarily repaired. Everything was tested and inspected again. I had a plan. I went over it again and again. I knew how many races and fights had been lost over the years because some simple, stupid, obvious detail had been overlooked.

I reviewed the reports from the Dark Glass guys. I contacted them and told them to clear out at midnight and send me a final report. I was consistently getting six guys. The back of my head kept pointing out, "More than the mobsters, probably tougher too." I didn't have a good answer.

I called Jim again, he'd be waiting at two.

The back of my head was also whispering things like, "Do you have ANY idea what you're doing?"

To which I could only answer, "It's a calculated risk." I knew some part of it was bravado. I wanted to test my training and toys, see if I was, maybe, really a badass.

Even if I won big, would the risk be worth Jake and Cassie's friendship?

What happened if the Fomor took this the wrong way? It would be nice if they would feel all intimidated and decide to leave Omaha alone. Much more likely they would send a squad of real badasses to put paid to me.

I'd had similar doubts after Forest Man. What if he was coming to talk nice? The truth is, his behavior had been considered, intelligent and hostile. I'd done the smart thing putting three rounds into him.

In the end, the Fomor were actively hunting me. There were lots of bad actors in the supernatural community, but none of them, at least that I knew of, had decided to go after the small potatoes of the magical community so aggressively and systematically. I had some suspicions as to what they were up to with those victims they already had, and it wasn't good. I'd love to hope that some grand crusade of supernatural superpowers would vanquish the Fomor back into the oceans and off my back, but I wasn't betting on it. That meant the Fomor could only be pushed back in an endless collection of little skirmishes as people, like me, decided they'd been pushed as far as they could be pushed and fought back.

"But it doesn't have to be you who fights those skirmishes. You don't have to die first." The back of my head said.

The hell I didn't. I didn't want to be the supernatural sheriff of Omaha but who else was there? Do I fight now, when they're small and few or wait till they're many and dug in? Do I fight now when it's a time and place of my choosing or when they have the choice?

"You could run?" The voice whispers. But the answer is where? To someplace even more remote, try to lose myself in some little town or Unabomber style in the woods? If they track me there, I'd be even more vulnerable.

There comes a time when you have no choice but to say, "Maybe you'll kill me, but I'm gonna take a few of you motherfuckers with me."

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