17:21, WEDNESDAY AUGUST 25, LIMA (01:21/26-08-99 ZULU)
SUNNYDALE POLICE STATION
LaFollet dumped three sugars into her coffee and ignored the creamer completely, wondering what the heck was going on in Sunnydale. In the gallery case, we have C8s stolen off the Canadian Army; in the sniping incident, a G36E 'stolen' from a Sturmfalke Sicherheitskräfte unit in Oregon. Unrelated weapons - but the shell-casings are from the same batch of 5.56. The connection between the two attacks? Buffy Summers and her pals. But why go gunning for an eighteen-year-old and her clique, even one that trouble-prone?
She'd pulled the S.P.D. file on Summers, and it made for fascinating reading, if altogether too patchy for an official document. Her school record since the start of 1996 listed almost as many fights as in all the wrestling shows in the same time period, but no charges ever laid with the police, not even disturbing the peace. Questioned in relation to the death of one Theodore Buchanan; no charges filed (death by misadventure). Briefly sought in relation to a brawl in the Sunnydale High library in 1998 which resulted in the death of one 'Kendra' and serious injuries to Rosenberg and Harris; warrant canceled following the testimony of the survivors. Questioned in relation to the death of Deputy Mayor Allan Finch. Plus there were the persistent (yet confused) rumours that circulated about her and her little pack of friends, especially over the 'LAW Theft' and the riot at their school graduation; little that didn't contradict itself, but all those rumours agreed that the group had been involved in those incidents somehow.
Even reading about the girl's hangers-on was enough to raise her hackles. Why would the curator of the British Museum abandon such a prestigious post to become librarian at a second-rate high school in Nowhere, California? And the girl's associates? Cordelia Chase, Alpha Female of Sunnydale High, daughter of Gabriel and Olivia Chase, the financiers now serving five-to-eight for tax evasion. Daniel Osbourne, garage-band guitarist and exceedingly bright underachiever, three incidents of public intoxication, one of public lewdness, a DUI, and a warning for drug possession (he claimed the twenty sachets of pre-cut methampethamine found in his van belonged to a band-mate. Of course. He'd only skated on that one because none of his fingerprints had been on the drum-kit in question.) Xander Harris, class loser, his father dishonorably discharged from the Navy for black-marketeering while serving in the Mediterranean. And Willow Rosenberg, hacker extraordinare and resident genius, daughter of the assistant DA. What the hell holds them together like that?
And then we have what happened last night, she added, her lips thinning. She'd served the obligatory tour in Patrol before testing for detective early (thank the patron saints of affirmative action!), and Jack Fenton had been her FTO. He'd been another ex-military type (Army Ranger, no less), which had made her leery of him from the outset, and his paternalistic coddling had truly rankled, but she did have to give him credit: he'd been fair with her. What was that he said? "Like the jarheads say: we have light blue cops, we have dark blue cops, and we have bumpy cops - but they're all cops. Long as you're there for me when it hits the fan, I don't care if you're a goddamn Martian." By the end of her training tour, while they weren't friends as such, there had been respect... and now he was lying in the morgue with three big-bore tunnels through his vest and chest.
With the first of what people around the precinct had already started referring to as 'the Cult Murders', there had been a sudden wave of absenteeism, and Stein had shown no real passion about finding the killer. Now that Fenton was in the morgue alongside the second victim, every Sunnydale cop who wasn't outright dead themselves was reporting for their shifts, many of them wearing their Kevlar (few cops habitually wear body armour, especially in a California summer) and drawing spare ammo. The rangemaster hadn't been this busy teaching pistolry since he left the Marine Corps.
As if summoned by her meandering thoughts, Stein's partner, a fellow Detective-Third named Rafael Nuñez, appeared at her side. "Hey, Jan."
LaFollet had always wondered why and how a Cuban had become a detective in Sunnydale, but she wasn't about to tick off a fellow 'minority officer' by asking - especially when he and Stein had been given the Fenton case as an extension of the Cult Murders. "How's it going, Rafe?" It was not small-talk.
"We got nothin', mira. Lab recovered fifteen bullets from the scene, seven nine-millimetres - all matching to spent cases, and the ballistics file on Fenton's P9S; gun itself's missing, I guess they stole it when they killed him - and eight .44 Magnum slugs and no shell-cases. My guess is the guy used two revolvers, but who the hell can use two guns at once and actually hit someone - much less do it with .44 friggin' Magnums? No blood at the scene that wasn't Jack's or the kid's. No fibres, no blood, no fingerprints, no useable footprints. One witness, and they only heard the shoot-out and the guys leavin': a car and two bikes, heading north; no makes, 'cept that the bikes sounded like 'real Boss Hogs'. Nothing. Shit!" he spat in disgust, setting his cup down to stare off into space with a wistful, cheerfully bloodthirsty smile. "Just once I'd like to just charge into Umbra and start bustin' heads, y'know? Just to remind those scum whose town this is."
Since when has violence ever actually solved anything? LaFollet wondered, frowning. "What's 'Umbra'?"
Nuñez came back to himself and went suddenly, guiltily silent. "Uhh... no offence, Jan, but if you don't already know, I can't tell you."
"Oh, bullshit, Rafe!" she spat at him. "I never get told anything. Why? Because I don't belong to 'The Club'. I'm a rookie detective, I'm black, and I'm a woman - three strikes, so nobody tells me shit! All the other detectives are out there, they've got all their sources and their unofficial networks, they talk shop at barbecues and ball-games, all that Good Old Boys bullshit, and they don't invite me and they don't tell me a thing, because I'm not a Good Old Boy. Until I prove myself, they won't talk to me, but if they don't talk to me, I never get the information I need to do the job and actually prove myself! Do you know what that's like?"
"Yes, Jan, I do know. I used to be the low man on the totem pole 'til you got promoted, so I went through the same damn thing, okay?" he countered, keeping his voice a little lower than hers. "Look, I'm not keepin' you outta this 'cause I want to keep you down or nothin' like that. You're gonna make a hell of a detective - but you gotta live long enough to make it that far, y'know? And if you don't know what I'm talkin' about, then you don't know enough to survive there. Hell, the SWAT guys don't go near the place. Okay?"
"Okay. So why is it such a no-go zone?" she persisted.
Nuñez stifled a sigh. "What part of 'I can't talk about it' don't you understand?" he said plaintively.
"Hey, make way for a real detective, sweet-cheeks," an all-too-familiar voice interjected, as Detective-Second 'Frank N' Stein himself elbowed his way past her. (His given names actually were Francis Nathan. Some parents have strange and sadistic senses of humour.)
"What real detective?" she sniffed venomously, sick of this Cauc's attitude. How Nuñez put up with this dinosaur's male-WASPs-only condecension without shooting him was anybody's guess.
He gave her a you-are-so-funny glare. "C'mon, LaFollet, come clean: whose dick did you have to suck to get your gold shield anyway?"
Oh, because a female officer couldn't possibly achieve anything on the basis of anything so manly as mere competence, is that it? Three long, sickening months of leers and needles and jibes finally broke LaFollet's patience, and she gave him a poisonously sweet smile. "Well, the list is long, but distinguished - two things your Johnson will never be." (Nuñez choked into his coffee.) "Thankfully, your name appears nowhere on that list, and never will. At least, not for any female officer."
Stein went still for an instant, then turned on her, visibly unable to credit his ears. "What?" he demanded, going ever more red by the instant.
"Aw, c'mon, Frank. According to you, that's the only way to get promoted, right? Which makes me wonder how you got your gold badge - and how any officer's gonna get one when you sit on the boards -"
Now the colour of a well-cooked lobster, Stein launched himself at the smaller officer. Seizing LaFollet by both arms, he slammed her back against the wall so hard that she saw stars; her coffee fell free, drenching them both, though neither noticed. "You'd better not be calling me a faggot, you little bitch!"
"Hey, if the garter-belt fits, sweet-cheeks," she smiled viciously. Go ahead and do it, asshole. If I file a grievance against you, The Cop's Code will finish me with the S.P.D., but taking you with me would almost be worth it....
"Frank, for Christ's sake!" Nuñez cried, grabbing his partner's arm.
Stein shook him off and dropped his hands to LaFollet's hips, squeezing once, almost bruisingly hard, with a truly unpleasant gleam in his eyes. "I oughta prove you wrong, bitch," he growled.
"Go ahead and try," she smirked - and head-butted him.
She got him good, too. She could feel his nose break under her forehead, and was distantly shocked at how deeply gratifying a sensation that was. Stein reeled back, clutching his face as blood streamed down over his fingers and chin. "AAAAAHHHHH! You fugging slud!"
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" Little Bob roared from the break-room doorway, his Gunnery Sergeant's tone dreadful enough to make the very rocks cringe.
"Just getting a few things straight, Bob," LaFollet smiled, making a show of straightening her clothing. This outfit cost me a week's pay, thank you very much. "I think Frank and I now see eye-to-eye on at least one issue."
"Nuñez?" Patterson barked, still in Gunny mode. The younger detective stiffened to a brace without thinking, but shook his head and spread his hands, 'that's her story and I ain't gonna argue about it'. The ex-Marine turned his gaze on the bloodied detective next, and his eyes boded ill for the younger man. "Stein! Get your sorry carcass down to the infirmary and get that nose looked at. You had that coming, and if you try to tell anyone any different and get to slandering her, you don't wanna think about the rumours I can spread about you. LaFollet! Get the hell outta here for now; come back at ten tonight, and you'd damn-sure better have cooled off by then, you get me?"
"Yeah, yeah, I get you, Bob," LaFollet clipped, resenting the enforced down-time but not about to argue with her partner when he was in this kind of mood.
"As for you, Nuñez - get this place cleaned up. Right now."
"You got it, Gunny!" the Cuban nodded.
Patterson gave them all a disgusted look, glared Stein out the door, and went on his way.
"You need to watch yourself, Jan," Nuñez advised under his breath. "Stein's Old Guard, yeah, but there's still a lot of 'em around. You keep going like you are, one day you're gonna put out a 999 and nobody's gonna show."
LaFollet sniffed. "The day I need help from Stein is the day I turn in my shield."
Nuñez stifled a world-weary sigh as he watched his younger colleague head out. Yeah, well, you gotta remember what Spartan mothers used to tell their sons: 'come home with your shield - or on it'.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
21:04, AUGUST 25, LIMA (05:04/26-08-99 ZULU)
UMBRA
LaFollet had parked her car a block away. She paused at the corner, checking first her pepper-spray projector, then the Asp folding baton in her left coat pocket, and finally, reluctantly, her sidearm, a 9mm Heckler and Koch USP. God alone understood why Jack Fenton had been so in love with his HK P9S (a distinctive weapon, but far behind the technological fashion curve), but he'd talked her ear off about HK's engineering, and after a month or so in his company she'd tried out a USP, liked its feel, and handed her Beretta back to the Department the next day. Okay, so in three years as a uniformed day-shift officer, she'd never once had to draw her sidearm in the line of duty, but her quarterly range sessions meant that (God forbid) if she ever had to shoot, she'd probably hit what she aimed at.
Finding Umbra itself hadn't been all that hard; they had a picture-ad in the Yellow Pages, though it had been a little odd. 'UMBRA. Drinks, sustenance; no questions asked, no tales told. Open 9pm-sunrise. 452 Garrison St.' Now what the heck could that second line mean?
I'd better hurry this up if I'm going to get back to the station in time to meet Bob again, she decided, and straightened her coat once more before heading down the street.
The bouncer at the door looked like a pro-wrestler turned street-biker; he looked her up and down, snorted a laugh, and waved her in without a word. Gawd, what a stench! she thought immediately, taking in the room. There were only four patrons; two tattooed Hispanics in leather dusters sitting together near the register, and two white guys in booths at either end of the room. The bartender eyed her with a leer that combined the worst sort of chauvinism with something just shy of open suspicion. "Can Ah help y'?"
LaFollet had debated how to approach things, but had finally thought 'the hell with it' and went for the direct approach. "Yes, you can," she smiled, showing him her badge. "Detective LaFollet, S.P.D. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"
"Well, don't that beat ever'thing? They gave a badge to a nigger bitch," the bartender sneered, playing to the two Latinos. "And no, y' cain't. Now git out."
"When I'm ready, sir," she smiled sweetly. "I -" What the hell? she wondered, catching sight of the posters on the wall. Suspending her questioning for the moment, she moved down the bar a few steps to get a better view. 'Slayers'? 'Witch'? 'Werewolf'? What the living -
"You wanna git out afore you're thrown, Miss Nigger Cop?" the bartender suggested.
"What's your name?" she asked sidelong, still focussed on the posters.
"Hank Clanton," he responded, still in a sneer.
She turned to face him again. As she did, she realised that she'd moved so far from the door that the Latinos, and one of the solo patrons, were on her path back. Aw, shit. "Well - Hank? - I'm investigating the murder of a police officer who happened to be a friend of mine, so you'd do well to co-operate."
"You're in the wrong part'a town for that piece'a tin t' scare me, Miss La-Fo-Let," Clanton sniffed.
"Let me handle this," the closer of the white patrons said in a bass rumble (and odd accent), standing up. He was a good six inches taller than her five-feet-seven, rough-hewn, and outweighed her by half at least. As he moved, the Hispanic duo turned to watch. The closer threw his coat open to reveal a pair of Smith and Wesson Model-29s thrust through his belt. (LaFollet's blood chilled as she recognised the weapons.) His companion also opened his duster, grasping the pistol-grip of a cut-down SPAS-12; the motion also revealed the pistol tucked crossdraw into the left side of his waistband -
- a Heckler and Koch P9S.
Son of a BITCH! That fast, LaFollet drew her USP and levelling it right on the white man, the closest threat. "Don't move! You two, by the bar, lay your weapons on the counter and assume the position, you're under arrest!"
"What for, puta?" Magnums spat.
"We'll start with brandishing a weapon and see what else we can tack on when we get to the station," she smiled, turning her attention to him for a moment.
Too long. The man in front of her darted forward - no human being was that fast! - and struck her wrists. The USP went flying. When she looked back at him, his face - his face was all wrong, ridged and distorted, his eyes blazing yellow, his teeth - his fangs! - too, too long.
"[Our Father, who art in heaven....]" she breathed in Latin, flashing back to her time in Catholic school. Almost on instinct, her right hand dug under her collar, produced her gold crucifix from her collar, and presented it to his eyes.
Her assailant gave her a contemptuous grin, baring even more teeth. "[Do you think I should fear the words and symbols of your impotent little tree-hung godling, Negro?]" he sneered incredulously, in the same language. "[I am five centuries his elder, and he was nothing but another rabble-rousing criminal!]"
"Marcus Lucinius!" a familiar voice barked from the doorway.
McKellar? LaFollet thought wildly, looking past this - thing! - to see the Welshwoman standing just inside the door, her Gyurza in hand and the bouncer lying at her feet with blood running down his face.
"One police officer dying in Sunnydale has brought her to your door, Marcus!" McKellar continued, leaning on the cane in her left hand. "Kill her as well, and no vampire in this district will know a peaceful day thereafter."
While Marcus' attention was on McKellar, LaFollet scrambled across the room to retrieve her USP. What the hell -? she wondered, not bothering to finish the thought as she came to one knee and brought the gun around again.
The two bikers turned to McKellar and stared at her in - amazement? Had LaFollet spoken any Spanish, what was said next might have intrigued her.
"[What the fuck are you doing?]" Magnums wanted to know.
"[What I must.]" McKellar's voice was even, and the red dot of her Gyurza's laser-sight was just as steady on the shotgunner's chest. "Marcus, step away from her!"
"Hey, cain't you read the Terms of Entry? No gunfights in mah place!" Clanton cried, clearly ready to dive for cover.
"Shut up, fat man," McKellar said sidelong.
"Bullets are no danger to my kind, Cerian," the - vampire? - sniffed. "And I am too valuable for you to kill." With that, he turned back to LaFollet.
Who blasted him with her Department-issue pepper spray.
Marcus howled and staggered back, clutching at suddenly smoking(!) features. Clanton dropped flat and crawled for the back door. The scream set off both Latinos. Magnums drew one pistol with his left(!) hand and threw down on LaFollet; SPAS-man turned to McKellar and raised the twelve-gauge.
The shotgunner was trying to 'beat the drop' - draw so fast as to out-shoot someone who already had him under their sights. This is a risky proposition at best, even for master gunslingers with a pistol; for a low-rent thug trying to bring a twelve-gauge into action, it was the worst kind of folly.
He never even got close; McKellar had him cold. Even as his hands closed on the shotgun, she rapid-fired three, four, five rounds into his chest, the rounds punching straight through and shattering the bar-mirror. The impacts, each a body-blow from Mike Tyson, rocked him back and closed his fingers on the trigger, sending the buckshot into the floorboards in front of Cerian's feet. Balance wrecked by the bullets, SPAS-man reeled, sagged back against the bar, and slid down into a seated position, coughing blood; the twelve-gauge fell from suddenly slack fingers and clattered to the floor.
LaFollet's first shot went wild, tearing a chunk out of the bar beside Magnums. His aim was no better; though the bellow of his revolver was ear-splitting in the confined quarters, the bullet went over her head and tore into a booth, bringing shards of table and booth-seat raining down on her. Not about to give him a chance to improve his shooting, LaFollet ditched the pepper-spray and rolled left. Marcus got between her and the second shot; though the impact tore a bloody chunk out of him and knocked him against a booth, he looked more enraged than injured. Coming to a stop against the bar on her belly, LaFollet rested her elbows on the floor and fired, ripping a furrow across the man's left trapezius. It threw his aim off; the shell intended for her face instead blasted through the panelling of the bar. Yelping as splinters gouged into her scalp and neck, LaFollet fired again, taking him through the belly. Magnums grunted, but stood fast, lowering his aim.
God have mercy, he's got me! LaFollet realised, even as her fourth shot hit the man's thigh.
KR-KRAK!
The chest of the Latino's T-shirt erupted in a spray of bone and gore; twin bloody patches the size of her palm were left behind. He grunted again. Looked down at the twin wounds. Turned a puzzled gaze over his shoulder at McKellar; she was raising her Gyurza shoulder-high, aiming for his head.
The last patron came at her then, drawing her attention back to her own predicament. Her assailant was built like Jonah Lomu, and the barbed tentacles already extending from each cuff under his hands marked him as part Zal'kiir. McKellar ducked a swinging tentacle. Her leg gave way, and she fell against the wall. Raised her gun again in both hands. Started unloading into the half-demon's body.
LaFollet thrust herself back to one knee and levelled her USP again, emptying her magazine at the Latino. Absently, she noted that her perceptions were off: she could see every detail of her opponent, the gore soaking into his shirt, the chipped tooth, the three-day stubble - but nothing else registered. She didn't even know she was screaming, a savage keen of fear and anger. Only five of the eleven rounds actually connected; hit all about his torso, the man rocked back but still didn't fall. With her USP's slide locked back, LaFollet dumped the empty magazine, dropped her left hand to her hip for a fresh one -
- his Smith flashed again -
- LaFollet felt a sudden smack against her left deltoid, knocking her arm and shoulder back - it felt like her brother had punched her. There was no pain, only a sudden warm ache. What the heck was that? she wondered distantly, her attention focused on the new magazine she was slapping into her USP. The slide snapped back into battery, and she opened up again. Her first five rounds tracked up the Latino's torso from right hip to left shoulder, rocking him again. While he was still looking baffled by this development, LaFollet brought the USP down from recoil, set her sights square on the bridge of his nose, and fired twice more.
Magnums dropped like he'd been boned.
Christ, I never knew stopping someone with a pistol was so damn' hard! she thought wildly. A child of the TV age, she'd always believed the one-shot-one-kill myth perpetuated by the media. The ache in her left shoulder suddenly kindled into wet fire, and she stifled a gasp. Ahhhh! Dammit, I must've pulled a muscle or something -
Then she saw McKellar's straits and forgot her own discomfort. The Welshwoman was half-sprawled against the wall with the other patron standing over her, her Gyurza locking open even as the hulking brute jolted backwards, the round punching out between his shoulderblades.
Shit, she's empty! LaFollet brought the USP up again - unsteadily; her left arm didn't want to work properly - and fired into the behemoth's side, taking him low in the chest. It didn't stop him outright, but it got his attention. Even as he turned her way, she kept firing, this time single shots all deliberately aimed for the X-ring. Several rounds went past him harmlessly; others struck him in the chest, the belly, the arms. He didn't even seem to notice the impacts, just looking at her curiously, those - tentacles! - hanging from his cuffs whipping back and forth like they had minds of their own.
McKellar took the offered breathing space to reload, fast, and swung her gun back up; a split-second to think, and she shifted her aim. Four rounds ripped through his chest, about where a human's left lung would be; he choked, toppled backwards like a cut tree, and didn't move again.
With a satisfied smile, McKellar lowered the Gyurza and glanced LaFollet's way. Seeing Marcus getting to his feet again, she flung herself across the floor to where the SPAS-12 lay. Snatching it up, she rolled onto her side, racked a fresh shell into the breech, and took a careful bead on the vampire's neck. "Far enough, Marcus!" she cried.
Marcus Lucinius Valerianus had not survived twenty-five centuries by being foolhardy. He knew about modern weaponry; he knew a shotgun shell would tear his head from his body at that range. Raising both hands, he slowly got to his feet and backed away from LaFollet a couple of steps. "What of my value to you, McKellar?"
"Right now, it's debatable, Marcus. Be elsewhere for now."
Inclining his head, he acceded, heading for the back door.
"[You fucking shot me! I thought we had a deal!]" the fallen shotgunner spat at McKellar's back, blood bubbling from his lips.
"[The deal was just altered,]" she responded coolly, sitting up. "[And don't try to tell me you weren't planning a double-cross of your own.]"
"[You slut -!]" And with that snarl, he snatched for his purloined P9S.
LaFollet got there first, pumping two shots into the man's cheek and eye. His head virtually came apart; his whole body spasmed and went slack. She half-sighed in relief even as ingrained instinct noted the USP's slide-locked state and made her reload again. For some reason, her fingers wouldn't close about the fresh magazine properly, and she looked down.
"Blood?" she said in a mystified voice, looking at the red fluid streaming out under her cuff and over her hand.
"Sit back against the bar," McKellar advised.
Obeying dumbly, the detective looked down at her left shoulder, where she'd pulled her deltoid somehow. There was a red-rimmed hole in her coat. For a long moment, she simply stared at it in confusion, trying to think how the hell she'd got that.... "I'm shot!" she marveled.
"Yes. And with a .44 Magnum, no less; quite the way to start your combat career," McKellar smiled. She reached into the small of her back and unsheathed an oddly recurved knife to cut the coat away from the wound; beneath it, the sleeve of the detective's pale blue blouse was already soaked purple. "Thankfully, it would appear that the bullet neither expanded nor hit bone."
"H-how can you tell?" LaFollet asked. The room was spinning around her, and her stomach was churning.
"Your arm's still attached," the older woman said dryly, tearing LaFollet's coat and blouse-sleeve open to get a better look. "Uh-huh: right through the meat, in clean, out clean. I need -" She broke off, reached up, and snatched down the towel Clanton had left behind when he went to ground. Returning to where LaFollet sat, she ripped the sleeve completely off the younger woman's coat and wrapped the towel around her deltoid in a makeshift bandage. "There, that should hold you for now."
LaFollet nodded, ever more nauseous by the second as the pain and adrenaline-shock hit her. Dimly-remembered training made her lay the USP on her outstretched thigh and produce her radio with her good hand. It was a long, fumbling process; her whole body was shaking like a leaf in the wind, her hands most of all. "VDG f-from Henry Thirteen X-ray."
{"Henry Thirteen X-ray, go ahead."}
"O-officer needs assistance... 452 G-Garrison St. Shots fired... th-three suspects D-DOA, officer injured. Request H-Henry units... paramedics and meat-wagon." She barely heard the acknowledgement; letting the radio fall, she glanced sideways at the mangled bodies of the men she'd killed.
Killed!
It hit her like a train. Good God above, I killed two men!
Cerian saw the direction of the younger woman's gaze, and her sudden pallor, and remembered her own first firefight oh, so long ago. Tying off the bandage was the final straw; she could virtually see the new wave of pain run up LaFollet's arm to her head and belly. Choking once, the detective turned away, leaned over onto her good elbow, and vomited up everything she'd eaten that day. When she could bring up no more, LaFollet coughed and spat a few times, pushed herself upright again, and wiped her mouth with her cuff.
"Feel better?" the relic-hunter asked, with an oddly maternal gentleness.
Despite herself, LaFollet nodded. She couldn't meet McKellar's gaze.
"I think it's probably best that that's out of the way," McKellar drawled. "Your brother officers wouldn't have let you live it down if you'd puked on their shoes."
LaFollet nodded again.
"You needn't be ashamed of it, Detective; it's normal post-combat shock, even trained soldiers go through it." McKellar smiled gently. "Hell, the first time someone shot at me, I wet myself."
LaFollet's eyebrows shot up. "B... But at the gallery -"
"I've been doing this for longer than you've been alive, Detective," the relic-hunter pointed out blandly. "Can you stand?"
"Y-yeah, I think so...." LaFollet picked up her pistol, levered herself to her feet, and (with McKellar's support) made it to a booth where she could sit more comfortably. Setting her gun on the table by her right hand and laying her left forearm across her lap, she jerked her chin at the third dead 'man'. "What th-the liv-living fuck was that?"
McKellar didn't answer immediately, instead moving down to the end of the bar to tear the posters down and stuff them in her coat pocket. Returning, she settled herself on a stool at the bar and laid her own pistol on the counter. "By the looks of things, he was part Zal'kiir," she said off-handly. "Even as demons go, purebred Zal'kiirs are a nasty breed; they share some biological, physical, and even behavioural traits with Carcharodon carcharias, the great white shark. The tentacles are primarily for capturing prey, though they can be lethal weapons in their own right."
Only one word really, really sank in deep. "Demons," LaFollet repeated.
"Yes, Detective, demons. We haven't much time before your colleagues arrive, so I'll be brief. Marcus is a vampire, and an informant on their doings here. Sunnydale is atop a sort of magical hotspot called a Hellmouth, so there are a great number of vampires and demons here. I hunt them, along with a number of others; their existence on Earth predates that of the human race, hence my interest in antiquity. As long as demons have walked among us, so has the Slayer: one girl chosen by destiny, given the strength and skill and instincts to fight them and destroy them wherever they may appear. For the moment, the Slayer is my young colleague Buffy. Slayers are usually assisted by Watchers, an ancient society who find Slayers when they are young, train them for their destiny, and guide them once they come into their birthright."
"That e-explains the posters, I guess," the detective nodded. "So wh-who's this 'Faith'?"
"Well, under normal circumstances there can be only one Slayer at any given time, but there was a... mix-up, and she was Called. Unfortunately, the power went to her head and she came off the rails: she killed a man and repudiated the Watcher Council's authority over her. Faith forgot that power such as hers comes with the responsibility to use it wisely - which is why she's now in a coma."
LaFollet raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak as she tried to reassert her self-control.
"The Watchers exist to train the Slayer, to guide her. Slayers are usually chosen when they're about sixteen, so if they're not prepared for their roles properly... well, would you wish to deal with someone with the martials arts skill of Steven Seagal, the strength of Samson - and the maturity and emotional stability of a hormone-ridden teenager? Faith rejected the Council's authority to command her, and for the public good, we - they were forced to take drastic steps. Unfortunately, Buffy has also repudiated the Council's authority to command her, and without supervision it's only a matter of time before she goes down the same road."
"So why the S-Slayer? Why not let the police handle things?"
"Demons and the Slayer pre-date such concepts as governmental protection of the populace, and frankly, I don't think they would have worked too well in Sunnydale in any case. Do you remember how Mayor Wilkins was killed at the high school's graduation? That graduation was the culmination of a hundred years of plotting to turn himself into an all-powerful demon, though thankfully Buffy and her friends stopped him before he pulled it off. He'd been running this town for his own ends for the entirety of his reign, and I'd be willing to bet that he arranged the police here in such a way that most of the Department's people don't know the truth, and those who do were working for him to cover it up." McKellar shrugged and smiled crookedly. "Besides, Detective, everyone knows that demons and vampires aren't real."
"Okay: let's pretend, just for a m-minute, that this isn't completely in-insane. What the b-blue hell do I do now?" LaFollet's ears pricked up as she heard the sirens outside. Just in the nick of time, huh, fellas?
"I would advise you not to talk about it with anyone until you determine where their loyalties lay during the Wilkins Era. Read up on the subject of vampires, and learn from that reading; avoid anything written this century, there's far too much pulp out there that views these things as tragic heroes rather than heartless killers. The older legends are the most accurate. For the meantime... well, you have a cross and a pistol, so you're hardly likely to be chosen as a mark any time soon."
There was a screech of brakes from outside, then car-doors opened and slammed closed again; both women put their hands to their guns just in case. A moment later, a male voice called in through the doorway, "Police! Anyone in there?"
"LaFollet and an armed civilian! Come ahead - nice and easy!" the black woman added, readying the USP.
A Beretta preceded a chunky uniformed officer through the doorway. Seeing LaFollet and McKellar both lower their guns a shade, he sighed and put his own away - then took in the carnage and went green. "Jesus Christ!"
"Out of the way!" a familiar voice barked, and Little Bob shouldered the 'uniform' aside, sparing the scene only a passing glance as he searched for his partner. "Christ, can't you go anywhere without somebody getting shot?" he spat at McKellar sidelong, ignoring her quirked eyebrow as he crossed to LaFollet's side. "How bad is it?"
Stress, pain, and blood-loss notwithstanding, LaFollet gave him a caustic look. "Is there a good way to get shot with a .44?"
"Looks like you're gonna be okay," he drawled, checking her arm. Though the flow of blood was steady, it wasn't enough to be life-threatening.
"Hey, Sarge, look at this!" the 'uniform' cried, taking in the weapons the two Latinos had dropped.
"I already saw," he answered, mostly to himself. He looked right at LaFollet. "What happened?"
It came out as a babbling, near-hysterical rush. "I h-heard some chatter about this place earlier, and I thought I'd check it out for leads, so I came down here and th-the bartender gave me attitude and the bikers showed off the guns and I recognised Jack's HK and I figured they killed him and I tried to arrest them and this guy knocked my gun away and McKellar shot the guy with the shotgun and I killed the guy with the Smiths and -" LaFollet gasped for breath, hearing the tears in her tone and hating herself for the weakness.
Cerian, for her part, stifled a smile as she realised how to play this. This LaFollet was made of sterner stuff than she'd realised to hold things together this well, and knowing the cop mentality as well as she did, she secured the younger woman's acceptance by her peers with a few words. "Your partner gives me too much credit, Sergeant. I rather had my hands full with that big brute over there; it was she who put those two out of action."
"No shit?" the 'uniform' marvelled. "She did all this damage?"
"I always knew you were a hard-ass, Jan, but this is taking it a little far, don't you think?" Little Bob smiled, re-securing the makeshift bandage.
LaFollet looked up at him. Despite her fuzzy mental state, the implications of that statement were clear. I'm in! Three and a half years I've been the token 'sister', always on the outside - and now they're all going to let me in!
And Cerian smiled. Yes; her gratitude for this could prove quite useful....
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
01:22, THURSDAY AUGUST 26, LIMA (09:22/26-08-99 ZULU)
RESTFIELD CEMETARY
Even as she prowled among the headstones with unconscious stealth, Buffy was feeling decidedly scratchy. A whole day of research that had gone nowhere, because Cerian's books had held almost nothing on the desired subject; her Watcher in hospital, and the temp who'd been filling in for him had been nowhere in sight since late that afternoon; one of her best friends was heartbroken, and the other was taking over the 'Cryptic Guy' role Angel had left vacant; her Mom was desperately trying to get the gallery repaired and open again - All in all, this week has sucked in ways I hardly knew existed.
A sound ahead of her interrupted her internal gripe-session, and she automatically shifted mental gears. Slowing her steps, she sidled around the corner of a crypt to survey the situation.
Two men were kneeling on the grass by a headstone, looking down at something that was hidden by the grave-marker and the closer man's body. The farthest one was kind of side-on to her, and she took a good, long look at him. He was of medium height, stocky, dressed in a much-abused black denim jacket over a charcoal-grey sweater like Xander's and jeans that matched the jacket; the skin of his stern face was leathery from time and weather, and under a black 'FBI' baseball cap, his hair was uniformly iron-grey. His eyes, from what she could see, were dark - and very, very cold right now. But what made him most interesting to her eyes was the big, black autopistol holstered at his right hip.
His companion wasn't looking Buffy's way, but from what she could see of him, he was a giant, at least as big and muscled as that guy Bear in 'Armageddon' and just as dark. His hair was shoulder-length, and a shade of black so dark that it reflected blue in the street-lights; like the old man, he was wearing jeans, but his jacket was leather, and very expensive at that.
" - it's the same fing, Toa," Old Guy was saying softly, in a thick Cockney accent.
Big Guy shrugged a fraction. Watching his shoulders move was like seeing a mountain-range rise and fall.
Old Guy shot him a sudden poisonous look. "Do you really fink I don't know vat? Vis is -"
Even as the older man spoke, Big Guy shifted his position a little, and Buffy caught a glimpse of something past his knee.
A child-size hand, lying loose and open on the grass.
Flames appeared before Buffy's eyes. Got you, you bastards! A stake leapt into her fist without being bidden, and she simply charged, making no sound. Her eyes were locked right between Big Guy's shoulder blades.
Old Guy looked up and saw her, and his eyes widened a little. Big Guy whipped around to look her way -
- Buffy got an impression of yellow irises -
- that reflected green, like a wolf's -
- then Big Guy turned sideways to reality and was gone in an instant.
Old Guy, for his part, stood up and took a defensive stance. "You must be -"
Buffy simply launched her fist at his face. He could talk after she'd beaten him to pulp. Or not. Right now, I prefer not.
What happened next happened so fast as to defy even Slayer senses.
Spinning aside to take his head out of her fist's path, Old Guy seized her arm by wrist and elbow, pivoted, and threw her over his shoulder, slamming her flat on her back on the grass with a lung-emptying thud!
"Look, Summers, you've got vis all wrong," he said reasonably, stepping back and half-raising his hands placatingly.
I'll bet! she snarled inwardly, sucking in a breath and snapping to her feet. She launched a spinning high kick at his head, a strike that had been the undoing of many a vampire. She had just enough time to see him duck it before, in the same flowing move, he swept her other foot from under her, and she again crashed to the ground.
"I'm tryin' not to 'urt you, y'know," he pointed out, again backing off.
"Makes one of us," she growled, surging back to her feet again and charging.
He caught her right fist as it drove for his belly, swept it outwards, and yanked her forward. His right forearm caught right her between the eyebrows, hard enough to daze her, hard enough to send sparks dancing across her field of vision. Grasping her shoulder, he yanked her past him, sending her stumbling into the side of another crypt. Her forehead bounced off the concrete, and again she saw stars. Before she could recover, he was there. His left fist hammered into her kidneys. An agonised cry escaped the Slayer as her back arched spastically. The ridge-edge of his right hand chopped in under her arm, catching her in the short ribs. Her lungs emptied with a convulsive ooofff! He brought his right arm back, then hammered a back-elbow into the nape of her neck, bouncing her head off the concrete again. Stunned by the double blow, Buffy dropped to her knees, frantically trying to sort it all out. Wh -?
Old Guy grabbed a fistful of her newly-short hair, lifted her a little, then caught her right under the ear with a carefully-measured knife-edge chop that turned all her bones to rubber. Letting her fall limp on the grass, he crouched by her side and smiled amiably, speaking in an off-hand tone that was somehow still deadly serious. "I'm not even 'ere for you, Blondie, and I just 'anded you your arse. You might want to fink about vat the next time you look at your trainin' schedule. Especially considerin' how light I let you off. 'Ave a nice day." With that last little smirk, he patted her cheek in an insultingly avuncular manner, straightened up, and walked off without looking back.
It was a few moments before Buffy could even think of moving. What the hell just happened? she thought at length, slowly, painfully rolling onto her back and staring up at the stars as she took stock and gathered the energy to sit up. Her lower back was afire; her ribs jabbed her every time she breathed; her neck felt like someone had taken to it with a blunt axe; and a vice of pain was clamped on her forehead and the base of her skull. I'm the Slayer, and he tossed me around like a Cabbage-Patch Kid. I've fought vampires and demons and all sorts of beasts, but somehow he's faster than them all - hell, he's probably half-again faster than I am - and God, he's strong with it!
When, at last, she could trust her limbs, she levered herself upright and slowly, unsteadily moved over to where the child lay. She'd seen the autopsy photos, so she knew what to expect... but a photograph wasn't, couldn't be, any preparation for seeing the reality of a naked, bloody, mutilated eleven-year-old girl with a ribbon in the end of her pigtail.
How'd he do all that and not get a single drop of blood on him anywhere? she wondered absently, then dismissed the stray thought. It didn't matter. Okay, buddy, you were right: I wasn't ready for you tonight. Next time, I will be.
Chapter End Notes:
mira - equivalent to 'bro'. (Spanish)
999 - 'Officer needs help; any receiving units respond - EMERGENCY!' (L.A.P.D. radio code; I'm presuming that the S.P.D. models itself on the L.A.P.D.)
I'm tempted to apologise for the degree of HK fanboy-ism which crept into this fic, almost without my noticing. :S On the other hand, they do have a significant share of the world arms trade, and for backstory reasons I won't go into here, Heckler & Koch's involvement in both this operation and the larger picture is rather more significant than many (including HK themselves) would really prefer.... ;)
The Smith and Wesson Model-29 is most famous as the chosen weapon of S.F.P.D. Inspector 'Dirty' Harry Callahan.
The Franchi SPAS-12 is Italian-made and can be set to fire pump-action or self-reloading; some of the guards in the building lobby at the end of 'The Matrix' were armed with SPAS-12s.
RE: Vampires and holy symbols. From where I sit, magic is the act/process of imposing one's will on the universe (using ritual and trappings - like the cross, or Wiccan paraphenalia - to concentrate and focus that will) and comes right down to faith and belief: if the spellcaster/user truly believes hard enough that [desired effect] will occur, it will. (Whether this really works or is just a psychological mechanism depends on your point of view... and how dogmatic your personal beliefs might be. :-J) In Marcus' case, the power of the cross to harm and deter him is blunted by three factors: LaFollet's uncertain presentation of the cross; his contempt for Christianity limits the usefulness of Judeo-Christian icons in the first place; and perhaps most significantly, he's better than two thousand years old, which makes him ferociously strong by the standards of the breed and better able to resist the Power of a cross so small and indifferently wielded.
On the other hand, LaFollet's SPD-issue pepper-spray was heavily laced with holy water and garlic essence sanctified by the Department's chaplain, a devout man if ever there was one. The S.P.D. were bureaucratically restricted - not outright stupid.
Yes, the way LaFollet had to empty most of two magazines into her attacker is accurate, as is the way her own adrenaline-rush masked her own wound. Adrenaline, emotion, and sheer willpower can keep a man on his feet long after sustaining a fatal wound from a pistol-round. Ask the FBI: in a now-notorious shootout in Miami in 1986, two agents were shot and killed after their killer was mortally wounded by a shot in the chest. And TV to the contrary, LaFollet's marksmanship is actually far better than the average; few police officers practice pistolry more than is absolutely necessary to get them through their yearly requalification, and most have a lot of trouble even hitting a target. There is one recorded instance in which a Detroit cop and a suspect emptied their magazines at each other on a six-by-eight-foot balcony - and neither hit a damn thing. Shooting under combat stress is hard, folks, and precision shooting especially so: LaFollet's shooting may not have been neat, but it got the job done, and that's what counts.
For those of you who don't follow rugby :-J, at the time I started writing this fic Jonah Lomu was the main offensive weapon in the arsenal of the All Blacks, New Zealand's national team. He's built like an NFL running-back (6' 4", 250+lb) and runs over opposing players like a Tiger tank in a black jersey. (Personally, I think he was over-rated: all power, no finesse. :-J Not that it matters, since AFAIK he's no longer playing.)
Toa - like so many other words in the Maori language, 'Toa' has a rather complex meaning and translates slightly differently based on context. It can mean 'warrior', or 'prince', or even 'hero' (in the mythic sense). In this case, it's a bit of all three.