20:39, THURSDAY AUGUST 26, LIMA (04:39/27-08-99 ZULU)
PARKING STRUCTURE, SUNNYDALE MALL
Amethyst smiled thinly as the four youths trudged towards the waiting van. God, how easy was that? Opal was right after all: little Miss Rosenberg is their centre of gravity. Threaten her, and everyone starts playing nice-nice; kill her, and it'll gut them all.
Their vehicles were parked at the far end of the structure, in a nice, semi-private alcove that could accommodate a dozen cars. Whoever had put that alcove in the blueprints had either been pig-ignorant of the habits of urban predators (human and otherwise), or some of those predators had talked him around, because it was a death-trap in Vampire-Town, USA: right at the extreme end of the structure, poorly lit, the shape of the walls cut it off from plain view until you were right on top of it, a fire-ladder set into the corner of the parapet, no surveillance cameras, and any sound would go out over the parapet and be lost to the open air, instead of echoing inside. A perfect killing ground.
"Mind telling us what this is about?" Harris asked casually, his voice pitched just at the threshold of audibility.
"You'll find out soon enough," Turquoise said in a dead voice.
Emerald and Topaz were standing beside the van, both of them with their weapons drawn but not aimed anywhere in particular; the van's side door was already open, and the front two bench seats were all prepared for the youths, complete with seatbelts and manacles and gags. Two hulking shapes were on the rearmost seat, and even though she knew what they were, Amethyst couldn't control a tiny shiver as she caught a split-second glimpse of light reflecting off row upon row of serrated teeth.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
For her part, Willow was trying to understand how her friends could be so calm about this. Here they were, surrounded by six people with guns, and nobody was even saying 'boo'. Okay, Sunnydale, so a big no to the shouting for help, but Nemo and Shooter can't know that, so why are they so quiet? I mean, I don't want to see them killed, but you'd think someone like Shooter would be trying something....
A few pushes, and the quartet of youths were standing with their backs against the side of the van, careful to keep their hands in plain sight as they faced six guns. Willow's sweater was still dangling from Nemo's hand, and without it she was starting to shiver a little... even more so when she saw how one of the men - that guy in the Metallica shirt they'd met at Starscape - had his eyes virtually locked on the front of her suddenly too-thin blouse. She could feel the touch of his eyes, like a thousand spiders crawling all over her skin. Ick! Scary visual place! she shuddered again.
"Search them," the woman with the scarred face ordered.
Metallica stepped forward eagerly. "We'll start with the redhead," he leered.
"Suit yourself, but you're asking for trouble," Nemo said off-handly, completely unmindful of all the hardware pointed his way.
Willow backed away as far as the van's metal side would allow, her eyes wide as the tow-haired man put up his weapon and approached her. "You've probably seen cop shows; assume the position," he ordered, and however slowly, however reluctantly, she obeyed, turning to put her palms flat against the van's side and leaning on straight arms.
His hands closed about her left ankle and slid upwards slowly, leaving a wave of oogyness in their wake. This wasn't a search; it was an indecent assault. He repeated the motion on her right leg, then set both hands on her rump and squeezed a little before running his hands up her flanks. Willow tried to school her expression into impassivity, to deny him the pleasure of seeing her squirm, but she couldn't bring it off all that well.
"Oh, son, I take it back," Nemo said, and his voice had that same purr he'd used on the Stormer. "You're not in trouble; you're dead where you stand."
"So can you be," Scarred Lady said lightly, turning her weapon on him for a moment.
Nemo went quiet, but his manner was... off, somehow. In fact, Willow could see him, Shooter and Xander out of the corner of her eye, watching this 'search'... all with an ominously blank expression - the same ominously blank expression! What the heck -?
Metallica's hands closed over her breasts, squeezing so roughly that she winced; she'd have bruises tomorrow, she was sure. The man's body pressed up against the length of her back, and hot breath fanned her ear. "Verrrry nice," he exhaled. "Y'know, maybe we should keep you around for a couple of days."
And something went snap behind Willow's eyes. In the last four days, she'd been caught in a firefight, held at gunpoint, shot at (and watched Giles gunned down to boot), interrogated by cops twice, Dear Jane'd, kissed by her best friend, basically plunged into the depths of emotional chaos, and now once again held at gunpoint - all par for the course as a Scooby, but being pawed by this degenerate? Okay, that does it!
Without warning, she snapped her head back, breaking the guy's nose -
"AWGH!" he gasped.
- snatched one hand off the van and drove her elbow back into his midsection with all the power she could muster -
"WOOOOOFF!" he grunted.
- then pushed herself off the van, whipped around, and ripped his cheek open with her nails -
"Aaacchh!" he yelped.
- wound up and drove her knee square into his groin -
His eyes bulged, but he could make no sound at that; he simply folded up about himself.
- then bunched one small fist, measured the man to the millimetre, and nailed him right on the point of the jaw with a beautiful overhand left. He grunted and went sprawling, unconscious or close enough to it.
"Owwwwwch!" Willow moaned, cupping her throbbing knuckles in her other hand. You'd think after Anya I'd remember how hard people's heads are.... Seeing Scarred Lady's gun swinging her way lest she get any more bright ideas, she stepped back against the van again. "I'm done. I'm done."
"Good," Scarred Lady said in a voice as dry as the Mojave, not quite lowering the gun again.
Even as she massaged her sore hand, the redhead allowed herself a tiny little smirk of satisfaction; she hadn't spent three years backing the Slayer without picking up a few things. Now if only I'd remembered that I don't have Slayer-strength or -healing. DAMN that hurts!
Nemo was giving the fallen man a look laden with false sympathy. "He was warned," he murmured philosophically, then added (with tongue firmly in cheek), "She'll bear watching, that one, she's got a temper on her."
One of the other gunners, a brunette dressed like an earlier-model Cordelia, snorted a laugh. "Couldn't've happened to a nicer fellow," she smirked, her accent Irish. "Diamond always did think with his little head."
That brought a general (if humourless) snigger from the other gunsels; they were still laughing when it happened. The rearmost of the would-be kidnappers was a tall, Nordic-looking woman with wavy blonde hair in a pale blue dress. Before Willow's astounded, horrified eyes, a weather-beaten man suddenly, silently surged up behind the blonde like a shark taking a surfer, seized her by chin and nape, and wrung her neck with a dry-branch crack!
What followed was not a battle. Battles are two-sided.
All the other gunsels looked towards the sound... and thus sealed their own doom. Nemo, Xander and Shooter all moved in the same instant, almost blurringly fast. Shooter had less distance to cover to her target, the Irish brunette. Her left hand drove forward in a piston-like heel-punch. It hammered into the Irishwoman's midriff, blasting the breath from her lungs. Even as she whooped in agony, Shooter's right elbow swung forward, crushed the woman's windpipe so she'd never breathe again. As the finisher, she chopped the woman under the ear, her rigid hand landing like an axe-blade; stunned, the brunette sprawled on the concrete, writhing in silent, helpless spasms even as Shooter snatched up her gun.
Nemo flung Willow's sweater full at Scarred Lady's face, followed right behind it. She saw the sweater coming, swatted it down - with her gun-hand. With the gun safely out of line, Nemo's left hand chopped down, caught the inside of her wrist, knocked the weapon loose. His right hand came up, bladed; his fingertips speared into the woman's throat, collapsed her larnyx. She choked, sagged backwards, clutching her throat, staring at him.
Xander seized the auburn-haired gunner by the wrist of her gun-hand, twisted the gun from her grasp. Brought his right hand up in a heel-strike that caught her nose right-on, driving cartilage and bone splinters up into her brain. Her face went slack; trickles of blood ran from her nose down over her mouth; she crumpled forward, utterly limp.
The last kidnapper, a guy in a flannel shirt, was still turning to face Weathered Guy, his gun leveled chest-high. Weathered Guy's right hand flashed down, seized the Walther, yanked it out of Flannel Shirt's grasp; the gun swung up and inward in a smooth, blurring arc, the steel slide slamming into Flannel Shirt's forehead. As he blinked and reeled, stunned, Weathered Guy's back-swing crashed the butt of the Walther against his temple, crushing the thin bone into his brain. The gunsel choked and collapsed straight down on the spot.
All five of the conscious gunners had been taken out in the first two seconds.
A creak from the van's suspension. "The Zal'kiirs!" Nemo hissed urgently, snatching the eyepatch from his face. "Willow, back away!"
Even as she obeyed, aghast at the carnage she'd just witnessed - And, hey, there was never anything wrong with Nemo's eye! - a hulking form lumbered through the van's sliding door. It was humanoid in shape, but in detail it was shark-like. At least seven feet tall and proportionally built like an offensive lineman, it had a shark's face and grey skin, webbed fingers and feet, and barbed tentacles trailed from its wrists beneath each hand, whipping back and forth eagerly. Its beady black eyes were dead of all emotion, but serried ranks of shark-like teeth were revealed by an eager grin.
Shooter tossed her acquired Walther to Weathered Guy, reaching inside her jacket; her right hand emerged holding - Whoa! - an OSS fighting knife to match the one Xander had given Buffy, the left something that looked like a black fountain pen. Nemo did much the same, his right hand producing a matching black tube, his left opening a Recon-One folding knife.
The Zal'kiir looked at Nemo first, since he was closest, retracted one tentacle, pointed the arm at Nemo. The barb shot forth like a harpoon; Nemo twisted aside with speed worthy of any mongoose. The knife flashed up and severed the tendon in a spray of thick pink ichor. Even as the Zal'kiir recoiled and brought its arm back, the foreign youth darted forward, drove the end of his 'pen' up under the beast's chin. A dull chwump, like a cardboard box dropped on the floor; the demon's head snapped back, and it crumpled like it had been boned. Nemo lowered the tube again; wispy smoke - CO2? - trailed from the contact end.
Not to be outdone, Shooter hurdled the falling corpse and lunged inside the van. Willow couldn't see anything, but the van rocked for a moment; something slammed against one side, then the other, there was another of those dull thumps, and a louder one as a body hit the deck. Shooter emerged from the van a moment later; her knife dripped ichor, and there were splashes of the stuff on her jacket. "MacGyver, clear!" she said, her voice low, but authoritative and completely level.
"Orion, clear!" Weathered Guy confirmed in a matching tone. He was hugging the wall at the corner, keeping an eye out along the parking structure in case someone had heard something, a Walther in each hand.
"Fenris, clear!" Nemo added, pocketing his tube-weapon and snatching up a loose P99.
"Snoopy, clear!" Xander nodded. He'd retrieved his .45 from Diamond's waistband and had it aimed down at the back of the man's head, one foot on his neck. Well, that went as planned: swift, certain, and brutally efficient. None of the bad guys had a chance to even squeak. The PWs at Lympstone really would have loved these guys. "Why don't we police up all this shit and get outta Dodge while the getting's good, huh?"
"Sounds like a plan to me," Nemo - Fenris? - conceded drolly.
"Merciful God," Willow breathed, utterly appalled at the scale - the speed! - of the massacre. From the first woman dying to Xander's 'clear', only seventeen seconds had passed.
"Our trademarks, Willow," Nemo said absently, kneeling over Scarred Lady. "Speed; aggression; surprise. Hit 'em while they're off-balance and don't let 'em recover. Do you remember me now, Amethyst?"
Indeed, Scarred Lady's eyes were focused on his face, and despite the way asphyxia was darkening her face, she did recognise him.
"I always knew I'd catch up with you sooner or later. Tell the doorman in Hell who sent you; you'll get the group-rate discount," he smiled, in a tone of mocking good cheer. Seeing Willow staring at him, he shifted a little to clear her line of sight and pulled down 'Amethyst's' left collar, revealing that now-familiar tattoo. Her eyes widened, and she looked at all of her companions again, trying to figure out what the hell all this was. Glancing over at Xander, Nemo double-took at seeing the rise and fall of Diamond's chest, then did a perfect - eerily perfect - David Letterman imitation. "Hey, Snoopy: what about that guy?"
Xander glanced over at him, shrugged, removed his foot from the man's neck, and considered his prisoner for a moment. Killing a man in the heat of battle was one thing, but killing an unarmed, unconscious prisoner... then he remembered exactly why Diamond (AKA David Fletcher) had been cashiered from the US Navy. No further thought was necessary; he drove his toe into Diamond's temple, crushing in his skull with a steel toecap. That done, he looked back at Nemo and shrugged again, his expression mock-baffled. "What about that guy?"
"Fair enough," Orion said, in a Cockney drawl(!). "But tempus fugit, an' all."
"Granted," Shooter nodded, looking at Willow. The redhead's appalled look was turned on Xander now, not quite believing that she'd just seen her best friend - loveable, dopey, goofball, wouldn't-hurt-a-fly Zeppo Xander - casually murder a helpless prisoner in cold blood. "Willow, if you have any questions, they'd better wait; we have to be not here, and soon."
"Wuh... wuh... wuh....?" she squeaked, meaning 'what's going on?'
Orion said something in Russian and tucked his acquired guns into his waistband; Nemo looked up at him sharply and questioned him in the same language, even as Shooter moved to take the older man's place. Orion answered briefly and crossed to stand before Willow, smiling gently. "Willow, right? Can I 'ave a look at your 'and?"
Blinking at him, she extended the bruised appendage without thinking. He cradled her hand in one of his sandpaper-rough, heavily callused mitts - then brought the other up and stuck a little dart through her blouse into the inside of her forearm. "Ow!" she gasped, more in surprise at the jab than real pain.
Orion removed the dart and lowered her hand again. "I'm sorry to 'ave to do vat, Willow -"
- Willow suddenly realised that the world was going all fuzzy and muted and soft around the edges -
"- but we 'ave a clock to beat, and I'm afraid we don't 'ave time for you to get over your 'isterics," he shrugged apologetically.
Willow's knees suddenly went on strike, and she sagged forward into Orion's waiting arms. Her last, hazy impression of the night was looking over Orion's shoulder into Nemo's face and seeing his compassionate expression...
... and his eyes reflecting green, like a wolf's. Just like Buffy had described.
Oh, God....
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
00:44, FRIDAY AUGUST 27, LIMA (08:44/27-08-99 ZULU)
TRAVIS/KERENSKY RESIDENCE, SUNNYDALE ARMS APARTMENT COMPLEX
Garnet eased the door open, tucking his lock-picking gun away. As the former KGB burglar saw into the apartment's interior, he let the muzzle of his suppressed P230 lead the way inside.
The place was eeriely empty. The furniture was comfortable, but generic. No pictures on the walls. No personal momentoes on the shelves or tables. Nothing that could have given anyone a clue about the people who lived here. Almost exactly like the place I live in when I'm not on an assignment, he noted with a grunt of amusement. Either 'Shooter' and 'Nemo' were completely without personality, or they kept all of their personal stuff at their quarters at Fort Quick (a momentary pang of regret that he wouldn't be able to sanitise those, as well), or they deliberately didn't want to give anyone anything to work with.
I somehow doubt the latter, he thought, tucking the SIG away again. He contained a sigh of annoyance at having to do this, but Onyx's orders had been explicit: there had to be nothing left in the couple's apartment that could connect them to Rosenberg and Harris. Of course, they might have been something in their VOQ, but Onyx had also explicitly forbidden him to try for those; too risky. Damned idiot! I used to break into far more secure facilities to secure - or plant - evidence against enemies of the people....
He ducked down the hallway and entered the main bedroom. There were a few books in Russian on the shelf (mainly Tom Clancy, which rated another grunt), but barring the PC, there was nothing of interest in sight. Leaving the computer for Topaz - whenever she showed up - he pulled open the drawer on the bedside cabinet.
There was a faint 'klik', and his eyes widened as he saw into the drawer. On the left side was a small note, written in a small, neat hand. On the right was an electrical circuit that opening the drawer had completed, connected to an LED timer and a large block of what looked like grey putty.
The note read: {Welcome to the last five seconds of your life. Four....}
The LED read: {0:03}
{0:02}
Garnet's shoulders slumped. "[Aw, fuck me....]"
{0:01}
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
It is police policy to put officers involved in a shooting on two weeks' paid absence, to allow them to get over the psychological and emotional after-effects. Thus, instead of being out on duty with her partner, Janelle LaFollet was comfortably wedged into one corner of her couch, turning McKellar's remarks over in her head and making notes on a legal pad as she reconsidered what she knew about her colleagues in light of those comments. Well, well, well: it looks like old 'Frank N' heads the list of suspect individuals. He's what, a Detective-Two, pulls down a little over thirty-two five a year - and he's already paid off his house and drives a '99 Lexus? God, it's amazing how obvious it all is once you actually start l-
WHOOOMMMM!!!
The world outside LaFollet's window went bright yellow for an instant; the concussion rocked the whole building, shaking it as a terrier shakes a rat. Pictures and knick-knacks went everywhere, and even as LaFollet's head snapped up, the sky outside was dimming and filled with fluttering scraps of debris - coming from this building! Jesus Christ! She snatched for her phone and her (thankfully returned) USP in the same motion, hitting the speed-dial even as she unsafed the nine-millimetre.
{"911 emergency."}
"This is Detective LaFollet at the Sunnydale Arms; there's been an explosion in one of the other apartments. Send fire-crews and ambulances immediately!" She hung up that fast, wincing as her shoulder panged her, and lunged for the door, oblivious to the fact that she was clad in sweats and slippers.
Out in the hall, several people were at their doors, looking towards the noise. "Everybody back inside!" LaFollet barked; they took one look at the gun in her hand and obeyed super-quick. She came around a corner and saw at the door to apartment nine was now mostly splinters embedded in the opposite wall; smoke wafted from inside the door, but she could hear nothing from inside. No crackle of flames; no moans of pain; nothing. I remember meeting the couple who live here; God, I hope they're okay....
Her USP was the first thing to swing around the door-frame, and her head was just behind it. The entire apartment had been gutted, all the non-load-bearing internal walls smashed to flinders, everything in sight pulverised and/or charred beyond recognition - but apart from a few votive flames dancing on the kindling and matchsticks that were the few remnants of the dining suite, there was absolutely no sign of residual fire. What the hell? A gas explosion should've caused more structural damage than this, and the whole place'd be burning....
She eased into the room, watching her step on the rubble, her eyes and pistol tracking back and forth cautiously. Theoretically, she was looking for survivors, but this was already a 'suspicious' explosion in her mind, and that meant being ready for anything.
LaFollet stopped in her tracks at the entrance to the bedroom, staring, ashen and appalled, at the ghastly sight of the half-charred mass of pulp splattered against one wall in a vaguely humanoid shape. Whoever the poor bastard was, he must've been standing almost on top of the blast; if and when they redecorated this place, it'd be a choice between scraping him off with a spatula or simply painting over the top of him.
Something bright and metallic was embedded in the wall next to what might have been a hand. LaFollet narrowed her focus to that, trying to block out the gruesome scene for a moment longer.... That's a gun. A silenced gun! she noted, then turned and made for the front door at her best speed.
Forensics would have kittens if she puked inside their crime-scene.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
02:03, AUGUST 27, LIMA (10:03/27-08-99 ZULU)
SUNNYDALE HOSPITAL
'Doctor Rashid Hamshari' glanced either way before he slipped into the room. Only the nurses were about at this hour, and they wouldn't be back this way for twenty minutes, but this was not the time to get sloppy. Securing the door behind him, he turned to look at the patient again, contemplating her face.
'Faith' - no-one knew her real name, either here or among his employers - lay still in the bed, the expression on her pallid face almost... serene. All of her once-visible injuries had healed, and she was breathing on her own, but that and the beeping EKG were the only signs that she was still alive. If you could call this 'life'.
I'm doing her a favour, really, 'Hamshari' decided, taking a syringe from his pocket -
B-THRAK!
Lightning exploded along his every nerve. A moment later, he found himself sprawled on the floor face-down, his mind a red haze, fiery agony radiating from a spot under his right ear and his whole body aching, every muscle about as powerful as jelly. Hands like steel grapnels seized his wrists and dragged them into the small of his back, where they were pinned by a knee; his attacker then clamped one hand over his mouth and leaned down over him. "Hello, Peridot," an educated voice - a familiar voice! - breathed in his ear.
What the fuck? the Shrike wondered in sudden fear. I'm following my orders - what's -
"A syringe full of air, hmm?" his assailant mused, considering the item curiously. "The same way you did for Agate three nights ago: inject an air-bubble into the patient's IV line and give them an embolism - and by putting it through the IV, you even make it look like medical incompetence, not murder. A classic assassination technique."
Peridot tried to gather himself to buck his attacker off, but the other felt the slight tenseness as his muscles started to consider returning to their owner's control, shifted off him, and nailed him with the tazer again. This time, the fifty-thousand-volt current was applied at the juncture of spine and shoulders, and the contact held until the Iranian's nervous system was as effective as so many strands of overcooked spaghetti.
"Oh, no, you don't," his captor purred. "This is where you leave us, Peridot."
Rolling 'Hamshari' over and keeping their hand over his mouth, his assailant retrieved the needle, raised it like a dagger, drove it down into the would-be assassin's carotid artery -
No, please! Peridot's eyes begged wildly. Helplessly. Wait! Please, O-
- and pressed the plunger all the way down.
A few seconds later, as the embolism took hold of Peridot's brain and he began to convulse, his killer got up off the thrashing body, stepped away as if the dying man was of no more importance - which was true, really - and crossed to Faith's bedside. The flashing EKG display reflected off silver-rimmed glasses as one hand came up to oh-so-very-gently caress a lock of hair back from that pale, lovely face. I'm so, so sorry I couldn't help you earlier, Faith. Despite my appointed 'role', I should have been there for you, and I couldn't be. I wasn't. And I can never, ever make that up to you.
But I can bloody well try.
We'll start by getting you and Rupert out of the way of these murdering bastards and somewhere safe. With that accomplished, I can see about setting your condition to rights, and then? Then... then we can each take it a day at a time.
"You'll be all right," the double-agent known as 'Colt' breathed, leaning down to press an ever-so-gentle kiss to the girl's brow. "I believe in you."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
06:43, FRIDAY AUGUST 27, LIMA (14:43/27-08-99 ZULU)
SUMMERS RESIDENCE
"Whaizzit?" Buffy slurred into her pillow. Lemme 'lone, I only got to bed at two....
Joyce shook her daughter again, more firmly this time. "Buffy, wake up! The hospital just called."
Hospital? she puzzled - then was suddenly wide awake. "What is it? Is it Giles?"
"They called us because we're his registered contact -"
"What's the problem?" the Slayer demanded, lunging into a seated position. "I thought he was going to get all better! What's wrong?"
"Buffy, Faith's disappeared. They went to check on her about four hours ago, and she was gone... and there was a doctor lying on the floor, dead."
Yeah, that sounds like Faith's style, all right. She wakes up, and the first thing she does is kill someone. "Oh, great. Why can things never be simple in my life!" she moaned. "Does Giles know? They were supposed to tell him about any changes in her condition, weren't they?"
Joyce took a deep breath. "He's missing too, Buffy. Everything was unhooked neatly, there aren't any signs of violence; the two of them just weren't there when the rounds went through at two-thirty."
Oh, God! Buffy brushed past her mother without a further word, taking the stairs four at a time on her way to the 'phone.
Her first call was to Willow's place, but she got only the answering machine; swearing fluently under her breath (and getting more anxious by the minute), she left an URGENT!!! message for the redhead and dialled again. Maybe she's still with Xander. Maybe they just went home with those two in the Jaguar to watch movies and fell asleep on the couch or something....
{"We're sorry, the number you have dialled is no longer in service -"}
"WHAT?" she shrieked. You have GOT to be kidding! Xander only bought that cellphone a couple of weeks ago, right? Right!? This time swearing out loud - If Mom wants to wash my mouth out, she can do it later! - the Slayer re-dialled the number carefully, and got the same robotic message. Now bordering on a full-fledged wig-out, she punched in another number.
{"Hello?"} asked a muzzy voice.
I guess Cerian isn't a morning person, either. "It's Buffy, Cerian. Can you get over here, like, ten minutes ago? Things have gone insane."
{"That bad, huh? I'll be there in twenty minutes."}
Buffy hung up on her with a curt thank-you, then stood there for a long moment, considering the 'phone - and her options. Do I make that call? I mean, right now I hate the son of a bitch, don't I?
But everybody else is unaccounted-for, and reluctant help is still better than no help.... Buffy sighed and dialled one last number.
{"You've reached the Osbournes!"} Oz's dad chirped. {"What's your pleasure?"}
"Um, yeah, could I speak to Oz, please? Tell him it's Buffy."
{"Uhhh... okay, I guess."} After a few moments' wait, the receiver was picked up again. {"Buffy?"}
"Oz, things have gone to hell. Giles and Faith are missing from the hospital, and I can't find Xander or Willow. I -"
{"I'm there." *klik*}
Buffy looked at the handset and sighed. "Right."
Fifteen minutes later, Oz came through the door without knocking. Though the bruises were now starting to shade towards brown and yellow, he still looked like day-old roadkill and his movements were very careful. He nodded a hello to the Slayer; though his face was its normal impassive mask, his eyes were borderline frantic. "Nice hair. Any news?"
"I only know about as much as I told you -" Buffy broke off as Cerian came in (without any sign of a limp), a steaming paper cup of coffee in one hand. Her hair looked like a tornado zone, her eyes were bleary behind her glasses, and she'd missed a button on her blouse. "Glad to see you dressed up."
"I didn't get much sleep last night, all right?" the Welshwoman said irritably, turning her gaze to - "Oz, isn't it?"
He nodded. "You're from the gallery."
"In a way. I was a Watcher, until the Council and I had a philosophical difference; it's a long story." She drained the cup in one long draught, wincing as the caffeine hit her system.
"Got fired?"
"All right, perhaps not so long after all," the relic-hunter conceded, with a wispy smile at the werewolf. "So, what's the emergency, Buffy?"
"Giles and Faith are missing from the hospital, and they found a doctor dead in Faith's room; Willow's not home, and Xander's cellphone has been disconnected. Now, maybe Faith breaking loose is a coincidence, but I thought that about her and Kakistos and look how that wound up. Plus, Willow found these." Buffy snatched up the stack of printouts the hacker had made the previous day. "Rap sheets on those guys who attacked us at the gallery, plus a couple of others she tracked down. They all have the same tattoo," she added, tapping a close-up photo among all the other shots. "Put that together with the thing at Giles' place, where they were trying to put a bullet in my head... add all that up, I don't know what it means, but we've got some bad-ass perpetrators and they're here to stay."
Cerian went very still at the sight of the tattoo.
"What?" Buffy demanded. "You know something?"
"Nothing I can place," she said, shaking her head. "It'll come back to me, though."
"Yeah, well, in the meantime, Oz, you start coming up with places Willow might hide if she didn't think she could go home and you start checking 'em out. Cerian, you and I are going to the hospital to get more details about these disappearances. I don't know about you guys," she added, in a not-funny drawl, "but I find this lack of Faith disturbing."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
An hour later, the relic-hunter and the Slayer were back at the Summers house, no better informed and Buffy, for one, a great deal more wigged. God, I knew the cops in Sunnydale were worse than useless, but how the hell can a Slayer just get up out of a coma and carry off a two-hundred-pound ex-Watcher without anyone noticing? she snarled inwardly.
"Buffy." Joyce was waiting for them at the door, holding an envelope. "This was with the mail. It's addressed to you."
Accepting the envelope with a frown, Buffy examined it for a moment. It bore her name (typed, no less), but no stamps or post-mark, and something heavy was sliding about within. Wondering at the sudden churning in her gut, she tore open the flap and tipped out the contents.
Two necklaces fell into her palm, along with a slip of paper, and Buffy went cold all over.
"What is it?" Cerian asked, frowning at the necklaces. "Do you recognise those?"
"Yeah," the Slayer said curtly. She hefted the first medallion: a stainless-steel ball-chain, supporting a silver shield; the inset sapphires and inlaid platinum formed a pentagram. "Xander gave this to Willow at the hospital three days ago." The other was simpler, fine silver links bearing a St. Christopher medal. "And as long as I've known him, Xander has never taken this off. Somebody's got them, Cerian." And, oh my stars and garters, they're gonna wish they hadn't by the time I'm done with them, she promised coldly, turning over the note (typed, of course).
It said simply, {Do we have your attention?}
Chapter End Notes:
Frogs are Willow's primary phobia, but Episode 1.11, 'Nightmares', tells us she also has spider issues. Will I be playing to that in any eventual follow-up fics? C'mon, do I look that evil? :-D
Note that all of the methods used to deal with the SHRIKEs and the demons involve minimal noise and mess; this is deliberate. These people know - all too well - that advertising or leaving tracks in this line of work tends to be a non-survival trait.
Tempus fugit - 'time passes'. (Latin)
In point of fact, no-one in the real world actually uses flashing red LED timers on explosive devices, but 'Shooter' and 'Nemo' liked the 'fuck you' factor the note-and-timer thing added; blame them, not me! :-D