AN: A new era dawns! I guess. Sounds more dramatic and important than it really is. Oh well. I own nothing, not even a t-shirt from the Camp Store. I specifically don't own Geoff 'Lazer' Ramsey, Michael Jones, Gavin Free, Ray Narvaez, Jr., or Jack Patillo from Achievement hunter, because that would be slavery. I also don't own their conversation, which you can find in its original and hilarious form in Let's Play Minecraft 8 on YouTube.
Camp Life, Chapter Twenty-Two
Criminal Enterprises/Cause and Effect
The day after the Greek portion of the Greco-Roman Army comes home finds Travis Stoll frowning at the dingy, ivy covered wooden shed that serves as the Camp Store.
It occurs to him that the ole' store could use a makeover. It took being away for a few months for him actually notice. Maybe some paint? That would be nice, right?
Travis briefly considers transferring the armory, installed right next to the cabins, to the Store, and the store contents to the armory building, but then dismisses it. Just because Rust has decided to go AWOL for now doesn't mean he won't be back.
He hears footsteps in the leaves behind him and turns to see his brother.
"Ah, Conner, Conner," He says in a thick British accent. "Grand, just grand, old boy. How'd you sleep, then, you infernal tosser?"
"Och, if it weren't for them mingy little pissing beetles in my blankets, why, just fine, lad. Oh wait, that's Will Solace."
The Stolls roar with laughter at themselves.
Travis wipes a tear from his eye and says, "I was just thinking about how sad our grand business is doing, brother of mine."
"A great enterprise brought low by the fists of little men."
"Indeed, indeed. Something should be done, should it not?"
"Absolutely, good sirrah. Should we paint it?"
Travis waits a beat.
"Should we trick someone else into painting it?"
"Atta boy, Conner. That's the kind of thinking that makes us great."
"No doubt about it, my brother."
"So . . . we're the tricksters, obviously. Who are the trickees?"
"That's the million drachma question, O brother of mine."
Piper McLean taps her foot in annoyance as she surveys the office of one Gardner Peck.
The room, located on the third level of the Big House, is pristine in every way, as might be expected of Gard, but it doesn't look as though he had planned his disappearance. There is a neat stack of papers, which appear to be requisition forms for food from soldiers in Greece and Greenland, on his desk.
Soldiers being them, in other words.
"Well, I have a time frame," she says, poking her head out the door.
In the hallway, Jason Grace and Nyssa glance over from talking to Chiron.
"What do you mean?" her boyfriend asks.
She shows him the paperwork. "This is from like two months ago. So . . . he's been gone that long. Probably."
"Knowing Gardner, I'd be willing to assume that," Nyssa says, taking one of the forms. "Who was in Greenland? Where the hell is Greenland?"
"Northeast of Canada. Rust was there," Jason says, looking at it over her shoulder. "Speaking of missing people . . . "
"Rust and Gardner are not good comparisons of each other. Has Gard ever actually killed a monster?"
"I . . . would assume so?"
Footsteps pound up the stairs urgently. Annabeth Chase and Katie Gardner enter the hallway, looking harried.
"You're looking for Gardner Peck? Who's missing?" Annabeth asks.
"Yeah, we are," says Jason. "You know something?"
"Yeah. Miranda and my brother Malcolm are gone too."
"What?"
"We asked around. So are Lou-Ellen Hannity and Castor, Mr. D's son."
The searchers stare at each other.
"Weird," Piper says finally.
"They were all friends," Nyssa says, frowning vaguely.
Their silence is interrupted by the vibrating of a phone. Nyssa blushes and pulls an iPhone from her overalls pocket.
"It's my brother," she says in surprise when she checks the screen. "Hey, Jake, What's up? Aren't you guys in California already?"
She listens, her expression getting weirder by the second. Then she hands the phone to Jason. "He wants to talk to you . . ."
"Let me get this straight," says Timmy, son of Hebe, eyeing Travis and Conner suspiciously (the only way a smart person ever eyes a Stoll). "You want me and Mac to go paint the Camp Store, right?"
"Right you are, my good man."
'Man' is stretching it a bit here, as both Timmy and Mac are about twelve.
Mac raises a gloved finger. "And you wants us ta paintcher stupid store fer eight percen' of all footure profits."
It would probably serve the reader well for the author to provide a bit of background on these fine young denizens of Camp Half-Blood, particularly Mac, who is a bit of - well, a bit of a mystery.
They arrived at Camp accompanied by a satyr two weeks ago, as normal an entrance to the Immortal world as any. Both hail from New York City; Timmy from Harlem, a poor half-white, half-Cuban kid with big dreams, as should befit a son of Hebe. Mac is from no particular section of the city but spent most of his time in Brooklyn, as should befit a quasi-homeless, transient preteen. A rare male offspring of the goddess of magic, Hecate, Mac still dresses like he sleeps in a cardboard box behind the British Embassy in Manhattan (where he spent most of his childhood and learned most of his London-inspired slang) in East Coast winter – grayish coats, rags, scarves, and a hat basically obscures every inch of his body except a strip of eyes and nose in the middle of his face. His peers have taken to affectionately calling him Pigpen behind his back; though he isn't technically very dirty nor does he smell any worse than your average teenage boy. He speaks in an earthy dialect of New Yorker that effectively conveys information and confuses and enthralls his listeners all at once. Further, his grasp of macro and micro financial matters is second to none.
All in all he is a positively Dickensian character, had Dickens lived in New York and listened to a lot of hip-hop. He and Timmy had taken to each other instantly, no doubt due in part to their common heritage.
Travis and Conner eye the ragamuffin with slight unease. They don't like unknown variables, and Mac's picture is in the dictionary under 'unknown variable'.
"Yes, quite."
"But see here," Mac says coolly. "That don't fly wit us, Misters."
"Er. And why not?"
Mac and Timmy cast contemptuous looks at the Camp Store.
"Twenny percen'."
"Ten."
"Eighteen," Timmy says quickly.
"Twelve!"
"Fifteen," says Mac, "and you gets us 'n there."
He accompanies this reverent tone of voice, usually reserved by boys his age for describing encounters with great feats of physical prowess, amounts of money larger than twenty dollars, and really cool gadgets, with a finger pointing at the Camp Armory.
Travis and Conner withdraw for a quick conference.
"Shit."
"We can't do that! Just tell them it's dangerous."
"Like that will stop them."
"Well, Rust isn't here."
"So?"
"So, we could, you know . . . "
"No way!"
"Why not? We'll just make them promise not to tell anyone we let them in, if they get caught. They'll agree to that."
"What if Rust left booby traps, moron? Did you think of that? We could die! No joke! And what if – listen, what if little bro Jesse or Amanda catch us? They worship that crazy motherfucker."
"What are the chances of that happening?"
"Okay, fair point. But still – hey!"
Mac and Timmy are walking back towards the cabins.
"Deal or no deal?" asks the son of Hebe.
Travis and Conner glance at each other, both feeling as if they've somehow been outmaneuvered. "Deal . . ."
"Great. You guys buy the paint. See ya."
"What?!"
Atash strolls through the streets of Dublin, taking deep breaths.
Not because the air is particularly pleasant, though he has to admit Dublin is much nicer than some cities he's been to, but because his father is driving him up the wall.
Atash may have been born in the Balkh province of Afghanistan, but he had left his homeland at ten for Kiev, for a few years, then Stockholm, then Vancouver. As such, he is rather westernized, as befitting a child of one of the forerunners of Western civilization. His accent is also almost nonexistent; he speaks English perfectly, Swedish fluently and Arabic well. All of which is why he knows English phrases like 'up the wall'.
Krios, Lord of the South, is currently appearing as a clean-shaven, slightly afro-ed dark-skinned male of about two meters height, wearing a tan trench coat over a casual shirt and tie. He looks hunched and nervous.
Those readers who are at all familiar with Immortals will recognize that it is rather unusual for the term 'nervous' to be a good description thereof. It takes a stupendously unusual event or paradigm shift to bring anxiety to the emotional pallet of a Titan.
In this case, Krios, brother of Kronos, is nervous because they have decided he needs to try something new. Something challenging and rewarding but not particularly stressful.
"Alright, give it a try," Atash instructs.
Krios takes a few more steps down the street, fidgeting.
"Pickpocketing," he says nervously. "Okay. I'll do it. Just like in the movies."
"Right. Ready . . . "
The Titan abruptly reaches out and grabs a shifty-looking businessman, who's talking on a Blackberry, by the throat, lifting him up off the ground.
"Ah, shit," Atash says.
Krios jets flames everywhere, growing to ten feet tall and shaking the hapless Irishman around. He rips the guy's pants down and fishes the wallet from it.
"Got it!" he says triumphantly as the street clears of bystanders instantly.
"What movies have you been watching?" Atash asks.
That night, Travis and Conner slip onto the roof of the Camp armory, wearing black everything. The twins slide cat-like along the wooden planks until they come across a dusty skylight. They peer inside.
It's dark, but by the light of the moon they can make out the front counter and a barrel of pole arms.
"Looks deserted to me," Travis volunteers.
Conner sighs. "Yeah, looks."
"I think that's the best we're going to get, handsome twin brother of mine."
"Probably. Let's go get the munchkins."
They shimmy back down the drainpipe to where Timmy and Mac are sitting unobtrusively in the dark.
"Follow us," Connor whispers. He leads them to the back door, which he unlocks with the key he stole from the Big House about three years ago.
The Armory doesn't seem to have had a visitor in a while; it welcomes them with a puff of dust. They enter slowly; nothing explodes or decapitates them suddenly. Travis takes this as an encouraging sign and straightens from his ninja crouch-walk. He finds a light switch and flips it.
It takes them a second, but dim, naked light bulbs click on, illuminating the workshop in back of the armory with soft yellow light.
"Cor," says Mac, staring at a half-disassembled M1 Garand World War II - era rifle on the workbench. He reaches out and tentatively picks up a bayonet. "'is real?"
"Of course," says Travis witheringly. Normally he's nicer to noobs, but this whole midnight-sneaking-into their-worst-frenemies-domain thing has really soured his attitude toward the younger demigods.
Mac replaces the bayonet and grabs a coiled whip from a hook on the wall.
"This'n's magic," he says with certainty.
Connor blinks at him. "You sure?"
"Course I be. 'M only the son of Hecate, now ain't I?"
"If you say so."
Timmy slips into the main floor of the building, where weapons of all shapes and sizes are sitting in crates and barrels, or stored on shelves. He glances at a shotgun with wood trim and silver engravings with interest, but decides that in the end it's still not very civilized. He wants a gentleman's weapon.
He plays with a concealed sword-cane for a while, but decides against it. Too pretentious. There's a particularly beautiful samurai sword in one of the barrels, with a painted scabbard and gold trim on the guard, but it's also very heavy and awkward. Built for a grown man.
After a few more minutes of perusing, he comes across a saber in a crate in the corner. The weapon is clearly old, but its age doesn't seem to have left any detrimental effect on it. He gives it a few experimental swishes, then finds a suitable sword belt behind the counter and buckles it on.
"Nice," he says, glancing in the mirror appreciatively.
In the back, Mac is pointing out every magical item to an awestruck Connor and Travis, who are patting him on the back and surreptitiously pocketing any that will fit under their burglar outfits.
"Dude, you gonna grab something?" Timmy asks pointedly.
"Got something'," Mac says, proudly producing a World War II – era German officer's Luger from under his rags. This particular pistol has been custom modified with a celestial bronze bayonet, presumably by this Rust guy everyone always talks about in hushed tones.
"Sweet," Timmy says admiringly. "We should get outta here though."
Mac nods in agreement. He wraps his scarf tighter around his lower face and then shuffles toward the door.
Travis and Conner put their business faces back on, count their pockets and remember to lock the door on their way out.
At six-thirty in the morning, local time, in the city of Sofia, Bulgaria, Steven Rust's phone buzzes on the table of the coffee shop he and Drew Tanaka are sitting at. He picks it up and accesses its email, sipping his blueberry tea. The inbox shows a video file taken by his security camera in the Armory a few minutes ago.
"Huh," he says.
Drew raises an eyebrow inquisitively. He hands the phone to her. She examines the silent video for a second, then smirks and resends the email, this time with the name 'Katie Gardner' in the box marked CC.
Rust snickers when he sees what she's done. As he sets the phone back down he notices their cell phone activity has attracted a monster; one of the Bulgarian barristas only has one eye. Several of the patrons in line scream as the Cyclops produces a large club from behind the counter.
Rust casually lifts a blowpipe to his lips and fires a dart into the monsters forehead, secreting celestial bronze dust into the monster's bloodstream. It dissolves. Drew doesn't look up from her book.
The café crowd applauds. Steven takes a bow, then finishes his tea and looks over at Drew. "Where to today, my dear?"
The early morning Manhattan air is disturbed by helicopter blades.
The chopper is not the Black Hawk or Chinook models Ethan and Micheal are used to; this one has traded its chainguns and rappelling cranes for leather-upholstered seats and a mini-fridge.
The executive helicopter lands smoothly atop a hospital on East 71st Street, disgorging its passengers. The two Echelon agents walk to the elevator and descend four floors, then step out, not into a surgery or a waiting room, but a bustling office floor with cubicles and men and women from fifteen years of age to sixty, all dressed in black and white suits, shouting, weaving around, and leaning over the sides of their offices.
For this is not a hospital. This is the headquarters of the international, Immortally ordained covert organization known as Echelon.
Micheal and Ethan struggle through the crowd to the other end of the office, where a particularly large partition holds several workspaces.
They've been out in the field so long that they almost don't remember their officemates. The five computer nerds – Geoff, Gavin, Ray, Michael, and Jack – all look up in surprise as Micheal and Ethan stand awkwardly in the entrance to the cubicle. After handshakes and greetings the two demigods (the others are mortals) sit at their long-abandoned, dusty desks and flick on their computers.
"Dude," says Michael (Jones, not Yew), "Ray thought Hitmonchan was a girl."
"Shut up! Geoff, your opinion – "
"No."
"Geoff was not a fan of this conversation earlier," Michaels says, snickering. Geoff is the 'leader' of this particular group, with at least ten years of age on the rest of them.
"Yeah, but, I mean, you gotta share with the people . . ."
"I don't, I don't –" says Geoff, trying to do something on his computer and talk at the same time, to the amusement of the others.
"I thought it was a female boxer! I thought it was a chick with a dress . . . Hitmonlee, total dude though."
Silence. Ethan can see the others forcing their mouths shut to keep the laughter from spilling out as Ray continues, "How does he speak though, he has no mouth."
Micheal Yew shakes his head, clicking on his email.
"Geoff, your thoughts – "
"Was it voiced by Jackie Chan?" Gavin, the Englishman, breaks in.
"I don't think it was . . ." says Michael, "I do not think it was . . . "
"Or," Gavin says, "Was Hitmonlee voiced by Bruce Lee?"
"I'm pretty sure Jackie Chan voiced Jackie Chan in the Jackie Chan Adventures though." Ray says.
"He did not," mutters Michael.
"They brought back Bruce Lee for –" Gavin begins.
"Shut up. They brought him back? From the dead?"
"They holographically projected his voice," Gavin says solemnly.
"Like Tupac?"
"Can you holographically shut the fuck up?" Geoff says without looking from his computer screen.
Ethan is distracted from the laughter by a shadow looming over them. A poison green, reptilian gorgon gives him a pat on the back and says, "The boss wants to see you, dears. Welcome back."
"Thanks, Phyllis," Ethan says wearily. He'd known they'd have to talk to him soon, but he wished it didn't have to be eight o'clock in the morning. It's best to face the commander of Echelon with a sharp mind.
He and Micheal slip out and walk along the corridor and up several flights of stairs until they come to a large glass-walled office. Inside, seated at a massive antique wooden desk, is an elderly man in a navy suit.
Sir Francis Walsingham watches Micheal and Ethan sit down in front of him. The tall windows puts the sun right in their eyes; a childish trick, but one that never fails to amuse him a bit.
"Allow me to preface this conversation," the commander of Echelon says in a thin, reedy, but still deep voice, "by saying: your work overseas was nothing short of exemplary. Well done, lads."
Ethan and Micheal nod nervously. You don't interrupt this man or speak out of turn.
Walsingham tosses the sheaf of papers he'd been reading on the desk and rests his cheek on his fist, scrutinizing them. "Just to make sure I have this straight: one prisoner captured, some intel on the remainder of that organization, and our security leak closed. That's all good, boys, all right and proper. Unfortunately, one of our agents is missing in action and presumed AWOL, which is very bad seeing as how she knew/knows a hell of a lot of sensitive information."
Ethan and Michael look at each other.
"Er, well, sir," Ethan begins, frowning, "first of all, we never found out how they knew so much about us. Lester continues to maintain that Ana knew the identities of several high ranking field agents, including Steven Rust and Gardner Peck, and from the interviews we skimmed on our way here, Percy Jackson, Jason Grace, and others with the greatest exposure to Ana Massri and the other leaders seem to corroborate this. But Adalina always told Michael she never found out how Ana knew these things."
Walsingham doesn't react.
"As for Adalina, sir," Michael says, "Her recruitment was tricky to begin with. She was almost killed by members of Camp Half-Blood when an Echelon agent stepped in and rescued her and sent her to us. I mean – I'm sorry, sir, but this was before my time, and large parts of the files are classified above my security clearance, including the name of the agent who rescued her and where she was sent after that, so my grasp of this subject isn't the best. But it seems like our – our hold on her was tenuous to begin with, asking her to literally spy on her family for us. I think once the job was done, she was done with us."
Walsingham seems to take this in, staring at the ceiling for a moment.
Then he speaks. "So it seems as though we still have a few problems. Specifically, a leak in our security that hasn't been fixed, and a potential leak that also needs to be fixed."
Ethan and Michael exchange troubled glances.
Walsingham leans back in his chair. "Well, lads, it looks to me like you are going to be very busy in the next few weeks. If you take my meaning."
Micheal and Ethan take this as the dismissal it is.
Percy wakes up at 6:35 in the morning to the sounds of screaming.
At first he's a bit disoriented; he's used to the screaming occurring a few hours earlier in the morning, because monsters are soulless jerks who delight in not only consuming demigods but waking them up in the middle of the night too.
He grabs a pair of pajama pants and Riptide and trots out of the Poseidon Cabin, shielding his eyes from the first golden rays of sunshine lighting the valley. The commotion is coming from nearby.
He sees Clarisse, wearing a blood-red kimono and carrying a club, walking back to her cabin and yawning. He raises his eyebrows.
"Katie Gardner," she grumbles by way of explanation.
Percy sighs and offers a prayer to his father for just a little bit of patience. He continues on his way as Clarrisse mutters, "Fucking punks . . ." under her breath and goes back to bed.
Percy kicks in the door of the Hermes Cabin and crosses his arms pointedly.
Katie, daughter of Demeter, is standing in the middle of the messy cabin. Its normal occupants are lined up against one set of bunks, standing at rigid attention, still wearing their pajamas. Travis and Connor are on their knees before Katie, clearly begging.
"What in the name of Uranus's left testical is all this noise about?"
(A note: this is a popular colloquialism among demigods of a certain, shall we say, emotional development stage (immaturity) because of the irony involved but mostly the male genitalia. It would be ill-advised to use it in polite company)
Everyone looks at Percy.
Katie waves what appears to be her iPhone around triumphantly. She crosses the room, still not answering the Son of Poseidon's question, and instead shows him a grainy black and white video in her email inbox.
Percy waits for the video to end, then looks at Travis and Connor. "You both – and I'm guessing two other people in this room - are going to be in trouble. In about – " he checks his watch – "four hours. Now go back to bed."
He wanders out, scratching his SPQR tattoo absentmindedly.
The Hermes cabin is silent for a moment, then Katie glares at her boyfriend one last time and stalks out after the Hero of Olympus.
"Tuesdays suck," mutters Jesse gloomily.
At ten o'clock Percy is still downing coffee in the pavilion when Annabeth sits down next to him, looking annoyed.
"'S'wrong?" he asks. The coffee hasn't quite achieved its intended affect.
"Chiron is acting weird," she says, stealing his mug for a quick gulp. They both prefer their caffeine as black as night.
"He's totally unconcerned that his campers are taking unsanctioned trips to California for no apparent reason. Or that the Armory is being broken into in the night."
"Heard about that, did you?"
"I met Clarisse in the Big House. Katie is on the warpath. Why doesn't she just break up with Travis?"
"'Cause she loves him."
Annabeth rests her head on Percy's shoulder in answer.
"Also," Percy theorizes, "I have a feeling that Chiron would rather have the Armory burglarized then have Rust back in charge of it. Maybe he's hoping that Travis and Connor will take over management of it."
"If that's his plan, I'm going to lock him in the attic with the mummy and take over this place."
Percy chuckles and sips his coffee.
A few minutes later Katie marches four young men before the son of Poseidon and the daughter of Athena. Travis and Connor look miserably resigned to their fates; Timothy and Mac have assumed politely curious expressions.
First Percy and Annabeth have to be introduced to the son of Hebe and the son of Hecate; the introductions aren't mutual because both Timmy and Mac know exactly who they are being addressed by.
Katie then gives Percy a summary of last night's events – a plot to save time and effort laboring warped into a midnight raid on the domain of Steven Rust. Percy had worked out the gist of it for himself but lets her educate them. Then he finishes his coffee and looks pointedly at Travis and Connor.
"Really, guys?"
The Stolls squirm.
"It got a little out of hand," Connor admits.
"But we really didn't want to paint it ourselves," groans Travis. "I mean, Percy, man! Think about it – would you rather paint a goddamn building, or would you rather do some middle-of-the-night, cloak-and-dagger, potential death at every corner – isn't that way more exciting?"
Percy considers this, then looks at Annabeth. "Hey, Wise Girl, wanna paint a building with me?"
"Sure, Seaweed Brain."
Percy turns back to the Stolls and says, "Yeah, I'd take the painting, dude."
Travis makes several calculations at lightning speed. "Hey Katie – "
"You'll be lucky if I come and watch, buster."
Annabeth hides her laughter behind Percy's shoulder.
"As for you two," Percy says, addressing Timmy and Mac, who have been observing these proceedings with guarded looks, "I totally get wanting to have your own personal weapon, and we're not going to take them away. But next time – just ask."
Timmy and Mac blink. Clearly this concept had not occurred to them.
"So you'll have to help Travis and Connor paint the store, which I think you were going to do anyway."
They nod hesitantly.
"Alright, that's that, then," Percy says, standing and stretching. He captures Annabeth's hand in his and strolls off, calling over his shoulder, "Get to class, all of you!"
They head for the Big House.
"So I'm pretty much in charge of the camp now, right?" Percy says brightly.
"So it would seem," Annabeth looks amused.
"It's a good feeling," Percy says, satisfied.
Annabeth rolls her eyes, laughing.
Atash sits on the doorstep of an apartment building built of red brick and hugs his legs despondently.
It's been a long day.
It would have been much longer if his father hadn't used the Mist to cloud the minds of the mortal police who inevitably came to arrest them multiple times that day.
"I don't think stealth is really my thing," Krios says thoughtfully.
"I agree," says Atash with a sigh. "Well . . . it's no big deal. We can find something else."
"I want to try being a gangster. I hear that's really popular these days."
"Er . . . I thought this was supposed to be relaxing?"
"Is being a gangster not relaxing?"
"Not according to any of the rap music I've ever listened to. Or Goodfellas."
"Oh. Yeah, I don't want to actually do any work."
Atash smiles. "Well, we'll figure something out in the morning. Can we get something to eat?"
"Haggis!" They shout in unison, and sprint down the street.
The lights on this floor of Echelon HQ are half–on. The cubicles are deserted; the computer screens display generic screensavers. Micheal Yew and Ethan Nakamura sit amid their still sort of dusty desks. They long ago ceased to do actual work and are staring at the ceiling, each deep in thought.
Finally Micheal says, "I really don't want to go kill Adalina."
Ethan says nothing.
"Or Ana either."
Silence.
"And I'm pretty sure you don't either."
Ethan ignores him.
"You can go all I-used-to-be-a-badass-villain-and-I-don't-give-a-s hit all you want, man. We both know this is garbage."
Ethan grits his teeth. "I'm fully aware of this. I was thinking of ways around it."
Micheal sits up. "Yeah? Like what?"
"I have a few ideas. I'll tell you later – I have to flesh them out a bit."
Ethan pauses.
"Why do you think the Director is so fired up about this whole thing?"
Micheal blinks. "What? Well, I mean. Ady and Ana both know a lot about us. Like our identities and things. Where HQ is . . . "
Ethan considers this for a long moment.
"No," he says finally.
"No what?"
"That doesn't fit. I don't know – maybe I'm overanalyzing this, but . . ."
Ethan suddenly looks a bit shifty. "This doesn't make a lot of sense. Why would the Director seem so worried about two huge potential problems, then only assign two agents to deal with it?"
"I don't know."
Ethan shakes his head. "Something's going on here, and I think we need to find out what before we go after Ady and Ana in any way. Otherwise we could get in real trouble. Like –" He draws a finger across his throat "– trouble."
Micheal nods soberly.
High above them, The Director of Echelon looks out his window down at the busy New York street, then turns to the manila folder sitting on his desk. The folder is open; the first page of white printer paper is emblazoned with a blood red spear set diagonally over a shield.
The old man's face tightens and he closes the folder roughly, then turns back to the window.
Time is running out. Nakamura and Yew are too good not to have at least a chance at getting rid of Massri and Castillo before they pop up again – in the worst case scenario, either here or in Tombstone. Probably Tombstone – Massri never saw his face and wouldn't recognize his voice if she heard it again, but she probably has interrogated Castillo by now. And if so, she knows about the Descendants.
Those boys will get them, he thinks comfortingly to himself. It will all turn out good for him. It usually does.
Walsingham tiredly replaces the folder in his safe, then turns out the lights and heads home. Despite his reassurances to himself, he needs a stiff drink.
Percy stands next to Jesse and Amanda as they observe the final coats of white paint being applied to the Camp Store.
"It was starting to look a bit dodgy," the son of Hermes offers.
Percy grins. "It doesn't just look dodgy, bro. It is dodgy."
They laugh. Katie tells Travis he missed a spot. Timmy and Mac harangue him good-naturedly; they seem to enjoy watching the older boy being bossed around by his scary girlfriend.
"Heard from Steven recently?" Percy asks casually.
Amanda sighs. "Not since the last time you asked, Perce."
Percy sighs. "Alright, alright. I just wish they would get back already. I keep checking the news to make sure a tall blonde guy hasn't started World War III yet."
Jesse grins. "To be fair, he'd have the courtesy to call first."
"So what's going on with Rome then?" Amanda asks. "Heard there was a bit of a . . . hubbub."
Percy groans. "You could say that. Apparently – according to Jake Mason – when they got back to Camp Jupiter they found Lou-Ellen sitting on the Praetor's throne – my throne – and holding a note from Ares that said she was Praetor, and that was that. Reyna is beyond pissed."
"She had a note, and they made her the leader?"
Percy shakes his head. "You don't get it – you weren't there long enough. Mars is their most important god, by far. He could tell them to go jump off a bridge and they'd probably fucking build their own. His word is law. Which is why Reyna is so angry."
"'Cause she has to live with it."
"Exactly."
"That bites, dude," Amanda says. "Good thing everyone knows you're our leader, Perce."
"Not if Ares had is way."
They all laugh as the painting is finished and the sun goes down.
In her cabin, Clarisse reads an old book - a family heirloom - by lamplight, ignoring her brothers and Dani playing Call of Duty loudly in the other room, completely unaware that the contents of her book, an old memoir written by one of her ancestors, is going to be coming to life very, very soon.
AN: Hey everybody. Thanks for reading! :)