Cracks in Reality (Seams in Reality Book 2) (19 page)

Blake checked his watch. "Nine o'clock on the dot."

He and Phillip went to the glass front door of the department store. Blake tried the handle, but the door was locked. He knocked loudly.

After a moment, a security guard in a bright blue uniform opened the door.

"We're here for a meeting with Mr. Dean," Blake said. "It's supposed to be on the roof."

"This way, sir," the guard said.

He led Blake and Phillip through the darkened building. Only every fourth light was turned on. The store had furniture, clothing, household goods, and so on. Blake tried to remember the last time he had shopped in a traditional department store and failed.

The guard took Blake and Phillip to a stairwell in the back.

"Go all the way up," the guard said. "The roof is unlocked."

"Thanks." Blake smiled.

He and Phillip climbed up three flights of stairs and emerged onto the roof. After being inside the warm building, the winter breeze felt especially chilly.

Blake waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were no lights at all, and no moon hung in the night sky. It was very quiet.

"Spooky," Phillip said.

Hulking mechanical equipment just looked like abstract black shapes. Blake took Phillip's small hand and walked forward cautiously. Fortunately, the roof was clean and flat.

Blake saw a tiny light behind a ventilation exhaust stack. Somebody was holding a penlight pointed down.

"Gentlemen," Blake said. "It's nice meeting you."

He and Phillip approached a circle of about a dozen men and women, although some were hard to see in the dark. Most were in their twenties or thirties.

"I assume I'm speaking to the White Guerrillas," Blake said.

He heard murmurs of agreement.

"Why did you bring the kid?" Dean said.

He was wearing a black sweat suit, black shoes, black gloves, and a black ski cap. The silly outfit made him look like a cat burglar.

"He has as much at stake as me," Blake said. "His parents were killed by sorcerers after all."

Dean made a sour face. "You promised me intelligence."

Blake leaned forward and lowered his voice. "The government is controlled by sorcerers. That much should be obvious. The White House should be called the Magic House instead. There are satanic rituals practically every night in the Oval Office."

All of the Guerrillas had wide eyes and eager faces.

Blake continued, "Surprisingly, the most powerful sorcerers aren't located anywhere near the White House or Congress. That would be too obvious. They operate out of an agency you've never heard of: the Bureau of Physical Investigation."

"Where is it?" Dean said.

Blake took a map of Washington, DC out of his pocket and spread it out on the roof. There was a big red X marking a spot in the western suburbs.

"The headquarters of the BPI," he said. "Not a soft target, but a very valuable one. It's rotten with sorcery. Blowing it up should be our number one goal."

"What kind of security do they have?" Dean said.

"The best. It's a top secret government facility built for the sole purpose of protecting the most powerful sorcerers in the country. Just getting close will be tough. We can expect to get shot all to hell, but that's not the worst part."

"It gets worse?"

Blake nodded. "The most important parts of the facility are underground, buried in bedrock. You could kill everybody in the building and still miss the most valuable targets."

"You have a plan?" Dean said.

"Indeed. We get a big truck and cover the front with armor. It has to be strong enough to reach the building intact."

"Sounds like a suicide mission."

"Not if the truck is remote controlled." Blake winked. "The back of the truck will be filled with explosives, enough to demolish the building and collapse the tunnels underneath. We simply crash the truck into the target and blow it up." He wiped his hands symbolically. "Problem solved."

"A car bomb?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "How much dynamite are we talking about? Or are you thinking C-4? Either way, it will be very difficult and expensive to acquire that much explosive."

"Not necessarily." Blake took another sheet of paper out and handed it to Dean. "That's the formula for making an explosive which should suit our needs nicely. It's a mix of ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder. Both can be legally acquired in large quantities, and we'll need a lot. I want a big boom."

Dean stared at the paper. "You've thought this through."

"I have plenty of motivation." Blake patted Phillip on the head. "There are some details that still need to be worked out though. We need a safe, discreet place to work. Our biggest difficulty will be not getting caught. Our enemies are watching, and we have to construct a giant bomb right under their noses."

That comment sucked some of the enthusiasm out of his audience.

"Listen," Blake said, "I'm not going to lie. This mission won't be easy or simple, but it's worth the risks. For too long, sorcerers have enslaved the rest of us. Their evil has infected this great country and poisoned its relationship with God. Separation of Church and State? Obviously, that was written by a sorcerer. Gay marriage? Another conspiracy to destroy the natural order. And it's not just the government. The left-wing media is also beholden to the sinister brotherhood. That's why you never see anything about them on the so-called 'legitimate' news. It's a giant cover-up. If something isn't done, it will just get worse and worse. Our children will be rounded up and sacrificed on the Devil's bloody altars. Sorcerers will brainwash the masses with their diabolical trickery. My daughter was too close to the truth, and that's why she was killed. I firmly believe I was put on this Earth to stop the madness. Join me in this noblest of quests."

He stopped to catch his breath. He resisted the urge to give himself a round of applause.

One by one, the White Guerrillas nodded in affirmation.

"I have a barn in the woods," one man said. "We can build the truck there."

"I can get some steel plate," another man said, "and I can weld it."

"And somebody needs to build the remote control," Blake said. "I'll work with Mr. Dean on acquiring the materials for the explosive. I might know some suppliers."

"That will be helpful," Dean said.

Blake smiled.

The group discussed details for a few more minutes and everybody was given an assignment. The meeting eventually broke up. Blake and Phillip lingered behind to have a private conversation with Dean.

When they were alone, Blake said, "You're the money guy here. I assume you'll be paying for the materials."

"That's true, I suppose," Dean replied in a tone of resignation.

"I know a guy who can supply us with ammonium nitrate, and I can probably set up a meeting for tomorrow, but he won't take a check. You'll have to pay in cash."

"How much cash?"

"The stuff is cheap," Blake said. "It's basically fertilizer. Ten grand should cover it. Why don't you stop by the bank tomorrow and make a withdrawal? I'll meet you there."

"What time?"

"Let's say 10 AM."

"Fine," Dean said. "Third National Bank on Quarrier Street."

"Wear casual clothes. Don't attract attention."

"Of course."

Blake and Phillip walked off.

* * *

Blake was sipping a cup of coffee. The morning was cold but sunny, and he was enjoying the fine weather. He had learned long ago to savor the small pleasures life offered. His time on Earth could end at any moment.

Phillip was standing quietly next to Blake. The two of them rarely talked because there wasn't much to say. Their minds traversed duplicate paths, and they could guess what the other was thinking. Blake still appreciated the companionship though. He had lived a very lonely life, and any kind of friend was better than none.

Charleston wasn't much of a city, but it had its charms. He amused himself by watching the people and making up stories about them. He imagined a young woman with red hair was a serial killer who poisoned men who displeased her. A short, bald man in a suit looked like a guy who might defraud rich investors. A homeless man sitting on the sidewalk was a federal agent performing covert surveillance.

Gary Dean came out of a bank with a large steel briefcase in his hand. He was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and both looked a little tight on him. He obviously hadn't worn those clothes in a while.

Blake waved, and Dean came over.

"Do you take your grandson everywhere?" Dean said.

Blake nodded. "I swore on his mother's deathbed I would always care for the child." Blake stroked Phillip's brown hair. "He has nobody else to look after him. You have the money?"

Dean patted the briefcase. "Did you set up the meeting?"

"I did, and I rented a truck to haul the fertilizer. Follow me."

The three of them walked around the block to a parking lot on the other side. A big blue moving van was parked across two spots. Two men in denim jackets were sitting in the cab.

"Who are those guys?" Dean said.

"Labor and personal protection," Blake said.

"Protection? From what?"

"My enemies. We'll ride in a separate car. There isn't room for us in the truck."

Blake went to a green Chevy Malibu and sat in the front seat. It wasn't as nice as the cars he usually drove, but he was trying to keep a very low profile. Dean sat in the passenger seat, and Phillip rode in the back.

Blake turned the ignition key. He had already entered the destination into the navigation system, so he just had to select it. He drove off obeying the directions. The big blue van followed close behind.

"I probably should've asked before," Dean said. "What line of work are you in, Mr. Beltz?"

"Vengeance is my vocation these days," Blake said. "It's a full-time occupation."

"You told me sorcerers killed your daughter. What exactly happened?"

Blake stared straight ahead at the road. "I'd rather not talk about those dark days. The memories are too painful, and my grandson is listening. The boy has been traumatized enough. Let's talk about you instead."

The car arrived at a bridge which crossed a wide river. The slow-moving water was a murky green.

"What about me?" Dean said.

"How did you come to hate sorcerers so much?"

"I'm not sure if hate is the right word. It's not that personal. I've never really met one."

"Yet you want to kill them," Blake said.

"Because it's the right thing to do. Sorcery is an abomination, an affront to God. Sorcerers are the Devil's minions."

"Who taught you that?"

"My parents," Dean said. "They were good, solid Christians. Prayed every day and never missed church. They made me swear to Jesus that I would fight the good fight against evil."

Blake turned the car onto a highway and picked up speed. The navigation system was giving him directions in a pleasant female voice.

"I see. So sorcery is more of an abstract concept for you. You don't have any personal experience."

"I certainly heard plenty of stories. In fact, a sorcerer was caught performing blood rituals not far from here."

"Really?" Blake said with feigned interest.

He had seen all kinds of training techniques, and none of them had involved blood. Sorcery was an intellectual art primarily. Physical gimmicks and rituals were only used to aid mental focus.

"Yeah," Dean said. "The guy was drinking goat blood. He had pentagrams tattooed all over his body."

"Did that give him special powers?"

"He claimed he could fly at night when the moon was full."

"Impressive," Blake said. "What happened to him?"

"He was run out of town. I'm not sure where he went."

"Oh."

Nobody spoke for a while. Blake looked at the scenic countryside of West Virginia as he drove. A patchwork of dense forest covered steep, rolling hills. Some of the trees had lost their leaves for the winter, but there was still plenty of greenery.

"I'm wondering," Phillip said in his sweet voice, "do you think you'd recognize a sorcerer if you saw one?"

"Sure," Dean said. "I think so."

"How? I'm afraid of them. I want to know what to look for."

Blake suppressed a smile. Phillip was toying with his prey.

"They show the signs of the Devil," Dean said. "Inverted crosses, flames, and the all-seeing eye. Shadows surround sorcerers at all times."

"Scary," Phillip said. "What kind of powers do they have?"

"I'm not sure. Hypnosis, certainly. They curse people and steal their souls. But you actually met some sorcerers. What was your experience?"

"It was all darkness and smoke. All I saw were glowing green eyes. Then my mother was gone."

"Oh." Dean paused. "I'm so sorry."

"That's enough conversation," Blake said. "We're almost at our destination. When we get there, let me do the talking. You just hand over the money."

"Got it."

Blake turned off the highway. The big blue van was still right on his tail.

He made several turns onto increasingly narrow roads which ascended a steep slope. He reached the edge of an old quarry and stopped. The entire top of a hill had been scraped off, exposing the bedrock. Long straight marks showed where blocks of stone had been cut out.

A battered, ancient pickup truck was waiting. The driver hopped out and walked over. He was an old man wearing jean coveralls, and a baseball cap was jammed onto his unruly gray hair.

Blake stepped out of the car to meet him. "Hi!" Blake said cheerfully. "I'm here for the merchandise."

"And I'm here for the money," the old man said.

Dean joined them and handed over his briefcase. The old man opened the case and counted the bundles of cash inside.

"I'm satisfied," he reported. "You can take the fertilizer."

The blue moving van had parked alongside Blake's car. He gestured for his men to start transferring the fertilizer. They retrieved clear plastic bags full of white pellets from the pickup truck. The bags were labelled, "Ammonium Nitrate - 50 pounds." The muscular assassins didn't have any difficulty carrying the heavy bags.