Reign of Evil - 03 (27 page)

“Are … are you robbing me?”

Four other men and a woman stopped what they were doing to regard him. One man looked like he was cut from a solid block of stone. Another was tall and blond with a wide smile. Another was a short Arab with a robotic arm. Then there was a regular-looking blond guy. The woman was older, but beautiful in an intimidating sort of way.

The man with the chiseled face approached Paul. “You’re not being robbed. And we’re sorry for all of this, but we need your plane and your parachutes ASAP. We also need you to fly us.”

“I—I can’t just fly. I have to file a flight plan and—”

“You don’t get it. You’re going to do this and when it’s all over you can come back and get shit faced at the pub. Now, where are your other parachutes? There’s only four here and we need two tandems.”

“Why—are we—”

A dog with body armor padded by, giving him a look.

“For god’s sake.” The angry black man grabbed him by a shoulder. “This is a matter of national security. We’re trying to help England.”

“But you’re American?”

“Well, look at Captain Obvious. Haven’t you heard of our exchange program? We get Anthony Hopkins and Michael Caine and you get us?”

The tall one spoke in a husky voice. “I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

Paul felt himself begin to tremble.

Then the woman approached him. She put her hand on his arm. “It’s going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.” She stared into his eyes. “Say it.”

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Say it again.”

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Good boy. Now tell us where the other parachutes are.”

He pointed toward the back of the room, where a large industrial-sized box sat. “In there. But they haven’t been recovered yet.”

Four of the men, minus the angry black man, headed toward the container.

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Then to the black man she added, “Brutes. Think he’ll be able to fly the plane if he’s too busy peeing his pants?”

Paul thought it was odd that she would say that. Because he knew that if he could possibly produce any urine at this moment then he’d be well into peeing his pants.

CHAPTER 42

IN DARKNESS SOMEWHERE NEAR GLASTONBURY TOR. 0750 HOURS.

Darkness and pain. He knew he was outside because of the cold that had long ago seeped into his bones. At first his body had rebelled, whatever nerve endings that hadn’t been broken by the beating screaming for him to get them warm. But the longer he’d remained outside, the softer their cries became, until now they were silent, relegated to the reality that the numbness masked the pain that had taken permanent residence in his body.

His legs trembled as they struggled to hold him upright. Although he couldn’t see through the blindfold, he’d known the instant the spike had touched his palm what they’d intended to do. And it was the merging of their laughter with his screams as they nailed first one hand onto a length of wood, then the other. He’d been crucified
in honor of his Christian upbringing. Let Christ come down and save you,
they’d howled, then added,
But then he couldn’t save himself.

Of course he’d had his chance to escape. He’d thought he’d had the time. Walker and YaYa had exfilled the window and he’d heard a scratching in the hallway. Part of him had screamed for him to flee, but he’d paused, raised his weapon, and readied to fire. He hadn’t wanted to leave anyone behind him who would shoot him in the back when it was his turn to exfil the window.

When it came around the corner, he’d tried to pull the trigger but found himself frozen, incapable of even calling out. It stood there. She wore only a stitched smile, her naked body blossoming with pendulous breasts. Her pubic hair had been shaved, revealing a pierced vulva. Her arm came up and pointed to him and he felt himself pulled in her direction. He fought against it, resulting in a hobbled walk like a two-year-old, crossing the floor of the room until he was in her arms. She closed them, giving him a cold embrace; then she kissed him through the stitches.

He’d vomited then and lost consciousness.

When he next came to, he was standing in the middle of a pentacle being struck in the face over and over by men in suits, men dressed as women, women wearing strap-ons, and women dressed like animals. He remembered seeing an impressive figure sitting in a throne-like chair, laughing at him. The figure was regal and wore an iron crown. He was completely cloaked in green, the cloth patterned with holly leaves.

But that’s all he remembered. He’d been hit so frequently and violently that his memory of that period was like an old 8mm movie, skipping ahead, with black spots between images. Then his vision had stopped, but the beating had continued.

Sometime afterward, he’d awoken to find them cutting him. Thin lines of pain along each arm and each leg, one by one by one. He was beyond screaming and whined like a broken dog with each pull of the knife, trying desperately to ignore the bombastic hilarity of his cutters as they laughed uproariously at their deeds.

Then they began to touch him. He’d cried as his body ignored his complaints. A part of him had a will of its own and ignored his protests. He imagined himself trussed somewhere on the ground so he could be cut, then a man, or a woman, or both, wrapping themselves around him and making his body tremble.

And now, as he hung crucified in the middle of the vile celebration, he pushed all those images aside, forgot about the abuse and the pain and the cold, and instead focused on a single image—Preeti standing, her head cocked, her long hair falling down to one side, a self-conscious look on her face, not for a second realizing how beautiful and how wonderful a person she was and how lucky he’d been to know her for a time.

CHAPTER 43

REDLANDS AIRFIELD, SWINDON. 0755 HOURS.

Yank sat behind the pilot, making sure he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. At this point, Yank doubted the pilot would do anything that would make him mad. He’d intentionally tried to terrify the poor kid, both because he needed the man to be afraid of something immediate and because Yank was pretty sick and tired of this whole idea of creating a white-only England. Each time they’d discovered a group had gone missing or someone was killed who had been involved with helping immigrants and refugees, it had served to fuel his anger. Add to that the ineffectiveness of the government and he wanted to punch something or someone. Not only had they emasculated Section 9—which should have been ten times the size of SEAL Team 666 because of all the supernatural shit going down in England—but it was clear that there was compliance at the highest levels, making him wonder how long they’d been planning this. That it took Jen’s death for anyone to notice was a terrible thing, but at least they had the chance to stop what had been inevitable before.

He tried to imagine how England would look without Queen Elizabeth and parliament and instead having King Arthur sitting on the throne. Would there be a round table? How would this sixth-century ruler be able to survive in the modern era? Or would it be kept a secret, King Arthur working from behind the scenes, ordering the complicit MPs to do his bidding? It was all too much.

The plane rumbled down the runway and took to the sky. Holmes and the witch were set up for a tandem, just as YaYa and Hoover were. They’d had to work on the straps for the team dog, but they’d managed finally. The rest of them wore regular commercial chutes, which would get them to the ground, albeit more slowly than their military counterparts.

Yank glanced out the window. They were in a Super Twin Otter de Havilland. He’d jumped out of this model before, so knew how to exit, but it didn’t mean he liked it. He remembered his first mission with Triple Six when they’d HALOed into the Sea of Cortez. Laws and Walker had given him no end of shit for supposedly being afraid of heights. Not that he’d let on, but someone must have let the secret slip.

Truth be told, he was terrified of heights and spent most of the time while he was in the air with his eyes closed in some form or fashion, even if it was only to pretend to sleep.

They were heading to Bratton Castle. He’d had the pilot program the coordinates into the navigation system. He glanced at them to make sure they hadn’t been changed. 51° 15' 49.32" N, 2° 8' 36.6" W.
Check.

Laws had checked the wind and weather and had plotted for them to jump from an altitude of 4,000 feet north and west of their target. It would be a cold jump, but they wouldn’t be in the air for long. The two tandem jumper pairs were going out first, separated by ten seconds. Then the rest of them would pile out together. What the pilot did after that didn’t really matter. Either there’d be an entirely different England within a few hours or Triple Six would have accomplished their mission.

And what was that mission?

To kill the mythical King Arthur or at least stop him from becoming king once more, all while trying to not get killed by supernatural hounds and whatever else might be thrown at them. A hard-core terrorist looked easy by comparison. He fought the urge to rub at the bruises the hounds had caused when they’d taken him.

He glanced out the window, then averted his gaze back to the controls. He heard Laws laugh behind him but wouldn’t give him the chance to bring the phobia up again.

It wasn’t long before the pilot announced they were ten minutes out.

The SEALs set their watches.

They’d expected to hear from Ian and his Marines, but there had been radio silence. Several times during the short flight, Holmes had tried to establish contact but with zero luck. Everyone tried to keep their thoughts positive, but the mind could very easily spin lemonade into citric acid.

Laws posted by the open door hatch and got everyone in line.

Yank kept his eye on the pilot.

At five minutes, the pilot slowed the airspeed.

The SEALs did a radio check on their MBITR.

Laws counted down the last thirty seconds and sent YaYa and Hoover out first. After a ten-second gap, Holmes and the witch went next. Then it was Walker and Laws.

Yank patted the pilot on the back of his head, then slid out the door into the air. He let three seconds pass, then pulled his ripcord. He saw the line before him, with YaYa far to the front and lower in altitude. He searched for his landmarks. Keevil Airfield was northeast. He found the town of Bratton, then spied the white horse drawn on the side of the mound. He didn’t know where it came from, but it was made from something white and seemed as large as a football field. The plan was to land west of this landmark, then climb the mound together.

He watched as YaYa landed and rolled.

Holmes did better, standing up, using the witch’s weight as ballast.

Then Walker, then Laws, then it was his turn.

Just as he was about to hit the ground fear surged through him as he realized he’d just leaped from an airplane. He’d been so focused on the mission that he’d forgotten to be scared. He closed his eyes and winced as he landed. Still, with the extralarge commercial parachute, he was able to stand and walk it down.

They recovered their parachutes and placed them in a pile.

The witch looked like a freshly bathed cat.

“If there ever comes a time when you want me to jump out of another plane, don’t bother coming around. I won’t do it. England or no.”

“Wasn’t so bad,” Laws said. “Yank here is terrified of heights and he jumps all the time.”

“Of course we sometimes have to kick him out the door,” Walker added, “but he’s getting better.”

Yank rolled his eyes. He’d known the jibe was coming. Laws couldn’t help himself.
Always the fucking merry prankster. Mr. Joker boy.

Laws patted Yank on the back. “What? No comment?”

“I’ll reserve my comment for the next time we’re sparring.”

Laws shut up at this, probably because he knew that Yank had forgotten more about fighting than Laws had ever learned.

Holmes checked his HK416. “Let’s remember this is a military mission.”

Yank watched as Laws almost came back with a smart-assed reply, then thought better of it when Holmes gave him a firm glare.

They all wore body armor over black sterile uniforms. Their Pro-Tec helmets had mounts for night vision, but their QUADEYES were in their cargo pockets, as were their ballistic masks. They wore Rhodesian military vests over their body armor, which had numerous pockets allowing them to carry ten spare magazines, as well as white phosphorous and fragmentation grenades. They wore their usual MBITR and Holmes did another radio check.

YaYa and Hoover took point, the dog ranging a dozen feet forward. Walker and Laws followed. The witch and Holmes came next. Yank brought up the rear.

He checked his watch. 0840 local time.

They reached the top of the mound without event. The pinnacle was mostly flat, running lengthwise for more than seventy meters, with a width of nearly twenty meters. Several piles of wood and sticks had been placed in the center, making Yank wonder if they might not be planning a bonfire later.

The witch found a location on the northeast side. It looked like any other place, but she’d stopped and said, “This is it.”

The rest of the SEALs faced outward around her while Holmes stood beside her as the witch unwrapped the item she’d brought.

Yank glanced back and saw a length of metal a little more than a yard long with a hooked end like a shepherd’s crook or a giant fishing hook.

She pulled the last of the canvas from it. “I found this laying around the museum. Belonged to a ninth-century Norse witch.”

Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “You stole it?”

“They didn’t know what they had. There’s more power in this than anything I’ve ever seen. It drew me to it.” She shrugged. “What do you want to do? Look at it behind a case or use it to help us save England?”

Holmes didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “How exactly are we going to get in?”

“That’s where the Tuatha comes in. It knows the secret knock.”