Reign of Evil - 03 (3 page)

There. He spotted his car three rows up.

Dogs began to bark incessantly. As if in answer, a baying came from deep within the fog. The dogs barked madly. He turned in a full circle. What was going on with the dogs? One thing he hated was strays. Not a time to be bit if he could help it.

The baying came again, this time followed by a horn. It didn’t sound like a ship’s, though. Was there a foxhunt nearby? Why would someone do it in this weather? Never mind that the hunts had been made illegal.

He became aware of figures moving within the fog. He only caught fragmented glimpses of them, but they seemed to be carrying weapons. The fog billowed and covered the cars.

The baying came closer, now with the sound of claws scraping against the pavement as the hidden creatures bore down on him. He had a moment to think, then turned and ran right into the side of a car. The impact drove the air from him. He fell but clawed his way to his feet.

Someone yelled behind him, then sounded a horn.

The baying was now all around him.

He held his hands up in front of him.

“Okay. Okay. Enough of this.” An animal brushed his leg. “Do you know who I am?”

The fog parted for a moment and he beheld a man dressed all in green, like a hunter. He wore holly-patterned clothes and an iron crown on his head. But what drew the MP’s eyes was the great rack of horns on the white stag the man rode. Even as the MP stared, the man brought a hunting horn to his lips and blew. The stag’s eyes blazed red, then the beast lowered his antlers and charged.

The MP screamed and turned. He managed four steps before the tips of the antlers pierced his back. The pain caused him to stagger, but he was unable even to fall. The stag lifted him and picked up speed. Soon they were careening through the fog, baying beasts running all around them. He wanted to scream for them to stop. He wanted to beg them to let him go. But amidst the clatter of hooves and the blowing of the rider’s horn, he felt his spirit ripped from his body. By the time the stag shook his great head and dislodged Miller’s body many miles later, he could barely remember who or what he’d been. All he knew was that there was a hunt, he was part of it, and it gave him so much joy that he bayed.

CHAPTER 3

TUCSON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. DAY.

Timothy Laws watched as Jack Walker reached airport security, then was waved through. Such a fucked-up thing to happen to such a great couple, Laws thought. The universe was a fickle bitch. As was their controller. Holmes had been on the phone for two hours last night trying to get clearance, but Alexis Billings had ordered them to stand down. Where SEAL Team 666 might be able to go into places like Myanmar or Mexico with little political blowback, conducting operations in Mother England was another thing altogether. They were forbidden to lift a finger, England was handling it, and they were not to get involved. End of story.

But no one said that Jack Walker couldn’t go on a little Bereavement Leave to England. And no one asked permission either. After all, it was an administrative function, which could be approved by the team leader.

Holmes grabbed Laws’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We don’t want to miss our flight back to San Diego.”

Laws turned and confronted him. YaYa and Yank stood nearby and stepped forward. “Listen, why don’t you put us all on leave? I’m feeling bereaved.”

“I’m fucking bereaved too,” Yank said.

“Me too.” YaYa placed his right hand on Yank’s shoulder. “Bereaved times ten.”

Holmes lowered his gaze. “As am I, but we can’t all take leave.”

“Why not?” Yank asked. The white scars on Yank’s African-American face stood out when he was angry and now they looked like a road map of rage. “There isn’t a place on the planet we can’t be in twenty-four hours. In fact, if the balloon went up, it would make it easier if we were in the same place.”

“What he said,” YaYa added. Ever since the replacement of his left arm below the elbow by DARPA doctors, Yank had been helping YaYa by using martial arts as therapy and they’d become as close as brothers.

“It’s not that easy,” Holmes began, but Laws interrupted.

“Sure it is. It’s as easy as we make it. We all go on leave and help Jack out. If we happen to get into a firefight then it was one of those wrong-place-wrong-time things.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. I have the bigger picture to keep in mind. It’s what one does when he’s the leader. There could be political consequences for our actions. We also don’t want to bite the hands that feed us.”

Laws knew his boss and best friend was right, but he didn’t like it at all. Helpless was not a feeling he appreciated. “So we just do nothing?”

“I never said that. We’re going to do something. It’s just that I don’t know what it is yet.”

“Is that a promise?” Laws asked.

Holmes looked up sharply. “Is this kindergarten? Is it recess? Do you want me to fucking pinky swear? This is a goddamn military organization, Laws. I am the commander and I said we’re going to do something. Do. You. Get. That?”

Laws grinned. “You look good when you’re angry.”

Holmes’s face remained granite hard.

Yank interjected, “Meanwhile back at the Batcave, Jen’s people are working on getting data from the NSA. They should have something by the time we get back.”

Holmes sighed. “We’ve been told to stand down.”

“Getting information is not an operation. Using the information is,” YaYa pointed out.

Holmes shook his head and walked away. “We’re going to miss our plane.”

The others caught up.

“I know you have a plan,” Laws said, unwilling to let it die. Then he saw it. A twinkle in the corner of Holmes’s eye. Laws laughed. “I knew you had a plan.”

They walked another twenty feet and Holmes asked, “You’re not going to ask me what it is?”

“No. I figure when it’s set, you’ll let us all know.”

“Finally. Someone acting like this is a military unit.”

“Hoo-aahh,” said YaYa and Yank simultaneously.

They were indeed a military unit. Lieutenant Commander Sam Holmes, the blond-haired, square-jawed paradigm of a SEAL, life dedicated to the cause of freedom; Chief Petty Officer Ali Jabouri, or YaYa, Arab-American, dark skinned, dark hair, built like a runner, trying to prove that he was as apple-pie American as everyone else; Petty Officer Second Class Shonn Yankowski, African-American, shaved head, tattoos, burns along the left side of his face from a house fire back home in Compton; Senior Chief Petty Officer Tim Laws, blond haired, lanky, unable to forget anything he ever read or saw; and Petty Officer First Class Jack Walker, blond haired, dead fiancée, hair-trigger sniper, and supernatural early warning device. Together they were SEAL Team 666 and by god they better have a plan, because they were the last line of supernatural defense for America. And if they didn’t have Walker when they needed him, then they didn’t have a team.

CHAPTER 4

HEATHROW INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. AFTERNOON.

Ian clocked Walker the moment he left the plane. He had an unmistakable military gait. He was a man on a mission and for the most part kept his gaze focused on each step in the process. Deplane. Get baggage. Head through customs. Find rental car counter. Get car. Inspect car. Drive car.

Ian understood. He’d had to act that way enough times in the past, especially with the recent loss of four Section 9 contractors. They were down to three members and needed their numbers increased badly. But with all the budget cuts and the new culture of austerity circulating England like a fiscal plague the likelihood that their hidden line on the defense budget would be filled was slim. But, until then, he’d have to make do. Losing men who were committed to the defense of a nation in battle was one thing. Losing a wife or fiancée was completely different. He couldn’t imagine the emptiness he’d feel, which was why when Holmes had called him Ian had dropped everything to see what he could do to assist.

Ian pulled two car lengths behind Walker as he maneuvered his rental onto the M3 toward Southampton. Unless he’d been here before, he must be using a GPS, because he was going in the right direction.

What had Holmes said? “Do what you can to help him, Ian. He’s impetuous and in his current state, there’s no telling what he’ll do.” Not only had Ian been asked to babysit a U.S. Navy SEAL but also to keep the man from doing something irrational. Ian owed Holmes for pulling his ass out of a tight spot in Somalia. Perhaps this would make them square. Regardless, he rode a wave of compassion as well as a little guilt for the poor man’s fiancée dying at what should have been a safe event.

He envied Holmes and his SEAL Team 666. They had resources and military backing. When they identified targets, they went after them. For the most part, there weren’t too many organizations who opposed them and their country. The problem with being a much older nation like Britain was that those who opposed her were frequent and many. Opus Dei, the Nine Unknown Men (three of whom they knew), the Priory of Sion, the Followers, Dee’s Men, the Golden Dawn, Ordo Templi Orientis, the Rosicrucians, the Hellfire Club, the Fenians, and any number of druidic orders were constantly stirring Her Majesty’s pot. The men of Section 9 had been a sad lot. That they’d had success was more a matter of the occult groups getting in one another’s way, rather than anything Section 9 had done.

Founded in 1569 by Sir Francis Walsingham, Section 9 had defended Britain for centuries under many different names. Their current nom de guerre had come from the organization’s name in World War II. MI9, or Section 9, as it was called, had reported directly to the War Office and was overtly responsible for aiding resistance fighters. While there were those in Section 9 who did this, the majority of personnel and resources were allocated to stopping Hitler’s Thule Society, who had been intent on helping the Reich reach her pinnacle through magic and artifice.

No. SEAL Team 666 had it easy.

Walker entered a roundabout. He missed his turn onto A303 and had to go around again. Ian had no choice but to follow him. If Walker was actively detecting surveillance, then he was as good as made.

They continued for another ten minutes then pulled into the parking lot north of Stonehenge.

Walker got out of his car. As he passed Ian sitting in his own car, Walker turned and gave him a steady look. Ian had no doubt that the double roundabout had been a provocative move and part of the SEAL’s surveillance detection. Not that Ian had been trying to hide. Walker approached the policeman at the barricade. Although the crime scene had been released, until the blood was cleared the place was closed for tourism.

Ian watched as Walker tried to talk his way past the guard but got stopped. When Walker began to yell and gesticulate, Ian decided it was time for him to get involved. It would be neither right nor proper for a SEAL to kill one of their bobbies.

Ian made his way up the path to where Walker was about to attack the policeman.

“Walker,” he called.

The response was immediate. Walker ceased his engagement with the bobby and strode purposefully toward Ian. Fire blazed in the man’s eyes. It would do no good to talk to him now. Instead, Ian sidestepped him, saying, “Wait here a moment.”

CHAPTER 5

STONEHENGE. DUSK.

Walker was furious at the world. Not only weren’t they going to let him see the place where his fiancée was murdered, but some man, probably a government flunky, had trailed him all the way from London also. By his poor tradecraft, the skinny guy who knew his name must be some low-level worker bee they probably assigned to trail him based on his use of his official passport when he went through customs.

Fuck it.
If the man wanted to play a game, then Walker was ready to play. But now he had to wait until the man spoke with the police officer. Walker realized his hands were fists and forced them to relax. After a moment, the man began walking into Stonehenge.

What the fu—

Then he gestured for Walker to follow.

Walker jogged past the policeman and couldn’t help but give him a look as he passed. He soon caught up with the man and slowed. They walked the rest of the way in silence. The man stared at the ground, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. Walker had a sense of expectation as he approached the monolithic stones. They were at once so real and present as they seemed impossible. Part of him wanted to reach out and touch them, but then this was where Jen died.

Walker paused at the outer stones, but the man continued inside. He stopped, then turned to look at Walker. He pointed at the ground. “They found her here. Her throat was cut; then she was mutilated.”

Eyes riveted to the grass, Walker took a reluctant step forward, as if he were being pulled.

“Seventeen civilians were killed in the same way. Some ceremony by some whacked-out neo-pagans or druids. MI5 is still trying to figure it out.”

There was so much fuzz in Walker’s head he barely heard the other man’s words. Walker suddenly felt the need to touch the spot. Three quick steps, he was down on both knees, his hands against the cold ground. He stayed there for a long while. He pressed his cheek against the ground. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find. He didn’t even know what he’d feel, maybe a piece of her. He had the ability to detect supernatural forces. Maybe if her ghost had been nearby he would have detected her, maybe put himself in position to communicate with her somehow.

But there was nothing here.

The ground was cold.

The place was empty.

He stood. Stonehenge had the feeling of an old battlefield. Like Chickamauga or Gettysburg, whenever he was at a place where a lot of people had died, it felt different. Reverentially empty.

He suddenly felt cold and shivered. “A lot of people died here,” he said.

“This used to be a ceremonial place for the druids, some say all the way back to two to three thousand years before Christ.”

Walker shook his head and blew into his hands. He hadn’t prepared for the cold. Coming from Tucson and San Diego before that, all he had was jeans, a T-shirt, and a light Polo jacket. “Do they have any leads at all?”