Reign of Evil - 03 (34 page)

He screamed and pulled out his gladius with his left hand as he ran. Firing one-handed with his rifle, he swung the machete above his head in circles until he reached the first statue-like druid. He swept his blade through it and felt no resistance. The material fell to the ground along with the bundles of sticks inside that had filled out its dimensions.

But these things had appeared. They hadn’t been staged.

Which meant they’d been populated—were populated—by Tuatha, but to what end?

Then it hit him.

Stalling tactic.

There was nothing here.

He’d felt it in the beginning.

Cadbury Castle, or Camelot, had been part of a wild-goose chase. So where was King Arthur and the rest of the Wild Hunt? If Arthur was intent on becoming the ruler of England, the only way to do it successfully was to depose the present ruler. So, wherever Elizabeth was, Arthur could be found.

Walker ripped apart the remaining stick-figure druids in a brutish rage. Hacking and slashing, kicking and punching, he finished off these ragged druid scarecrows, ripping them to pieces. He paused, panting from the effort, sweat-slick face regarding his work. Then he turned to his team and watched them locked in a desperate battle with the remaining hounds.

His men needed his help. It was fucking time to end this mission. He started to move toward them but felt a malaise take him over.

Hoover whined beside him and gave him a worried look.

Walker’s hand came up and he found himself looking at it. Was this his hand? He became aware that he wasn’t alone. The hairs on the back of his neck engaged. He felt an itch between his shoulder blades. He spun around, but no one was there. Still, he felt a presence. He looked up, then to the ground, but nothing was there. What was it?

Hoover stood stock-still, her body rigid and locked. Not even her tail moved. Odd that she’d stand that way.

Then Walker felt the same thing. His body was locked as well. And something continued to watch him, as if its face were mere inches from … then he knew.
No no no no no no no no no no!
he wailed within his mind. He remembered the Malaysian grave demon that had possessed him all those years as a child. He’d been spectator to what it had made him do, unable to stop it, unable to close his eyes because even his eyes were no longer his own.

Why hadn’t Sassy saved him?

Why did he have to be the one to be possessed?

What did it want with him?

And then the images flashed through his mind.

All of his team dead.

Three-story piles of bodies all throughout the country. Anyone without Briton lineage, rotting food for a trillion flies.

There was a change coming and he was to be a part of it whether he liked it or not.

CHAPTER 52

CADBURY CASTLE, ENGLAND. 1355 HOURS.

Ian and his men helped end the battle when they swept up the road and over the hill. Other than the flechette cannon and the shredded empty robes, nothing remained to show the fierceness of the Tuatha’s attack. Even the archaeological dig was deserted.

Ian was plainly worried. “Where are they? Was there no sign?”

But as Holmes took care of Laws he ignored Ian. The second in command was bleeding profusely from the wound near his eye. The flechette had come so close to the orb, Holmes was afraid to remove it. The wound had swelled, making the flechette impossible to get to. So Holmes took care of Laws’s other wounds and cursed the Red Grove for taking a page out of the Vietcong’s book. Knowing they couldn’t defeat American forces during the Vietnam War head-to-head, the VC had waged a war of damage, wounding as many American soldiers as possible, delaying them, sapping their will. The flechette cannon was as good as a pungi stick. Not only had it put Laws out of the fight but also the rest of them until they could bandage their wounds and figure out a way to move on.

Yank worked on Sassy. Whatever she’d expected to find on Cadbury Hill, it wasn’t a body full of metal. She’d lost a piece of an ear and would have a lasting reminder on her right cheek, not to mention those that had pierced her triceps, quadriceps, and stomach. She fumed silently as Yank and one of the Marines worked on her, first removing the flechettes and then cleaning and bandaging her wounds.

No one had gone unscathed.

YaYa had a leg wound.

Walker had wounds on the back of his upper leg.

And Holmes had one in his arm in addition to the cut from Yank.

Still, they were lucky. Their body armor had caught most of it. Had the enemy really wanted to kill them, though, it could have set up a far more considerable ambush. Claymores, IEDs, machine guns with interlocking fields of fire, bouncing Betty mines, trip wires … Holmes could think of dozens of more efficient ways to kill them than the flechette cannon.

Was it a statement?

“Stop looking all motherly, Boss.”

Holmes finished affixing the bandage over and around the flechette next to Laws’s eye. “Not sure if you lost the eye or not, Tim.”

Laws dropped his smile at the use of his first name. Holmes knew it would get Laws’s attention. He wanted to make certain that his second understood his predicament. But then the smile returned.

“Can’t worry about what’s already done. How are the others?”

“You were hit the worst. The witch is next, but her pain is more intramuscular.”

“She’d going to be one large bruise.”

“She already is.” Holmes held up one of the flechettes. “Why?”

Laws took it from him. “I was laying here thinking the same thing. If they’d really wanted to kill us, I can think of better ways.”

“Exactly. So why this?”

“You think it’s a statement, don’t you?”

Holmes nodded.

“Let’s look at it from the Arthurian perspective. The Romans used
plumbatas
—small handheld darts with lead weights. The Picts of Scotland also used darts, some tribes exclusively. They were also used by the Celts and the Gaels. One could look at it as symbolic of a return to the past.”

Holmes knew that to be true but had a hard time believing that this was the reason now that he heard it out loud.

“But I’m with you,” Laws continued. “It doesn’t sound as good out loud as it does in our heads. Let’s look at it another way. We’ve done considerable damage to their operation.”

“Not enough, it seems. Arthur is still out there. Even though we’ve removed several high-ranking officials and killed some of his hunt, we don’t know how many are left.”

Laws grimaced as he brought himself to a sitting position. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Back to the question at hand. Where is Arthur? We’d believed all along that he’d come here to crown himself.”

“You’re forgetting something.” Laws made to stand and Holmes helped him. “There’s already a ruling monarch. The people aren’t going to follow Arthur as long as Elizabeth lives.”

Holmes beckoned Ian over, who’d been speaking to the pilots who’d just arrived. Ian came and brought along one of the pilots, who introduced himself as Patrick.

“Ian? Where is the Queen right at this moment?”

The sole surviving member of Section 9 blinked several times. “Buckingham Palace.”

“So she’s spending Christmas in London,” Holmes said.

Ian snapped his fingers. “No. She’s at Sandringham Estate. It’s in Norfolk.”

“How fast can we get there?”

“By truck about six hours.”

Holmes pointed at the helicopters. “And in one of those?”

“Ninety minutes. Maybe a little more,” said Patrick. “We can get about one hundred and ninety-five miles per hour out of them.”

“Then let’s get everyone loaded. We can continue triage on board.”

The helicopters were in the air within five minutes. The SEALs, Ian, and the witch flew with Patrick. Magerts and his men flew with Keith in the other helicopter.

Holmes sat in one of the co-pilots’ seats and wore a helmet. He stared at the top of Cadbury Hill wondering what it was he had missed. There had to have been a reason for the flechette cannon. He knew he was going to regret not knowing.

CHAPTER 53

NAP-OF-THE-EARTH. ENGLAND. 1419 HOURS.

About fifteen minutes into the flight he turned to the pilot. “How’d you know we needed help?”

“My boss contacted me.”

“That would be Conor?”

Patrick glanced at Holmes, an impressed look on his face. “So you know Conor?”

“Just as he knows me. We’ve worked with the Finn McCools a few times. Were you in on the Isle of Man disaster?”

Patrick shook his head. “That was before my time, but I read the record. Unbelievable.”

Holmes smiled wryly. “Not so unbelievable if you’d been there to see it.” Then his face went stone again. “It must have been Preeti then. My guess is Section 9 had some sort of back-door communications plan.”

“They had to. We can’t call or e-mail out. Everything’s shut down. Hell, I shouldn’t even be flying. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get some Tornadoes want to tussle.”

“Your IFF?”

Patrick pointed to his console. “It’s off. And as you can see, we’re flying NOE, so we might go unseen.”

“I guess it depends on how much effort they’re putting into finding you … or finding us. They must know we’d be working together. What’s your cover?”

“Coast Guard Search and Rescue. And yours?”

“Pest control.”

Patrick laughed. “Classic.”

Holmes turned to Ian and got his attention. He had the man put on a crew chief helmet so they could communicate.

“Since I seriously doubt the Queen has been left in the dark on this, we can’t exactly land and not expect to be shot at. Her security detail will have zero idea who we are until we can explain the situation.”

“I can’t be sure if Lord Robinson did or not. This is bottled.”

“How’d Preeti get in touch with the Finn McCools?” Holmes asked.

“Could be any number of ways. We’ve been using Facebook Apps lately. Using their in-game chat functions. We found after the Chinese government tried to shut down Facebook that all they could do was inhibit the ability to communicate through the site. The game applications are add-ons and subject to a completely different code set. In order to knock them out, the Chinese would have to either completely shut down the Internet or back into each game application, and there’s well over ten thousand.”

“Can you see if you can get word to the Queen through Preeti and her brother?” Holmes asked. “As long as they’re leaving the Internet on, the least we can do is take advantage of it.”

“Meanwhile, we have to find out where the nearest mound is to Sandringham. If by some chance we’re able to get to the Queen before Arthur and the Wild Hunt, then we’ll be able to plan a defense.”

“What do you think those odds are?”

“Slim to none. But I have to try.” Holmes went to remove his helmet. “Listen, I’m heading back. If you have any issues, please let me know.”

Holmes slid free the helmet, then climbed in back. He wanted to check on Laws and the others. Both Laws and Sassy were sucking on fentanyl lollipops. More than fifty times stronger than morphine, fentanyl was short lasting and would provide them the comfort they needed until the next mission. He’d have to watch them, though. He needed to make sure they weren’t completely stoned when they touched down.

YaYa was wrapping QuikClot gauze on Hoover’s mauled rear leg, staring at the dog in a funny way.

Holmes found a seat near Sassy. She held her wand in her hand as if she were gathering strength from it.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like a London dart league used me as target practice.”

“Fentanyl working?”

“I’d love to have a cupboard filled with these babies.” She took it out of her mouth for a moment. “Tastes like doctor ass, though.”

Holmes chuckled. “I wouldn’t know.” He paused to look at Walker and Hoover. There was something off about them. Probably the dog was picking up on Walker’s emotion. Back to Sassy, Holmes said, “Don’t suppose you know the nearest mound to Sandringham Estate, do you?”

She thought for a moment. “Probably would be Bloodgate Hill. About twenty miles east, I think.”

“Anything special about that one?”

She shrugged and pulled the lollipop from her mouth. “It’s Iron Age, which makes it old. It’s the largest in Norfolk. And like most of them it’s built on a faerie mound.”

“Sounds like where they’d be coming from. Got anything up your sleeve that could help us combat them? Looks like they hit us with some pretty good magic back there. Laws almost shot me.” He glanced at the bandage on his arm. “Yank nearly beheaded me.”

“They were able to prepare the area. Those are from spell traps they’d put in place. Only reason I didn’t notice them was because of this.” She held up the wand. “It’s both a help and a hindrance. There’s enough power in here to help me defeat, along with the Baen Sidhe, most anything. But if detecting residual magic is what I need to do, then this gets in the way because all I can feel is this.”

“But they’ve never been to Sandringham Estate?”

“Not that I know of, plus the Royal Warlock would have taken care of it had he seen anything.”

“The what?”

“You heard me.”

“There’s a Royal Warlock? And why have I never heard of it?”

“It’s not necessarily for the English monarch. That’s just the way it worked out. The Warlock is assigned to protect the House of Wettin. This dates back to Theodoric the First in AD 900. He protected a coven of warlocks from persecution and so did his line all the way until the 1600s. In return, we vowed to protect the line.”

“When you say ‘we’ you mean…”

“The modern incarnation is the Fraterni Saturni, to which I belong.”

“But you’re not a warlock.”

“Glad you noticed. Let’s say I’m ex-official.”

He nodded. “Got it. What happened in the 1600s?”

“Praying Ernest, or better known as Ernest the First, Duke of Saxe-Gotha, was the first to allow witch trials and burnings. We lost many because of that ass.” She splayed two fingers apart and spit through them onto the aircraft floor, then said a few guttural German epithets.