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Chapter Fourteen:
La Vista
Rinalsky Auto Repair Centre
London, England (East End)
10:13 A.M., BST
As Hunter walked through the halls after a shower and several chapters of an old Eric Ambler thriller, he ran into Caroline just outside the living quarters.
"Ah, Caroline," he said pleasantly, "just my luck running into you. What are you doing out of your apartment?"
"As a matter of fact, it's my luck as well, running into you. I just came over to congratulate you. I heard you planned and initiated an entire operation on your fourth day here?"
Hunter grinned boyishly with one corner of his mouth.
"Well," he said, "I made the basic outline, anyway. We still have two weeks of planning to look forward to, and anyway it was your father who officially activated it."
"Modest man. Anyway, why is it your luck running into me?"
"Well," Hunter said casually, "I was wondering if, perhaps, you would care to accompany me to lunch this afternoon."
Caroline's eyes lit up.
"Really! Well, I mean, I would love to. Where?"
"'La Vista'. It's just opened up in Piccadilly."
Caroline blushed.
"When shall we go?"
"Well, I've got to attend yet another meeting today to discuss transportation and equipment for the operation, so that should be a short half-hour. But then, I don't have to be there until three, so..."
He kissed Caroline's cheek.
"...I should think we can leave any time we want to in the next half-hour, allowing for a slow drive there, quite a while for lunch and discussion, and a slow drive back. I'm in no hurry."
"It sounds lovely, Jonathan, but...did my father put you up to this?"
Hunter shook his head.
"He more-or-less...'left it open'."
Caroline smirked.
"I know what you mean. Anyway, I think we should go now. There's no time like the present. But like you said...I'm in no hurry."
***
Hunter raced his gleaming, silver Porsche 911 Turbo through the crowded streets of Piccadilly. He turned and smiled at his passenger, her gorgeous, red hair cascading over the shoulders of her teal dress. She smiled back. Perhaps she had seen this before? A beautiful, exotic car practically flying at its speeds? Either way, she was certainly enjoying it.
When, two minutes later, they arrived at the restaurant, Hunter got out of the vehicle before walking around to the other side to open the door for Caroline. She got out of the car and was escorted by Hunter to the gold-painted double-door of the restaurant. The pair entered before being shown to a table outside.
"Would you and the lady care for drinks while you look at the menu?"
The waiter handed them said menus.
"Indeed," replied Hunter. "A dry martini."
"Shaken or stirred, sir?"
"Stirred, with a twist."
"Very good, sir. And for you, madam?"
"A Chardonnay."
The waiter wrote the information down on his notepad.
"My compliments. I will give you a minute to order."
After a moment of looking at their menus, Caroline said subtly, "Unusually nice for Piccadilly, isn't it?"
Hunter shrugged.
"I suppose. I won't complain, however. I'm glad to be here."
Caroline's face grew apologetic.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should be thanking you."
"Please, darling, don't worry about it. I'm simply relieved you accepted my offer."
He pecked Caroline on the cheek.
"You know, you look beautiful."
She blushed.
"Thank you. So," she cleared her throat, "have you made your decision?"
"Yes, and...I believe I see the waiter passing by."
Hunter gestured to him.
"You have decided?"
"We have," replied Hunter. "I shall have filet mignon with Béarnaise sauce, and scalloped potatoes with caramelized onions."
"And you, Miss?"
"Filet of sole almandine, with freshly steamed vegetables and a mixed green salad."
"Also," Hunter asked, "I would like if you could bring for us a bottle of red wine."
"That should be no problem, sir. Your food will be here shortly."
With that, the waiter returned inside the restaurant with their orders. Caroline faced Hunter with a hungry look in her eyes.
"Now," she said, "let's talk."
More tomorrow.
Fast and Slow
Hunter shrugged with the backs of his hands.
"Certainly. What would you like to talk about?"
Caroline seemed to pretend to consider.
"Well..." she said, "we could discuss current status in my father's empire."
"How did I see that coming? Ask on."
"Well, I was rather hoping you would do the talking, but alright. I'll ask you a short question. What exactly does my father have in his mind by meeting you, setting you up on a date with me, having you attend a high-level conference, and putting you in charge of an operation that will take down a forty-year-long enemy?"
Hunter considered.
"Hmm. A short question indeed. Anyway, how did you find out about my position of command in the operation?"
"Just so long as you answer my question," Caroline replied, "I heard it from one of Daddy's associates. Now tell me; why you?"
Again, Hunter shrugged.
"He says he trusts me. Well, I suppose that's not all of it. He said he liked the way I walked in on his meeting because I wanted to join his business, and he, well, admired the way I broke up the verbal blood feud at the conference. He said he's after a man of my determination, control over a situation, and ability. I think your father might want me in the family just a bit more than I do. By first encounter, he wanted me to marry you."
Caroline stared at him.
"Well..." she murmured. "I mean...that's a bit drastic, isn't it?"
Hunter laughed once.
"To say the least. I told him that I'd only just met you, but, evidently, he still sees you and I at the altar. Please, darling, don't mistake my message. I can easily see myself loving you."
That seemed to Caroline aback.
"Sorry, love. But it's true. Perhaps I've just been trying to reason with myself that your father is right. But is it? I'm not so sure. But is he entirely wrong?" He shook his head. "I don't think so." He rubbed the back of his head almost pensively. "What does your father want out of this? Does he want Mr. and Mrs. Jesse James to carry on his legacy?"
Caroline didn't laugh.
"I don't know," she sighed. "Knowing my father, that's not it. He's a man of pride, but he only truly cares about it as long as he can see it. He's not one of those men completely obsessed with his public image, but who knows for sure? I sense that the reasons you gave for his taking to you are entirely correct; black-and-white. I also know that one of the things he wants most is for me to be happy, and I know he can see you with me. Now, I'm not going to lie to you. I can see it, too." She blushed. "But I won't disagree with you that he's rushing things."
"It's funny, isn't it?" Hunter said. "Usually, it's the man or the woman or both who are rushing things, and the parents think they're going to quickly. But now, it's the other way around." He shook his head again. "Are you sure there isn't some ulterior motive behind this?"
Caroline shrugged.
"For all I know, there very well could be. But it's rare that he keeps secrets. I can't tell you anything for sure about my father, ever, but I would take what he's saying at face value. Isn't that good enough?"
"I suppose you're right. But some part of me just doubts it. I just don't know."
The waiter came back around, bringing four plates, a bottle, and a wine goblet with him on a folding carrier.
"Thank heavens," Hunter muttered. "Saved by the bell."
They ate in relative silence over the next twenty minutes; relative, at least, to their conversation just minutes earlier. After dessert and coffee had passed, Hunter paid the bill. He checked his watch: four minutes to noon.
"I've got time to get back," he said, "but we should probably get going now. Shall we?"
Hunter shut his eyelids tightly and kneaded them with his fingertips as he and Caroline made their way back to the car. There was something of an awkward silence between the couple (for Hunter, anyway - Caroline hardly seemed to mind) undoubtedly brought on by the blunt end to the conversation regarding one half's father. Hunter reflected that, at least almost definitely, it was temporary, but that it would hang like a dark cloud over the remainder of the day. Well, if indeed it was a dark cloud, the plumes were gray rather than black.
As he took his seat in the luxuriously soft interior of the Porsche, he turned to face his companion.
"This time," he said, "I'll actually take it slow. I promise."
More tomorrow.
Cut Short
Rinalsky Auto Repair Centre
London, England (East End)
3:06 P.M., BST
All twelve men of the board sat, yet again, at the conference table, sitting in their respective seats.
"Right, Malcolm, so you and Price've got vehicles enough for the convoy?"
It had been Clarke who asked the question.
Malcolm Brown shrugged his shoulders in confirmation. "I've got one of two cars I can lend you."
"Is it armored?"
"Armored?" he laughed. "Hell, it used to be the Minister of Finance's car."
"I should think he needed it, too," someone muttered across the table. "That guy raised more hell than Brogue over here at a Christmas party."
Chuckles passed around the table.
"Right," Clarke laughed, "and you've got one, too, Price?"
The half-Scottish Edmund Price nodded his head.
"When you get to be a man like me in your sixties, you damn well need some armored cars. Still, I've got few I can't lend to the cause. What say you to six?"
"Hell," Clarke said excitedly, "perfect! But the thing is, we're looking at about..." (he checked his yellow legal pad) "...four cars, so we can do without about two of those. That quite alright with you, Edmund?"
"I'm not complaining."
Over the next fifteen minutes or so, entrance and escape routes, as well as precautionary paths in case of events such as roadblocks, or if unusual evasion was somehow made necessary. Jackson Frayer, a youngish Welsh-American in his mid-thirties in charge of routing the mission, gestured to specific points on a rolled down map on the wall.
"Now," he said, "if all else fails, that is, our primary exfil route through McGregor, our anti-barricade routes in the alleys behind the Ritz on the west side, Fulton's printing press on the east side, and the courthouse along King Edward to the south all end up royally screwed, you just keep driving straight until you get to Lawrence, and you go Rambo on them. That's a nice, wide open street, and you'll be able to get in some nice shots in without swerving, though my money's on a hell of a lot of blind firing. There's no way they can set up a roadblock by the time they find out you're heading that way, and anyway there just might be too much traffic for them to do anything about it."
"And if they do manage to overrun us?" someone called out.
"'God rest ye merry gentlemen.'"
Alfred Wilford spoke up.
"Well, hell, Charlie, surely you don't think worse will actually come to worst?"
Charlie shrugged.
"Just being careful, Al, that's all. Anyway, Mr. Darius, how are we getting this information to the guys who aren't in this room who're gonna be on this job?"
"We've compiled packets combining the information we agree on at the end of every meeting," Darius replied, "one for each conference."
"Very good, Mr. Darius. Now, hell...we've actually, finally agreed upon our transportation deals for the operation?"
"It would appear so, yes."
"Well, then." McNamara slapped his thighs loudly. "We're moving along quickly, aren't we? Sorry, John, I know you said we should go over this for two weeks, but, lately, I've been thinking that maybe we should just cut this short. I don't mean do it tonight, but just, you know, speed the process along a little. Know what I mean?"
Hunter nodded.
"I do, Charles. Another point is that there's going to be little to no practice, and, almost definitely, it's going to be the latter. This is a one-shot deal. The men on this job are all highly trained; they wouldn't be doing this if they weren't. I think we would all agree that it would be best to, as Mr. McNamara put it, cut this short."
A man from Liverpool with mostly grayed hair and in his mid-fifties, Andrew Silvano, got to his feet.
"Neither would I disagree, Mr. Hunter," he said diplomatically. The man was of great dignity, but he was not a snob. Many took to him. "In fact," he continued, "I would more than encourage it. You see, gentlemen..."
He fished something out from his pocket and held it up to the light for all to see. It appeared to be a shrunken, black coat button, with a circle of metal in the middle.
"...we have a fly on the wall. One of Mr. Darius's associates found it just inside the ventilation shaft there. Our men have examined it, and concluded that it is solely an audio device, not video. That doesn't make our conversation less protected, however, as we can assume the enemy now has full knowledge of, at the very least, the basics of our operation. Besides that, I'm afraid they are also aware of Mr. Hunter's commanding position, as was discussed with Mr. Darius after the meeting."
"Jonathan," Darius said in his husky voice, "I'm afraid that means your head will offer the highest price. I should think Hayler won't be after it just yet, however. One shot at you, and he figures on full retaliation. They'll want to catch us in the act, on the night of the raid, so we've got to get to them before they get to you. I'm officially cutting preparations short. Rather than thirteen days, we will now have six for preparatory operations. Understood?"
Several murmurs of acknowledgement passed around the table.
"Andrew," he asked, "I know you live in Liverpool. Do you think you could call up my men there to bring out half of the armory? I want Colts, Uzis, frags, and smokes for all twenty men, Dragunov snipers for three of them, six sawed-off Remingtons, and a dagger for each. I want them carried out in one of my armored trucks."
"That should be no problem. I shall take care of it the day before the raid."
Darius shook his head.
"No, no," he said, "make it the day of, preferably at dawn. My men will have time to gear up by midnight, and I don't want Hayler getting his hands on what's ours."
"Very well, sir."
"Right. We shall meet here again tomorrow, gentlemen. Same time."
***
Once outside, Hunter ran into a man amongst the outpouring of disassembling hoods. He was brown-haired with a crew cut, stocky, and appeared to be in his early- to mid-forties. He stood at around 5'7", and wore a face that, yet with the potentiality to be jovial, neither claimed nor admitted to fear.
"Jonathan Hunter?" he asked.
They shook.
"I'm Joseph Macnair, your second-in-command for the assignment. Properly excited, I hope?"
"I certainly am," Hunter responded politely. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Macnair."
"And you. Well, it's certainly an impressive scheme Mr. Darius has got set up here, isn't it?"
"Indeed. And, if I may ask, how have you been getting information on it? I haven't seen you at the meetings."
"Oh, I've gotten one of those newsletters, or whatever it is McClaren is calling them."
"Oh, yes," Hunter replied, "I do believe he mentioned those."
Macnair smiled excitedly.
"Yes, and I shall be waiting on mine today! A tad offsetting, isn't it, for this kind of job? Cutting things a week short, I mean."
Hunter knitted his brow.
"How did you know about that?"
Macnair appeared sheepish.
"Listening at keyhole, I'm afraid."
"Nasty habit," Hunter joked.
"Yes, yes," Macnair laughed. "You must forgive me; I'm afraid I have an insatiable curiosity. Imbued in me at birth, I should think."
Hunter smiled. He judged that Macnair, while stern enough for the approaching job, was not so hard as to spoil his probably remarkable leadership skills, and that he would enjoy serving under him.
"Yes, well," he said, "you're not the only one listening in."
Macnair frowned.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Someone discovered a fly-on-the-wall; an audio bug in the air vent. Probably one of Hayler's men. My bet's on a fiber optics cable or something; something small enough to push the bug through."
"You're joking! I'd have thought McClaren's security measures were tight enough. I know the man; he'll blame himself for it whether he's culpable or not."
"I wouldn't be surprised. I haven't known him for terribly long, but the discipline is obvious."
He rubbed his tired left eye.
"Anyway, it's nice to meet you again, Mr. Macnair."
"And you, as well, Mr. Hunter."
They shook hands again. As the men parted, Hunter's mind immediately turned to other business.
He would not be thinking of security leaks and weapons inventories all day if he could help it.
More tomorrow.
A Wedge in the Door
Rinalsky Auto Repair Centre
London, England (East End)
As the days counted down towards the impending attack on Louis Hayler's compound, the clock's minute hand began to scrape away the dead skin of fear from everyone's resolve. Hunter noticed more cooperation and brighter faces at the conferences, a stronger courage and camaraderie among not just board members, but everybody associated with the mission, and a lighter mood at the complex overall.
His relationship with Caroline had become - if he was asked to describe it in his own words - wonderful. They weren't as the nauseatingly romantic couples one saw on television. Still, they were close, and, while relatively discreet about it, they enjoyed expressing their sincere, heartfelt affection for one another.
Everything in that part of the world seemed...right.
That was until, walking along the hallway in khaki slacks and a joyful stride, Hunter heard the blast.
He, along with several others around him, made an immediate dash toward the source of the noise, which appeared to be in the auto repair garage. His muscles tensed and his eye narrowed as he heard the crackling and smelled the acrid, congestive scent of smoke. Upon reaching the area, a medium-sized room that smelled of rubber and leaked oil and gasoline, he came to an abrupt halt.
There, in the middle of the garage, was a burning luxury car. It appeared to be (or had been) a silver Bentley Continental GT, with several panels removed and most of the rest blown off. It was now nothing more than an utterly ugly metal heap, with a monstrous fire hungrily licking through the machine's every gap.
And there, off to the side of the mechanical carnage, was Michael Ben-Ramon, Rinalsky Auto Repair's most valued mechanic and one of Mr. Darius's most trusted munitions suppliers.
And he was dead.
The body was sprawled pathetically, as if a ragdoll. The arms and legs were splayed about, and there was the cartoon cliché of the eyes shut tightly and the tongue (in this case, nearly) lolling out. Yet nobody laughed. All, Hunter included, had gotten to know and appreciate the young man and his sardonic sense of humor.
But now that was gone.
On the other side of the vehicle was Ben-Ramon's partner, looking dazed and worse for the wear, but potential bruises aside, otherwise unharmed. Someone rushed over to him to help him.
"Lucas," he yelled, "Lucas! Are you alright?"
Lucas coughed and slowly nodded as he rose onto his back.
"I'm alright," he managed. "But..."
He looked around.
"...Michael?"
The man helping him sadly shook his head. Resignedly, Lucas lay back down. A second later, however, he rose again.
"Hall!" he exclaimed in a half-whisper.
"What?"
"Hall! He had us fix his car...you know, white trim...Mr. Hall; Sanderson Hall...he planted the bomb! The bomb in the car! You must..."
The man helping him shook his head confusedly.
"Where's Hall now, Lucas?"
Slowly, Lucas looked past the man and onward. The man followed his gaze, and his eyes widened.
There was a man in jeans and a black suit coat, standing about thirty yards from the events unfolding and staring at everyone without making a single move.
And then he broke into a sprint.
Acting on drive and what his body told him, Hunter rose to full height and began his own sprint in under a second. On his way outside, he grabbed a wrench from the red workbench.
More tomorrow.
The Big Bang Theory
Hunter immediately put the weighty wrench in his waistband. It had been an almost involuntary action, brought about by his years of training and experience in the SAS. Almost simultaneous with his joining, a new method of self-defense for the nation's armed forces had introduced, with the end result being something like the Israeli art of Krav Maga combined with brutally advanced assault and firearm techniques.
It was now, almost ten years later, that he thanked his instructor, Robert Schaefer.
But he quickly refocused his mind on the task at hand. He bounded around the building's corner after Hall and pushed against the smooth, brick wall with his left hand. He used half his mind to force his legs to move, and the other half to focus on his target's movements. Hall was a quick little bugger, he gave him that. But defeat was not an option.
Saboteur and assailant quickly sailed away from the auto repair center and toward the local shops. Both men flew past bewildered residents, hearts pumping blood fast enough for them not to care about much else. Their feet pounded into the concrete, nearly bruising as the legs continued to move in their thin, revolving arcs over the sidewalks. They passed shoe stores, delicatessens, barber shops...
A hawk-nosed, rather large-eared plainclothesman leaning on his squad car looked up to witness the spectacle. Two men (rather well-dressed given the time of day) in an ongoing foot chase, with local citizens looking constant awe at the events. Suddenly alarmed and angered, the officer creased the premature lines in his face in irritation.
"Oi, you!" he hollered. "Stop that at once! Damn it, I said stop!"
He turned to his companion, still in the driver's seat of the unimpressive '97 Ford.
"Get on 'em," he growled, "we need to catch those bastards!"
The hawk-nosed officer climbed into the vehicle and shut its door as it sped off down the street.
As Hunter continued to give chase, he heard a siren about one hundred yards behind. He attempted to hiss a swear, but all his breath was going into his pursuit, and so only managed a harsh "shush"-ing noise and a miniscule vapor of saliva. The shoes and concrete were cutting and slamming into his feet, his arms and legs had grown slightly sore from pumping, his heart beat frantically, and his lungs, though built up from years of running, fighting, and underwater ops, could feel the piercing stab of inability to provide quite enough oxygen as was needed. Still, he had to go on, and so he ignored the pain and quickened his pace.
As Hunter's and Hall's mad dash brought them closer to neighborhoods, the latter suddenly made an unexpected turn into a side street. "Turn," however, was not quite the right word, as he made more of a veer toward a seven-foot wall before leaping and kicking to its top (some feat that Hunter, wide-eyed, figured was only made possible because of the massive adrenaline rush), gripping the brick lip of the roof with his fingers, and pulling himself up to scrabble over the edge.
Hunter sprinted at the wall, leapt, and slammed his left foot into the wall. Where this was coming from, he had no idea, but he simply let his body do its job as he, in one swift movement, pushed off again, planted his right foot against the blessedly close other wall, and kicked off one last time before landing on the same roof Hall had just seconds earlier.
Both men were now on an expansive concrete rooftop, littered with vague scraps of business and industry. Still on hot heels, Hall reached behind him and knocked down a stack of empty wooden crates. Hunter jumped over and through the splintered shower with minor frustration and kept moving.
Hunter looked ahead and almost grinned: there were no more obstacles to throw, no more deterrents. It was a clear trail. So, as Hall paused a very brief moment before making a right turn, Hunter caught up and just managed to slip his foot under the tensed leg. Hall slipped at once, and as he fell, the left side took the impact. Hunter seized his shoulder and flipped him over to punch the angry, pain-wrought face. He recovered quickly, however, and slammed both of his heels into Hunter's chest.
The wind knocked out of him, Hunter fell back into a set of steel pipes. Just as Hall stood up and came over, he recovered and stood in a typical self-defense stance, arms out, legs steady, center of gravity quite in balance. Hunter delivered a swift, brutal roundhouse kick to Hall's neck. He would have, rather, had Hall not ducked. Instead, anticipating the move, Hunter had intentionally aimed low, and now watched as his foot connected with the left side of Hall's jawbone.
Stunned and in a bad daze, Hall did nothing as Hunter delivered a straight-edged chop to the exposed back of his neck and pushed him to the ground. As Hunter stood, literally and figuratively towering over Hall, the downed man reached up and threw a clenched fist into his groin. Hunter crumpled over as the inevitable, almost nauseating pain gripped his stomach. Hall stepped in front of him and grabbed his hands to make a Judo throw, but Hunter, looking past the wrenching pain, reversed the move on him, grabbed hold of his attacker's hands, and threw.
Hall landed at the end of a roll a few feet from him, on his backside. Hunter leapt on him before he could make any moves, and the fight turned barbarian. Both men scratched, clawed, smacked, and shoved each other, getting in punches to other other's jaw or nose whenever they could. Slowly, and without knowing it, the dueling pair began to edge toward the end of the roof. A moment longer of fighting, and the men lost their balance. All available grip went, and...
The one-storey drop was a quick one. The impact onto the concrete - which Hall took the brunt of after being flipped beneath Hunter - jarred and stunned both men to a point of temporary immobility.
It lasted all of a few seconds. As Hunter managed to open his eyes to the light, the first move he made was to maneuver himself above Hall. He procured the nearly-forgotten, nearly-loosened wrench from his waistband and held it high above his adversary, ready to strike at any moment. After about five or ten seconds, Hall opened his eyes, groaning and grimacing. Seeing the vicious man with the primitive weapon, he shut them again.
Again, in the distance, the siren sounded. So they were coming.
"Open your eyes, scum," hissed Hunter.
The scum did so.
The siren grew louder. They could only be a couple of blocks away.
"So why did you do it, then? Why?" demanded Hunter. "Are you intelligence, then? Did you think you would try to bloody catch up to me by blowing away the people I work with now? Because I do work with them. Or are you one of Louis Hayler's men? Trying to bring the fight to us, or whatever that gentleman bastard Hayler would have you say?"
The bloody-mouthed Hall simply looked back, smiling, and cackled through the thick, dark blood.
"I was behind it..." he laughed.
"I know that, you damned insect!" Hunter growled.
Hall laughed again, choking. The blood was congealing in his throat.
The siren rounded the corner, filling and almost piercing Hunter's ear. Leather-bound, steel-capped boots bounded up the pavement behind him.
"I was behind the Big Bang..." Hall said, grinning. "Just call me God!
"I'll call you dead!"
Hunter raised the wrench higher, about to bring it down like a club. But out of nowhere, a hand shot out like a snake and coiled around his wrist. After a moment, the warm, flesh vice forced him to bring the weapon down. As he was inevitably forced down the ground in an audible flurry of shouts, joints cracking, and shells being loaded, Hunter managed a split-second glance at Hall. Well, there it was.
It hadn't been expected. Hall's mouth was caked with blood, his eyes were glazed over, and...his chest was not moving.
Hunter went into a makeshift criminal investigation in his mind as he was read his rights. Had Hall choked on his own blood? Had the fall managed to snap his back? Or had he been battered beyond hope of continuing? No, it couldn't have been that last one. Thousands of people had survived fights far more brutal than that.
But then it stopped. Someone had flipped a switch. Suddenly, so far as what had brought about Hall's demise, or his death period, Hunter was completely uninterested. He didn't care, and, frankly, he didn't even want to know.
He simply followed events silently as his hands were bound and he was shown into the back of a '97 Ford.
More tomorrow.
Deadly Allegations
Jonathan Hunter sat on a dusty, old bench in a dusty, old cell in a dusty, old jail in a dusty, old corner of London.
In front of the cold, steel bars was that cell's single guard, leaning against a radiator. The man wore dark blue trousers, a button-down shirt of a lighter shade, and rough, black boots. He was what some (perhaps offensively) considered the image of a stereotypical East Ender: bulky build, a rough-cut, craggy face, and a shaven head. Arms crossed, his eyes stared out of slits in slimy despise at Hunter.
The cell was one of fifty. It was a secret amongst the general public, used to contain only those who were considered the lowest, most disgusting criminals in the East End. Among facilitators, it was known as the Underground Penitentiary. The subterranean element added the un-pleasantry of a low temperature, leading inmates to refer to "serving cold porridge".
And here was Jonathan Hunter.
Now what the hell had he done? He had rattled the cage of the community perhaps, but damn it, he had stopped a bloody murderer! No, but he wasn't angry about it. He did believe the men who had captured him were being gits, and surely they would have to admit that if ever they came to the truth.
Perhaps...
And there were still the eyes, black pools of disgust that seemed to shout that they could be doing something better, that they didn't have time for such dirt that was this lowlife.
Hunter stared back.
"Well, hell," he said, finally. "I'm sure I'm not exactly the worst inmate you've ever had. So why do you persist in acting like I'm some filth?"
The slits grew narrower.
Hunter exhaled a small laugh.
"Hmm. Let me guess. Your sergeant has told you to, er, rough me up, is that it? Now, the more you rough me up, the weaker I become; and the weaker I become, the more I'll talk. 'So, sonny, rough the bastard up.'"
The slits were nearly shut. Perhaps as a substitute, the lip curled back, revealing several slightly yellowed teeth.
"'Try not to get to angry about it, we don't want government house on our back for having to hose him off the wall.' Is that right..."
He read the guard's name pin.
"...Gary?"
The face continued to tense: pupils only showing, jaw clenched, lips curled back in a wolfish snarl.
"Now listen, jackass," he growled. "I'm just doing as I've been told. And what I've been told is to keep you locked the hell up."
Hunter angled his head in mock curiosity.
"Why?"
"Because," came the bitter reply, "you've been terrorizing our streets, chasing around suspicious men, and messing around with property that isn't yours. Yeah, terrorizing our streets. You know what that makes you? A damn, pigheaded, bloody terrorist."
Hunter's face contorted into a snarl.
He'd be damned.
"Listen, Gary, I don't know what adventure novels you've been reading, but when a man goes around blowing up cars, that makes him a terrorist, not the other - damn, nevermind...."
He could not discuss it; not without compromising his own men.
"I don't know what the hell what you're talking about, and I don't want to..."
Thank God.
"...but right now, you better know that you - are - a terrorist."
Hunter's jaw tightened.
"Allegedly."
"Huh." The guard examined him curiously, as if he was a piece of meat. "Let's take a look at the records, shall we? A man comes running into the streets. Another man - that's you, terrorist - comes peeling after him, allegedly. One of our honorable officers take notice, and takes on after you, allegedly. Meanwhile, while you're engaged in your damned, little rabbit chase, you're scaring the living daylights out of the community, your goddamned fellow man, allegedly. And then witnesses see you two bastards up on the roof, doing your violent little tango that has bugger all to do with us, ALLEGEDLY! Now, you know what, terrorist? Allegedly, you can KISS MY ARSE!"
The eyes, now quite wide open, stared at Hunter, daring him to make a move. So the mongoose asked the snake....
Hunter stared back.
"Allegedly."
Silence.
Swifter than Hunter thought was possible, the guard snatched the keys from his belt, found a purchase in the cell door's lock, turned the keys, and tore open the steel door. He stormed in, snaked his beefy left hand around Hunter's waiting neck, and angled his right high above his head, anxious to deliver a brutal blackout blow.
Before any other moves could be made, Hunter heard a metallic squealing sound, looked behind the guard, and watched as McClaren Darius entered the room, looking as calm as ever.
"You'll forgive me if I don't condone your actions," he called.
Immediately, the guard seemed to go into a capable shock, almost let go of Hunter, and turned around to face the new arrival. He stood straight, back erect, and formulated a salute.
Hunter shook his dazed head.
Bloody kiss-arse....
"Sir!" the guard hollered. "Apologies for the dismal presentation, sir! What is your order of business?"
"First things first," replied Darius. "At ease, this isn't the damned Marines."
Though not showing it, the guard was clearly embarrassed as he let drop the formalities.
"Sir."
"Be quiet about that," replied Darius disapprovingly. "To answer your question, I'm here to file for the release of my associate, Mr. Jonathan Hunter."
The guard flinched noticeably.
"Yes, yes..." he acknowledged, blinking repeatedly, "...yes, of course, please sit...."
Hunter watched for the next two-and-a-half-minutes as the business was conducted.
And that is?
Ten thousand pounds.
Right, do you take checks?
A few minutes later, the guard came into the cell.
"Here, Mr. Hunter, would you like some help-"
"I'm quite capable of standing up on my own, thank you, Gary."
As the two unacknowledged criminals left, the guard turned to face them.
"I really would like to apologize for my behavior," he said. "It was out of line, I had no right to-"
"That's quite all right, son," replied Darius courteously enough. "My associate and I will just be going now; do have a nice day."
The guard simply stared at them in astonishment as they departed.
Once outside, Darius grew silent.
"Damn it," Hunter cursed himself. "Look, McClaren, I know what I did was foolish in how I went about it, and I know I potentially blew our chances at discretion, but I'd like to think I was at least somewhat justified in-"
"Calm down," interrupted Darius in a half-whisper. "Don't worry, don't worry about that. The bastards knew anyway...."
Hunter did a double take.
"Wait, what? Sir, what are you saying?"
Darius stared forward in regret.
"Jonathan, you think you haven't got a reputation among the criminal underworld? Why? Just because you were in intelligence?"
He shook his head.
"Once you're involved with this side of the law, you have to count on people knowing about you. And your reputation, to be frank, Jonathan, is that of a brute. You're a bloody bulldog, for Christ's sake. What happened today was to draw our fire; to draw your fire. Roach was a Hayler, if you hadn't already guessed. They challenged you because they know you're rough, and they wouldn't have challenged you if they didn't know what was up."
Hunter stopped in his tracks.
"Are you saying we've got a leak?"
But Darius looked at him, tired-eyed, not saying one way or the other.
"We've got to assume the worst. There's no telling how much that bug picked up, and now it seems we're looking at a breach that's blown us right out into the open."
Hunter closed his eye and looked down, shaking his head. Hell and damnation....
And then, a thought occurred to him.
"Sir, I realize the attack is planned for four days from now, but we're going to have to move it up a day or two, surely-"
"Tonight."
Hunter stared back.
The single word caught him by surprise.
"Jonathan, thanks to your leadership and cooperation, I think we may just be ready for this. Understand that I would do this regardless of whether or not we were completely up to it - hell, you know I would never pass up the opportunity to deal damage to Louis Hayler's machine - but this way, we might be ready."
Hunter nodded slowly, agreeing gradually.
It was crazy, he knew, but it was the only way.
Damn...tonight.
He would need to meet with Caroline, just in the event it ended up being his last chance. As they walked, he checked in his pocket to reassure himself for the first of a hundred times that he still had the key to her apartment.
More tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty:
Welcome Home
Rinalsky Auto Repair Centre
London, England (East End)
3:07 P.M., BST
As the armored, black Mercedes-Benz pulled into its designated spot, Hunter couldn't help but shake slightly at what was to come.
Well, that was a stupid spectacle.
Lovely stunt you pulled back there.
What were you thinking? You made a right fool of yourself!
He shook his head and massaged his eye sockets. What the hell.
In the seat beside him, Darius growled in a low voice, "Jonathan; let's go."
He wasn't upset, either; rather, he was just as anxious in anticipation as Hunter was. The younger of the two gentlemen shrugged.
"Alright," he sighed.
They exited the car and made for the main building. Darius opened the glass-fronted door first, holding it open for Hunter, who followed closely behind. Immediately upon their entrance, Daniel looked to face them, his omnipresent mask of welcome marred by an all-too-noticeable look of despair. Politely, he nodded his head.
"Mr. Darius," he said. "Mr. Hunter."
Darius nodded back.
"Hullo, Daniel. Where's Stephen?"
"Oh, he's, umm..." (he coughed) "...he's, in the lounge, with the rest of them."
Darius put on a face of grave irritation.
"Right," he muttered. "Thank you, Daniel."
Darius and Hunter continued on in that direction, the latter feeling worried eyes on him as he departed from the reception. The pair walked through the twisting corridors in silence before finally arriving at the staff lounge. Upon their entrance, everyone in the room expectedly, inevitably, turned to face them.
"Good afternoon," Darius said clearly. "I'm sure you're all intrigued to know what's happened and what will come of it, but first I'd like you all to know that we now have back Mr. Hunter. In a moment, we will discuss his relevance to affairs subsequent to this afternoon. As you undoubtedly know, at approximately ten-forty-eight at this morning, a bomb was detonated in our main auto-repair garage, harming two of our mechanics: Michael Ben-Ramon, and Lucas Maconawicz. The blast killed Mr. Ben-Ramon, while Mr. Maconawicz sustained minor injuries.
"The device was detonated inside of a silver Bentley Continental GT, which was to be given white trim upon request. The vehicle was the property of one Mr. Sanderson Hall. Mr. Hunter subsequently pursued him through the streets, and onto a market building. After a brief scuffle, the two fell off the building. Mr. Hunter was detained, while Mr. Hall died from his injuries."
The flashes of victory in many eyes were not lost on Hunter.
"As for Operation Return Message, it's been moved up-"
"Well, sir," came the voice of Wilford, "I think we already know that-"
Darius shook his head.
"It's been moved up. Tonight."
The sudden silence that fell over the room was even greater than the shock and horror evident on every face.
Or perhaps it was the other way around.
"Sir," said Clarke, "are you serious?"
"I wouldn't be telling you this if I wasn't, Harris. Now, this is where things fall from our hands into the hands of our enemies. If you recall, at a previous meeting of ours, Mr. Silvano demonstrated the device that had been used against us to obtain information. Now, despite our best efforts, someone from the outside has managed to place another bug. I don't know how, who, or when, but our security system has been bypassed."
Keeping a straight face, Hunter pondered Darius's words. Supposing it had been an inside job, any man in the room could potentially...but of course. If there had been a mole, telling the men would certainly build a strong resolve to find him, and to bring him down if they did. And if there was a mole amongst them at that moment...well, now he would know that his existence had not gone unnoticed, and certainly no enemy action on his part would be wise at this point.
"Our three-fold security system?" Brown asked incredulously, hanging his voice on the middle three words.
"I'm afraid so, Mr. Brown," Darius replied. "I know neither how it was done, or what measures could have been taken to avoid it. But what's done is done, and now, what must be done, must be done."
"Namely, killing ourselves."
"I wouldn't go that far, Mr. Brown. But we either wait to be hanged, or we tie the noose ourselves and hope we can take the gallows with us."
Further silence.
"And Mr. Hunter will continue to be in full operational leadership for the job, serving under Joseph Macnair. Mr. Silvano will, if I'm not mistaken, have his men deliver the weapons, armor, and fire-starters to us in two to three hours. Is that a possibility for you and your men, Andrew?"
Seeming slightly surprised, but otherwise nonplussed, Silvano nodded slowly.
"Yes," he said, "yes, that should be no problem. They'll be expecting the hell of a raise on payment for the job, but that should be no problem."
"Excellent. All of you involved with the operation are to be present at the underground armory by exactly five-thirty this evening, where you will meet the other members of the strike force. Thanks to the cooperation of Mr. McWilliams and Mr. Price," (both nodded in acknowledgement) "we've been able to pool outside resources, external to our setup at Rinalsky."
"Where are these resources from?"
"You'll see when you meet them, Charles."
"I'm going to have some political objection, aren't I?"
"Like I say, you'll see when you meet them."
In spite of himself, Hunter allowed a slight smile to pull at his lips.
This would be interesting.
"Right," said Darius, "well...if there are no more questions...?"
No desire was displayed to pose any.
"Excellent. Well, you know your schedules, as well as the rough time table which shall be adapted to this evening. Thank you for your time and cooperation, gentlemen. I look forward to seeing you tonight."
As Darius turned to leave, Hunter steeled himself for any barrage of questioning that might come. He was surprised to discover, however, none of the men coming to him, or even turning to face him. Any burning question had had a damper put on it by Darius's address. Well, it was a surprise, but a pleasant one at that. Hunter, too, turned from the small crowd and left the way the he came in.
Having departed mere seconds earlier, Darius was still just a few yards from Hunter. Hunter spoke, causing him to turn.
"Maclaren," he said, "I must congratulate you on a job well done. That was most impressive."
"Thank you, Jonathan, but I've been doing it since I've been in the business."
"That I believe. How long has that been, by the way?"
"I couldn't tell you, to be quite honest. It's all a blur from my crime boss father's first slap to the day I was tommy-gunning a house."
As he walked away, Hunter absorbed the words.
When Darius wanted to say something, he said it; he'd give him that.
More tomorrow.
Through the Grapevine
Kingsland Road
London, England
4:13 P.M., BST
"Forgive me if I don't seem too delighted to see you. I am, but surely you know I wasn't exactly expecting you."
The words came from Caroline's mouth with (Hunter didn't want to say indignation) something of an off tone. Was his arrival unwanted? No, he believed her. Of course she was telling the truth. He would be able to tell if she was lying.
"Well," he said, "I thought I would drop by to see you; see how you're doing."
She looked at him with a bit more seriousness.
"Don't joke. Why did you really want to see me?"
"Truth be told," Hunter replied, "that is the reason. But the truth of the matter is that your father has moved up our timetable."
Puzzlement crossed Caroline's face.
"'Our' timetable?"
"Well, that is to say, the timetable for the operation between your father, your father's team, and myself. The job's been moved up."
"When is 'moved up'?"
"Tonight."
As if a switch had been thrown, Caroline seemed to be suddenly stricken with...panic? horror? Hers became the face of gravity. She looked positively distraught, only to turn moments later to a look of utter resignation.
She shook her head.
"Good God, John," she exhaled. "Don't I get told this beforehand?"
"Told what?"
"That my knight in bloody armor is going to his fate! Oh, God, listen to me, I sound like a schoolgirl...."
Hunter wanted to say something, but refrained. He watched Caroline, obviously deep in thought, as she stared into the carpet.
Finally, she shook her head.
"John..." she said, "...I can't complain. You've done nothing wrong, I realize that. I just want to thank you for coming over, actually. It's very thoughtful."
Jonathan walked slowly over to her, taking her hands in his. He kissed her cheek tenderly.
"My pleasure. But there's still something wrong."
She nodded.
"Yes. There is. It's just that...John, this sounds like a suicide mission."
Jonathan shook his head.
"No," he said. "Dinner with you was a suicide mission."
Caroline laughed in spite of her herself.
"Well," she conceded, "I'll have to give you that. Sorry about that, by the way."
"Don't worry about it," Jonathan smiled. "It's one mission I'm glad I took."
The two kissed briefly, and then Caroline looked up into Jonathan's eyes.
"I'd say the same, Mr. Hunter."
Jonathan smiled. It had been an affectionate verbal gesture, and he could tell.
"But..."
She looked down, and then turned her eyes back up.
"...how do I know this won't be your death sentence?"
Jonathan furrowed his eyebrows in mock frustration.
"You forget who you're talking to. I was removed from active duty for kicking arse too much."
That managed to evoke another small laugh.
"Honestly, though, you must know I've had too much training and experience for this job to be my last."
A smile.
"I'll take whatever solace I can in that."
"Good to hear."
"But surely you must know that I can't exist in my father's machine without word getting around to me."
"I should think not. Alright, what is this word?"
"That there's almost certainly a traitor among you."
Hunter considered. No doubt, she was certainly a smart one.
"I'm afraid that's true. Your father figured as much this morning."
"And I know what happened this morning. That got around to me, too."
"Hmm. I figured I would have to explain myself regarding that."
"I'll admit I'm intrigued, but that can wait until later. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, at least temporarily. I figured you would've been bombarded with questions once you got back."
"To my surprise, I wasn't. I appreciate the thought, however."
"Mm, certainly. But surely a traitor in the midst is going to make things a little more dangerous?"
"Perhaps," Hunter considered. "But I would doubt the spy, whoever he may be, is going to be part of the operation."
"Why's that?"
"An operator for the job would be one of the first to be suspected; it'd be too obvious."
"That makes sense, I suppose."
Hunter slapped his wrist mentally. It was a white lie, he knew. The odds that the traitor was on the strike team were just as great, if not greater, than the odds of him being behind a desk. Would a secretary have more access to spots in which to conduct surveillance? Perhaps, but it wouldn't be easy, and therefore wasn't likely. But an inside saboteur? Hell, he didn't even know. He didn't even want to think about it.
At the least, it wasn't as bad as saying that the Haylers were crippled numbskulls who couldn't shoot straight.
He put on a smile, in part to convince Caroline.
"See?" he said playfully. "It's all right; you needn't worry. I'm on top of it."
She leaned in to whisper in his ear.
"Would you like to be?"
Jonathan leaned out slowly, looking into Caroline's eyes.
Well, he thought. How much she had changed.
And if that was Jonathan's doing...he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was something that arose whenever she came to truly love someone, but, if his assessment had been right...Caroline had never loved a man.
Was that tragic? He wasn't sure. All he knew now was that Caroline had let her guard down to let him in. She loved him, and...there was nothing he could do about it.
And if she had never loved a man, did that mean she had never been with a man? The thought excited him, but he couldn't be positive about that, either. Even if one was in an intimate relationship with her, there was little that could be understood or correctly interpreted about Caroline, least of all her innocence.
She held his gaze, her eyes showing something that would never have been there when they first met.
But what was it?
It was inevitable.
He couldn't tell.
Jonathan closed his eyes and leaned in, pressing his lips gently to Caroline's. The release of endorphins was such that he temporarily lost himself. He brought his hands to her hips, letting them rest there while he swam in bliss.
Caroline parted slowly.
"Thank you again for coming, John," she whispered genuinely. "Really. I appreciate it."
"My pleasure," Jonathan murmured.
"Mm...and this," Caroline said, "is mine."
More tomorrow.
Lock and Load
Rarely had such a room in the East End been filled with such anxiety, determination, testosterone, and assault rifles.
Well, mused Hunter, perhaps in an Arsenal locker room; if not for the assault rifles....
Built two floors below the auto-repair center, Darius's armory (if it could be called such) was any defensive strategist's dream. Theoretically, it couldn't be found. Even its entrance was kept a secret from certain members of staff. It was more of an oversized meat locker, really, with little space for moving about freely. Still, it served its purpose, and that was holding bodies and weapons.
Several men marveled at the armaments. Silvano had had his men bring what he had promised, and in neat order. Several open, steel boxes had had their contents removed and placed on racks according to category. Pistols, submachine gun, assault rifles, shotguns, and grenades of many sorts were placed in individual sections on the wall of the armory, the deadly gunmetal blacks staring back at the men, guaranteeing to make good on their promise to bring some death to enemies tonight.
Although light machine guns and long-range explosives would not be required, there were several containers' worth of improvised flammables and fire-starters. Acetylene torches, Molotov cocktails, even some containers of gasoline were included, along with potassium bombs and the sort; perfect for the job they would be doing.
It was as Charles Jackman leaned against the cold, brick wall, filing his combat knife, that there came a coded knock from above. Conor McWilliams turned and maneuvered to the source of the noise.
"That must be them," he said in his thick accent. "I'll get it."
Jackman looked on in his untrusting curiosity for a few brief moments as inaudible words were exchanged and McWilliams returned with a group of rough-looking men, ranging from their twenties to their forties. Most had beards and scars, some using the former to cover up the latter. At least two of them had the scent of whiskey on their breath, and their mean eyes glared at anyone who dared to look into them.
Jackman was one of those who dared. He dared, and did so with a snarl. He could tell by the blatant cultural stereotypes just who these "pooled resources" were.
"So, McWilliams, care to tell us who your friends are?"
Unperturbed, McWilliams complied.
"Certainly, Charles. Everyone, this is Clive Moran, Benjamin Gallagher, Cillian Brady, Seamus O'Leary, and Liam Macmillan."
Everyone in the room looked on, mostly out of sheer awe rather than fear (though the latter was still evident amongst some).
"Yes, yes," said Jackman, "I've been looking forward to meeting you. It's certainly a pleasure meeting you bastardly lot. Now, McWilliams, just where the hell did you pool this band of scoundrels?"
One of the newcomers stepped straight forward. He gripped Charles's collar, the smell of tobacco and alcohol clearly evident on his breath.
"If you must know," he growled, his accent somehow even more Irish than that of McWilliams, "we're proud members of the IRA."
"Huh," Jackman replied simply. "How about that. Very impressive, Conor, though I can't say I approve of the stench. Now, Mr. Irishman, as much as I love your soap, I think you'd do well to get your hands off of me."
An animalistic growl pierced the air from out of the Irish attacker's throat. Immediately McWilliams stepped forward.
"CHARLES! I think you'd do well do keep your views to yourself before you get that soap shoved up your-"
"Gentlemen."
Inevitably, the husky voice of Darius.
"Let's at least try to retain some level of civility for our guests. It's very nice to meet you, gentlemen; I assume Mr. McWilliams has informed you of the job and your place in it?"
Reluctantly, the man who appeared to be the lead member let go of Jackman's collar. (At least, Hunter assumed him to be the leader; very few underlings would have taken such offensive action with such little provocation.)
"Yeah," he said, still glaring at Jackman. "Yeah, we've been told."
"Excellent. Now, we've got flak jackets on the far wall if you need it, or have you come prepared?"
"We've got armor, thank you, Mr. Darius. Each one of us has got our own golden claws, but we'll still be needing some heavier stuff."
"Perfect, gentlemen. Now, automatic weaponry is on this wall...."
The IRA men followed Darius to said wall, accompanied subtly by McWilliams. Meanwhile, Jackman walked up to Hunter.
"Bloody hell," he swore sourly. "You'd think even a man like Conor would've found us something a little less scrounged-up. I mean, for Christ's sake, these bastards are bloody savages in our own home!"
Hunter eyed him suspiciously.
"Honestly, Charles," he replied, "you're being too closed-minded here. Just by the looks of these guys, they're good assets. You need to look at the big picture."
"A bleedin' lot you can look at with that dead-in-the-water eye of yours...."
Hunter gritted his teeth, his jaw steeled. The veins protruded along his jawbone, and the tense muscle flexed beneath the stubbled flesh.
Stay calm, John.
A deep breath, exhale...a deep breath, exhale...
What a cheap cliché.
"Look, Charlie," he snapped, "these guys are professionals."
"Professionals under contract who love wet work for the red face paint it gives them."
"Damn your conceptions to hell, Jackman. Conor's men do us a lot of good, whether you want to believe it or not. That's not even the question; you know it's true. They're more than ready for this kind of a job, which is more than I can say for some of us."
An all-too-perfect example popped up in Hunter's peripheral vision: a man in full armor, cleaning a sawed-off shotgun, looking nervous.
Everyone had been told the same.
Don't be nervous about getting killed, or else you'll have reason to be.
Hunter shook his head and concentrated back on Jackman.
"Why are you telling me they're so bloody ready? Because they came equipped? They're a bunch of drunken brawlers; they've just gotten used to it. Of course they're gonna show up in Kevlar."
"You forget the golden claws."
Jackman snorted in superioristic humor.
"That's just a bunch of brogue talk, Johnny, don't you see that? They put up a front and use it as their identity. What can 'golden claws' even be, anyway? Just some Catholic charm or a chip off the blarney stone or something. They're just superstitious; think it'll keep them protected."
"Bloody hell, you must be blind. Don't tell me you didn't notice the glints of light on their legs; the bulges in their clothes."
Jackman stared at him with a queer expression.
"John, are you...are you saying they're loaded?"
"Without a doubt. Waist down, too. All of 'em. A shiv and a Magnum each."
"Bloody hell, are you serious?"
"Completely. Anyway, I'm pretty sure of it, and I wouldn't put it past them."
"But how do you know they dressed to match?"
"The on you chatted with damn sure had a bulge in the belt, but so did the rest of them. The blades, too; anyone who's been doing it long enough can hear the subtle shift of a knife. Make no mistake, they're loaded; they're just good at hiding it. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't be surprised if I was the only one who noticed; Darius too, maybe."
Jackman stared at the ground wide-eyed, breathing heavily in reaction to this new knowledge. Whatever prejudicial conceptions he had held before, they weren't doing him any good now.
Hunter stepped past him to head toward the Irishmen, patting him on the shoulder as he walked past.
"Don't worry," he said reassuringly. "You'll only get your arse handed to you if you make a crack about whiskey."
He came up behind the man called Clive.
"Mr. Moran," he greeted.
The orange-haired man turned.
"It's nice to meet you. My name's Jonathan Hunter, I'm second-in-command on this operation."
He offered his hand, and the two shook graciously.
"Clive Moran," the bearded man replied gruffly but sincerely, "first-in-command of our little operation."
Hunter smiled.
"It's a pleasure. Conor got you fellows out of Ireland, then?"
"What tipped you off?" Moran snorted humorously. "He did, as a matter-of-fact. Straight out of a tavern in Dublin, if that doesn't surprise you. We met, started talking each other up on plans for some revolution, and our fellow McWilliams over there got a little, er, 'inebriated,' I think is the term, and started more-or-less spilling his guts over Darius and company. I'm sure he trusted me, and I introduced him to my motley crew, my ragtag fabrication as it were. That must have been ten, fifteen years ago."
"That's quite a story, Clive. Just fortunate for us you ended up here, I suppose."
"I reckon! Anyway, for what it's worth, I don't want you thinking we're...well, IRA IRA, if you get me. The men you see here are all cut from the same cloth: we all tried to get in with the big players and have some hand in turning things in a different direction: militant terrorists without heed for civilians, no; agents of justice who weren't afraid to use violence, yes. Of course that didn't work out, but who would expect it to? Point is, if it's in the newspapers and the obituaries, it's not us. We just maintain some vague association with them to keep up appearances for...well, things like this. Make no mistake, anyone of us here is a real bastard of a bruiser, but we use discretion. I suppose McWilliams could tell as much about our nature when he met us."
"No doubt. Conor is a good man."
"He is. So is Darius, from the looks of him. How'd you get involved with all this, by the way?"
"To tell the truth, by just that man. I used to be in the British Secret Service."
Moran's eyebrows raised.
"Apparently, I had developed what they call a 'rampage streak'; or a 'mentality of brutality,' or whatever the devil they did call it. So, Miss SIS herself sets me up with a team of psychoanalysts who take a peek inside my brain and decide I'm not being fair in the schoolyard. I was spilling too much blood, taking too many chances."
"Damn," Moran commented regretfully. "What a glaikit call. That's not called brutality, that's called taking matters into your own fists."
"Well, it's what they called it."
Hunter almost shook his head.
"So they decided I was a liability."
Moran stared at him.
"A rogue agent."
Hunter considered, and shrugged.
"Yeah."
Ten minutes later, and all in the armory were suited up who needed to be. Macnair stood at the front of the room, his stocky body demanding a presence of its own.
"Alright!" he hollered. "Head 'em up and move 'em out!"
And in an attempt at a single file line, the soldiers of the recently-designated Ignis Company marched up the stairs. Hunter followed along somewhere in the middle of the mass-en-masse, cradling his submachine gun and feeling the weight of the Kevlar on his body.
If all went well tonight, Hayler's machine would have no tongue left to lick its wounds.
More tomorrow.
Spot and Tag
Fourteen men.
Automatic weapons.
Barrels of accelerants.
And enough munitions to blow a hole in Parliament.
All these sat in the back of the armored Ford transport truck, all poised at the ready. The beast rumbled down the road, smoother still than the SAS trucks of Hunter's military past. It was one of three others in a convoy, falling in to be second in line. The leading car held first-in-command Macnair. As had been perhaps coldly but logically decided, if anything happened, they couldn't afford to lose two birds with one throw of a stone.
Jonathan sat in the middle of the bench on the left side of the truck, looking at the stern, stony, determined faces on the other side. He tried his damnedest to withhold any significant shred of sympathy for them: firstly, because they were professional soldiers who needn't require sympathy; secondly, because a single lapse in self-interest and -protection might just be the end of him.
As the wind whistled past, Hunter stayed firm in his mentality: a mentality of preparedness, of resolve, of determination.
He cradled the Heckler & Koch to his chest, the steely cold of the UMP mingling with the moist warmth of the sweat-riddled spots. He rested his chin almost on the barrel, feeling the dark circle's edge play at its cleft. A grim vigor bore down on him, pulling at his mind as the reinforced fabric pulled at his skin. He flexed his muscles, and took a deep breath to allow his body to regain some sense of ebb and flow.
Someone would die tonight, and if he was lucky, it wouldn't be him.
He shut his eye.
It wouldn't be him.
The sound of a tiny bump or click in his hear, and Macnair's voice crackled.
"Ignis Eight, this is Ignis Five. Do you copy?"
Jonathan wetted his lips.
"Copy that, Five. Send message, over."
The numbered call signs were for show, of course. It was a child's trick to convince any opposing forces that had intercepted their radio traffic that their numbers were greater than they were.
"Ignis Eight, confirmed we are within one hundred meters of IZ."
Infiltration zone.
"Read?"
"I read you, Five. Confirm, our boys are locked and loaded. Suggest you check on Two, over."
"Already done, Eight. Get ready, over."
"Copy."
Hunter looked up, and examined the faces around him.
There was childlike fear; there was adolescent eagerness; and there was an experienced fervor, visible in the eyes of those who weren't new to the game, and of what of Conor's men were in the truck.
He swore he could see some of the hairs on their beards prick up.
A bare, compressed half-minute later, the trucks slowed and ground to a halt. Hunter stood and barked:
"Up! Up! Up!"
And with his voice, up stood thirteen other men, along with the loud clicks of firearms.
"Alright, out! Let's go, let's go!"
Hunter unlocked the rear door, opened it gingerly, and stepped out. His third of the attacking force followed suit, the rubber soles of their steel-capped boots striking soundlessly on the rain-dampened asphalt. Roughly half of them bore tarpaulin satchels holding liquid flammables and plastic explosives, the former sealed in metal containers.
Hunter shut the rear door and regrouped with the squad on the deserted sidewalk. Wordlessly, with him and Macnair at the front, they maneuvered to the street corner. Then, after a brief pause, they broke into a full out, silent sprint across the block.
Their target was in sight: Hayler's industrial compound. It was the only one of its kind, having been acquisitioned in the late 1950s. Contained within a highly industrial area, it had managed to stay under wraps; save for the necessary sacrifices of those who had discovered it, it had lived as confidentially as could be hoped.
And now the bastard behind it would be brought into the daylight.
Better yet, he'll never see it at all.
Darius had learned from his sources that Hayler always kept two snipers on guard, hidden behind two ventilation ducts at the front of the building. Similar measures were missing from the back, however; surely he had rear guard enough.
Two of the black-clothed men stepped forward, producing small, dark bags. From within these, they extracted several metal puzzle pieces; they put them together, snapping, twisting, and unfolding until two Dragunov sniper rifles were in their hands. Their bearers leaned around the corner, inching, one standing above the other.
"Bernard, confirm you see your target," the first whispered.
"I'm having trouble discerning it. Location?"
"Third floor, far left. Right under the deactivated light pane."
"Hold on...got it. Anderson, you have your man?"
"Yeah...I've got him in my sights. On my mark."
The fingers tensed.
"Three...two...one."
And in less time than it took to exhale, two silent blasts screamed forth and the armor-piercing bullets found their marks. One split-second later, two men arose from the top of the building, weapons poised.
Just as quickly, the silenced barrels rose as one and spat out their single shares of lead. Both sentries dropped immediately, but...the movement of limbs caught in Bernard's eye. He refocused, steadied his aim, and fired. The round hit home.
"Death from below, eh?"
It's victim, however, had been close to the edge. A hand folded over the side...and an arm, and a torso....
"No, no, no, no, no, no...."
The pelvis scraped over, and the legs, and finally the whole body dropped off the roof. It pitched down the side of the building, like some stupidly spectacular paperweight dropping off a desk. A bare two seconds, and the body hit the concrete with a thud.
"Shite," muttered Anderson. He looked away and grimaced.
Macnair looked on.
"Bollocks. Alright, we'd better get going before they find the body."
"Better yet," someone chimed in, "we make a choice. Either we hide it, or we use it as a fake hostage."
"Nice idea, but negative. Even if he were alive, he wouldn't matter to them as a hostage; and by the time patrols do come back, all hell will have broken loose."
"Well, then," said Hunter, "let's break lose that hell."
More tomorrow.
Forcible Entry
The body was left behind. The squad moved up and split into three. Macnair and his men would go through the left side entrance, Hunter would lead his men through the front, and Lieutenant Bryce would take the right with his.
Hunter's group stacked up by the front door. A man with a small, red tank stepped forward, flipping down a pair of goggles. He went to work, melting the steel hinges off of their frames. Thirty anxious seconds later, they were off. The double doors fell as one, and were subsequently caught by two of the group. They set down the now-scraps of metal as the welder disposed of his equipment.
"Five, this is Eight," Jonathan uttered into his microphone. "We've got the doors down. Your progress? Over."
"Copy. Been inside for about twenty seconds, no guards to speak of yet, over."
"I read you. Proceeding inside. Wish us luck, out."
"Roger."
At the head of the group, Hunter stepped inside, weapon raised. It was a small hallway, completely unlit. All that could be seen at the end was a reception desk, winged by two additional halls.
Damn.
"Well, I hate to do this," said Hunter, "but we're gonna have to split up. I want Saunders, Cohen, Mann, Gallagher, Penn, and Moran with me. McGuire, you lead the rest. Can you do that?"
McGuire, a man in his late 30's with stubble, nodded.
"Aye, sir."
"Good. You take the right, we'll go left. See you on the other side."
McGuire nodded.
"Alright, boys," he said, "let's go."
Hunter took his men the other way. If ever he was glad to have a leader in the group....
He pressed on. They went mostly without trouble for about ten seconds, until shadows appeared from around a corner. Their owners showed up soon enough, and were quickly taken out by two suppressed shots from the IRA men.
Their bodies fell soundlessly.
"Nice," whispered Hunter. "Moran and Gallagher, you take point."
If the shoe fits....
They moved on through the hallway, taking out whatever patrols presented themselves. Eventually, they reached a small office room, laden with printers, fax machines, computers, and telephones. Curiously, the lights were on.
Penn spoke.
"Either the janitor's got his head up his arse, or we're being played."
Mann turned to Penn ironically.
"What do you think?"
"Well," said Hunter, "we'll try it anyway. We didn't come here to not get in a fight; but stay down and keep your mouths shut."
Moran opened the glass door, keeping his UMP raised with one hand. Creeping inside, he held up his left hand behind his head and waved his fingers forward. On cue, the other six followed in behind him. As they stepped gingerly across the gray carpet, Hunter watched Moran swap his gun hand, reaching his right hand into his pocket to do...something. His hand twisted and contorted, still invisible under the black cloth.
Almost at the end of the miniature office, he paused right before a copying machine. He placed his gun in his right hand, holding up his left hand behind him to signify that they should halt. He slung the weapon around his left arm, letting it hang at his side. He tensed himself and, using his left foot, kicked the machine.
A slim man leapt out from behind the copier, shouting and making a jump at the intruder before him. But Moran was quicker.
He grabbed the man's collar with both hands and rammed his knee into his stomach. The surprise attacker doubled over immediately, but Moran shook his face upward. With vigor, he punched hard across the man's jaw.
The guard passed out immediately, his head lolling to the side. After just a few seconds, rich drops of scarlet blood began dribbling out of his mouth. Reexamining the scene, Hunter could see why.
A closer look at the Irishman's hand showed a bronze knuckleduster wrapped around his fingers. He had noticed the bulge of it in his pocket before, but...now the damage was obvious.
Bloody hell, what a sight.
"Nice one, Clive."
It was Gallagher.
"Thanks, Benny. Wanker got what was coming to him."
He lay his fingers on the metal hand-weapon, but hesitated.
"On second thought...bloody hell, it'll mess with my shooting, but I might just keep this on."
"Do what you think is right, mate."
Gallagher switched off the lights, and the team moved on through to a more industrial-looking area. There were more pipes now, and definitely more metal.
"Of course," said Hunter, "we all know what happens when you do what you think is right. Just ask Louis Hayler."
"Yeah, but Louie's playing for the other team."
"You can say that again," said Saunders.
He laughed.
"Yeah, but does it really matter what side you're on after all? In the end, all that matters is how many bullets you've got in your chamber."
Hunter considered.
"We'll see about that."
They rounded a corner and met a metal door with a single glass pane at the top. Each man looked through: it was one large room, with machines and controls everywhere. The place abounded with not only equipment, but guards.
Moran clenched his jaw.
"Bloody right, we'll see about that."
More tomorrow.
Go Loud
Hunter hesitated, then made a decision.
"Alright," he said. "Moran, Gallagher, you stay at the front. I'll stay right behind, and everyone else, on me. Stay low, and not a word."
A thought occurred to him.
"Hold up...damn."
He put a finger to his ear and pushed in the bud.
"Five, this is Eight. We've found the complex, over. Status?"
"Just the same, Five. Running like clockwork, aren't we? Over."
Hunter smiled.
"Too right. I'll check in with Three, unless you've covered that too...?"
A bark of a laugh from the other end.
"Nah, you've got us there, Eight. Check in on 'em; we're ready when you are, over."
"Copy. I'll let you know. Out."
"Be damned," came the voice of Cohen. "I swear I pitched McClaren the idea of multi-channel mics, but-"
"Splendid story, Richie, but I need to get on the line with Three. Anyway, he's had the things for years, and they work fine. The money was just a bit better concentrated on the tools for the job, don't you agree?"
He switched channels.
"Ignis Three, this is Ignis Eight. We've found the main complex. What have you got? Over."
"Not yet, Eight, but we're working on it. Let you know when we - hello, what's this? Huh, I'll be damned. Scratch that, Eight, just reached a foundry. Plenty of iron, plenty of hired guns. Fit your description? Over."
"Sounds like it, Three. That makes three of us, by the way; we're all in place."
Wait...no, damn....
"Sir," said Penn, "what about-"
"Yeah, I just realized that."
"Say again?" asked Bryce.
"Don't worry about it," said Hunter. "Clear it with Five if we can get this ball rolling at..."
He checked his watch: 11:02.
"...five after."
"Copy that. I'll pass word along. Out."
"Sir," repeated Penn, "the other half of our squad. What about them?"
"Quite frankly," sighed Hunter, "I should've thought it through a bit better. We've got one radio for each company, and that doesn't leave us much of an option with the others. If they make it, they make it. If not...well, we can't sit around on our arses all day."
"You're not even giving them five minutes?"
"One-and-a-half is all I'll do, sorry. If they do show, then either they can get us out of a jam, or they'll get to partake in the victory song. Aye?"
Penn went silent.
A moment later, and the bump-crack sounded in Hunter's ear.
"Come in, Three."
"Eight, we got the okay from Five. Your clock read 11:04?"
"Roger that."
"Then we're good. Enjoy the carnage, over."
"Hopefully, all theirs."
"We'll see what we can do. Out."
Taking deep breaths, Hunter forced himself into a state of calm.
Right. It was almost go time.
Hunter kept his eye on his watch. In a flurry of thirty-seven seconds that seemed closer to ten, Hunter checked his gun, re-checked his gun, and....
"Go!"
Mann dragged the door open. The iron barrier opened quickly enough, and as the team moved through silently, he retook his place at the back of the group.
They stepped along the catwalk gently, not daring to draw attention to themselves. The top of a crate in front of the guardrail protected them from being spotted, but they were still only on the second of three levels. They had to be careful not to be spotted from above.
Bryce's voice came in hushed through the microphone.
"Eight, I've got two words in from Five. Read?"
"I read you, Three. What's on the memo?"
"First, we're in, so we're in. Names don't matter; good chance they'll know who we are when they see us."
"Especially me."
"I'd say so. And, oh yeah, second...weapons free."
"Copy. Out."
Hunter peered out from the guardrail, spotting a close-together group of guards one floor down.
Good.
He could take them out all at once.
He put his hand to his ear.
"Macnair, I've got a group of men on the first floor-"
But a black speck played at the corner of his vision, passing from his peripherals into his line of sight as it flew right into the center of the cluster of men. A split-second later, the small, black orb burst into a ball of flame, consuming the unsuspecting mercenaries. They fell to the ground, inevitably the last place they would ever be.
Hunter pressed his fingers against his earpiece.
"Macnair, what the hell was that?!"
"I-"
Static.
The connection cut. He tried tapping the bud twice, to no avail.
He hissed.
"Son of a bitch."
Looking up, he saw two armed technicians take notice of him. He raised his UMP and fired a spray of bullets that felled them instantly.
He looked down to the first floor, where he saw Macnair and his men. Hunter composed a questioning hand signal. In reply, Macnair tapped two fingers against his ear bud and used the same hand to draw a slit across his neck. He ripped the microphone from his ear and tossed it to the concrete floor, crushing it with the heel of his boot.
"Bloody waste...." muttered Cohen.
"Shut up," Hunter shot back.
Without warning, an alarm sounded. The claxon pounded against the dead air of the night, droning into the skulls of the infiltrators.
"Shit...not that quiet'll do you much good."
The night was yet young.
Young and bloodthirsty.
More tomorrow.
Firebomb
Before anyone could make sense of it, guards came rushing into the factory. They came in by the fives, pouring in all the time.
Hunter uttered a profanity.
"GET DOWN!"
The other six men dove to the ground instinctively. The quick move saved the skin of five of them, but unfortunately wasn't quite fast enough for one.
Cohen.
One round of a directed spray struck him in the chest, drilling into his right pectoral. The bullet shattered on impact, the shards of the pellet nestling themselves among the Kevlar.
He landed, shut his eyes, and hollered in pain.
"Damn...."
"What is it?"
"Man's been shot."
"Is it fatal?"
Gallagher shook his head.
"I don't think so. Here, he's been shot in the right pec. How you feelin', lad?"
Cohen breathed in deeply, and exhaled.
"Not too bad," he shrugged. He checked under the Kevlar and examined the wound.
"At least you didn't scream real shrill like a girl, hey?" Gallagher smiled. "If you're out, count yourself out. Otherwise, try to bite the bullet while we fend these guys off."
Cohen stayed sitting down. The rest of the squad attempted to expand their firing position, but ended up remaining stationary behind the railing. There wasn't much leeway, but they got off potshots as they could.
After a break in the sparks from his side, Penn leaned out from behind the cargo container and squeezed off a burst at two reloading guards, and ducked back in just as more bullets went whizzing by.
"Place is flying with so many rounds," he commented, "I'm surprised we haven't gotten the oxygen sucked out of the air!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter spotted a guard on the top level. He had his gun drawn, and was looking down at McGuire's group. (So they had made it!) Hunter aimed up and fired, hitting the guard and making him tumble forward over the railing, down to the concrete floor.
And again, something played at his peripherals: the shadows of two guards, rushing around the corner to attack. Hunter aimed down the sights and fired as they came. Both were hit and twisted to the floor immediately.
A moment later, and there was a break in the fighting.
"Alright," Hunter shouted, "GO!"
They dashed out of cover, getting in shots where they could. There were shouts and cries and fallen men, and Ignis Eight made its way around the corner and down the stairs. They rushed the guards, shooting the men still standing and beating down those they missed.
By the end of it, no one was remaining save for a small group of men on the top floor. The rest of the team on Ignis's side of the fray soon joined them, weapons held high. Macnair looked at Hunter, looking almost surprised.
"Glad you could join us, Joseph," said Hunter. "Decide one grenade wasn't enough to blow our cover?"
Macnair looked irritated.
"Well, you wanted a firefight, you got a bloody firefight. You would've gotten the same damn deal regardless."
"Well, I'm not out for hurt feelings. I just want to be a little more pragmatic about things. Shall we?"
"Hunter."
It was Bryce.
"Unless you've forgotten about our friends...."
He looked up.
Hunter examine the mass of bodies before him. He slung his UMP around his shoulder and picked up a grenade launcher from a rather short corpse, weighing it in his hands. He aimed it at the left side of the top catwalk and fired.
The projectile shot fast out of the barrel and landed on the steel walkway, exploding and killing anyone there. Amidst cries, he repeated the process on the right side. The voices stopped.
"Reed," Hunter said as he dropped the weapon, "you have the fire starters?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Then let's torch the place."
"Now, wait one minute," Macnair protested. "You tell me to be more cautious, and yet you're just going to assume there aren't any guards waiting in the wings? any who are coming to surprise attack us?"
Hunter looked at him grimly.
"Look. We came here to burn the building down, and that's what we're going to do. If we get ambushed, we get ambushed. But trust me, we'll kill the bastard. If you don't want to help, fine. Just don't be a bloody fool about things."
Macnair was silenced. Those assigned the task removed and unzipped their bags, taking out the small canisters of gasoline, of potassium, of butane. "Canisters" was, perhaps, an understatement; more frankly, they were bombs. They were distributed amongst the men who would be using them.
"To McClaren," said one, and tossed his.
The weapon hit the second floor catwalk and exploded on impact, bursting into a massive orange flame. Another man did the same, destroying a first-level electric machine. The task was repeated by more and more of the squadron as homemade chemical bombs blasted into hellfire and set the foundry aflame.
Moments later, and the plant was a fiery wreck.
"Okay," Hunter exclaimed, "let's go! Everyone head out the way you came in!"
He led his men back up the stairs as the rest retreated their own ways. They rounded the corner and headed back out of the factory.
"Men," he instructed, "I want you to keep dropping those metal Molotovs. This place needs to go down, and the authorities can't know we're the ones that did it."
At the order, hands reached into pockets and removed their explosives, tossing them into hallways and side rooms as they went. The flames could be heard crackling all around now, licking the building to its inevitable death. The orange glow lit up the walls, and the heat began to get intense. Hunter felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead and wiped it away with the back of his hand.
The sweat poured out of him, the blood pumped through his veins, and seven names pulsed through his mind.
McGuire. Samson. Grey. Decker. Ivy. Donald. Hayden.
And one more...
Macnair.
More tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
On Its Head
The men of Ignis Eight marched on through over their own tracks, leaving a trail of pyrotechnic destruction in their path.
Hunter stopped when he heard a click in his ear.
The radio. He put a finger to the bud. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead held his tongue. He heard a man's unintelligible voice in the background, strong and fearless.
The rest of Hunter's squad fell to a halt, looking at their superior.
"He alright?" asked Penn. Another shushed him, staying quiet to listen.
"You're down some men since last time I've seen you, aren't you?"
It was Bryce on the other end. More of the voice in the background, followed by a heavy breath through the ear bud. Then:
"Yes, you've got the firepower. But I've still got my men. Do you really think the odds are in your favor?"
What the hell...?
"You want to play traitor, you go right ahead. But do anything more, and it'll be quite literally over my dead body...Joseph."
Damn.
Hunter clenched his eyelids shut.
Damn, damn....
Before he knew it, the metallic sting of bullets sounded in his ear. There were screams, cries, and he could almost hear the lead tearing into their flesh. The hail of fire held steady until the last body thudded to the floor.
No...it couldn't have happened...it couldn't have....
But it had.
He could hear fingers handling Bryce's earpiece, pulling it out and rolling it around.
"Your dead body...yes, that's the idea."
Macnair's voice drew closer through the microphone.
"You know, your jackass friend really ought to be more discreet about things. Whoever this is, give up now. You haven't a chance."
A sharp crack, and the line cut to static.
That bastard had betrayed them; had betrayed all of them.
Well, he couldn't win.
"Come on," Hunter said, his voice leaden. "Let's go."
His men stood frozen, staring at him with morbid concern. Then, following his lead, the men continued on, remembering to keep their bombs on hand.
"What's happened?"
Hunter barely registered the question, much less who asked it. But they must know.
"They're dead."
"Who?"
"Bryce, his men; they're all dead."
Scattered expletives, followed by:
"...who killed them?"
"Macnair."
Moran stopped in his tracks.
"No. No, THAT ____ING ____! No, he...I swear, I will kill that ____ next chance I get."
"If you want to," replied Hunter. "But whoever first gets the chance kills him. Hell, this sounds like a bloody bounty I'm putting out. But we will make sure he's dead, and if not that, at the least, we'll make sure he doesn't take us down, too. But look, we've got to keep moving, and don't forget to toss those things where it needs burning. Let's go, let's go!"
They ran on through, pounding on feet and flames until they finally reached the entrance. They bounded down the stairs and didn't stop moving. The whole complex was now a flaming wreck, looking like it had been dropped in a furnace. Fires crackled out of windows and on the roof; the smoke they issued forth was thick and choking. With all the damage the structure was taking, Hunter didn't doubt it would collapse soon.
As he dashed past a dumpster, he saw a sight that he had to double-take to verify.
Standing behind a chain link fence was the remainder of Ignis Eight: McGuire, Samson, Grey, Decker, Ivy, Donald, and Hayden. They stood in a line, examining their weapons;
the same weapons being pointed toward them by five men of similar uniform.
Their hands held high, they had been lined up execution style, one-by-one. The only difference was, they had been made to face their executioners. They stared into the eyes of the ugly machines that would end them: the guns, and their possessors.
“Now.”
Hunter could only watch in horror as one third of his comrades were gunned down point blank, right in front of their faces. The flashes from the UMPs immediately ended whatever future these men might have had. Blood splashed in droplets and streams as their bodies, like ragdolls, spun and jerked and dropped to the cold, hard ground.
They were dead.
They were dead, and there was nothing that could be done for them.
Before a second could pass, one of the firing squad's members' head whipped around, and its eyes latched immediately onto the sole remaining detachment of Ignis Company.
Before he could raise his weapon, three guns flared and cut him down. The other four turncoats spun to look, and met the same fate.
"Mother of..."
Penn.
"It's just us. It's just us. I...so they're all dead now?"
Hunter nodded grimly.
"Almost."
"'Almost'? What the hell is 'almost'?"
"There's one left. Macnair."
Of course.
"Look," Hunter said, "I hate to break a promise, but...all of you get back to the convoy. You take the first lorry you can find, or take different ones, I don't care. Just all of you get the hell out of here."
Gallagher stepped forward.
"Now, look, John-"
"McClaren put three of us in command. One's dead, and the other's a traitor. You'd better leave now, because I don't want any more blood on my hands."
Gallagher looked at him for a moment, analyzing the invisible messages in his lone eye.
...it wasn't worth it. He wouldn't relent, and he certainly wouldn't change his mind.
Hmm...almost like a reflection.
"Alright," Gallagher conceded. "Everybody, let's go. We haven't got time to waste."
Ignis Eight pushed on and made for its escape.
Minus Hunter.
Minus half its men.
But they weren't alone. He was.
And he wouldn't let Joseph Macnair live to see the dawn.
Right; now that we're back to routine, more tomorrow. (Ah, there it is....)
Betrayal in Red
Hunter un-slung his UMP and let it drop to the ground. He withdrew his sidearm and slid the rail back. He was on a one-man hunt, and bearing the loose, extra weight would help him none.
That aside, he only had one problem: where the hell was Macnair?
He took three steps forward, paused, and crumpled to the ground as he felt the butt of a submachine gun crash into his neck.
Hunter dropped to his knees and put an arm out for balance. He felt a kick to his right arm, knocking the Walther out of his grip. Acting on an instinct, he swiveled on his foot and jumped up to meet his attacker. His head rammed into the stocky man's chest and drove him back. The man fell back against a brick wall, the breath knocked out of him.
And there he was: Macnair. He glared back at Hunter, an animal ferocity in his eyes. Macnair rushed him, grabbing him by the shoulders and driving his knee into his stomach. Hunter doubled over, but recovered quickly enough to dodge a right cross and drive his fist into Macnair's jaw.
The breath flew out of the traitor's mouth, and as he grabbed his jawbone with his left hand, he seized Hunter's attacking right arm. He drove his heavy thigh into the left side of Hunter's ribcage, grazing the kidney around his back. Hunter instinctively grabbed his side, leaving his flank exposed. Macnair drove his knee into his groin at an angle, leaving the lower half of his leg to hinge downward and his foot to strike into Hunter's left kneecap.
Hunter doubled over from the first brutal blow, and stumbled to the ground from the second. Eyes shut, he grimaced in pain. To finish him off, Macnair seized him by the shoulders and slammed his chest into his enemy's. Hunter felt the hard impact. His mouth hung open as he tried in vain to breath. Finally, Macnair placed the bottom of his boot square on Hunter's chest and pushed. His target fell backward to the concrete, his head hit the ground, and he blacked out.
Through his temporary unconsciousness, he seemed to hear a shift of metal and the distinctive lock of a revolver. Seconds that seemed like entire minutes passed before he came around. His eyelids squeezed shut, almost subconsciously trying to clear his vision before he could try to see anything.
Hunter opened his eyes, and stared down the barrel of a silver revolver.
It was small, relatively speaking; not to say that it wasn't intimidating. Its metallic sheen glanced down on him, and he could feel it playing on his nose and mouth. There was an inscription on it, etched in cursive.
The barrel led to the chamber, led to the grip, led to the hand. The hand, tensed, its veins protruding, played out from the arm of the man holding the gun; that man, with the eyes of a devil and the face of a brute.
And the inscription?
Dublin.
Hunter stared back into the acid-coated orbs, green and mutant.
"You bastard."
Macnair looked back at him.
"Why? Because I took this from one of your Irish friends? Or because my cards read different from what you thought?"
"I must admit, a little bit of both. But even scum like yourself can imagine that treachery is a disgusting act for someone like me."
"Someone like you? A civil servant?"
"Someone who's born the Coat of Arms. I may have been given the boot, but I know my loyalty. Someone who plays their allegiance is no better than a bug on the ground."
Macnair smiled cruelly.
"Mm. And let me guess? You'll squash that bug? I've quite enjoyed playing my allegiance, Mr. Hunter. But not 'playing' as in a game of Bridge; 'playing' as in stage."
Hunter stared back at him, confused.
"Bear with me, Mr. Macnair, but I'm afraid I've got a bit of a headache. What's all this talk about playing?"
"Oh, well then let me put it this way: you'd be a damn fool if you thought I was just sitting in my office one day when I got my epiphany, saw my options, and went to the other side."
He turned his pistol left and right, miming the act.
"I was with Hayler since my early days. He just convinced me to bugger with you and your resources."
Mother of....
Was there an end to it?"
"Well," as if that was all to be said about it. "My compliments; and again if you were the one who got the other five to pull the inside job. You really are the devil of a man."
Macnair barked a laugh.
"Appreciated, Jonathan! And I'll admit I had a hand in their collective change of heart - all of them the most financially challenged of McClaren's men, all of them won over by the promise of a pay raise! But to be honest, I'm surprised - or, perhaps, just pleased? - that you didn't manage to find me out."
"You had your peculiarities, I'll admit that."
"But you never managed to uncover it! Perhaps it's that that's really gotten me."
"Well, then I'll tell you what's getting me. Why didn't you break McClaren's machine, destroy it, earlier?"
"My dear fellow...you might think of me as a sleeper. I wasn't activated until recently, partly because of your boss's big plan. Don't ask me what the other part is; you can take that up with my employer. Personally, I think it was because of you. Your boss thought we were getting too strong, and I've got to figure my boss thought the same of the Rinalsky's, or whatever we called ourselves."
"Don't say 'we,' you're either one or the other. And so far as I can tell, you're the other."
"Is it that simple, John?"
"When you kill my friends, it is."
Macnair shook his head almost sorrowfully.
"You're putting everything in black-and-white, my friend. Not everyone is just good or evil, especially in our line of business. Hell, we're criminals, for heaven's sake! So who knows? Maybe the dividing line isn't there; maybe it's invisible to the eye. Maybe the dividing line is between the living and the dead: you're either one or the other."
He trained the pistol and cocked it.
"And you, Mr. Hunter...are the other."
He steadied his aim, tightened his finger, and fired.
More tomorrow.
Felt Arsenal
Hunter felt the shot enter his stomach like a white-hot blow. His abdominals tensed around it as if trying to absorb it. His lungs hit a brick wall and, eyes bolted shut, his head dropped against the pavement. Against a thick mist of searing pain, he opened his eyelids and managed to make out Macnair, looking...puzzled? frightened?
The weight in his stomach lightened, and he found the oddest feeling: relief. It was as if he could breathe freely now. It was only after a moment that he noticed, looking down, that there was no blood. He could already be experiencing a horrifying paralysis, but...
And that was when he felt it.
No bullet.
He had been tensing his core, waiting for the shot to come; but it never had. He had felt the actual, physical pain when he had heard the gun go off, but that had been the fear, dread, and adrenalin stabbing into him; no such bullet wound. The defense mechanism of extreme muscle tension had caused more pain than anything else.
And the round...?
Hunter looked to his right, and then his left, and found it stuck into a newly made cavity in the ground beside him.
So what had happened? Surely Macnair couldn't have missed at that range...?
Hunter replayed the moment in his mind. There was the cocking of the pistol, and the gunshot, preceded by...a bizarre whistling noise.
Looking up, he examined Macnair for the first time. His arm was still held out, the hand gripping the pistol, his face in a flushed state of incomprehension. Right below, his throat was now coated in a sheet of blood.
The thick, scarlet stuff glistened in the moonlight. It dripped down his neck in fat rivulets, soaking into his shirt. The wet warmth of it spread down to his chest and began to coagulate at the wound. The world was fading in and out, moving this way and that.
As he swayed, Macnair fell backward, hit his head, and died.
Hunter looked at the gruesome death scene, not thinking of its theatrical end, but wondering what had caused it. He observed the splayed arms and legs, the fast-growing pool of blood, the revolver still loosely in the hand's grip. And something else....
Lying there, next to the dead man's arm, was a bowler hat.
Before he could think, a shadow appeared on the wall in front of him. It was thick, muscled, intimidating; a short but nonetheless powerful build. As Hunter watched, it started to move forward. The shadow loomed closer, and he began to hear footsteps behind him. They grew nearer and louder, and eventually he saw a polished, black shoe stride past his peripherals.
A leg, two legs, in gray slacks followed. Then the coattails, and - good heavens, the hands. They were yellowish in color, apparently nail-less, and built like cinderblocks. There were rough calluses on the hands, presumably developed over the course of years. The striking surfaces on their fleshy outsides were almost blunted, bringing to mind the unfortunate ends of wooden boards and human necks.
Eventually, the full figure came into vision. As it stepped into the light, Hunter could only marvel at its stature.
Short, and built to a miraculous degree. The man was as a boulder put into human form, filling out his black manservant's suit impeccably as the fabric struggled to keep up with his muscles. The arms, too, appeared to be as big as a man's thighs. The collar closed up on a powerful neck, leading up to the bright, glowing face. Not that it was a jovial face, but rather, it shone with the same yellow radiance as the hands. Under the short, dark hair, the brown eyes examined the corpse intently.
He kicked the body once, and smiled, satisfied. Stepping over the dead man, he retrieved the bowler hat and replaced it on his head. Then, he faced Hunter.
Getting a good look at the face now, Hunter could make out the Asian features. The eyes stared back at him as neither an enemy nor an ally. Rather, they simply appeared focused; they were carrying out business.
He grunted once in a commanding manner, using his hand to beckon Hunter.
"Ah!"
The manservant walked over and helped him to his feet. He pointed once to Hunter, and then to himself.
"Ah, ah."
Taking this as an order to follow him, Hunter took on the man's footsteps. Stealing one last glance at the traitor's corpse, he rounded the corner with the slightest limp. They walked out the way the team had come in, and arrived to the sight of one armored vehicle and a yellow Rolls-Royce Phantom. So they had escaped in two of the lorries.
The man with the bowler hat opened the Rolls' back door and let Hunter in. He then shut it and took a seat up front. As they drove away from the bright, burning scene, Hunter noticed two moving shapes in the distance. As he looked closer, he could see that they were both bearded men in black, with bright orange hair, sprinting hell for leather down the sidewalk.
He smiled in spite of himself, somewhat victoriously. Two of them had escaped.
Well, that was two less on the death list, anyway. The same, he reflected mournfully, could not be said for most of the others.
Torn from his thoughts, Hunter looked up to find a letter being handed to him from the front seat. He took it, opened the envelope, and read its contents.
Mr. Hunter,
as you read this letter, I wish that you might reflect fully upon its text. I hope the accommodations as of yet have been satisfactory, and that Oddjob (the gentleman with the bowler hat) has displayed kindness and openness to his typical standard. Now, I am sure you must be wondering why you are in your current state and location. To be quite frank, I have heard of you and your infamy, and your talents, to say the least, interest me. To the point, I would like to offer you (shall we call it?) a business proposition. Think of it as a deal between new friends; think of it while you sleep; but don't think of it too much, as I want you to get proper rest before we finally meet.
Where is it that we shall meet? As I'm sure you are wondering, I shall tell you. My manservant, Oddjob, is taking you to Heathrow Airport for a British Airlines flight to Geneva. Yes, Mr. Hunter, Switzerland. I intend to welcome you into my factory and, at present, home. I hope that you might agree with my offer, and that we might soon become friends. Whatever the outcome, Mr. Hunter, I look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely yours,
Auric Goldfinger.
Hunter read it twice, three times, and thought he must have gone mad. A business offer from Auric Goldfinger? Criminal mastermind, one of the many lords of the illicit underworld?
Good heavens, he must be joking.
But before Hunter could process any further, the hand had again reached out to him, this time proferring a black duffel bag. Taking it into his hands, he noticed the label reading For appearance. He unzipped and found inside a plain black suit, cream-colored shirt, dress socks, belt, and polished black shoes. To the side were two towels, a bottle of amber rubbing alcohol, and another, clear bottle labeled Fein's Cleaning Water.
Looking up at his chauffeur, Hunter saw the opaque divider go up between the front and back.
So that was the game. Fine then; he could do to clean up before catching his flight.
***
Thirty minutes later, Hunter was in a black suit, white shirt, and bore no trace of the night's events. The cleaning water had surpassed his expectations of a cheap perfume, and had left his skin feeling fresh and cool, smelling almost masculinely floral.
Hunter knew they had arrived when the vehicle rolled to a halt. He let himself out, and was promptly handed a black carry-on case. Oddjob, his own luggage in hand, gestured to the main terminal, and the two killers entered Heathrow International Airport.
Following the typical pomp and circumstance that accompanies international travel, both men were made to walk through a metal detector. (To Hunter's surprise, the manservant made no such noise as was expected with his peculiar steel-rimmed hat.) Remarkably without interference or trouble, they then boarded the plane. It wasn't until Hunter took his seat in first class that, with Oddjob next to him, he realized just how tired he was. His destination, the companion who would travel with him during travel...he didn't care. All he cared about was closing his eyelids and getting rest.
He stayed awake only long enough for the requisite listening to in-flight instructions. In the five seconds following, he let the plush leather absorb him, taking him away to the land of unconsciousness and unawareness.
The last thoughts that crossed Jonathan Hunter's mind before departing from his homeland were of Caroline Darius and the only twelve good men he would ever meet in the IRA.
At least a bit better, I hope, than randomly carrying around an invitation card from Goldfinger in his pocket. More tomorrow!
Chapter Thirty:
Arrival in Geneva
Hunter wasn't sure what woke him first: the bright light pouring in from the airplane window, or the yellow hand tightly squeezing his shoulder.
If the latter had been an effort to rouse him, it had certainly worked. He peeled back his eyelids and sat up, subtly stretching the tendons and ligaments that had sat in the same positions the whole night over. The soreness from last night's battering was painfully apparent now across his torso and arms, and made him wince as he massaged them through the linen. He gently perked his ears to the cool, female voice coming over the intercom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing in just a few minutes. I would ask that you please fasten your seatbelts and put your seats in the upright position. Thank you for flying with British Airways, and enjoy the remainder of your flight."
Hunter fastened his chair straps as instructed. The jet touched down a few moments later, and both he and his peculiar companion departed from the airliner to the air-conditioned comfort of Geneva International Airport. Luggage in hand, they stepped outside to greet a fast-approaching Rolls-Royce Phantom.
"Impeccable timing," muttered Hunter, and realized that they were the first words he had ever spoken to the manservant.
His luggage was taken and placed in the boot. Oddjob opened the back door, gestured, and took his seat next to Hunter. As the car picked up acceleration, Hunter noted that it was the same model and color of the car as the one that had picked him up in England. Well, if it was an obsession, it was in good taste.
As the minutes passed, the scenery morphed with quaint subtlety into the countryside. It traded straight-lined streets for curving roads, snaking this way and that along through the lush green landscape of Switzerland. The sky, too, was a perfectly clear sapphire, breathing softly down on the lush grass in little gusts of cool breeze.
Inside the Rolls, Hunter admired the gaily stark beauty. For all the locales his intelligence days had taken him too, this had never been amongst them. To be in such an exotic region, completely free from anxiety and duty, was both a treat and a testament to the natural Helvetian geography.
His marveling was put on a short hold when he felt movement next to him. As he turned to look, the man Oddjob was handing forward his bowler hat to the driver in front. A moment later, he received what appeared to be the exact same object in return. But, it couldn't be the same...could it?
He put the thought out of his mind as he returned to the landscape, thinking he could see a picnic in the grasses below. He was distracted again several minutes later, however, by the apparent arrival at their destination: a small heliport, reading Auric Air above the windows. He and Oddjob got out and made their way into the brick box that resembled a storefront. Oddjob nodded in acknowledgment to the man behind the desk, and filled out a paper that was slid to him across the wooden top. While the Rolls-Royce pulled away, he took Hunter through a back door and onto what appeared to be an airfield; a rather small airfield, as it was, for it only featured one aircraft.
The two men made their way toward the single-prop, orange-and-white helicopter in the middle of the tarmac (which, Hunter estimated, must have been no more than fifty meters in length). The pilot was leaning against the door, smoking a cigarette. Upon glancing at the well-dressed servant through wisps of gray, he silently nodded and stubbed it out, grinding the tobacco into the ground with his foot. He took his place in the aircraft, as did his passengers.
Hunter buckled his safety belt for the second time in twelve hours. He looked straight forward as the bird took off, letting his mind wander. And as he meditated, he thought not of the coming moments, but of his current situation.
Booted from intelligence...welcomed to the criminal underworld...how far he had come. In the past twenty-four hours, he had torched a building, killed a syndicate traitor, and unwittingly led several men to their deaths. No...he hadn't done that; not the last one. But now what was there? He had left his home, his friends, his lover...what the hell was there to do about it? Perhaps this business offer, whatever it was (and whatever his response to it ), would provide leeway enough to let him return, at least temporarily. Otherwise, it seemed like one grand mess of unfinished affairs; a great circle, cut off from completion just as its outline had grown thick and dark. There would have to be something: some explanation, some reunion of parties that would put a period to the as-yet ellipsed sentence.
Perhaps he would never be able to return...the thought chilled him.
Surprisingly (though little was surprising given both recent events and lack of sleep), these meditations took up the whole of the flight, short though it was. Without his knowledge, they had entered into the mountains. White blankets of snow coated nearly every surface, and ridged silhouettes of mountains proudly stood erect through frozen mists. Undoubtedly, the air outside would be harsh and crisp.
A balmy subzero.
Hunter peered out the window, and gazed in wonderment at what he saw. There was, unquestionably, the Auric Enterprises building, sitting like a proud bird on its mountain of a pedestal. Frosted with snow, it must have run the length of a football field. Only two stories were visible, built of metal and glass and featuring raised roofs, presumably for reception and the like. As the bare two levels hardly seemed to constitute any sort of "Enterprises," Hunter assumed that there must be more below.
The helicopter hovered for a few moments over a circled, yellow "H" in the middle of the helipad. Seconds later, the machine touched down and began to shut off. Hunter and Oddjob stepped out of the bird to be received by a white-coated guard bearing an assault rifle. He had a brutish, leaden face, though Hunter could hardly blame him in such a climate.
"Come with me," he said in a heavy Swiss accent.
They did so. The three stepped inside and descended down a set of red, iron stairs.
"Are you taking us to Mr. Goldfinger?" Hunter asked.
The guard nodded.
"Ja. He will be very pleased to see you, Herr Hunter. He speaks highly of you, and has put away his work today that you might do business with him."
Hunter noted the Swiss pronunciation: the "w" was a "v," the "s" made a "sh". He liked the man; in spite of his outward appearance, he seemed genuinely welcoming.
They made their way across two long hallways, both carpeted in grayish-green, and into a small office. The receptionist there, a petite woman with black hair and bright eyes, looked up at them with a smile.
"Thank you, Otto," she said. "Gentlemen, you can go right in. Mr. Goldfinger's been expecting you."
Hunter smiled back at her politely. As Otto made his way out, Oddjob opened the door and stepped inside. Hunter followed, shutting the door behind him. He was inside a lavish reception, with teal carpeting and a huge glass window at one end. The view was fantastic, showing off snow and mountains as far as the eye could see. There was a solitary wooden desk in front of it, and behind that sat a largish man with sparse blond hair. As the two newcomers entered the room, he looked up from his work to examine them.
He set down his pencil, stood, and walked down a small set of steps over to them.
"Ah, Mr. Hunter," he said graciously, "at last."
There was a beaming smile on his face, clearly just as much out of pleasantry as out of true excitement.
"Welcome to Auric Enterprises. I am Auric Goldfinger."
More tomorrow.
Chapter Thirty-One:
A Golden Offer
The introduction had been unnecessary. Even without explicit identification, the features and body were unmistakable. Hunter had seen them more times than he could count in dossiers, mission folders, profiles. A notorious character in the criminal world, he was especially known for his peculiar obsession with gold. Only a small handful understood it, but his associates simply accepted it as part of his nature.
Even more notable was his connection to the terrorist organization SPECTRE, the special executive for counterintelligence, terrorism, revenge, and extortion. He had maintained this as an exceptionally well-kept secret, though it had eventually been discovered when he was seen wearing the organization's signature octopus ring in a surveillance photo.
It was that very ring that Hunter looked at as its bearer's hand extended toward him.
Hunter reached his own hand forward and grasped it, receiving a firm handshake in greeting.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Goldfinger," he said. "I'm Jonathan Hunter, though I'm sure you knew that."
Goldfinger laughed. He had a thick face and body, somewhat jovial and yet still businesslike. His roundish head was crowned by a semi-circle of golden blond hair. Hunter thought that he had a boyish face, but with a man's mannerisms nonetheless.
"And nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter. I trust your ride over was comfortable?"
Hunter nodded.
"It was, thank you. Oddjob has been very accommodating."
"I'm very glad to hear that, Jonathan."
A first name basis, then.
"As an assistant, Oddjob is very helpful, so I am glad to hear he has been a successful travel companion as well. Now, you may have noticed, my friend, that he wears a rather peculiar hat...."
"I have, yes. In fact, he got a chance to demonstrate it."
Goldfinger's eyes widened.
"Did he now...?"
"He did. As it happens, I was in quite a bit of a tight spot when he found me. I daresay he put that hat to excellent use."
"Ah. Well, then.... Given that demonstration, I suppose you may have figured the nature of the hat: It's steel-rimmed, making it quite lethal to send across one's neck, or various other parts, for that matter."
"I could imagine."
"You were probably wondering, then, why he did not set off the metal detector at either airport. Yes, Jonathan, I know he didn't. You see, in such situations, Oddjob wears a similar hat, of similar design, but which is rimmed with a sort of hard plastic. It can still be deadly if used properly, but it obviously does not have quite the same impact or effect. For that reason, Oddjob hates wearing it. In fact, it was arranged for him to revert to his original style of hat when he arrived in Geneva."
So that was what it had been about. Well, he couldn't blame him; being without a gun in many situations made Hunter himself feel naked.
Looking at Oddjob's extraordinary bowler hat, a thought occurred to him. He had seen the same man with the same headwear before...he thought. Had he? He surely must have. Was it...?
Of course. How could he forget?
It had been some months ago, in that MI6 assessment room in London. The raid on Fort Knox, the gunfight in the gold depository...and a short, muscular fellow wearing a bowler hat. It had been used to lethality, taking the life of a virtual U.S. Special Forces soldier. Hunter was stunned that he had failed to make the connection previously, even given several hours to recollect it.
He guessed that intelligence must have based it on surveillance they had taken of Goldfinger. But then he remembered that look...that look in the eye from the manservant that he had not been able to figure out. Surely it was a coincidence, for the whole mission had been a concoction of holographic light and brainwave signals. That had been an entire detachment from real life and any events within.
But damned if it wasn't the biggest coincidence he had ever come across.
"Yes," managed Hunter, entering back into the conversation. "Yes, I can imagine that would be an unpleasant lacking for him."
Goldfinger nodded in agreement.
"Indeed. Now, Mr. Hunter," (Back to business, then?) "if it's perfectly alright with you, I would like to get down to affairs."
"Certainly, Mr. Goldfinger."
While Oddjob stayed at the front of the room, Goldfinger beckoned Hunter to his desk. The two sat down as if an applicant and employer. Goldfinger, with his back to the glamorous view of the mountains, would certainly be the superior.
"Mr. Hunter," he began, "you interest me. That is more than simplified, because you utterly intrigue me. Technically, with the knowledge I ought to, and do, have on intelligence agents, I had heard your name years ago, but it was different. You were merely a name among names that were useful for me to know for my own convenience. But nevertheless, these names, as much or as little as I knew about them, were ones that I kept tabs on. So, when I discovered you had left the British Secret Service," (Hunter briefly considered interrupting to better specify this statement, but thought better of it.) "I found myself wondering, 'Why?'"
Hunter looked at him, intrigued.
"Go on. I'd love to hear your thought process."
"Very well. I knew not very much about you at the time, but I decided that perhaps it was time that I did. I soon discovered your record of - as your former agency calls it - recklessly violent actions and compulsive brutality. I must admit, I was impressed, not least of all by your keeping up these tactics for two or three years before action was taken. By this time, you had begun what I discovered to be your association with the men who work under the crime boss McClaren Darius. I had some of my men in England keep watch of you, and see what came of it.
"Oh, Mr. Hunter," he said, amused, "they were quite impressed with your skill in chasing down that man who had killed your friend. My condolences, of course. But your daring, your boldness, your ability; all this that I perceived to be in you, it whetted my curiosity in a way that you can not imagine. But still, I asked myself, why would a former MI6 agent decide to join one of the largest covert crime syndicates in England?
"So, Mr. Hunter; why would you?"
Hunter looked at Goldfinger, playing with the question in his mind. After a moment, he shrugged.
"They had given me the boot. I needed a challenge."
"And a little bit of payback, am I right?"
Goldfinger's face was excited to receive the answer. If he had been a dog, Hunter was sure he would have been salivating.
"Well," Hunter said, nodding slowly, "I suppose so. Yes, in fact. You really know your guest, a stranger, too well."
Goldfinger laughed.
"Well, surely you know that the 'R' in my organization's name stands for 'revenge'. Regardless of department, I think you'll find, if you haven't already, that your interests mesh perfectly with ours; or, mine. I do not wish to sound either insistent or demanding."
"Of course not, Mr. Goldfinger. But, while I am obviously aware of my own interests, and I believe I have the gist of yours...what exactly, pray tell, are your interests?"
Goldfinger, perhaps nervously, looked down at his desk, then back up at Hunter.
"Mr. Hunter..." he said, "...Jonathan. I have heard of your skills; of your charisma; of your spirit. I think your physical and characteristic personality would be not only of great use to our organization, but also of great credit. So, here is what I want to know. Would you like to become a member of SPECTRE?"
By the way, there's supposedly a scene where Goldfinger (in the film of the same name) is wearing a ring that people have claimed has an octopus on it, but I've also heard that's not true. Anybody who can shed some light on this? Just curious.
More tomorrow.
I'm looking forward to more, great story so far.
@Murdock: Haha nice. Each to his own, though - I admit DAD can be good fun at points! Very cool about your character, too; I'm assuming he's in something you've written/you're planning to write? Do tell, if you don't mind. :) (And thanks!)
Chapter Thirty-Two:
Dangerous OMENs
A part of him had seen it coming. But still, that did not stop him from being completely taken aback.
What kind of a question was that? "Would you like to become a member of SPECTRE? to become an international terrorist and risk getting killed now more than ever before?" Good heavens; one didn't simply ask that in a straight-out question.
But he had. He had, and, like any question, it required an answer.
There was nothing Hunter could do but try his best to formulate his thoughts into some kind of appropriate response.
Well...did he?
If it's what I want.
Well, what did he want?
Hunter was immediately taken back to that night in his flat. He wanted the adrenaline thrill that came from leading a life of danger. That he certainly would not be missing out on. So, a checkmark in that regard.
And the retribution angle...he'd be damned. As satisfying as it had been, perhaps his crime web life had been nothing more than a nuisance to English law enforcement. He had never thought about it in that light, but...yes; it was true. Subconsciously, that opportunity had passed; and now...this.
Hell would freeze over before a greater opportunity was given to him.
So, perhaps in his mind, it had been decided. Still, he needed to ask some question before he took him up on it. Anything, it might even be useful to him....
"Mr. Goldfinger," he asked almost apprehensively, "what is the average life expectancy for a member of your organization?"
Goldfinger shrugged.
"No greater or worse than that of a British intelligence operative. Of course, life is full of surprises and challenges. I suppose it would depend entirely upon what exactly you would like to do. We have many positions, though I can think of a few that would suit you particularly well."
Well...he could hardly argue with that. If he must be won over like this, so be it; as long as it satisfied his objectives....
Hunter looked down at the desk, and then forced himself to look up at the giver of this extraordinary proposition.
"Mr. Goldfinger..." he said, "...I would like to join your organization."
That was it. The words were out.
He only wondered if they had seemed as much of an anticlimax as they had felt.
Across the table, Goldfinger smiled widely.
"Excellent!"
He rose to his feet and extended his hand, which his newest associate then took.
"Welcome to SPECTRE, Mr. Hunter. It shall be a joy having you amongst our ranks. I sincerely hope you enjoy your time here. And now, Jonathan - if I may call you that - , I would like to show you something. You might think of it as a welcoming demonstration. Follow me, please."
***
Four minutes and five floors later, Hunter, Goldfinger, and Oddjob stood in one of the central laboratories of Auric Enterprises. There, in the middle of the room, sat a metal-and-glass cylinder maybe five feet in circumference and a foot-and-a-half in diameter. It glowed light blue in the medium lighting, dying the skin of those around it in an artificial sapphire.
Goldfinger stood before it, proudly admiring his creation.
"There it is...the OMEN. The Organic Mass Energy Neutralizer."
Hunter observed the foreign contraption with an almost fearful curiosity.
"The thing's fantastic, Goldfinger; not to mention a doubtlessly unique name. What does it do, exactly?"
"The thing is, first and foremost, Jonathan...a weapon."
Hunter examined it curiously, stepping forward to get a closer look.
"Not your average popgun, then, it looks like?"
Goldfinger laughed.
"Certainly not, my friend. While it's rather difficult to explain, I shall do my best. In short, it seizes energy from whatever source we provide it; any number of things you might imagine. It compounds that energy into a measurable supply, but one which is still stable. Mr. Hunter, that container is the only thing keeping you from being vaporized."
The sweeping statement momentarily stunned Hunter.
"If that energy were to be released...well, you can only imagine the aftermath. I would be gone, you would be gone, and our friend here would lose his hat. But, truth be told, that is precisely what the controls are meant to do. I have had my scientists design them, and their basic purpose is to focus the release of that energy upon a specific target. However, as events stand, that target system has not been fully developed yet. At the moment, all that a release would do would be to utterly destroy everything within its immediate radius."
Hunter could only marvel at the artificially beautiful weapon that stood before him. The brilliance, the lethality...he would not have been able to imagine it before this day.
The question must be asked.
"How exactly do you plan to use it, Goldfinger?"
"Ah."
He appeared to consider this.
"I have my enemies, Jonathan. We all do, but myself especially. With such a grand number of hostiles, I could not continue on with my business without absolute assurance that I could rid myself of them."
"So it's a security blanket?"
"Not exactly. Like I said, I have my enemies; but some are bigger than others, and require a more diligent watch. Think not of this as a revolver on my bedside, but rather as a sniper rifle on my rooftop."
Hunter thought about it. A peculiar analogy, but he could see what he meant. Surely a man in his position would need more protection than what a meager security force could provide.
"Unfortunately," continued Goldfinger, "such a great device comes with a set of its own problems."
"Such as?"
"You cannot expect to possess a machine like this and not anticipate your enemies to discover and try to steal it. I expect any day now that those who I am less than friends with will make their best effort."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the steady beating of helicopter blades began to fill the air from outside.
Goldfinger looked around.
"What is..."
Suddenly, two climbing ropes appeared outside the laboratory window. Two men in white camouflage swiftly followed, brandishing submachine guns. They opened fire, shattering the panes, and used their forward momentum to smash through the glass.
Hunter watched as several lab technicians, Goldfinger, and Oddjob all threw themselves behind the floor, taking cover behind desks and tables. With no other option, he took cover behind the glowing weapon he had been observing just moments earlier. A single cry sounded from Goldfinger's position.
"Hold down the OMEN!"
More tomorrow.
Defensive Positions
With no gun and little room to move, Hunter was by no means in the best position. Surely two armed guards should not be a problem for them, but...
An idea occurred to him. As Goldfinger peered at him from behind cover, he pointed a few inches to the man's right and made a gun with his first two fingers. Seeming to understand, Goldfinger retreated back behind the desk, returning a moment later with Oddjob's sidearm. Quietly and subtly, he slid the Browning Hi-Power across the floor to Hunter.
Taking it in his hands, Hunter took the safety off and stood up. He twisted to face the soldiers, took a split-second to analyze their positions, and shot them both dead with a round to the head each.
All present stood up hesitantly. Goldfinger examined the scene and rushed over to Hunter.
"Most impressive, Jonathan," he commented in awe. "But we can almost certainly expect that there are more of them. This must have just been their primary offense."
"Do you have any idea where they might try to enter?"
Goldfinger thought.
"The basement, most likely. There's a clear climbing route into it. Of course, there will be troops elsewhere, but my men can take care of them. Karl, lock the rest of the complex down!"
He looked around, apparently completely perplexed by the situation.
"Jonathan," he said, "I think you and I both know why they're here: they've come to steal the OMEN. Well, I won't let them. You'll need to get to the basement and do what you can. My other men will be down there, holding them off, but I'll need you to evacuate them. Keep as many hostiles in there as you can, and destroy the core ventilation system."
Hunter looked at him, puzzled by the plan.
"The core ventilation system...?"
"In the basement is where I have my mineral processing plant. Due to the fumes, it's a sealed area from the rest of the building, so I installed a ventilation system for the workers to breathe. If you destroy that, the troops will suffocate from lack of oxygen."
"It's a solid plan, Goldfinger, but...how am I to get out?"
Goldfinger looked at him seriously.
"I hope for both our sakes that you can hold your breath."
Taking a dead troop's pistol and three spare clips with him, Hunter raced down to the basement, passing throngs of struggling mercenary and defending forces. When he reached a cargo-sized elevator, he jabbed the call button and rode it down. The doors opened at the bottom to reveal a fascinating scene.
The mine was huge, perhaps a quarter-mile in length. The walls were of brown rock, reflecting the glowing orange of smelted metals. There were great machines of iron and steel everywhere, processing gold, silver, platinum, and scores of other minerals. On the stairwells, the catwalks, and even near the railings, men were struggling to take each other's lives and to save their own.
Hunter raced toward the nearest defending soldier he could find, and made a gesture indicating he was friendly.
"English?" he asked.
The man nodded.
"Ja."
"Goldfinger's sent me down here to get all of you out of here."
"What?"
The guard looked confused.
"He thinks we can kill the enemy soldiers if we destroy the core ventilator. Get on your radio, tell your men to evacuate."
The guard conceded, and spoke rapid German into his radio. He received a response, and turned to Hunter.
"They're retreating now. Some are pinned down, but they are getting out."
"Good," Hunter nodded. "Tell me, where is the core ventilation system?"
The guard looked out from cover and pointed to a giant, metal cylinder at the far end of the room.
Oh, hell....
"There are two," the German informed him, "right on top of each other."
"Do I have to destroy them both?"
"That depends if you want all of them dead."
"Right."
Hunter poised himself at the edge of his cover, counted to three, and sprinted. He dodged bullet after bullet, sparks just resonating by his feet. Of course, only a portion of the enemy's attention was being directed toward him, but nonetheless many of the attackers seemed intent upon killing him specifically.
As his dress-shoed feet moved in a rapid blur, he watched with half-minded satisfaction the defending guards make their way to the many elevator escapes. Miraculously, he only had to fire off a round two, three times as he made his way to the far side of the mine.
When finally he reached his destination, he took cover behind a processor. He had just noticed a guard on the other side, who thankfully had failed to spot him. Carefully, he crept to the corner, stepped up, and lashed out.
The gun barrel had struck the soldier right between the eyes. He instinctively put his hands to his face while Hunter caught him with a left hook, kneed him in the stomach, and drove an elbow into his back. The man crumpled automatically, his weapon dropped next to him in the struggle. The soldier now unconscious, Hunter picked up his weapon, an M4 Carbine. He looked under the barrel and, surely enough, found a grenade launcher.
Well; it was his lucky day.
He spotted the enormous ventilation mechanism on the wall nearest him. Raising up the rifle, he steadied his grip, aimed, and fired.
The projectile shot straight at the cylinder, shattering the glass casing and blasting a hole in the metal. Hunter reloaded and performed the same trick on the bottom machine. The immediate effect was the same, but he soon found the whole contraption shuddering. It struggled, groaned, and finally crumbled, nothing more than a mess of useless engineering.
Taking to heart Goldfinger's words, Hunter took in several quick, sharp breaths and then a deep gulp of oxygen. Luckily, with the hostile troops distracted, the trip was made somewhat easier to the nearest elevator, about thirty meters away. Even still, the lack of air was torture on his demanding lungs. Nevertheless, he eventually reached the iron door and pressed the button, rushing in immediately upon its arrival. He fired off rounds at three or four soldiers who tried to join him, and watched as their comrades started to choke and gasp.
Moments later, the door shut closed, and Hunter collapsed into a seated position in the corner as he began to hyperventilate.
***
It was five minutes later that he sat in the OMEN laboratory, several of its desks and cabinets in a complete shambles. More attackers had indeed showed up, but had been quickly dealt with. Much was owed to Oddjob, who had put both his sidearm and his hat to good use.
And now, Goldfinger stood before him, refusing to believe the events. He shook his head, back and forth, back and forth....
"How?" he asked aloud. "How? I had foreseen an attempted theft; I told you that. But why did I not prepare for such an event sooner?"
"Well," suggested Hunter, "I can understand your position. But for the moment, I would just take solace in the fact they didn't manage to nab your OMEN."
Goldfinger nodded subtly.
"Yes...yes, I suppose that's true."
"That aside, I've thought of something."
He retrieved an enemy's sidearm from the floor. He returned to Goldfinger and placed it in his hand.
"Does this tell you anything?" he asked. "Anything about the make or some marking that'll help you find out who this was?"
Goldfinger examined it with a serious look on his face. Whatever the weapon was, it told him something.
"Yes," he said, "there is. A Colt M1911, with a red laser sight under the barrel."
"Is that all? The M1911's a very popular sidearm."
"Very true, Jonathan; but look at this."
Goldfinger released the cartridge, inspecting it himself and then letting Hunter do so.
"Modified to hold twelve bullets," he noted, "almost twice the standard amount. There's only one man I know who supplies his men with these, or even has the money to: Dr. Julius No."
The name stung Hunter upon hearing it. That night on Crab Key all those years ago...the bastard.
Briefly, he allowed himself one twitch of the right eyelid before swallowing his tension and anger.
"...Dr. No?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," confirmed Goldfinger in a staid tone. "Without being too invasive, Jonathan, I must tell you that I know what happened between you and him."
Hunter nodded slowly.
"Yes, well...it was a long time ago."
Why had he added that? Perhaps to depersonalize it? To give himself a greater chance of becoming involved?
Goldfinger disregarded it:
"Nothing is ever a long time for something like that; and while his injury against you is certainly more personal than his actions against me, I should tell you now that he has become something of an enemy to me likewise."
There was something about it that did not add up....
"But, sir, he's in SPECTRE also. At least, the last I heard...."
"He was, Jonathan, and, depending on who you ask, he still is. But I am not one of those people who will tell you so. Julius was formerly a top member of ours, running his operations from Crab Key, which I know you are familiar with."
To say the least....
"But eventually, his operation became only his operation. He began participating in less and less SPECTRE dealings, and eventually that island of his became his own affair. It's more privatized now than ever before, and he refuses now to even do business with us."
He sighed, eyes down at the floor.
"Dr. No has broken ranks with our organization. Of that much I was aware, but I had never expected this. It would appear he has declared war on me, even if just for the OMEN, and perhaps even on other members of SPECTRE. He has become a variable in the equation, Jonathan, a renegade animal. And like all renegade animals, he must be put down.
"This man has emplaced great danger on us, danger of which we might not even know. If we are to survive, Dr. No cannot be allowed to live. He must be eliminated."
The words hit Hunter like a cinderblock.
Eliminated.
He had often dreamed of it, but never had he imagined he would actively take part in its plotting. With a tempered self-assurance, he asked:
"Sounds like a plan. When would be the ideal time to strike?"
"No time in the immediate future," Goldfinger replied, somewhat disappointedly. "Recovery time for us aside, such rapid retaliation is to be expected. No, we must wait, and plan accordingly. Furthermore, if you are to be involved with the plan, nothing can be moved until at least a week from now."
"Why's that?"
Goldfinger looked at him with a curious gaze, apparently assessing him.
"Come with me."
More tomorrow.
Ah, my burning question answered. Thanks.
How many chapters are there in total, by the way? A great story so far.