Reign of Evil - 03 (13 page)

The knot in his chest turned to iron. “They’re using her soul?”

Her expression remained grim. “And those of everyone else they kill.”

“Why do they need their hunt to be so large?” Trev asked.

“It depends on what their endgame is. We still don’t know their motive.”

“We might,” Preeti said, interrupting. “It’s not something you would notice, most likely, but it’s something I hit on right away.”

“We’re all ears, sweetie,” the witch said.

“The businessmen in Chipping Sodbury were Jordanian. The wife of the man in Marlborough was Chinese and he worked for a Chinese bank. The MP was an outspoken proponent of immigration rights. The orphanage that just vanished was Nigerian run and operated. The owners of the restaurant were Indian. I’m sure once we discover what happened in Penrith and Notgrove, we’ll also see a similar trend.”

“All immigrants,” Walker said.

“We’re all immigrants in England,” the witch said. “More aptly, the victims were not Anglo or Saxon.”

“Or if they were,” Trev added, “they were in support of non-Anglo-Saxon activities.”

“What are we concluding?” Walker asked. “That the Wild Hunt is a supernatural white supremacist welcoming committee?”

The witch grinned. “You Americans have a way with words, but it’s as apt a description as I’ve heard.”

But Walker still didn’t get it. “Why would the Wild Hunt care? Do they even know who Indians or Jordanians are?”

“Don’t you get it? They’re a tool. Someone is using them,” Preeti said.

“The Red Grove,” Trev said.

“And until we can find one of them and ask, we’re going to be guessing at the endgame,” the witch said.

Ian entered the room. “We have a stay of execution.” He wore a satisfied smile. “I spoke with Lord Robinson—Deputy Minister of the UK Border Agency—and explained the situation.” Ian glanced at Walker. “I hope your team is going to be able to help, because the only way he’d accept my proposal was if I included them. Without them, we’re only two operators and not enough to make a real difference.”

Walker felt something growing inside of him. He recognized it as hope—hope that avenging Jen’s death would be much closer with the coming of SEAL Team 666. “Are they invited?”

“Yes.”

“Officially.”

“If your man in the Senate wants to confirm, he can contact the office of Lord Robinson.”

Walker grinned from ear to ear. “Hell yeah! I need to make a call.” He made to get up, but Ian had put a hand on his shoulder.

“Call’s already been made, son. I spoke to Ms. Alexis Billings. She’s aware of everything I just said.”

Walker pushed his empty glass forward. “How about another drink?”

Ian grabbed the bottle. “How about drinks for all of us.”

CHAPTER 18

TWIN PEAKS, CALIFORNIA. NIGHT.

Navy Senior Chief Genaro “The Genie” Stewart escorted SEAL Team 666’s go bags, additional weapons, and the Belgian Malinois, Hoover, in the MH-53J special operations variant Pave Low helicopter. Built like a defensive end, he passed out the gear with a no-nonsense attitude. YaYa knew him from previous missions before he’d joined Triple Six. A SEAL from Team 7, Genie wasn’t read on to Triple Six’s mission, but at Holmes’s request through NAVSPECWAR for sniper support, Genie was coming along. He’d already suited up in black fatigues and body armor and stood by while the others got into theirs.

One by one, the SEALs from Triple Six introduced themselves. Not that they had to. They were from a special brotherhood. But knowing the man next to you enhanced the connection. When it was YaYa’s turn, Genie gave him a hug. “Been what … since the P.I.?”

YaYa grinned and shook his head. “Three years. Has it been that long?”

Genie pointed. “Heard about the arm.”

Although he’d left the rest unsaid, YaYa had experienced it enough to know how to answer the unanswered questions. “It’s strong. The boys and girls at DARPA really know their business.”

“With all the casualties from Iraq and Afghanistan, they’ve had plenty of practice.”

The sobering statement cut short any further conversation.

Finally, everyone was up-armored, wore MBITRs, had sound-suppressed 9s strapped to their right thighs, knives strapped to their left thighs, and checked their sound-suppressed HK416s. Outside their armor, they wore black Rhodesian military vests because of the multiple pockets for storing extra ammunition and other useful items. Pro-Tec skate helmets painted black did little to protect their heads but allowed for the mounting of a curiously alien-looking set of night-vision goggles with four lenses. Called QUADEYE, four 16mm lenses reduced the need to pan left and right by re-creating peripheral vision and incorporating the multiple feeds into a Heads-Up Display (HUD) similar to those used by combat helicopter pilots.

The team’s only odd uniform concession had been to wear ballistic masks that looked like hockey masks, covering their faces but leaving holes for the eyes and slits for their mouths and noses. Not only did the masks keep their faces from being recorded; they also gave the team the appearance of a Jason Voorhees look-alike contest.

Holmes’s mask was black with a white slash across it.

Laws wore a mask with a green camouflage pattern.

YaYa wore a solid white mask in honor of Fratolilio, the SEAL he’d replaced who’d been killed by the chimera in Macau.

And Yank’s mask, from the tried-and-true tradition to fuck with the new guy, was so pink that it was fuchsia.

Genie, not being a member of Triple Six, didn’t have a mask but was given a plain gray ballistic mask to wear in the event he was needed inside.

Their CQB stack included Hoover, who was in the fifth-man position. She wore tactical body armor that protected her sides and chest. Her eyes were protected by specially designed canine ballistic goggles.

After a short drive, they left the vehicle and traveled the last mile through a stretch of wood.

Genie set up in a tree on the side of the house with the most windows. He carried the SEAL-issue SR-25 Stoner sniper rifle with a Leupold Mark 4 scope. He had a view of the front and back entrances and, after Yank secreted a camera on the far side of the house, also had a view of the area he couldn’t physically see.

The choice had been either to walk up and knock on the door, then force their way inside, or to break the door down and clear rooms until they found their quarry.

When Genie notified them that their quarry was in the first-floor drawing room, their decision was made for them. The sniper had a clear shot and was ordered to take it if things went south.

They removed their night-vision devices and cached them at the base of Genie’s tree. Yank and Laws were ordered to take the rear entrance, while Holmes, YaYa, and Hoover took the front door.

With their HKs sunk into the meat of their shoulders and the weapons at low ready, Holmes depressed the doorbell.

“Target not moving,” came Genie’s voice.

They waited about ten seconds and Holmes depressed the doorbell again.

YaYa felt exposed beneath the light on the front stoop. He’d have much rather they’d turned off the power and CQBd inside, instead of this awkward Jehovah’s Witness waiting on the front stoop nonsense.

They heard the sound of footsteps on hardwood, then the sound of several locks disengaging.

The door opened and the same woman from earlier stood there. But instead of screaming or showing fear, she looked nonplussed at the three scary men with weapons. “I’m sorry, it’s too late to call on Mr. Van Dyke.”

“Back door. Move,” said Holmes into his MBITR.

He pushed past her into the home. YaYa grabbed her by the arm and pushed her against a wall, knocking a picture to the ground. Quickly and efficiently he frisked her. Seeing Laws and Yank come in from the kitchen, he pointed upstairs. They hurried up and began to clear rooms.

YaYa put zip ties around the woman’s hands, then lowered her to the floor. “Sit here. Don’t move.” Then he joined Holmes and Hoover in the drawing room.

Van Dyke was sitting in his chair staring straight ahead. He didn’t appear to be moving. He didn’t even appear to be alive. Whatever his condition, it wasn’t anything Hoover appreciated. The dog stood ready to attack, a low growl coming from deep in her throat.

Holmes finished scanning the room, then grabbed a picture from the wall. He held it at an angle, which provided a perfect reflection of the man. Holmes set the picture aside, then checked for a pulse. He waved his hand before the man’s eyes, then prodded him in the chest. No response.

“No sign of smudging. Laws, report.”

The second in command came loud and clear over the MBITR. “Second floor clear. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Check the basement. We’ll stand by.” To YaYa he said, “You and Hoover clear the rest of this level.”

YaYa turned and motioned for Hoover to follow. Then, with his rifle at low ready, he pushed into the dining room, then to a library, then back around to the kitchen. He peeked into the sole bathroom on this level and opened the closets. All the while, he was aware of the nature spirit somewhere in the home. He didn’t know how he knew it, but it felt like a line of fear tickling his spine. He had to gulp several times as it felt as if it came closer. He wasn’t used to the fear. But then again, he also had never been possessed before. What the
obour
had done to him, at least what he could remember, had been so terrible it haunted most of his waking and sleeping moments more than any number of deaths or visions of dead bodies.

As he was moving back to the front of the house, Genie spoke breathlessly. “There’s something moving outside.”

“Define ‘something,’” Holmes said.

“Small tree with legs. Hell. Walking. Fuck me.”

“Easy, SEAL. Give us location.”

“Right outside your fucking window.”

YaYa entered the room in time to see Holmes run to the window to look outside. Then he raised his rifle as if to fire.

“Careful,” whispered Genie. “What the hell? It just fell to pieces.”

Then YaYa watched as the man in the chair turned to him and smiled. Then he stood and turned to Holmes, who was at the window three feet from him.

“Behind you!” YaYa fired a single round into the man’s lower leg.

Holmes spun, in time to catch the man as he fell forward. He held Van Dyke by the collar of his shirt and lowered him to the ground.

Laws and Yank burst into the room.

Holmes pulled Van Dyke into the middle of the room and laid him on his back. He was conscious and evinced both anger and pain.

Holmes pulled his mask free. “Ask the woman if there’s a medkit.”

“What woman?” Laws said. “She’s gone.”

“Genie?”

“Nothing here.”

“Fuck.” Holmes turned to Laws. “Find her. Take Hoover.” To YaYa he said, “Watch my six.”

Holmes removed the man’s shoes, then the blood-soaked sock on the left leg. Then he ripped the pants, exposing the lower leg. He had Van Dyke raise his knee, to allow for the bend to compress the vessels delivering blood to the affected areas. He glanced around, then grabbed the man’s shirt and ripped it, revealing a pale and white-haired torso. He balled a doily he found on a nearby table, pressed it into the wound, then wrapped it.

“What were you thinking?” he said to the man.

Van Dyke replied with gritted teeth, “That I wouldn’t be shot in my own home.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you in the head,” YaYa said. He could feel the thing inside the man. “It’s back in him, Boss. Whatever the fuck it is feels like greasy nightmare shit.”

“Be easy, SEAL, and plug him if he moves.” Holmes finished tying the field bandage. “What the fuck was that out there?” Then he saw the tattoo over the man’s left breast. Holmes pointed to it. “Triple goddess. Tuatha Dé Dannan.”

YaYa noticed the surprise in the man’s eyes. He leaned in and saw the tattoo. It was three crescent moons, interlocked. And whatever it was lived inside of it. As he watched, the tattoo seemed to pulse and grow larger. He felt its pull and took one uncontrolled step toward it.

“Fu-fuck.” He fought the urge to move forward with every part of his being. “Lives in the tattoo. Don’t—don’t touch.”

Van Dyke leaned his head up and met YaYa’s gaze. The man spoke in a strange language and YaYa felt himself fall. The last thing he saw was the superimposed image of a man made of sticks and leaves and an unholy glow where his eyes should have been.

Then he heard gunfire.

Then nothing.

CHAPTER 19

VAN DYKE HOUSE. UPSTAIRS. NIGHT.

She came at them from a darkened room. Laws opened fire as he backed away, stitching her in the chest with eleven 5.56mm rounds that should have blown out her back and knocked her off her feet. But she kept coming. He brought the butt of his rifle up and slammed it into her chin. Her head swung back, but it did no damage.

WTF?

The doorway was off the landing to the left. He backed farther left down the hallway, separating himself from Yank and Hoover.

She followed Laws, exposing her back to Yank, who opened fire.

But to no effect.

Hoover growled but waited for a command.

Why wasn’t she going down? It didn’t make sense. She was a sixty-something June Cleaver hausfrau. She should have died five times by now with the amount of rounds they’d poured into her.

He adjusted aim and fired two more into the center of her forehead. Her skin pulsed with red light and with each pulse revealed an interlocked three crescent moon. Laws recognized the symbol from the mission logs. The glyph of the three goddesses—Maiden, Mother, and Crone. It was the holy trinity of ancient Pict mythology and had been adopted by neo-pagans. A precursor to Triple Six had gone after a group who worshiped them during the Dust Bowl of 1931. The log had recorded nature spirits but nothing like this creature. If he wasn’t mistaken, it had all the characteristics of a—

“Golem!”

He dropped the rifle and let it hang from its strap and began to draw his knife. But she was too quick. She fell on him, driving him to the ground, pinning his hand where it was on his left thigh. She was incredibly heavy. Their impact as they hit the floor slammed the air from him and he couldn’t move his chest to get a deep enough breath.