Read Stackpole, Michael A - Dark Conspiracy 03 Online
Authors: Evil Triumphant
Stackpole, Michael A - Dark Conspiracy 03 (20 page)
porch. Colored like Doberman pinschers, but with the size and wiry pelt of Irish Wolfhounds, the red-
eyed dogs bared their fangs and growled a menacing caution at him. Each dog tensed, ready to spring and
tear him apart.
Crowley remained rooted in the midst of the white-stone ocean that dominated the courtyard. "Kara,
Amhas, it is only me." He did not move, but let his voice reassure them.
The two dogs sniffed the air, then leaped from the porch and landed in a spray of stones. As they bounded forward, Crowley dropped to one knee and greeted each dog with a hug. Thumping them heavily on their
flanks, he stood and let them escort him to the back door. He opened it, not being surprised that it was
unlocked and that his belongings had remained unmolested in his absence. The last trespasser to enter his property had done so on a dare from another gang member. He escaped with his life, but earned the
nickname "Kid Alpo."
Crowley quickly descended the stairs to the basement. He opened a utility closet then hit a hidden switch at the rear of it. The back wall withdrew into the ceiling to reveal a collection of weapons both
comprehensive and deadly. From the spot above the Mac-10's outline, he took down the heavy,
cylindrical sound and flash suppressor and screwed it into place. He also fitted the gun with with a laser-targeting beam and slung the weapon over his shoulder by the sling he clipped into place on it.
He pulled the Mac-10's holster from the web-belt he wore and replaced it with a more slender holster
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fitted with
a silvery cylinder. He pulled the foot and a half long baton out and switched it on to check
the
batter
y monitor light. Satisfied that the modified cattle-prod was fully charged, he turned it off again and reholstered it.
He studied the rest of the weapons, but decided he was satisfied with what he had so far chosen. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled on a pair of black leather gloves that both had bladders filled with lead shot sewn into the backs and knuckles. He snapped his right hand out and slammed his fist into the plasterboard wall. He left a dent, then rubbed the plaster dust off his knuckles.
Closing the closet, he retreated to the center of his basement. He drew in a deep breath and centered himself.
He worked his mind down beyond the Damon Crowley identity and approached his true core. A blue-gray
pearl tinged with green, it expanded outward to greet him. Once again feeling true to himself, he allowed himself a brief smile, then set about his grim task with cold efficiency.
The first thing he did was to visualize the Warriors of the Aryan World Alliance headquarters. Because of his interest in the city, and his association with the current Coyote's predecessor, he knew the location well and had even helped the other Coyote with a soft penetration and reconnaissance of the site. They had gotten in and out undetected, but Crowley had not forgotten what he had seen and felt and smelled.
Reaching out with his mind, he sought to make his current surroundings match his mental image of the
Warriors' lair. He added detail after detail in a carefully calculated equation that brought him through a nearby dimension and back into Earth at the site he had chosen. He materialized within the Warrior stronghold with an agonizing sloth, but remained undiscovered.
As he had planned, he appeared in a darkened comer of the garage area. For all of the time it took him to check his Mac-10, he regretted not being cloaked in the shadowform he affected when away from his home
dimension. A second after the birth of that idea, he killed
it because he knew that what he had come to do was a job that had to be done by a man, not a shadow.
Two tall, blond Aryan men bearing MP-7 submachine-guns paced the catwalks surrounding the garage's
upper level. Crowley stepped from the shadow and snapped two quick shots off at the man on the far side
of the area. One slug took him in the chest, and the second blew through his stomach. The Aryan
slammed back against the wall and slid down on a red slick before falling to his side on the catwalk.
The second guard saw his friend fall. He started to turn toward Crowley, bringing his gun up. The 240-
grain bullet the Mac-10 coughed out completed the spin for him as it entered his thigh and powdered a
four-inch-long segment of his femur. The slug exited up and to the right from the entry wound, drawing
blood, tissue and bone after it. The Aryan grabbed at the catwalk railing to slow his fall, but before he could scream, two more bullets pierced his body. One popped a lung like a balloon, and the other
pounded his right cheekbone back out through his brainstem, spraying blood and gray pulp against the
wall. He flopped unceremoniously on his back and shuddered once before lying still.
Crowley waited in silence, listening for any sound beyond the hissing of air escaping from rapidly
deflating lungs. The scent of blood and feces reached him through the cordite. He'd smelled it before and often allowed it to trigger regret in him, but this time he forced it away. Hedid not want to acknowledge those he had killed as human beings, because they were not. They wore the flesh and hid within the shell.
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They co
uld do the walk and do the talk, but they could never truly pass for human beings. Their ideas
took th
em beyond humanity, turning them into monsters.
There was nothing to regret about killing monsters.
As if the biblical avenger out to destroy the first-bom of Egypt, Crowley moved through the Warrior
headquarters razor-sharp and whisper-quiet. The two Aryans with their eyes glued to the external camera
monitors died without warning. Six more Hitler Youth died as they slept dreaming about the White Empire
their leader had promised them. Another three, including the two who had attacked Natch and Coyote, met
death while singing off-key in the communal shower facility. Crowley found four more in the canteen and
killed three with a single shot each. The fourth died when she learned through two quick examples that a
coffee-urn, though opaque, is not bulletproof.
Reloading as he moved up the stairs to the second level, Crowley found no one in the two classrooms at the southern end of the building. Wary of a trap, he cautiously approached the open doorway at the northern end of the corridor that ran the length of the second floor. From outside he could see what appeared to be a
relatively unobstructed room covered with thick pads on the floor and walls. Kneeling in the shadows at the far end of the room, he saw a slender man.
Ready for an ambush, Crowley entered the room on cat's feet. He stepped quickly out of line with the
doorway, but discovered the kneeling figure was the room's only other occupant. Inside the room, he saw an honor gallery of portraits with a huge painting of Adolf Hitler surrounded by smaller images of Evan
Mecham, Tom Metzger, David Duke and Pat Buchanan.
He kept the man covered with the Mac-10, but the man's utter lack of concern about the gun surprised him.
"I sensed you coming."
"Did you?" Crowley's green eyes narrowed. "Then you will have sensed why I came."
The small man nodded solemnly. "1 have been expecting someone, especially after Loring disappeared from the hospital. I had people watching—4he snatch was good." He canted his head to the right. "I had not expected you—rather, I had expected they would send the Polack."
"I did not give him that choice, Heinrich."
"Of course you didn't. You are of a superior race Mr.... Crowley, is it?" Heinrich straightened his head and sat a bit taller, "ft is a pity that an operative of your skill will die having been tricked by the Zionists to betray your own race. Did you leave anyone alive down there?"
"They were too stupid to live. They followed you, did your dirty work, so they died." Crowley held up his left hand with the index finger pointing up. "And just so you know, I'm doing this solo—I'm no one's tool."
Heinrich laughed heartily, but a bit too long. "Mo? I think you are. I would guess, for example, that you believe in the fiction of the Holocaust?"
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"I'm not
a moron to be tricked into denying history." Crowley shook his head but never took his ey
es off
the Ar
yan leader. "The Nazis killed Jews, Gypsies, Poles, Slavs, gays and any communists they
could get
their hands on. Stalin did that and more. Mao's Cultural Revolution, Democratic Kampuchea, Kurds in
Iraq and the slaughter of innocents in Latin America—all of these are historical facts. You can debate
numbers and quibble about methods, but no one denies the results of the sort of hatred you preach. The
ignorance and bigotry you promulgate kills people."
Heinrich smiled. "This from a man who has just murdered over a dozen people."
"Mo, Heinrich, you don't get me that way. You're the moral equivalent of a bacillus. You are intellectual Black Death, but there is no immunity to you. You have to be eradicated, and I'm here to do the job."
Heinrich gained his feet in one smooth motion. "Do you know anything of aikido, Mr. Crowley?"
"This has some bearing on our discussion?"
"It does." He bowed slightly. "A master of aikido, such as I am, cannot be shot with a gun. Even as you think about pulling the trigger, I will see you visualize a bullet in your brain, and I will dodge."
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Betting your life on this, I take it?"
"No, your life, actually."The Aryan smiled coldly."! just want you to understand how I am going to be able to cross the room and kill you."
Crowley snapped a quick shot off at Heinrich. The Aryan slipped to the side as the bullet whizzed past and ripped into the wall padding amid
a
cloud of feathers.
"Ten steps, Crowley, now nine." Heinrich feinted right, then cut diagonally forward to the left. "Eight."
Crowley popped another shot at him, but Heinrich sprang out of the way and into a cartwheel that carried him wide to the left.
"Give it up, Crowley. You're as good as dead."
"Am I?" The occultist's eyes narrowed. "You know what they say, Heinrich. For evil to triumph, all that is required is for good men to do nothing. Do you knowthat statement's corollary?"
The Aryan sideslipped forward another step. "You'll tell me, of course."
"The triumph of good requires good men make sure that evil men do nothing." Crowley let the gun track Heinrich, then he punched the trigger. "That's what I'm here for."
The bullet blasted Heinrich's left kneecap to bone splinters before it continued on, shredding ligaments, mutilating cartilage and all but severing his leg. Screaming frantically, the Aryan leader fell back on the mats.
He clutched at his knee with bloody fingers, desperately trying to deny what had happened.
He stared up in wide-eyed terror as Crowley walked
