Reign of Evil - 03 (25 page)

Her idea, once posed, was co-opted and coordinated into the larger effort. While Ian took the platoon of Marines to secure the home south of Glastonbury Tor, arresting as many of the partygoers as they could, Triple Six and their pet witch were heading for Bratton Castle in Wiltshire. The castle had been built in the Iron Age, but the hill fort it had been built upon was constructed during the Bronze Age, which according to Laws, meant about two thousand years before Christ.

What very few people knew was that the hill fort was erected on an even older Tuatha mound. Sassy had drawn a map of all the mounds she knew of and this one had been the nearest to Glastonbury Tor. The idea was to use the Tuatha inside Sassy to enter the mound, then use the Bratton Mound as a transit point to Glastonbury Tor.

That is, if the Tuatha had the power to get into the mound.

And if the Tuatha could bring them with it.

And if the Tuatha cooperated.

And if they could figure out how to travel through the mounds.

There were just too many ifs.

“You know, if you squeeze it hard enough I’m sure it will bleed.”

Walker glanced at Laws. “Huh?”

“The steering wheel. If you were planning on strangling it, then you’re done.”

Walker loosened his hands. He glanced in the mirror, then whispered, “I just don’t think this will work.”

“It might not, but I think what really bothers you is the whole going-through-the-mounds thing.”

“That’s doesn’t bother me.”

“Then you need your head examined.” Laws glanced behind them, then leaned close to Walker. “We’ve never done anything like this before. Sure, we’ve run, walked, crawled, and jumped into the mouth of danger before, but we’ve never traveled through an interdimensional portal. You realize that that’s what they are, right?”

Laws had put his hand on Walker’s right arm. Walker shook it off. “Now who’s the excited one?” But Laws was right. That was what was bothering him. He’d dealt with magic and seen it done, but he’d never really been in a position to use magic for his own ends. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t find ourselves stuck inside a hill.”

“You’re a complaining lot of military men, aren’t you?” Sassy said from the backseat. Her words dripped with condescension.

Walker felt his grip tighten on the steering wheel once again. He was about to say something when Laws jumped in.

“It’s been like this since Christ was a corporal, Miss Moore. We talk about it now and get it out of our system; then we’re clearheaded when the fighting starts.”

“I just never thought this was how you acted.”

“You’ve been influenced by the movies, I can tell. You expect us to be stoic, silent, strong, rugged. That sort?”

She nodded. “That’s closer to what I expected.”

“We do that sometimes. But that’s also why we have Commander Holmes around. He’s our official stoic, silent, strong, and rugged SEAL team leader.”

“Enough already,” Holmes growled.

Walker pulled off the A3 into Godalming and followed Sassy’s directions until they came to a quaint house on a side street. One-story, made from stone, and with what looked like a thatched roof, it was right out of a storybook. He watched Sassy walk up the sidewalk in her dress and high heels. This whole experience seemed like it was out of a storybook. Witches … the commonplace, almost casual references to magic and all things magical … supernatural creatures … and faeries. Not the faeries that populated the stories he’d read when he was a child, but the faeries from which those stories originated. And much like the stories from the Brothers Grimm were watered down over the ages, so had the complexity and terribleness of these faeries.

She was gone for ten minutes, during which time the only sound inside the SUV was the occasional sweep of the wiper blade and the panting of the dog. When she returned, she wore black jeans and black high-tops with sparkles. A black blouse peeked out from her black down jacket. She wore a baseball cap with a picture of a witch on a broomstick inside a circle with a line through it. Holmes got out and let her in. She carried a heavy canvas bag, which she deposited on Yank’s lap. She slid into the seat, keeping a smaller bag on her lap.

“What’s this for?” Yank unzipped it and his eyes shot wide. “Sweet.” He pulled free a short sword made from a black metal.

YaYa leaned over the seat to peer into the bag. “What’s that?”

“Gladius,” Sassy said.

YaYa reached out to touch it, but Yank moved it out of reach. “As in what a Roman gladiator used?”

“As in what the common Roman soldier used. But this is no antique.” Yank tested the heft and weft. “My guess is carbon steel.” He counted. “There are six in here.”

“A gift. They’re gladius machetes. The young lady who helped me out has a boyfriend who works at a knife store. She talked him into letting us borrow them.” She smiled flatly. “You’re supposed to return them as good as new.”

Yank snorted, then turned the metal over in his hands. He stared at it the same way some men stare at a beautiful woman.

YaYa managed to reach in the bag and pull one for himself. He sat back in the seat beside Hoover, who could care less about the dull-colored piece of metal. “You’re giving this to us in order to…”

“Kill the hounds,” she said.

“And whatever other
beegees
there are that don’t like bullets,” Laws added.

Walker felt himself flinch when she said
kill the hounds
. He was acutely aware that Jen’s soul had somehow been co-opted and used to form one of the creatures. The idea of killing her all over again, killing her soul, made his breath shallow, his chest tighten. He fought back the emotion that threatened to take over his face and swallowed hard as he stared into the dawn of Christmas Day.

“What’s in the other bag?” Yank asked. “More goodies for us?”

“In a way. I need each of your body armor and those mask things you wear.” She unzipped this bag and pulled out a few small bottles of what looked like paint and a tiny brush. “I’m going to put protection runes on you. These runes will be from the Elder Futhark runic language, which is about two millennia old. Elhaz was used by the Norsemen when they invaded, ironically, to protect them from Christianity. Because of its rich history in the Isles, I’ve found it works considerably well against nature spirits, which you could call Tuatha.”

Yank turned to her. “I’m not giving you my armor or my ballistic mask.”

Holmes sighed. “Give it to her.”

Yank tried to draw in the other SEALs with pleading looks, but no one was biting. “But we can’t be sure if she’s—”

“Enough of that.” Holmes shrugged out of his body armor. “Do mine first and make it pretty. Walker, we going to sit here at the curb for the rest of the day?”

Walker shook out of it and put the SUV in gear. Soon they were heading toward Farnborough. When he hit the M3, he turned left. They’d traveled about ten kilometers when Holmes got a call from Preeti. A few moments into the conversation, he told Walker to pull over. There were no turnoffs, so he had to pull far to the edge. Luckily, there was hardly any traffic.

After a few moments, Holmes hung up and let them in on the conversation.

“Looks like the Red Grove is marshaling its forces. Preeti’s been monitoring the CCTV cameras and discovered that there are seven roadblocks, all at major intersections that would bring us to Glastonbury Tor.”

“But we’re not going there,” Laws said.

“As it turns out, their roadblocks have put the whole area out of reach.”

Ever in need of a fight, Yank shrugged. “Why not run them? We have the firepower.”

“This part of our mission requires a little subtlety and surprise.” Holmes shook his head. “Suggestions?”

Walker continued staring out the window. “We could jump in.”

YaYa laughed. “Like we’re going to find a plane and chutes on Christmas Day. Nice try.”

But Laws wasn’t so dismissive. “That would work if we had a place to go.”

“What about that?” Walker pointed out the front windshield to a billboard that read: “SKYDIVE COTSWALD—Five Locations,” with a picture of two grinning civilians making a tandem jump.

“But it’s Christmas,” YaYa persisted.

Walker turned to Laws. “My guess is that they have the chutes and the plane. All we have to do is jerk someone out of bed and have them fly us to altitude.”

“Let’s do it.” Holmes got on the phone to Preeti. She checked the locations. The closest was in Salisbury, but it was on the other side of a roadblock. So the next nearest location was Redlands Airfield in Swindon. Holmes ordered Walker to take them there. He told Laws to plot them a drop azimuth because they’d be using commercial chutes, which would force them to remain in the air longer.

Laws called Genie and ordered some weather data.

“So we’re really going to jump in?” YaYa grinned. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.” He scruffled Hoover’s neck. “Hear that, girl? You’re gonna jump. I’ll need to work up a Palmer rig, but it’ll be good.”

Sassy looked up from where she’d been concentrating on Holmes’s body armor and ballistic mask. She’d painted what looked a lot like an upright pitchfork on the forehead of his mask and several dozen symbols on the front and back of his body armor.

“Did someone say ‘parachute’?”

Holmes nodded.

Her eyes narrowed. She pointed at her hat. “This witch doesn’t fly.”

“You will today,” Holmes said. Then he gave her his stoic, strong look. “Suck it up. It’s the only way in.”

She had no response other than to stare at him in stunned silence.

For the first time that day Walker found something to laugh at. So he did.

CHAPTER 39

WARWICK CASTLE, WARWICK, ENGLAND. 0730 HOURS.

It had stopped snowing. Cold fog hugged the sides of the road. Dawn had just come. Ian had wanted to get on-site before light, to take advantage of the night, but it looked like he wasn’t going to make it. The drive from Warwick had been too long.

They were headed southwest on the A361 and less than three kilometers away from their objective when Ian saw the roadblock. He knew in the pit of his stomach it was there for him. Each driver had been issued a radio. He ordered the last van to pull up and continued to the roadblock with the rest of the vehicles. Two police sedans were pulled across the road. Three men in jackets stood to one side. They had pistols in holsters on their hips, which meant they weren’t just police. They all wore military uniforms, although their name tags had been removed. One was a large Irishman with the flattened nose of a professional fighter. Another was a young kid, his eyes wide and nervous. The last one was a mousy man with a weasel’s face.

Magerts pulled the BMW to a stop so its nose was a few feet from those of the police cars.

Both Ian and Magerts got out.

Ian decided to take the offensive. “Can you move these out of the way? I need to get through.”

The big Irishman stepped forward. “Easy there, mate. You’re not going nowhere.”

Ian allowed a look of surprise to cross his face. “What do you mean? We’re on a mission from the Queen. You stop us at your own peril.”

A slim mousy-haired man with glasses frowned. “What’s he talking about, Bill?” His ill-fitting uniform showed he was a lance corporal.

“Take it easy, Geoff. Man’s all bluff.” To Ian, Bill said, “Now run along. No one’s getting through this way for quite a while.”

“What’s going on?” Magerts asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” sniffed the man named Bill.

Ian addressed the mousy man and the young kid who hadn’t yet spoken. “You men are participating in an illegal action. Stopping men of the Queen in a time of war is treason.”

That had the intended effect. The other two men were suddenly very nervous. “Listen, we’re just here because Bill says—”

“Shut it, Tim. I told you, the man is all bluff.”

Ian shook his head. “No bluff here.” He pulled the Queen Letter out and proffered it for them to read but held on to it. As Tim and the mousy one read it, their eyes widened. “You’ll notice the official seal and Her Majesty’s signature.”

Tim backed away. “I don’t want to be part of this.”

“Like you have a choice, Tim Thompson.” Bill squared his shoulders and addressed Ian. “How do I know this is real?”

“Seriously? When’s the last time someone tried to get through a roadblock with a fake letter signed by the Queen?” Ian flicked a hand at the cars. “Now get out of the way.”

Even Bill seemed worried now. He’d begun to step forward when the sound of a vehicle approaching from behind him caused everyone to pause. It was a pickup with four men in the back and two in the cab. They got out when it came to a stop. The four in back were dressed all in black with body armor and balaclavas. One of the men in front was a civilian. The other was dressed in fatigues. An SAS patch and colonel’s rank stood out against the camouflage.

“What’s going on, Bill? These men refusing to turn around?” The colonel stared imperiously at Ian.

The four men in black brought up MP5s with silencers,

“They have a letter from the Queen which says they should be allowed to pass.”

The man held out his hand.

Ian merely stared at it.

The man snapped his fingers.

“To whom am I speaking?” Ian asked.

“Colonel Wilson Picket. Now give me the goddamned letter.”

Ian handed it over. “You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, Colonel.”

Colonel Picket glanced at the letter, then unceremoniously ripped it in two and dropped it to the ground. “It’s a fake.”

“So you’ve seen one of these before?” Ian struggled to keep the anger from his face.

This stopped Colonel Picket for a moment. But he recovered and said, “It’s obvious. Why does the Queen need someone like you to—”

Ian stuck out his hand, “Colonel Ian Waits. Section 9, Special Services.” He’d watched Colonel Picket’s eyes and it was obvious he’d heard the name before. Even the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth gave him away. “But you knew that already. Let’s cut the bullshit.”

“Yes. Let’s.”

“Someone convinced you to come out here and stop me. I’d like to know who!”