Reign of Evil - 03 (7 page)

There was no way they could have known he’d pawned three sets of golf clubs this year. Not only was there no one around when he took them, but the fact that their owners had left them behind demonstrated that they didn’t really want or need them in the first place also. Plus, he’d taken each to a different pawnbroker in Bath. No, there was no way they could have known about those.

The morning fog did little to deter the first foursome of the day. He recognized them as they approached the first tee. The tall one in the middle was Nisam Kazmi, a Pakistani businessman who’d been in the papers. The owner of five car dealerships, he was also interested in the fair treatment of immigrants and was a vocal opponent of any law or policy that inhibited his rights. The other three were his usual partners, two Pakistanis and one Afghan.

Fitzhugh kept one eye on them as he checked the oil level of his lawn mower. There were those down at the pub who’d call them disparaging names, such as ragheads, but then that was just stupid. The real ragheads were the Sikhs, who actually wore turbans on their heads. No, Fitzhugh wasn’t one to call the Pakis names. As long as they were good upstanding citizens, why shouldn’t they be able to come to the club and play a round of golf?

But Fitzhugh couldn’t help but think what if … what if they were planning something terrible while they played golf? What if they were arranging for an attack on the Queen or parliament or perhaps something worse involving nerve gas or explosives? He smiled grimly and briefly flashed to an image of him in the newspaper with the headline GROUNDSKEEPER FOILS PLOT TO KILL QUEEN.

He held on to that as he started the tractor and headed toward the third hole where ducks had recently been crapping on the green. The last thing he needed this day was for the Pakis to complain to his boss about a crap-filled green.

The fog wasn’t burning off like it usually did. If anything, it was getting thicker as he headed toward the small pond near the green for the third hole. He knew there was a scientific reason for it, but he really didn’t know what ten-quid words to use, nor would he have understood their meanings. Plus, this time of December and so close to Christmas, the club was lucky the weather was holding as it was. It might as well be spring.

Sure enough, during the night the ducks had crapped all over the green. He grabbed a flat shovel from the back of the tractor and scooped up all but the smallest pieces and dumped them in the water. He searched for one of the ducks to curse, but they’d made themselves absent. Good thing; he might have found a rock and had something for dinner if he’d been able to find one.

He next grabbed a bucket. Then he was on his hands and knees picking up the smaller piece because god fucking forbid one of those little white balls goes off course because it struck a microscopic piece of duck crap. He’d be bottled for sure.

Fitzhugh wasn’t positive how long he’d been on his hands and knees when he heard some yelling. He glanced up and saw the Paki foursome halfway down the fairway waving at him. Had he been there that long? A wave of fog passed between them and him obscuring them for a moment.

Where the hell was that fog coming from?

He stood, wincing as his bum left knee reminded him that he was old, drank too much, and could do with losing a bit of weight.

They yelled again. “Fore!”

Of course.

They wanted him to move out of the way.

He glanced down and checked to see if he’d gotten all of the duck crap, then limped back to his tractor. He decided to wait until they finished before he started it up. No use having them complain about the noise when they were trying to hit their bloody damned balls.

He could just make out Mr. Kazmi lining up to hit his ball. It looked like a five-iron shot would do the job, but the damn Paki was using a fairway wood. Fitzhugh moved behind the tractor. If the man was going to overshoot the hole, he’d be damned if he’d be hit.

Kazmi swung, and as his club made it to the apex of his backswing a gigantic creature came from his right and hit him square in the chest, ripping out his throat. Part human, part beast, it was terrible to see. Its front two legs were human arms, but bent in the way of an animal’s legs. The back legs were those of a dog or a wolf. It had a gray hairless body like an armadillo’s and the face of a long-nosed baboon.

Five more beasts loped out of the fog and took down the three other golfers. They went for the soft places like the jugular, the stomach, and the crotch, ripping and chewing. Their human hands gripping the bodies as they fed and tore flesh free.

Fitzhugh felt warmth flood his own crotch as urine evacuated down his leg. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. He managed to get down on his trembling knees and then onto the ground, where he watched the men being eaten from his view beneath his tractor.

Then a giant white stag appeared with a man on his back.

The beasts howled and the man laughed.

He looked like a king, regal and broad shouldered. Not at all like that big-eared Prince Charles with the small chin and smaller shoulders. No, this was a true man. Fitzhugh knew without knowing how he knew that if asked he’d follow the figure and do whatever he was told.

The man glanced his way as did the beasts, their heads turning to stare at his hiding place at the exact same time. Fitzhugh felt like puking. They knew he was there. He closed his eyes. If this was the end and they were going to rip out his guts, he didn’t want to see it happen.

He counted to fifty.

Then he started over and counted to a hundred.

Then he counted to a hundred again.

He opened one eye but didn’t see a thing. He slowly turned his gaze behind him but saw nothing there but the pond. After what seemed like ten minutes, he finally got to his feet. At first he couldn’t stop shaking, but the more time passed, the more it seemed that he’d been spared.

He climbed on his tractor well aware that they could be playing with him, but as the fog began to dissipate and he saw more and more of the course he felt increasingly certain that he would make it. He started the tractor and began to head for the clubhouse. He had to tell someone what had happened.

But he paused. He turned in his seat and saw the four sets of golf clubs still on the ground. Of the golfers there was nary a trace.

Then he remembered the note to see the manager. What was he going to tell him? That a king riding a white stag brought some monstrous hounds who ate the golfers? No way. No how. No. He was already in trouble. Four club members being eaten on the third hole would somehow become his fault too. He turned the tractor around and grabbed the golf clubs. Just in case, he’d wait two weeks for his trip to Wales, then he’d find a pawnbroker.

He felt an ache in his back from picking up all of the duck poop. Damn but he was a good worker. When were they going to realize that?

CHAPTER 11

TEN PIN LEIGHTON BUZZARD BOWLPLEX, ENGLAND. AFTERNOON.

The three members of Section 9, Walker, and the witch sat in the rear of a hard-sided van around the corner from the Leighton Buzzard Bowling Club. Evidently Leighton Buzzard was the name of a town. If this had been America, Walker thought, they would have changed it by now. He sort of admired the steadfastness of the Brits. Then again, America still had towns such as Climax, Truth or Consequences, Intercourse, and Lizard Lick. He guessed there were some who reveled in their weirdness.

Walker was surprised that people bowled in England. It had never occurred to him that it was a sport outside of America. Not that he really ever played, but he knew a lot of enlisted friends who used to get together on Saturdays with their family and spend time at the bowling alley. Their salary didn’t go far, but bowling was something they could all afford.

Of course the fact that this bowling alley was condemned might indicate that the British didn’t bowl. He still found it strange that their target, a warlock named Van McKee, was using this as his home. The witch had said he needed the space because of his experiments and preferred someplace private.

Walker inventoried his gear and visually checked the others. They were a sad lot. That Section 9 once had more than two hundred members and had been the paradigm supernatural defense agency in the world was impossible to believe. Even their equipment was out of date. Whatever self-serving politicians had allowed this to happen should be staked to the ground, covered in honey, and fed to a herd of rabid homunculi. One look at those tiny long-armed devils and they’d shit money to fund Section 9.

While the SAS had new Mark 7 Body Armor, Section 9 used the Osprey Mark 2. While both were equally adept at stopping most rounds, the Mark 7 was more ergonomic and could withstand the rigors of combat. They all carried SA80s with ACOGs and Viper II thermal sights. The mainstay of the British military, the SA80 was a bull pup–style combat rifle, meaning the trigger housing was forward of the magazine. Although Walker liked the feel of it, he knew from experience that one of its downfalls was a weak firing pin, which was why Ian had issued them extras. They also carried Glock 17s, which rested in quick-draw chest rigs. Based on the Browning system, the Glock 17 had a counterrecoil system that helped keep the sights on target during trigger pulls. Walker would have preferred his HK416 and Sig Sauer P229, but such top-of-the-line equipment wasn’t available to him.

Beneath the body armor, they wore black fatigues with black ballistic gloves and neoprene half-face balaclavas. The witch wore the black fatigues but had demurred when asked if she wanted to wear something on her face. Ian had insisted she wear body armor. They’d actually fought about it, but once she saw that Ian wouldn’t even conduct the operation if she wouldn’t wear it she capitulated.

What they lacked was an MBITR or its like. With no interteam communications gear there’d be a lot of yelling to get information across, which meant chaos. Hopefully it would be controlled chaos.

“Listen up,” Ian said, pulling down his balaclava to be clearly heard. “Jerry and Trev, you’re stacking at the rear door. I want you to breach at
GO
plus thirty seconds. Walker and I will be in the front and breach on
GO
. Shoot anything not human. Try not to kill our target. Ms. Moore will be behind us to take care of him.”

“There’s one thing I might have forgotten to mention,” the witch said with absolutely no apology in her eyes.

Ian’s head snapped around. “What?”

“He may not be alone. Scratch that. He probably won’t be alone.”

Ian glared at her, then in a steely voice said, “I’m two seconds away from canceling the op.”

She waved her hand. “No reason to do that. Walker’s handled these things before. It’s probably going to be a piece of cake.”

Walker felt worry bitch-slap the nervous butterflies in his stomach. He’d handled a lot of things he’d hoped he’d never see again, number one probably being that absolutely fucking unbelievable obsidian butterfly he’d fought beneath Mexico City.

“What is it?” A frown underscored Ian’s words.

“Remember when I mentioned that he needed the space for his experiments? Well, Van McKee specializes in creating simulacrums. In fact, he makes them and sells them. I know he has a contract with several members of the Chinese Mafia.”

Walker groaned.
Not those.

Trev’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?

“Motherfucking homunculi,” Walker said. “Little fucking Freddy Krueger–Stretch Armstrong serial-killing fucking mini-golems. Okay, here’s the deal. They swarm. As long as we pair up and keep moving, they can’t hurt us, but I saw them chew through the neck of an FBI agent who insisted on doing things solo. They die like anything else. Put enough bullets into them and then put some more.”

Ian looked to Walker. “How much does this change things?”

Walker shrugged. “It changes a lot, but we can do this if we have fire and position discipline. But it’s going to be easy for this warlock to cast a spell or escape while we’re trying to survive his minions.”

“That’s where I come in.” Sassy gave a quick, mean smile. “I’m a far better witch than he is a warlock; I just couldn’t handle his creations.” She pointed at him. “That’s where you come in.”

Walker hated the feeling of being used. But if it got him one step closer to the killers of Jen, he’d let it happen. “What do you think, boys?”

Ian gave Trev and Jerry looks and in turn they nodded.

Ian turned to the witch. “Okay, mission is still on, but if you do this to us one more time we’re going to have a serious conversation.”

To give the witch credit, she looked appropriately scolded, but Walker could still detect a smile wrinkling a corner of her lipstick-painted lips. Then she looked at him and he saw the sparkle in her eyes. She’d known exactly what she was doing and how her ploy would turn out. Walker had no doubt that she’d be up to this again and probably soon, regardless of her promise to Ian.

They synced watches and left the van. It was almost midday and there was plenty of traffic on the street, so the chances of them being seen were pretty good. But Ian had coordinated the operation with the Home Office and local police were supposed to ignore any calls about four armed men assaulting an old bowling alley. Plus, unlike America, where any given city could face four men in assault gear ready to attack a bank, the illegality of weapons in Britain made this much less likely. So when people did see heavily armed men dressed uniformly, they tended to assume it was just the government about to do something they didn’t want to know about. Or at least so said Jerry.

Ian and Walker stacked toward the front doors, close enough that they were touching. Ian was first and Walker could tell the man knew his business. They covered the distance to the door in a matter of seconds, then flattened themselves on either side. Old fliers were taped to the doors advertising family bowling nights and a missing kitten. Brown paper had been taped to the windows behind the old fliers to keep anyone from seeing into the interior. The double doors were boarded from the inside. Also on the outside of the doors was an official-looking memo purportedly from the health department stating that this
edifice has been condemned until appropriate biological defense measures can be employed.
It was ambiguous enough to make anyone pause.