"BASILISK I: The Pathless Land"
May. 23rd, 2022 10:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"BASILISK I: The Pathless Land"
4/11/2009
I.
As the explosive shell detonated against its right rear tire, the Audi swerved crazily and almost flipped over but went into a ditch instead. Instantly, four STIGMA killers were jumping out of the car, separating and firing their weapons at their pursuer. As Pryshepa skidded his own Chrysler to a halt, his passenger had leaped from his seat and was running toward the enemy. Jeremy Bane whipped up his long-barrelled Smith & Wesson .38 and snapped off a shot that tagged a STIGMA man right in the center of the yellow mask with the black skull emblem. Then a barrage of bullets smashed into Bane's chest and the impact caught him in mid-stride, knocking him down off his feet.
The STIGMA killers were all big men, all wearing dark clothing except for the bright yellow sleeveless vests which had a black skull emblem on the back. Their full-face linen hoods were also that canary yellow and bore a black skull only slightly smaller than the face beneath would be. In the years since STIGMA had gone public, public killings had given those masks the power to terrify and unnerve any who saw them. Now, three of the STIGMA assassins kept up their fire. In a few seconds, their automatics pelted Bane with one shell after another. He had fallen with his forearms up over his head, curling into a fetal position. Now, as the assault died down, the Dire Wolf leaped to one knee and took instinctive aim to drop another STIGMA man with a bullet in the chest.
From behind the reinforced door of the INTERCEPT car, Nicholas Pryshepa had aimed his own weapon, a 9mm Glock 19, and he blasted a single shot that flung one of the two remaining STIGMA men around in a half-circle. Only one enemy was left when Bane's gun barked again and the man dropped straight down as if suddenly extremely tired. His masked face hit the dirt road with a thud.
Getting to his feet with just a twinge of soreness from all the hits he had taken, the Dire Wolf satisfied himself that none of the enemy were moving. He glanced down ruefully at the shredded black turtleneck and sport jacket he wore. It had been ripped apart by those bullets, revealing the sheen of what looked like wet silk but which was actually flexible Trom armor. Bane took some shells from a box in his jacket pocket and reloaded the Smith & Wesson while still watching the four enemy who were sprawled on this dusty back road Pennsylvania. In the late afternoon sunlight, the scene looked surreal.
Coming up behind him, Nicholas Pryshepa remarked steadily, "We could use a few suits of that armor, Jeremy. All those impacts and you're not even knocked out of breath. Yet it looks thin as cloth."
Bane said over one shoulder, "I can't duplicate it, Nick, and I can't tell you where I got it. Sorry. I will tell you that my chest hurts like I let somebody practice driving nails in it, so the armor isn't perfect."
On a deserted back road, the two men stood side by side, both were six feet tall and slim, both dressed in black although Pryshepa wore a white dress shirt and black tie. He had straw colored hair and dark blue eyes, while Bane had black hair and pale grey eyes. But the differences ran much deeper than that. Pryshepa was good-looking in a bland, regular way and his expression was one of polite interest. Bane had a feral edge to his narrow face and heavy eyebrows, and he moved with a sharp quickness that was intimidating. Now he glanced back at his ally from INTERCEPT and said, "I think yours is still alive, Nick."
"Well, I certainly hope so," Pryshepa answered. "I intended to hit him high on the shoulder but no one's aim is perfect. Let's have a look." The blond agent walked closer, with Bane slightly behind and to one side, both still holding their sidearms ready. The STIGMA man was moving feebly, still trying to reach the 45 he had dropped when he had taken that hit. Bane kicked the gun out of reach, bent low and inspected the damage, then holstered his own weapon behind his left hip.
"Not too bad," he declared after a while. "Missed the big artery by an inch. He's bleeding pretty free but he'll live with some medical attention. I doubt that arm is ever going to get its full range of motion back." The Dire Wolf looked around for something to use, then whipped a dagger from beneath his sleeve and sliced off pieces of the man's jacket to fold into a pad he pressed over the wound. Without looking up, he asked, "I presume you have back-up coming?"
"I'm calling them now," Pryshepa said as he flipped open his cell phone. "Open Channel Three. Priority Green. This is Agent Sturgeon, requesting immediate back-up to this signal. Agents are unharmed, three enemy paid off, one still in debt. Out."
Keeping pressure on the STIGMA man's wound, Bane glanced up. "Sturgeon?"
"We don't pick our code names," Pryshepa answered sourly. "Still, it could be worse. Holden had the code name Camisole for a month."
Within ten minutes, a long dark Lincoln rolled up and two men in black suits emerged. Pryshepa gave them instructions and they began first aid on the wounded man, loading him into the back seat.
"The wagon was right behind us," one of the INTERCEPT agents said as he kept examining the STIGMA killer. "They'll clear the dead ones and clean up the scene. State Police will be anonymously informed when there's nothing left for them to find." He headed toward the driver's side. "See you two back at HQ."
"As soon as we can," Pryshepa replied. "Good work, men." As the Lincoln eased out and sped away into the darkness, the INTERCEPT agent turned back to Bane. "Are you sure you're not injured, Jeremy? There must have been twenty slugs hitting you."
"I'll have some bruises," the Dire Wolf said absently. "Look, Nick. There's something you need to tell me. I know you are spies and you love secrets and all that, and I'm just a freelancer you call in when needed. But something is bothering you. We chased a car full of STIGMA guns down the road and shot it out with them, and you're still detached. What's on your mind? I deserve some answers."
Pryshepa did not answer immediately. He brushed the fine blond hair back, turned away for a second to look out at the Pennsylvania hills and finally took a deep shuddering breath. "You have been a good ally four times, Jeremy. Yes, you deserve some information, even though you have not been cleared for it. Our little struggle is no longer just between INTERCEPT and STIGMA. A third player semingly has joined the game, one we did not even know existed."
II.
After a large panel van had arrived and the clean-up crew had gotten to work, Pryshepa and Bane returned to their own INTERCEPT car and made a U-turn to start the long drive back to the nearest town. It was getting dark and a chill wind had started at that altitude even in May.
Strapped in the passenger seat, the Dire Wolf waited for his partner to open up. He had worked with Nicholas Pryshepa on three previous occassions and had developed tentative trust for the man. As far as he could tell, Pryshepa was serious, sober, dedicated to the law-enforcement responsibilties proclaimed by INTERCEPT. He had seen nothing suspicious and yet, Bane told himself, he still needed to be distrustful. Pryshepa was after all a spy and by their nature, spies lived by deceit and hidden agendas.
Finally, as if speaking to himself, the blond agent began to talk. "INTERCEPT was established as a small strike force by the United Nations in 1947. We are not an espionage organization in the usual sense. Member nations can request our intervention as needed against individual criminals or rings that seem beyond their ability to cope with. We do not wage long campaigns. In a metaphoric sense, we defuse bombs and put out fires."
Bane did not speak, merely grunted to indicated he was listening.
"Now, we have broken quite a few criminal organizations over the years. Around 1990, something unusual happened. The leaders of six such organizations decided to form a loose association. This seemed at first to just make sure there were no accidental clashes between them, to establish limits and borders of their spheres of influence. But they quickly began to work together, leasing each other their specialists or equipment and sometimes backing each other up. This was STIGMA. Not a criminal network, but a sort of association of six such networks."
As Pryshepa paused long enough to indicate he was waiting for comment, Bane spoke up. "I've helped against three of the organizations in STIGMA. The Surigata family, that was with you. Twice, I've fought with INTERCEPT against the Alexander Grim empire. For the past few days, I've been working with you against this Norwegian bunch... the Stormgrens." He shrugged physically and verbally. "Not that I ever heard about them before."
"The clan of Alfhild Stormgren," Pryshepa told him. "They style themselves the descendants of Vikings and berserkers. They operate entirely in Northern Europe, stealing industrial secrets and sabotaging law-enforcement efforts to break up sex trafficking or drug smuggling. Nothing subtle about the Stormgrens."
"All the more reason I'm glad to pitch in," said Bane. He was getting impatient, his worst weakness. "But what's this outside group butting in that you mentioned..?"
"I'm not sure I should have dropped that vague a theory. Don't mention it again unless Mr Davenport brings it up."
"Got it. But you can't tease me like this. Who are they?"
Pryshepa slowed for a stop sign and turned left onto a major road as they approached civilization. "We know almost nothing beyond the fact of a third group. A few hints that they have harassed STIGMA and are planning something big like a complete takeover of some of STIGMA's rackets. So far, not enough to proceed on."
"If you say so," Bane replied. "Looks like Crest is still on duty."
They had pulled up in front of a three story stone house that looked like it came from Colonial times. Two black Chryslers identical to the one they were in were parked outside. The nearest neighboring house was just visible down the road. As Pryshepa emerged from behind the wheel, he held up an open hand with a thumb's up gesture and an agent stepped out from behind an elm to return the gesture. This man was holding a Marlin 30-30 at the ready.
"Time to report," Pryshepa told Bane. "Mr Davenport has been under great stress recently, he may be short with us."
"I won't take it personally," Bane promised.
III.
Standing in front of a silver BMC was a slim man in formal wear and dinner jacket, including the bow tie and French cuffs with links made of antique coins. Holden Crest watched them approach with a confident smile that bordered on smugness. The man had always annoyed Bane and Bane wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the cockiness despite the fact that Pryshepa was much better in combat situations. And why was Crest dressed like he was going to a casino when he was standing out in the Pennsylvania boondocks at three in the afternoon?
Despite all that, the Dire Wolf greeted Crest politely and asked what the situation was.
"The Old Man is fretting and fuming, as you might expect. What happened to the STIGMA crew you two spotted?"
"All paid off but one," Nicholas Pryshepa put in. "That one suffered some damage and our medics will be bringing him here soon. I imagine Mr Davenport will want to ask questions."
"Of course." Holden Crest smiled at Bane again. "It's good to know you're joining us on this, Jeremy. STIGMA seems to be getting more ambitious lately, and I suspect a new organization is about to join the alliance. Perhaps some Middle Eastern group, like the Sons of Djinn."
The Dire Wolf was scanning the area warily, grey eyes never still. He had spotted the one sniper high up in a willow, tied to the branches and wearing camoflauge. There had to be at least one more to cover the back of the house but he couldn't find him yet. Turning back to the men from INTERCEPT, Bane said, "I suppose we need to go in to be debriefed?"
Crest led the way onto the porch that ran the width of the house, with its wicker furniture and trellis adorned with roses. No one met them at the door. Bane's enhanced senses could tell the ground floor was empty of people. Although he never told these spies, his Tel Shai training had given him perceptions beyond those available to Humans with normal senses. But this was something he had found best to keep to himself. The distraction and introspection which Pryshepa was feeling was so obvious to him that he was on the verge of identifying it. Fear of losing his job? No. Confusion about his own feelings... yes. That felt right. Pryshepa was having some crisis.
Bane turned his attention to Holden Crest and picked up the usual self-absorbed confidence but there was something off as well. Crest was not moving in his usual way, he favored his left leg as he went up the stairs. Not an injury. Abruptly, Bane dismissed his reading of people's tiny motions and snapped back to the bigger situation. He should be wondering about whatever the third group was.
At the top of the stairs, Crest knocked on a solid white door and heard a voice call out,"Eh? Oh, do come in." The three men entered a large warm room lined with bookcases, warm and fragrant with some pleasant aroma. It couldn't be pipe smoke. Sitting behind a desk piled with papers and books as well as two coffee mugs and an old-fashioned pen-and-pencil holder was an elderly man in a cardigan over a dress shirt.
Lionel Davenport had aged considerably in the year since Bane had seen him last. The wrinkled face had deeper trenches down its cheeks, the jowls were heavier and the eyebrows had become spikier. He took an unlit pipe from his mouth and half rose. "Ah, the three men I am most relieved to see before me. Please, be seated." The old man glanced at the shredded condition of Bane's clothing but made no comment.
Crest and Pryshepa took two straightback chairs, while Bane carefully removed a stack of loose newspapers from a stool before dropping down onto it. He sat slightly behind the other two. The Tel Shai readings technique told him that Davenport was being crushed by conflicting instincts. He felt concern for the man who had to be in his mid-seventies and none too healthy at that. Visual clues in fingernails and eyes showed that Davenport's heart was getting weak and his circulation was poor. But of course, Bane kept this all to himself.
After receiving Pryshepa's lengthy and detailed report of the encounter with the STIGMA agents, Davenport stared down at his hands for so long a time that the others grew uncomfortable. Finally, Holden Crest ventured to say, "Sir?"
The old man raised his head slowly and gazed at each of them in turn. "Have you ever heard of the Pathless Land? No? It was what was told me by my predecessor in this office just before he was murdered. Espionage is a game without rules, a pathless land, a dance without music. You never can be sure how well you are doing. You never know who your enemies are any more than you know your friends."
Pryshepa seemed alarmed. "Mr Davenport, what are you-"
"You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to." Davenport heaved a vast miserable sigh. "I have been wandering the pathless land longer than any of you have been alive. The lies and the betrayals and the reversals are suffocating me."
Holden Crest started to rise from his chair, then settled back down. "Sir. Do this mean you are thinking of stepping down as Head of Section One?"
"There won't be time for that for me." Davenport cocked his head as a door slammed downstairs and voices were heard, not threatening but businesslike. "Come. We need to interrogate still another prisoner."
The men from INTERCEPT rose and escorted Davenport solicitously from the office and down the stairs, not taking him by the arm but staying protectively close. Bane followed thoughtfully. He had never heard such poetic introspection from the old man before but he noticed that Davenport was still withdrawn and looking inward when he should be on top of a dangerous situation. He followed the three men down the stairs to the living room of the house they had taken over.
When he had first been approached by INTERCEPT only a few years earlier, Bane had researched the organization and found its record was remarkably clean. There had been only a few minor scandals in the decades the group had been active, mostly affairs between agents that had compromised their integrity. And there had been a horribly botched rescue attempt of hostages in the 1980s that had been covered up and only revealed when Congress held hearings. But on the whole, INTERCEPT had seemed clean, certainly much better than the Mandate or Department 21 Black could claim. Bane had worked reluctantly with both those agencies but he felt more at ease with INTERCEPT. After digesting Davenport's speech now, the Dire Wolf realized he had just been warned not to trust INTERCEPT any more than any other agency.
In the living room, all the furniture had been taken away and the carpeting rolled up. A blue tarp was stretched out on the bare wooden floor, and a sturdy wooden chair sat directly over it with a spotlight on a stand inches away. It was a blatant interrogation chamber. Two INTERCEPT men in the standard black suits and white shirts were tying a wounded man to that chair with thin wire. A metal stand had a plastic IV bag which dripped down a tube into the man's arm.
Bane studied the prisoner somberly. The black shirt and yellow vest with the skull emblem had been taken away, as had the yellow hood. The man was in good shape, fit without being overly muscular. He had thick shaggy yellow hair over a weathered face and seemed in his late forties. Heavy bandages covered one shoulder, with red smears starting to leak through. The prisoner stared straight ahead stoically. The INTERCEPT men were holding 9mm pistols in marksmen's two-handed grips, pointed down at the floor as they stood by.
From the next room, Crest and Pryshepa brought in an easy chair into which Davenport gingerly lowered himself. As Crest and Pryshepa took the places on either side of the old man, Bane stepped around to be out of the line of sight for the prisoner, and he saw something. One of the INTERCEPT guards also took a few steps to one side, keeping a clear line of fire for Bane. The Dire Wolf did not seem to notice and did not move away, but all his feral instincts flared up in that instant. He was in danger.
Davenport leaned forward, sighed and quietly said, "Nils Stormgren. Oh yes I recognize you. I knew your grandather, founder of the Stormgren line. A dynasty of criminals. And here you are. Before we begin, do you have any credo you wish to speak?"
The blond man smirked through a heavy five-o'clock shadow. "There is a reason I was taken alive. Your agent could have killed me as the others were, but I was needed to be brought here alive."
"Go on," said Davenport imperurbably. "What reason would that be?"
"It is not STIGMA you should be fearing," Nils Stormgren said in a low voice that made everyone lean forward. Nor is it Intercrime or the Marabunta Army or any other network. There is something far worse that has been breathing down your neck since you first took your oath at Head of Section One of INTERCEPT."
As the prisoner paused, Davenport raised his bushy eyebrows. "You have a flair for melodrama, my boy. Please continue."
Nils Stormgren said, "No one lives who gazes upon the BASILISK."
As the last syllable was pronounced, the killing began.
III.
The INTERCEPT agent facing Bane snapped his arms up with the 9mm pointing right at his target. He had no idea what he was threatening. The agents had been briefed on how dangerous the Dire Wolf was, but they could not realize that he had been born with reflexes nearly twice as fast as the finest athlete, nor that he had thirty years of Kumundu study under Teacher Chael. Before that finger could close on the trigger, Bane had closed the ten feet between them and jammed the muzzle up under the agent's chin. As the Glock exploded deafeningly loud in the enclosed space and the INTERCEPT man's head flew apart, another shot rang out nearby. Bane had already dropped straight down to the floor and spun around to face the other guard.
That agent was no immediate threat. He was startled by the confusing blur of action he had just witnessed and was only beginning to raise his own weapon into position when two slugs from Bane's 38 punched home in his chest. The INTERCEPT man dropped to his knees and fell over on his side. The Dire Wolf was up on his feet, swinging his Smith & Wesson around to see what had happened in those three seconds.
Lionel Davenport was dead, with a tunnel drilled through the side of his head just above the ear. Standing next to the body, Nicholas Pryshepa lowered his pistol and then pivotted, about to take a shot at Bane across the room. The blond Russian agent had an unemotional expression of calm on his face as if he had not just murdered his chief. Bane snapped his own gun into line but the blast which sounded did not come from him. Pryshepa gasped, pressed both hands to his chest as he dropped the weapon, and fell headlong to the floor. His face bounced once as it hit.
With his own standard 9mm in hand, Holden Crest stared blankly with a white face and dazed eyes. He staggered, lowering his arm and stared wildly at the bodies of his boss and his partner. "I- I would have trusted him with my life, I DID trust him with my life..."
Tied to the chair, Nils Stormgren laughed gleefully. Stepping forward, Bane flung a backfist that swung the man's head around on his neck. "You be quiet," he told the prisoner. Seeing movement outside through the window, the Dire Wolf spoke sharply to Crest. "Snap out of it! When they knock on the door, fire one shot at it and move aside. Got it?"
To his credit, Holden Crest had gotten a grip on himself and he turned to face the door. "What are you going to be doing?"
"You'll see!" Bane growled as he took three quick steps toward the window on the back wall, flung it up and dove through it neatly. A second later, a knocking did sound on the door. Without thinking, Crest snapped off a shot high above the center of the door and then jumped to one side. He was expecting an answering barrage of gunfire but there was only silence. Then, to his complete surprise, he heard the voice of Jeremy Bane call, "All set. You can open this door now, Crest."
Not fully knowing why he complied, still holding his pistol ready, the INTERCEPT agent turned the knob, took a fearful breath and swung the door inward. His jaw dropped. Bane was standing on the porch over two corpses, the snipers from outside, still in their camo. The Dire Wolf cleaned one of his silver daggers on a man's jumpsuit and slid the blade back into its sheath beneath his sleeve. "We need to get going," he said as if he had just risen off a couch.
"They never knew what hit them," said Holden Crest in a tiny voice.
"That's the idea," Bane told him. "Hurry. Who knows who else is on the way? Give me a hand with the prisoner." They got Stormgren free of the chair and unhooked the IV. "He won't dehydrate that fast," Bane grunted as they hauled the prisoner into Crest's BMW and flung him roughly into the back seat.
"You drive," the Dire Wolf ordered. "I'll keep watch for pursuit!"
Even as he slid behind the wheel, Crest sputtered, "But what about Nicholas? And the poor chief? We can't just leave them like that.."
"DRIVE!" yelled Bane. "Our getting killed is not going to help them."
IV.
Twelve minutes later, they pulled into the gravel parking lot of the WILLOW VIEW MOTEL, with its row of six rooms and an office at one end. Bane instructed Crest to drive around the edge of the building and park in the grass as far behind it as possible. A freshly waxed silver BMW was not inconspicuous. As the INTERCEPT agent shut off the engine, the Dire Wolf turned around in his seat and glared at the prisoner in the back.
"You've been quiet enough so far," he told Stormgren in a low even tone. "The painkillers must be wearing off by now. Now, they patched up your shoulder but you're going to need surgery soon. Keep that in mind. Crest, watch him. If he acts up or starts making noise, a little pressure on that shoulder will keep him in line. I'll be back in a second." Without any explanation, Bane left the car and moved briskly around the corner of the building. He spotted an old woman getting a bottle of soda from a vending machine and waited until she had gone back in her room before showing himself.
They were at the end farthest from the office, and Bane's dark green Mustang was still parked where he had left it in front of cabin 6. Getting the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and stepped inside with the long-barreled revolver in his hand and swinging from left to right. The empty room greeted him. Bane took a minute to examine his belongings and satisfied himself that no one had been in there. Good. Moving with his usual quickness, he got his shredded jacket and turtleneck off and fetched a spare identical set from his travel bag at the foot of the bed. Yanking them on, Bane transferred various tiny gadgets and devices from his ruined jacket to the fresh one, storing them in concealed pockets and slits.
He took another second to reload his Smith & Wesson. The cabin wasn't quite shabby, but it was minimal. A bathroom door was in one corner. There was a double bed, two chairs and a dresser with a 12 inch TV on it. The only window faced the parking lot and he had left the curtains drawn when he had left that morning. The Dire Wolf heard his stomach growl but this was certainly no time to grab food. He picked up the jacket that had been ripped up by bullet holes, folded it over one arm and went back outside. No one was in sight. Leaving the door ajar, Bane slipped back around the corner of the building where the BMW waited.
Stepping up to the driver's window, which had been lowered halfway because of the May warmth, the Dire Wolf told Holden Crest, "We're going in room 6." He opened the back door of the car and helped the injured prisoner out, none too gently, draping the black jacket around the man's shoulders. Checking that no one was in sight, Bane ushered the two men into his rented room, closed the door and locked it. Finally, he let out a breath and untensed slightly for the first time since the action had started.
Crest was looking around curiously. "When you showed up in a taxi this morning, I assumed you had come straight from the airport. You had this room ready first?"
"I arrived late last night," Bane answered shortly. He got the prisoner seated in one of the chairs with a thump. "Stormgren, keep still. You must realize your life is hanging by a thread already."
Crest dropped down on the edge of the bed and holstered his gun, which he had been holding against his side. He rubbed his face wearily and for the first time, the smooth suave facade faltered. "Mr Davenport...Nicholas.. both dead. And Nicholas a traitor! It's hard to believe."
"I think there's more to this than we realize yet," Bane told him. Facing the prisoner, he took a flat metal case from an inside pocket and removed a disposable syringe from it. Selecting a spot on Stormgren's forearm, the Dire Wolf injected a clear serum, rubbed the site and returned the empty hypo to its slot in the case. "I know what you're thinking, Stormgren. You've developed a resistance to truth serum and anyway you've been trained by experts how to resist. But this is not truth serum like your people know. Veratilin was developed by Alchemists."
As he spoke, the blond man's head sagged forward and he started to breathe slowly and deeply. Bane motioned for Holden Crest to keep quiet and knelt in front of the prisoner. "Let's get started. What is your real name?"
"Nils Jonathan Stormgren," the man answered promptly.
"Who do you really work for?"
"BASILISK."
"So your membership in STIGMA is just a front for your real allegiance?"
"Yes."
Bane glanced up at Crest and gave him a grim look. "Nicholas Pryshepa was also working for BASILISK then?"
"Yes."
The Dire Wolf considered. Under Veratilin, the subject answered truthfully but did not volunteer anything. "Why did Pryshepa defect to BASILISK?"
"He was controlled by the Master Mind."
"Really. What is the Master Mind? How does it control people?"
"No one knows. The Master Mind takes over people and implants orders." Stormgren had started to perspire heavily and his breathing was getting ragged.
"Do these people know they are under his control?"
"No." Stormgren shook his head violently from side to side. "No, they don't know."
"Stay calm. Stay calm. Where is the Master Mind located?"
"Manhattan. Simmons Plaza. Inside the- the basement.." Stormgren was gasping for breath and his skin had flushed.
"Take it easy," Bane commanded him. "Breathe slowly. Who is the Master Mind? What does he look like?"
"He's a monster!" shouted Nils Stormgren and his voice rose to a shriek. "He's a giant HEAD!" The blond man convulsed and fell forward. Bane caught him before he would hit the floor, but lowered the BASILISK agent down anyway.
Holden Crest had gotten to his feet and was staring with horrified eyes. "Dead?"
"Yep," Bane answered unemotionally. "I guess the conflict between the veratilin and his hypnotic orders was too much for his body to handle. Well, I had more questions to ask but we have learned enough to get started."
"This is more serious than I ever thought," Crest muttered. "Sleeper agents within my organization. They don't even know they're double agents. They're under the control of this Master Mind thing until they hear their trigger word and then they carry out orders they were given previously. It's incredible."
Bane nodded and straightened out the arms and legs of the dead man, rolling his over on his back. "We have one advantage. BASILISK doesn't know what we have found out. They will assume Stormgren didn't talk because they don't know I have Alchemical serums. Crest, take your jacket off and roll up your sleeve."
The INTERCEPT agent stiffened and stepped back. "Why would I be doing that?"
"Because we both need to know if you are under BASILISK control if we are going to work together." Bane had straightened up and turned that pale stare on the man like a weapon. "This is the only way."
"I just saw a man die because you gave him a shot of some unknown substance!" Crest barked. "I don't exactly think it's a good idea to let you do that to me."
Bane did not react. "You've seen me in action. You know I could knock you out and administer this before you could react. Think, Crest. You might be under BASILISK control and not even know it."
INTERCEPT's top enforcement agent visibly struggled to reach a decision. "How long do the effects last?"
"Twenty minutes, thirty at most. The only after-effect is a headache that goes away soon enough."
"Well..." Crest folded his arms and gave Bane a defiant stare. "How about you let me inject you with it, as well? How do I know I can trust you?"
"I'll let you question me," the Dire Wolf said promptly. "Let's get this over with."
Crest bared his arm and sat down on the edge of the bed. Bane took a second syringe from the metal case and gave him the veratilin. The effects took hold promptly. Under the Alchemical serum, Crest responded to the questions without the inner struggle that Stormgren had suffered. He said his name was Holden Allan Crest, aged forty, born in Calgary. He had never heard of BASILISK until the prisoner had spoken the word that afternoon. He had never seen Nicholas Pryshepa say or do anything suspicious, nor did he know anything about the Stormgren family beyond a skimpy briefing he had once had on them.
After getting a few details about how to contact INTERCEPT offices in New York in case they were separated, Bane let Crest lie down and rest for the short time until the serum would wear off. He got a six inch roast beef sub from his travel bag and devoured it, then drank a bottle of water. One price for his speed and enchanced healing was a ravenous appetite.
Eventually, Holden Crest sat up, yawned and blinked sleepily, then realized what had happened. "Well? What's the verdict?"
"You're clear. You're just what you seem to be." Bane shrugged off his sport jacket and tugged up his right sleeve to reveal the sheath that held one of the matched silver daggers. "We had better hurry," he said. "I rented this room with a fake ID but no disguise. There's no telling who might show up, INTERCEPT or STIGMA or BASILISK or all three." After tapping the syringe to check for air bubbles, he handed it to the agent and presented his arm.
Once he was under the serum, the Dire Wolf gave some confusing answers. Asked what his real name was, he said he didn't know. He had no memories before the age of nine or ten when he had been a homeless street orphan. He had apparently chosen the name Jeremy Bane at random. He did not know who his parents were or what had become of them. As a child, he had been taken in by two different shady alcoholic'guardians' who used him as a thief. Once he was big enough, he had set out on his own. At the age of twenty, he had met Kenneth Dred and entered the Midnight War that few knew about. Then, with the death of Kenneth Dred, Bane had inherited a huge fortune and had organized the first KDF team...
Abruptly, the Dire Wolf shuddered violently and shook his head. He stood up and looked around the room as if expecting to be attacked, then calmed down when he saw Holden Crest staring at him in confusion. "Whew," he breathed. "Did I tell you enough to be trusted?"
"You were only under for maybe five minutes," Crest said in an outraged tone. He realized he hadn't learned what he had set out to find. "How did you snap out of it so fast?"
"My crazy metabolism. You've seen me move. That extra speed means I metabolize any drugs rapidly." Bane stood up and glanced at the body on the floor. "That needs to be taken care of. Can you call that mop-up squad we saw earlier?"
"Yeah, of course. I'm not sure they won't turn out to be STIGMA or BASILISK or whatever, though." Crest took out his phone and punched some numbers. As he was talking, Bane peered discreetly through the curtains out at the parking lot. Two boys about eleven were standing by a van, apparently arguing about something vital. As he watched, a heavy woman in a sundress came over and bustled them into the van.
"They're on the way. If INTERCEPT knows what happened, the news hasn't trickled down to them yet." Crest put the phone away. "I have to report. The next in command has to take over. Oh no, that's Mrs Claire. She's impossible to get along with but she'll be my boss now."
"As soon as you see her, say the word BASILISK and see what happens," Bane suggested. "But be ready to defend yourself."
"Yes. I have to operate as if my organization is packed with moles and double agents." Crest raised and lowered his shoulders in acceptance. "Well, we have to return to the scene and wait for superiors to come and clear everything. Let's go."
Bane shook his head. "Not me. I'm heading back to Manhattan to locate this Master Mind freak."
"You can't do that," Crest said. "There are a lot of questions to be answered. My chief and my partner are dead by violence. INTERCEPT has been compromised. The investigation will be brutal." His eyebrows lowered. "And you have to be present."
The Dire Wolf leaned over and got his travel bag from the bed. "Not me. I am not employed by INTERCEPT. While I'd be filling out reports and repeating answers over and over, the enemy would be getting ahead of us. I need to move before they know what happened." As he flung the bag over one shoulder, he gave a rare smile, so faint it was barely noticeable. "Join me as soon as you can, Crest."
"Jeremy, I can not allow you to leave," Holden Crest shouted in a deep voice.
Without looking back, Bane said, "Remember. Simmons Plaza. That's down by the Battery. I'll save you a few BASILISK agents." With that, he was out the door as Crest fumed.
V.
Twelve minutes later, as it was getting near dusk, a white Dodge van pulled into the parking lot and took the space that Bane had vacated. The sides of the van read COOPERSTOWN PLUMBING AND HEATING in fancy script, with a phone number and address that were both fictional. Two men in dark blue jumpsuits with their names in an oval over the left breast pocket got up sluggishly and pressed the doorbell for Cabin 6. Instantly, Holden Crest opened the door and let them in. He had seen that van many times before. The men left the door partly open.
Two minutes passed. One of the agents disguised as a plumber appeared in the doorway and raised a hand, then went back inside. The sliding panel on the side of the van opened. Two more men hopped out onto the gravel of the parking lot, but they were carrying Uzis and wore the yellow vests and yellow hoods with skull emblems. Showing themselves in daylight, armed and costumed, indicated either confidence or foolhardiness. The two STIGMA killers strode up onto the walkway that ran the length of the motel and approached the partially opened door, raising their weapons.
In that instant before they could enter, a figure in black slid off the roof of the motel and landed directly upon them. All three went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Kneeling over the STIGMA man who had broken his fall, Bane drove a downward elbow blow that cracked the man's sternum and ruptured his heart and then, in a continuation of the same motion, seized the other assassin and drove a chopping hand edge blow down to the base of the neck that made a crisp snapping noise. That man died instantly, as well.
In the scant three seconds this had taken, the noise of the encounter had brought the two men in plumber's uniforms to the doorway. Each had drawn a handgun from a pocket of their jumpsuit, but they never got a chance to raise them, much less fire. The Dire Wolf came at them faster than they could follow, driving short sharp jabs to the chest that forced the air from their lungs with a gush. The assassins fell backwards, gasping and helpless. Bane grabbed one by the jumpsuit front and jabbed stiffened fingers into the soft throat, crushing the larnyx. Only one of the enemy was still alive. He was trying to catch his breath and not doing well. Bane whipped a backfist that twisted the man's head around too far to avoid a broken neck.
All this had happened so quickly that Holden Crest was just beginning to react. He was a veteran agent who had been in many firefights, but he had never seen anything like the Dire Wolf. Even as Crest got his gun into position, Bane was flinging the dead STIGMA agents bodily into the motel room and closing the door behind him.
"It's asking too much for no one to have seen THAT!" the Dire Wolf snapped. "We've only got seconds to escape. Come on, Crest, we're taking your car."
"Wait. What? The INTERCEPT cleaners had STIGMA assassins with them...? I don't understand."
"Explain on the way!" Bane said, hauling Crest by the arm out the door and around the corner to where the BMW was stowed out of sight. The INTERCEPT agent seemed still to be struggling with the situation as Bane opened the passenger door and shoved him in, then ran over to slide behind the wheel. "Give me the keys," he ordered and as he got them, he gunned the engine and peeled out onto the highway.
"I'm parked five miles down the road," Bane explained. "I walked back behind buildings and got up on the roof where they couldn't see me. Good thing I did, too."
Holden Crest was staring at the man who had turned his orderly world into a nightmare of red confusion. "I thought you were going to Manhattan."
"I wanted to see how deep the infiltration went first. It's worse than I thought. Do you get it? The two INTERCEPT men, the two STIGMA men... they were working together. BASILISK is within both organizations." Bane made a disgusted noise. "This is not something worked up recently. This took decades to arrange."
Straightening his clothing, brushing his hair with his fingers, Crest had regained his composure. He watched Bane thoughtfully. "Probably from the very beginning. When INTERCEPT was first chartered by the United Nations, I think BASILISK had its agents hidden within the membership. Deep sleepers, most of them never to be activated. They worked for INTERCEPT, did their jobs and took their pensions without ever being called by their true masters."
"You've got the picture," Bane said. He slowed at a stop sign and turned right. "Which makes you wonder, why are they becoming active now? Why is now the time to strike?"
Crest smiled thinly. "Do you know what a Basilisk is, Jeremy?"
"What? No. I thought it was a nonsense word. Why?"
"It's a mythical best. King of the reptiles. It was so venomous that just looking at it killed people. No one could describe what it looked like. That's why Stormgren said that, 'no one lives who gazes on the basilisk."
Bane nodded. "The perfect code name for an organization no one learns about and lives to tell. I get it." He pulled over into a strip mall where his own Mustang sat in front of a laundromat. "Okay. We have to split up here, but don't go back to the house where Davenport was killed. Meet me in Manhattan near Simmons Plaza and we will hunt the Master Mind. If we don't both get there, use your own judgement on reporting to your organization. Either way, I'm going after whatever is behind all this."
The INTERCEPT agent got out of the car when Bane did, circling around to take the wheel of the BMW. He saw the Dire Wolf heading for the Mustang, visibly eager to rush into danger, and it made him smile. "Hey, Jeremy. I never said thank you for all you've done today."
"My pleasure," Bane answered. "Be alert. We'll meet for the showdown with the Master Mind."
VI.
Hitting the Thruway when he reached New York State proved to be a big mistake for Crest. There seemed to be an accident up ahead somewhere involving ambulances and trooper cars. There was no way to make even an illegal U-Turn and left INTERCEPT straighten it out later because cars were blocking him from the median and a Trooper was parked there. Crest was left with nothing to do but fume and fret for fifty minutes.
Taking out his cell phone and activating the scrambler attachment, he said, "Open Channel Three. Priority Greem," and reached INTERCEPT headquarters in the city. The commotion was worse than he had expected. At four different bases, an INTERCEPT agent had suddenly gone rogue and shot up as many people as he could before being put down. The worst incident had been out in public, at a mall in Maryland where three innocent civilians had been killed in the crossfire. INTERCEPT's low profile and discreet approach had been lost forever. Mrs Claire was put on, she had indeed taken over with the death of Lionel Davenport and she was as vicious to Crest as he had feared. As she rattled off questions and dismissed his explanations, he started to wonder if it was too late to return to the RCMP.
But then, her voice changed back to normal tones. "What's your ETA at headquarters, Crest?"
"Traffic's moving now. I'll say ninety minutes."
"Good. We need you urgently. I don't like your disregard of proper procedures or your sloppy paperwork. But, when there's trouble like this, you're our best agent, Crest. Follow up on what Bane has underway, go with him... but don't forget he's a maverick. Report to me as soon as you can."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." As the connection broke off, he felt better. Eleven years in Enforcement for INTERCEPT against everything from terrorists to kidnappers to serial killers, and he had always felt taken for granted. Even a little encouragement helped. He reached the Metropolitan area, went through the Lincoln Tunnel and into Manhattan. As he emerged at Times Square, he wondered why Bane had not contacted him but decided to maintain silence himself. Crest turned right and headed south toward the Battery, still digesting everything that had happened that day. The deaths of Mr Davenport and Nicholas had to shoved deep into the back of his mind for the moment. It was the current mess with BASILISK infiltrating both INTERCEPT and STIGMA that was top priority.
What if... Mrs Claire herself had been compromised? What if she was a brainwashed BASILISK pawn now, with post-hypnotic commands and a secret agenda? Was there anyone he could trust even slightly? Holden Crest felt like he was having trouble breathing with all the stress and he abruptly pulled into a convenient parking spot and tried to get hold of himself. There was a deli across the street. Without realizing he was going to do it, he raced in and got a cold beer and a ham and cheese on rye with lots of mustard. He finished them inside the deli, wiped his mouth and felt better. That simple act had brought him back to the real world. The INTERCEPT enforcer returned to his BMW and headed south again, where he knew where Simmons Plaza was.
As his silver BMW entered the parking lot, Crest spotted Bane emerging from the doorway of a pizza joint. This plaza had a U-shaped loop of stores around the parking area and the Dire Wolf had been standing in as much concealment as was available. He strode quickly forward, yanked open the passenger door and climbed in without a word. A little uncertain how to proceed, Crest moved to find an empty slot.
"We should go to your headquarters," Bane said quietly. His voice sounded subdued, not its usual urgent bark. He was sitting with shoulders slightly slumped, too, not his normal hyper self.
"Are you all right, Jeremy?" asked Crest, casting a sideways glance.
"I'm fine. We need to meet with your superiors immediately." Bane still seemed less energetic and driven than usual. It was the first time Crest had seen him like this and it was somehow distressing to see the Dire Wolf seems so, well... normal.
"We're on our way," Crest said as he pulled back on to the street. "Did you find anything?"
"I think I've learned something that explains what's been happening. But I want to tell it to your superiors, Holden."
That made him blink. In three years, Bane had always called him by his last name for whatever reason. That "Holden" sounded forced. They drove back up to the East 40s, within sight of the United Nations building. Crest pulled into a municipal parking lot where a spot was kept for him, got out and started toward the sidewalk, keeping a worried eye on Bane as they went. Was the man limping? Maybe he had just taken too much damage that day with all those bullets and the fighting and the long drive, so that he was simply tired. Certainly, as he followed Crest compliantly up the sidewalk, the Dire Wolf seemed to be lost in thought.
In an alley next to the TWICE IS BETTER antique store, Crest led the way. The exit was blocked by a decrepit wooden fence, with a battered metal garbage can leaning against it. As they approached, a plain wooden door opened in the brick wall of the building to their right and they marched immediately inside without breaking step.
Two INTERCEPT agents covered them with handguns drawn. They were standing in a small dingy foyer that had another plain wooden door behind them and a single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. One of the men looked like a Pacific islander, a big guy with a moon face and short bristly hair. Samoan, almost certainly. The other was from South America, Colombia perhaps, thin and agile. Both wore the standard black suits and white dress shirts of INTERCEPT and seemed angry.
Holden Crest had never seen them before, but they seemed to recognize him. "I was here to see a man who does not light his pipe," he said sadly.
The Colombian exhaled, not quite sighing. "Out of date. Now you 'wish to speak with a woman who knew your family'." He gestured with his handgun. "Surrender your sidearm, Crest. You too, Mr Bane, we've been briefed all about you."
The Dire Wolf reached behind him and handed his Smith & Wesson over. Then he submitted meekly to a search. The silver daggers on his forearms were concealed with high density silicone molds which looked and felt exactly like human muscle. Once again, those molds were not detected and the knives were not discovered. Watching, Crest debated telling the men that Bane was still armed, but decided to hold his silence. He could not say why he did this, maybe he didn't quite trust these INTERCEPT agents. With BASILISK infiltrating everywhere, who could be sure where anyone's loyalty lay? Crest himself was not entirely disarmed. In a holder inside his left ankle rested a sap, a leather sleeve filled with birdshot and it weight was comforting.
"All right, follow us," said the bigger man, turning toward the door behind him. Jeremy Bane did not reply, but meekly followed Crest as they were led through that door into a corridor of white tile under blazing bright overhead lights. Now they were in the world of INTERCEPT. The air was cold and dry, and the hum of powerful machinery could be felt through the floor. Around a corner, the hallway ended in a lobby which held several chrome-and-hard-plastic chairs, a big TV screen showing cable news, and a clear plastic desk behind which sat a gorgeous young woman in a Navy blue pleated skirt and blazer. Her honey-colored hair was done up in a bun at the back. As they entered and approached, she kept her right foot on a concealed button and her hand rested on a certain section of the desk.
"Clear, Sophie!" snapped the South American. "Here are their weapons." He handed the two guns over to the woman, who inserted them into plastic bags and secured them in a drawer behind her and clicked shut with finality. Sophie stood up, swiped two triangular name tags over a damp pad on the desk and handed one to Crest, the other to Bane. As the two men pinned the tags to the lapels of their jackets, the woman gave them a sad smile.
"Good to see you again, Holden," she said. "I just wish it wasn't under these horrible conditions. Mr Bane, thank you for volunteering to help out. The Director will see you in her office. Good luck, men... good luck to us all."
Holden Crest extended his hand but did not quite touch her arm. "Thanks, Sophie. We'll talk after the debriefing." He looked over his shoulder at the two INTERCEPT agents, and drawled, "Are you escorting us?"
"Orders," said the big Samoan without any humor. "Under the circumstances, I'm sure you understand."
"Naturally," Crest replied, adjusting the cuffs of his dinner jacket. He strolled toward a big metal panel that slid open to reveal an elevator cage. All four men entered comfortably, the door hissed shut and they felt themselves dropping down for a few minutes past basements and sub-basements. Finally, the door slid open to reveal an old-fashioned office with a three-foot globe of the world, shelves crammed with books and documents, and a wide oak desk cluttered beyond beyond belief. Standing behind that desk was Evelyn Claire.
She was tall, six feet even, heavyset and imposing in a dark brown business suit. Mrs Claire would be in her late sixties, hair more white than grey and pulled up in a bun with a wooden rod to hold it in place. She had a square jaw, alert blue eyes behind thick-lensed glasses and a general air of disapproval as everyone entered her office at once. "Crest. And Mr Bane. Good of you to show up, I trust you have some good news for me! No one else does."
"I'm afraid not, ma'am," Holden Crest said mildly, "But I believe our friend here might." He stepped back to stand almost directly behind the Dire Wolf, as the two INTERCEPT guards kept their guns in hand but with lowered muzzles.
"Ah, Mr Bane," the new Director said. "I'm familiar with your previous work with our agency. What do you have?"
The Dire Wolf took one step forward, with the oddest smile on his narrow face. "No one lives who gazes on the BASILISK," he snapped. Faster than any eye watching could follow, he chambered his left leg and kicked the INTERCEPT guard on that side so hard in the stomach that the man doubled up and vomited. Even as his foot was touching down, Bane lunged to his right and backfisted the Colombian guard with a sharp cracking noise that echoed in the small office, wrestling the gun away from the stunned man. All in one motion, Bane got that Glock in his hand and swung it up to aim at the startled face of Mrs Claire.
Just as Bane had finished saying that ominous sentence a second earlier, Holden Crest had stepped up behind him and swung the shot-filled sap as hard as he possibly could. As fast as the Dire Wolf was moving, he had already taken out both guards and gotten hold of the gun, so it was just chance that his head was back in position as the sap cracked against his skull with murderous force. Bane dropped to his knees, letting the Glock fall, and sagged down to the carpeting.
Crest yelled, "You! Help me get him cuffed!" The Colombian guard pulled a set of handcuffs from beneath his belt and they fastened Bane's wrists together behind his back. The Samoan was still gasping for breath after that kick to the stomach, but Crest took his cuffs and bound Bane's ankles together. Only then did the top INTERCEPT agent exhale and sway as the tension faded from his body. He had known something was wrong by the way the Dire Wolf had been acting since they had met up at the Plaza, and he had been ready. When he heard Bane pronounce that slogan for BASILISK, Crest had smashed out with the heavy sap as hard and as fast as he could, but it was only luck that he had connected... and only luck he had prevented Bane from killing Mrs Claire.
Taking deep slow breaths, Crest managed to calm himself. "He must have met the BASILISK leader, the Master Mind whatever that is, and they took him over. He was controlled by them, like our own agents who have gone over to BASILISK."
Staring down at the limp form at her feet, Mrs Claire shook her head slowly. "Take him down to the clear holding pen. Maximum security. Hurry up, he's starting to stir."
As they bent to lift the senseless man, Bane moaned and twitched his arms and legs. "I can't believe he's not dead," Crest said. "I could split a rock hitting it the way I hit him."
"Hurry up!" Mrs Claire repeated. "Get him secured. You don't know half there is to know about him. The most dangerous man alive and now he's working for BASILISK...."
"BASILISK I: The Pathless Land"
10/13/2014
4/11/2009
I.
As the explosive shell detonated against its right rear tire, the Audi swerved crazily and almost flipped over but went into a ditch instead. Instantly, four STIGMA killers were jumping out of the car, separating and firing their weapons at their pursuer. As Pryshepa skidded his own Chrysler to a halt, his passenger had leaped from his seat and was running toward the enemy. Jeremy Bane whipped up his long-barrelled Smith & Wesson .38 and snapped off a shot that tagged a STIGMA man right in the center of the yellow mask with the black skull emblem. Then a barrage of bullets smashed into Bane's chest and the impact caught him in mid-stride, knocking him down off his feet.
The STIGMA killers were all big men, all wearing dark clothing except for the bright yellow sleeveless vests which had a black skull emblem on the back. Their full-face linen hoods were also that canary yellow and bore a black skull only slightly smaller than the face beneath would be. In the years since STIGMA had gone public, public killings had given those masks the power to terrify and unnerve any who saw them. Now, three of the STIGMA assassins kept up their fire. In a few seconds, their automatics pelted Bane with one shell after another. He had fallen with his forearms up over his head, curling into a fetal position. Now, as the assault died down, the Dire Wolf leaped to one knee and took instinctive aim to drop another STIGMA man with a bullet in the chest.
From behind the reinforced door of the INTERCEPT car, Nicholas Pryshepa had aimed his own weapon, a 9mm Glock 19, and he blasted a single shot that flung one of the two remaining STIGMA men around in a half-circle. Only one enemy was left when Bane's gun barked again and the man dropped straight down as if suddenly extremely tired. His masked face hit the dirt road with a thud.
Getting to his feet with just a twinge of soreness from all the hits he had taken, the Dire Wolf satisfied himself that none of the enemy were moving. He glanced down ruefully at the shredded black turtleneck and sport jacket he wore. It had been ripped apart by those bullets, revealing the sheen of what looked like wet silk but which was actually flexible Trom armor. Bane took some shells from a box in his jacket pocket and reloaded the Smith & Wesson while still watching the four enemy who were sprawled on this dusty back road Pennsylvania. In the late afternoon sunlight, the scene looked surreal.
Coming up behind him, Nicholas Pryshepa remarked steadily, "We could use a few suits of that armor, Jeremy. All those impacts and you're not even knocked out of breath. Yet it looks thin as cloth."
Bane said over one shoulder, "I can't duplicate it, Nick, and I can't tell you where I got it. Sorry. I will tell you that my chest hurts like I let somebody practice driving nails in it, so the armor isn't perfect."
On a deserted back road, the two men stood side by side, both were six feet tall and slim, both dressed in black although Pryshepa wore a white dress shirt and black tie. He had straw colored hair and dark blue eyes, while Bane had black hair and pale grey eyes. But the differences ran much deeper than that. Pryshepa was good-looking in a bland, regular way and his expression was one of polite interest. Bane had a feral edge to his narrow face and heavy eyebrows, and he moved with a sharp quickness that was intimidating. Now he glanced back at his ally from INTERCEPT and said, "I think yours is still alive, Nick."
"Well, I certainly hope so," Pryshepa answered. "I intended to hit him high on the shoulder but no one's aim is perfect. Let's have a look." The blond agent walked closer, with Bane slightly behind and to one side, both still holding their sidearms ready. The STIGMA man was moving feebly, still trying to reach the 45 he had dropped when he had taken that hit. Bane kicked the gun out of reach, bent low and inspected the damage, then holstered his own weapon behind his left hip.
"Not too bad," he declared after a while. "Missed the big artery by an inch. He's bleeding pretty free but he'll live with some medical attention. I doubt that arm is ever going to get its full range of motion back." The Dire Wolf looked around for something to use, then whipped a dagger from beneath his sleeve and sliced off pieces of the man's jacket to fold into a pad he pressed over the wound. Without looking up, he asked, "I presume you have back-up coming?"
"I'm calling them now," Pryshepa said as he flipped open his cell phone. "Open Channel Three. Priority Green. This is Agent Sturgeon, requesting immediate back-up to this signal. Agents are unharmed, three enemy paid off, one still in debt. Out."
Keeping pressure on the STIGMA man's wound, Bane glanced up. "Sturgeon?"
"We don't pick our code names," Pryshepa answered sourly. "Still, it could be worse. Holden had the code name Camisole for a month."
Within ten minutes, a long dark Lincoln rolled up and two men in black suits emerged. Pryshepa gave them instructions and they began first aid on the wounded man, loading him into the back seat.
"The wagon was right behind us," one of the INTERCEPT agents said as he kept examining the STIGMA killer. "They'll clear the dead ones and clean up the scene. State Police will be anonymously informed when there's nothing left for them to find." He headed toward the driver's side. "See you two back at HQ."
"As soon as we can," Pryshepa replied. "Good work, men." As the Lincoln eased out and sped away into the darkness, the INTERCEPT agent turned back to Bane. "Are you sure you're not injured, Jeremy? There must have been twenty slugs hitting you."
"I'll have some bruises," the Dire Wolf said absently. "Look, Nick. There's something you need to tell me. I know you are spies and you love secrets and all that, and I'm just a freelancer you call in when needed. But something is bothering you. We chased a car full of STIGMA guns down the road and shot it out with them, and you're still detached. What's on your mind? I deserve some answers."
Pryshepa did not answer immediately. He brushed the fine blond hair back, turned away for a second to look out at the Pennsylvania hills and finally took a deep shuddering breath. "You have been a good ally four times, Jeremy. Yes, you deserve some information, even though you have not been cleared for it. Our little struggle is no longer just between INTERCEPT and STIGMA. A third player semingly has joined the game, one we did not even know existed."
II.
After a large panel van had arrived and the clean-up crew had gotten to work, Pryshepa and Bane returned to their own INTERCEPT car and made a U-turn to start the long drive back to the nearest town. It was getting dark and a chill wind had started at that altitude even in May.
Strapped in the passenger seat, the Dire Wolf waited for his partner to open up. He had worked with Nicholas Pryshepa on three previous occassions and had developed tentative trust for the man. As far as he could tell, Pryshepa was serious, sober, dedicated to the law-enforcement responsibilties proclaimed by INTERCEPT. He had seen nothing suspicious and yet, Bane told himself, he still needed to be distrustful. Pryshepa was after all a spy and by their nature, spies lived by deceit and hidden agendas.
Finally, as if speaking to himself, the blond agent began to talk. "INTERCEPT was established as a small strike force by the United Nations in 1947. We are not an espionage organization in the usual sense. Member nations can request our intervention as needed against individual criminals or rings that seem beyond their ability to cope with. We do not wage long campaigns. In a metaphoric sense, we defuse bombs and put out fires."
Bane did not speak, merely grunted to indicated he was listening.
"Now, we have broken quite a few criminal organizations over the years. Around 1990, something unusual happened. The leaders of six such organizations decided to form a loose association. This seemed at first to just make sure there were no accidental clashes between them, to establish limits and borders of their spheres of influence. But they quickly began to work together, leasing each other their specialists or equipment and sometimes backing each other up. This was STIGMA. Not a criminal network, but a sort of association of six such networks."
As Pryshepa paused long enough to indicate he was waiting for comment, Bane spoke up. "I've helped against three of the organizations in STIGMA. The Surigata family, that was with you. Twice, I've fought with INTERCEPT against the Alexander Grim empire. For the past few days, I've been working with you against this Norwegian bunch... the Stormgrens." He shrugged physically and verbally. "Not that I ever heard about them before."
"The clan of Alfhild Stormgren," Pryshepa told him. "They style themselves the descendants of Vikings and berserkers. They operate entirely in Northern Europe, stealing industrial secrets and sabotaging law-enforcement efforts to break up sex trafficking or drug smuggling. Nothing subtle about the Stormgrens."
"All the more reason I'm glad to pitch in," said Bane. He was getting impatient, his worst weakness. "But what's this outside group butting in that you mentioned..?"
"I'm not sure I should have dropped that vague a theory. Don't mention it again unless Mr Davenport brings it up."
"Got it. But you can't tease me like this. Who are they?"
Pryshepa slowed for a stop sign and turned left onto a major road as they approached civilization. "We know almost nothing beyond the fact of a third group. A few hints that they have harassed STIGMA and are planning something big like a complete takeover of some of STIGMA's rackets. So far, not enough to proceed on."
"If you say so," Bane replied. "Looks like Crest is still on duty."
They had pulled up in front of a three story stone house that looked like it came from Colonial times. Two black Chryslers identical to the one they were in were parked outside. The nearest neighboring house was just visible down the road. As Pryshepa emerged from behind the wheel, he held up an open hand with a thumb's up gesture and an agent stepped out from behind an elm to return the gesture. This man was holding a Marlin 30-30 at the ready.
"Time to report," Pryshepa told Bane. "Mr Davenport has been under great stress recently, he may be short with us."
"I won't take it personally," Bane promised.
III.
Standing in front of a silver BMC was a slim man in formal wear and dinner jacket, including the bow tie and French cuffs with links made of antique coins. Holden Crest watched them approach with a confident smile that bordered on smugness. The man had always annoyed Bane and Bane wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the cockiness despite the fact that Pryshepa was much better in combat situations. And why was Crest dressed like he was going to a casino when he was standing out in the Pennsylvania boondocks at three in the afternoon?
Despite all that, the Dire Wolf greeted Crest politely and asked what the situation was.
"The Old Man is fretting and fuming, as you might expect. What happened to the STIGMA crew you two spotted?"
"All paid off but one," Nicholas Pryshepa put in. "That one suffered some damage and our medics will be bringing him here soon. I imagine Mr Davenport will want to ask questions."
"Of course." Holden Crest smiled at Bane again. "It's good to know you're joining us on this, Jeremy. STIGMA seems to be getting more ambitious lately, and I suspect a new organization is about to join the alliance. Perhaps some Middle Eastern group, like the Sons of Djinn."
The Dire Wolf was scanning the area warily, grey eyes never still. He had spotted the one sniper high up in a willow, tied to the branches and wearing camoflauge. There had to be at least one more to cover the back of the house but he couldn't find him yet. Turning back to the men from INTERCEPT, Bane said, "I suppose we need to go in to be debriefed?"
Crest led the way onto the porch that ran the width of the house, with its wicker furniture and trellis adorned with roses. No one met them at the door. Bane's enhanced senses could tell the ground floor was empty of people. Although he never told these spies, his Tel Shai training had given him perceptions beyond those available to Humans with normal senses. But this was something he had found best to keep to himself. The distraction and introspection which Pryshepa was feeling was so obvious to him that he was on the verge of identifying it. Fear of losing his job? No. Confusion about his own feelings... yes. That felt right. Pryshepa was having some crisis.
Bane turned his attention to Holden Crest and picked up the usual self-absorbed confidence but there was something off as well. Crest was not moving in his usual way, he favored his left leg as he went up the stairs. Not an injury. Abruptly, Bane dismissed his reading of people's tiny motions and snapped back to the bigger situation. He should be wondering about whatever the third group was.
At the top of the stairs, Crest knocked on a solid white door and heard a voice call out,"Eh? Oh, do come in." The three men entered a large warm room lined with bookcases, warm and fragrant with some pleasant aroma. It couldn't be pipe smoke. Sitting behind a desk piled with papers and books as well as two coffee mugs and an old-fashioned pen-and-pencil holder was an elderly man in a cardigan over a dress shirt.
Lionel Davenport had aged considerably in the year since Bane had seen him last. The wrinkled face had deeper trenches down its cheeks, the jowls were heavier and the eyebrows had become spikier. He took an unlit pipe from his mouth and half rose. "Ah, the three men I am most relieved to see before me. Please, be seated." The old man glanced at the shredded condition of Bane's clothing but made no comment.
Crest and Pryshepa took two straightback chairs, while Bane carefully removed a stack of loose newspapers from a stool before dropping down onto it. He sat slightly behind the other two. The Tel Shai readings technique told him that Davenport was being crushed by conflicting instincts. He felt concern for the man who had to be in his mid-seventies and none too healthy at that. Visual clues in fingernails and eyes showed that Davenport's heart was getting weak and his circulation was poor. But of course, Bane kept this all to himself.
After receiving Pryshepa's lengthy and detailed report of the encounter with the STIGMA agents, Davenport stared down at his hands for so long a time that the others grew uncomfortable. Finally, Holden Crest ventured to say, "Sir?"
The old man raised his head slowly and gazed at each of them in turn. "Have you ever heard of the Pathless Land? No? It was what was told me by my predecessor in this office just before he was murdered. Espionage is a game without rules, a pathless land, a dance without music. You never can be sure how well you are doing. You never know who your enemies are any more than you know your friends."
Pryshepa seemed alarmed. "Mr Davenport, what are you-"
"You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to." Davenport heaved a vast miserable sigh. "I have been wandering the pathless land longer than any of you have been alive. The lies and the betrayals and the reversals are suffocating me."
Holden Crest started to rise from his chair, then settled back down. "Sir. Do this mean you are thinking of stepping down as Head of Section One?"
"There won't be time for that for me." Davenport cocked his head as a door slammed downstairs and voices were heard, not threatening but businesslike. "Come. We need to interrogate still another prisoner."
The men from INTERCEPT rose and escorted Davenport solicitously from the office and down the stairs, not taking him by the arm but staying protectively close. Bane followed thoughtfully. He had never heard such poetic introspection from the old man before but he noticed that Davenport was still withdrawn and looking inward when he should be on top of a dangerous situation. He followed the three men down the stairs to the living room of the house they had taken over.
When he had first been approached by INTERCEPT only a few years earlier, Bane had researched the organization and found its record was remarkably clean. There had been only a few minor scandals in the decades the group had been active, mostly affairs between agents that had compromised their integrity. And there had been a horribly botched rescue attempt of hostages in the 1980s that had been covered up and only revealed when Congress held hearings. But on the whole, INTERCEPT had seemed clean, certainly much better than the Mandate or Department 21 Black could claim. Bane had worked reluctantly with both those agencies but he felt more at ease with INTERCEPT. After digesting Davenport's speech now, the Dire Wolf realized he had just been warned not to trust INTERCEPT any more than any other agency.
In the living room, all the furniture had been taken away and the carpeting rolled up. A blue tarp was stretched out on the bare wooden floor, and a sturdy wooden chair sat directly over it with a spotlight on a stand inches away. It was a blatant interrogation chamber. Two INTERCEPT men in the standard black suits and white shirts were tying a wounded man to that chair with thin wire. A metal stand had a plastic IV bag which dripped down a tube into the man's arm.
Bane studied the prisoner somberly. The black shirt and yellow vest with the skull emblem had been taken away, as had the yellow hood. The man was in good shape, fit without being overly muscular. He had thick shaggy yellow hair over a weathered face and seemed in his late forties. Heavy bandages covered one shoulder, with red smears starting to leak through. The prisoner stared straight ahead stoically. The INTERCEPT men were holding 9mm pistols in marksmen's two-handed grips, pointed down at the floor as they stood by.
From the next room, Crest and Pryshepa brought in an easy chair into which Davenport gingerly lowered himself. As Crest and Pryshepa took the places on either side of the old man, Bane stepped around to be out of the line of sight for the prisoner, and he saw something. One of the INTERCEPT guards also took a few steps to one side, keeping a clear line of fire for Bane. The Dire Wolf did not seem to notice and did not move away, but all his feral instincts flared up in that instant. He was in danger.
Davenport leaned forward, sighed and quietly said, "Nils Stormgren. Oh yes I recognize you. I knew your grandather, founder of the Stormgren line. A dynasty of criminals. And here you are. Before we begin, do you have any credo you wish to speak?"
The blond man smirked through a heavy five-o'clock shadow. "There is a reason I was taken alive. Your agent could have killed me as the others were, but I was needed to be brought here alive."
"Go on," said Davenport imperurbably. "What reason would that be?"
"It is not STIGMA you should be fearing," Nils Stormgren said in a low voice that made everyone lean forward. Nor is it Intercrime or the Marabunta Army or any other network. There is something far worse that has been breathing down your neck since you first took your oath at Head of Section One of INTERCEPT."
As the prisoner paused, Davenport raised his bushy eyebrows. "You have a flair for melodrama, my boy. Please continue."
Nils Stormgren said, "No one lives who gazes upon the BASILISK."
As the last syllable was pronounced, the killing began.
III.
The INTERCEPT agent facing Bane snapped his arms up with the 9mm pointing right at his target. He had no idea what he was threatening. The agents had been briefed on how dangerous the Dire Wolf was, but they could not realize that he had been born with reflexes nearly twice as fast as the finest athlete, nor that he had thirty years of Kumundu study under Teacher Chael. Before that finger could close on the trigger, Bane had closed the ten feet between them and jammed the muzzle up under the agent's chin. As the Glock exploded deafeningly loud in the enclosed space and the INTERCEPT man's head flew apart, another shot rang out nearby. Bane had already dropped straight down to the floor and spun around to face the other guard.
That agent was no immediate threat. He was startled by the confusing blur of action he had just witnessed and was only beginning to raise his own weapon into position when two slugs from Bane's 38 punched home in his chest. The INTERCEPT man dropped to his knees and fell over on his side. The Dire Wolf was up on his feet, swinging his Smith & Wesson around to see what had happened in those three seconds.
Lionel Davenport was dead, with a tunnel drilled through the side of his head just above the ear. Standing next to the body, Nicholas Pryshepa lowered his pistol and then pivotted, about to take a shot at Bane across the room. The blond Russian agent had an unemotional expression of calm on his face as if he had not just murdered his chief. Bane snapped his own gun into line but the blast which sounded did not come from him. Pryshepa gasped, pressed both hands to his chest as he dropped the weapon, and fell headlong to the floor. His face bounced once as it hit.
With his own standard 9mm in hand, Holden Crest stared blankly with a white face and dazed eyes. He staggered, lowering his arm and stared wildly at the bodies of his boss and his partner. "I- I would have trusted him with my life, I DID trust him with my life..."
Tied to the chair, Nils Stormgren laughed gleefully. Stepping forward, Bane flung a backfist that swung the man's head around on his neck. "You be quiet," he told the prisoner. Seeing movement outside through the window, the Dire Wolf spoke sharply to Crest. "Snap out of it! When they knock on the door, fire one shot at it and move aside. Got it?"
To his credit, Holden Crest had gotten a grip on himself and he turned to face the door. "What are you going to be doing?"
"You'll see!" Bane growled as he took three quick steps toward the window on the back wall, flung it up and dove through it neatly. A second later, a knocking did sound on the door. Without thinking, Crest snapped off a shot high above the center of the door and then jumped to one side. He was expecting an answering barrage of gunfire but there was only silence. Then, to his complete surprise, he heard the voice of Jeremy Bane call, "All set. You can open this door now, Crest."
Not fully knowing why he complied, still holding his pistol ready, the INTERCEPT agent turned the knob, took a fearful breath and swung the door inward. His jaw dropped. Bane was standing on the porch over two corpses, the snipers from outside, still in their camo. The Dire Wolf cleaned one of his silver daggers on a man's jumpsuit and slid the blade back into its sheath beneath his sleeve. "We need to get going," he said as if he had just risen off a couch.
"They never knew what hit them," said Holden Crest in a tiny voice.
"That's the idea," Bane told him. "Hurry. Who knows who else is on the way? Give me a hand with the prisoner." They got Stormgren free of the chair and unhooked the IV. "He won't dehydrate that fast," Bane grunted as they hauled the prisoner into Crest's BMW and flung him roughly into the back seat.
"You drive," the Dire Wolf ordered. "I'll keep watch for pursuit!"
Even as he slid behind the wheel, Crest sputtered, "But what about Nicholas? And the poor chief? We can't just leave them like that.."
"DRIVE!" yelled Bane. "Our getting killed is not going to help them."
IV.
Twelve minutes later, they pulled into the gravel parking lot of the WILLOW VIEW MOTEL, with its row of six rooms and an office at one end. Bane instructed Crest to drive around the edge of the building and park in the grass as far behind it as possible. A freshly waxed silver BMW was not inconspicuous. As the INTERCEPT agent shut off the engine, the Dire Wolf turned around in his seat and glared at the prisoner in the back.
"You've been quiet enough so far," he told Stormgren in a low even tone. "The painkillers must be wearing off by now. Now, they patched up your shoulder but you're going to need surgery soon. Keep that in mind. Crest, watch him. If he acts up or starts making noise, a little pressure on that shoulder will keep him in line. I'll be back in a second." Without any explanation, Bane left the car and moved briskly around the corner of the building. He spotted an old woman getting a bottle of soda from a vending machine and waited until she had gone back in her room before showing himself.
They were at the end farthest from the office, and Bane's dark green Mustang was still parked where he had left it in front of cabin 6. Getting the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and stepped inside with the long-barreled revolver in his hand and swinging from left to right. The empty room greeted him. Bane took a minute to examine his belongings and satisfied himself that no one had been in there. Good. Moving with his usual quickness, he got his shredded jacket and turtleneck off and fetched a spare identical set from his travel bag at the foot of the bed. Yanking them on, Bane transferred various tiny gadgets and devices from his ruined jacket to the fresh one, storing them in concealed pockets and slits.
He took another second to reload his Smith & Wesson. The cabin wasn't quite shabby, but it was minimal. A bathroom door was in one corner. There was a double bed, two chairs and a dresser with a 12 inch TV on it. The only window faced the parking lot and he had left the curtains drawn when he had left that morning. The Dire Wolf heard his stomach growl but this was certainly no time to grab food. He picked up the jacket that had been ripped up by bullet holes, folded it over one arm and went back outside. No one was in sight. Leaving the door ajar, Bane slipped back around the corner of the building where the BMW waited.
Stepping up to the driver's window, which had been lowered halfway because of the May warmth, the Dire Wolf told Holden Crest, "We're going in room 6." He opened the back door of the car and helped the injured prisoner out, none too gently, draping the black jacket around the man's shoulders. Checking that no one was in sight, Bane ushered the two men into his rented room, closed the door and locked it. Finally, he let out a breath and untensed slightly for the first time since the action had started.
Crest was looking around curiously. "When you showed up in a taxi this morning, I assumed you had come straight from the airport. You had this room ready first?"
"I arrived late last night," Bane answered shortly. He got the prisoner seated in one of the chairs with a thump. "Stormgren, keep still. You must realize your life is hanging by a thread already."
Crest dropped down on the edge of the bed and holstered his gun, which he had been holding against his side. He rubbed his face wearily and for the first time, the smooth suave facade faltered. "Mr Davenport...Nicholas.. both dead. And Nicholas a traitor! It's hard to believe."
"I think there's more to this than we realize yet," Bane told him. Facing the prisoner, he took a flat metal case from an inside pocket and removed a disposable syringe from it. Selecting a spot on Stormgren's forearm, the Dire Wolf injected a clear serum, rubbed the site and returned the empty hypo to its slot in the case. "I know what you're thinking, Stormgren. You've developed a resistance to truth serum and anyway you've been trained by experts how to resist. But this is not truth serum like your people know. Veratilin was developed by Alchemists."
As he spoke, the blond man's head sagged forward and he started to breathe slowly and deeply. Bane motioned for Holden Crest to keep quiet and knelt in front of the prisoner. "Let's get started. What is your real name?"
"Nils Jonathan Stormgren," the man answered promptly.
"Who do you really work for?"
"BASILISK."
"So your membership in STIGMA is just a front for your real allegiance?"
"Yes."
Bane glanced up at Crest and gave him a grim look. "Nicholas Pryshepa was also working for BASILISK then?"
"Yes."
The Dire Wolf considered. Under Veratilin, the subject answered truthfully but did not volunteer anything. "Why did Pryshepa defect to BASILISK?"
"He was controlled by the Master Mind."
"Really. What is the Master Mind? How does it control people?"
"No one knows. The Master Mind takes over people and implants orders." Stormgren had started to perspire heavily and his breathing was getting ragged.
"Do these people know they are under his control?"
"No." Stormgren shook his head violently from side to side. "No, they don't know."
"Stay calm. Stay calm. Where is the Master Mind located?"
"Manhattan. Simmons Plaza. Inside the- the basement.." Stormgren was gasping for breath and his skin had flushed.
"Take it easy," Bane commanded him. "Breathe slowly. Who is the Master Mind? What does he look like?"
"He's a monster!" shouted Nils Stormgren and his voice rose to a shriek. "He's a giant HEAD!" The blond man convulsed and fell forward. Bane caught him before he would hit the floor, but lowered the BASILISK agent down anyway.
Holden Crest had gotten to his feet and was staring with horrified eyes. "Dead?"
"Yep," Bane answered unemotionally. "I guess the conflict between the veratilin and his hypnotic orders was too much for his body to handle. Well, I had more questions to ask but we have learned enough to get started."
"This is more serious than I ever thought," Crest muttered. "Sleeper agents within my organization. They don't even know they're double agents. They're under the control of this Master Mind thing until they hear their trigger word and then they carry out orders they were given previously. It's incredible."
Bane nodded and straightened out the arms and legs of the dead man, rolling his over on his back. "We have one advantage. BASILISK doesn't know what we have found out. They will assume Stormgren didn't talk because they don't know I have Alchemical serums. Crest, take your jacket off and roll up your sleeve."
The INTERCEPT agent stiffened and stepped back. "Why would I be doing that?"
"Because we both need to know if you are under BASILISK control if we are going to work together." Bane had straightened up and turned that pale stare on the man like a weapon. "This is the only way."
"I just saw a man die because you gave him a shot of some unknown substance!" Crest barked. "I don't exactly think it's a good idea to let you do that to me."
Bane did not react. "You've seen me in action. You know I could knock you out and administer this before you could react. Think, Crest. You might be under BASILISK control and not even know it."
INTERCEPT's top enforcement agent visibly struggled to reach a decision. "How long do the effects last?"
"Twenty minutes, thirty at most. The only after-effect is a headache that goes away soon enough."
"Well..." Crest folded his arms and gave Bane a defiant stare. "How about you let me inject you with it, as well? How do I know I can trust you?"
"I'll let you question me," the Dire Wolf said promptly. "Let's get this over with."
Crest bared his arm and sat down on the edge of the bed. Bane took a second syringe from the metal case and gave him the veratilin. The effects took hold promptly. Under the Alchemical serum, Crest responded to the questions without the inner struggle that Stormgren had suffered. He said his name was Holden Allan Crest, aged forty, born in Calgary. He had never heard of BASILISK until the prisoner had spoken the word that afternoon. He had never seen Nicholas Pryshepa say or do anything suspicious, nor did he know anything about the Stormgren family beyond a skimpy briefing he had once had on them.
After getting a few details about how to contact INTERCEPT offices in New York in case they were separated, Bane let Crest lie down and rest for the short time until the serum would wear off. He got a six inch roast beef sub from his travel bag and devoured it, then drank a bottle of water. One price for his speed and enchanced healing was a ravenous appetite.
Eventually, Holden Crest sat up, yawned and blinked sleepily, then realized what had happened. "Well? What's the verdict?"
"You're clear. You're just what you seem to be." Bane shrugged off his sport jacket and tugged up his right sleeve to reveal the sheath that held one of the matched silver daggers. "We had better hurry," he said. "I rented this room with a fake ID but no disguise. There's no telling who might show up, INTERCEPT or STIGMA or BASILISK or all three." After tapping the syringe to check for air bubbles, he handed it to the agent and presented his arm.
Once he was under the serum, the Dire Wolf gave some confusing answers. Asked what his real name was, he said he didn't know. He had no memories before the age of nine or ten when he had been a homeless street orphan. He had apparently chosen the name Jeremy Bane at random. He did not know who his parents were or what had become of them. As a child, he had been taken in by two different shady alcoholic'guardians' who used him as a thief. Once he was big enough, he had set out on his own. At the age of twenty, he had met Kenneth Dred and entered the Midnight War that few knew about. Then, with the death of Kenneth Dred, Bane had inherited a huge fortune and had organized the first KDF team...
Abruptly, the Dire Wolf shuddered violently and shook his head. He stood up and looked around the room as if expecting to be attacked, then calmed down when he saw Holden Crest staring at him in confusion. "Whew," he breathed. "Did I tell you enough to be trusted?"
"You were only under for maybe five minutes," Crest said in an outraged tone. He realized he hadn't learned what he had set out to find. "How did you snap out of it so fast?"
"My crazy metabolism. You've seen me move. That extra speed means I metabolize any drugs rapidly." Bane stood up and glanced at the body on the floor. "That needs to be taken care of. Can you call that mop-up squad we saw earlier?"
"Yeah, of course. I'm not sure they won't turn out to be STIGMA or BASILISK or whatever, though." Crest took out his phone and punched some numbers. As he was talking, Bane peered discreetly through the curtains out at the parking lot. Two boys about eleven were standing by a van, apparently arguing about something vital. As he watched, a heavy woman in a sundress came over and bustled them into the van.
"They're on the way. If INTERCEPT knows what happened, the news hasn't trickled down to them yet." Crest put the phone away. "I have to report. The next in command has to take over. Oh no, that's Mrs Claire. She's impossible to get along with but she'll be my boss now."
"As soon as you see her, say the word BASILISK and see what happens," Bane suggested. "But be ready to defend yourself."
"Yes. I have to operate as if my organization is packed with moles and double agents." Crest raised and lowered his shoulders in acceptance. "Well, we have to return to the scene and wait for superiors to come and clear everything. Let's go."
Bane shook his head. "Not me. I'm heading back to Manhattan to locate this Master Mind freak."
"You can't do that," Crest said. "There are a lot of questions to be answered. My chief and my partner are dead by violence. INTERCEPT has been compromised. The investigation will be brutal." His eyebrows lowered. "And you have to be present."
The Dire Wolf leaned over and got his travel bag from the bed. "Not me. I am not employed by INTERCEPT. While I'd be filling out reports and repeating answers over and over, the enemy would be getting ahead of us. I need to move before they know what happened." As he flung the bag over one shoulder, he gave a rare smile, so faint it was barely noticeable. "Join me as soon as you can, Crest."
"Jeremy, I can not allow you to leave," Holden Crest shouted in a deep voice.
Without looking back, Bane said, "Remember. Simmons Plaza. That's down by the Battery. I'll save you a few BASILISK agents." With that, he was out the door as Crest fumed.
V.
Twelve minutes later, as it was getting near dusk, a white Dodge van pulled into the parking lot and took the space that Bane had vacated. The sides of the van read COOPERSTOWN PLUMBING AND HEATING in fancy script, with a phone number and address that were both fictional. Two men in dark blue jumpsuits with their names in an oval over the left breast pocket got up sluggishly and pressed the doorbell for Cabin 6. Instantly, Holden Crest opened the door and let them in. He had seen that van many times before. The men left the door partly open.
Two minutes passed. One of the agents disguised as a plumber appeared in the doorway and raised a hand, then went back inside. The sliding panel on the side of the van opened. Two more men hopped out onto the gravel of the parking lot, but they were carrying Uzis and wore the yellow vests and yellow hoods with skull emblems. Showing themselves in daylight, armed and costumed, indicated either confidence or foolhardiness. The two STIGMA killers strode up onto the walkway that ran the length of the motel and approached the partially opened door, raising their weapons.
In that instant before they could enter, a figure in black slid off the roof of the motel and landed directly upon them. All three went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Kneeling over the STIGMA man who had broken his fall, Bane drove a downward elbow blow that cracked the man's sternum and ruptured his heart and then, in a continuation of the same motion, seized the other assassin and drove a chopping hand edge blow down to the base of the neck that made a crisp snapping noise. That man died instantly, as well.
In the scant three seconds this had taken, the noise of the encounter had brought the two men in plumber's uniforms to the doorway. Each had drawn a handgun from a pocket of their jumpsuit, but they never got a chance to raise them, much less fire. The Dire Wolf came at them faster than they could follow, driving short sharp jabs to the chest that forced the air from their lungs with a gush. The assassins fell backwards, gasping and helpless. Bane grabbed one by the jumpsuit front and jabbed stiffened fingers into the soft throat, crushing the larnyx. Only one of the enemy was still alive. He was trying to catch his breath and not doing well. Bane whipped a backfist that twisted the man's head around too far to avoid a broken neck.
All this had happened so quickly that Holden Crest was just beginning to react. He was a veteran agent who had been in many firefights, but he had never seen anything like the Dire Wolf. Even as Crest got his gun into position, Bane was flinging the dead STIGMA agents bodily into the motel room and closing the door behind him.
"It's asking too much for no one to have seen THAT!" the Dire Wolf snapped. "We've only got seconds to escape. Come on, Crest, we're taking your car."
"Wait. What? The INTERCEPT cleaners had STIGMA assassins with them...? I don't understand."
"Explain on the way!" Bane said, hauling Crest by the arm out the door and around the corner to where the BMW was stowed out of sight. The INTERCEPT agent seemed still to be struggling with the situation as Bane opened the passenger door and shoved him in, then ran over to slide behind the wheel. "Give me the keys," he ordered and as he got them, he gunned the engine and peeled out onto the highway.
"I'm parked five miles down the road," Bane explained. "I walked back behind buildings and got up on the roof where they couldn't see me. Good thing I did, too."
Holden Crest was staring at the man who had turned his orderly world into a nightmare of red confusion. "I thought you were going to Manhattan."
"I wanted to see how deep the infiltration went first. It's worse than I thought. Do you get it? The two INTERCEPT men, the two STIGMA men... they were working together. BASILISK is within both organizations." Bane made a disgusted noise. "This is not something worked up recently. This took decades to arrange."
Straightening his clothing, brushing his hair with his fingers, Crest had regained his composure. He watched Bane thoughtfully. "Probably from the very beginning. When INTERCEPT was first chartered by the United Nations, I think BASILISK had its agents hidden within the membership. Deep sleepers, most of them never to be activated. They worked for INTERCEPT, did their jobs and took their pensions without ever being called by their true masters."
"You've got the picture," Bane said. He slowed at a stop sign and turned right. "Which makes you wonder, why are they becoming active now? Why is now the time to strike?"
Crest smiled thinly. "Do you know what a Basilisk is, Jeremy?"
"What? No. I thought it was a nonsense word. Why?"
"It's a mythical best. King of the reptiles. It was so venomous that just looking at it killed people. No one could describe what it looked like. That's why Stormgren said that, 'no one lives who gazes on the basilisk."
Bane nodded. "The perfect code name for an organization no one learns about and lives to tell. I get it." He pulled over into a strip mall where his own Mustang sat in front of a laundromat. "Okay. We have to split up here, but don't go back to the house where Davenport was killed. Meet me in Manhattan near Simmons Plaza and we will hunt the Master Mind. If we don't both get there, use your own judgement on reporting to your organization. Either way, I'm going after whatever is behind all this."
The INTERCEPT agent got out of the car when Bane did, circling around to take the wheel of the BMW. He saw the Dire Wolf heading for the Mustang, visibly eager to rush into danger, and it made him smile. "Hey, Jeremy. I never said thank you for all you've done today."
"My pleasure," Bane answered. "Be alert. We'll meet for the showdown with the Master Mind."
VI.
Hitting the Thruway when he reached New York State proved to be a big mistake for Crest. There seemed to be an accident up ahead somewhere involving ambulances and trooper cars. There was no way to make even an illegal U-Turn and left INTERCEPT straighten it out later because cars were blocking him from the median and a Trooper was parked there. Crest was left with nothing to do but fume and fret for fifty minutes.
Taking out his cell phone and activating the scrambler attachment, he said, "Open Channel Three. Priority Greem," and reached INTERCEPT headquarters in the city. The commotion was worse than he had expected. At four different bases, an INTERCEPT agent had suddenly gone rogue and shot up as many people as he could before being put down. The worst incident had been out in public, at a mall in Maryland where three innocent civilians had been killed in the crossfire. INTERCEPT's low profile and discreet approach had been lost forever. Mrs Claire was put on, she had indeed taken over with the death of Lionel Davenport and she was as vicious to Crest as he had feared. As she rattled off questions and dismissed his explanations, he started to wonder if it was too late to return to the RCMP.
But then, her voice changed back to normal tones. "What's your ETA at headquarters, Crest?"
"Traffic's moving now. I'll say ninety minutes."
"Good. We need you urgently. I don't like your disregard of proper procedures or your sloppy paperwork. But, when there's trouble like this, you're our best agent, Crest. Follow up on what Bane has underway, go with him... but don't forget he's a maverick. Report to me as soon as you can."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." As the connection broke off, he felt better. Eleven years in Enforcement for INTERCEPT against everything from terrorists to kidnappers to serial killers, and he had always felt taken for granted. Even a little encouragement helped. He reached the Metropolitan area, went through the Lincoln Tunnel and into Manhattan. As he emerged at Times Square, he wondered why Bane had not contacted him but decided to maintain silence himself. Crest turned right and headed south toward the Battery, still digesting everything that had happened that day. The deaths of Mr Davenport and Nicholas had to shoved deep into the back of his mind for the moment. It was the current mess with BASILISK infiltrating both INTERCEPT and STIGMA that was top priority.
What if... Mrs Claire herself had been compromised? What if she was a brainwashed BASILISK pawn now, with post-hypnotic commands and a secret agenda? Was there anyone he could trust even slightly? Holden Crest felt like he was having trouble breathing with all the stress and he abruptly pulled into a convenient parking spot and tried to get hold of himself. There was a deli across the street. Without realizing he was going to do it, he raced in and got a cold beer and a ham and cheese on rye with lots of mustard. He finished them inside the deli, wiped his mouth and felt better. That simple act had brought him back to the real world. The INTERCEPT enforcer returned to his BMW and headed south again, where he knew where Simmons Plaza was.
As his silver BMW entered the parking lot, Crest spotted Bane emerging from the doorway of a pizza joint. This plaza had a U-shaped loop of stores around the parking area and the Dire Wolf had been standing in as much concealment as was available. He strode quickly forward, yanked open the passenger door and climbed in without a word. A little uncertain how to proceed, Crest moved to find an empty slot.
"We should go to your headquarters," Bane said quietly. His voice sounded subdued, not its usual urgent bark. He was sitting with shoulders slightly slumped, too, not his normal hyper self.
"Are you all right, Jeremy?" asked Crest, casting a sideways glance.
"I'm fine. We need to meet with your superiors immediately." Bane still seemed less energetic and driven than usual. It was the first time Crest had seen him like this and it was somehow distressing to see the Dire Wolf seems so, well... normal.
"We're on our way," Crest said as he pulled back on to the street. "Did you find anything?"
"I think I've learned something that explains what's been happening. But I want to tell it to your superiors, Holden."
That made him blink. In three years, Bane had always called him by his last name for whatever reason. That "Holden" sounded forced. They drove back up to the East 40s, within sight of the United Nations building. Crest pulled into a municipal parking lot where a spot was kept for him, got out and started toward the sidewalk, keeping a worried eye on Bane as they went. Was the man limping? Maybe he had just taken too much damage that day with all those bullets and the fighting and the long drive, so that he was simply tired. Certainly, as he followed Crest compliantly up the sidewalk, the Dire Wolf seemed to be lost in thought.
In an alley next to the TWICE IS BETTER antique store, Crest led the way. The exit was blocked by a decrepit wooden fence, with a battered metal garbage can leaning against it. As they approached, a plain wooden door opened in the brick wall of the building to their right and they marched immediately inside without breaking step.
Two INTERCEPT agents covered them with handguns drawn. They were standing in a small dingy foyer that had another plain wooden door behind them and a single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. One of the men looked like a Pacific islander, a big guy with a moon face and short bristly hair. Samoan, almost certainly. The other was from South America, Colombia perhaps, thin and agile. Both wore the standard black suits and white dress shirts of INTERCEPT and seemed angry.
Holden Crest had never seen them before, but they seemed to recognize him. "I was here to see a man who does not light his pipe," he said sadly.
The Colombian exhaled, not quite sighing. "Out of date. Now you 'wish to speak with a woman who knew your family'." He gestured with his handgun. "Surrender your sidearm, Crest. You too, Mr Bane, we've been briefed all about you."
The Dire Wolf reached behind him and handed his Smith & Wesson over. Then he submitted meekly to a search. The silver daggers on his forearms were concealed with high density silicone molds which looked and felt exactly like human muscle. Once again, those molds were not detected and the knives were not discovered. Watching, Crest debated telling the men that Bane was still armed, but decided to hold his silence. He could not say why he did this, maybe he didn't quite trust these INTERCEPT agents. With BASILISK infiltrating everywhere, who could be sure where anyone's loyalty lay? Crest himself was not entirely disarmed. In a holder inside his left ankle rested a sap, a leather sleeve filled with birdshot and it weight was comforting.
"All right, follow us," said the bigger man, turning toward the door behind him. Jeremy Bane did not reply, but meekly followed Crest as they were led through that door into a corridor of white tile under blazing bright overhead lights. Now they were in the world of INTERCEPT. The air was cold and dry, and the hum of powerful machinery could be felt through the floor. Around a corner, the hallway ended in a lobby which held several chrome-and-hard-plastic chairs, a big TV screen showing cable news, and a clear plastic desk behind which sat a gorgeous young woman in a Navy blue pleated skirt and blazer. Her honey-colored hair was done up in a bun at the back. As they entered and approached, she kept her right foot on a concealed button and her hand rested on a certain section of the desk.
"Clear, Sophie!" snapped the South American. "Here are their weapons." He handed the two guns over to the woman, who inserted them into plastic bags and secured them in a drawer behind her and clicked shut with finality. Sophie stood up, swiped two triangular name tags over a damp pad on the desk and handed one to Crest, the other to Bane. As the two men pinned the tags to the lapels of their jackets, the woman gave them a sad smile.
"Good to see you again, Holden," she said. "I just wish it wasn't under these horrible conditions. Mr Bane, thank you for volunteering to help out. The Director will see you in her office. Good luck, men... good luck to us all."
Holden Crest extended his hand but did not quite touch her arm. "Thanks, Sophie. We'll talk after the debriefing." He looked over his shoulder at the two INTERCEPT agents, and drawled, "Are you escorting us?"
"Orders," said the big Samoan without any humor. "Under the circumstances, I'm sure you understand."
"Naturally," Crest replied, adjusting the cuffs of his dinner jacket. He strolled toward a big metal panel that slid open to reveal an elevator cage. All four men entered comfortably, the door hissed shut and they felt themselves dropping down for a few minutes past basements and sub-basements. Finally, the door slid open to reveal an old-fashioned office with a three-foot globe of the world, shelves crammed with books and documents, and a wide oak desk cluttered beyond beyond belief. Standing behind that desk was Evelyn Claire.
She was tall, six feet even, heavyset and imposing in a dark brown business suit. Mrs Claire would be in her late sixties, hair more white than grey and pulled up in a bun with a wooden rod to hold it in place. She had a square jaw, alert blue eyes behind thick-lensed glasses and a general air of disapproval as everyone entered her office at once. "Crest. And Mr Bane. Good of you to show up, I trust you have some good news for me! No one else does."
"I'm afraid not, ma'am," Holden Crest said mildly, "But I believe our friend here might." He stepped back to stand almost directly behind the Dire Wolf, as the two INTERCEPT guards kept their guns in hand but with lowered muzzles.
"Ah, Mr Bane," the new Director said. "I'm familiar with your previous work with our agency. What do you have?"
The Dire Wolf took one step forward, with the oddest smile on his narrow face. "No one lives who gazes on the BASILISK," he snapped. Faster than any eye watching could follow, he chambered his left leg and kicked the INTERCEPT guard on that side so hard in the stomach that the man doubled up and vomited. Even as his foot was touching down, Bane lunged to his right and backfisted the Colombian guard with a sharp cracking noise that echoed in the small office, wrestling the gun away from the stunned man. All in one motion, Bane got that Glock in his hand and swung it up to aim at the startled face of Mrs Claire.
Just as Bane had finished saying that ominous sentence a second earlier, Holden Crest had stepped up behind him and swung the shot-filled sap as hard as he possibly could. As fast as the Dire Wolf was moving, he had already taken out both guards and gotten hold of the gun, so it was just chance that his head was back in position as the sap cracked against his skull with murderous force. Bane dropped to his knees, letting the Glock fall, and sagged down to the carpeting.
Crest yelled, "You! Help me get him cuffed!" The Colombian guard pulled a set of handcuffs from beneath his belt and they fastened Bane's wrists together behind his back. The Samoan was still gasping for breath after that kick to the stomach, but Crest took his cuffs and bound Bane's ankles together. Only then did the top INTERCEPT agent exhale and sway as the tension faded from his body. He had known something was wrong by the way the Dire Wolf had been acting since they had met up at the Plaza, and he had been ready. When he heard Bane pronounce that slogan for BASILISK, Crest had smashed out with the heavy sap as hard and as fast as he could, but it was only luck that he had connected... and only luck he had prevented Bane from killing Mrs Claire.
Taking deep slow breaths, Crest managed to calm himself. "He must have met the BASILISK leader, the Master Mind whatever that is, and they took him over. He was controlled by them, like our own agents who have gone over to BASILISK."
Staring down at the limp form at her feet, Mrs Claire shook her head slowly. "Take him down to the clear holding pen. Maximum security. Hurry up, he's starting to stir."
As they bent to lift the senseless man, Bane moaned and twitched his arms and legs. "I can't believe he's not dead," Crest said. "I could split a rock hitting it the way I hit him."
"Hurry up!" Mrs Claire repeated. "Get him secured. You don't know half there is to know about him. The most dangerous man alive and now he's working for BASILISK...."
"BASILISK I: The Pathless Land"
10/13/2014
