dochermes | Entries tagged with 1984

"Chased By Skinwalkers"

7/6/1984

I.

"What are those damn things?" demanded one of the gunmen. "They're gaining on us!"

"On FOOT? That's impossible," the driver said. "I'm doing seventy-five now."

Wedged in the back seat between two killers, each of whom had a gun in a shoulder holster, Jeremy Bane could not keep a hint of satisfaction out of his voice. "I told you guys not to take this route. This is Skinwalker Highway. Truckers lose money because they won't drive here at night."

The bigger of the two thugs glared at the prisoner pressed between him and his partner. He had not thought the notorious Dire Wolf was too imposing in person. Still under thirty, six feet tall but no more than one hundred and seventy pounds, Bane looked like a swimmer or runner in good shape but certainly not the peak fighting machine that his reputation claimed. The all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and jacket didn't impress him either.

When the STIGMA team had taken him at the airport, Bane had surprisingly not resisted. They had confiscated the Smith & Wesson revolver at his left hip, patted him down and then got him situated between them in the back seat. They had taken Exit 19 from Phoenix at dusk. When the driver had turned onto Route 55 as the sun set, Bane had in fact told them they were making a big mistake.

Yanking his Glock from his armpit holster, the bigger man held it up in both hands to make sure the prisoner wouldn't make a desperate try at grabbing it. "Look at those things! They're horrible."

"Are they wolves? Running on their hind legs?" asked the other gunmen. "I never heard of such a thing."

"No. Not wolves, not even werewolves," Bane said, turning his head finally to get a look. "Those are something much worse, those are Skinwalkers."

"Can't you go any faster? Floor it, Mark!"

"I've got the pedal down flat now," came the answer from the front seat.

Bane continued, "You should know that bullets will only annoy those monsters, maybe knock them down, but regular bullets won't really hurt them. They will be climbing all over this car in a few minutes."

The other killer reached behind him for his own sidearm. "How can they run so fast? It doesn't seem possible."

Unnoticed by the two STIGMA men, Bane crossed his arms in front of him, fingertips resting on the opposite cuff. To those who knew the Dire Wolf and his ways, this was a danger signal that the mobsters didn't recognize. "You goons planned on burying me out on the desert tonight, right? Because I was getting too much information on your human trafficking. So I don't feel at all bad about what's going to happen now."

The implications of his final sentence started to sink in, the two men turned their attention to their prisoner in the final half-second they had to live. From their sheaths beneath his jacket sleeves, Bane drew a slim silver-bladed dagger in each hand and drove them hard into the left side of each man's chest. Neither could do more than wheeze as air left their lungs for the last time.

At the same time, the Dire Wolf drew his left knee up to his chest and kicked the driver in the back of the head so sharply that man's neck broke. Yanking his daggers free, Bane scrambled up over the front passenger seat. Luckily this was a long straight stretch of highway and the car would stay on the road for a few more seconds. He dropped his knives for the moment, managed to unbuckle the driver's seat belt and shove him bodily out the door. As the door slammed shut from the air rushing past, Bane slid in behind the steering wheel and stomped down on the gas pedal.

It was too much to hope that the Skinwalkers would stop the pursuit to feast on the driver, but as Bane glanced in the rear view mirror, he saw that one of them had indeed dropped down to begin gnawing on the body. He counted five still chasing the car. It seemed that eighty was the most this big old Chevy could do, and he didn't put much faith in its ability to navigate the loose dry dirt off the highway.

His silver daggers were within reach on the passenger seat. Potent as they were against creatures of the night, tackling five Skinwalkers at the same time was a bit beyond his abilities. Each was as fast and as strong as he was, and their savage bloodlust outweighed his martial training. He could fight one with a good chance of survival but five was out of the question.

The pack was almost within reach now, loping in silence, their red eyes reflecting the taillights of the car. Groping behind him with one hand, Bane got hold of the Glock one of the killers had dropped and placed it next to him. That would help. On an impulse, still keeping the car racing as fast as it was able, he yanked open the glove compartment and found his own weapon. The long-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 was a welcome sight.

Then a thump on the rear of the car alerted him. The creature was climbing up onto the roof. Instantly, Bane blasted three shots up through the ceiling with the Smith & Wesson and glimpsed a dark gaunt shape dropping past the passenger window. But more the Skinwalkers were catching up, running alongside the car and leering in through the windows. Their long fanged muzzles grinned in anticipation.

The Dire Wolf sheathed his daggers without cleaning the blades, something that went against all his rules but which was unavoidable at the moment. He decided to slow the car slightly, hoping one of the monsters would position itself properly. It worked. A long figure like a half-starved coyote on two legs got ahead of him. Bane accelerated and hit the brakes as soon as he felt the shuddering impact. The creature was pinned under the front wheel. That ought to hold him, Bane thought grimly.

Diving out the driver's door, the Dire Wolf spun in a circle and emptied all nineteen shots into the creatures that were lunging at him. The bullets caught the Skinwalkers in midstride, off-balance enough that they were flung back off their feet but he knew they would not be seriously harmed by mundane weapons. Even as they fell, Bane sprinted off down the highway.

( the rest of the story )

"A Storm of Steel"

4/3-4/10/1984

[This was a lengthy story which I'm not likely to rewrite and revise to fit it into the modern canon. Forty single-spaced typed pages with almost no margins, it's really violent with a lot of emphasis on both Asian martial arts and advanced Western weaponry in drawn-out battles. The prominence of John Robert Chase as a well-known fighter in the Midnight War is also incompatible as he has since been depicted as a mysterious seldom-seen puppet master working behind the scenes. There are many other contradictions, such as John Grim being an accomplished telepath.
In the original manuscripts, "A Storm of Steel" introduced Andrew Steel and Shiro Mitsuru to the main narrative. Originally, I intended to keep them in their own little universe and wrote a novel PLAYING AT WAR and a few short stories. But this was resolved by placing the Steel tales in the 1960s and early 1970s, earlier than the main narrative of Jeremy Bane.
Finally, the writing style is so dense and clumsy that I'm embarrassed myself by re-reading it now. But this story DID take place in the Midnight War series, and its events are sometimes referred to. So here is a synopsis to keep the details straight.]

In 1984, John Grim was tricked by the KDF into a war with the rival empire of Wu Lung. Jeremy Bane had planned this for months. He divided his KDF team and their allies Andrew Steel and Shiro Mitsuru into two strike groups. The group disguised as Wu Lung henchmen attacked a John Grim outpost, while those posing as John Grim soldiers attacked a Wu Lung facility, both strikes causing loss of life. Already suspicious of each other after an earlier confrontation, Grim and Lung launched full scale war against each other which ended in disaster for both crimelords. The forces of the Grim organization used technology stolen from the Trom: small two-man attack helicopters, troops wearing motorized armor and armed with hand-held multiple-barreled cannons. The army of Wu Lung relied on traditional weapons of bows and spears and swords, but they were accompanied by winged Garmiri Dragons, semi-intelligent spiders big as dogs and the Burning Bats. The slaughter was horrendous on both sides. Wu Lung lost vast amounts of men and materials, and was forced to flee as a fugitive for several years.

John Grim suffered a more severe and fitting punishment. He had secretly abducted Cindy's parents Henry and Greta Brunner before the clash began and was keeping them in a cell at his headquarters. Grim had been trying to kidnap the KDF members' loved ones but the Brunners were the only ones he could locate. An explosion from a grenade mislaunched by Grim's own men killed them both while Cindy was almost within sight of them. The trauma of picking up their minds being snuffed out made her unleash her full powers in a widening blast of telepathic force which stunned everyone for a mile around into senselessness and ended the battle. Targeted specifically to that brain blast from Cindy Brunner at close range, Grim was reduced to a vegetative state for years; even after his physical recovery, he was never quite the same again.

Following the battle, Cindy spent much of that year at Tel Shai, healing and being counseled by her Teacher Anulka. She only took part in a few KDF missions, mostly as support and on monitor duty. Cindy eventually learned to cope with the deaths of her parents. Her grief was channeled into helped other victims of the Midnight War, this would be her major role for the rest of her life.

In 1988, Grim's legal team managed to get him transferred to a private facility, and during this procedure, the ambulance was hijacked, the EMTs shot dead and Grim taken away by his lieutenants. His next project was the capture and dismantling of Andrew Steel ("The Madness of John Grim," 1989). Doing this opened up huge amounts of Trom secrets and the Grim organization soon after developed Megavac, another one-time Artificial Intelligence Project.

When Bane and Cindy met the crimelord again in 1994 ("Devil Lights In the Sky"), John Grim had visibly deteriorated. ("When they had last clashed, John Grim had been a handsome, tall blond man with almost movie star good looks. Now he looked withered and thirty years older. His cheeks had sunken and his hair was thin and lank. The deepset eyes bulged unhealthily, bloodshot and staring.") By the end of the next year, Grim had died of multiple organ failure including both kidneys, Following Grim's death in 1995, his only son Alexander took over both the business organization and the crime network but at a reduced level of innovation, which he maintained for twenty years.

Wu Lung had been luckier. He escaped unhurt to quickly re-establish his empire through his network of lieutenants. Within a few years, he was secure enough to hold another of his infamous Tournaments.. which ended in the death of his body at the hands of Chen Wong-Lai.

"Death Threw a Party"

5/3/1984

I.

A gorgeous Sunday afternoon in early May was wasted on Jeremy Bane. He was so strongly nocturnal in nature that the warm sunlight and mild breeze actually annoyed him. He was much more at home on dark rainswept nights, but he had to follow leads wherever they led. The stolen Nekrosan gem had to be recovered before its innate properties began to manifest. The Dire Wolf had driven for two miles before he pulled over onto a side street in increasing grumpiness. Rows of houses that were all the same. How did these people not pull into the wrong driveway all the time and walk in through a door exactly identical to the one on their own house? Maybe they did and everyone just mumbled politely while the mistaken ones went back out.

He had been told that the Pleasant Valley Park had started as a postwar development to provide afforable housing for returning veterans looking to start families. Not many of those original homes survived. Over the years, they had been steadily replaced by identical pre-fab one-story white board houses all constructed overnight to the same plan. The more he took the scene in, the more it troubled Bane. It seemed creepy. Why didn't some of these people paint the outsides blue or yellow or even purple or pink? Put up tree houses for the kids? There was a small above-ground swimming pool in back of a few of the houses, but even they seemed to have all been purchased and installed by the same company. Each front yard had a tiny garden bordered by red bricks, and they all had roses as the main flowers.

Oh well. It was none of his business. His life was the Midnight War. Still only in his late twenties, the Dire Wolf was so lean and taut that he seemed menacing even when sitting still. The all-black outfit with its turtleneck and sport jacket didn't help, nor did the hostile pale grey eyes in a narrow face. Bane started up his Mustang again and eased out onto the main street for a few more blocks. There it was, Hart Lane. He pulled over and got out of the car. The smell of charcoal burning was everywhere and the sharp tang of hamburgers grilling made his stomach growl.

Kneeling in her tiny garden much like every other tiny front yard garden in the Pleasant Valley Park, an elderly woman sheltered beneath a floppy sun hat and huge round-rimmed purple sunglasses glanced up from where she had been proudly examining her circles of roses. There was one yellow and one white bloom standing out in the center of the burst of crimson. As she saw the ominous man in black approach, her tentative smile faded.

"Mrs Agnes Gray?" asked Bane quietly. He came closer and squatted down so she didn't have to crane her neck up at him. "I'm not from the police. Or the FBI. I'm not looking for Joanne to arrest her."

The old woman had a metal lawn chair behind her and she used its support to lever herself up to her feet, then dropped down to sit on it. "Then just who are you, young man?"

"My name is Bane, Jeremy Bane. To be honest, I'm concerned with retrieving that purple jewel that is in Joanne's possession. I don't care how she obtained it, that's not my business. I'm not out to arrest her. But she is in real danger as long as she holds it." He did not move closer, facing Mrs Gray over her rose garden.

"I don't understand. Joanne is just fifteen, she is only a girl..."

"The owners of that gem are terrible people," Bane told the woman. "Worse than Mafia mobsters. Worse than ex-Nazis or Russian KGB agents. They are killers when there is no need to kill. For her sake, I need to get that gem so they come after me instead of her."

Mrs Gray studied his face thoughtfully. "I don't know why but something in your voice convinces me. You're genuinely worried about her. Do you even know her?"

"No, not at all. But I have seen too many innocents after the Nekrosim got their claws on them. Joanne is your niece. Can you tell me where I can find her?"

The elderly woman lowered her head. She did not answer for so long that Bane thought she had fallen asleep, but finally she looked up. "I don't know why I should trust you, son. But I've learned to follow my instincts. She's probably with her sorta boyfriend, Gary. He lives almost on the other side of the Park, right before you reach the highway. 512 Maple Street. His father Jack Greene drives a silver Carmen Ghia."

"Thank you, ma'am," Bane said, already up and heading back for his car. "I'll do everything I can to see no one gets hurt."

"I believe you," Mrs Gray said to herself as she gingerly got down again to kneel over her roses.

( the rest of the story )

"All Four of the Sergeants-Majors

9/11/1984

I.

Lip-reading was one of many skills that Jeremy Bane had paid several experts to teach him when he had first started his Midnight War career. He still took refresher lessons two or three times a year. Like pickpocketing or voice mimicry, lip-reading expertise faded with disuse. Sitting in the shadows under an awning of the cafe, thirty feet away from the two men at a table in the sun, the Dire Wolf was able to follow most of what Doc Valentine was saying.

It helped that the old reprobate was so melodramatic. Valentine drawled and put so much emphasis into every word that his speech was easy to read. Bane got the gist that the grifter was hard selling his pheromone spray, which he absolutely guaranteed would stir lust in any woman but particularly in those under twenty-five. From what the Dire Wolf deciphered, Doc Valentine claimed that this formula had been created as a therapy drug for trauma victims but had been kept secret because of its potential for abuse. A small amount had been smuggled out of an FDA lab and gotten into Valentine's hands.

Certain that he had not been spotted, Bane still sipped his iced tea slowly and finished his lasagna with deliberate movements so as to not draw any possible attention to himself. Still a few years under thirty, tall and gaunt in his all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, the Dire Wolf was a striking enough figure that he was too easily noticed in daytime. From what he could see of Valentine's intended victim, this was a middle-aged man with a bald spot becoming noticeable at the crown. Overweight, soft around the middle, estimated height only five foot eight or so. Well-dressed in a tailored charcoal-grey suit and polished dress shoes. A Rolex showed on the man's left wrist.

Doc Valentine in contrast was so flamboyant that he drew startled stares from passers-by. Short and pear-shaped with a waist at least sixty inches around, the old rogue was made conspicuous by a bulbous dark nose with a number of broken blood vessels in its tip, thinning blond-white hair and a habit of speaking from the corner of his mouth. But it was the irrational color clash of his outfit that people noticed. With his dark green trousers and jacket stretched over a vivid crimson shirt and loosely knotted yellow tie, Valentine also sported a straw hat tilted back at what was supposed to be a rakish angle and he wore violet-hued wrist-length gloves even on a hot sullen September afternoon. The final jarring touch was a blazing hot pink flower dangling forlornly from his left lapel.

Bane admittedly had little fashion sense but even he was aghast at that outfit. He was already getting restless after only a few minutes sitting at the cafe. The metabolism which gave him his enhanced speed and reflexes also made him impatient at the best of times. After spotting the easily recognized Valentine from a block away, he had dropped down in the shade and ordered when the waiter came over. But he was soon wondering if he should move on to more urgent matters.

True, Doc Valentine had been lurking on the outskirts of the Midnight War for many years. Right now, though, he seemed to be pulling nothing more insidious than one of his typical con games. The Dire Wolf was normally concerned with more dangerous threats to the public. He should be getting back to his office. He might be missing a case that involved real menace. Samhain had been rumored to be back in the Northeast again and Bane really wanted another shot at him.

Still watching, he saw Doc Valentine raise one emphatic forefinger, extract a brown glass vial from his inner jacket pocket and let one tiny drop spill onto the victim's palm. The grifter smirked and replaced the vial with infinite glee. Oh brother, thought Bane to himself, maybe he should simply march over there and expose the dirty old fraud before any money changed hands.

Then a woman in a slinky red dress stood up from a table near the two men. She was tall and slender, with gorgeous wavy black hair reaching well past her shoulder blades. Bane recognized her as soon as she moved, of course. There was no jewel thief or international mystery woman more beautiful than Rook.

Not overdoing it, seeming quite natural, she strolled over to say hello to Doc Valentine and his target. The man said something and she laughed in a warm inviting way that Bane heard quite clearly from where he sat shaking his head. Rook touched the man lightly on the shoulder, pivoted and walked away with just enough hip emphasis to be believable.

The Dire Wolf left more than enough money under his plate and rose to swing around behind the cafe, speeding up to a trot as he circled the block to intercept her. His interest in the con had been sharpened immensely by seeing that little pantomime. Doc Valentine by himself was trouble enough, but if the game was big enough that Rook found it worthwhile, he wanted to learn more.

( the rest of the story )

6/13/1984

I.

For what seemed like ages, Bane struggled to fully regain consciousness. There was a fog of pain and confusion wrapped around him, holding him down. It was like trying to wake up from a deep slumber because an alarm clock would not stop ringing. Somehow he remembered his Kumundu training and began to breathe deeply in, hold it, then exhale more slowly. Again, drawing air in his lungs and clearing his head. Everything hurt. He became aware he was sitting up, but he could not move. Finally, one eye opened and then the other, blinking at the light.

He was in what looked like a rather ritzy hotel suite, with wine-colored carpeting and wood-panelled walls and modernistic furniture. A chrome sculpture of a rearing horse stood on a separate pillar of its own. Afternoon sunlight came in from French doors that opened to a balcony. He recognized the Chrysler Building in the skyline, so he was still in Manhattan. The Dire Wolf glanced down and saw he was strapped to a solid wooden chair that sat next to an identical chair. Leather straps held his wrists to the arms of the chair and his ankles to its legs, and there was a broader strap across his chest. Bane flexed and tugged, getting nowhere. There should be a way out of this. If he could start rocking and tilt the chair over... no, there didn't seem a chance it would break from the impact but if the straps loosened just a bit, maybe he could reach one of the gadgets hidden in his clothing. Always worth a try.

Then the door to the balcony opened and a huge man came through. Bane's pulse sped up and adrenalin surged through his blood. The man was seven inches over six feet in height, broad and muscular, dressed in a formal dark suit and tie with matching vest. His head was shaved, and pale hazel eyes under prominent brow ledges mocked Bane.

Karl Eldritch.

"I don't believe it," Bane said. "I was sure the world was rid of you."

( the rest of the story )

"Right Between the Eyes"

(10/15/1977)

8/30/1984

I.

The rather gauche hotel room, with too much chrome and glass and white fur carpeting, still had the advantage of being air-conditioned well. The Dire Wolf knew only as an intellectual item that Miami was a humid ninety-three degrees outside. Even in his all black rig of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he was perfectly comfortable. Perhaps even a bit chilly. He was sitting relaxed on an ornate white-enameled chair with an open carved back. He was also gazing calmly into the barrel of a shiny chrome .45 revolver with pearl grips.

Jeremy Bane's pale grey eyes were startling against a face freshly tanned since his arrival here three days ago. They were always unsettling but now they seemed to jump out of that darker background. He watched the gunman five feet away from his with a detachment, perhaps even dismissal, which under the circumstances was hard to explain. Fuego sat in a similar chair but one turned reverse, so he leaned his elbows on the back of it, with his legs spread. He held that flashy pistol in a hand that was dead steady, and he returned Bane's stare with irritation and impatience.

Fuego was not his real name, of course. Bane knew that Raoul Francisco Rudolfo was thirty-eight years old and had been a professional assassin for the past eight of those years. For two years before that, he had called himself a freedom fighter who killed for slogans rather than the cold hard cash he came to prefer. Physically, he was about the same size as Bane, a lean six-footer. But Fuego's eyes were dark brown and his curly hair black. He had a thin neat mustache and long sideburns that ended in points. Add too-tight white trousers and a flashy floral print silk shirt, and the image was complete.

"My men say you did not bring a gun, mister."

"Why bother? They would just take it and maybe hurt themselves."

"Hah! I bet you wish you had it now, eh?"

"I don't need it," Bane said.

Fuego did not know how to react. "You know who I am. You come here looking for me."

"I was actually in Miami on other business. Big game. But I figured, as long as I'm here, why not take care of you too?"

"Now I KNOW you crazy! I have been a big man for a long time now. Back home my name is enough to make strong men weak in their knees and cold in the stomach."

"I know, I know," Bane said. "You've been an executioner for the Cuban secret police since 1976. You've also tracked down and killed Cuban refugees whose knowledge might have threatened Castro's regime. Dr Luis Rojas, for example."

"And what is that to you? How is it any of your business?"

Now Bane straightened up and leaned forward. His eyebrows lowered as he smiled slightly. "Oh, he was a friend and colleague of Kenneth Dred. His death hurt Mr Dred and I figured I would even the score if I ever got a chance."

"You can try," Fuego laughed. "Now tell me before you die, who are you? Who is going to the angels this morning?"

"Fair enough. My name is Jeremy Bane. I am the chairman of the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Does that mean anything to you?"

"What, you think I'm stupid? I read about. You are ghostbusters in New York City. You chase monsters and demons-- or so you say."

"True enough. We do fight the Midnight War and we do capture particularly dangerous or elusive criminals. But there's more to it than that. You see, Raoul, there is a secret lodge where the wisest human beings train men and women to be their knights in the real world. This school has existed for thirty thousand years and its secrets can turn ordinary people into near supermen. I study there. I am a knight of Tel Shai."

Fuego scowled, his eyes almost closing. "You know how much I understand of that? Nothing. Nothing! I think most likely you are not right in the head. Maybe chasing those ghosts has damaged you."

"This is a policy decision I have to make," Bane said as if to himself. "I want to keep the KDF from having anything to do with politics, national or international. We have our own agenda. That's why I didn't go into Cuba to take you from the secret police and maybe break them down."

"Break them DOWN?!" Fuego almost choking. "Who the hell you think you are? Listen to me. You see this gun. I have shot twenty-three men with this gun alone. Altogether my score is sixty-seven. They each die and they each die with a bullet right between the eyes. You hear me, crazy man? Pow! Right between the eyes."

"I'm glad you came to America again. It solves my moral dilemma," Bane said thoughtfully. "I'm not going to kill you myself, although that would be simplest. No, I have to turn you over to Department 21 Black. You have murdered American citizens on American soil. Personally, I hope you get the death penalty but there is always the chance you will be traded at some point. Hostages or one of our spies."

For a long second, Fuego was speechless. He could not believe this muy loco was sitting there less than six feet away from a loaded gun pointed at him and he was babbling this nonsense. As if he were in control of the situation instead of a second away from death. And yet.. Fuego looked at the cool, self-assured grey eyes and he knew with dreadful certainty that this man was not crazy, that he had some winning trick up his sleeve. What? He couldn't imagine.

Suddenly he felt mortally threatened by this quiet young American whose eyes held a distinct predatory glint. He decided to shoot. He would kill this weird man and return home at once.

In the split-second it took Fuego's finger to close one-sixteenth of an inch on the trigger, Bane had crossed five feet in a fencer's lunge. Faster than any cobra that ever struck, the Dire Wolf hit Fuego hard with the single knuckle of the forefinger of his left hand. That knuckle nailed against the nerve center above the bridge of the nose. The assassin yelped and fell unconscious with the unfired .45 still in his hand. He hit the floor as if dead himself.

Straightening up, Jeremy Bane saw the slight depression his strike had made in the man's forehead and he looked down at the knuckle he had used. "Pow!" he whispered. "Right between the eyes."

10/15/1977- Rev 4/14/2013

"Colder Than Ice"

(5/27/1979) [original "Cold As Ice"]

12/16/1984

The Castaways was an appealing restaurant, with decent food and a warm atmosphere. The wine list was pathetic, Griffin thought sourly, but that could be overlooked. American servings were always too large, of course, and the tea was much too sweet. Still, he thought, I rather like this place. I'm glad I won't have to kill anyone here. Across the table from him sat Inca, who was helping him devour the plate of stuffed mushrooms with parmesan cheese. She was an attractive blonde woman around thirty, with huge dark blue eyes. Inca was a bit thin, even delicate in appearance but this was deceptive. Griffin knew from experience she could be as deadly when the moment came as any operative in Her Majesty's Service and she had so many skills in languages and observation that she was invaluable.

Taking a sip of the chilled rose wine and putting the glass down with a barely audible sigh, she watched Griffin with anxiety in her expression. "Are you certain this is the right move?"

"Nothing is certain in this game," Griffin replied. He was a quiet man of average size, with a sprinkling of grey in his brown beard. His face was deeply lined. Griffin was in his forties, but years of stress and deceit had aged him quickly. He toyed with his food idly. "Inca, do you know anything more about this man?"

"Very little," she said frankly. "No one seems to have a handle on this Dire Wolf, Jeremy Bane. He is definitely an American, but with no backtrail of documentation. Seven years ago, he hired on as a field agent for Kenneth Dred. The late Kenneth Dred. Bane has collected an assortment of similar wild cards to act as his own team. There are many reports of their activities but they can't possibly be accurate. The KDF seems to investigate the paranormal, the supernatural if you like."

Griffin broke in. "I've heard that. And where they concern us is their clashes with international crime lords. Wu Lung. John Grim. Karl Eldritch. These are impressive opponents even for a national security agency, let alone a handful of amateur ghostbusters. Last summer, Bane's KDF managed to pit Wu and Grim against each other, leading to both empires being ruined. John Grim is now in a vegetative state in a Virginia hospital, and the doctors say his chances of healing are slim. Some terrible shock was given to his brain, a trauma like a lightning bolt. As for Wu Lung, he was crippled but managed to escape and go into hiding. Without his iron hand, his network of smugglers and slavers fell apart at once. How the KDF managed this, no one knows."

"I don't understand," Inca said softly. "Why is this Bane trusted with classified information? He is a loose cannon in the worst sense. I can't see why he is allowed to operate this way. Our employers do not give anything away with getting something in return."

"As best I can figure, our superiors see Bane as a useful weapon against threats they dare not challenge. I believe the American CIA has also given him information to send him against a menace, as has Department 21 Black. And we have many reports of the New York City Police Department calling in Bane and the KDF when unexplainable killings occur. All off the record, of course."

"Of course," came a third voice right at their elbows.

Both Griffin and Inca gave a start and looked up in surprise. Despite all their experience, a young man in black had entered the restaurant so silently that they had not heard him approach. The agents felt personally affronted by this.

Jeremy Bane was in his late twenties, dressed in a black turtleneck and sport jacket. His body matched his face- long, hard, uncompromising. His shaggy hair was black. From under heavy brows glittered the two coldest grey eyes either of the agents had ever seen. His war name was no accident, there was indeed a wolfish air about him. Griffin realized with a sinking feeling that he was impressed against his will, even a little intimidated. "Ah, the Dire Wolf, I guess?"

"That's right. You left me a message to come here."

"Please, join us," said Inca, gesturing to an empty chair. Bane sat down at the table. A traveller, she thought. He is originally from Manhattan but he has traveled since then. A slight Asian tinge to his vowels, she concluded.

A waitress came up but Bane dismissed her. "Nothing for me, thanks." After she left, he turned his full attention to the two agents. "Well, I'm here."

Griffin said, "My name is Stan Connelly and this is my wife Susan. We are here-"

"Hold it," Bane interrupted with an upraised hand. "Aliases are so awkward. I know who you two are. You're James Welshofer, code named Griffin and this is Adrienne Maurer, Inca. You're agents of the Mandate. My team has had problems with the Mandate before and I took the trouble to learn a little bit about the organization."

"Very well," the blonde said briskly, diverting Bane's focus toward her. "We ARE Inca and Griffin, as you say. I imagine Bane is not your real name, either?"

"Real enough. I was an orphan from the streets, I named myself." He leaned forward and said, "Let's get down to business."

"In one sentence, then. We want you to help us rescue a woman from being held and tortured," Inca whispered.

Bane said nothing, but his eyes suddenly flared with new interest. Before he had been distant, even distracted.

"There is a renegade KGB unit here in New York, Mr Bane, and they have kidnapped a young woman we were observing. The leader of the unit is a man named Rodchenko, a student of the Red Blade."

"I see," Bane said. "The Red Blade was Stalin's only terrorist who used gralic sorcery. That's why you wanted me. There is some magick involved."

"Very true," Inca put in. "As much as we hate to admit it, there does seem to be the so-called supernatural in this. Rodchenko reportedly has the ability to kill people just by touching their skin. He is referred to even by his own employers as 'the warlock.' Even worse, the unit has a freelance working for them, a man named Seth."

Bane scowled. "The Weapons Master. Seth Petrov. He's quite a joker."

"Perhaps too formidable for just Inca and myself to tackle," Griffin admitted. "We could request a back-up squad from our agency but they would not get here for hours. Perhaps not until morning. Our orders are not to involve the local police, as the fewer who know of this, the better. You are said to be reliable and discreet."

The Dire Wolf gave what they would come to recognize as a smile, just the faintest upturn of the corners of his mouth. "I've been useful to your agency. Let's not have any illusions about it, the Mandate has no respect or concern for me, but I have my uses."

"Fair enough," Griffin said, taking a last forkful of the stuffed mushrooms. "The Mandate was established to, shall we say, patrol the edges of the known and unknown. International espionage seems to cross over into your Midnight War with some frequency. But let's concern ourselves tonight with the fate of Jessica Segal."

Inca took over, "She is a student at Columbia, married to an insurance office manager, Henry Segal. They lived in Flushing. Two days ago, she did not attend her class and he did not show up for work. Her sister was concerned and called the police, but they have gotten nowhere. No leads. Our agency is aware of this because we have been observing Mrs Segal for some time now. You see, Mr Bane, she has a wild talent, some form of ESP if you like. This is what the Mandate follows. In experimental tests, she has been observed making fires go out and bringing room tempature water to near freezing. She can apparently lower the air around her by as much as fifteen degrees. No one can explain how this is done, but naturally our agency is interested. You can imagine how valuable this talent could be."

"I've seen how the Mandate can exploit people with special talents," Bane snorted angrily. "But go on."

"Pavel Rodchenko learned of Mrs segal's gift. How we don't know," said Inca. "We had one man watching the Segal house and he was taken off duty by a faked message. Another of our agents was brutally murdered in Manhattan, a showy crime which drew our attention there. Seth did this. While our people were distracted, the Segals were abducted."

"I guess you have no idea where they are now?"

"None," Inca admitted with a rueful shrug of her shoulders. "We believe they are in the metropolitan area but we can't pinpoint it further. We do not have the staff for a dragnet and policy is not to call in outside authority for security reasons."

Griffin took over, shoving the plate away from him on the table. "To be honest, there is the usual rivalry and between agencies. But you! You, Mr Bane, are an outsider. You can be called upon without stirring up jealousy from the CIA or Black 21."

"Fair enough," Bane said. He pushed back his chair, getting ready to stand up. "And I think I can add something. I know where Seth will be, and the others will likely be with him. Seth has had a house rented for the past year that he thinks is a secret."

"Really? And how do you know this?"

Bane rose. "I don't think I should tell you. It's enough that I do know." Although he was not willing to reveal it to the Mandate, the Dire Wolf had worked on several occasions with Seth's younger brother, Ethan. The two sibilings had long been bitter rivals, a situation which had degraded to outright hatred in recent years. Ethan would not challenge Seth openly, but he admitted he would not mind seeing the Dire Wolf tackle him and wondered who would survive. It was Ethan who had revealed some of Seth's hideouts to Bane. "We should get going. We'll take my car, you two can call for agents to pick you up after it's all over."

The Mandate agents also got up, Griffin leaving money on the table and a generous tip. He was unhappy with the way this loose cannon was just taking over, but he was detached enough to realize it might be for the best. If things went badly, this Dire Wolf could easily be set up to take the blame. But then, Griffin realized as he watched the intense young man, Bane had been doing this work for years and had not been made the patsy yet.

They left the Castaways, with Griffin helping Inca get into her down-filled coat. Cold night air hit them with a vengeance. it was threatening to snow, and fine ice crystals stung their eyes. Greenwich Village was almost deserted. Bane walked them to a dark blue Chevy Malibu parked at the end of the block, and unlocked the doors for them. With Inca in the passenger seat and Griffin in the back, Bane took the wheel and pulled away from the curb. The two agents gave each other brief worried glances.

( the rest of the story )

"Dead Man Singing"

3/23-3/25/1984

I.

As the front doorbell rang, Cindy Brunner was already hurrying that way. She had picked up on the two minds approaching and was obviously excited. The little blonde was not much over five feet tall and just under a hundred pounds, and the plain white polo shirt and snug jeans she was wearing made her look even smaller. In her mid-twenties, she was in perfect condition, fit as any athlete and she trotted down the stairs and across the front hall with effortless ease. Despite the way her telepathic rapport had identified the two men outside, she still took a minute to open the concealed panel by the door and scan them with the sophisticated Trom sensors. All indicators came back negative. No weapons showed on the images more detailed than a CAT scan, no traces of explosives or poisons on the chemical analysis. The yellow letters on the monitor screen listed their height and weight and assorted physical traits, but at the bottom came the capital letters NO CRIMINAL RECORDS FOUND. That was what she really needed to see.

Opening the inner door, she grinned at the two middle-aged men in dark business suits standing in the tiny foyer. They looked very similar, stocky and average height, thinning hair slicked back, well-fed doughy faces with great anxiety in every line. One wore wire-rim glasses and the other had a prominent beaky nose, otherwise she would have had trouble giving descriptions that differentiated them. "Good morning, gentlemen," she said cheerfully.

"Ah, good morning," said the one with the glasses. He was holding a briefcase in one pudgy hand. "We have an appointment with Mr Bane."

"So you do. Please, come right in. My name is Cindy, I'm the other half of the Dire Wolf agency." As she spoke, she smoothly took in the surface details going through their minds. There was the momentary flash of attraction or lust as they saw the pretty young blonde, but that passed in an instant. Worry deeper and heavier than any sexual flare could overcome occupied their minds. She still smiled as she led them across the hall to the open office door.

"Jeremy, this is Winston Meyers. And this is Reggie Wilkins. Gentlemen, Jeremy Bane, the man you came to see."

Behind a desk that stood beneath a huge handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937, the Dire Wolf rose to his feet and nodded politely. At almost thirty, Bane remained a gaunt six foot tall figure dressed always in black.. slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Beneath dark eyebrows glared a pair of cold grey eyes that took in his two visitors as if suspicious they were going to attack him at any second. "Please, take some seats and tell me what brings you here."

As the two men settled on plain wooden straightback chairs in front of that desk, Cindy pulled the one leatherbound chair in that office over so she was sitting at an angle facing both them and Bane. She seemed barely able to contain her excitement over something, like a teenager about to get great news.

Bane gave her a quizzical look but said nothing. He waited for the visitors to settle themselves, and the one with the glasses, Winston Meyers, began speaking.

"Mr Bane, we represent Apex Records. We distribute SCARAB albums and singles in America, and we handle much of their merchandise. Eight months ago, their album THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES was released. They should have been making progress on the follow-up double album their contract calls for but we have heard nothing." The man pushed his glasses back up on his nose and peered anxiously at the man behind the desk.

Raising one eyebrow, Bane asked, "So this SCARAB is a music group, I guess?"

"A music group?! They were the biggest band in pop history. They have had more Number Ones and sold out more arenas than everyone else combined! Each of the members has won a Grammy for solo albums since the band broke up. You never heard of SCARAB?" The second man, Wilkins, seemed personally hurt by the reaction. He added, "You've never listened to 'The Journey Home' or 'I'm Trying To Break Your Heart?'"

"No. Sorry. I don't listen to music." Bane seemed oblivious to the consternation he was causing. "Listen, I'm a licensed private detective. My special area is gruesome murders, serial killers, secret cults. What does it matter to me if a rock group is late making an album?"

"Excuse me," Cindy cut in. "Please understand, Jeremy is a bit single-minded. He knows everything about homicide in the New York area but he literally never listens to music or watches TV. He may not have ever heard of SCARAB but I am a huge huge fan! When they announced the split, I cried as if my dog had died. So. What's going on? I bought their reunion album like a million other people but what's the problem with the band now?"

Winston Meyers took in a deep breath and let it out as if feeling a great weight pressing him down. "It started with the reunion album. THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES. From the front and back cover to the lyrics in the songs, to the reclusive behavior of the band members... well, the rumor started that Sol is dead."

"Sol?" asked Bane with just a vague hint of amusement in his normally glum voice.

"Sol Connelly. The one who wrote most of the songs for the last album and who sang lead on most of them. Jan wrote and sang the rest, except for one each for Jorge and Winger. This was their custom so everyone in the band got at least some residuals as writers." Meyers opened his briefcase and took out an empty LP cover. "Here. This may explain."

Bane took the rectangular piece of cardboard and studied its glossy front. Elaborate bright red curling letters said SCARAB across the top, with THUNDERSTORM IN YOUR EYES in royal blue immediately beneath it. The photo showed a rather plain apartment with late afternoon sunlight coming in a window without curtains. Two young men with long hair and droopy mustaches sat in overstuffed easy chairs turned to face a couch, while a third man stood behind that couch with a cloth cap in his hands. Stretched out on that couch, eyes closed and hands clasped at his waist, was fourth, clean-shaven man. The man on the couch wore a black suit and tie, the others were dressed in an assortment of colorful outfits including silk scarves, velvet jackets, fur vests and a leather cowboy hat.

Glancing up, the Dire Wolf shrugged. "Yeah, I can see why the rumor might start. The kid on the couch, right? He's dressed formally, laid out as if for burial. The guy behind him has taken his cap off in respect. There's a shovel in a corner. I see a few other details that would support the rumor. So. IS Sol dead?"

"Well... I would have said of course not, just a few days ago. But now I'm not sure. The band has not been seeing anyone other than their manager and studio producer. They haven't been seen in public for a month, not even by the wives two of them have. And there is this strange woman Dona Tarantella who has latched on to them. She seems to do all the interaction with the outside world for them."

Bane was starting to seem interested despite himself. "Have they acted like this before?"

"No. Never, they were always gregarious lads. Lots of chums, lots of groupies. This is not like them."

The Dire Wolf leaned forward. "It does sound like something fishy might be going on. But I can't accept this case, gentlemen. I don't know anything about music or rock stars. Really, I never heard of SCARAB until a few minutes ago. I can recommend other agencies that will get the job done, if you like."

Now Cindy reached over and tapped a slim finger on the desk. "Jeremy. I suggest you reconsider." Her mind reached out to contact his, sending a message of urgency and pleading. She caught his eyes, still smiling but with a certain desperation.

Bane blinked and stood up. "Excuse us a second." He headed for the hall, with Cindy right behind, closing the door behind them. Once out of hearing, he turned to her. "Okay, what's the deal, hon?"

"This is SO important to me. I LOVE that band! I have memorized every song. Sol was not my favorite, Winger is but even so, I cannot pass up a chance to meet them. Come on, Jeremy, cut me some slack." She stared up at him eagerly and there was nothing but honesty in her voice.

An exceedingly rare grin broke out on his face, making him look years younger. "Does it mean that much to you? Okay. We'll give it a try. Come on, let's tell them."

She gave him a fierce hug, burying her face in his neck. "Great. Great. If you said no, I was gonna take the case myself."

( the rest of the story )