dochermes

BASILISK III: "The Kingdom of the Lost"

4/13/-4/14/2009

I.

Just as the sky was beginning to grow dark, Jeremy Bane eased his Toyota Matrix into an available space on East 38th Street, just past the Lexington Avenue intersection. Only a few people could be seen outside. An old man digging through litter baskets, a young couple running in matching warm-up suits, a woman carrying two big suitcases and stomping her feet in anger over something.

As that woman passed the Toyota, she had no clue that she was being intensely scrutinized by four pairs of suspicious eyes. Nor that the small blonde in the front passenger seat had her own hand on the grip of a silenced Walther P22 and was almost eager to use it at any hint that the passerby was not an innocent civilian. Behind the wheel, Bane nodded and said, "Everything looks clear to me. What do you guys think?"

In the back seat were two handsome men both around thirty, both wearing neat dark suits with white shirts and thin ties. Holden Crest, top enforcement agent for INTERCEPT, had almost movie-star good looks with wavy dark brown hair and a cleft chin. "Okay as far as I can see. John?"

Beside him, John Lewis Ashcroft from the London office took a second to confirm. He was a black man with very dark skin, short-shaven hair and a winning confident smile. "Quite. Still, one had best be on his toes."

In the passenger seat, Dandelion grumbled. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled up into a swirl on the back of her head. The most dangerous assassin of her era, she grudgingly said, "I guess. But I can't get a good look at that roof across the street..."

"I'll get out first," Bane told them. "With all of you keeping your eyes peeled, what could go wrong?" The Dire Wolf slid out from behind the steering wheel and hiked briskly up to the ten story stone building in the middle of the block. Five wide steps led up to an oaken door which had the number 28 on it and a bronze plaque, KENNETH DRED FOUNDATION. As he placed his foot on the top step, before he could press the buzzer, he was stopped by a man's voice from some concealed speaker, "Ah! Good morning, captain."

"Hi, Josef. Glad to see you're on watch."

"Please come in," answered the voice as the locks clicked the heavy door swung outward by itself. Bane waved for the others to join him. As the three agents jumped out of the car and hurried up to the steps, Bane moved inside the small foyer. It held little more than a bench, a table with magazines and a lamp. On the wall to the left was an oil portrait of a white-haired gnomish man labelled KENNETH DRED 1900-1979.

"Hold on, everyone. I know it's a tight squeeze." Bane got them all in on top of each other. A series of low humming noises and a scent of ozone were perceptible, then the man's voice continued, "All of you have positive IDS. But you know KDF policy. Those firearms have to be surrendered before the inner door opens."

"Right, Josef." Bane flipped up the seat of the bench to reveal a padded interior, into which he placed his long-barreled Smith & Wesson. "All right, all the guns in here. It's a rule."

Both Crest and Ashcroft complied, but Dandelion hesitated. She was a small woman, wearing a waist-length denim jacket, and she made no move to cooperate.

"Dandelion, you'll have to stay out here then." Bane's voice was not angry, just firm. "No one brings a gun inside."

In obvious bad temper, the blonde pulled two of the silenced Walthers from the built-in holsters inside her jacket, then got a third from the small of her back. She placed them into the bench and straightened up.

"Come on, you know better," Bane said.

Finally, she drew a tiny one-shot derringer from inside her boot and added it to the collection. As the lid closed, it locked with a decisive click. "Happy now?"

"Yeah, very happy." Bane made room as the inner door swung toward them and they saw the front hall. Standing there was the Blind Archer. Josef Jubilec was tall and lanky, dressed in a plain white T-shirt and black jeans. The muscles in his chest and arms stood out dramatically, a bit overdeveloped from a lifetime pulling a bow. Josef had short sandy hair and watchful blue eyes in a weahered face.

"Hello, captain," the Blind Archer said in his faint accent. "What brings you and your friends here?"

"Gang war between espionage groups," answered Bane bluntly. "Who's on base, Josef?"

"Only myself and Megan. Unicorn and Argent are guarding someone from a Kulan attack. Sable is at Tel Shai for testing. Perhaps we can all step into the reception room?"

"Good idea," Bane said. He headed to the first door on the left, a neatly appointed room mostly used for visitors who did not need to see too much. There was a lot of open space. To the right was a desk under a hand-painted map of the world; facing the door as one entered was a long leather couch, and a half dozen straightback chairs were scattered about. Against the left wall was a waist-high bookcase on which an aquarium filled with bizarre specimens from Ulgor sat.

Glancing at the desk, Bane turned away. He had stepped down as leader of the KDF team and did not feel it was his place to sit there again, giving orders. Instead, he motioned for everyone to arrange chairs facing each other. When all were seated, with Dandelion claiming the couch for herself, the Dire Wolf recapped the situation for Josef. In so doing, he also clarified what had been going on in everyone's minds.

"There you have it," he finished. "My plan is to lead these three here to attack BASILISK headquarters and tackle the Master Mind. The silent dog whistles are what I'm hoping will give us an edge. Finding two of them is no coincidence, right?"

Josef grinned. He missed working with Bane sometimes. "I think what we need now is our Trom Girl to get busy. Let me page her." He took his Link from his belt and thumbed a button. Instantly, a young woman's voice answered as prompt and alert as if she had been waiting for the call.

"Yes, Josef?"

"Jeremy is here with some friends. Are you curious to see what's going on?"

"On my way," answered the voice. Bane and Josef exchanged amused glances.

"So this is the headquarters of the Kenneth Dred Foundation," said Ashcroft. "I'd heard so many wild rumors! Do you know how badly our superiors ache to get in here?"

"I can imagine. But the worlds of the KDF and your MI 6 only overlap a bit here and there." Bane stood up again, perpetually restless and went over to examine the fish tank. There was the starfish with the single red eye in its center, there were the hermit crabs who had built their own little town, but the luminous squid was gone. Without turning around, he continued, "The Midnight War gives us enough to keep busy."

Megan Salenger appeared in the doorway, brushing her shock of black hair back with her fingers. She was wearing sneakers, white pants and a dark blue jersey with a one-button collar. Just thirty, her slim build and gamin face made her look quite a bit younger. As she entered, the Trom Girl allowed herself a smile. Her upbringing of repressing emotion and maintaining a deadpan demeanour had gradually been eroded by experiences with her teammates. "Captain! I am pleased to see you."

"Sorry to roust you again," Bane said. After quickly summarizing what had been going on, the Dire Wolf produced one of the little tin whistles. "So, my theory is that somehow-"

Reaching for the whistle, Megan interrupted gracelessly, "I understand. It will take a little more than a hour to fabricate signal emitters for your team. I think it will be best to program them for constant broadcast." She spun on her heel to head for the door, but Bane stopped her with a word.

"Hold on a second, Megan. While you're doing that, I think the rest of us will getting supper. What would you like on your tray?"

Despite her efforts to remain deadpan, the Trom Girl grinned. "You know me well enough, captain," she answered and hurried from the room.

Josef stood up. "Right then. I suggest we all move down to the kitchen where I will appreciate help rustling up food for everyone."

Stretching and unbuttoning his suit jacket, John Lewis Ashcroft stifled a yawn. "Allow me. You haven't experienced the glories of proper English cooking. You do have an electric kettle?"

( the rest of the story )

"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."

( the rest of the story )