Out of the corner of his eye, Hazard saw Bran's sword begin to glow. He felt the pressure of the Witches' telekinetic push against his chest. And he knew, beyond doubt, that he was in deep trouble this time.
Only twice before had he witnessed that same hazy blue aura around Bran's sword. The first time was in Araby, in the 15th century. Bran and Hazard were pinned down in a ditch in the middle of a barren stretch of land while a Demon and an Angel waged a pitched battle in the air above them. He saw a spectacular display of power as fire leapt from Demon's hand and dissipated against Angel's shield, and Angel's sword shattered Demon's spell. Too fascinated to be frightened, a young Hazard nonetheless noticed Bran clutching his sword tightly, as bluish light caressed the blade.
The second time Bran's sword acted so strangely in Hazard's presence, the Blood Covenant was in full swing, and London's streets were red with blood. Hazard infiltrated the cult, but was captured. Bran rescued him from death by fire, battling the Covenant's champion and its leader, both wizards.
And now, as the Witches activated their arcane power, Bran's sword reacted to the eldritch energy, summoning up that eerie glow. The significance was not lost on the Witches, either. The trio of magic users recognized an enchanted blade when they saw one. All three concentrated, shifting their considerable power to push the intruders out of the room. Most of their attention was focused on Bran and his glowing bastard sword.
Mistake.
Hazard, eight hundred year old Vampire, with the blood of Archimedes and Han Yuan in his veins, flexed the might of his undead muscles and launched himself at the silver haired Witch, his fangs bared and his crimson eyes gleaming. She knocked him out of the sky with a twist of her head, and he crashed to the ground near the hearth, where a fire cheerfully blazed.
The blond, pudgy Witch broke away from the other two and gestured at the flames. Hazard watched in alarm as a tendril of fire stretched out from the blaze, gaining mass and form as it reached for the Vampire. Hazard grabbed the nearest piece of furniture -- a footrest -- and smashed it across the fiery thing. It did not flinch or break apart. Instead, it lunged at Hazard with serpentine speed, and only Vampiric reflexes saved him from a warm demise.
Hazard flipped backwards, landing on his feet behind the silver haired Witch, while the fire-form crashed into the floor, setting the rug ablaze. It reared up for another strike.
Hazard weighed his options. Bran was steadily pushing against the magical barrier, his sword pressing against it and glowing like a white hot poker. The blond Witch was weaving another spell even as her firebeast prepared to press its attack.
<Sometimes, you have to take one for the team,> Hazard reasoned. He smashed his fist against the back of the silver haired Witch's head, using all the force his Vampiric strength could muster. The Witch staggered under the blow, and the fiery creature lashed out at Hazard, connecting with his back and setting his jacket on fire.
Bran surged into the room, the spell broken with the Witch's concentration, and swung a titanic blow at the brown haired woman. She conjured a shield of eldritch energy, but the ensorcelled sword shattered it into a dozen shards. The sword continued on its path and sliced through the lower jaw and neck of the Witch. Hot blood splashed Bran as he recovered from the swing, and brought his weapon in line for another blow.
A dozen shadows detached themselves from the walls and swarmed over Bran, sending chilling cold deep into his bones and rending his flesh with dark, smoky claws.
The brown haired Witch pressed her hands against the terrible wounds, and they began to close. The silver haired Witch stood up, rubbing the back of her head, but otherwise unfazed by Hazard's blow.
Hazard pirouetted away from the fire monster, whipping his jacket off as he did do. His hair and skin were still singed in spots, and wouldn't heal for some time. Only the sun itself could do more damage than fire to Hazard's Vampiric body. And the Witches knew it.
For a moment, Hazard wished he had a water pistol, but then the elemental was attacking again, and he had to move. He leapt across the room to crash against the back of the brown haired Witch, knocking her to the floor. He grabbed her chin in his talons, and, ignoring her screams of pain and the silver haired Witch beside them, Hazard wrenched her jaw apart, ripping bone and flesh to shreds.
The fire on the rug finally reached the drapes, and flames leapt from the floor to the ceiling. The flame beast re-oriented on its target. The silver haired Witch threw Hazard away from her sister with a thrust of her chin. The blond witch concentrated on the shadowy creatures attacking Bran.
Hazard found his footing. He somersaulted behind the blond Witch as the elemental attacked again. He was rewarded with a scream as she bore the brunt of the assault, and flame exploded across her form. Sparks came dangerously close to igniting Hazard himself, but he rolled out of the way. He grinned as the Witch's spells collapsed -- the elemental fell apart, leaving a trail of fire on the floor, and the shadowy creatures attacking Bran puffed into smoke.
Flames licked along the ceiling and the floor, transforming the room into an inferno. No doubt the fire was reaching out to other sections of the house as well. <No matter what happens,> Hazard reasoned, <these bitches will be out a home.>
As the blond Witch became a pillar of flame in the middle of the room, the silver haired woman manipulated some of the ambient fire, sending fireball after fireball arcing towards Hazard. With preternatural speed he dodged and leapt, evading every single one. Until one blossomed across his chest, igniting his flesh and knocking him backwards against one of the big picture windows. It shattered behind him, and Hazard became a fireball himself as he flew out the window, to crash to the ground below.
With the Vampire taken care of, the Witch turned to the Immortal. Beside her, her wounded sister lurched to her feet.
Bran, his clothes in tatters and his body criss-crossed with dozens of tiny cuts, stood outlined against the flames, his heavy sword still gleaming an icy blue. The scar across his left eye was blood red and throbbing, and his face was grim. Those dark, sinister eyes, the color of night, promised death and damnation.
The Witches almost had time to defend themselves. The silver haired one started to move as Bran did, but the Immortal was a fraction of a second faster than the Witch. He swung the sword twice; a chop and a slash. Two heads fell to the fiery floor, and two bodies collapsed beside them.
With the flames roaring around him, Bran pushed his way across the room to the windows. Behind him, a section of the floor gave way, and the bodies of the two witches fell through the fiery hole. Bran grimaced, and braced himself for the leap through the window, out into the clear night.
A skeletal hand clamped down on his shoulder. Bran twisted around, coming face to face with the third witch. Her features were blackened and twisted, most of the flesh burned away by the elemental's assault. Her eyes were seared away, leaving empty sockets, and most of her teeth had exploded like popcorn, leaving her mouth empty and charred. From the neck down she was little more than a burned skeleton, but still she stood.
Bran was frozen in surprise and horror. The Witch opened her ruined mouth, and spat fire at him. Flames exploded across Bran's bare chest, boiling away the first layer of skin and scorching through deeper layers of epidermis. Bran reacted without thinking, driving his sword through the monster's chest cavity, shattering ribs and driving the tip of his sword through the neck and skull, piercing whatever was left of the brain.
She still refused to die. One blackened claw closed around Bran's wrist, as a section of the ceiling fell apart and plummeted to the floor beside Bran. Some of the flames were up to Bran's thigh, and fire reached out from all sides, seeking to devour both combatants.
Bran tried to pull his sword free, but it stuck fast to the monster. His chest was utter agony, and he could see a few thrusts of bone sticking through the mass of blackened flesh that his trunk had become. The fire raged around him, and the monster before him reached for his face with a skeletal hand.
Bran snapped. He cried out in animalian pain and rage, and slammed his fist into the monster's skull. The head whipped back, and he felt bone give under his blow. He followed through with another punch, and another, smashing his fist into the burnt head of the creature. With each successive hit, the skull broke apart, shattering to pieces. The hands fell away, and the body fell to the ground as flames leapt up to devour it. With sword in hand, Bran, in a haze of anguish and horror, leapt through the shattered window, plummeting from the second story to ground level in moments.
He crashed to earth with a meaty thud, and the sword was knocked from his hands. He rolled over, onto his back, and as the electricity flowed across his ruined chest, he watched the manor burn.
As the sun set slowly over the hills in the west, the city came alive. The streets, packed tight during the day, became a shifting mob of revelers, street people, wanderers, tourists, and those who preyed on them, both supernatural and mundane. The streets were lit with neon and shook with the backwash of music from nightclubs and karaoke joints.
In the underworld, the network of sewers and tunnels beneath the city, three figures ran silently. They sent rats scurrying and created splashes of water as their feet collided with puddles and pools of sludge, but they made no noise save for their breathing and the jingles of equipment and harnesses.
In the lead was a compact man with blond hair and hazel eyes. A Chicago Bears cap was pulled low over his brow, and he wore a dark blue jumpsuit under a light bulletproof vest. Two automatic pistols hung from his belt, and a large knife was displayed prominently on his left ankle. He cradled a light submachine gun in his hands, and a hip pack held ammunition for the gun. Three grenades hung from a harness that stretched across his shoulders.
Just a few yards behind him ran a woman with short dark hair and pale skin. She was dressed in black clothing, tight but not constrictive. She carried a mike-one-six with a scope and laser sight mounted on it, and two clips taped together so that, when one ran out, she could just flip the other up and reload. She had a light pack slung over her shoulders, and it bounced a little with each step she took.
Bringing up the rear was another man, the oldest of the group. His hair and eyes were dark, and his face showed the weathering of rough years. Clad in fatigues, with a green beret on his head, he carried a suite of weapons that the Geneva Convention frowned upon. Chief among them was a 12 gauge model 37M Ithaca shotgun, sawed off and loaded with solid, mercury tipped slugs. Hidden in his backpack, away from his allies and enemies alike, was a dragonheaded katana.
All three were agents of Code Seven, a top secret, highly specialized branch of the United States military. Their superiors had picked them to find and retrieve a nuclear device appropriated from a U.S. base in Europe. Their orders were to exercise extreme prejudice, and they were prepared to do so.
Justin Calatin, at the head of the line, drew to a halt in the ankle deep sludge as he approached a ladder that led to the surface. Shifting the gun in his hand, he pulled a map out of a pouch on his belt and consulted it.
Victoria Baron and Lt. Vincent Falcone slowed down as they approached Calatin. He nodded to them, made the map disappear, and then shouldered his gun and began to climb. Baron started the ascent shortly after him, and Falcone, eyeing the ladder uneasily, followed close behind.
"Basement checking in," Hei Lin said into the walkie-talkie, his keen eyes taking in the dark and empty lower level of the Phoenix Building. "Everything here is quiet."
"Understood, Lin," came the crackling response. "But the boss is edgy tonight. Better give the place a twice-over."
"Roger that, Echo," Lin said, exasperated. Sometimes he didn't like working for the Long family. They could be quite eccentric. And most of the staff -- particularly Echo and her sister -- considered every Long's whim as law. Not the way Lin saw things. He shrugged, and ended the connection with the security desk. Long paid well enough, Lin supposed, but then everybody did. With China taking over in just a few months, businesses like the Phoenix Corporation were forced to raise salaries to keep their staff from bolting to New Zealand, Canada or South East Asia. The Long family, in particular, paid salaries like money was going out of style.
"Oh well," Hei Lin said to himself. "Might as well get *some* work done."
And then his chest exploded as several bullets ripped through his back and exited through his front. Hei Lin's body fell to the ground, pumping his life's blood out onto the cold concrete. Code Seven was here. And they weren't taking prisoners.
Moving more slowly now that they had entered the complex, Calatin, Baron, and Falcone negotiated their way through the lower levels of the Phoenix Building. Most of it was empty of life, and when they did encounter a guard or two, the response was quick and violent.
In a little under five minutes, they found the elevator. Calatin hit the "up" button and stepped back. Baron nervously rechecked her weapons; all were sound. Falcone stared off into space for a few seconds, until Calatin jostled him.
"Now is not the time," Justin said. He was somewhat concerned. It wasn't like Falcone to go logey on a caper. Especially on one where the stakes were so high.
Calatin's thoughts were broken by the soft "ding" that signaled the arrival of the elevator. Baron brought up her machine gun as the doors opened. The elevator was empty. Calatin darted into the lift and held the door as Baron and Falcone boarded. Falcone hit the button for the first floor.
The caper was about to get messy. They needed to secure the first level and lock the building up. And it was probable that, even at this hour, the lobby would be full. Calatin double-checked his own weapons. A misfire or jam could jeopardize his chances of retiring.
And then the elevator doors were opening again, and the three agents slid out into a T-shaped corridor. The cross-bar of the hallway was really a bank of about a half-dozen elevators, while the branching corridor, which their elevator faced, led to the lobby and the front desk. Each of them knew they could expect six to eight guards there.
Calatin primed his Ingram and headed down the corridor on cat's feet. Baron covered him with her cannon. Falcone was right with him.
The lobby was a wide open space, and the wall on the far side -- with the revolving doors that allowed entry to the building -- was entirely made of glass. The front desk would be on their right as the entered the lobby, and it was a massive block of marble on a raised dais. It housed a bank of computers, and would serve as excellent cover. So the good guys would need a distraction.
Calatin leapt forward and landed on his side, sliding into the room on the slick floor surface. One of the guards at the desk stood up involuntarily. The other reached for his pistol. Calatin ignored them both, and twisted toward his left, opening up on the three guards who lounged near the water fountain.
As the desk guards drew their weapons, Falcone stepped out from around the corner and fired twice. The first guard disappeared in a shower of blood, and the other one caught a shot in the shoulder. He spun around and flipped over the desk. Falcone didn't stop moving. He leapt over the desk, ignoring the body and the gore, and ran fullbore at the small door hidden behind the desk. It exploded inward under his onslaught.
A hail of bullets followed him, as a guard at the door opened up. A few well placed shots from Baron put a stop to that, and erased the two guards in the balconies above the lobby as well.
While Baron and Calatin secured the lobby, Falcone took charge of the security room. He smashed his gun across the neck of the security guard at station in the tiny room, sending the poor man into dreamland.
The entire melee took all of fifteen seconds.
As soon as Calatin and Baron were sure that all the employees were counted for, they joined Falcone in the cramped confines of the security room. Falcone hacked into the building's data-net and initiated the shut-down procedures. This engaged the locks and lowered the metal shutters on all the glasswork in the building -- including the front entrance -- while simultaneously ending all non-essential power use. Phone lines would be shut off, only emergency lights would be in use, and the elevators would be dead. The security system would remain on line as well, but Falcone could disable that.
He produced a disk that he slipped into the computer, and then dumped a virulent virus into the system. It would take fifteen minutes for it to get up to full speed, but once it did, the special forces agents would have the run of the building. And no one would be able to find them. Or so Falcone hoped. For he alone among the trio knew the true nature of their foe, and he knew, also, that Lei Wu Long had allies that were at home in the dark.
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PoT_Ch19.php -- Revised: January 27, 2021.