CHAPTER 4
Humans call it Hell. That name will do. For a few rare mortals the barrier between worlds is thinner. They have caught glimpses that were beyond their understanding. These mortals spoke of lakes of fire and brimstone. That would have been much nicer than the reality.
Hell is everything terrible, and absolute nothing at the same time. Calling it cold is a lie. Cold would be something. There’s no time, so you can’t even call it eternity. Eternity would give you something to track. It is the lack of creation. It is Void.
Mortals don’t have enough words to explain how shitty it is. We’d brought it on ourselves and we knew it. Eventually you create torment for yourself, because at least torment is something.
Most give up. Their spirits consume themselves, collapsing like a dying star, until they explode and scatter bits of their consciousness across the worlds. Mortals hear these as whispers, urging them to cause harm.
The strongest of the Fallen never give up. Their spirits remain intact. The Fallen have nothing better to do than plot how to make those that stayed loyal just as miserable as we were. It gives us focus. We’d do anything to escape. Our spirits were banned from ever being born into mortal bodies, yet the cunning ones were always trying to cheat their way into this world.
There are ways . . .
10 Days Ago
Franks filled out the same stupid answer to the same stupid question for the hundredth time, looked up from his computer and out the window, thinking to himself that somewhere out there was a horrible monster in need of killing, and how unfortunate it was that he was stuck here instead. In the good old days they just let Franks do what he did best, but choke one director and suddenly everyone expected you to explain yourself.
He wanted to be in the field. The last update from Vegas said that MCB R&D had been able to track the portal and it might even be possible to launch a recon mission into the Nightmare Realm. Now that would be a proper mission worthy of Franks’ talents. Instead he was doing this crap.
Preferring to be in the field, Franks didn’t use his office much. It was as unadorned as his apartment. Most of the surfaces were dusty. There was a stack of commendations and plaques in one corner that he’d never bothered to hang up. All the paperwork and binders were perfectly ordered. The last time his office had gotten messy was when the cinder beast had destroyed this floor a few years before. He’d not appreciated the disturbance.
The ninth floor of the MCB building was quiet. The ops center and media monitoring stations were on the floors below them and would be fully staffed around the clock. Most of the field agents stationed in DC had either been dispatched to the Las Vegas cover-up, or they were backfilling the regional offices of those who had. The office staff had gone home for the night hours ago. It was 1:15. Agent Strayhorn had fallen asleep in one of the office chairs in front of his desk. Somewhere down the hall the cleaning crew turned on a vacuum cleaner and the rookie bolted awake. “Huh?” He glanced around quickly before remembering where he was. “Sorry. I was . . . I was just resting my eyes.”
This was scut work, not a real mission, so he didn’t care if his agents slept on the job. At least when they slept they weren’t annoying him with constant nattering. This way they’d be well rested for when there was something important to do, like killing things. He had dismissed Jefferson and Archer, and would have sent them all home if Myers would have allowed it, but Myers felt he needed handlers until this was over, so that was all there was to it. Franks ignored the rookie and went back to his forms. Having spent time in Hell, he knew that government paperwork was the closest mankind had ever come to achieving true soul-crushing misery.
“Where’s Radabaugh?”
“Coffee.” Franks nodded toward the hall. There was a cafeteria downstairs.
“I wasn’t asleep,” the rookie said, even though he’d been snoring when Radabaugh left. If this had been real guard duty there would have been a reprimand. The TO hadn’t cared because if doing paperwork was tedious, watching someone else do it was even worse.
Franks made a noncommittal sound and went back to typing his statement. He’d have Jefferson edit it in the morning, because he didn’t think Myers would approve of answers like because Director Stark is a pathetic maggot he’s lucky that’s all I did to him.
He worked for a few more minutes before Strayhorn got up the nerve to talk to him again. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Agent Franks?”
“Don’t.”
“Sorry.” The rookie went back to counting the ceiling tiles. He began to tap absently on the arm of his chair. The sound was annoying. Franks glared. He stopped, probably uncomfortable that he was sharing the room with a monster. “Sorry.”
He could have ordered the rookie to shut up, or go stand in the corner, or something, but his question was probably more interesting than the stupid reports. “Ask,” he demanded.
“I’ve been briefed now on your history and what you are . . .”
He raised an eyebrow.
“No. I’m fine with it. It doesn’t bother me. You’re a legend for a reason. I don’t just mean like legend in the Bureau, I mean like a literal legend, around the world. You’re folklore. Hell, you’re literature.”
Franks hated that particular book. It portrayed him as a whiner. He found it—there was a relatively new slang term that fit—emo. And Franks was certainly not emo. The rookie was looking him in the eye. That was impressive. Very few humans were able to do that when they had an inkling what he was. The rookie was tougher than expected, but that was the nature of an organization that only recruited people who had already established themselves as professionals. Franks thought of Strayhorn as the rookie only because that was what the other agents had called him. By Franks’ standards, all of them were new and inexperienced. “What then?”
“I was just wondering why you still work for the MCB? You’ve done this so long. It’s not like you’re obligated to anymore. You’re PUFF exempt. Why do you still do this job?”
That was complicated. First there was The Deal and then there was The Contract. He had an oath to uphold, an impossible promise to keep, a huge debt to pay, and the only way he could ever hope to accomplish those lofty goals was by doing the one thing he was good at. He’d been a warrior for eternity, and unlike the humans who’d fought in the war in heaven before they’d been born, he still remembered his purpose, and he was damned good at it. Hurting the things that preyed on humanity was the only thing keeping him out of Hell, but like all complex answers it was just easier to say, “Classified.”
Strayhorn broke eye contact and looked out the window. “I understand.” Humans had a hard time with long awkward silences. Franks didn’t mind them, as he didn’t really grasp the awkward part and he enjoyed the silence. Strayhorn, apparently, did not. “Something’s been bothering me, about all of this, about the MCB, about our mission, about the First Reason . . .” The rookie turned back to him. “I thought you’ve been doing this so long you might have a good answer.”
Myers had sent orders to not let anything bad happen to the rookie. So that probably precluded Franks’ initial inclination to toss him out the window. Answering his stupid question would probably be easier than shutting him up, or would at least have less paperwork involved, so Franks nodded for him to continue.
“Part of my last job included witness protection. Now part of my new job is witness intimidation. Yes, I know we can’t let people realize the Old Ones are real, because then that’ll make the Old Ones stronger. I know their evil is supposed to be unimaginable, so it’s for the witnesses’ own good, but it’s . . . just so damned hard to stomach. We threaten people to keep their mouths shut. I know the better we do our job, the more likely they’ll stay quiet, and the less likely we’ll need to do anything worse, but you’re who they send when we need worse. I can’t believe I’m saying this . . .”
The rookie talked a lot. The window-tossing option was starting to sound more appealing.
“Sorry, I’m rambling. I can’t say this to my TO or the others because if they thought I was having doubts about the mission I’d get drummed out of the Bureau. I get why we do it, but we threaten innocent people and once in a while actually have to do something awful to keep them silent . . . You’re the one they send when that’s necessary. How do you do it?”
“Usually a suppressed pistol. Close range. Unless I’m ordered to make it look like an accident.”
Strayhorn went grey. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and continued. “Not the actual act . . . I’d ask you how you sleep at night, but the briefing says you don’t sleep at all. How do you reconcile doing something evil to fight evil?”
Curious. Franks was not used to one of his subordinates using such strong terms concerning his actions. Strayhorn was either remarkably brave or remarkably stupid. “Why do you need to know?”
“I just do.”
Humans had to make everything so damned complicated. “Old Ones are worse.”
“And keeping the Old Ones from being worshipped is worth killing innocent people?”
The Old Ones were outsiders. They weren’t part of The Plan for this reality. Their intrusion into this world would change everything. Too many humans were soft, weak, easily swayed, and they’d worship anything that was sufficiently powerful, and the Old Ones were powerful beyond mortal comprehension. If they had enough worshippers, then the lines between worlds would blur, and our reality would fall under their jurisdiction. Humans didn’t seem to realize just how good they had it, living under their current benevolent steward, with crazy ideas like free will and eternal progress. Humans thought small. They had a hard time realizing that the Old Ones took the long view. They were vindictive and spiteful masters. Let them take over and they’d own humanity from before they were born and for an eternity after they died. All mankind would witness Hell for themselves. So yes, he occasionally had to shorten an already short mortal life to keep that from happening. They were collateral damage. And when that was necessary, it was better for him to be the one to pull the trigger than some poor soft human who still possessed a soul that could be damaged by the act. Franks’ immortal spirit was already an irreparable mass of scar tissue. He had no humanity to sacrifice. It was best if he was the one to drop the hammer.
So he shrugged.
“I don’t know, Agent Franks. I don’t think I could do that.”
“Do your job right and you won’t have to.”
* * *
The Spider appeared to be an Asian female in her late teens. The humans in the van had unconsciously placed themselves as far away from the Tsuchigumo as possible within the tight confines of their vehicle. Kurst sat directly next to the creature. Its presence did not bother him. Its illusion magic would affect his eyes but was not nearly strong enough to cloud his mind.
The creature’s mask was very convincing, with wide eyes and a bubbly schoolgirl demeanor. During his current existence the doctors had exposed him to many popular culture materials, so that he could better blend in with human societies, so he understood that the Japanese schoolgirl act was supposed to be attractive to some humans. The Spider put one delicate hand on Kurst’s bicep. “Ooh, you such a strong big man.”
Kurst had only had this flesh body for a short time, but he’d been watching the mortal world for centuries. Long ago his spirit had observed such perverted beasts take on the form of beautiful women to seduce unsuspecting men, before spinning them into a silken cocoon and sucking their life out. The Spider was wasting its time on him.
He put a small measure of his true power into his response and whispered in the old tongue. “I am not food for you. I am your better.”
It hadn’t expected to hear him speak in such a manner. The Spider recoiled in horror as it realized it had bothered something far more dangerous than itself. For just a split second the mask slipped, and Kurst was staring into dozens of black eyes and hairy mandibles, but then the illusion returned before any of the humans noticed. It scooted as far away from him on the seat as possible.
“Did someone say something?” Foster asked from the driver’s seat. No one answered. “Damned bunch of freaks,” he muttered under his breath.
In addition to Kurst, the passenger van carried four human overseers, two of Kurst’s siblings, the Tsuchigumo, and a human under a Fey curse named Renfroe. Stricken’s plan was cunning, and Kurst was impressed with how even if they failed to eliminate their primary target it would still be a victory. However, Kurst did not plan on failing.
He had waited a very long time to see Franks again.
Franks is mine. You may hurt him, but I’m the one that gets to send him back to Hell.
The other two Nemesis assets received the message and understood. Stricken and his scientists were unaware that their Nemesis creations could communicate freely with each other telepathically. It had amused him to discover that STFU was so oblivious to the horrors they had invited into their world. Each of the thirteen spirits who had claimed these powerful new bodies had been leaders among the Fallen, but Kurst had outranked them in the before time. They would do exactly what he ordered now.
The streets of the American capital city were empty this early in the morning. Steam rose from manhole covers. Kurst liked how the buildings here were gilded palaces. Pride was what had gotten his kind exiled, yet how quickly mortals forgot themselves and erected marble monuments to their own meager power. He hated humans so much.
“That’s the MCB building. Get ready,” Foster said.
“There are four cameras on us.” Renfroe could sense such things. The tall, extremely skinny, bespectacled man was still a human being, but he had peculiar abilities that made him just odd enough to be on the ragged edge of being PUFF-applicable.
“Don’t disrupt them until I tell you to,” Foster ordered. He was listening to an earpiece connected to the command center. “Spider, the second that door slides open, I want you doing your thing, just like we talked about.”
The Tsuchigumo giggled. “Yes, Mr. Foster.” Her fake accent was cloying.
They were coming up on the back gate of the MCB’s parking garage. It was deceptively heavy duty. “Do your thing, Renfroe.” The gate immediately began sliding aside. The guard waved them through as his computer informed him their plumbing van was expected. “Nice.”
“We’re on the schedule. I told their system we’re emergency maintenance and backdated a service request to forty minutes ago.”
“You’re the best IT guy ever.”
The van went down a ramp into a concrete chamber. This area was safely separated from the main building in case of car bombs. A pair of uniformed guards came out of a door, one leading a dog, and another with a mirror on a long handle. Their human overseers in the vehicle all had firearms, but that was more for the Nemesis prototypes than the MCB. Other guards would be watching the vehicle, and an alarm this early would cause a lockdown. If they were spotted, Kurst knew he would have to kill everyone quickly, then flee, and Franks would remain out of his reach.
“You know what to do, Spider.”
The human overseers shifted nervously. They were depending on the Tsuchigumo’s desire for a PUFF exemption to keep the treacherous creature in line. A uniformed guard approached the driver’s side window. Foster told him something about a plumbing issue, but it was drowned out by a sudden buzzing in Kurst’s ears. The interior of the van seemed to quiver. The side door slid open and the guard with the dog looked inside, eyes glazing over as he scanned them. It was as if they weren’t there at all. The guard didn’t even notice that his dog seemed extremely frightened, whimpering and tugging on its leash. He closed the door.
The guard smacked his hand against the side of the van, signaling Foster that they were good to proceed. The strange noise and shifting visual cues tapered off. Impressive. Kurst studied the Japanese creature. He could see where such tricks could be useful in his future plans. He would need to enslave a few of these things.
The plumbing van went down the ramp and then they were beneath MCB headquarters. It was empty except for a handful of black vehicles with tinted windows and government plates, so Foster was able to park near the main doors. A few of the humans pulled out tablet computers. “Renfroe, start messing with their security systems,” Foster ordered. “The rest of you know what to do.”
Kurst put in a radio earpiece, opened the door, and stepped into the chilly garage. The Spider and the other two Nemesis soldiers followed. They had not taken mortal names yet, so the female was still known as Prototype Nine and the male was Prototype Four. They were all dressed in the basic business attire appropriate for MCB employees. Kurst had worn the same type of dark suit that he’d been told Franks preferred. That would make the Spider’s assignment easier.
They entered the lobby. A fat human was sitting at the guard station, tapping at his keyboard and scowling at his monitor. “Plumbing problems?” He looked up and saw Kurst approaching. Only Kurst could see the light bending around his form and hear the strange frequency of the Tsuchigumo’s magic in his ears. The illusion must have been perfect. “Agent Franks? I didn’t expect you—”
Kurst reached over, grabbed the back of the guard’s head, and flattened his skull against the heavy desk. The body rolled out of the chair and lay on the ground, one foot twitching wildly.
“What the hell?” Renfroe demanded over the radio. “You told me they were going to sneak in. Nobody was supposed to get killed!”
“Change of plans. Get uppity about it and whatever weirdass electrical ghost thing you’ve got goes on the PUFF list tomorrow,” Foster snapped back. “Now make sure you tweak the time stamp on that murder so it coincides with their exit.”
The others were already waiting at the correct elevator. Kurst joined them. The door closed behind them. The Spider pointed at the hidden panel. Kurst went to it and spoke. “Franks. One.”
“Forcing voice pattern recognition.” A glowing ball of light appeared in the elevator car with them. The will-o’-the-wisp bounced about wildly as Renfroe’s voice come from inside of it. “Adjusting scanners. Changing weights. Damn. The Spider is ugly as hell on the X-ray . . . What is she? Okay, okay, never mind. That’s gone. And now it’s just Franks in here. All records match. Changing the logs so he’s going rather than coming . . . Okay. You’re good. Camera on the other side is live.”
“I give them good show,” the Spider said. Then she covered her mouth with both hands and blushed, as if she was jealous of all the attention.
The blast door rolled open. Two tired MCB guards were on the other side. To their eyes and to the camera above them it was the hulking form of Agent Franks that entered the security room.
“Evening, er, morning, Agent Franks. I hadn’t been told you’d left the building.”
Kurst ignored them, walked to the lockers, and picked out the number Stricken had supplied him with. He balled up one fist and slammed it through the sheet metal. Kurst yanked the door off the hinges, then reached back inside and pulled out a Glock 20. The guards were surprised, briefly, then he shot them dead with a single well-placed round each.
“And cut,” Foster said. “Beautiful. That’s the opening scene of our masterpiece. I call it Franks goes on a rampage.”
The metal detector buzzed as Kurst went through it. He’d sensed more heartbeats on the other side of a partition. There were two more guards there and he intercepted them as they came out. They had their sidearms drawn, but their human reactions were far too slow to keep up with his movements. He shot the one who was further away in the throat, then took hold of the closer of the two and hurled him into the nearest concrete wall hard enough to break half the bones in his body. Kurst took a moment to take the guard’s spare magazines of MCB-issued silver 10mm, while Four and Nine entered and took the other two pistols and all the magazines from the locker. Ballistic testing would show that the bullets pulled from the victims’ bodies came from Franks’ issue weapons.
You know what to do.
The four of them went to the real elevator. “Cameras show your primary target is in his office,” Foster told them over the radio. Kurst pushed the button for the ninth floor. “Secondary target stopped at the cafeteria on the third floor.” Kurst pushed that button as well. “Spider, can you disguise multiple assets at the same time across that much distance?”
“Yes, Mr. Foster. I do my best for you!”
“Okay, Renfroe, you’ve got some editing to do. Make it seamless.”
The three Nemesis prototypes waited patiently while the Tsuchigumo hid in the back. Two of them were wearing heavy backpacks. One pack had already been left at the security checkpoint. They rode in silence. Kurst did not need to give the order. At the third floor, Nine stepped out and walked away silently. She would take care of their secondary target. They continued upward.
The door slid open. The ninth floor was a maze of cubicles and offices. This was the administrative center of the Monster Control Bureau. There were a handful of people there, a few MCB employees, and some janitors vacuuming and dumping trash baskets. Franks would be on the far side of the space.
Kurst lifted the stolen 10mm and shot a janitor in the spine.
* * *
Gunshot.
Franks unconsciously reached for a pistol, only to find his holsters empty. Fucking Stark.
“We’re under attack.” Franks stood up and went to the doorway, listening carefully and picking apart the patterns. Handguns. Two shooters. Screaming. It sounded like standard MCB 10mm, and he’d been around a lot of those over the last decade, but what were his people shooting at? Had another monster got through? “Call it in.”
Strayhorn was also futilely reaching for a sidearm that wasn’t there as he went to Franks’ desk. He grabbed the phone and dialed the MCB’s internal operator. “We’ve got shots fired on the ninth floor.”
Franks took a quick glance around the edge of the door. “Hmmm . . .” He did not surprise easily but then again, it isn’t often that you saw a mirror image of yourself executing the janitorial staff. The man who looked exactly like him spotted Franks and raised his pistol. Franks stepped back as the frosted glass shattered and a bullet zipped through his office to slam into a stack of binders. Franks scowled. Curious.
Holes appeared in the walls around them. Another bullet smashed the desk phone and Strayhorn took cover. The rookie struck him as relatively calm. “What do we do? We’ve all been disarmed.”
And that was totally unacceptable. Franks would not have lasted one century, let alone three, if he hadn’t been consistently prepared. Walking to the far wall, he ran his hand down the Sheetrock, looking for the right spot. More bullets flew through the office. Their attacker was trying to pin them down, which meant someone else was probably maneuvering up on them. Strayhorn rolled behind the desk when the lamp on top of it shattered. The rookie was looking for something to use as a weapon when he saw Franks poking at the wall. “What’re you doing?”
They had remodeled this floor after the cinder beast had burned it. Franks had seen the construction as an opportunity . . . Stupid policies came and went as the MCB changed stupid managers, but paranoia was forever. There. He found the right spot and then slammed his hand through the Sheetrock.
Franks tugged the old Colt Commando out of the wall. It was covered in dust and spider webs, but he’d thoroughly oiled the weapon before stashing it. He pulled back the charging handle and it felt as slick as when he’d hidden it there years before during the building’s remodel. He let the bolt fly forward to chamber a round. There were at least two shooters. The sounds told him they were taking turns firing on his office while the other reloaded. A bullet punched through the wall and tore an inch of skin from his bicep. Franks frowned as his blood sluggishly rolled through the gash. This was his newest suit.
He turned back. The MCB night shift’s skeleton crew were either running or taking cover between the thin walls of the cubicles. Papers and debris were flying everywhere. The attackers were firing blind. Franks could do that too. He watched the bullet holes appear through the carpeted walls, calculated the angle, shouldered the Colt, flipped the selector to full and ripped a horizontal burst through the cubicles in response. The stubby barrel of the Colt was extremely loud in the enclosed space and the muzzle flash was enormous.
The shooting from that direction stopped.
“Stay down.” Franks went to the doorway, looking for the first shooter. The double had to be a doppelganger or something of that nature, but those things died easily enough when you started pumping them full of bullets. But there was no sign of his duplicate. There were bodies on the floor, some injured, some dead. There was too much movement. People were running for the stairs. The shooter had to be here some—
A shape crashed through the cubicles. A section of wall was being pushed directly toward him. Franks moved the muzzle of the Colt over and opened fire, but it was coming at him so fast he was only able to put half a dozen rounds through it before the wall hit him. He braced for impact.
Franks was not used to being bowled over.
The Colt went spinning across the carpet as he was flung back into his office. Up in an instant, Franks turned to meet the threat. The partition was tossed aside, revealing what appeared to be a normal man. Early twenties, Hispanic, six foot one, one eighty, dressed in a black suit, but from the way he was ignoring several grisly rifle wounds to the chest, probably not a human. Franks launched himself forward, swinging for the man’s head.
The attack was intercepted by a raised forearm. Bones collided, and Franks came away with one arm stinging.
That was unusual.
Without any hesitation, Franks attacked with everything he had. It was a blur of fists, elbows, and knees. The man slid back across the carpet, taking the pounding, but protecting his head and torso. Then he countered, hands flashing back and forth with incredible speed. Franks barely managed to swat them aside. Dozens of blows were exchanged in a matter of seconds. A ridged hand that made the air whistle ripped a red line across Franks’ forehead.
Another. Franks pulled back, trying to save his eyes, but his back hit the wall. Fingers cut through his cheek. Not claws. Fingers. Franks swung, but the man ducked, and Franks hit nothing but air. His opponent came right back up and hooked a fist into Franks’ abdomen. The blow lifted him off the ground. Hands landed on his shoulders and Franks was jerked forward, spun around, and tossed hard into a nearby desk.
The man was coming after him.
His opponent stepped onto the fallen cube wall, so Franks kicked it out from under him. They both came up at the same time, but Franks had a head start and that was all it took. He slammed one fist into the man’s face, and then Franks was hitting him with blows that would break cinder blocks. And he knew that for a fact because he practiced on cinder blocks. His opponent made the smallest mistake, dropping one hand a bit too late, and Franks drove a quick jab into his mouth. A human jaw would have exploded. He turned a bit, and Franks snap-kicked him in the stomach. The shot would have staggered a vampire.
The man took a single step back and blinked.
“Hmmm . . .” Franks didn’t like that one bit. He could feel the man’s body heat, so he wasn’t a vampire, and he certainly didn’t fight with the disorganized savagery expected of a lycanthrope, but since he’d heard Strayhorn picking up the Colt Commando, this mystery could wait until the autopsy. Franks stepped to the side. “Shoot.”
Strayhorn opened up. The Colt was still on full auto. The thirty-round magazine was only half full but he put almost all of those into his target’s upper chest before the last few climbed up and to the right to shatter the far windows. The attacker stumbled back as his torso erupted into bloody chunks, but he still wouldn’t fall over. Instead he crashed against a desk and used that to steady himself. Even with around a dozen gaping wounds, he snarled defiantly at Franks.
“There’s more mags in the wall,” Franks said as he started toward the creature that had dared to trash his office. Apparently whatever it was did require blood pressure to continue operating, because the attack was slower this time, and Franks leaned back as a fist zipped past his chin. Franks slammed a massive hook into the side of the man’s skull. The impact reverberated across the room, but he still didn’t go down. Franks went to work on him, fists hammering like pistons, each impact hard enough to rupture organs. Blood flew from the bullet holes each time Franks hit him.
The man closed, trying to stop the pummeling. He tried to lock up on Franks’ arms, and for several seconds they went back and forth, blocking and twisting, trying for a hold or enough leverage to break a limb. There were massive exit wounds in the man’s back. Blood was everywhere, which was making it difficult to get a good grip. The level of dedication was impressive, but when he clutched the man’s ear and ripped it off the side of his head, that finally broke his concentration. Franks knew from personal experience having an ear pulled off really messed with your balance, so he capitalized on the momentary weakness.
Franks took hold of the man’s head and slammed it into the top of a desk. Wood splintered. Franks jerked his head up and slammed it down again and again and again. Blood and teeth flew, but the skull didn’t come apart like it should have. It had to be artificially hardened. The desk broke in half, but Franks still had a bloody handful of hair, so he pulled back hard, exposing the man’s neck, and then slugged him right in the throat hard enough to smash his trachea flat.
That finally dropped him.
Franks stood there, breathing heavily. He wasn’t used to having to work that hard to win a fight.
There was another gunshot, only it hadn’t been aimed at him, but rather the nearest security camera. Sparks fell from the hole in the plastic shell. He turned to see the first gunman, his double, approaching down the center of the cubicle aisle. Franks picked up a nearby swivel chair and hurled it at him, but the double quickly dodged to the side. Strayhorn was coming out of Franks’ office, aiming the Colt, but their assailant fired first. Strayhorn gasped when the bullet slammed into him. He fell back into his office and disappeared.
So much for keeping the rookie out of trouble.
The false Franks reached up to the side of his head and removed a radio earpiece. “Now it’s just us.”
There was no way he could cover the distance without getting shot, but Franks charged. He’d gladly absorb a few rounds for the chance to beat this imposter to death.
Surprisingly, the double tossed the Glock aside and met Franks with open hands and a smile. The smile seemed very alien on Franks’ face.
Picking up as much speed as possible, Franks lowered his shoulder and crashed into the fake, driving them both back, through one cube wall and then another, before crashing through the glass of the conference room, through the air, and finally hard against the floor. They were ugly face to matching ugly face, so Franks head-butted him in the nose. Normally that would have worked, but he might as well have slammed his forehead into a brick for all the good it did. Franks levered himself up, trying to pin the man’s arms beneath his knees so he could pound his face into hamburger with his fists.
Only one arm slipped through, an open palm landed on Franks’ chest, and shoved. Franks found himself airborne, until his brief flight terminated with an awkward landing on top of the conference table. The table legs broke from his impact and the whole thing collapsed beneath him.
The double was already back on his feet. Illusion magic shimmered around him, but then it broke, revealing a Caucasian male, with close-cropped blond hair, approximately early twenties, six foot four, and appearing to be an extremely fit two hundred and fifty pounds. After picking him up and throwing him through some walls Franks estimated his actual weight was much higher. Franks had never seen this person before.
“It’s good to see that mortal existence hasn’t made you soft, brother. You always were formidable.”
Even if the voice was new, the tone was not. “Kurst . . .”
The demon prince gave him a nod. “I’ve finally found a way back . . . No thanks to you.”
He had been hoping that the imp he’d questioned in California had been lying to mess with him. That was sort of their thing.
“You betrayed us, Franks.”
“We betrayed God.” Franks rolled off the table.
“Yet here you are, being the good little slave. The mighty have fallen again. Did he hear your weeping in desolation and offer you pity? Foolish, brother. Do you really think they’ll let you back in after what you’ve done?”
Franks picked up one of the broken table legs. The solid chunk of wood would make a decent club. Kurst had found himself a physical body, so now it was time to see just how durable that body was. “Enjoy life. It’ll be over soon.”
* * *
Monster Control Bureau Director Doug Stark had been called into headquarters for an emergency meeting, but it could wait until after he’d gotten something to wake himself up. Normally he’d go straight to his big office on the top floor and dispatch his secretary, but the problem with clandestine, middle-of-the-night emergency meetings was that there was no secretarial staff on hand to fetch his latte. The MCB building was busy 24/7, but most of that activity was in Media Control or SRT, and Admin worked civilized person hours. He could have sent one of his two bodyguards, but then he’d only have had one left actually guarding his body. So it was easier to just stop at the cafeteria on the way.
Details were sparse so far, but there was supposed to be a conference call with the President and the joint chiefs in twenty minutes. Of course, those people all got to gather in the White House situation room, but since his bureau was the bastard redheaded stepchild of the federal government, Stark was supposed to offer his advice from MCB headquarters. The Washington SAC and some other senior men were on their way in. Apparently something else had happened in Vegas, though nobody around him was competent enough to tell him what he’d been dragged out of bed for.
The cafeteria was quiet this time of night. There were only a handful of MCB staff sitting around plastic tables and their conversations awkwardly died off when they saw Stark and his bodyguards enter. He got several polite nods of greeting, but that was it. Stark knew he wasn’t a popular choice for director, but he was the boss, damn it. What did a man have to do to get a little respect around here?
Myers had gotten respect from the rank and file. It just wasn’t fair. The official record had proclaimed Stark as the hero of Copper Lake, his getting the nod for directorship was a no-brainer. Stark was a rock star. Yet, if Myers had come into the cafeteria in the middle of the night, then he would have been welcomed with smiles and handshakes. So how come they had loved Myers, but didn’t like him? It was a mystery. The cappuccino machine was off, which was just another annoyance on a long list of annoyances. “Damn it, Bill. Get me a Dr Pepper,” he snapped at one of his bodyguards.
Bill did as he was told. The other one stayed at Starks’ side. Maybe that was part of the problem . . . Myers had never had a security detail, but he’d only been acting director. Stark was important, so he rated guards, a driver, functionaries, and perks. That’s just how it was when you reached the pinnacle.
No, he knew that the real problem was that Myers was sabotaging him. Very few people in the MCB were cleared to know about STFU, but enough people knew that something shadier than normal was afoot, and they suspected that their new director was working with the mysterious Task Force. Some would even go so far as to call him a puppet. It had to be Myers with his crazy conspiracy theories about Stricken and his bunch taking over the MCB . . . Myers was poisoning the well, saying that the only reason Stark had gotten the job was because Stricken had greased the skids. Hell, just today one of Myers’ people had screwed up Franks’ hearing just to embarrass him.
The night shift didn’t rate real food, so Stark picked a bagel out of the plastic bin and a packet of cream cheese, which was when he spied Agent Radabaugh trying to slip from the room unnoticed. Radabaugh was one of Myers’ loyalists. It was too bad, since he had a reputation for being a solid man in the field. He’d love nothing more than to fire every agent who liked Myers better than him, but it was almost impossible to fire government employees, so Stark played it cool. “Hey, Greg. Hold on for a second.”
Radabaugh paused. “Good evening, Director Stark.” He had a coffee cup in each hand.
“Is one of those for Franks?”
“Yes, sir.” The agent appeared to be very uncomfortable.
“I should order you to spit in it.” Stark walked over to him. “Ha. I’m only kidding. So, babysitting Franks? I had to do that assignment once. It was like following a tornado around and having to clean up trailer parks. I bet you’re having a terrible time.”
“I don’t mind.” Radabaugh looked like he wanted nothing more than to escape. The other people in the room were doing their best to appear disinterested in the conversation. “Somebody needs to do it.”
“Of course. It’s all about duty.” Once he had the Bureau locked down tight and this Las Vegas thing was taken care of and Franks was gone, every man that had been loyal to Myers was getting their ass transferred to North Dakota, but until then Stark intended to be the friendliest director ever. “I’ve got to wonder, is Franks . . . upset? Is he worried? Nervous about tomorrow’s hearing maybe?”
“Not that I can tell.” Radabaugh answered in the most noncommittal way possible. “He’s very private like that.”
Oh well. He’d been hoping to hear otherwise. “Franks sure is a hard one to read, isn’t he?” Stark chuckled. “That’s hardly unusual. I do hope he enjoys his forced retirement. The Bureau will be better off without him.” Radabaugh didn’t even try to argue. That was probably smart. Stark noticed that his bodyguard was looking at the entrance. Stark turned and saw that Franks had come to the cafeteria. “Well, speak of the devil . . .”
Franks looked odd. Stark couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong. They’d served together, and Stark had looked at that ugly mug daily for nearly a year. Sure, it had been a different face sewn on back then, but no matter what flesh he was wearing, Franks was always the same sullen, morose bastard. Right now was different though. It was because Franks seemed . . . happy. Franks reached inside his suit as he walked toward them.
“Stop right there.” The bodyguard stepped in front of Stark.
Franks’ pistol came out in a flash and he fired a controlled pair into the bodyguard’s chest followed an instant later by a third round to the head, just in case he’d been wearing a vest. Stark yelped as blood hit him in the face. Surprised, Stark slipped and fell as Franks did the same thing to the other bodyguard standing by the soda machine.
In less than two seconds Franks had just Mozambiqued both his bodyguards. It didn’t take too long to process that, because Stark had one hell of an instinct for self-preservation, with flight usually beating fight. He rolled over and crawled for cover. Radabaugh dove behind a table as Franks shot at him and the surprised MCB staff sitting there. Most of them died clueless.
“Return fire!” Stark shouted as he scrambled behind a counter, not realizing that he’d just signed a memo banning guns from the facility. Luckily, that rule didn’t apply to the guy who’d given it, so Stark reached for the Glock 29 on his hip.
But Franks had followed him. He walked around the counter and casually shot Stark in the right hand.
Stark screamed.
Franks pointed his pistol at Stark’s face.
Terrified, Stark lifted his trembling hands. “Franks, please . . .” The gun shifted down. There was a flash and a roar of thunder. It was like a lightning bolt through his gut. Heat began to radiate through his body and out onto the floor. Stark watched incredulously as blood came pouring out the hole in his abdomen. “What the fuck, man?” he demanded, and then it really started to hurt.
The slide was locked back on Franks’ pistol. He looked at it quizzically, as if surprised that he’d run out already. As Franks reached for a spare, he noticed Radabaugh was running toward the dead bodyguard’s gun. Franks went after him.
Stark moaned. He couldn’t believe how painful this was. Franks had just gut-shot him! That asshole! He pushed his left hand onto the wound and tried to stop the bleeding. He knew that he needed to put direct pressure on the wound, but that just made it hurt even worse. His right hand had a hole through it, but he tried to fumble his pistol out anyway, while shouting, “Help! Help!” but his employees in the cafeteria were either dead, suffering from gunshot wounds of their own, or running.
Radabaugh reached the bodyguard’s piece, but Franks was on him before he could lift it. Franks stomped on his hand. He had to hand it to the agent; rather than cry about it, Radabaugh wrapped his arm around Franks’ knees, and drove his shoulder against his legs, trying to lever him off-balance. It was a classic takedown move. Radabaugh should have known that would have been impossible against Franks’ mass planted on those tree-trunk legs.
But then Franks toppled, and Radabaugh was trying to wrestle him. It had to have been the shock and the sudden loss in blood pressure, but for a second there, it looked like Radabaugh was fighting a woman who had to be half Franks’ size, but he blinked and it was just Franks again.
Stark gave up on his throbbing right hand. His fingers were hanging like dead fish. He reached across his body with his left and got the Glock free. It hurt so bad he could barely think. MCB rounds were compressed powdered silver, and they fragmented like a bitch in soft tissue. He was probably going to die and it was going to hurt, and it was Franks’ fault.
Two other agents besides Radabaugh had dog-piled on top of Franks, and all three of them were striking him and trying to hold him down. But Franks just got up anyway, dragging the hapless men with him. Stark raised his pistol in his off hand, but he was shaking so badly, he didn’t have a shot with all of his men hanging off Franks’ body.
One agent crashed through a table, hit so hard and fast that Stark couldn’t even tell what had happened. Franks saw Stark aiming at him, and the cunning bastard grabbed hold of the other agent, picked him up, lifted him effortlessly overhead, and threw him at Stark. The man screamed as he sailed across the room. Stark barely had time to raise his hands to protect himself from the impact.
He must have blacked out for a moment. His head had bounced off the floor pretty hard. He couldn’t move. The MCB agent was lying on top of him, not breathing. Stark didn’t know where his gun was.
Radabaugh was still trying to fight Franks hand to hand. He was the MCB’s reigning martial arts champion. He was a Strike Team commando and one of the toughest men in the Bureau. Radabaugh could tangle with damn near any mortal human being in the world and have a fighting chance of coming out ahead.
He only lived for another twenty seconds.
There was something wrong with Stark’s eyes. Franks seemed too small, and also a whole lot faster than he used to be. Radabaugh threw a series of punches, but Franks brushed them aside effortlessly. One hand flew out, grabbed Radabaugh by the throat. The agent thrashed and turned red in the face, trying a wristlock to break the hold, but to no avail. Franks twisted and with a sickening crack snapped his neck.
Stark tried to push the dead man’s weight off of his chest, but he was too weak.
Franks dropped Radabaugh’s limp form, walked to the bodyguard’s pistol and picked it up. He began methodically putting bullets into each of the wounded.
Last of all, he aimed the gun at Stark’s face.
“No. Please!” He squeezed his eyes shut tight. “I don’t want to die! Not like this! Please!”
Several seconds passed. There was no boom. No tunnel of light, or whatever was supposed to happen. As far as he knew, he was still alive. Stark opened his eyes. The cafeteria was filled with dead bodies and Franks was gone.