“Are all of them like that?” Lance asked.
“Summoners? Believe it or not, this one seems a lot more squared away than most.” Sullivan had worked with a few different Summoners over the years, from the scouts of the 1st Volunteer to friends he’d used for detective work. Compared to the rest, Ian could interact with society rather well. He was still young, though. Maybe Summoners just got crazier with age. “What’ve you got, Ian?”
He sounded smug. “Molly is one of the sharpest spirits I can bring in. She says there’s a room at the top that’s got an engine running inside of it. It’s spinning a big ball. That’s got to be a Dymaxion.”
Sullivan was inclined to agree. The smaller one he’d found had a range of maybe fifty feet, but this one seemed to cover the whole island. They’d driven over the bridge to the D.C. side and back to test it out, and his Power hadn’t responded at all while crossing the river.
“I heard the noise upstairs,” Lance said. “I didn’t spend too much time trying to get in. The room was solid concrete with a bank door on it. But if it’s motorized, then there will be ventilation for that engine, and if there’s ventilation a rat can get in and start chewing through wires.”
“Might not be a bad idea.”
“You got any idea how bad copper wire tastes?”
“Can’t say that I do . . . I wonder how many of their men know what’s really going on? You know we’re going to end up having to kill some of them.”
“I know.” Lance was somber. “But if you sign up to take away innocent folks’ freedom, you better be prepared to pay with your life. I saw something else while I was in there you need to know about. There’s a command center on the main floor. Nobody’s working this late, so I did some reading. They’re making big plans.”
“More attacks to blame us for, I bet.”
“Francis tried to warn me that something’s coming, but he had no details. That wasn’t what got my attention. Bad things, Jake.”
It wasn’t like Lance to be this hesitant. “Spit it out.”
“OCI is building prison camps big enough to hold tens of thousands. They’re segregated by Active types. Places I’ve never heard of out west, Topaz and Gila River for physical Powers, Granada and Minidoka for mental. They’re got lists of names. Pages and pages of them. Who’s not a threat, who to round up, and who to exterminate.”
“Aw hell . . .” This was worse than imagined.
“Exterminate, Jake. I didn’t pick the word. I didn’t make it up. It was on the title. Extermination order for undesirable Actives.”
Ian just stared at the dark mass of Mason Island. “I can’t believe that.”
Lance hawked his throat and spit in the Potomac. “Believe it, kid. It was posted on the fucking bulletin board.”
Sullivan took the spyglass out and put it back to his eye. Had it really come to this? What’s your game, Senator? But the trees held no clues.
Lance’s laugh was bitter. “OCI’s just gonna keep on pulling stunts like Miami ’til they get what they want.”
“It’s hard to believe they can hate us that much,” Ian muttered.
Sullivan wasn’t sure. Maybe it was hate for some, fear for others, but was there something more? Were Actives an excuse for a power grab? Were they pawns in some bigger game? Sullivan didn’t know, but he was damn tired of being pushed.
It was a different time, different place, and it was right in his own nation’s Capitol, but Sullivan couldn’t help but feel like he was back in the Great War, planning a raid across no-man’s-land. He had a mission, he had an enemy, and that meant that he had a purpose. If the OCI wanted a war, then they’d get one. “Let’s go home. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, we attack.”
“We’ve been scouted, sir,” Crow reported to his superior.
Bradford Carr had been getting ready to turn in for the evening, and was dressed in his robe savoring a pipe. He’d claimed the general’s officer’s quarters of the old Peace Ray facility as his personal suite and paid a great deal of money to have the rooms properly decorated. The plain concrete of the bunker had been paneled over with fine wood. Ornate light fixtures had replaced the wire-covered emergency bulbs. All of the furniture was huge, dark, and expensive. Crow felt like he was sitting in the salon of some upper-crust intellectual, which technically, he was.
The room was decorated with trinkets and souvenirs from the Coordinator’s travels around the world. There was a lion skin rug on the floor; the Coordinator had shot the beast himself. One wall had weapons—Zulu spears, Arabian scimitars, even an Amazonian blowgun complete with darts coated in a poison made from blue frogs. Two walls were covered in books that the Coordinator had shipped down from his private collection in Chicago. Most of those books, scrolls, and stacks of paper were about magic, personally gathered by Carr from every corner of the globe. The last wall was covered in plaques, diplomas, medals, and awards, all strategically arranged to show how much better he was than everyone else. It was the honorable Doctor Bradford Carr’s display wall of personal arrogance.
“Scouted, eh? Grimnoir, I assume?” Carr leaned back in his plush chair. It creaked ominously under all that fat. Crow had to remind himself that if the chair broke and the Coordinator came tumbling out, he’d better not laugh. The Coordinator struck him as someone who would be sensitive to even the smallest slight.
“So it would appear. It was a minor spirit. I could sense it poking around.”
“Any chance that it might have been sent by someone else?”
The Coordinator was more worried about his rival, J. Edgar Hoover, who at best might be able to put them in jail, than the ruthless Grimnoir that would certainly try to kill them. Damned politicians. No sense of perspective. “Hoover’s got no trust of magic. I’d say it was the Grimnoir, which means they’ll be coming soon.”
“Very good. Speed up the timeline then.” Carr smiled as he sucked on his pipe. “I want the next operation to begin as soon as the Grimnoir attack us. Move up the schedule. Have some of the men prepared to evacuate Stuyvesant and the German into the city. I want it to seem as if the two events, the attack on the city, and the Grimnoir assault against our headquarters were done simultaneously. It will make their group seem more capable of nefarious scheming in the papers, and it will position the OCI as the logical force to stop them.”
It would also split his available resources and put all of them in more danger. The Coordinator didn’t care, though. He would be safe in his bunker the whole time. “Of course, sir.”
“Excellent, Mr. Crow . . . I’ll bring the rest of the trustworthy men here to reinforce our numbers. The Grimnoir’s little scout will not have known that . . . Here, let me show you something.” He picked up a thick leather book from his reading table and held it out for Crow to take. Crow had to lean way forward in his chair to get the book. The wheels of his chair couldn’t roll across that stupid lion rug. The book was battered, the cover was stained, and the writing on the pages was done by hand. “Do you know what that is?”
“No, sir. I do not.” The writing was in a language Crow didn’t recognize. He flipped through a few pages, noting the many intricately designed spells.
“I bought this book from a Romanian peddler back in ’23 for thirty-five cents. The poor Gypsy had no idea of the astronomical value of such a tome. In fact, from the pages of that very book came the spell that I gave to you, and that you gave to Giuseppe Zangara, to drastically increase your abilities. What you hold in your hands is one of the personal research journals of Anand Sivaram, an absolutely brilliant mystic, driven insane in a quest for more Power. He was one of the first to figure out how to bind new forms of magic to his own body, including the single greatest design ever accomplished by the hand of man: a spell that worked as a collector of recently severed Power. A design that no one has been able to replicate since, yet it ruined his mind, and as a result, he did many unspeakable things.”
Was this about the spell that the Coordinator had carved onto Crow?
??s narrow chest? Crow fidgeted nervously. Did the boss know just how difficult it was getting to control the demons? Was he going to take it away? Crow would rather die than lose his freedom.
“In the west, Sivaram was referred to as the Warlock.”
Crow had been briefed about the mad Traveler. “The Spellbound?”
“For many years, I’d thought he was a myth. You see, I’ve always been fascinated by magic. Ever since I was a child the mysteries of the Power intrigued me. Sadly, I was not born blessed with any miraculous abilities . . .” The Coordinator paused to stroke his huge mustache as he reminisced. “Yet, I was driven to dedicate my life, my considerable intellect, and my family’s wealth to the study of such things.”
Where was the old coot going with this? “You’ve accomplished great things.”
“With more to come, I assure you, but I have gotten away from my point—Warlock. I’d thought he was a myth, this crazed mystic that murdered man, woman, and child in order to absorb their life-force to strengthen his own Power. At the time we all believed it was impossible to manipulate magic beyond what a tiny percentage of mankind was born with. All legitimate scholars thought so as well . . . until during my service during the Great War, when by fluke happenstance I came across the bullet-riddled corpse of the Warlock on a farm in France. I could positively feel the energy still smoldering in the designs carved upon the body. If he was real, the stories were true! Magic could be manipulated and molded for our use.”
Crow could only nod along with the story. The boss had never talked about this before.
“It was an epiphany. As a man of science, I do not believe in gods or fate, but at that moment in time my future was laid clear before me. I would be the one who would control magic. I would tame its wild fury. I would harness it for the good of all.” He held out his hand, and Crow had to struggle forward to give the strange book back. “For far too long, Actives have squandered their gifts through ignorance and selfishness. Magic does not belong to them alone. It belongs to all mankind. It will take a great man to correct this deficiency. History is defined and directed by the wills and vision of great men, Mr. Crow. Let us make history.”
You self-righteous idealistic bastard. “Yes, sir.”
“That will be all. I will have one of the men take you back to your quarters.”
“If it would be alright, it would be safer if my real body wasn’t near the battle.”
The Coordinator sighed, as if insulted by Crow’s cowardice. “Very well. I’ll have the men take you across the river. Dismissed.”
Even in the pathetically weak, very limited, human form he’d been born with, Crow found his dislike for the smug Coordinator growing. He’d liked the man up until a few days ago, and Crow wasn’t sure if the feeling originated with him or was lingering hate left over from the demons he’d been sharing a mind with. It was a good thing he was not allowed in the inner sanctum in demon form, because he was beginning to doubt that his employer would survive the meeting.
Chapter 17
I have killed many Mexicans; I do not know how many, for frequently I did not count them. Some of them were not worth counting. They had attacked my camp, slain my aged mother, my young wife, and my three small children. The Mexicans paid for their malicious ways with their lives. I walked through the walls of their forts and spilled their sleeping blood. Their bullets passed through me as if I were mist. They called me a ghost, but I still lived. It was vengeance, not death, that had changed my form.
—Geronimo, My Life:
The Autobiography of Geronimo, 1905
Bell Farm, Virginia
“CRY HAVOC and let slip the dogs of war,” Dan Garrett said as he looked over Sullivan’s final battle plan. The grease pencil map that covered one wall of the farmhouse living room was far more detailed today.
“I read Shakespeare in prison,” Sullivan muttered. “Why don’t you pick somebody who writes happy endings?”
“Only line I remember from a college production,” Dan answered. “Seemed appropriate.”
They’d spent the morning going over the details, filling in the blanks, and making assignments. Everyone was there, except for Whisper, who had gone to the airfield to pick up Browning. Their gear had been checked and their weapons cleaned. They’d go over the plan one last time with everybody present, have a good supper because it might be awhile before they had time to eat again, and then head north to Mason Island.
Sullivan hated this part, deciding who to use and how to use them. Just like the war, his decisions here would determine who was likely to live and who was likely to die. How had General Pershing managed this with thousands of lives at a time? There was no pride involved, just that when it came to fighting, Sullivan had seen by far the most, which meant he would be the one to make the call.
“Browning and Jane stay on the Virginia side of the river. That’s the direction we’re planning on retreating.”
“John isn’t going to like that,” Lance pointed out. “He’s a brave man.”
“He’s also an old one. Faye, Hammer, and the French girl will be here”—he thumped the wall—“On the D.C. side.”
“No way!” Faye shouted.
“Uh, Jake . . . She is our most dangerous Active.”
“And until those Dymaxions are shut off, she’s only a teenage girl. If the OCI gets a call out for reinforcements, they’ll likely come from that direction. The Torch can set the bridge on fire and slow them down. Besides, we all know the second Faye thinks it’s clear, there ain’t nothing that’s going to stop her from popping over to the island and raising hell, regardless of what we tell her to do.”
Faye blushed. “Well . . . obviously.”
“That’s fine, Faye. Once the nullifiers are off, your orders are to just be yourself.”
“I can do that, Mr. Sullivan!”
“I figured you’d be okay with that.”
“What about me?” Lance asked.
“You and Ian are with Browning.”
Lance obviously didn’t like that much. “That’s an awful long way from the shooting.”
“We’ve got two Powers that can cause some harm, and I’m not going to waste them. Besides, Lance, if it all goes to hell, you know how to use the mortar.”
“Fine, but I’m stopping by the National Zoo on the way to borrow something worthwhile. Me and the kid can hang back.”
“No can do,” Ian interjected. “If I’m going to be bringing in a Summoned capable of fighting, I’ll need to be closer than that or I could lose control of it.”
The last thing they needed was another out-of-control demon on the rampage. “Fine. Me, you, and Dan are going in quiet from the north. There are plenty of boats around there that we can take. They’ll be watching the bridge, but we didn’t get any sign they were watching the forest. Wear your boots.”
Hammer raised her hand. “Why is it that all of the women are on the shore?”
“Blame it on me being old-fashioned if it makes you feel better,” Sullivan said.
“There’s not much for me to do over there, and you’re awfully thin on the island. I can shoot and I know how to handle myself in the woods. Better than the fat city boy, for sure.” Hammer gestured at Dan. “No offense.”
Jane bristled at the jab against her husband, but Dan just laughed it off. “None taken, though the fat part was unnecessary. Unless, of course, you just want to be on the island so you can warn your OCI buddies when we’ve arrived . . .”
“You tricky Mouth bastard!” Then Hammer shut up because she had no response to that particular accusation.
Sullivan had already thought about how to utilize her, but there wasn’t much use for a Justice in combat, and he didn’t want to get her killed. She wasn’t a knight and Sullivan already felt like getting her mixed up in this whole plot was his fault to begin with.
“She’s got a point, though, Jake. That’s me and you with no Powers and Ian who’s going to be busy concentrating, taking on at least twenty me
n. What are we supposed to do with only three of us?”
“Four.” Every head in the room turned toward the new voice. Toru stood in the doorway. He surveyed the group, glaring, daring anyone to disagree. “As I said I would, I thought upon your request.”
“Hell no!” Lance shouted as he stood up. “No way am I going with an Iron Guard.” Some other voices rose in agreement. “I’m not working with the likes of him.”
Sullivan had been afraid of this. Many had lost people to the Imperium, but Lance had lost his wife and child. Jane had been kidnapped by an Iron Guard. Faye’s grandfather had been gunned down by the same man. Ian was red-faced and shouting, so he was probably in the same club.
“Silence!” The Iron Guard’s bellow shook the farmhouse. Several hands moved to gun butts. “You have my most sincere apologies for the rudeness of my interruption. I have made a promise, and in order to fulfill that promise, I need this man”—he nodded toward Sullivan—“alive. If that means participating in your petty war in order to keep him alive, then I will do so. Whoever tries to stop me from fulfilling the promise I have made to my father,” he looked directly at Lance, “will be considered my enemy.”
Lance drew his revolver. “How about I send you to your father right now, you Imperium son of a bitch.”
“However,” Toru continued, voice completely even, “I have pledged my loyalty to Sullivan’s cause. Anyone who stands with him against the Pathfinder is my ally, and my ally’s fight becomes my fight.” Then Toru surprised everyone by bowing deeply. He held it for a long time before rising. “I will be in the barn. Wake me when it is time to begin the slaughter.” The Iron Guard turned and walked from the room.
“Well . . . shit . . .” Lance put his gun back in the holster. Dan Garrett had discreetly opened the Dymaxion box and had been ready to use the nullifier. “That your bright idea, Jake?”
“We’ve all fought the Imperium before. You know what they’re capable of. The OCI won’t know what hit them.”