What if the CIA and the Vatican knew there was secret advanced technology from an alien civilization in Iraq before the United States invaded it? What if this technology is needed to save the world? What if the Earth barely has twenty-five years left before mankind has to face an ancient alien enemy?
Trucks, trucks and more trucks.
As far as the eye can see down Hill Grove’s long driveway and beyond. It’s Art removal time. Doctor Sarkisian’s treasures are all heading back to Iraq. That was the deal he made – everything would go back except Jack-In-The-Box and whatever Jack had in his sarcophagus. Word has it Jack and his burial crypt goodies are going to a special laboratory being built at Alamagordo, New Mexico, where “they” are going to get serious about reverse engineering the objects. The things are clearly machines, possibly weapons or communications devices of some sort.
“They” are the US Central Intelligence Agency, of course. The CIA knew that Saddam Hussien had something BIG in Iraq. They knew it had to do with Nibiru and some extremely advanced technology. They bullshitted everybody into going to war – “Weapons of Mass Destruction” and similar lies. President Bush the Elder couldn’t finish the job – so President “Dubya” went in and stole everything historical he could find – including Jack and Jack’s toys. It was theft, pure and simple. The United States is the elephant in the room. It sits where it wants ……BUT Tempis Fugit.
Tick tock. 2050 is coming and CIA in Langley knows some heavy shit is gonna’ go down. Earth-shattering shit. The CIA indulged Dr. Sarkisian for as long as he was alive, but now they’ve got to give back all the artifacts they can’t learn anything else from and get crackin’ on the important stuff. Like Jack’s enigmatic objects.
Trucks are parked on grassy areas, down the Estate Garage driveway and creeping around the side of the main Estate house. White-coveralled movers are in and out of the mansion, carrying boxes, wooden framed precious paintings, and crates brimming with antiquity. There’s a block and tackle tripod at the East-wing double French Doors to maneuver and haul the really big objects. These big exhibits have been fixed to dollies with special soft rubber wheels so as to not mar the hardwood floors. The workers have been here for a whole day and I havn’t heard or seen a single crash, wall gash or accident. These guys are good.
The movers are wrapping up, lifting the last of the crates into straight-job trucks with custom-fitted pneumatic jacks on the backs. All the trucks and vehicles are unmarked. As each worker files into waiting vans to leave the premises they are scanned by security – just like they were scanned when they arrived early this AM. There’s also a portable x-ray booth that’s set up at the door – the workers have to pass through that, too. Serious stuff. Nobody on premises has a cell phone or heart monitor. Nobody on premises has any metal prosthetic implants or other medical apparatus in their body. Their body weight – coming and going – is monitored by precise computer algorithms.
The truck fleet extends across the street, past the massive iron front gate. The Estate property opposite Oak Grove is now owed by Ansuz Group affiliated companies and will be the site for personnel facilities, IT mainframes and a supercomputer, motor pool and support staff. It is a huge property – almost a thousand acres. Enough private, secure space to grow our business. The arsenal is allegedly in an “underground” bunker somewhere on the main Estate – but I’ve yet to see it. I’m told it is a “thing of beauty”.
Although Katrina’s in charge of Security, she’s huddled with groups of professionals who are obviously managing the transformation of the Estate into the state-of-the-art facility she has in mind. I’ve heard her speak at least three other languages here today. Russian to the movers, French to technicians and site overseers. Some words of German to engineers. As the movers pull out, serious looking scientific types move in. More unmarked trucks carrying crates of electronic equipment and banks of computer relays, transfers and switches. Countless rolls of wires, harnesses and cables. Huge radio-antenna dishes and odd-looking honeycombed radar components. Specialized radar antennas, duplexers, transmitters, receivers and controllers are laid out on the lawns and being assembled. There’s a crane to lift up the completed radar units to waiting towers already positioned inside – and ingeniously obscured by – the mature growths of Oaks, Maples and Pines that thickly cover the Estate. The pre-positioned towers are covered with a rough simulated bark-like substance for them to blend in with the actual trees. Every piece of equipment is camouflage-painted to melt into the general surroundings. Everything has been engineered and executed like a NASA Moon landing. No costs have been spared.
Specialized, Swedish-speaking carpenters hired to create bespoke work benches and shelving have set up shop in the driveway just steps down from the front portico. They’re master wood-craftsmen flown in from the old country. There’s a flatbed truck with tons of precut timber of various growths and dimensions. Saws and planers, borers and joiners – it’s like a crew creating a movie set. I wonder if the origial preparations for Sabrina, the movie Paramount filmed here at Oak Grove in the 1950s was such a hectic work site. The difference is, Sabrina’s movie set was temporary – what’s happening here and now is permanent.
Welcome to Oak Grove – the new home of The Ansuz Group.
Katrina walks over – she’s in work clothes, too, although nicely fitting in the right places. Between her overseeing the Art removal and working with the professionals to reconfigure the place according to her vision of what a command center should be, we havn’t had a chance to talk. Just as I’m ready to tear her away so we can find some coffee, her phone sounds off.
I can tell by her face that something is terribly wrong. She’s speaking Russian – always a bad sign. This is Varang business.
She turns her back and wanders off to a tree for some privacy. She rattling Russian words a mile-a-minute. Although she’s looking down I can see whatever is happening is serious. I keep a respectful distance.
Finally after about ten minutes she comes back. She’s not crying – but her aggitation is palpable. And she wants to talk.
“I’ve just gotten off the phone with a Varang Commandant named Josep Grusz. He’s very high up in the organization. His daughter, Maria, went missing in Brooklyn a few nights ago. She’s about twenty and was working a surveillance detail with another girl, a Brooklyn local who was showing her the hot spots. Maria’s Varang – and Grusz’s daughter – so she’s got a tracker in her neck. A Varang response team tracked her from Brooklyn to a large Estate in Tarrytown, New York. At first, her father thought she’d met a young man and went back to his place – as much as he hates that idea. But he knows she’d never abandon her mission for an immature reason like that. Maria’s tracker is still broadcasting a signal…..but it’s stationary. If Maria isn’t moving, that’s not a good sign. Commandant Grusz asks that I take a team and do reconnaissance. Insertion and retrieval if necesssary. Any and all efforts.”
“What was she surveilling when she was on the job in Brooklyn?” I ask.
“A Varang shipping business at the Brooklyn docks was being muscled by the Mob……Maria was just circulating in the Brooklyn night clubs to see what she could learn from some local wise guys. Nothing about the assignment had anything to do with Tarrytown, New York. Problem is……that Tarrytown location is called the Bosworth Estate – and it’s a known safe house for von Anhalt Coven Vampires and people that do business with them. Commandant Grusz thinks she might have gotten separated from her Varang back-up and taken. I trained Maria Grusz. She’s a tough, smart operative. Decent and very honorable. Devoted Orthodox Christian. She actually worked undercover in London as a fashion model in her last Varang assignment. Maria’s knock-down gorgeous. She’s got that….thing about her. Her father is apoplectic about her going missing.”
“You gonna’ help?” I ask, although I can see Katrina’s got her mind made up.
“Does the bear shit in the woods?
Jon, if Maria is being held – for ransom leverage or worse – at a known Vampire Coven “Safe Estate” we’ve got to bust her out. I’ve seen what they do to young women in their degenerate “Rituals”. They’ve convinced themselves they’re an exceptional species with a divine imprimatur to butcher women in blood ceremonies – as”offerings” to their Elder Gods. I saw a few of these butcherings in Serbia when I was commanding a Varang advance unit against some rogue Bosnians and ran into a Vampire Coven base camp there. Franco, one of my Captains who you’ll meet later, was at my side. It was a small Serbian Village called “Nyashivka”. We didn’t have the trick ammunition we’ve got now…….it was a tough fight. But we killed the whole pack of them – and then used our Machetes to hack them to pieces. I remember the dirt was stained a pissy-bluish color at the kill site. We burned them in a gasoline-soaked bonfire.
The Vampires had carved up three beautiful teenage village girls. It was Franco’s village. The Vampires were after Virgin blood, in their eyes the most coveted of all. It was far and away the most gruesome sight I’ve ever seen. Vampires call it a “Wedding Supper” and call the unfortunate girls “Brides”. Remember – this wasn’t a wartime catastrophe……it’s what Vampires do for pleasure. It’s who they are. This “Blood Lust” shit is real.
We muster at twenty-two hundred hours – that’s ten o’clock tonight for you lawyer-types. Team is me, you and two groups of six Varang Spetsnaz. Two choppers out of East Hampton Airport. We go in hot – two teams, each armed with our enhanced new VAM rounds. We’ll use HK416’s and Glocks chambered in those black-tipped Sodium bullets Doc Sarkisian showed you before he died. Full tactical gear, night vision with video and secure Coms so we can all talk to each other and compare notes later. Good chance for you to learn more Russian. Everybody gets a back-strapped Machete. All Varang are trained in ancient Roman short sword – or “Gladius” – hand-to-hand combat techniques. What’s a Machete but a “short sword” right? Some times the old ways are best…….
You stay with me – watch and learn. Remember – you’ve never trained for this. It isn’t a Court Room. Follow my lead. Do what you’re told. I’m in Command, OK? Time to Nut Up, Grasshopper. We call it “Readiness Condition”. Estimated Arrival Time at the “Zone” – ETA – is Twenty Three Hundred Hours.”
THE JEREMIAH BOSWORTH ESTATE
Tarrytown, New York
We all travel to East Hampton Airport in blacked-out Mercedes panel vans and are airborne in minutes. Katrina – who the guys address as “Major” (her previous military rank) or “Commander”, introduces her teams to me. They exude confidence and certainly look formidable – they’re soldiers that can take the battle anywhere. Everything is right and tight. Military precision. Gotta’ love it. Everybody jabbers over the “Com” in Russian. Apparently it’s the one language everybody speaks no matter what Slavic country they come from. I’m getting more comfortable with the cadence and expressiveness of Russian words. I can even parse out meanings easier. It’s a hard language to learn – and I’m walkin’ baby steps. On the flip side, Katrina usually speaks English to force her guys to practice it. It’s a total immersion thing for us all. This obviously ain’t her first rodeo. Leadership seems to come naturally to her. She’s all about details.
The trip is a bee-line to the tracker coordinates – which havn’t changed. If Maria is alive, she’s been chained to a bed or wall, rigid. The mood isn’t too optimistic. Within an hour, we’re there.
Both choppers put down in a dark meadow a couple of football fields away from the Estate House. We hoof it through thick groves of trees under a canope of dense cover. It’s a perfect approach environment. Our tech guy has got some kind of doo-hickee that measures frequencies and digital signals and can isolate surveillance cameras hung around the Estate House perimeter. We disable four stanchion cameras easy as pie and get to our staging area. Every step of the journey has been GPS’d and Google Earthed in advance. Varang are all about preparation. We’ve got a topographic blueprint of the property down to the last pile of dogshit. I’m winded by the time we stop – carrying all this equipment (they call it a “Kit”) has really worn me down. Each team leader is carrying a healthy coil of woven rapelling rope and carabiners in addition to their “Kit” – probably another ten pounds. Katrina and the rest of the crew look like they can break into an impromptu Football match. They’re fresh as daisies. I gotta’ get in better shape if I’m gonna’ hang with these dudes.
Everybody fans out and slowly makes their way to the House, taking advantage of every standing tree growth or bush they can for cover. The big Mansion is about five hundred feet away. We can see lights in the some rooms where we’re headed. Looks like some movement at the first level. We change our position a bit and can see two large, white commercial vans parked at the side of the Estate. A guy in white coveralls is loading equipment into one of them.
Franco slips out from the formation, zig-zags up and whacks the guy in the back of his head. He catches him and carefully drags him back to us. He’s moaning but otherwise unhurt. Franco heads back to his men – who are busy at strategic areas of the house taking out surveillance cameras – to await further instructions from Katrina.
Katrina slaps the guy’s face – who regains a dizzy consciousness with a start. He looks up and sees a bunch of space alien, tactical geared professionals staring at him. He knows immediately he’s in deep shit.
Katrina puts her boot on his throat. The other guys each train their Heckler & Koch assault guns on him – those little red laser sight dots on Mr. Coveralls’ chest make him start to quiver and shake. He’s stuttering gibberish……then, quietly stammers out some fractured, heavily accented words.
“PLEASE….PLEASE…..D-DON……DON’T….KILL….ME……” Katrina bends one knee down next to him and covers his mouth with her gloved hand. She doesn’t raise her voice – she’s just stone cold serious. It gives me gooseflesh to see her like this. I’m not used to it.
“I WILL HANG YOU FROM A TREE AND CUT YOUR DICK AND BALLS OFF IF YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW RIGHT NOW…….” Katrina ain’t kidding. Her voice is beyond convincing.
“WHO’S IN THE HOUSE? EXACTLY HOW MANY AND WHERE ARE THEY? SPEAK SLOW AND DON’T LIE TO US OR YOU DISAPPEAR WITHOUT YOUR MANHOOD………..WHAT THE HELL ARE ARE YOU WAITING FOR???? ALRIGHT, TAKE HIS PANTS DOWN, LET’S GO!” She’s yelling with as smuffled a voice as she can manage.
Katrina draws a KA-BAR knife while a couple of other guys start tearing at his trousers. She grabs the front of his boxer shorts and slices them open while his pants are pulled down to his ankles. His junk is ready for surgery but not looking too excited.
NO!!! NO!!!! PLEASE!!! I TELL YOU!!!! STOP!!!!! JESUS!!!!! PLEASE!!!!!! I GOT KIDS!!!! The guy is straining to keep his voice down and still get his words out.
“DEY TWO IN HOUSE – WE DON’T TALK TO THEM – DEY DRUNK – DEY STINK BAD – DEY BOTH INSIDE LIBRARY ROOM AN’ DEY DRINK OUT OF – HOW YOU SAY — LIKE JARS WITH RED…….BLOOD…….DEY IN ROOM WHERE LIGHTS ON – THERE……….” He points with a useless, disoriented arm spasm.
“WHAT WERE YOU DOING IN THE HOUSE? HOW MANY OF YOU ARE THERE?”
Coveralls is gasping for air, hyperventilating. He’s shit scared – and he should be. He caughs out words.
“ME AND CHARLIE….HE BOSSMAN – HE TELL ME WHAT I DO……CHARLIE ALL DAT’S LEFT INSIDE…….WE CLEANUP CREW…..SOMEBODY KILL TWO GIRLS IN BIG BALLROOM……..CHARLIE PAY ME CASH TO BE CLEAN UP HELP…….DEAD GIRLS……CHARLIE SAY WE TAKE BODIES TO JERSEY DUMP…….”
Katrina gets up and backs away. She’s done with this cretin.
She throws some zip ties down and nods at her team. They truss Mr. Coveralls up good and drag him back about fifty feet to a swampy catch basin. They dump him unceremoniously into the trench – pants down and all. He’s blindfolded and gagged. By that time he’s whimpering like a baby.
Katrina tells everybody over the “Com”: “TWO SCUMBAGS IN THE LIBABRY – BLOOD DRUNK – PROCEED WITH CAUTION AND HOG-TIE ‘EM – GUT SHOTS PREFERRED – FULL RECORDING STARTS NOW”.
Franco, Leader of “A” Unit – Advance -responds instantly. “TEN-FOUR, COPY- TWO BLOOD-DRUNK SCUMMERS IN THE LIBRARY – AIMING FOR BELLY BLEEDS – FULL RECORDING – MOVIN’ OUT”.
Katrina looks at me. “Now we stay sharp in case they need backup.”
We start slowly moving towards those lights. I’m thinking one thing – “Belly Bleeds”…… Wow. Katrina ain’t screwing around. These Vampires are gonna’ be interrogated and suffer like those girls suffered. Maybe worse.
We linger just outside the double front Mansion doors – Franco and his team have already killed all the cameras, jimmied the lock and slipped inside. We hear shots – distinctive snaps of 5.56 Caliber NATO Rounds – and shouting. It’s over in ten minutes. Over the Com we hear “ALL CLEAR”.
Katrina bounds inside the place like she’s storming Omaha Beach in World War II. We all move towards the yelling and see Franco and his men standing over two large men in ripped, stained clothing and faces crusted with blood on the floor. Their feet and hands are already shackled and they’re struggling, squirming in pain from being gut shot. There’s open mason jars half-filled with blood on two end tables. The Vampires seem under the influnce of something that’s dumbing them down – alternatively moaning and screaming, barking like dogs, coughing up viscous, sickeningly blue-tinged clots of blood. Their eyes are glazed over and they don’t seem to comprehend what’s happening around them. All they know for sure is pain – a bonfire that’s blazing, consuming them from their insides out. White vapors emanate from the holes in their abs muscles, curling like cigar smoke in a politician’s back room. There’s a dull, reddish glow deep inside the holes – what charcoal briquets look like when you’re cooking hot dogs outside and the wind blows.
The bullets obviously work like a charm. The projectiles are fulmonating – the Sodium element has autoignited on contact with the Vampires stomach fluids. Sodium’s Exothermic properties have made it catch fire – and, because of the mystery catalyst and Mercury in the bullet nosecone, the diabolical conoction is violently reacting with the Vampires “Hemocyatic” Copper-based blood metabolism. The bastards are already sickening from toxins…..but they’re screaming with every last breath.
Katrina points to two large chairs. “How convenient” she says. “Lash them both to chairs with rapelling rope and dose ’em with smelling salts to wake ’em….I’ve got questions. Shoot them in the arms and legs next if you need to……I want to see ’em shittin’ smoke and crying like bitches”.
I follow Katrina and our group down the main hallway – we’ve already studied the original Mansion blueprints from when it was built in 1897. Katrina pauses before the ornate and massive pocket doors that provide access to the main ballroom, gathering her strength. An intense smell of cleaning fluids and chemicals emanate from within. She slowly opens the doors as the rest of us ready our weapons just in case Mr. Coveralls lied about any other house occupants.
What we see is too obscene to commit to words. Katrina holds up her hand – silence.
There seems to be a wheezing sound, like a respirator. It’s coming from the far end of the room. We slowly fan out and make our way towards the noise, trying to focus as we pass by two red butchered women spread-eagled on banquest tables in the middle of the room.
And then we see it. A man in white coveralls crouching behind a high back chair sprayed with dried gore, breathing through a mask attached to an oxygen bottle. Like the firemen use at toxic warehouse blazes. The air is so heavy with visceral stench, chemical fumes and cleaning agents he needs a respiration backpack. He sees us approaching and holds his hands up. He’s terrified. Shaking and jabbering in some language I don’t understand.
Katrina calmly walks within five feet of him and draws her Glock. Then his brains splatter the wall behind him.
She says over the Com – “Scumbags that work for Vampires are just as bad as Vampires. Those are the rules. No remorse. Got it?”
While the rest of us fan out to check the ballroom, Katrina slowly approaches the tables where the torn, butchered remains of two beautiful girls are displayed. The floors still are discolored and sticky from the gore that has been crudely mopped up surrounding them. Our feet make crackling, suction noises as we try to lift our boots after each step. That nauseating sticky sound underscores to us what happened here. Murder. Mayhem. Torture. Cruelty on a scale most humans can’t comprehend.
Katrina stops at the largest, most fouled banquest table. Maria’s head is dangling down over its end swinging slowly as we disturb the foetid air currents in the room. The thin rubber-band of flesh that still connects it to her neck looks like it is about to snap. Katrina gently, lovingly lifts Maria’s head and places it on the table next to her throat. The team gathers around to offer a moment of prayer for both women. I can hear Katrina reciting a benediction in Old Slavonic – the Orthodox Rite of St. John of Chrysostom – for their souls. I know Katrina is crying behind her tactical goggles and face wrap. These defiled girls were “Brides” – the main course of a Vampire “Wedding Supper”. Katrina’s voice over the Com cracks us back to the mission.
“ALL RIGHT. SET INCENDIARIES AND LET’S REJOIN FRANCO IN THE LIBRARY. WE GOT WORK TO DO. JANUSH AND FREIS – GO UPSTAIRS AND TOSS THE JOINT. SEE IF THERE’S ANYTHING OF INTEREST.”
It takes a few minutes for the guys to set their incendiaries. As we’re all heading out, Janush calls out over the Com – “GOT SOMETHING ON ANOTHER VAMPIRE WHO WAS HERE…..LOOKS LIKE HE LEFT IN A HURRY…..I ALSO GOT THE MAIN SECURITY CAM HARD DRIVE…….I’VE DOWNLOADED IT TO KRYSTOFF”.
Katrina responds with an offical “TEN-FOUR” – and then, “BINGO.”
We head out to the library. On our way, Unit Tech Officer Krystof calls out for Katrina and shows her his open laptop. Dark, somewhat grainey security footage shows a tall guy staggering down the front steps and pulling on a rain coat, then wobbling his way down to a parked Bentley Estate Car. The moonlight at that point brightens and he clearly is shown franticly throwing water from a bottle onto his face – and then driving off. The plate numbers are clear. I know this guy.
“He’s a Vampire.” I say. “His name is Lorcan. He’s the Vampire lawyer that tried to muscle me into selling my Website URL back at Montauk Lighthouse when I was spreading my wife’s ashes at the Point”.
Yes….Yes…..here it is.” Kristoff says. “Gun camera video from the lasers that targeted him up at Montauk………Yup. Face match. Same guy.”
“And this cinches it”. Janush hands Katrina a Passport and wallet. “Found his shit upstairs. This guy left with a fire up his ass. Lorcan Inglese is his name.”
Katrina once more adopts her command voice.
“ALL UNITS, LIBRARY NOW!!! INTERROGATOR FRONT AND CENTER…..”
The library smells like roasting execrement. Whatever is smoking and cooking inside those trussed up Vampires is foul. The holes in their stomachs are supporating a hedious greenish-blue slime that’s pooling at the front of the chairs. We all step around the sickening, odeous sludge. The grievously wounded Vampires are dying slowly while roped in place – exactly how Katrina intended. But the smelling salts are slowly bringing them around – and they’re cursing and spitting at the black-suited team members. They know this is is no amateur robbery of a toney New York Mansion House. They’re twisting and turning against their restraints, in patent agony as their vital organs incinerate. Katrina hand-gestures to Franco to turn the chairs to face each other.
Albrecht, a Team Interrogator, takes the lead. His voice is deep and chilling. He’s got some kind of Eastern-European Vincent Price vibe goin’ on that makes his words even more menacing.
“WHAT ARE YOUR NAMES?” “WHAT ARE YOUR NAMES?”
The Vampire closest to him whose bald head is smeared with dried blood responds while he squirms in pain.
“FUCK YOU………FUCK YOU………..BLOOD BAGS…..”
Katrina calmly steps forward with her Glock and shoots him twice in each thigh. Baldy screams even louder and his legs convulse as they start to burn inside. The other Vampire, a swarthy dark-skinned sleazebag with greasy, blood-caked hair watches wide-eyed. He knows he’s next. He already smells like he shat himself.
Interrogator Albrecht tries again.
“YOU – BALDY…..WHAT IS YOUR NAME? WHAT IS YOUR NAME???? TELL ME OR WE WILL PROCEED TO MORE PAIN.”
“FFFF…UUCK………..YOOOU………FFFUCK….Y….”
Katrina – in one amazingly graceful and fluid move – something out of a Kurasawa Samurai movie – draws her Machete from her back sheath and all we hear is a “WHACK”. She amputates Baldy’s left leg below the knee. Amidst his now delirious howling, she calmly kicks his severed limb across the room and starts to position herself to lob the right leg off. She’s slowly advertising what’s “coming”, moving with a purpose and precision born of years of martial arts training. And – obviously – Roman Gladiator tutelage, too. Fascinating.
Albrecht tries a different question. Baldy’s convulsing in agony.
“YOU – BALDY….WHERE IS LORCAN? WHERE IS HE???? WE KNOW YOU KNOW…..DON’T MAKE US HACK YOU APART LIMB FROM LIMB!!!”
Baldy is too busy writhing in his chair to answer. Interrogator Albrecht is getting impatient.
“MAYBE YOUR TEETH ARE GETTING IN THE WAY OF YOUR WORDS??? HOW ABOUT WE CALL THE DENTIST???”
Freis comes over with his Leatherman multi-tool. As Baldy screams Freis rams a fat knotted piece of rapelling cord into his mouth to keep it open and proceeds to pry out his front teeth with the Leatherman pliers. Blue, greasy blood spurts everywhere as tooth after tooth is ripped out. The other crew members hold the top of his bald head to keep him still. It’s their favorite part of the Interrogation process. The team cheers and guffaws as each tooth hits the floor and they encourage Freis in their Slavic language like it’s a drinking game. They scoop up the Vampire teeth as good luck charms – an Eastern European legend.
“DOBRE!!! DOBRE!!! DOBRE DENTISTA!!! OOORAH!!!! GOOD!!! GOOD DENTIST!!!
Baldy keeps screaming and screaming . Finally, after about six teeth are extracted, the interrogation resumes.
“WHERE IS LORCAN? EVERY TIME YOU DON’T TELL US WE WILL CUT OFF A LIMB!!!”
Baldy is fading fast from pain and the fires inside his guts are transforming his Copper blood into poison. Disgusted, Katrina takes a fireplace poker and thrusts it into Baldy’s eye socket, keeping it in and jostling it about just long enough to scramble his brains. Katrina then shoots him in the head twice and signals Albrecht to start on the other Vampire, Sleazebag.
“YOU – SLEAZEBAG – TELL ME WHERE LORCAN IS!!! EVERY TIME YOU DON’T ANSWER MY QUESTION WE WILL CUT SOMETHING OFF OF YOU”.
Katrina tells Franco over the Com to loosen Sleazebag’s ropes from his waist down and re-deploy them around his chest and arms, nice and tight.
Only the team can hear her. “Let’s do some surgery. ” She says.
In a few minutes, Sleazebag is looking down in horror as his britches are being cut and his legs exposed.
Katrina wields her trusty Machete and within seconds there’s a severed leg laying in a puddle of bluish-green ooze on the floor. Sleazebag is twisting in pain – and his eyes are paralized in horror. His stomach wound is still smoking and supporating. He’s in agony. Katrina then draws her Glock and pumps another round into his gut. Sleazebag is wrenching his body in all-consuming pain. Smoke is now pouring out of his stomach wounds and his leg stump is hemorrhaging that dirty aquamarine slime Vampires call blood. His stench is nearly asphyxiating the rest of us. The room reeks like raw sewage.
“WHERE IS LORCAN????? NEXT ARE YOUR HANDS – THEN YOUR EYES!!!”
Finally, he breaks.
“HE’S…..AT…….THE…….SAFEHOUSE…..IN MAN…HATTAN……TRUMP……TOWER………TTTHHIRTEENTH….FLOOR…!!!!”
“UNDER WHAT NAME???”
Sleazebag is fading fast. He caughs out his last answer before Katrina calmly empties her Glock in his head.
“JOHN MILTON”
We position the rest of our Incendiaries throughout the Jeremiah Bosworth Mansion for maximum effect. As our choppers take off, we watch the first explosions of light and fire take hold. In a matter of hours this magnificent, historical landmark is nothing but smoldering ashes – ashes from a number of sources. Some from grandiose architecture, some from righteous souls and some from the very incarnations of pure evil itself.
The Ansuz Group has completed it’s first raid. Next? Trump Tower.
Copyright 2023, Jon Croft
joncroft52@yahoo.com
