Weston Ochse: Reign of Evil

He texted his secretary to confirm. He also asked that she text his wife and tell her that he’d worked late and stayed at the office. Roxy was a good secretary and would do it with no questions asked. Of course, she’d expect a significant holiday bonus.

Damn but this was proving to be one of his more expensive days. It was barely dawn and he already owed three women. He couldn’t help but chuckle. Of course he could have it the other way. No job. No women. No sex.

He took one more gulp of water, then stood. He straightened his tie in the mirror by the door, then grabbed the keys from his overcoat pocket. He left the room and entered the cold Bromley morning. The wind whipped the fog in the parking lot, making it move as if great objects were passing through. A ship’s horn broke the early morning. So did the barking of a dog.

He had to search for his Mercedes. He’d been in such a rush to get into Veronica’s knickers he hadn’t paid much attention to anything else. He chuckled. Yet another reason he was proud to not be American. Them and their damned paparazzi. If he’d been in the American Congress he’d never have a chance at these dalliances. The first time he’d try he’d be on Facebook and Twitter and Twatter.

There. He spotted his car three rows up.

Dogs began to bark incessantly. As if in answer, a baying came from deep within the fog. The dogs barked madly. He turned in a full circle. What was going on with the dogs? One thing he hated was strays. Not a time to be bit if he could help it.

The baying came again, this time followed by a horn. It didn’t sound like a ship’s, though. Was there a foxhunt nearby? Why would someone do it in this weather? Never mind that the hunts had been made illegal.

He became aware of figures moving within the fog. He only caught fragmented glimpses of them, but they seemed to be carrying weapons. The fog billowed and covered the cars.

The baying came closer, now with the sound of claws scraping against the pavement as the hidden creatures bore down on him. He had a moment to think, then turned and ran right into the side of a car. The impact drove the air from him. He fell but clawed his way to his feet.

Someone yelled behind him, then sounded a horn.

The baying was now all around him.

He held his hands up in front of him.

“Okay. Okay. Enough of this.” An animal brushed his leg. “Do you know who I am?”

The fog parted for a moment and he beheld a man dressed all in green, like a hunter. He wore holly-patterned clothes and an iron crown on his head. But what drew the MP’s eyes was the great rack of horns on the white stag the man rode. Even as the MP stared, the man brought a hunting horn to his lips and blew. The stag’s eyes blazed red, then the beast lowered his antlers and charged.

The MP screamed and turned. He managed four steps before the tips of the antlers pierced his back. The pain caused him to stagger, but he was unable even to fall. The stag lifted him and picked up speed. Soon they were careening through the fog, baying beasts running all around them. He wanted to scream for them to stop. He wanted to beg them to let him go. But amidst the clatter of hooves and the blowing of the rider’s horn, he felt his spirit ripped from his body. By the time the stag shook his great head and dislodged Miller’s body many miles later, he could barely remember who or what he’d been. All he knew was that there was a hunt, he was part of it, and it gave him so much joy that he bayed.

Timothy Laws watched as Jack Walker reached airport security, then was waved through. Such a fucked-up thing to happen to such a great couple, Laws thought. The universe was a fickle bitch. As was their controller. Holmes had been on the phone for two hours last night trying to get clearance, but Alexis Billings had ordered them to stand down. Where SEAL Team 666 might be able to go into places like Myanmar or Mexico with little political blowback, conducting operations in Mother England was another thing altogether. They were forbidden to lift a finger, England was handling it, and they were not to get involved. End of story.

But no one said that Jack Walker couldn’t go on a little Bereavement Leave to England. And no one asked permission either. After all, it was an administrative function, which could be approved by the team leader.

Holmes grabbed Laws’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We don’t want to miss our flight back to San Diego.”

Laws turned and confronted him. YaYa and Yank stood nearby and stepped forward. “Listen, why don’t you put us all on leave? I’m feeling bereaved.”

“I’m fucking bereaved too,” Yank said.

“Me too.” YaYa placed his right hand on Yank’s shoulder. “Bereaved times ten.”

Holmes lowered his gaze. “As am I, but we can’t all take leave.”

“Why not?” Yank asked. The white scars on Yank’s African-American face stood out when he was angry and now they looked like a road map of rage. “There isn’t a place on the planet we can’t be in twenty-four hours. In fact, if the balloon went up, it would make it easier if we were in the same place.”

“What he said,” YaYa added. Ever since the replacement of his left arm below the elbow by DARPA doctors, Yank had been helping YaYa by using martial arts as therapy and they’d become as close as brothers.

“It’s not that easy,” Holmes began, but Laws interrupted.

“Sure it is. It’s as easy as we make it. We all go on leave and help Jack out. If we happen to get into a firefight then it was one of those wrong-place-wrong-time things.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. I have the bigger picture to keep in mind. It’s what one does when he’s the leader. There could be political consequences for our actions. We also don’t want to bite the hands that feed us.”

Laws knew his boss and best friend was right, but he didn’t like it at all. Helpless was not a feeling he appreciated. “So we just do nothing?”

“I never said that. We’re going to do something. It’s just that I don’t know what it is yet.”

“Is that a promise?” Laws asked.

Holmes looked up sharply. “Is this kindergarten? Is it recess? Do you want me to fucking pinky swear? This is a goddamn military organization, Laws. I am the commander and I said we’re going to do something. Do. You. Get. That?”

Laws grinned. “You look good when you’re angry.”

Holmes’s face remained granite hard.

Yank interjected, “Meanwhile back at the Batcave, Jen’s people are working on getting data from the NSA. They should have something by the time we get back.”

Holmes sighed. “We’ve been told to stand down.”

“Getting information is not an operation. Using the information is,” YaYa pointed out.

Holmes shook his head and walked away. “We’re going to miss our plane.”

The others caught up.

“I know you have a plan,” Laws said, unwilling to let it die. Then he saw it. A twinkle in the corner of Holmes’s eye. Laws laughed. “I knew you had a plan.”

They walked another twenty feet and Holmes asked, “You’re not going to ask me what it is?”

“No. I figure when it’s set, you’ll let us all know.”

“Finally. Someone acting like this is a military unit.”

“Hoo-aahh,” said YaYa and Yank simultaneously.

They were indeed a military unit. Lieutenant Commander Sam Holmes, the blond-haired, square-jawed paradigm of a SEAL, life dedicated to the cause of freedom; Chief Petty Officer Ali Jabouri, or YaYa, Arab-American, dark skinned, dark hair, built like a runner, trying to prove that he was as apple-pie American as everyone else; Petty Officer Second Class Shonn Yankowski, African-American, shaved head, tattoos, burns along the left side of his face from a house fire back home in Compton; Senior Chief Petty Officer Tim Laws, blond haired, lanky, unable to forget anything he ever read or saw; and Petty Officer First Class Jack Walker, blond haired, dead fiancée, hair-trigger sniper, and supernatural early warning device. Together they were SEAL Team 666 and by god they better have a plan, because they were the last line of supernatural defense for America. And if they didn’t have Walker when they needed him, then they didn’t have a team.