Weston Ochse: Reign of Evil

Ian clocked Walker the moment he left the plane. He had an unmistakable military gait. He was a man on a mission and for the most part kept his gaze focused on each step in the process. Deplane. Get baggage. Head through customs. Find rental car counter. Get car. Inspect car. Drive car.

Ian understood. He’d had to act that way enough times in the past, especially with the recent loss of four Section 9 contractors. They were down to three members and needed their numbers increased badly. But with all the budget cuts and the new culture of austerity circulating England like a fiscal plague the likelihood that their hidden line on the defense budget would be filled was slim. But, until then, he’d have to make do. Losing men who were committed to the defense of a nation in battle was one thing. Losing a wife or fiancée was completely different. He couldn’t imagine the emptiness he’d feel, which was why when Holmes had called him Ian had dropped everything to see what he could do to assist.

Ian pulled two car lengths behind Walker as he maneuvered his rental onto the M3 toward Southampton. Unless he’d been here before, he must be using a GPS, because he was going in the right direction.

What had Holmes said? “Do what you can to help him, Ian. He’s impetuous and in his current state, there’s no telling what he’ll do.” Not only had Ian been asked to babysit a U.S. Navy SEAL but also to keep the man from doing something irrational. Ian owed Holmes for pulling his ass out of a tight spot in Somalia. Perhaps this would make them square. Regardless, he rode a wave of compassion as well as a little guilt for the poor man’s fiancée dying at what should have been a safe event.

He envied Holmes and his SEAL Team 666. They had resources and military backing. When they identified targets, they went after them. For the most part, there weren’t too many organizations who opposed them and their country. The problem with being a much older nation like Britain was that those who opposed her were frequent and many. Opus Dei, the Nine Unknown Men (three of whom they knew), the Priory of Sion, the Followers, Dee’s Men, the Golden Dawn, Ordo Templi Orientis, the Rosicrucians, the Hellfire Club, the Fenians, and any number of druidic orders were constantly stirring Her Majesty’s pot. The men of Section 9 had been a sad lot. That they’d had success was more a matter of the occult groups getting in one another’s way, rather than anything Section 9 had done.

Founded in 1569 by Sir Francis Walsingham, Section 9 had defended Britain for centuries under many different names. Their current nom de guerre had come from the organization’s name in World War II. MI9, or Section 9, as it was called, had reported directly to the War Office and was overtly responsible for aiding resistance fighters. While there were those in Section 9 who did this, the majority of personnel and resources were allocated to stopping Hitler’s Thule Society, who had been intent on helping the Reich reach her pinnacle through magic and artifice.

No. SEAL Team 666 had it easy.

Walker entered a roundabout. He missed his turn onto A303 and had to go around again. Ian had no choice but to follow him. If Walker was actively detecting surveillance, then he was as good as made.

They continued for another ten minutes then pulled into the parking lot north of Stonehenge.

Walker got out of his car. As he passed Ian sitting in his own car, Walker turned and gave him a steady look. Ian had no doubt that the double roundabout had been a provocative move and part of the SEAL’s surveillance detection. Not that Ian had been trying to hide. Walker approached the policeman at the barricade. Although the crime scene had been released, until the blood was cleared the place was closed for tourism.

Ian watched as Walker tried to talk his way past the guard but got stopped. When Walker began to yell and gesticulate, Ian decided it was time for him to get involved. It would be neither right nor proper for a SEAL to kill one of their bobbies.

Ian made his way up the path to where Walker was about to attack the policeman.

“Walker,” he called.

The response was immediate. Walker ceased his engagement with the bobby and strode purposefully toward Ian. Fire blazed in the man’s eyes. It would do no good to talk to him now. Instead, Ian sidestepped him, saying, “Wait here a moment.”

Walker was furious at the world. Not only weren’t they going to let him see the place where his fiancée was murdered, but some man, probably a government flunky, had trailed him all the way from London also. By his poor tradecraft, the skinny guy who knew his name must be some low-level worker bee they probably assigned to trail him based on his use of his official passport when he went through customs.

Fuck it. If the man wanted to play a game, then Walker was ready to play. But now he had to wait until the man spoke with the police officer. Walker realized his hands were fists and forced them to relax. After a moment, the man began walking into Stonehenge.

What the fu—

Then he gestured for Walker to follow.

Walker jogged past the policeman and couldn’t help but give him a look as he passed. He soon caught up with the man and slowed. They walked the rest of the way in silence. The man stared at the ground, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. Walker had a sense of expectation as he approached the monolithic stones. They were at once so real and present as they seemed impossible. Part of him wanted to reach out and touch them, but then this was where Jen died.

Walker paused at the outer stones, but the man continued inside. He stopped, then turned to look at Walker. He pointed at the ground. “They found her here. Her throat was cut; then she was mutilated.”

Eyes riveted to the grass, Walker took a reluctant step forward, as if he were being pulled.

“Seventeen civilians were killed in the same way. Some ceremony by some whacked-out neo-pagans or druids. MI5 is still trying to figure it out.”

There was so much fuzz in Walker’s head he barely heard the other man’s words. Walker suddenly felt the need to touch the spot. Three quick steps, he was down on both knees, his hands against the cold ground. He stayed there for a long while. He pressed his cheek against the ground. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find. He didn’t even know what he’d feel, maybe a piece of her. He had the ability to detect supernatural forces. Maybe if her ghost had been nearby he would have detected her, maybe put himself in position to communicate with her somehow.

But there was nothing here.

The ground was cold.

The place was empty.

He stood. Stonehenge had the feeling of an old battlefield. Like Chickamauga or Gettysburg, whenever he was at a place where a lot of people had died, it felt different. Reverentially empty.

He suddenly felt cold and shivered. “A lot of people died here,” he said.

“This used to be a ceremonial place for the druids, some say all the way back to two to three thousand years before Christ.”

Walker shook his head and blew into his hands. He hadn’t prepared for the cold. Coming from Tucson and San Diego before that, all he had was jeans, a T-shirt, and a light Polo jacket. “Do they have any leads at all?”

The man nodded. “I expect they do. We can ring them up tomorrow morning.” He stepped forward and held out a hand. “Ian Waits. Commander Ian Waits. Retired Special Air Service. Your commander called me and asked that I look after you a bit.”

Walker should have known. Looking at the man now more carefully, he realized he’d been mistaken when he’d thought of him as skinny. That wasn’t the right word. “Lean.” “Wiry.” Those were better. He stood about five foot six or seven. His head was clean shaven, but in the dying light of the day Walker could make out scars on the man’s face and scalp. And his eyes were definitely the eyes of a military officer—someone who’d seen too much and didn’t miss a thing. Like Holmes’s.