Weston Ochse: Reign of Evil

“Like reenactors,” Walker noted.

“Exactly. Their shows were—”

“Wait, what are reenactors?” Trev asked.

Jack responded, “Middle-aged men with bad hobbies who dress up in American Civil War or American Revolution uniforms and pretend to do battle. Like the Society for Creative Anachronism except with guns and using real history?”

Trev shook his head. “I only understood half of what you said. Do they ever reenact the American Revolution where we win?”

“Uh, not that I know of,” Walker said.

“And back to me.” The witch rolled her eyes and pointed both thumbs at herself. When she got full attention, she continued. “So the British Druid Society is really just a bunch of actors. It’s why none of us magicals ever worried about them performing ceremonies, because we knew they didn’t know what the flaming hell they were doing. As it happens, and we’re just now finding this out, except for those of us who felt a shuddering of the veil, a different group arranged to perform the ceremony this year.”

“And this group is?” Ian asked, losing a little of his patience.

“The Red Grove. A magical I know contacted the chair of the British Druid Society. The society was given a hundred thousand pounds to silently not show up and my magical friend says that the check was written from an account owned by the Red Grove.”

Ian nodded, hand beneath his chin. “So it’s a business. We should be able to track financial data through our associates at MI5.” He looked up sharply at the witch. “Have you ever heard of this Red Grove?”

“ The Red Grove, and no, they’re new to me.”

Ian nodded, deep in thought. “Anything else?”

She shook her head.

“Right then. We’ll be leaving you be. Jerry, clean your bloody plate for the lady.”

“There’s no need. One of my cats will take care of it. Plus, I have my own little homunculus who cleans for me.”

“Can I see it?” Jerry asked.

Ian grabbed Jerry by the shoulder and pushed him toward the front entrance. “I apologize for my man, Ms. Moore. He doesn’t get out much.”

“Quite all right,” she said. “And please call me Sassy.”

Ian leveled a gaze at her. “Not on your life, ma’am.” Then he swept the other three before him and out the door.

An hour’s drive found the three members of Section 9 and the lone SEAL Team 666 member pulling through a guarded gate and onto a military base. Ian explained that RAF Chicksands, which had once been a functioning air force base, closed in 1997 and became the Defence Intelligence and Security Centre and the Headquarters of Britain’s Intelligence Corps. Since most of Section 9’s personnel came from British intelligence, their collocation made recruitment an important tool for their success. Unlike SEAL Team 666, Section 9 was populated by civilian contractors, and to obtain the specialties they required interaction with military intelligence was important.

Their offices were in the basement of the Chicksands Priory, a former twelfth-century Gilbertine monastery. “The entire monastery actually belongs to Section 9, but we’ve been relegated to the basement because my predecessor ran afoul of several Members of Parliament. Our funding was cut to the point we could no longer afford its upkeep, so instead of letting it fall apart and needing major construction upgrades, we turned the rest into an officers’ club and visiting VIP rooms.”

So they passed several drunken service members as they entered the priory. Had they turned left, they would have entered a large paneled room filled with leather furniture. Had they taken the broad staircase, they could have climbed to some well-appointed rooms. But instead, they turned right and entered a door marked: “Staff Only,” which opened on to a staircase that took them down into a basement in need of a face-lift.

“Most of the furniture is left over from World War II. With the exception of the installation of fiber optics and a fresh coat of paint, the basement hasn’t seen any improvement,” Ian said.

A tight hallway was lined floor-to-ceiling on one side with boxes. As they squeezed past, Walker felt a buzz building in his skin. He hoped it wouldn’t get worse. The last thing he needed was to fall down and do the kickin’ chicken in front of Section 9. They turned left through the first door and entered a large room with several beat-up couches, a table and chairs, and a small kitchenette. Trev tossed himself down on one of the couches while Jerry helped himself to something that looked like cold, limp French fries in the refrigerator. Ian grabbed a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He poured two fingers into each glass, then held one out for Walker.

Walker accepted it and sat at the table, feeling like he weighed a thousand pounds. He let his elbows support him as he took half of the golden drink, closing his eyes as the liquid left a fire trail down his throat and exploded in his empty stomach. He reminded himself that he couldn’t get sentimental. A weepy-eyed widower wouldn’t do anyone any good. He needed to keep his wits about him, especially if he was going to track down Jen’s killers.

He opened his eyes and finished the scotch. “So, what do we know about the Red Grove?” He gestured for more and Ian obliged.

Ian had called ahead when they were in the car. Even as Walker asked the question, a young Indian girl came into the room. She was beautiful, with black hair framing a narrow face. She wore jeans and an Indian blouse that fell to mid-thigh and tapered at her wrists. She could have been a model had it not been for the twin crutches she needed to propel her crooked legs. Hell, she could still be a model, just not on any runway Walker had ever heard of.

“I have a preliminary report,” she said, moving both smoothly and awkwardly at the same time. She smiled at Walker. “The Red Grove is an American 501.3c, meaning it’s been classified as a tax-exempt religious organization. Their recorded headquarters is Lake Arrowhead, California, and their employee identification number indicates the Red Grove is headed by Hubert Van Dyke, who also sits on the board of the Bohemian Grove, as well as a company called A Celestial Worry LLC.”

Ian poured Walker and himself another two fingers each. “What do we know about Mr. Van Dyke?”

“There are two records in California; both seem to be for the same person. Mr. Van Dyke was a movie star during the 1950s and 1960s. His IMDB credits include Ironsides, The Andy Griffith Show, Cannon, and Bonanza . Not a top-tier actor, but no slouch either. He has more than a hundred credits to his name.” She turned to Walker, balanced on one crutch, and shoved out a hand. “Hi, I’m Preeti Jones.” The smile was broad and genuine.

Walker gave her his hand. “I’m Jack Walker. You’re not any relation to—” He glanced at Trev Jones slouching on the couch and caught his smile. “It appears that you are.” He glanced from her to Trev and back, then shook his head.

Trev got up and gave Preeti a kiss on her cheek. He spent a moment touching her hair and staring into her almond-shaped eyes; then he gave Walker an apologetic look. “It’s strange how things are so similar. I understand your fiancée worked with your team.”

“It’s like a fucking Twilight Zone episode,” Walker said as he took a drink. Then he looked up sharply. “Sorry about that.”

Preeti shook her head. “No worries, Mr. Walker. I’m very sorry for your loss. We’re all torn up about it.” She pushed Trev away.

Walker looked at her and saw the truth of it. They knew it could have been them. It could have been anyone. The universe is random. Section 9 was much like SEAL Team 666 in that it was a small, close-knit unit that was really a family. Triple Six and Section 9 could have been cousins.