Chapter 3
Dealing With Others
Cafe Verona was a small Italian place nestled in the heart of SoHo. SoHo, or South of Howard Street, was one of the trendy urban neighborhoods, and in the middle of leech territory. Getting changed out of my working clothes and into a suit that wouldn’t draw attention amongst the patrons of the restaurant had taken a lot of quick work and a small amount of luck. There was a damned good reason that I had to move fast after the raid on the harem, or whatever that complex actually was. I needed to get into leech territory before or just after dusk, mostly because I didn’t want the bother of dealing with any of the younger vampires prowling the streets. I was here for business, not brawling.
Cafe Verona was like Poppa Gus’s, but for Bleeders instead of hunters. The maitre’d of Cafe Verona knew me on sight. I had been here before to meet Bradon on more than a few occasions. Cafe Verona and Poppa Gus’s were considered neutral ground between the hunters and Bleeders. You just don’t pick a fight in the other guy’s drinking hole. Both the Bleeders and the hunters were protective of the humans that ran our little sanctuaries, and it would be blood feud to cause those humans a disruption in their business. Even during these heightened tensions between the lycanthropes and the vampires, I knew I was completely safe in Cafe Verona.
I was eating a very nice concoction of pasta and Italian sausage when Bradon finally arrived around nine in the evening. Bradon rarely ate during our meetings, so we had the informal agreement that I was to go ahead and start before he arrived. Bradon was a tall vampire, topping at around six foot three. He wore his black hair stylishly long. He probably spent more on his hair than I did on a pair of pants. His dark eyes were animated, as if with amusement. It made me a bit uneasy, mostly because Bradon’s idea of amusement rarely matched mine. He was immaculately dressed in a dark blue suit that screamed high-priced designer. I can tell a gun at fifty paces and list the manufacture specs and known problems, but I wouldn’t know one suit from another even if I was shown the labels. It just wasn’t part of my world. With vampires, on the other hand, it was all about appearance. Byzantine was the lightest word that could be used to describe the vampires’ internal politics. I stopped eating long enough for him to take a seat and order a wine. He started the conversation.
“I don’t know whether to send my Bleeders after you or buy you that new HK you’ve been wanting,” Bradon said, watching me with definite amusement.
“Oh?” I asked in response, hoping to bring more out. Bradon was well aware that verbal sparring was not one of my strengths. He never said anything where he didn’t want me to respond. “I kind of figured you’d want to nail my head to the wall.”
“Parts of the Inner Council definitely would love to have you as a trophy,” Bradon answered, taking the red wine from the waiter, “The same parts you just horribly embarrassed. Silanti was most displeased that you attacked our facility.”
“My heart bleeds for Silanti,” I replied sarcastically.
“Don’t tease him if you’re not willing to put out,” Bradon chided playfully. I had to bite down a snort of laughter. Bradon’s wit was one of the few things that made our meetings more or less enjoyable.
“The alchemists should have known better than to put their harem on our territory,” I continued, trying to keep my tone severe, “Didn’t matter, though. We would have hit the harem if it was two doors down from the Council’s home.”
“First of all, that was not the harem,” Vollen said. I knew I froze in shock for a split second. I hoped I kept my face neutral at the revelation. Intelligence being wrong was not unusual. Intelligence being wrong on this magnitude was very unusual, especially considering all of the hours that went into confirming it. If Bradon noticed my surprise, he didn’t show it. He just continued, “That was an alchemists’ lab. One of their little experiments. Still, it was quite clear that the lycanthropes believed that it was the harem.”
“Really,” I replied, “So why do you want to give me an early Christmas present?”
“Oh, because your little raid allowed me to swat down one of my annoying subordinates,” Bradon said, fully enjoying himself. Bradon had used me the first time we met to kill his superior – and then to ascend to the head of the Bleeders. I noticed that he used me a couple more times in a similar fashion. I was willing to play the pawn because Bradon gave me good intel, and because Bradon was aligned with the faction of the TCV that wanted to maintain the Peace. If Bradon pointed out a particular leech, it was more than not someone that would threaten the Peace.
“Exactly how did you manage this little coup?” I asked.
“Do you believe that I will let you into Bleeders’ politics?” he countered with a whimsical.
“Yes,” I answered flatly, “Mostly because you can’t refuse a chance to brag when one of your convoluted schemes comes together. This time, though, a pup was threatened. I know you Bradon. That’s not your normal style.”
“It wasn’t,” Bradon answered, some of his amusement vanishing, “I know it comes as no surprise to you that Silanti has been encouraging younger members of the Council to become more aggressive towards the werewolves. One of Silanti’s favored methods is to have his minions attack the pups when and where they could find them. I had kept the Bleeders out of it, but Devon disagreed.” I knew Devon. He was considered a rising star in the Bleeders and he was aligned with Silanti and his anti-Peace faction. I knew the Guildmaster had pegged Devon for removal, but the leech was a slippery bastard. “After your little bonfire in front of the Council House, Silanti argued for a strong retribution, and Devon lent his support – and a pair of Bleeders loyal to him.”
“The TCV didn’t ask you about this?” I asked, slightly incredulous.
“I didn’t let them,” he answered.
“You gave Devon enough rope to hang himself,” I supplied, “You knew the Guildmaster wouldn’t let the Bleeders’ presence go without retribution.”
“Of course,” Bradon replied, “So I let him have two of my most worthless Bleeders. Ones I knew your hunters would have no problem killing. Then, I waited for the retribution. What I didn’t anticipate was the severity of the choice of your target. The Bleeders were well aware that you thought that alchemists’ lab was the harem. Do you know how hard I had to work on that bit of disinformation?”
“You planted that information for us to find,” I stated, still amazed at how Bradon operated so flawlessly. Bradon was a bit of a braggart, but you couldn’t deny his skills. Bradon was, quite possibly, the most dangerous vampire I had ever met. He knew how to manipulate events better than anyone I knew. Bradon basked in my quiet admiration for a moment and then continued with his narration.
“So, when it was reported that you not only wiped out the lab, but then called in shaman to eradicate any trace of us, that really shook up the Inner Council. None of them believed the Guildmaster would allow his people to attack such a high-value target, and then openly declare it to the shaman.”
“Is the Inner Council going to back down?” I asked, finally able to get to the point of the meeting. Talks with Bradon reminded me of a Japanese tea ceremony – hours of build-up for a fifteen second event. I hated it, but I was willing to endure it for the sake of the job.
“Your lord should be receiving our missive asking for a consultation on neutral ground for the purpose of reducing the tensions and reaffirming the Peace,” Bradon answered, “All in the name of avoiding the wrath of the Pathwalkers, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed, mimicking his tone. With that part of the conversation concluded, I did a little digging. “Did you think we would hit the ha-, ah alchemists’ lab?”
“Honestly, no,” Bradon answered, “Something of value, but not quite of that value. Still, this little raid has your fingerprints all over it.” This time, I knew that I hid all outward signs of surprise. Bradon was too damned good.
“Well, I did assist on the attack,” I admitted.
“No, you suggested the target,” Bradon countered, “It’s your style. Straight for the jugular. No shading or manipulation. Your Guildmaster is far more subtle in terms of operations. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t rid me of Devon before I had to act. In this case, it worked. You can inform the Guildmaster that such ’straight-forwardness’ may not be so effective the next time.”
“Don’t involve the pups the next time you play your fucking games,” I retorted, unable to keep my anger out of my voice.
“There’s that vulgar language again,” Bradon said, his voice dripping with sweet condescension, “It really isn’t becoming. Especially in such a nice restaurant.” That signaled the end of the business talk. I remained to finish my meal and to discuss less serious things with Bradon. He may have been my enemy, but he was always willing to have an interesting conversation, be it art, literature, religion, or even new weapons that the humans were producing. Sometimes my relationship with Bradon worried me.
The following morning found me waiting patiently in the Guildmaster’s office as he finished his morning reports. It amazed me the amount of paper and electronic crap the Guildmaster had to sift through every morning. Between intelligence and readiness reports, he had all of the money matters and other stuff that came with running a covert organization like the Hunters’ Guild. I just waited for him to finish and checked my e-mail on my phone. There weren’t any more mysterious messages since that previous day, just my normal contacts.
“Well, you’ll be glad to know that Cannon will be back within a week or two,” the Guildmaster said, not looking up from his reports, “Apparently the shaman cured him of whatever the alchemists did to him.”
“He’s good, at least from Whisper tells me,” I said, “What did you want from me?”
“Your contact in the Bleeders told you the attack on the pup was an internal ploy?” the Guildmaster asked with a slightly suspicious tone, “What makes you think that’s true?”
“He’s always given me good info before,” I answered, holding up my hand to fend off the coming retort, “I know, I know that’s not a good reason, but it checks out with other things. Plus, the leeches did offer to back down.”
“Your source informed you of this?” the Guildmaster asked, his eyebrow arched. I nodded in response. “This isn’t like the leeches. Usually they are far more unified. What is the odd factor?”
“I’ll bet it’s Silanti,” I mused, “From everything that I’ve heard, he’s the one causing most of the trouble.”
“Probably,” the Guildmaster agreed, “Marcus, I want you to get together with James and Kurt. The three of you need to find a way to deal with Silanti.”
“Why me?” I asked, “This sounds like something that should be just left to Deadeye and Sneller.” I wasn’t trying to shirk a job. I was trying not to insult the two highest hunters in the chapter. I didn’t work for them, but I didn’t want any bad blood between us. It would just make it difficult if I did need their help on a job.
“I want a clear set of rules of engagement for Silanti,” the Guildmaster answered, his tone conveying he had anticipated my objection, “I figure that you’ll actually follow them if you have a hand in developing them.”
“You’re a funny guy, boss,” I replied with a sour look. He just smirked in response. “Any other jobs for me?”
“Actually yes,” the Guildmaster answered, “The Sirens have reappeared. The Pinellas Guild is going after them. They want some of Hillsborough’s hunters with them. Matter of territory. Get a few other hunters and meet up with their group in the Carrillon Park by the clock tower. I don’t know how much assistance they’ll ask for, or if they just want you to observe and be on hand if the job crosses into our territory. Just play nice.”
The Sirens were a group of human wizards that were what the humans called “eco-terrorists.” The Sirens liked to wreak havoc on the shipping and fishing boats that moved through Tampa Bay. Something about maintaining the pristine nature of Tampa Bay. As a rule, lycanthropes usually only dealt with the vampire and the occasional Turak noble that came visiting. Wizards and witches generally kept to themselves and had their own politics. The Sirens were different. The lycanthropes got involved because the Sirens had absolutely no problem throwing too much mystical power around to accomplish their goals. That amount of power would bring the Pathwalkers to Tampa if it wasn’t dealt with – and the local mystics just didn’t seem to have the backbone to put a stop to the Sirens. If the wizards weren’t going to step up, the lycanthropes would have to. We really didn’t want the Pathwalkers anywhere near Tampa, and we weren’t willing to wait for one of the other supernatural factions to step up to the job.
Since the Sirens primarily worked in and around the bay itself, I would need a hunter with maritime experience. I’ve used boats, but I’m not an expert in using them during a job. Dealing with magic-wielding humans while on the water would require an expert. For that, I asked Skiff to join up with my impromptu hit pack. Skiff was the Hillsborough chapter’s resident expert on watercraft and their uses during jobs. I liked Skiff and had worked well with him before. If I had any problem with Skiff, it was his California “valley” speaking. I found it very distracting.
In addition to Skiff, I asked Nick to come along. Since most of our operations were temporarily suspended while the aristocracy and the TCV talked things out, Nick was more than happy to come along. Nick was like me, in that he was happier better doing a job than doing nothing. The three of us met up at the armory and threw a bunch of gear into Skiff’s SUV, climbed in, and took the Howard Franklin bridge across to Pinellas county.
Pinellas and Hillsborough counties were always close allies. The Hunters Guild chapters in both counties often worked with each other in training and in the few operations that crossed the territorial border. We also shared intelligence and information regarding new toys and techniques. A lot of this closeness came over the past decade. First it was the Pinellas hunters coming over to help us repair the damage done to our chapter after the first Lord Vollen’s dismal micromanagement. Then we repaid the debt when we sent hunters to help rebuild the Pinellas chapter after they had a truly disastrous Guildmaster. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes a hunter gets appointed to a Guildmaster position that is either incompetent or unstable. It is extremely destructive to the chapter because only a lord can remove a Guildmaster once the hunter has been appointed, and Guild tradition doesn’t allow hunters to go past their Guildmasters to talk directly to the lord. It was Hillsborough hunters that told our lord, who then had a long chat with Lady Thames, the lord of Pinellas, about the situation. The new Guildmaster in Pinellas was extremely effective and had promoted the cooperation between our two chapters to the point where there was no hesitation for one chapter to call upon the other for assistance.
The Carillon Park was a massive development off of Ulmerton Road near Interstate 275 in the Feathersound area of Pinellas County. Between St. Petersburg and Largo, the development was the home of several financial institutions, apartment and townhouse complexes and a small shopping complex. In the middle was a lake with boardwalk and a clock tower. The tower was the usual meet place when our chapters worked together on the Pinellas side. As we approached, I could see four other lycanthropes waiting for us. They were definitely the hunters for Pinellas. There was no mistaking a hunter’s casual alertness. They came out to meet us.
“Shit, we ask for assistance and they send us the Badmoon,” the leader commented. I recognized him, but I couldn’t remember his name. The lightness in his tone belied the implied insult.
“Jetsam, dude, the Guildmaster knew you’d, like, need someone to watch your weak ass,” Skiff replied, supplying the name of the hit pack leader, “Ranger might be a Badmoon, but at least he can, like, shoot straight.” Jetsam and his crew were Pinellas’s maritime crew. Unlike Hillsborough, where Skiff was our only maritime expert, the Pinellas chapter had a full hit pack they used to conduct waterborne jobs.
“So we hear,” Jetsam answered, “Nice job at the harem. We haven’t found the Clearwater Council’s harem, but we’re looking.”
“You haven’t heard?” I asked. They looked at me confused. I wondered if the Guildmaster had been withholding information from the Pinellas chapter, but I doubted it. More than likely, the grapevine was working faster than the intelligence pipeline. It was a dangerous aspect of our business. Rumor always travelled faster and farther than facts. Hunters needed facts, not rumors. “What we hit wasn’t their harem. It was some sort of alchemists’ lab. Don’t know if Clearwater and TCV’s alchemists are working together, but I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“Fuck,” Jetsam’s deputy said, his tone conveying horrified disgust, “As if we don’t have enough problems. We’ve been seeing the alchemists become more active on this side of the bay. “
“Are they still hiding amongst the Scientologists?” asked Nick.
“Yeah, and there’s not much we are going to do,” answered another of the hit pack, “Those Turaki puppets own most of Clearwater. The Turaki have made it clear that they want the level of violence at a bare minimum where their followers are concerned.” That was why I hated the fucking aliens. It wasn’t unusual for members of our world to camouflage themselves within human religions and secret societies. The Turaki infiltrated the Scientologists a while back. The witch-hunters used both the Masons and various churches to cover their operations. Wizards and witches usually had their home in non-traditional religions, such as Wicca and Golden Dawn. I usually didn’t pay attention beyond who belonged to what organization, but the Turaki used their organization to spread their own influence and power. Their high-handed manner in dealing with us meant that they refused to see real danger and only dealt with what they considered a threat to their power base.
“Okay, so what’s the plan for the Sirens?” I asked, trying to get the group back on the job. We had done enough small talk.
“They’ve been operating near the Skyway,” Jetsam said, “But we’ve seen intelligence that they’re attacking small craft all over the bay. We were going to take a bait boat and the tac boat down there and see if we can arouse their ire.” I began cursing the Guildmaster for giving me the job. The plan was simple and useful when dealing with a mobile group like the Sirens. The bait boat looked like the Sirens’ current favor target. The tac boat was low-observable and heavily armed with a couple of machine guns and a 40 mm grenade launcher. It was a joint purchase between Hillsborough, Pinellas, and Sarasota counties. It wasn’t used very often, but the Sirens seemed like a damned good time for the additional firepower.
“Do we have an MO for them?” I asked. In my experience, the small extreme groups tended to stay with a single modus operandi, or way of doing things. Usually, it was a matter of sticking with what worked for them. Even I had a few basic themes that I used when working jobs. The problem with just sticking with what worked was that it gave an observant enemy the chance to find all the nasty little holes and exploit them. Professionals compensated or prepared. Amateurs never even noticed the holes until you put a bullet through them.
“From what we’ve seen, they track a ’suspicious’ boat,” Jetsam said, “When the boat does something that is an ‘affront to Gaea,’ the Sirens strike. Magic is used to incapacitate the crew and to sink the boat. The crew are thrown overboard with mystical imprints against going out on the water again. The Coast Guard is then called. All in all, the Sirens have been responsible for at least six deaths, but none of the humans have seen the pattern.”
“The wizarding community?” Nick asked.
“Refuses to do anything,” Jetsam’s deputy answered, “But they were more than willing to give us all the intelligence we needed to take care of the Sirens. As long as they don’t have to do it themselves.” Fucking wizards. It was almost enough for me to wish that Ivan the Terrible had been able to forge the wizarding community into an actual society with hard rules and discipline instead of the loose society with simple guidelines. Almost. Jetsam gave me a look that he was thinking exactly the same thing.
“From what the wizards did give us, the leader is Betsy Rose,” Jetsam said, showing a picture from his PDA. Betsy was a lithe woman with a shaved head and a fierce snarl. “She’s strong enough on her own to make things interesting. Apparently, she’s also one of the heads of the wizards. Something happened about fourteen months ago, and she completely changed – and recreated the Sirens. She’s got about twelve or so followers. Most of them are minor players. None of them are strong enough to take over for her if she goes down.” The common theme amongst those of us who live in the supernatural is our tendency to follow the strongest. Wizards were no different with the exception that they only considered the strength of a person’s magic prowess. One of the reasons the unstable could quickly grab power and cause trouble for the rest of us – like now.
“I asked for a shaman to come along, but the Spiritmaster’s little bitch boy told us we should be able to handle them.” From Jetsam’s expression, he knew that the shaman was probably correct. Betsy was probably the biggest threat, but most wizards suffered from the same basic problem. They were enamored with their own power, so they simply forgot that things like bullets and knives could kill them just as dead as one of their spells.
“Who’s on the bait boat?” I asked.
“I’m sending Prop and Gutter,” Jetsam answered, pointing to his deputy and what looked like the youngest member of the hit pack, “I would like at least one of you in the bait boat also. I’ll let you decide who to put in there.”
“Skiff, you’re bait,” I told my companion, “Nick, you and me are going to play with the tac boat.” Skiff was the water fighter. If the shit hit the fan, he had the experience to handle himself, whereas Nick and myself would struggle to fight effectively on a stock boat.
Skiff followed the hit pack to the marina. I didn’t bother paying attention to the path. I was looking at the map on my phone’s display. I had downloaded some of the intelligence that the Pinellas crew had. The Sirens had attacked seven different vessels in the bay since they resurfaced. Six had been taken. The last had managed to run back and crash into the Gandy Bridge. I thought on that as our group arrived at the marina. I had to put those thoughts as our group got ready to board the two boats. Maritime operations were always a problem because the saltwater tended to fuck weapons and electronics up. My USP had been left behind in favor of a Glock 21 in .45 ACP. As much as I hated to admit it, Glocks stood up to saltwater a lot better than my USP. I brought along my Commando, but I left that in Skiff’s car when I saw the arsenal that the tac boat held. The two machine guns were the newer M-240’s. They fired the heavier 7.62 mm NATO cartridge, which meant the two could pretty much slice through most other watercraft. Both were stored under the railings of the tac boat, but could be quickly mounted onto two pintle mounts on either side of the boat. Two big ammo boxes held the belts of standard ammunition. Silver ammo was too expensive to be used in machine guns, so the MG’s were used primarily to disable equipment and knock bad guys down. Against the human Sirens, the lead rounds would be effective enough – once we got past the magic. The grenade launcher was a South African rotary grenade launcher. It could hold twelve 40 mm grenades in its huge cylinder and had been modified so that it would mate with a pintle mount or just rest on a railing. Additional small arms were stored in small weapons lockers spaced throughout the tac boat. There were a few MP5’s, a few Mossberg shotguns with chromed barrels, and a pair of sniper rifles. Surprisingly, they were KAC Mark 11’s instead of HKs. Like myself, the Pinellas Guild preferred anything with a Heckler and Koch stamp on it. Jetsam told me that the Guild took a look at the tests that the human Navy had done when they chose the Mark 11 for their SEALs, and had concluded that the rifles would be better for the maritime environment of the tac boat. I made a mental note to relate that bit to the Bowmasters. They had a rabid need for all information regarding our weapons. Our electronics had Motorola stamped on them, but it was a rig I hadn’t worked with before. The transmitters were small encrypted devices, and the headsets came in two versions. For those in the bait boat, the headsets were wireless versions that resembled the Bluetooth sets used for cell phones. For us in the tac boat, we had full headsets with boom mikes.
The bait boat set off first, looking every bit the small-time fishing boat. So far, the Sirens attacked only smaller, commercial fishing vessels. Best guess was that Rose was still working out the kinks in her followers and slowly increasing the difficulty of their attacks. Jetsam eased the tac boat out of its moor and followed the bait boat. As Jetsam maintained the five hundred yard interval, Bull, Nick, and I mounted the machine guns, loaded them, and then covered them with small tarps. The last thing we needed was for Mr. Murphy to give the human Coast Guard a quick peek at the unmistakable profile of a machine gun. Humans tended to get overly jumpy around fully automatic weapons. As the tac boat cruised, I picked out the lights of each of the main bridges. There are four main bridges that span Tampa Bay. The most northern is the Courtney Campbell Causeway, then the Howard Franklin – jokingly referred to as the Frankenstein for the insanity of the drivers – , followed by the Gandy, and then ending with the enormous Sunshine Skyway at the mouth of Tampa Bay.
“Jetsam, what’s your plan for this job?” I asked over the headset, “Once we find the Sirens, I mean.” What bothered me is that the first incarnation of the Sirens lured its enemies out to them where they attacked. These Sirens sought out their enemies and attacked. Their aggressiveness meant that the wizards were already in combat mode, rather than in ambush mode. “Who do we have to take down first?”
“One thing we’ve noticed is that these Sirens like chasing their prey,” Jetsam said, “As soon as the Sirens begin their assault, Prop is going to bring his boat north at full speed. We lie quiet, let them go past, and then sneak up behind them. Murphy plan – hit the bitches with everything we’ve got if they get the bait boat.” It was left unsaid that if the Sirens got the bait boat, we would assume that Skiff, Prop, and Gutter would be dead. The moment that the Sirens realized they were dealing with lycanthropes instead of normal humans, all hell would break loose. Wizards were well aware of what it meant when lycanthropes or vampires became involved in their affairs – and we tended to bring a lot of death and destruction with our involvement. Jetsam had a decent plan, so I just let him drive the boat and scanned the dark waters of Tampa Bay with a pair of nightvision binoculars.
We were about a thousand yards south of the Gandy when Nick picked up the small boat racing out to the bait boat. As I oriented on Nick’s hushed alert, I saw three small canoes racing out from the Hillsborough side of the bay. The Sirens were using magic to propel the small craft with the sleek swiftness of racing boats. Damn, I had been expecting a single, larger target. If Jetsam was surprised, he didn’t let it show in his voice.
“Bait, three targets at 105 degrees. Range is six hundred yards. Speed is about fifteen knots,” Jetsam reported quietly into the radio. I watched as a long-haired head in the nearest canoe perked up at the same time as Jetsam transmitted. I don’t believe in coincidence. Before I could say anything, all hell broke loose. My nightvision binoculars went white and then died as a brilliant light turned the night to day. One of these days, I’m going to find all of Murphy’s decendants and torture them for long periods of time before killing them. I blinked my eyes to clear the temporary blindness from the sudden light.
“Ranger, one’s coming in,” Nick called. I couldn’t see the target, but I had a machine gun and Nick guiding me. “Ten o’clock,” Nick called out with that calm assurance I welcomed. I swiveled the machine gun, leaned in, and squeezed the trigger. My eyes cleared enough for me to watch as the red-white tracers lanced out at the canoe. I could make out three figures in the canoe. The front figure was torn apart by the burst of fire, but her companion just behind her managed to bring up some form of shield. The bullets smacked against the invisible wall.
“Ranger, Nick, bait!” called out Jetsam, bounding up to the front of the boat with a Mark 11. “Bull, give me a distraction!” I swiveled the machine gun to the front of the boat to bear on the two other canoes. From behind me, I heard the distinctive cough of the grenade launcher. Ancestors, it was coming apart fast. Nicky and I opened up on the two other canoes as the initial light began to fade back into darkness. I tracked the rounds to the other canoes, and watched as they riccocheted off invisible shields.
“Bait, targets have shield up,” I said over the radio. There was no response. “Nick, I can’t get the bait boat.”
“Radios are down,” Nick said over the chatter of the machine guns. “EMP hit.” That explained a lot. When my nightvision went down, it had been because one of the Sirens had thrown an EMP blast at us. Electromagnetic pulse blasts knocked out all electronic devices. Our lives just got a lot more interesting.
“Jetsam, is our target down?” I asked as the machine gun ran dry. I reached down to the ammunition box and pulled out a new belt. I heard another cough from the grenade launcher, then a splash of water as the grenade detonated underwater. Jetsam then opened fire with his rifle. It was a smart idea. The grenade would rock the boat jut enough to move the shield so that Jetsam could get off a decent shot. It had taken a couple of tries, but Jetsam finally downed the Siren holding up the shield.
“Ranger, I need a machine gun here!” shouted Jetsam. The Siren directing the canoe was turning her boat around. We couldn’t let any of them escape. I swiveled the machine gun at the tiny canoe and began firing. I watched as the tracers merged with the canoe and the boat capsized spectacularly. As the canoe that was attacking us died, Bull had joined Jetsam up on the front. He began salvoing grenades at the canoes attacking the bait boat. I could hear the weapons fire as Skiff and the other two began opening up. Dammit, we needed to close and engage. The problem was the EMP had taken out the fucking engines on our boat. Jetsam came bounding off the front of the boat.
“Ranger, Nick follow me!” Jetsam said loudly as he sped past the two of us. We dropped our machine guns and hurried after Jetsam. At the rear of the boat, Jetsam shed for true form and lifted a section off of the back of the boat. The two large engines were now visible. “Both of you, shed and help me manually start these bastards.”
I hated shedding while wearing unfamiliar jumpsuits. My own jumpsuits were designed to flex out with the extra mass of my true form, but these just tore at the seams. There was just enough left for common decency. Fuck it, I had better things to worry about. The manual starts were simple pull-cords. The extra strength of true form made getting the damn things started much easier. The engines coughed and sputtered to life as Jetsam fastened a manual throttle/steering device to the two engines. This is why maritime specialists are needed. When the shit hits the fan, they know the solutions that their unique environment requires. Jetsam had Bull give him directions as Nick and I grabbed weapons and headed for the front of the boat. It was time to get up close and personal with the Sirens.
The tac boat leaped forward, and it took a bit to keep my feet. I gripped the MP5 closer and waited as the distance closed. Bull had reloaded his grenade launcher while giving steering directions to Jetsam. The Sirens were paying attention to the three hunters in the bait boat. Without the distraction of the grenades or machine gun fire raining down, the Sirens were only paying attention to the threat on the bait boat. I grinned as the tac boat quickly closed the distance.
We were less than twenty yards from the Sirens when Bull launched a single flare grenade into the air. The bright magnesium lit the area. The bait boat had taken more than a few hits and was listing to its side. Skiff and the others had used items on the boat and erected some hasty cover. They were exchanging fire with four Sirens, who were busy tossing bolts of mystical energy. The other two Sirens were busy holding the two canoes steady in the bay’s water. Everyone froze as the flare exploded over them. Wordlessly, Nick cut down the two canoe pilots with short bursts from his MP5.
I waited for a moment and launched myself into the air. I was aiming for the canoe closest to us, which was not an easy target as it was about thirty feet from the tac boat. I heard Nick swear as he saw what I was doing. Nick hated when I did something he considered overly flamboyant and slightly insane. I really didn’t care. I knew what I was doing. Mostly.
I emptied the magazine from the MP5 at the two Sirens in my target canoe. The one in front threw up some sort of barrier. I smiled. They were doing what I wanted. As I slammed down in the canoe, I let the MP5 drop on its sling and leaped at the two Sirens. The two wizards hadn’t expected the pure speed a lycanthrope was capable of, so both were still dealing with my landing when my body carried both of them into the black waters of Tampa Bay. As soon as we hit water, my knives were out. Three slashes and the two Sirens stopped splashing. I dived down below.
As I’ve said, I’m not a maritime specialist like Skiff or Jetsam. That doesn’t mean I don’t know how to fight underwater. In true form, I could stay submerged for about a hundred seconds. I swam underneath the other canoe. This part I hadn’t planned out so well. If I had, I would have remembered to bring a limpet mine, or a grenade and some duct tape. As I ascended under the canoe, I felt the bottom of the boat. It was fiberglass. That was my first break. Then I listened. The footsteps were right above me.
My Glock punched two holes in the bottom of the boat before it stopped working, but I felt as the Siren fell into the boat. Good, my bullets had hit their mark. I heard the other body hit the water. With both Sirens down, I surfaced.
The tac boat was over by the bait boat, taking Skiff and the other two hunters off the boat. Nick was at the side of the tac boat, looking right at me as I surfaced. He waited patiently as I swam over to the tac boat and helped me climb over the side. I just laid there for a moment to catch my breath. Nick loomed over me.
“Well that was one of the most outrageously insane things I’ve seen you do in a while,” he commented in that calm tone that had almost become his trademark, “I hope to the Ancestors you learned from that.”
“Yeah,” I answered, sitting up, “Next time I bring a revolver for underwater work. Forgot autos have a bitch of a time cycling underwater.” Nick looked like he wasn’t sure if wanted to strangle me or just laugh.
White phosphorous grenades sank the bait boat and the three canoes. With our activities hidden from casual view, our group returned to the marina. This took a bit of time because the EMP that the Siren had thrown knocked out all of the normal navigation aids, and we were left doing nav by hand. Well, Skiff and the Pinellas hit pack were handling the navigation. Nick and I spent our time policing up the massive amount of brass expended by the machine guns as well as stowing all of the lethal toys. On the plus side, none of us were dead – just slightly worn and torn.
“So the latest incarnation of the Sirens are all dead?” asked the Guildmaster as I entered his office the next morning. I was still a bit tired, but I did things on his schedule. One of the joyous parts of being the personal hitter for the Guildmaster.
“The ones that attacked us last night are all dead and at the bottom of the bay,” I answered, slumping into my normal chair, “As to the group as a whole, I couldn’t say for certain. We killed nine wizards, which sounds about right for a small splinter group. Moreover, our intel says that Rose went missing last night. I didn’t see her last night, but there was a lot going on.”
“So how are we going to find out if we got them all?” the Guildmaster probed. I thought for a few moments about the problem. I hated these analytical problems that the Guildmaster threw my way. Most of the damned time he already knew the fucking answers.
“My guess would be to see how much of an outcry the wizarding community gives the lord,” I answered, somewhat cautiously.
“Oh?” the Guildmaster replied, “Exactly how?”
“If they don’t protest or offer weak protest, then the Sirens are dead,” I answered, feeling more confident of my analysis of events, “The wizarding community doesn’t like groups like the Sirens any more than we do. The only reason they would offer more than a token protest would be because there are still Sirens – particularly Rose – out there that could cause problems for the wizards.”
“Very good, Marcus,” the Guildmaster said, his tone radiationg pleased approval, “In fact, the lord received that token protest this morning. Along with the thanks of Lady Thames for your assistance in the job.”
“If you already knew the answer, why did you make me do your analysis?” I asked, a little more hotly than I had intended.
“Why would I?” he asked in response, throwing another problem at me.
“You’re grooming me for some position,” I said, “You don’t really expect me to take over for you.”
“No,” the Guildmaster said flatly, “You could make a decent Guildmaster, but you have two faults. First, you’re a Badmoon. Secondly, you’re overly arrogant because you’re a Badmoon.” He paused for a moment, almost lost in thought. “No, I have a candidate for my position in mind. He’s going to take a lot of grooming, but he should do well. You, on the other hand, have another destiny.”
“What is that?” This was the first I had ever heard the Guildmaster say anything about my future beyond being his hatchetman.
“Something I will have to spend a great deal of time conditioning you for,” the Guildmaster answered, unusually cryptically. “Speaking of conditioning, you are to accompany my wife and myself to a little victory celebration.”
“Huh?” He had caught me off-guard with the non sequitor. “What are you talking about?”
“Lord Vollen met with the Inner Council last night while you were fighting with the Sirens,” the Guildmaster said, “Both parties have agreed to calm their respective sides. More discussions are planned to set down better rules of engagement. So, Vollen has decided to throw one of his rodeo parties.”
“Bloody fucking hell,” I retorted. Vollen had recently embraced the country-western culture to the point of converting a warehouse into a miniature rodeo ring. I helped guard a couple of his parties, which mostly consisted of pack leaders poorly riding wild horses and bulls. The only thing that kept the majority alive was their preternatural healing abilities. “What the hell did I do to you to deserve watching that horror show?”
“Now what makes you think is a punishment?” the Guildmaster asked, a malicious gleam in his eye.
“‘Cause I know that look in your eye, boss,” I replied, “It’s the same one you always get when you found something horribly nasty and evil to do to me. Usually for some breach of etiquette in that deranged mind of yours.”
“Actually, your presence is more of public relations,” the Guildmaster said, “Your actions of late have brought you to the attention of some of the pack leaders as well as Lord Vollen. I also had Matric spread around your most recent exploits.”
“So you’re having me tag along to piss off the Order?” I asked.
“Exactly.”
“Sounds like fun.”
