The few weeks following their impromptu Las Vegas trip got very busy. Seth was on the phone almost every evening, coordinating with his people, and gone most weekends. As it turned out, his former spies hadn’t gotten too rusty, and their old spying techniques worked just as well in this world. They managed to learn a lot about Zachariah Stanton. All of the information given by Varley was correct: the man was indeed a physicist and former researcher at Berkeley -he was also an alumnus of that university. He was fired after an investigation revealed that some of the funds he was allotted for his research had ended up financing something else altogether, some personal project with no relation to his actual job. At the hearing, he barely tried to defend himself, simply saying that this personal project was of much greater value than anything studied or researched by his peers. He didn’t explain at all what this project was about, and the board was too concerned with the misappropriation of funds to question him on that subject.
The fact that he also had several complaints on his file for his behavior in the workplace sealed his fate. Indeed, Stanton was known for having a temper, and several of his former coworkers described him as having a chip on his shoulder, for essentially the same reasons Varley had mentioned.
After his firing, Stanton tried to find employment at different universities and laboratories, even applying as far as Canada. He met with failure every time. Not only did the knowledge of his misuse of funds precede him, some rumors had started spreading among the scientific community about the man himself, and the nature of his mysterious project. Supposedly, the man supported some rather unorthodox theories, mainly concerning the existence of parallel worlds. While that particular idea wasn’t unknown in the field of physics, it had never been treated as more than a hypothesis. Stanton, however, seemed to consider an obvious truth the existence of other dimensions, and often asserted that he would prove it to the world; he would even treat those who showed skepticism or outright disbelief as idiots, sometimes to the point of insulting them to their faces. Unsurprisingly, all this led to him acquiring a reputation, and getting blacklisted in many places.
Nevertheless, a few months ago, he had been hired by a company called Kester-Fields Industries. Neither Varley nor Seth’s people could find much about it: it was a branch of Nolan Holdings, a Delaware-based company that itself was mostly unknown, having been created only four years ago. Some specialized newspapers had dedicated a few articles about it. Nolan Holdings’ investments were difficult to track, and as such it wasn’t clear what exactly they owned or controlled. As to Kester-Fields Industries, it was apparently a company that manufactured computer parts, mostly microchips. It owned six locations in California, mostly in the southern part of the state.
“That seems innocent enough,” Jackson commented as Seth explained all of this to him. They were sitting on the living room’s couch, facing the coffee table. Liz was at work.
“Yeah, at first glance, there’s nothing much there, but…”
Seth unfolded a map of California, and laid it down on the table. He retrieved a black marker from his pocket and drew crosses on the map.
“Five of these buildings are factories, located in the industrial areas of Los Angeles and San Diego. Perfectly normal so far. But the sixth one has been built near a town called Whitewater.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I hadn’t either. I had to look it up: it’s a small place in Riverside county, maybe eight hundred people, not too far from Palm Springs. It’s pretty much just a residential town.”
“Weird place to set up shop,” Jackson said.
“Right? I mean, Whitewater is right off the highway, but other than that there is really no reason to choose this place. And that’s not the best part: the locals barely even know about this building! It’s on the edge of the town, and it’s not a particularly big building: from the outside, it just looks like some kind of warehouse. Some of the people we asked actually learnt about it from us. As far as they knew, the land in and around Whitewater wasn’t even cleared for industrial purposes. In fact, one of my people thinks that some palms had to be greased to make that happen. Why go through that trouble, when you can just build in another place?
“So, some of the locals don’t even know about this building, like I said. And then, there are some who just wouldn’t talk about it. We asked people who lived close to the place. No way they didn’t know it was there, right? We were hoping they could tell us about people working there, vehicles coming and going, noises they’ve heard, that sort of thing. Instead, they had nothing to say. They didn’t see anything, they didn’t hear anything, they didn’t know anything. It’s just a normal building, move along.”
“They’ve been told to keep quiet,” Jackson suggested.
“That’d be my guess. Bribes or something. Another possibility is that they’re actually employed by Stanton or Kester-Fields. I mean, the people working there have to live somewhere, right?”
“Ah, shit. If that’s the case, Stanton might know someone is sniffing around.”
“Maybe; we tried to keep it quiet. Speaking of, we tried to get a good idea of the security there.”
He placed a dozen photographs on top of the map. Like he had said, the building was not very big, a single-floor construction of unpainted concrete the size of four houses put together. On the front were three bay doors, the kind used for delivery trucks, and one regular door; no windows could be seen. The pictures showed the place from different angles. Some were zoomed-in to show surveillance cameras installed all around the building.
“I asked Clarice about these, I figured she would have some expertise, what with her former line of work,” Seth said. “According to her, these cameras are the expensive kind, and good quality for your money. This is the kind of cameras they use on banks, jewelry stores, and the like. See how many of them there are? Someone spent a lot to secure this place. Clarice tells me they have no blind spot, either, so whoever put them up knew what they were doing.”
“Maybe the CEO is just security-conscious.”
“Except there aren’t that many cameras on the company’s other buildings. Where do you think the crime rate is highest: in San Diego, or out in the boonies?”
Jackson nodded. “Good point. What about guards or alarm systems?”
“We’re still looking into the alarm system, but if there’s something shady going on in there, it’s a safe bet it won’t be the kind that calls the police. As to guards…” He pulled out another couple of pictures. These ones showed some men, two Humans and an Orc, dressed in civilian clothes, photographed from afar. “We didn’t find much by day. Just a couple of people going around the building, looking like they were just milling about. The thing is, when one of my people drove to the building in his car -making it look like he had just taken a wrong turn-, they immediately took an interest.”
Seth got out a third picture, in which one of the Orcs looked like he was talking, with a hand on his ear.
“He’s got an earpiece in?” Jackson said.
“Looks like it. Anyway, we came back a couple of days later, this time at night.” Another set of pictures, this time showing a series of small trucks entering the building under the cover of the night. Through the open bay doors, several people could be seen. All of them were tall, bulky guys, wearing bulletproof vests; a few of them held pistols.
“They’re making their deliveries during the nighttime,” Jackson said. “Smart. And it looks like they’ve got more security then. Any idea who these guys are?”
“My first guess was mercenaries. Or a security company -that’s what you call them in this world, right? But we couldn’t find any such company hired by either Kester-Fields or Stanton. One of my spies thinks they’re criminals; she recognized one of the people she photographed.” He tapped one of the pictures, the one with the Orc touching his earpiece. “His name is Ronald Weir. She knows him from working with the police: he did a few years in prison for armed robbery and aggravated assault.”
“Working with the police… Let me guess, that’s the one who wants to become a private investigator, right?”
“That’s right. Her name is Niska -well, she goes by Niska Jones, now. She’s the one who did most of the preliminary work here.”
Jackson rubbed his nose. “Criminals, uh. I suppose it would make sense: they’re used to doing shady business…”
“… And motivated to keep quiet about it, exactly.”
“Well, I’d say that pretty much confirms it: if Stanton’s building a portal, it’s there. Have you seen him around the place, by the way?”
“Yes, he comes regularly, about once a week, usually on Fridays. He arrives the night before, stays for an entire day, then leaves on Saturdays before dawn. The rest of the time, he works in a Kester-Fields laboratory in Los Angeles.”
“So, we should attack this place on Fridays, to make sure we get both the portal and the man. I’d rather not try attacking two places at once, and if we take out his portal when he’s not there, we risk him disappearing on us.”
“That makes sense,” Seth said. “Problem is, we can expect security to be higher when he’s on site.”
“True. Now, how do we get in there? I’d rather we do it quietly. Don’t want the locals to call the police… or reinforcements.”
“I have an idea, but it’s going to need some preparation. And probably a bit of luck. You remember the trucks?”
Jackson raised an eyebrow, a light of amusement in his eye. “A good ol’ Trojan horse. I like it.”
“Is that another of your movie references?” Seth asked, confused. “I don’t think I’ve seen that one. Anyway, yes, my idea -I’m not calling it a plan yet- is to get in one to infiltrate the building. One of us would enter, hidden in the truck, and find a way to disable the security system and open the doors, allowing the rest of our team to follow. We’ll need to do some leg work first: track one of the trucks leaving the building to see where they go, observe how they’re loaded and with what, and also who drives them. We might be able to… convince the driver to help us.”
Seth rearranged the pictures over the map, glancing at each one successively, and mentally over everything he had gathered so far. Jackson brushed his stubble. Yes… Yes. That just might work. They would need some kind of backup plan, of course. Seth agreed, and focused his mind on figuring out what that backup plan might look like. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that it took him a few minutes to notice how his friend was smiling at him.
“What?” Seth said.
“You really missed this, didn’t you? The spying, I mean. Gathering intel, coordinating people, making plans…”
“Well… A little, I guess.” He folded the map, and put the pictures away. “But, still, I’ll be happy to put this career behind me for good. I mean, sure, it can be fun in some aspects, but there’s also a lot of stress involved. I mean, we’re talking about people’s lives, here. Back in my homeworld, during the war, there were times where I couldn’t sleep at night because I couldn’t stop thinking about the men and women I sent on missions. I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen to them if they got caught… or about the fact that it would be my responsibility.
“Some of them did get caught, in fact,” he remembered somberly. “The lucky ones were only killed, but the others…”
He got quiet. Jackson passed an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer.
“You did your best, Seth,” he said softly, rubbing his shoulder. “And you helped save many lives. Without your work, without your spies and their sacrifice, the war would have gone much worse for us. Hell, without it, we might not be here today.”
“Yeah, but… It- I still feel it, you know?”
“I do, actually,” Jackson said with a sigh.
Seth, Jackson, and Liz rarely talked about the old world among themselves anymore, and even more rarely of the war. In fact, the last time Jackson had really discussed that last subject, it was during a day of celebration -the one commemorating the battle of the Broken Teeth. The rest of the time, he was happier not talking about it, and indeed not thinking about it. Every time he did, even just to mention a funny anecdote from those days, his mind would almost always wander to Tina, and Durnin, and David, and Lawrence, and Byron… The urge for a cigarette became unbearable, and sometimes even going through half a pack would not be enough to smoke out the memories -it didn’t help that he was still using Lawrence’s old lighter.
Agh, I just had to think about a fucking cigarette. Jackson gnawed on his lip. Some time after he and Liz had decided to try for children, she had demanded he finally made good on his promise to quit the habit, and he had. It had now been almost five weeks since he had lit one up. He had been told his whole life by several smokers how hard it was to quit the habit, but it was another thing to live it. The first three weeks had been particularly nightmarish, between the nervosity, the anxiety, and the random bouts of anger. It had gotten better after that, but hardly a day went by when he didn’t feel like jumping in his car, driving to the nearest drug store, and smoking an entire pack. Thankfully, Liz and Seth had been very supportive the whole time, and in fact Liz’s expression of disappointment when she had caught him trying to sneak in a pack -apparently, she had been able to smell it on him- had been a very effective way to quell the urge ever since. Without his two closest friends, Jackson knew there was no way he would have lasted even a couple of days.
Speaking of Liz, she had also been busy ever since the visit to Vegas as well. In addition to her job and her responsibilities as the main point of contact between the tribes, she had taken on the task of finding people for the future mission. Jackson was a little surprised to hear that there hadn’t been many volunteers. The Hellhounds, it seemed, had gotten a taste of the quiet life, and most had decided they quite enjoyed it. Still, Liz had managed to find a dozen people for the job. All of them were veterans, with a lot of fighting experience, but nevertheless Liz decided to organize some exercises for the sake of making sure they were battle-ready. Almost every weekend, what Jackson had dubbed the “Hellhound Task Force” would gather in their backyard to train.
Jackson himself had also been active during all that time. Aside from his own job, which took most of his days and a good portion of his soul, he had been in charge of the logistics for the job. Through Clarice, he had acquired enough firearms and ammo for the whole task force, as well as some bulletproof vests. The Hellhounds, used to their hide and leather armor, had initially found those vests ridiculous. How could something so flimsy protect them from anything? Jackson had proven their merit with a demonstration: he had placed one of the vests on a post, then taken a shot at it with his pistol. The Hellhounds were convinced when they saw that the wood behind it had not even been chipped.
As everyone got fitted with their own vests, the former soldier made sure to explain that these things had their limitations. First, they only covered the chest. Second, they were only efficient against pistols, not so much against rifles, although they were better than nothing; they also didn’t offer much defence against stabbing. And third, once they had taken a few bullets, their protection was reduced to nothing. In simpler terms: these vests would give them an edge, and quite possibly prevent their internal organs from getting a bullet, but would not make them invincible.
He had also taken part in the training with the Hellhound Task Force, not just as an instructor but also as a trainee. It had been, unfortunately, a strong reminder that his stamina wasn’t what it used to be before the Second Southern War and the wounds he had suffered there. The chest injury inflicted by the fallen Archcommander was particularly debilitating, especially when he pushed himself too much. His smoking habit, even though it had only lasted a few months, had also taken a toll on his lungs.
“Jesus, I’m in my twenties and I feel like I’m pushing fifty,” he grumbled to Liz one day, as he found himself wheezing after a close-quarter combat training session.
“Alright, just take a breath,” she said. “Let’s sit down. We can finish the training later.”
Jackson’s butt dropped against the leaves-covered ground. Liz sat in front of him.
“Fuck me, this is embarassing. I mean, I could never keep up with Hellhounds -you guys look like you could run a couple of back-to-back marathons-, but now it’s like I can’t keep up with Humans anymore either!”
He let out a frustrated sigh. Liz considered him for a moment, biting her lip, then said:
“You know… Maybe you should stay with Seth during the job, Jack.”
“What?” Jackson frowned.
“I know you wanted to do the infiltration yourself. But, honestly, we already have people for that with my Hellhounds. There’s no need to put more people on the line.”
“Wait, you’re benching me?”
“I’m just saying, you have fought and bled more than enough for us, more so than many of us. It’s okay if you want to take a step back for once.”
“I don’t. I don’t want to. Look, I get that I’m not at my peak with all that’s happened -and working a desk job ain’t great for fitness either-, but I don’t need that to shoot a gun. I’m still the best shot we’ve got, that’s why I’m training your girls. And I’m the only one who’s got any experience with actual gunfights. Well, maybe not actual gunfights, but close enough.”
Liz was still biting her lip.
“I can do this, Liz,” he insisted. “Hell, I have to do this. It’s like you said: if I don’t lead, why should they follow?”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Fine. Just promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“I mean, I’m gonna have to take some risks, but…”
Liz made a face.
“Yeah, I promise,” Jackson said.
Another week went by after that talk, during which Seth took some time off from his work to focus on the mission. Jackson felt a little envious at how easy it was for him to get days off; benefits of not working for a soulless corporation, no doubt. The Demon stayed in Los Angeles most of that time, and in Whitewater for the rest, working to transform his idea into an actual plan. His work bore its fruits: when he finally came back, one Tuesday evening, he announced with a large smile on his face that he had made a big discovery.
“His name is Simon Price,” he said as he placed some new pictures on the kitchen table, as he, Liz and Jackson were eating dinner. “He’s a driver.”
“One of Stanton’s drivers?” Jackson said, picking one of the pictures. The man in question was bald and overweight, with a beer gut and the birth of a double chin. He had two beady eyes, a large nose, thin lips, and a light tan.
“That’s right. He drives every other night from LA to Whitewater, and back. The man lives a pretty boring life: no wife, no children, a couple of friends he occasionally gets drunk with, and few hobbies. There’s just one thing, though: Simon Price isn’t his real name.”
“No?” Liz said as Jackson handed her over the picture he was looking at.
“It’s Simon Miles. Niska found out about that when she was looking in the guy’s past, and found nothing. No past employers, no high school graduation, no criminal record, not a single parking ticket. It was as if he had popped out of nowhere a couple of years ago. So, she extended her research, and found out that the man was actually born in Florida under a different name. And… Well, let’s just say he was not as boring in his previous life. Simon Miles has been found guilty of a series of property crimes, including theft, larceny, grand theft auto, and fraud. Apparently, he likes money.”
“You think his current employer doesn’t know? That we can pressure him with that?” Liz said.
“I’m pretty sure Stanton knows, but doesn’t care. But there is something else: Simon has not paid a single dime in income tax in over nine years. From what Niska can tell, he has, err, forgotten to declare any income in all that time.”
Jackson whistled. “That’s… not smart. No one ever found out?”
“The Florida Department of Revenue had apparently figured out that something was going on, and was building up a case. Simon heard about it, and decided to change name and move to the other side of the country.”
He stopped talking for a moment, and ate some of the dinner he had been neglecting.
“The thing is, it’s not just state income tax he hasn’t been paying. Federal income tax, too. That means the IRS could get involved.”
“And they will, unless the man cooperates with us,” Liz completed. “Do you think that could work?”
“Oh yeah. Tax evasion of that level carries a jail sentence, and not a short one.” He snickered. “Back in the other world, not paying your taxes even just a couple of times meant getting flogged or caned in public, and that was when the local lord wasn’t feeling vindictive.”
“Okay, so we’ve got our inside man,” Jackson said. “You talked to him yet?”
“I have. He wasn’t very cooperative. Not at first. But, you see, he had done some time in prison before. It was just a few months, and only in a state prison, but it was already bad enough that he really didn’t want to repeat that experience. The perspective of spending years in a federal prison… Well, that sure motivated him.”
“Great. What about the rest of the plan? You found out when Stanton’s gonna come down there next?”
“Yes, and this actually brings me to the next thing I learned: Stanton’s visits are more and more frequent. He used to come once every other week, but now he comes two or three times a week.”
“Something’s going on,” Liz said. “Is the project nearing completion?”
“I asked Simon about that, but he didn’t know. From what I can tell, none of the drivers know anything about what’s really going on in that building. They don’t even know what the building is: they just think it’s some kind of warehouse.”
“I’m guessing they’re paid enough not to ask any questions,” Liz said.
“Seems that way. Anyway, Stanton’s next visit is Saturday.”
“This Saturday? That doesn’t leave us much time,” Jackson said.
“We don’t need more time,” Liz said confidently as she cleaned her plate with bread. “The task force is ready. We have trained as much as we can, and we have all the equipment we need. We even have the cars ready to take us there.”
“And I guess we can’t risk waiting any longer,” Jackson said, massaging the blade of his scarred hand. “That portal could go live any day now.”
“Yes, we’ve got to take this shot,” she said.
“All right, I’ll arrange things with Simon,” Seth said.
Over the next few days, Jackson didn’t even bother trying to focus on his work. His mind kept wandering back to the mission. Through the mist of these thoughts, amped up by his boredom, he vaguely saw random bits of data displayed on his screen, and vaguely heard his colleagues discuss their next vacations -unless it was their past vacations. Al definitely dropped by his cubicle at some point and said something, but Jackson just nodded along without really listening. Whatever he was babbling about couldn’t be as important as what would happen next Saturday. And it definitely wouldn’t be as important as what would happen if the task force failed. The only part of the conversation he clearly heard was when he asked his manager to have Friday off. Al told him he would have to work a few extra hours to compensate, made a few jokes about Jackson taking a three-day weekend “just about every week”, but eventually approved.
Jackson went to visit David and Byron’s cenotaphs two days before the mission. He stood before them for a long while, thinking about the near future, wondering what his fallen friends would think. Speaking of Byron, Jackson had not had any strange flashbacks in a while, now. He wasn’t sure when exactly they had stopped, but he believed it was right around the time he had met with Jesse Varley. Were those two things connected somehow? Jackson had a feeling they were, though he didn’t know how.
When Friday came, Jackson had never so badly needed a cigarette. He had no idea how the rest of the task force could be so relaxed: they too knew what the mission was about. Only Seth and Liz seemed to share his worries. Seth looked stoic as often, but Jackson knew him well enough to see through his act. As to Liz, she had given Jackson one last chance to change his mind and stay with Seth through the mission. Jackson refused. It was too late to change the plan anyway. Jackson recovered his good old Beretta M9, made sure it was in working order, loaded it, and placed it in his holster; the blood marks made by Azazel could still be faintly seen. He also took Byron’s old ax, which he sharpened and cleaned. As to his assault rifle, he decided to leave it. It was not the ideal weapon for a mission that would require stealth.
As he was about to close the chest and leave the room, Jackson suddenly had an idea. He rifled through the clothing, and unearthed what was buried at the bottom: the Angel’s sword. Jackson unwrapped it. To his surprise, the sword looked exactly the same as it did almost a year ago when he took it from its rightful owner. There was not a single hint of rust on the blade, which was just as unnaturally sharp as it was before, even though Jackson had not cleaned or treated it at all. Was it possible the sword had retained its magical abilities, even in a world devoid of magic? If so, did that mean magic could indeed be brought to Earth? Jackson tried not to delve on what that meant, he was nervous enough already.
Still, Jackson decided to quickly test its sharpness. He placed the edge of the blade against the chest’s lid, and pushed it as softly as he could. The blade sunk into the iron reinforcement as if it was warm butter. Jesus. With great care, Jackson wrapped it again, and placed it in a sports’ bag, along with a bottle of water, three nutrition bars, two spare clips for his pistol, an electric torch, about thirty feet of rope, and a roll of industrial duct tape.
Seth, Liz, and Jackson left for Los Angeles right after lunch. The ride was mostly silent, except for Seth reminding the others of the plan one more time, even though everyone knew it by heart at that point. Jackson took an immediate dislike to the Downtown Industrial District when they arrived in the late evening. As a rule, he had never been fond of plants, factories, and the like, finding them unsightly and often smelly. Granted, LA’s industrial district didn’t look as bad as he imagined, but it was still an industrial zone, with all the noise and the ugliness it implied. They parked in the parking lot of a closed down factory, once belonging to some kind of toy company. Only one other vehicle was present: a gray truck, looking old and a little beat up, but otherwise unremarkable. A man, whom Jackson quickly recognized as Simon, was sitting behind the wheel.
Simon looked nervous too, clutching his wheel and sucking on his teeth. He got out of the truck as Jackson and Seth got closer.
“The crates have been loaded in the back,” he said bluntly. “Get in quick. If I’m late, they’re gonna get suspicious.”
“Your bosses have no reason to be suspicious,” Seth told him. “They don’t know a thing about us, or our deal.”
“Our deal,” he repeated with heavy sarcasm. “We don’t have a deal. You’re blackmailing me.”
“Fine. Look, just keep calm. This is just a normal delivery, all right?” Simon made a skeptical grunt. “Well, if you act all stressed, then they might get suspicious. So simmer down. Okay?”
“Fuck me,” Simon muttered. He took a deep breath. “Let’s just do this.”
He and Seth opened the doors at the back, revealing seven crates of various sizes. They picked one that looked big enough to hold Jackson and his gear, opened it, and began removing its contents. Said contents were small boxes wrapped in plastic, covered in orange warnings.
“What are these?” Seth asked.
“That’s way above my paygrade,” Simon said. “Some kind of chemicals, I’m guessing.”
“You’re sure they won’t check it?” he asked as he sat down.
“I’m sure they won’t check inside the crates while I’m unloading them. After that, I don’t know. I’m supposed to just deliver these things, then get the fuck out.”
“What does the loading zone look like?” Seth asked.
“It looks like a loading zone.” Seth and Jack both shot him a look. “What? It’s just an empty space where the trucks pull up, and they store stuff until it’s moved.”
Unsatisfied with this description, Seth asked him to draw a map of the place from memory. The map ended up not being very precise, but still sufficient for Jackson to get a good idea of the place. Simon mentioned a couple of guards being present whenever he made his deliveries. When asked about security cameras, he said he didn’t remember seeing any. The crate was now empty; Jackson tossed his sport’s bag in it.
“So, you get there, you park in one of these spots,” Jackson said, pointing at the map, “you unload the crates here, and then you get back in your truck and you go. How long does that take?”
“Dunno, fifteen, twenty minutes? Depending on how heavy the stuff is.”
“Any chance you can stop for a smoke break, this time?”
“Hell no! Like I said, I’m supposed to get the fuck out as soon as I’m done. They wouldn’t even let me use their bathroom, last time I was there!”
“In that case, I think you’re gonna have some car trouble,” Jackson said.
“Wait, what?”
“I need you to stall your engine or something. Buy me some time. Try to attract the guards’ attention.”
Simon went wide-eyed. “I ain’t fucking doing that! I told you these guys have guns, right? And they look like they’d use them at the first excuse.”
“They won’t. I just need you to buy me a few minutes, that’s all.”
“No! That’s not what we agreed on,” Simon said, adamant. “I’m dropping you there and that’s it.”
Jackson groaned.
“How about for a hundred dollars?” Seth said. “A hundred dollars for a five minute distraction.”
Simon turned to him, looking like he was thinking about it for a quick second. “I ain’t risking my life for a hundred.”
“Two hundred.”
The driver hesitated, then said: “Make it five.” After another hesitation, he added: “Half up front.”
“Done,” Seth said.
The Demon pulled out a wad of bills from his jacket’s inside pocket, counted two hundred and fifty dollars, and gave them to Simon. The driver’s eyes glinted as he recounted the money before putting them away.
“Five minutes,” he said, turning back to Jackson, “then I’m driving away. I don’t care if you’re stuck or if you get caught or whatever. Now get in. I’ll knock when we get close.”
Jackson gave him a nod, then sat down in the crate. It was just high enough that he didn’t have to bend his head, and large enough to fit his shoulders, although he couldn’t move his arms much. Seth gave him one of the walkie-talkies they had bought for this job, then he and Simon closed the lid. Jackson got as comfortable as he could. He heard Seth and Simon move other crates in front of his own before closing the doors. Moments later, the engine came alive, and the truck began moving. Jackson tried his best to remain immobile, knees bent at head level, hands encircling his legs. He was uncomfortable after five minutes, and tense after ten. Maybe it was the lack of a seat or safety belt, but Simon’s driving was rough: he took rough angles at every turn, made liberal use of the gas pedal on short distances, and used the brakes like it was going out of style.
Somehow, in spite of all this, Jackson managed to fall asleep at some point. He only realized when he woke up with a start by a loud banging on the wall separating the cabin from the back of the truck. Soon after, the truck slowed down, then came to a stop. The engine was cut off. Jackson heard the driver’s door slam shut, followed by footsteps alongside the truck. The back doors opened, and there was a series of metallic sounds; Jackson guessed Simon was using some kind of pallet jack to unload the crates. After a few minutes, his own crate was moved.
“I saw three guards,” Simon whispered as he placed Jackson’s crate on his pallet jack. “I’m gonna put you behind the other crates, then I’ll buy you some time like we agreed. But only five minutes. And the moment they pull their guns, I’m outta here.”
“Good,” Jackson said. “My friend will be a couple of blocks away with the rest of your money.”
“Damn well better be,” Simon grumbled.
Jackson could feel the man’s barely contained frustration in the way he handled his crate. He bumped his head against the wall when Simon dropped it off the pallet jack. Muttering a curse, Jackson grabbed the sword out of its bags and unwrapped the tip, which he used to open the crate’s lid again. He cut as slowly as he could, careful not to make any noise, then lifted the lid by an inch and glanced outside. The room he was in was over three hundred feet wide, with a high ceiling supported by five or six big square pillars. The latter were made of unpainted concrete, same as the walls. There were no visible cameras. Somewhere behind him, Jackson could hear two male voices, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Like Simon said, his crate was placed behind the others, offering him enough cover to get out unseen. He grabbed his weapons, then ducked behind the closest pillar, trying to get a better view of his surroundings.
There were three guards in sight. They were all dressed in black clothes, complete with black gloves and black caps. All three had pistols strapped in a hip holster. Simon’s truck was parked on the right, facing an opened garage door. Other than the truck, there was only one vehicle present: a black sedan with tainted windows; Jackson guessed that meant Stanton was indeed here. Simon was closing the trunk and getting back in his seat, under the watchful eye of the guards. Two of them were standing near the truck, talking about various subjects, while the third was leaning against a wall next to a green metal door -the only door Jackson could see other than the garage doors. Jackson finished unwrapping the sword. He tried to hold it in one hand so he could use his pistol as well, but the sword was simply too heavy; even with both hands, he would have some difficulty wielding it properly. He put it back in the bag, and chose to only use his ax and his pistol for now.
The truck’s engine made a weird noise as Simon attempted to turn it back on, spluttering and stalling. The driver made two more tries, with the same result.
“What’s the holdup?” one of the guards, a tall Human with a large jaw, said impatiently. “You need us to push?”
“Sorry, I just- It-” Simon replied as he tried to start the engine one more time.
He got out of his seat, and went to look under the hood, pretending to fiddle around and search for the cause of the problem. The tall guard -or Large Jaw, as Jackson called him- approached with a frustrated grunt to assist him. Meanwhile, Jackson sneaked in the direction of the third guard by the door, hiding behind another pillar. The guard, a large Human with a very prominent chin, still had his back against the wall; it would be impossible to get close to the door without being seen.
“I don’t see anything wrong, here,” Large Jaw said to Simon. “Try to turn it on again.”
Simon went back to his seat, dragging his feet as much as he could. Large Jaw’s colleague, an average-sized Orc with what looked like a large burn scar on his right cheek, noticed and barked at him to get a move on. Simon made a fourth attempt, with the tall Human guard observing the engine as he did. The engine spluttered again.
“What the Hell are you doing?” the tall guard said. “Are you stupid or something?”
That last word seemed to elicit the attention of Pointy Chin -as Jackson had dubbed the third guard-, who got off the wall and started walking towards the truck, a hand on his pistol. Jackson would soon have the perfect opportunity to reach the door. With a bit of luck, he could get past it and close it behind him without being seen. Pointy Chin just needed to take a few more steps…
Just as he was about to make his move, Jackson heard raised voices. He turned to the truck, to see Scarface -the Orc with the burn scar- leaning over Simon and fiddling with something next to the wheel. Simon looked spooked. A couple of seconds later, the engine turned on.
“What the fuck?” Scarface called out. “This is working just fine. What the fuck are you playing at?”
Simon stammered an explanation, but before he could say much, the scarred guard grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out, before roughly pushing him against the side of the truck.
“Are you fucking with us?” Scarface said.
“I’m not! I must have-” Simon spluttered, turning whiter than his truck’s paint.
The guard punched him in the face.
“Your job is to deliver the goods, then fuck off. No dithering. You get that?”
“I do, I’m sorry!” Simon said.
Scarface punched him again, and he tumbled down, holding his jaw. Jesus, Jackson thought, Simon didn’t exaggerate: these guys have anger issues. Guess that’s what happens when you hire criminals. Large Jaw decided to get in on the fun, and kicked Simon. To make matters worse, as the third guard passed by Jackson, he saw him put a hand on his gun. But he was no longer looking in the direction of the driver: he was now looking at the crate; specifically, the one that was opened. Shit.
Just as the guard was about to call out to his friends, Jackson changed plans and jumped him. Like he had practiced with Byron a while ago, he wrapped an arm around the guard’s neck, then pressed on his head with his other hand. The guard made a surprised grunting noise, but thankfully not loud enough to be heard by his colleagues. Jackson kicked one of his legs from under him, and kept the pressure on his neck even as the guard struggled to free himself, his face turning red.
It took a couple of minutes for the guard’s strength to wane, and another minute for him to finally stop fighting back. Jackson kept him in a chokehold a little longer to be sure, then dragged him behind the pillar and sat him down. He quickly patted him down, and recovered his gun, as well as a portable radio, the latter of which he turned off, then attached to his belt next to his own walkie-talkie.
The other two guards had stopped wailing on Simon, but only so that Scarface could ask him questions. He took a knee in front of the driver, slightly looming over him, and pulled out his gun.
“Now I’m gonna ask again,” Jackson heard Scarface say, “and you’d better give me a real answer this time: what’s this comedy about?”
Ah, Hell. With the door now unguarded, Jackson could have just slipped out unseen. But if the guards truly intended to kill Simon, he couldn’t just let them. The man was a petty criminal, but that didn’t mean he deserved a bullet. Not to mention, Simon had no real loyalty to him, and would probably give him up quickly. He walked quietly to another, closer pillar, just in time to hear Simon answer:
“L-Look, I didn’t want to do this. They… They made me.”
“Who did?” Scarface asked.
“I don’t know their names! They didn’t tell me!”
Jackson looked at both guards, trying to come up with a plan to take them out without making too much noise. Taking on the two of them was not an option: both looked to be in peak physical condition. Maybe he could divert the attention of one of them, and knock them out separately? Judging that he had little time to come up with something better, he removed the magazine from Pointy Chin’s gun, then lobbed it behind the truck. It landed some six feet away with a loud, clacking sound. Both men reacted instantly; Large Jaw grabbed his gun. The two looked at each other, and Scarface gave his friend a nod before slowly going around the truck, raising his gun.
Large Jaw stayed there, holding Simon at gunpoint, gesturing to him to keep quiet. Jackson moved behind him, stepping as quietly as he could. He was only two feet away when Simon looked straight at him. The guard immediately noticed, and quickly turned around. Jackson immediately jumped to him, striking him on the side of the head with the butt of his gun. Large Jaw fell to the ground with a grunt. Scarface, who was half-hidden by the truck, swore, and Jackson saw him get something off his belt; his radio, no doubt.
Without wasting a second, Jackson pulled the Angel’s sword out of the bag again, and rushed to Scarface. The latter had indeed retrieved his radio, and was about to speak in it when Jackson appeared next to him, putting his blade against the side of his throat. He froze.
“Turn it off,” Jackson ordered.
After a brief hesitation, the guard pushed a button, and the radio went quiet.
“Now drop it.” He did. “Good. Now, grab your gun with two fingers, pull it out, and toss it aside.”
“Do you have any idea who this place belongs to?” the guard said as he complied.
“Yup. Do you have any idea who we are?”
The guard kept quiet and threw his gun away.
“Get down on your knees,” Jackson said. “And put your hands on your head.”
Once again, the man did as he was told. “You’re not getting out of here. You hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah. How many of your friends are there, down here?”
“I ain’t telling you shit.”
Jackson put a bit more strength in the blade, just a little so that the guard would feel it. Unfortunately, the blade was so sharp that it was enough to cut into the skin, drawing blood. The guard visibly winced.
“I don’t need to kill you,” Jackson said. “Just tell me how many guards there are down the building, and how to disable the security, and I’ll let you go.”
“If I talk, I’m a dead man,” the guard retorted, his jaw clenched.
“Stanton won’t be in any position to hurt anyone, trust me.”
“Stanton? The scientist?” Scarface said, incredulous. “That’s who you think is in charge of all this?”
“Who else? Nolan Holdings?”
The guard chuckled darkly. “Shit, you really don’t know who you’re up against, do you? You might as well pack up and go home, unless you want to be buried in the lower floors.”
“Appreciate the concern,” Jackson snarked. He moved the blade to the side of the Orc’s throat. “Now, one last chance: how many guards down there? How do you turn off the security system?”
Scarface closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then said: “I’ve only ever been to the first floor below. That’s where our locker rooms and the restrooms are. We’re not allowed to go anywhere else. They’ve got different men guarding the rest of the place; I’ve only seen them a few times when they arrive or when they leave. I don’t know how many there are. A dozen, maybe two. For the security system, I don’t fucking know. They’ve probably got people watching the cameras, but I have no idea where.”
“All right,” Jackson said. He called to Simon: “Driver guy, you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still there,” Simon replied angrily. “Where d’you want me to be?”
“Do you have some zip ties?”
He did, in his truck’s glove box. Jackson took a handful, and tied the Orc’s hands behind his back with one of the ties before relieving him of his pistol and radio, and duct taping his mouth. He ordered the guard to get in the truck’s back, and then tied his ankles as well. He tied his friend Large Jaw in the same way, and dropped him in the trunk. As he moved to do the same to Pointy Chin, he decided to take his sweater, his pants, and his cap. The man was roughly the same size as him, if a bit larger at the waist.
“Drop them when you get your money,” Jackson told Simon. “Tell you-know-who I said you deserve some hazard pay.”
“Too fucking right I do,” Simon grumbled, massaging the large, newly-formed hematoma on the side of his chin.
Jackson opened the garage door, and Simon quickly drove away, his tires screeching as he did. Then, Jackson went back to the door Pointy Chin was guarding. Before proceeding, he got his walkie-talkie and contacted Seth.
“I’m sending Simon back to you, with some guests,” he said to his friend. “So far, everything’s going okay.”
“Alright. Good luck.”
The green metal door was unlocked, and led to a flight of stairs made out of bare concrete. Jackson didn’t see any cameras here either, but he still pulled his cap down as he descended. After passing another green metal door, he arrived at a long hallway, punctuated with five doors, and an elevator on the opposite end. There was a small camera on top of the elevator, so Jackson decided to try the doors first.
The first door on the right led to the locker room Scarface mentioned. Two series of lockers with combination locks, about twenty in total, covered the walls, with two benches in the middle of the room; there were even some showers behind a partition. The first door on the left was the restroom, with a row of dubiously clean urinals facing two stalls, and two sinks next to them. Jackson heard voices coming from beyond the third door (second on the right), which had been left slightly open -not enough for a glance. Two… no, three men happily discussing baseball and trading jokes. Behind them, a radio was playing some pop music. He also heard the sounds of cans being opened and drank, and that of a fridge door being shut. This was no doubt some kind of break room. The fourth door was a storage room, with several cardboard boxes and a set of shelves filled with cleaning products; a quick inspection of the boxes revealed they contained foodstuffs and soda cans. As to the fifth door, located on the far right, it was locked, but a red and white sign on it indicated it led to more stairs.
Finally, Jackson turned his attention to the elevator, trying to keep out of the camera’s field of view as he observed it. In addition to a button, the panel next to the doors had a lock. Jackson took this to mean that a key would be needed to use the elevator. Hopefully, one of the guards in the break room would have one. Jackson took a second to think of an idea, then went back to the restroom. He locked himself in one of the stalls, crouching on top of the toilet, and waited; hopefully, at least one of the guards had drunk enough to take a pee break before going back to work.
Five, ten, fifteen, fifteen minutes went by. How long of a break do they get, in this place? Jackson wondered, munching on one of the nutrition bars he had packed. I only get fifteen minutes at my job. Eventually, the restroom door opened, and Jackson heard two people coming in. Beneath the stall door, he saw them step in front of a urinal, and heard the trademark sound of flyers opening. One of the guards was talking about the brand new car he had just made a down payment for, and the “sweet deal” he had gotten on it (“18 % APR for this baby!”), while the other just gave one-word answers. Jackson slowly opened the stall door, and came out pistol first.
“I’m gonna order it in orange paint with a chrome finish,” the guard on the left said. He was a few inches shorter than Jackson, had blonde hair, and a fake tan. The other guy had long black hair tied in a ponytail. “And you should see the seats: all real leather! I’m gonna get this awesome sound system too, with two bass-”
He shut up mid-sentence, as he felt the canon of a gun pressed against the back of his head. Jackson quickly unbuckled the man’s holster to relieve him of his pistol, which he put away in his bag. A second later, his partner realized the man had stopped talking, and looked his way. He jumped away from the urinal, pulling out his sidearm, and zipping himself with his free hand.
“Drop your weapon!” the second guard said.
“You first,” Jackson said back.
The guard kept his gun up. “If you shoot, the whole building will hear it.”
“Yeah, that’s about thirty guys with guns and an itchy trigger finger,” the guard Jackson was holding up added. “And that’s without counting the people we got outside as reinforcements. One call from our pal in the security office, and they drop by in ten minutes. What’s your plan then, huh?”
Jackson grabbed the blonde guard’s hand and twisted it behind his back, and turned him towards his colleague. Unfortunately, they made a good point, he thought. Gunshots were loud, and a single one might well be heard in the lower floor; it would definitely be picked up by the third guard in the break room on this floor. Jackson had wanted to get a silencer from Clarice before the job, but she had explained to him that these gadgets don’t actually silence gunshots, they merely reduce the sound.
“Last chance,” the guard with a ponytail said. “Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot.”
“Wait, what?” the blonde guard said, turning pale.
Goddamnit. Jackson considered the other guard. Would he actually shoot, and risk killing his colleague? Jackson decided he couldn’t take the chance. Before Ponytail could react, he kicked the blonde guard in the back, hurtling him against his friend. The two tumbled back, and Ponytail’s pistol fell with a clatter. Jackson kicked it in the direction of the stalls, then struck the blonde guard behind the head with his own weapon. The man dropped on his friend, stunned but still conscious. Ponytail pushed him off; Jackson used that opening to try and stab him with his ax, but the man reacted fast enough to protect his throat, and the ax sliced his arm instead. A dark red line appeared on his black sleeve, dripping blood on the floor.
Ponytail replied with a surprising front kick to Jackson’s armed hand, making him lose his gun, which landed somewhere behind him. Jackson attacked with his ax again, but the guard took him by surprise once more by grabbing his armed wrist and twisting it hard. The ax dropped as well, and Jackson clenched his teeth not to scream in pain. He countered by wrapping his hand around the guard’s wounded forearm, making sure to squeeze the cut. The guard grunted, and let go of his wrist. Jackson then kicked him in the groin, and pushed him back. His enemy hit a urinal as he recoiled, and fell to the ground. Jackson quickly kneeled to recover his ax, then noticed the other guard crawling under the stall, trying to reach his colleague’s pistol. He jumped on him, and struck with his ax in the guard’s back, hacking him twice between the ribs. The guard made a strangled, wheezing sound, as if the air was being sucked out of his lungs.
Before Jackson could grab the gun the blonde guard was reaching for, the other guard grabbed him by the back of his collar and threw him back. Jackson managed to grab onto a urinal to avoid falling; it turned out to be the one used by the blonde guard, but he tried not to think about that. He lost his ax again, which fell near Ponytail Guard. Looking up at the guard, Jackson felt a bolt of ice go down his spine as he saw the guard was picking up his pistol. Shit. Jackson looked for his own gun, who had flown to the other side of the room, near the door. The guard would have shot him full of bullets before he could take it back.
He shoved his hand in his bag, looking for the sword, as Ponytail Guard turned back, gun in hand. Quick, quick, quick.
There was, almost simultaneously, a gunshot and a whooshing sound, not unlike the wind, the latter accompanied by a fleshy noise. Then, a lot of red.
“Oh, fuck,” Jackson muttered.
He had meant to strike the pistol, but the weight of the Angel’s sword had thrown off his accuracy. Instead, the blade had seized the guard just below the wrist… and cut the hand clean off.
Perhaps because of the adrenaline, the guard didn’t seem to immediately understand what had happened. Then, he looked at his stump, and let out a gut-wrenching scream. Jackson rapidly struck again, and speared him through the heart with the point of the sword, ending both his screaming and his agony. A stinging pain on his left arm revealed to him that the bullet fired had grazed Jackson just below the shoulder, leaving a bleeding wound.
Jackson went to recover Byron’s ax and then his Beretta, when he heard someone on the other side of the door.
“What’s going on in there?”
Damn it. Jackson bit his lip. With all the excitement, he had forgotten about the third guard. He slid behind the door as the guard pushed it open.
“Holy shit!” the guard exclaimed as he witnessed both of his colleagues laying in pools of their own blood.
Immediately, Jackson jumped out of hiding and pressed his gun in the man’s face.
“Don’t move.”
The man glimpsed at Jackson, and his eyes went wide. Jackson then realized then that he had some blood on his face, having wiped his hands on it without thinking. He took the third guard’s gun from his hands and put it away in the bag. Suddenly, his radio came alive, as did the dead guards’.
“This is Tanner. What’s going on? We heard a gunshot at your level, over.” a female voice said.
“Tell them everything’s fine,” Jackson said, grabbing the radio and holding it in front of the guard’s mouth. “One of your friends accidentally fired a gun and shot himself, the other is helping him clean up.”
The man cleared his throat, then said: “Tanner, this is Crane. Everything’s okay up here, uh… Davis accidentally shot himself in the bathroom. Uh… Charles is patching him up, over.”
After a brief moment of silence, the female voice spoke up again: “Crane, this is Tanner… For Christ’s sake, it’s always something with you guys. Out.”
“Good,” Jackson told Crane. “Now, face the wall, hands over your head.”
Crane turned away. Jackson turned on the sink and washed his face with one hand, the other still holding the gun. He also patched his arm with a little duct tape; the wound was thankfully not too deep, and not on Jackson’s dominant arm. Then, he recovered the cap he had lost in the fight, near Ponytail’s body. As he did, he remembered something. He rifled through the blonde guard’s pockets, and found what he was looking for: a small yellow key. He also happened upon the man’s wallet, and his driver license. What the… The name given on it was Andrew Gibbons. Goddamnit, Jackson thought as he went back to Crane and put the license under his nose.
“Charles and Davis, uh?” he said. “Nice little trick. You just signaled them, didn’t you?”
Crane didn’t reply, simply closing his eyes and swallowing his saliva. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jackson tossed the license. This was bad. No doubt the entire building would be waiting for him, if he went to the lower levels now. Fuck, damn it. Alright, let’s keep cool. I need to figure this out. He pinched his nose. What would Byron do if he were in that situation? Hmm… An idea suddenly came to him. He grabbed the guard by the arm, pulled him, and shoved his pistol in his kidneys.
“That Tanner gal you just spoke too, is that who’s in charge of the security system? Where is she?”
The man kept quiet again, so Jackson pulled out his ax and pressed it against his cheek.
“On the fourth level,” Crane said, “she’s on the fourth level.”
“Good.” Jackson put away the ax, then lowered his cap. “Now, you’re coming with me. Put on a nice, happy face for the camera.”
The two men walked out of the restroom, Jackson still holding his gun behind the guard’s back. They headed towards the elevator, both putting on fake smiles like they were two friends talking. Jackson made Crane use his key to call it. Crane shot the camera a quick, nervous glance; Jackson disabled it by cutting every cable he could see with his ax.
The elevator’s doors opened, and Jackson led the guard into the cabin, and examined it. There was a camera in here too, which Jackson disabled as well. Then, he attached the guard’s hands to a metal bar on the wall with one of his last zip ties, and gagged him by wrapping duct tape around his head at mouth level. On the ceiling was a trap door. Jackson opened it, pressed the fourth floor button, and climbed on the elevator’s roof. He closed the trap door behind him. The elevator began moving down, making him tumble a little.
The cabin went down two floors, putting Jackson about two feet below the third floor’s doors. Below him, he heard the door open again, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of gunfire -five or six shots, fired by three or four guns. Jackson put his hands on the doors and tried pulling them open. They were heavier than expected, and the grazing on his arm didn’t make it any easier, but he soon managed. As he emerged on the third floor, he heard angry voices beneath him. His little ruse, it seemed, had not been appreciated.
Deciding the time for discretion was now over, Jackson turned on his walkie-talkie to contact Seth. He briefly caught him up on what had just happened.
“Send the rest of the team in,” Jackson said. “Don’t worry about stealth.”
“The cameras are still on,” Seth said. “The moment we barge in, they’re going to send everyone they’ve got.”
“That’s exactly what I need: a diversion. I know where they control their security system. I just need the team to drag away as many guards as possible for about ten minutes, and I’ll be able to disable it. Maybe I’ll be able to find where they’re building the portal, too.”
“What about the reinforcements?”
“Assuming that guy didn’t just make them up, I’ll be able to send them away if I take over their security system.”
“That’s pretty risky,” Seth said. “But I guess there’s no better plan. All right, sit tight, I’m sending you the cavalry.”
“Thanks…” Jackson glanced at the elevator cabin. “Oh, and tell them to take the stairs.”
He leaned into the shaft, looking at the thick metallic cables holding the cabin in place, and the mechanic apparatus these cables were connected to on its roof. From the voices, several guards had entered the cabin to check on their now deceased comrade. One of them tried to open the trap door. Jackson held the Angel’s sword before him, reaching into the shaft, then struck the cables. The blade cut into them so easily it startled Jackson, and the cabin dropped with a terrifying noise, before crashing down at the bottom. He peered down to try and gauge how many floors there were, but it was too dark. After the fourth floor, right beneath him, the elevator shaft went down for at least thirty feet with no doors.
His observation was interrupted by the sound of a door being slammed open, followed by hurried footsteps moving up the stairs. Shit, gotta go. He looked at his surroundings. The third floor had about the same layout as the second, with as many rooms, but the hallway was a little longer. There was once again a camera above the elevator doors, which Jackson made sure to destroy with the sword; he tried once again to cut the cables, but went a little overboard and ended up cutting off the camera itself instead. He looked at the sword with a smile. After this is over, maybe I can put on a show in Vegas with that thing.
Unlike the second floor, the doors on this level were all locked. Having no time to waste, Jackson elected to cut the lock of the first door on the left using the sword. Before entering, he decided to do the same with the other three doors. He just had time to do that before rushing in and closing the door behind him, when he heard the door to the stairs open.
There was no lighting in the room Jackson was hiding in, and he didn’t want to use his torch, so he only had a rough outlook as to the room’s layout and contents. It seemed to be a large room, larger than any of the rooms on the second floor, which served as a workplace of some sort: Jackson could see desks and chairs. It was a few degrees colder here; the heating had probably been turned off along with the lights. There were papers laying on top of the desks, as well as several computers. Guess even bad guys have to do desk work, he thought. He could also see a whiteboard on a wall, though reading what had been written on it in the dark was impossible. From what little Jackson could see, it looked like math equations with a few annotations. Right next to the door was the light switch, which Jackson quickly disabled with his ax.
Reaching the other end of the room, Jackson hid behind a desk. The wood it was made off did not look thick enough to stop bullets, but it was better than nothing. On top of the desk was a stapler, which he grabbed; it felt heavy enough for his purposes. Seconds later, the door was kicked open, and two men entered the room, armed with pistols and light torches. One of them tried to turn on the light, and swore when he felt what was left of the switch. As Jackson hoped, they separated, and moved along both sides of the desks. He waited until they got close enough to where he was hiding, then threw the stapler, hitting one of the monitors on a desk; from the noise, Jackson might have broken it. The two guards turned around, startled, as Jackson jumped out of hiding. His ax struck the first guard in the side of the neck, the edge sinking in deep. The guard gurgled and fell on his knees. Jackson ran to the other, and attacked with Byron’s ax again. This time, the poor lighting combined with his rush made him miss his target, and he hit the guard in the cheek instead of the neck. Jackson struck again, this time with more accuracy, but too late to prevent the guard from screaming.
“He’s here!” Jackson heard voices shout outside.
Without wasting a second, Jackson ran to the door, closed it, and pushed a desk against it. Someone on the other side tried to open it, then began ramming it. Jackson pushed a second desk against it. Bullets flew through the door. Jackson ducked, but one of them hit him in the chest. The shot felt like a punch to the gut, emptying Jackson’s lungs and promising to leave a nasty hematoma, but at least the vest had stopped the bullet completely. Groaning in pain, he fired a few bullets back, emptying his clip and, from the sounds on the other side of the door, forcing the guards to scatter.
Sitting against the desks, he glanced around at the room again, hoping to see another door he might have missed, but there was nothing. He was at a dead-end. The guards on the other side of the door would likely try to ram it open again soon, unless they were waiting for reinforcements. Either way, it was bad. What do I do now? Jackson asked himself. What would Byron do in this situation? Oh, well, that’s easy: he wouldn’t have found himself in that situation to begin with. He would have made sure to have an exit strategy. He sighed. Nevermind what Byron would do, what would Mad Jack do? He gnawed on his lip. Well, something mad, obviously. Something like…
He looked at the floor where one of the desks used to be, near the white board, then at the sword. Okay, even for me, that’s pretty crazy. That’s, like, Tex Avery crazy. Without wasting a second, he stood on the empty space, pointed the sword down, and jammed it into the floor. Once again, its supernatural sharpness entered what had to be six inches of concrete without any difficulty. Jackson shoved it down until he felt it pop out on the other side, then clumsily drew a circle in the floor. To his surprise, the round he drew didn’t fall on his own: he had to kick it down several times until it dropped, revealing the room beneath. It was just as dark, and looked completely unoccupied.
Just as he was lowering himself through the hole -which he had made just wide enough for him-, the guard’s radio he had taken crackled to life.
“Intrusion alert on ground level!” the woman -Tanner- said. “Intrusion alert on ground level! All available personnel, please respond!”
Jackson dropped down, landing awkwardly on a large metal table. This room was even colder than the other one, to the point where Jackson wondered if it was some kind of freezer room. He turned on his torch light and looked around, seeking the door. The room contained several other metal tables. Near one of them, Jackson spotted what looked like surgical instruments, placed on a smaller table with wheels. There was also a sink nearby, with more instruments in it; worryingly, some of them were soiled with blood. On one wall were several small metal doors, which reminded Jackson of a morgue as seen in cop dramas. Following a weird gut feeling, Jackson decided to open one. The label on the door said: “Jack N. Morris – Experiment #A11 – 1/17/2001 – COD: Hemorrhage (?)”
Inside was the body of a man, looking to have been in his early twenties when he died, entirely nude. His skin was pale grey, with strange black blotches on his torso, his arms, and his legs. Patches of hair were missing on top of his head, and the rest had grayed early. On his torso was a large Y-shaped scar, looking recent, and there were smaller straight scars on his throat, his left arm, and his left leg.
“What the fuck did they do to you?” Jackson said.
Hints of an answer came when he observed the black blotches more closely: the color and the texture reminded him strongly of the Cambions’ skin. Did this man serve as a guinea pig for Stanton’s portal experiments? Did that mean Stanton was close to achieving his goal? Jackson considered the dead man. Was he willing or coerced? Had he been told about the risks? Quite a few of the doors had names on their labels as well, indicating Jack Morris was far from the only one. Jackson just shook his head and hurried out: he could hear the guards on the upper floor trying to ram the door again.
The hallway outside the morgue was empty and quiet. It wasn’t a straight line like in the upper floors, instead turning right after the third door. The alarm was also ringing on this floor, loud enough that Jackson felt it in his guts. He noticed the doors on this floor had signs: “morgue”, “laboratory”, “pharmacy”, “armory”… The door right after the corner, however, had none. By process of elimination, Jackson deduced this had to be the security room.
In the room, right in front of the door, was a wall almost covered with TV screens, all depicting different parts of the building, both inside and outside, in black and white. Facing the screens was a desk with a computer and a landline phone, behind which a woman was sitting, wearing a headphone set with a microphone. She was focused on what was happening on the screens. Jackson didn’t even bother holding her at gunpoint, and instead hit her behind the head with the butt of his gun. After restraining her with duct tape and putting her in a corner, he sat in her place and used the computer. It took a few minutes to understand the software used to control the security systems, and a few minutes more to find the functions he was looking for. There was unfortunately no “shut everything down” button, so he had to turn off every safety system individually. He shut off the alarm as well, and felt relieved though his ears kept ringing.
He turned his attention to the cameras, occasionally glancing above the shoulder to make sure nobody was coming. A fight had broken out in the garage at the top level. A van had rammed one of the garage doors, followed by a pickup truck. The Hellhound Task Force was facing over a dozen guards, fighting them with guns and their bare claws. The fight seemed even, but Jackson knew his Hellhounds would soon gain the upper hand. They were stronger and tougher, and it was obvious the guards had never faced anything quite like them.
Scouring the rest of the screens, Jackson searched for the portal. He had no idea what a technology-based portal would look like, but had a feeling he would know it when he saw it. But after a few minutes of browsing the cameras over and over, he couldn’t find anything. What, Stanton doesn’t want his experiments to appear on camera? Speaking of the Devil, Stanton himself could not be found either. Jackson did however manage to find a map of the building in the security computer, detailing all five levels. The fifth level, located much deeper than the rest, was by far the largest. It was basically one big room, very large and with an elevated roof. If the portal had to be somewhere, Jackson would bet it was there.
Before he went down the stairs, he made sure to pass by the armory. Unsurprisingly, that door was locked, and with a complex lock using a code in addition to a key, but this meant nothing to the Angel’s sword. Neither did the safety of the lockers inside the room, protecting their valuable and dangerous contents. The only weapons stored here were pistols, and the only ammunition was 9mm; Jackson grabbed enough of the latter to refill his spent clip. They don’t even have shotguns or anything? he grumbled to himself as he quickly went through the lockers. The last one, however, revealed something Jackson did not expect: several small crates labelled “explosive”.
Must be how they dug so deep underground, he thought. Opening one of the crates, he recognized those kinds of explosives: he had seen them during his time in the US Army. Jackson could only speculate as to how Stanton had gotten his hands on military-grade explosives. They were relatively easy to use, and safe enough that Jackson wasn’t at risk of blowing himself up if he bumped his bag against something solid. He picked up as many crates as he could until his bag was filled with them, having a feeling they would come in handy. Like, say, if they needed to erase all traces of what happened in this building, so the Stantons of this world wouldn’t get any bright ideas. He also made sure to get some detonators, shoving them in his pocket.
Gunshots were heard in the upper floors as Jackson flew down the stairs. The fight was getting closer. He hurried down the steps, the extra weight he packed making him unbalanced. The last floor was indeed much deeper than the rest; Jackson was winded by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs. Fucking ribs, he thought, a hand on his heart.
The fifth floor’s room was even larger than Jackson imagined from the plan. It was at least forty feet high, and large enough that a small commercial airplane could fit in. The walls were made of dirt, supported by steel beams, as were the ceiling and most of the floor. Some cement tiles had been placed, and on top of them a metal catwalk was being built, rising about ten feet above the floor. Beneath that catwalk was a lot of machinery and electrical equipment Jackson couldn’t identify; large cables connected them to some kind of ring-shaped structure on top. The whole strange construction hummed and whirred loudly, and generated enough heat to warm the entire room a couple of degrees.
Jackson climbed up the steel steps leading up to the top of the catwalk. There were more machines up there, looking like big computers; some of the monitors were lit, displaying figures or ranges of numbers and calculations. The place was cluttered: lots of tools and various scientific-looking objects were strewn here and there, and some of the machines and furniture were still being assembled; Jackson even spotted some stray 9mm bullets on top of a monitor. As he approached the portal, Jackson began hearing a strange high-pitched noise coming from it, halfway between a whistling and tinnitus; he actually thought it was his tinnitus at first, only to realize he could also hear it with his unaffected ear.
The ring structure was about twenty feet in diameter, large enough to let a truck through. At its center was a strange blur, similar to heat distorting the air. Jackson fought against the impulse to touch it and see if his hand would disappear. Instead, he grabbed a wrench he found laying on a table, and tossed it. Exactly as he feared, the tool disappeared, as if the air had whisked it away. Jackson mentally cursed. The portal was active.
Suddenly, Jackson heard another noise through the metallic sounds of the machines: someone sneezing. It came from below him, under the catwalk. Jackson descended another flight of stairs, holding up his pistol. He found a man underneath, down on all fours, working on one of the machines with a few tools. Several parts were laying on the ground near his knees. Focused on his task and with all of the noise surrounding him, he didn’t notice Jackson approaching him. He was wearing a pair of blue slacks and a white dress shirt, with a pair of black town shoes; clearly, this man wasn’t a security guard. In fact, Jackson could take a guess who he was…
“Stanton,” he said, speaking loud enough to be heard above the noise.
The man’s back straightened up, and he lifted his head. He froze as he saw the gun in Jackson’s hand.
“So you’re our uninvited guest,” the man said, raising his hands, lips pursed in anger.
“More like the party pooper,” Jackson said. “Tell me how to turn that portal off.”
“You can’t,” Stanton almost screamed.
“I got about a dozen bullets here that say otherwise.”
Stanton scoffed. “Go ahead and kill me. I’m the only one who knows how this portal works.”
“Who said anything about killing you?” Jackson pointed his pistol at the man’s knee. “You only need your hands to work, right?”
The man paled. “I- I can’t turn it off.”
Jackson cleared his throat and moved his gun closer to its target. “I’m not a patient guy, Stanton.”
“I can’t!” Stanton insisted. “Once the portal is open, I don’t know how to close it.”
“You build that thing. How can you not know?”
“It wasn’t my discovery! I only figured out the basics of interdimensional travel, I could never find out a way to create a stable portal. Someone gave me some strange technology… But I don’t even know how it works! My God, I don’t even think they know how it works.”
“Someone gave it to you? Who?” Jackson said, frowning.
“I don’t know, I never actually met them. We only talked over the phone. They knew everything about me and my project. They said they could help me make it happen. If I helped them, I would create a real portal, and people would realize I was right all along! My work would finally gain the respect it deserves.”
There might not be anyone left to give you that respect once you open that fucking portal completely, Jackson almost said, but he kept quiet. Time was running out. He shook his head.
“Then… Just rip off the cables or something,” he said. “That portal of yours runs on electricity, right?”
“No, it only needed power to open. Now that it is, the portal sustains itself. I don’t know how, probably some kind of energy on the other side.”
Yeah, probably some kind of magical energy. Jackson let out a “ugh” of frustration. There used to be a time where he loved magic. Now, it just seemed to make everything more complicated.
“In that case, we’re gonna blow that thing up,” he said. “I got some of the explosives you used to dig that place, you’re gonna help me place them.”
“You don’t understand, that won’t be enough. The portal is open on both ends. Cutting the power here won’t suffice, you’d have to take care of the other side as well.”
“Fine, then you’ll do that,” Jackson said. “Now, get a move on.”
Hands still in the air, Stanton stood up. Both men walked back up the catwalk. Jackson handed Stanton two of the explosives, and instructed him to place it at the bottom of the ring structure. The scientist got to work with considerable reluctance. He got down on one knee and began removing the structure’s metal plates one by one, uncovering a mess of cables. The first was detached easily, but the second was evidently screwed or bolted on.
“I’ll need to place the explosive inside to make it more effective,” Stanton said, his mouth twisting as if every word tasted awful. “Pass me the hexagon screwdriver on the table behind you.”
Jackson half-turned, glancing back at the table. A whole array of tools was strewn over it, including quite a few screwdrivers of all kinds and shapes. After some hesitation, he grabbed one of them, a big one with a red handle. Just as he did, he saw movement at the corner of his eye.
It all happened in a fraction of a second. Stanton pulled out a gun, seemingly from nowhere, and aimed it at Jackson. Both men pulled the trigger, but, between his shortness of breath, the pain in chest, and his arm wound, Jackson reacted slower, and his aim was off. Several shots were fired. A heartbeat later, Jackson was on the ground, a horrible pain seizing him at the chest and the leg. The Angel’s sword dropped from his sport’s bag, still open. Stanton screamed and fell as well, but quickly got back on his feet, a red spot appearing on his shoulder, and a red line on his neck. Before Jackson could do anything, Stanton grabbed the sword and looked at it with stupefaction. Jackson heard shouting, and Stanton cursed before running away. Two more shots were fired, missing the fleeing scientist by a foot.
Jackson tried to stand up, but the pain in his leg flared up. He looked down to see a gash on his right thigh, bleeding profusely. There was no other hole, meaning the bullet was still inside. Wonderful. If that wasn’t enough, Stanton had shot him three times in the chest. His vest had stopped one of the bullets, though Jackson was certain at least one of his ribs was broken again. The two other bullets had managed to punch through. One of them was now buried between his ribs, the other… From the pain, Jackson got the nasty impression it had lodged itself in his lung. Something horribly cold began filling his chest.
He glanced at the metal pane Stanton had been working on. From the way the cables were twisted and the hole left between them, he guessed Stanton had hidden the gun in there.
Jackson coughed, and a bit of blood sprayed out of his mouth. With a lot of effort, he managed to sit up, then to get in a crouching position, putting his weight on his left leg.
“Jack!” a female voice shouted.
“Liz,” Jackson said, or rather whispered raspily.
Within a second, Alizana was on him, followed by Sathariel. They tried to help him stand, but Jackson let out a strangled cry. Liz gasped when she saw his wounds. Blood was now not only tainting his vest, but also flowing down his ankle and into his shoe. A lot of it. Somehow, he barely even felt the warm liquid on his skin.
“Oh shit,” Seth said under his breath. “Oh no…”
He dropped his pistol, put down his backpack, and rifled through it, while Alizana helped Jackson down.
“We’ve gotta blow up the portal,” Jackson said, more blood dripping from his mouth. “Both ends.”
“Settle down. Don’t talk,” Liz said.
She ripped part of his pants’ leg to uncover the wound, then pressed her paw on the gash. Jackson whimpered, his teeth clenching.
“Fuck, this is bad,” he said. “What about Stanton? Did you get him?”
“He got away. There’s some kind of passage over there,” Seth said, pointing in a direction. Jackson couldn’t really tell which one, his vision was getting blurry. And he was getting weak…
Seth got some bandages, a bottle of disinfectant, and some painkiller pills from his backpack. He popped two of the pills in Jackson’s mouth, who swallowed them with a side of his own blood, then poured a liberal dose of disinfectant. It felt as if his thigh was being sizzled; it was thankful Liz was holding it firmly in place. Jackson closed his eyes as she removed his bulletproof vest, revealing the other wound; it didn’t feel as bad as the other one, but he still didn’t want to see it. Seth quickly applied a tourniquet to his thigh, using a guide he had also packed.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Seth mumbled.
“What’s wrong?” Liz said.
“He’s… He’s bleeding internally.”
Jackson opened his eyes to see purple marks appearing along his leg. Byron had taught him about this, having himself suffered this kind of problem in the past: it was indeed a sign of internal bleeding.
“Egghead got some lucky shots,” Jackson said. Even talking was getting harder. “Nevermind that. The portal. We… We need to take care…”
“The portal can wait, you need help!” Liz said. “Let’s get you out of here. We can come back later.”
“You don’t understand. Portal’s already open. Only a matter of time now. Have to destroy it. Both sides.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll do that,” Seth said, “but first we’ve got to get you out. The nearest hospital…”
“Won’t make it that far, Seth,” Jackson said softly.
“What are you talking about?!” Liz cried out. She placed her paws around her face, turning it towards her.
“I broke my promise, Liz. I’m sorry.” He forced a smile.
“Stop talking like that! You’re not doing this to me, Jack.”
He placed a hand over her paw to brush it. It was smeared with his own blood, but then so was the paw. Then, he nodded towards the portal.
“I’m gonna give you some of th’ explosives I found, then I’m gonna pass through th’ portal,” he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact despite the fact that he felt weaker with every word. He took a breath, winced when the pain in his lung flared up, and added: “Blow that thing up. Don’t wait- Don’t wait for me, just-”
“No!” Liz screamed.
She was crying. The sight of her tears was more painful than the gunshots, Jackson thought.
“Gotta be done, Liz. Has to be me. Anyone we send might not make it back. Who knows what’s on- on the other side?”
“Jack, please,” Liz whispered.
“Gotta be done,” he repeated softly. “I’m sorry.”
Jackson gestured for Seth to help him stand up. The Demon did, looking too stunned to say or do anything else. Jackson was still strong enough to stand, but only just. He picked up his bag, packed up most of the explosives that had fallen out of it, and gave the rest to his friend, along with two detonators from his pocket.
“Bury that place underground. Okay?” he told him.
Seth slowly nodded.
Liz watched them, still down on her knees.
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out through her tears.
A smile appeared on Jackson’s mouth, and this time it wasn’t forced. He turned back to her as she stood up.
“I did one of those tests a few days ago,” she said. “I wanted to keep it a surprise until after…” She bit her lip. “Please, Jack. Please don’t do this. Our children will need a father.”
“They’ll have one,” Jackson said.
He looked at Seth, and tapped his shoulder.
“You’ll take care of them, won’t you, Seth?”
“Yes. Of course.” There definitely were tears in his eyes as well.
“Swear to me?”
“I swear,” he said, his voice cracking. “I swear I’ll take care of them, I’ll love them. I’ll protect them. Until the day I die. Even after, if I can.”
Jackson pulled on his shoulder, trying to bring him against him for a hug, but he didn’t have the strength; he could hardly feel his fingers anymore. Seth moved closer, holding his best friend in his arms hard enough to squeeze the air out of him.
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” he said.
“Me too, buddy.” Jackson wiped his nose with the blade of his hand. “Okay. Make sure you’re out of range b’fore it goes off. And try t’find Stanton. He’s hurt, he might not have gone too far.”
He went to kiss Liz. He wanted to make it a long, romantic kiss, but the blood in his mouth soured it. Feeling her taste on his lips did give him the boost he needed to walk to the portal.
“I love you guys,” he said.
Still looking at them with a smile, Jackson Pulver stepped back into the circular structure, and disappeared.
***
Stanton yelped as he tightened the piece of cloth ripped from his shirt around his shoulder wound. It was going to be okay, he told himself. He was nearly at the end of the tunnel; he could tell from the markings on the wall. The ladder was now less than a hundred feet away. After that, he would grab the car kept there for emergencies, and just drive away. The wound didn’t look good, but she could probably arrange for some kind of back-alley doctor to take care of him. Better to avoid hospitals, they were bound to ask how he got shot. He was still holding the sword.
There was a deafening sound, and the ground shook for a brief second. Damnit, they did it! These bastards had destroyed the portal. His portal! The work of a lifetime, gone. Who on Earth were these people? How did they know about his work, about his secret base? And this sword… Where did they get that? This was no ordinary sword, Stanton was sure of it.
Then, he heard footsteps from the other end of the tunnel. People were running after him. He resumed running as well. Within a minute, he reached the ladder, and climbed it as fast as his shoulder allowed. The fresh air of the night felt like Heaven on his face as he emerged from the hole. All right, no time to dilly-dally. The car was to the left, parked right under to the-
Stanton gasped as he saw the billboard, left of the hole. The car was there… but so was she.
“Mrs Bianchi,” he said, stuttering.
She was standing in front of the car, arms crossed, her face impassive as usual.
“We’ve had a problem,” Stanton said.
“I am aware,” she replied. Her voice was tense, her gaze hard.
“Some people attacked us. The portal… It’s destroyed.”
She said nothing.
“But that’s… That’s not a problem,” he quickly said. “We can build another one. We’ll find another place, and we’ll start again. All we need is for you to give me another push-”
“I no longer have the power to do so,” she retorted, cold anger building up in her eyes. “My connection to my world has been severed. Your failure today has set our plans back years, perhaps more.”
Stanton inadvertently took a step back, his face turning pale. “I- Wait, wait.” He held up the sword. “One of the attackers carried this. This is clearly a transdimensional artifact. If it contains any residual energy, we can…”
In a move so quick he didn’t see it, she ripped the sword out of his hands. Stanton gasped, and took another step back, his heart beating so fast it might burst out of his chest.
“You have allowed our enemies to stall Their plans,” she said. Her voice had not raised, but her fury was now plainly evident. “You have failed not only me, but the Divine as well.”
“No, no, no, wait, wait-”
Before Stanton could beg or run for his life, the blade had sliced through his neck, severing the head from his body. His corpse fell to the ground with a faint sound, while the head rolled a few feet away. She didn’t even give him a parting glance before she disappeared into the air.
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