Thirty minutes before the appointed time, ten men in black BDUs and military gear entered through the front doors and the rear garage doors. They came in silently, professionally. They took up positions in much the same way as we had when we'd entered -- climbing the stacks of crates or hiding behind them in order to lay in wait, presumably for the buyer and/or seller. I studied them as they set up. They were carrying World War II-era rifles, probably M1s. That made no sense. Why would a well-equipped group like this -- they were wearing modern body armour and carrying modern gear -- tote fifty-plus year old weapons? Was anybody involved in this deal sane?
Twenty minutes later, three guys in black tees and green camo pants entered through the three windows at the top of the side wall. These guys, at least, came properly armed: each held a Kalashnikov rifle. They perched at the top of the wall and waited.
At precisely fifteen hundred hours, a man in a business suit and dark jacket came in the front doors. He had a briefcase in his hand and he walked to the center of the warehouse and stopped. Thirty seconds later a man in a trench coat stepped out from behind a stack of crates and moved to stand opposite him.
Where the hell had he come from? We were here two hours early and there was no one here when we arrived.
Trench Coat and the man with the briefcase, whom I suspected was none other than Frank Black, come to purchase his very expensive stick, exchanged some brief words on the subject of the sale. Black opened his briefcase to reveal a pack of cash and a few other items -- a ring, a few small bottles, some rope. Trench Coat seemed satisfied with the contents of the case. Weirdos. Sooner I got this sceptre to my client, the sooner I could wash my hands of the lot of them.
There was a deafening bang as Alvin ripped open the crate he and one of the others was hiding in. The hunk of metal, eight feet long and at least three feet wide, flew across the warehouse like a rectangular frisbee, missing Trench Coat, who didn't even flinch, and causing Black to step back to avoid being clipped by it.
"What's this all about?" asked Black, glaring past Trench Coat toward Alvin. Trench Coat was obviously the seller, so I trained my weapon on him.
On the ground, the other fellow in the crate stepped out, a pair of revolvers in his hands. He brought them to bear on Trench Coat. "Drop the sceptre!"
Trench Coat looked up at Alvin. "There's no need for violence, officer," he said calmly. Then he looked into the rafters, right at Maeve, who was hiding there and hadn't made a move nor a sound. "I don't have time to settle a family dispute right now. Come down or leave."
Family dispute? I didn't know much about the motives of most of these people, but if Maeve's family were selling the Khatvanga, maybe she knew more than she was letting on. Was there anybody in this group who hadn't lied to me?
Alvin grabbed Trench Coat by his collar and hoisted him effortlessly off the ground. "Drop the Khatvanga," he rumbled.
Trench Coat responded by giving the case with the sceptre a sharp flick. He tossed the case aside as the sceptre fell, plucking the Khatvanga from the air gracefully.
Several of us were jolted into action at the sight of that sceptre in Trench Coat's hand. Maeve dropped down from the rafters, sword in hand, and attempted to take Trench Coat's hand off at the wrist. He made a near-imperceptible movement and blocked the blow with the sceptre, which sparked as if it were made of metal. Alvin, apparently annoyed that his order hadn't been obeyed, used his other gartanguan hand to snap Trench Coat's right arm. I heard the sound from where I was hidden. Trench Coat maintained his grip on the sceptre, but he looked somewhat pained.
I had Trench Coat in my sights. He was distracted, and he still held the sceptre. Though I wasn't a sniper, per se, I had taken shots like these dozens of times before. My crosshairs held steady over Trench Coat's heart. I took in a slow breath, held it, then released it as I depressed the trigger on my rifle. It was a center-of-mass strike, a dead-on hit. It was a hit that would have dropped just about anybody. Well, maybe anybody but Alvin. But Trench Coat didn't drop. Even wearing body armour, he ought to have felt that. If he did, he gave little outward sign. He didn't even look up at me.
Frank Black, probably annoyed that he wasn't the center of attention, and wasn't getting the goods he'd expected, shouted, "I'm getting tired of this." He waved his hand in a 'move forward' gesture. "KILL THEM!"
Gunfire erupted from every direction. I saw the fellow who'd been with Alvin in the crate try to smash Black over the head with one of his revolvers. Who taught these people how to fight, anyway? To my surprise, the gun deflected loudly off ... the air, it seemed, in front of Black. It looked as if he were standing out in the heat in the middle of summer -- the air shimmered in front of him, but only in front.
A couple of bullets cracked into the crate I was perched on, and I rolled aside just in time to avoid being hit. Alvin, still holding Trench Coat, took a couple rounds and, releasing his grip, toppled over backward like a felled tree. I anticipated the vibration and sound of his impact, but he seemed to fall through the floor and vanish. Bloody weirdos. I had too much on my mind to worry about it at the time. Survive first, succeed second, worry about the damned nutjobs later.
A huge wolf leaped in from somewhere -- I certainly hadn't seen it enter -- and clamped its jaws onto Trench Coat's right arm. The gigantic head thrashed back and forth in a savage attempt to rip the limb from its socket. Trench Coat wriggled free somehow, but in the process the sceptre flew from his grasp and went skittering across the warehouse floor.
If I went down there I'd be cut to pieces. There were thirteen soldiers I knew about hiding amongst the crates, three with Kalashnikovs. Everyone's focus was on that damned stick. But if I didn't fulfil my contract...
I slung my rifle over my shoulder and bounded down from my perch on top of the crates. I rolled as I landed on the concrete floor, came up in a crouch, and scooped up the sceptre, changing course immediately to head for the front doors at a dead run. That's a poor choice of phrase, James.
As luck would have it, not everyone in the warehouse immediately opened fire on me. I think a few of them had more important matters to deal with, such as being eaten by a giant wolf or a hungry-looking panther. All the same, I did my best evasive maneuvers dance -- zigging and zagging and trying to keep my head down as much as I could to prevent it from being untimely blown off. I didn't know what was so goddamned special about this bone bloody sceptre, but I had it. I had it in my hot little hand and wasn't nobody gonna take it off me now.
I distinctly heard the sound of metal scraping, and it occurred to me that Trench Coat had had an odd-looking lump on his back, beneath his coat. Normally I don't pay much heed to wackos who tote swords around, but there had been more of them in my vicinity in the last twenty-four hours than I was used to. Two of the weirdos in this little impromptu unit carried them, and while that doesn't necessarily make them anything other than two more wackos with swords, it had made me pay more attention to such things as deadly weapons.
Anybody can swing a sword or knife around, but it takes some skill to do serious, precise, life-threatening harm with one. I'd seen evidence that our sword-toters had done such damage, back in Kara's house. Beheadings are things I don't see every day. They stick in my mind. The glazed eyes of the severed head, staring out at nothing from a face frozen in fear or anger or some other emotion. My grandmother used to say if you pull a face too often it'll stick that way. This was something rather different. I didn't want my final expression frozen, etched permanently onto my features as my disconnected head rolled off into a dusty warehouse corner.
I felt more than heard Trench Coat moving up behind me. I was twenty yards from him, at least, and he closed the distance in an instant. The situation had just gone from 'oh shit' to 'get me the fuck out of Dodge'. I threw myself to one side, twisting on my heel just enough so I could see Trench Coat's sword slice down through the space where my head had just been. I felt the breeze as it moved, distinctly heard the near-silent 'snick' as the top millimetre or two of the hair on the back of my head was shorn clear. I didn't have a level between 'get me the fuck out of Dodge' and 'you're a dead man'. I hoped there was one.
I continued to pound on toward the door, which I swear was closer before the maniac with the sword started chasing me. There was a brief rending sound which I imagined was Mike the cat, hopefully taking a chunk out of Trench Coat. But I could still feel the guy behind me. You're on your own, Sterling, the remembered voice of my Commandant from the Foreign Legion ground out in my head. You're a Legionnaire. You're the best of the best. Major Pressman from the Special Air Service chimed in, Who Dares Wins, Sterling. Yeah, yeah, I know. Sirs, if you could kindly get out of my head for just a goddamned minute, I'm trying to not die here. Thank you and merci.
Behind me, I heard muttered words. They were too far away to be Trench Coat, who was right on top of me. There was a kind of a rushing sound that filled my ears for a moment, though I wasn't sure I was actually hearing it. I had the distinct sensation that a thunderclap had just occurred, but again, I didn't really hear it so much as ... sense it had happened. Why can't people just be normal, anyway?
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