FRIDAY
“Fall back! Fall back!”
Frank bellowed out the order to the young Draculesti warrior next to him as he laid down a torrent of suppressing fire. The FAL juddered and shook as it cycled furiously, Frank panning the rifle back and forth in the rain sodden forest. As he felt his companion go blundering through the mud and overgrowth behind him, Frank displaced as well. Return fire zipped and cracked past him, splintering small branches and scattering foliage.
The job had started well enough. Stops at the pockets of human resistance around Harbaburesti, then onwards down a winding road that led to the main Draculesti camp in the area. The majority of the supplies aboard were for them; they even had a few of the band of monster hunters along as drivers and to give help lugging the cargo. Then their two truck convoy had taken fire from a high ridgeline about ten minutes from the camp. They'd slipped the killzone, gotten to the camp, and unloaded the food, medicine and ammunition aboard.
Wanting to know who the hell had shot at them, Frank, Felicity Bane, and four Draculesti volunteers had made their way back to the ambush site. Frank and his Draculesti partner had stayed about one hundred yards back from Bane and the rest of the group, trying to be as stealthy as possible. Upon reaching the ambush site, Bane and company had been engaged. Frank had spied out a second group of unknown assailants moving through the rain to take Bane's group from behind. His young teammate had started shooting at them before all of them were out of cover, however. And then they had discovered they'd bitten off more than they could chew.
Standard supply run. Uh huh.
Squelching through the muck, rain cascading off the bill of his ball cap, Frank could see that the Kalash toting Draculesti had retreated behind a low stone wall. It was almost all that was left of what might have been a homestead before the family had left, and nature had reclaimed the property. Here in magically awakened Transylvania, the land 'reclaiming' the homestead might have been quite literal. Vaulting over the wall, Frank found himself splashing into a puddle as he dumped the FAL's empty magazine, drawing a fresh one from a pouch on his chest rig.
As he rocked the magazine into place, he glanced over at the younger man.
“Check yer rounds while we gotta chance.”
“...rounds?”
English was a distant second language for the fellow. Frank blinked, and tapped the magazine he'd just put into the FAL.
“Ammo! Bullets! Bul-lets!” He sounded out the word and his partner nodded quickly, removing the sickle mag on his Kalash and replacing it with one from a satchel.
Frank pressed himself to the wall, aiming his rifle out into the rainy murk. After the metallic click of the Kalash being reloaded, there was naught but the patter-splat of rain on his hat. On the wall. On the leaves of the trees. On the ground.
Patter-splat. Patter-splat.
Who the hell were these guys?
“Two, one.” Bane's voice crackled in Frank's earpiece. For this little job they'd simply established 'Team One” and “Team Two.” Frank took his left hand off the FAL's handguard to depress the push to talk button on his rig.
“One, this is two. Go ahead.”
“Kinda in a fix here. Can you link up?” The sounds of more distant gunfire rolled towards them.
Frowning as the rain continued to fall, Frank continued to look for their enemies.
“Negative, one. Ran into a second fireteam. Estimate four to six.”
There was a pause. Before Bane could speak again, another fusillade came zipping from the trees, smacking into the stone wall or sailing over their heads.
“One, we are engaging!” He had to shout the words as the Draculesti with him started to rip off long bursts into the rain. Frank started to squeeze off rounds as well. He couldn't see anything distinctly, just muzzle flashes, and so he aimed at those. The stone wall gave them an advantage for the moment, however, and the opposing fire seemed to slacken somewhat. Gritting his teeth, Frank tried once more to pick out shapes in the obscuring rain moving among the trees.
Nothing.
Think, you idiot!
Then he thought of it. Just like his great uncle Clancy, Frank had the Calhoun family magic in him. Magic that was connected to the earth, drew from it, depended on it. Magic that heightened not only his ability to shoot, but his senses as well. To utilize the magic in his bloodline required concentration, though.
Exhaling, Frank tried to center himself as the wide eyed Draculesti next to him braced himself against the wall.
Before Frank could start focus, however, his keen eyes picked out a baseball sized object hurtling towards them from the rain.
Frank had always laughed a little bit in movies when the hero saw a grenade and shouted out the obvious. He now knew it was helpful; it warned folks around you that perhaps didn't see it. Right now, though, there was a secondary reason for him shouting.
Holy shit, it's a fucking grenade.
“GRENADE!”
And then he was frantically pulling, then pushing, the Draculesti fighter away from their position. Luck was on their side, and they managed to start running before there was a rib rattling wump behind them. Frank could feel a sudden sharp, burning pain in his hip as they pelted through the trees, moving into a creekbed. Chill water flowed around their ankles.
“You...you are bleeding,” murmured his companion. Frank waved at him dismissively.
“I'm fine, damnit. Eyes front.”
Their mystery opponents had used mainly semi automatic fire, and had moved quietly and efficiently. When Frank and his partner bunkered down, they used grenades to flush them out. Whoever they were were pretty damned good. And they were pushing the two of them farther and farther from Bane and her crew.
They needed to wrap this shit up. Now.
Sucking in a breath, Frank closed his eyes and began to concentrate, sagging below the lip of the creekbed.
“What...what you doing?”
Frank didn't bother opening his eyes.
“Listenin'.”
“Ah, okay. Okay. Listening.”
“For fiddles.”
“...what?”
Despite the situation, Frank grinned crookedly. For his great uncle, it had been a voice on the wind.
For Frank, it was fiddle music. He reached outward with his senses. Calmed himself. Slowed his breathing. They were out there, somewhere. He just had to find them.
As he connected with his family's magic, one hand slowly pulled out the iPod that served as his elemental microfocus. The bad guys had the advantage of numbers, and could thus outmaneuver them. Time to take that advantage away.
There.
“Ah, I think...you should open your eyes, yes...”
Frank had found them. Two groups of two. One was advancing head on, the second bellying out to their left. Almost on cue, they started taking fire from the front. Yelping in alarm, the Draculesti ducked down as bullets struck the ground, punching up wet sod. Shouting out something in Romanian at Frank, he started to return fire blindly.
The first group wasn't who Frank was interested in. The flankers were. Just a little closer...
Eyes still closed, Frank chuckled, and willed his elementalist magic to life.
Gotcha, motherfuckers.
Suddenly, off to their left, blizzarding snow and ice sprang into being from nothing. There were cries of alarm as the two gunmen moving to their left were abruptly frozen in place from the knees down. Only then did Frank pop up above the embankment, firing four anima infused shots, two per man.
One two! One two!
The FAL thumped against his shoulder as he delivered the kill-shots, then dropped back out of sight. The magically created frost released its hold on the two men, and their bodies fell over, no longer kept in place.
Ahead of them, Frank could hear snarled obscenities as more shots were sent their way. Now, though, Frank joined his partner and began blasting away into the woods back at them, balancing the rifle on the lip of the creekbed, still holding the elemental focus in his other hand. In addition to bullets, he started sending jagged bolts of lightning helter skelter through the trees. There was a pop-hiss, and smoke appeared as the two remaining gunmen used a distraction grenade. Frank sent a few more shots into the smoke, then stopped, waving at the Draculesti to do likewise.
They were breaking off. Frank took a deep breath, resting his forehead against the ground for a moment. Using both the family gift and his own magic at the same time was taxing, but it had worked. Blinking a few times, Frank pulled himself out of the creekbed, now completely soaked from the knees down. The Draculesti joined him, shaking his head.
“Not like Call of Duty. Not at all.”
Frank barked a quick laugh, then winced. That wound in his hip was starting to really hurt now, and he slumped against a tree as he keyed his radio to get a hold of Bane. Their group too had been seen off, but some of the Draculesti with her were injured. The Draculesti camp was sending vehicles to pick them up. And the bodies of their enemies. Frank nodded, and advised her of their position. Taking his hand off the PTT button, Frank nodded over at the young fighter.
“Naw. Not like Call of Duty at all, huh?”
Many hours later, as evening started to creep over Transylvania, Frank was in the cyclopean underground realm of Agartha, taking its time and space bending paths to New York. His wound had been seen to, as had the injuries incurred by some of the Draculesti with Felicity Bane. The bodies of their still unknown assailants had been taken back to the camp, and pictures of their faces taken. Inquiries were being made among both Frank and Bane's contacts. These weren't bandits, or Romanian deserters.
Sanitized fatigues that could have been purchased anywhere in the world, well maintained automatic weapons, balaclavas, radios, the works. The bodies screamed 'deniable assets.' Hopefully their contacts would come up with something.
For now, though, with the job done Frank was on his way to yet another appointment. He'd taken the opportunity to change and wash himself at the camp. Thanks to the miraculous travel network that was Agartha, he was arriving in New York state at lunch time.
On schedule for his rendezvous with McKenzie Thatcher.
The twenty-something year old Thatcher was from a family with strong ties to the Illuminati. Despite the fact their two societies had generations old antagonism towards each other, Frank and McKenzie had established a friendly relationship. That relationship more often than not was of the 'grounded country uncle' visiting his 'city girl niece.' As Frank exited the Rochester Agartha portal and made his way to street level, no doubt monitored in at least three ways by Illuminati surveillance, he remarked to himself how Thatcher was a good example of the diversity of personality and ability one found in the ranks of the Secret World.
At first glance, Thatcher could just be a post graduate student with a love of baking, especially dessert items. Frank had enjoyed a session in her kitchen once in which Thatcher had become a diminutive brown haired whirlwind, somehow managing to produce cheesecake, cupcakes and cookies all in the same afternoon. To say it was a passion of hers was an understatement.
Then one learned Thatcher worked as a cryptographer as her 'office job' with the Illuminati, highlighting her analytical side as she dealt with ciphers and codes from all over the world—and all over history.
...and then one discovered that McKenzie Thatcher, when angry, could draw upon anima-enhanced strength and bench press a grown man above her five foot two inch frame.
And throw said grown man into a garbage dumpster like a basketball.
Grinning to himself at the memory—and glad it hadn't been him—Frank ambled into the restaurant they were to meet at. McKenzie wanted to introduce him to a 'Rochester garbage plate.'
The combination of cheeseburgers, sausages, eggs, home fries, mustard, onions and hot sauce all atop each other sounded incredibly unhealthy. And, after a day of being shot at and soaked in the rain it sounded exactly like what the doctor ordered.
Thatcher was waiting for him, clad in her trademark orange turtleneck and black leggings. She waved from the table she was sitting at, and Frank dodged past busy servers to join her. He favored her with a crooked grin.
“Appreciate y'waitin' on me.”
“No problem, Frank. I told them what we were going to order once you got here.”
Frank relaxed in the booth, 'Agartha lag' finally starting to catch up with him. Where to start? They hadn't seen each other in some time, and she knew nothing of his globe trotting adventure as a fugitive, his time in lock up, the loss of his rank, his release and new start...
She stirred her ice water with a straw, starting to speak before he did, in a calm, monotone voice.
“So, one of Simon's exes kidnapped me...”
Frank blinked, then shook his head.
“Y'know, hon, maybe y'oughta start instead of me.”
