Psychological Damage (Gray Spear Society) Page 18

  He surreptitiously looked around. He still didn't see anything suspicious.

  He spotted a parking garage down the block. That will work, he thought.

  He walked swiftly in that direction. When he reached the garage, he entered the nearest stairwell. His footsteps echoed from concrete walls.

  He made sure the door was closed. He drew his gun and stood in the corner to right of the door.

  Several seconds passed. He became worried the Brotherhood would never come and he was wasting his time. Then the door opened and two men rushed in. One wore a cheap, brown business suit, and the other had blue sweatpants and a T-shirt. They headed up the stairs, oblivious to Smythe's presence.

  "Gentlemen," he said. "Don't move." He cocked the trigger of his gun.

  The men froze.

  "Hands against the wall," Smythe said. "Keep them nice and high. No sudden movements, please."

  They complied. Holding his gun with one hand, Smythe patted down both men with the other hand. He found a couple of pistols and tossed them under the stairs. Then he stepped back to a safer distance.

  "Are you members of the Brotherhood of the Luciferian Child?" Smythe said.

  The man in the T-shirt answered quickly, "No, we're not!"

  "You're a terrible liar, and I only need one prisoner. Sorry." Smythe shot him in the chest, and the gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. Smythe aimed at the other man. "What about you?"

  "Yes. I'm in the Brotherhood."

  Smythe nodded. "What's your name?"

  "Emmanuel."

  "Get moving, Emmanuel." Smythe waved his gun towards the door. "You and I are going to take a ride in my car. My friends want to ask you a few questions."

  "The Devil can ask me all the questions in the world," Emmanuel said quietly. "I will answer with prayers."

  "Move, asshole!"

  They left the stairwell. Smythe stayed right behind Emmanuel every step of the way. When they reached the street, Smythe put his gun under his shirt, but he kept a firm grip on it.

  "The Devil?" he whispered. "Are you serious?"

  "You are foul creatures of Satan," Emmanuel said. "Do not deny it."

  "I'll deny it because it isn't true. I don't even believe in Satan. I'm a scientist."

  "Then why are you protecting the Luciferian Child?"

  "You gave him that name," Smythe said. "I actually met the kid, and he seemed nice to me."

  "He will become the Man of Sin, the Abomination that causes desolations. His rise to absolute power will bring despair to the world. His depredation will ruin entire nations."

  "Wow." Smythe blinked. "That's a lot to put on an eight year old."

  A teenage girl was walking on the sidewalk towards them. He gripped his gun a little tighter in case Emmanuel tried something. The monk maintained a relaxed, steady pace.

  "I'm sure he seemed innocent to you. The child was spawned by the Master Deceiver after all. He corrupts everything he touches."

  As the girl went past, he abruptly dived behind her. Smythe waved his gun but couldn't get a clear shot. The girl shrieked when she saw the weapon.

  Emmanuel pulled a two shot derringer from somewhere under his clothes. He fired upwards, and Smythe felt the bullet graze his arm. With his much larger gun, he blasted Emmanuel in the face. The back of Emmanuel's head exploded, spraying blood across the sidewalk.

  The girl ran, screaming. Traffic on the street stopped and everybody looked at Smythe.

  Smythe shook his head at the mess. Where did that derringer come from? I should've searched him better.

  He quickly checked the body but only found a wallet. Then he ran off.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brother Norbert looked through the thick window of the hyperbaric chamber. The prisoner was in a black, cloth sack hanging from the ceiling. He was struggling to escape, but the sack was tied at the top and made of strong material.

  Doctor Ishii pressed a button connected to a hoist, and the sack slowly descended into a barrel filled with ice water. The prisoner thrashed desperately when he touched the water but couldn't stop himself from going under. Ishii let him stay submerged for half a minute before pulling him back up.

  Norbert shuddered. The things we do in God's name, he thought.

  He turned to Father Wulfram. The priest was lost in thought as he sat in his wheelchair. His two attendants waited for orders a few paces away. Their beefy arms were thicker than Father's thin neck.

  "The man is tough," Norbert said. "I'll give him that much."

  "I'm sure Doctor Ishii will break him soon," Father said.

  Norbert walked over to a table where the prisoner's clothes and other possessions were laid out. There was a cell phone, which was considerably larger than usual, heavy, and made of gray metal. There were no marks indicating a manufacturer. Norbert had turned it off immediately after capturing the prisoner so the signal couldn't be tracked. He was still proud of himself for thinking about that.

  "Sir, is something wrong? You seem very quiet."

  "I had a difficult conversation with our friends in the Vatican," Father said. "We discussed what happened to the soldiers. The Swiss Guard is not a large force, and the loss of thirty-eight men will be impossible to conceal or justify. I fear the debacle cost us some important allies."

  "Our faith is being tested, sir, but it is strong." Norbert stood tall. "I remember what you said when you recruited me. The road would be very long and hard. We're battling the Supreme Adversary, second in power only to the Lord God. We should expect many setbacks."

  "I'm more worried about our enemies within the Church at this moment. Doubters and critics have always whispered behind my back. They call me deluded, hysterical, and even insane. They presume old age has hobbled my mind. These 'setbacks' strengthen their hand. If the tide of sentiment in Rome turns hard against us, our mission will become impossibly difficult."

  "We don't need help from bitter men who live on the far side of the world. We have the Lost Child Initiative."

  Father shook his head. "The Initiative is useful, but it can't provide the steady flow of money, fresh recruits, and other resources we must have. I don't have to tell you how expensive this operation is, and the budget is always growing." He sighed.

  Norbert remembered the pile of gold bullion he had seen in the enemy's underground bunker. That much wealth could've paid for a year's worth of Brotherhood expenses.

  Norbert walked over and put his hand on Father's bony shoulder. "We will succeed, sir. It is our destiny."

  Father frowned.

  "Will anybody else help us?" Norbert said. "We need more soldiers. Our monks have strong spirits and bodies, but their skills might not be sufficient. We should've trained harder when we had the chance. Prayer and meditation don't teach a man how to shoot a gun."

  "I know of one group called the Sons of Michael."

  Norbert drew back. "Aren't they Christian extremists who bomb abortion clinics?"

  "Yes," Father said. "Obviously, they're not my first choice of allies, but these are desperate times. They're based in Michigan, which is conveniently close."

  "Can they fight?"

  "Indeed. They're dedicated survivalists. They train every day in preparation for the Apocalypse. If I explain our situation to them, I'm sure they'll be eager to help. Our goals and philosophies overlap enough."

  "This idea makes me uneasy, sir." Norbert grimaced. "They aren't even proper Catholics. But if they can follow orders, I suppose we can use them."

  * * *

  Smythe opened the door of the hotel suite where Ethel, Atalanta, and the legate were staying. He walked into the main room and found Atalanta exercising. She had pushed all the furniture away to make more space.

  She wore a gray leotard soaked with sweat. Her tall, muscular body moved like a machine as she performed an elaborate series of punches and kicks. Even when she flew through the air or rolled on the ground, her balance and form were perfect. Her focus was uncanny. It was like w
atching a video game instead of a real person.

  She paused and looked at Smythe. "Give me a hand. Throw those at me." She pointed at a pile of clay bricks on the floor.

  "Really?" He raised his eyebrows.

  "As hard as you can."

  He shrugged and picked up a brick. Without warning he hurled it at her.

  She smashed the brick in the air with her fist. Fragments and dust settled to the floor.

  "Again," she said calmly.

  He was deeply impressed. Breaking a brick was hard enough when it was sitting still. He knew no matter how hard he trained, he would never reach her level. At least not without divine intervention, he thought.

  He went through the entire pile. With a variety of attacks, she broke all the bricks and made a big mess in the process.

  She nodded. "Thank you."

  "My pleasure." He smiled. "If there are any other things you want me to throw at you, let me know."

  "Clean up this room. I'm going to take a shower." She walked off.

  He clenched his jaw.

  "I apologize for her behavior," the legate said. "Her social skills are pitiful. It's a good thing her duties don't require her to be polite."

  Smythe jumped in surprise. The legate was standing next to him.

  "Sir!" Smythe said. "I didn't see you come in."

  "Of course not," the legate said. "I thought you were going to capture one of the Brotherhood."

  He wore an old fashioned, velvet bathrobe. His gray hair was neatly combed but damp.

  "I tried and failed, sir. He's dead. I'll do a better job next time."

  "That's unfortunate. Are you hurt?"

  Smythe looked down at his arm. There was a blood stain where the bullet had grazed him. "Just a scratch, sir, but I could use a bandage. I did get this." He handed over Emmanuel's wallet.

  The legate examined the wallet carefully. "The identification is fake but the quality of the forgery is high. Not up to our standards, but not bad."

  "I had a brief conversation with the monk before I killed him. The Brotherhood believes we work for the Devil."

  "That makes sense." The legate nodded. "We are protecting the Antichrist, according to them. The Spears cell in Rome gave me some new information. Eight years ago Father Reginald Wulfram had an ecstatic vision. That's when he founded the Brotherhood of the Luciferian Child for the sole purpose of killing Wesley. Officially, the Catholic Church denies the Brotherhood exists. However, elements within the Church covertly support Wulfram. He is widely respected and admired. He has led a life full of noble achievements."

  Smythe sighed. "This mission sucks. Good guys killing good guys."

  "I also found out the Brotherhood attacked your headquarters, as we expected. Thirty-eight soldiers from the Vatican Swiss Guard died, along with an unknown number of monks. The entire Vatican is buzzing about it."

  Smythe began to clean up the broken bricks. He had no interest in arguing with Atalanta over such a minor issue. The suite had a small kitchen, and he found some garbage bags under the sink. There was no broom or dustpan, so he used his hands instead to pick up the pieces.

  The legate helped with the cleanup, which surprised Smythe. The legate was arguably one of the most powerful men in North America. If he ordered a hit on the President of the United States, it would happen. Ordinary laws meant nothing to him, and money wasn't even a consideration. An army of elite warriors, many with supernatural talents, was his to command.

  Yet he was picking up shards of brick like a housekeeper.

  Smythe had met many successful leaders in his military career, and in his expert opinion, the legate was one of the best. He was decisive and insightful when it mattered. Despite his exalted position, he never belittled the people around him. Respect flowed both ways at all times.

  "What's your opinion of Ethel?" the legate said. "She's asleep. You can speak freely."

  Smythe opened his eyes wide. "You're asking me, sir? I'm just a rookie."

  "Exactly. You still have an outsider's point of view."

  "Sir, I can't criticize my commanding officer. It undermines her authority."

  "I appreciate and support that sentiment," the legate said, "but I have to insist you give me an honest report. Ethel is past due for a performance evaluation. Even the best soldier needs occasional guidance. I assure you anything you tell me will not get back to her."

  "Yes, sir." Smythe frowned with discomfort. "Clearly, her greatest weakness is her impatience. I know she sees the world at a different speed. A few minutes for us seems like an hour for her. However, it handicaps her ability to make decisions. She usually chooses the most aggressive solution to any problem just so she doesn't have to wait."

  "She is very aware of that issue. Her speed was a gift from God, but it came with a price tag. What else?"

  Smythe picked up a few more bricks. "Her greatest strength is her intuition." He paused. "I'm a scientist, so it bothers me to say this, but she seems to know God's will. Sometimes it's scary. She'll make predictions that have no rational basis, but they come true. It's like she always sees the big picture."

  "Yes. Her relationship with the Lord is very special. I'm jealous."

  "You are, sir?"

  Smythe looked around but the legate was gone. He had vanished.

  "Sorry." Suddenly, the legate was standing next to him again. "Do you like working for her?"

  Smythe thought about that question. Joining the Gray Spear Society wasn't a choice he had made. Ethel had simply told him he was a member, and she would kill him if he quit. He wasn't angry about it anymore. She had compelled him to make the right choice despite his strenuous objections.

  "I wish she were more flexible," Smythe said. "She has a very specific vision of how a Spear should act. If you fail to meet her expectations, the situation can get ugly. I've never seen her kill one of her own people, but the threat is legitimate. When she's around, nobody relaxes. Except for Aaron."

  "Oh?"

  "That guy is as solid as a mountain. He never gets upset. He sleeps with Marina for God's sake. Most people get scared when they're just in the room with her, but he treats her like a regular girlfriend."

  "Interesting," the legate said. "What is the relationship between Aaron and Ethel?"

  "He is her chief advisor. All strategic planning goes through him. Marina has a lot more seniority, but everybody knows he is the real second in command. No doubt about it."

  They had finished cleaning up as well as they could with their hands. Calling the maid service would have to wait until everybody was out of the suite. Smythe and the legate just pushed the furniture back into place.

  "Speaking of sex," the legate said. "How are you dealing with your... physical needs?"

  "Not very effectively, sir," Smythe replied in a low voice.

  "The Society doesn't mandate celibacy. Sexual urges can distract us from our mission. Traditionally, we employ professionals to manage the situation. Once a week is customary. Make sure you choose a clean and reliable woman who adheres to the highest standards of the profession. The Society will pay for the best of course."

  "Ethel never mentioned this."

  "She wouldn't," the legate said. "You might ask Jack who he uses. I'm sure he has a list."

  "I don't think he does anything outside of work."

  The legate smiled. "Like the rest of us, Jack has a checkered history. The Society doesn't recruit boy scouts."

  He sat on a couch. Smythe took a chair facing him.

  "If you don't mind my asking, sir," Smythe said, "what is your 'checkered' history?"

  "That's none of your business," Atalanta said.

  He jumped again. She was standing right behind him. He was growing tired of these people sneaking up on him, and he wished he could do something about it. He swore to himself he would work a lot harder on his ninja skills.

  "It's all right," the legate said. "I don't mind telling my story. I have to start by saying I'm one of the old timers. I've been a Sp
ear for forty-five years."

  "A long time," Smythe said.

  "I wish I could retire. It sounds trite, but I'm getting too old for this shit. There are twenty-two cells in North America, and a fire is always burning somewhere. My life is endless crisis management. I don't have a home. I have an office in New York, but I almost never see it."

  "Except for the gray hair, you don't look that old, sir."

  The legate smiled. "You're too kind, really. I'm not just tired physically. My job takes me into situations that can ruin a man's spirit."

  "What were you before you joined the Spears?" Smythe leaned forward.

  "The 1960's was an interesting time. The Cuban Missile Crisis, the Vietnam War, John F. Kennedy. The United States and the USSR were fighting for control of the world. A highly intelligent, young man could earn a nice paycheck by working for both sides at once."

  "You were a double agent?"

  "I had many bosses," the legate said, "but I only respected money. It was a good life for a little while. I learned how to blend into any crowd and work every angle. However, the Chinese eventually figured out I was working for the Russians, and they learned I was working for the Americans. And there was that nasty business with the Iranians. Suddenly, everybody wanted me dead."

  "I'm shocked," Smythe said with a smile.

  "Only one organization still valued my exceptional talents. It was a shadowy, international conspiracy with an obscure agenda. The only thing I knew was they would protect me. That's how I joined the Gray Spear Society."

  "I'm surprised they took you in, sir. The Society places strong emphasis on loyalty and trust. You had a reputation as a traitor."

  The legate nodded. "They told me my behavior needed to improve. In fact we had that conversation on the roof of a fifty story building. Rather, they were on the roof while I was dangling over the edge and soiling myself. I learned a lesson that day: all the money in the world won't stop gravity from turning you into street pizza."

  Smythe snorted.

  "Go wake up Ethel," the legate said. "We have matters to discuss."

  "Yes, sir."

  Smythe went to the bedroom where Ethel was staying. He knocked on the door, and she immediately opened it. She wore an old fashioned nightgown with a purple flower pattern.