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fiction: serial fiction
the crown, book one: chapter 9
A few wispy tendrils of clouds drifted lazily over the city as James sat, feet propped up on a window ledge, keeping an eye on the street. Erykah Badu crooned softly from the child-high stereo speaker behind him, and he vaguely heard Tonya singing along from the bathroom, her voice crystalline and penetrating even when merely overheard. James glanced to his right, past the Frank Miller Batman sketch hanging in the hall and the beaded doorway, and pursed his lips thoughtfully.
Tonya emerged from the beads, a brown tank top and a pair of Adidas sweatpants clinging to her curves, tying her braids up in a ponytail. "What's up?" she asked, flopping down on the couch.
James responded with a shrug, and returned his attention to the street.
"You don't have to stand guard, baby," Tonya said softly. "The sensors I put down there are really good, we'll be fine."
"I'm gonna smoke this guy," James said. "I mean, if he's half as bad as you say, he deserves to go down hard."
Tonya had no real response to that, so she bit her lip and said nothing.
"I did have a couple of minutes to think, 'what if he's a good guy, and Tonya is actually playing me? What if I was gonna turn out like this no matter what, and she's using me to settle an old grudge?'"
Tonya looked evenly at him. "That's a good line of questioning. You have only my word that Damian Dare is Set-Djed. Nothing more than my running commentary says that Damian Dare is a bad man."
"Well, there you're wrong," James said, turning towards her. "There's three conspiracy websites that have Damian Dare up in all kind of stuff. Likewise, I called my man Sincere in New York, trying to get a line on this guy, after you told me about him. I said the name and Sin got all nervous, wanted to get off the phone. Took it to IM and talked about this guy like he's the monster under your bed -- nothing provable, but everybody in Mecca is paranoid about this guy."
"You phoned Saudi Arabia?" Tonya wondered.
"Mecca, New York, Gotham," James said, waving a hand absently. "You know."
"I forgot for a second, I do remember some Rakim songs and looking that up."
"So yeah, Damian Dare is some kind of bad guy. I didn't bring up the idea he's been around longer than the US, but it's all possible."
"I respect the fact that you checked up on things for yourself," Tonya said appreciatively. "I am very scared that he will kill you, though."
"I've actually been doing a little bit of research about that, too," James said, rising and walking across the room to get his iBook. "If what you said is true, and he has no special abilities, he'll need to use a distance attack. I thought about it like the way I used to play this video game, Street Fighter. Some guys you had to fight from a distance. So he'll have a weapon, maybe, or if he's a real martial artist, he may even have the ability to throw chi at me as an attack."
"He used to be able to do that, it was from basic training in the Kemite army," Tonya said thoughtfully. "I used to know how, but I forgot."
"Anyway, I gotta practice flying speed and maneuverability, and make sure I can get out in the open. Likewise, I gotta figger a distance weapon I can use. With my strength, I'm figgering I can just throw stuff, rocks maybe, or cars if I have to, but I'd hate to ruin somebody's car. He doesn't sound like a guy who's spent too much time thinking about defense, only attack, you know?"
Tonya nodded. "That's good thinking."
James continued, "Only one drawback to this plan -- a flying guy fighting a fireball-throwing guy is a little higher profile than you like to be. I haven't thought my way out of that, but I have kind of an idea."
He reached near the speaker and opened a drawer, pulling out a comic book with "WildCATS 3.0" printed on the cover. He flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for and passed it to Tonya.
"The mask?" she asked.
"I've actually found similar 'war colors' in several traditional societies. I figger get a black tie-on mask like that, hide my whole face, try to keep my face to the wind, and we'll be fine. It's basically just a really long handkerchief, folded in half, sewed tight and with eye holes cut in it."
"Sounds silly."
"When I say it out loud, yeah, it does, but I think it can work."
Tonya stared down at her lap. "You know, it's really pretty in Tonga this time of year."
James chuckled.
"Well, if you think you're gonna fight him this way, there's a lot I'd like to show you that can help. Throwing techniques, methods of protecting yourself from injury, and so on. If you don't mind."
"I'd love that," James said excitedly. "Superhero 101!"
Tonya frowned playfully. "Problem is, we can't use any of my places, since they're all trackable. We have to find somewhere deserted and hope nobody sees us."
"Do we need to be able to see?"
"To throw? Yes."
"So much for the desert. Unless the moon is pretty much full."
"I'll make some calls and look around. I got a prepaid cell phone, should keep me under the radar."
"I wanted to go to the store, but I didn't wanna leave you alone. Come walk with me?"
Tonya nodded. "Lemme grab my purse."
* * *
The Chevy Suburban's flawless black surface was reflected in the windows of the storefront gallery as it pulled into a metered spot. Two burly leather jacketed men exited from the passenger's side and started to look around. A third -- lean, short blond hair, with an eyepatch covering his left eye -- hopped out of the rear seat on the opposite side, tapping away at a palmtop computer. One of the burly men, Samoan from the look of him, started to make the walk around the block to the rear of the building. The man with the palmtop walked back to the driver's side and waited patiently as the window rolled down.
"Yes, Eliot?" Dare's voice said calmly from the driver's seat.
"You were right," Eliot began, still peering at the palmtop, "the whole place is shielded with numerous layers of some heavy metal. The door's pretty basic, and there's a hallway leading in that's bare, but I can't tell what's beyond that."
"Get back in the truck, Eliot," Dare said. "You're too valuable an asset to risk ... this early."
The second man, a grizzled redhead, completed his examination of the grounds around the front of the gallery and climbed back in the passenger seat. Dare, wearing a kevlar vest and spinning a pen along the fingers of his right hand, gestured at him. "Mick, tell Ata to stay back there and let us know if anything exciting happens. Then take Stephen and Brandon and smash down that door. I'm gonna drive over across the corner. Stay in radio contact with each other and with Eliot."
Mick nodded and climbed back out, followed by two more similarly dressed men from the back of the vehicle. The Suburban pulled away as Mick muttered into his left sleeve. Once Mick saw that the truck was a safe distance away, he looked at Stephen -- a burly bleached blond with arms like Christmas hams -- and gestured at the door.
"Messy or clean?" Stephen asked calmly.
"Yuir pick," Mick nodded as he stepped back, his heavy accent rolling the "r" sound.
Stephen looked over at Brandon, a smaller man with slick black hair and mirrored sunglasses, who shrugged. Stephen sighed and barreled towards the door, bellowing angrily. He bounced off the surface of the door and fell hard on the sidewalk.
"Shite, clean it is," Mick nodded.
Brandon reached into his jacket and pulled out a black velvet case, which revealed a number of small tools when he opened it. calmly making his way over to the door, he kneeled at the lock for a moment and then turned, smiled, and held the door open.
"You just wanted to see me do that," Stephen growled at Brandon as he walked in. Mick and Brandon followed, chuckling.
Inside the doorway was a featureless powder blue hallway, with dark blue carpeting, leading back into the gallery. The low ceiling was only a couple of feet over Stephen's head, the tallest of the bunch, and the hallway veered left, leading into darkness. All three men calmly pulled handguns from their jackets, and Mick and Brandon brought out small Mag-Lites as well. Mick nodded, and Brandon stepped out in front, Stephen close behind.
At the end of the hall, there was nothing but darkness. Stephen felt around for a light switch and found nothing. Brandon cursed under his breath when he slammed his foot against the first stair, and aimed his flashlight upwards, following the stairs high above their current position.
"This stinks," Stephen muttered.
"Ye've never been to Belfast, lad," Mick grinned evilly. "This'll get worse before it gets better. Up ye go."
Brandon muttered another curse, rubbing an itch on his mustache with his arm, and began the ascent.
Another locked door greeted them at the top of the darkened stairs. "Security conscious," Brandon said under his breath, reaching into his jacket for his velvet case. He passed his pistol to Stephen and kneeled down to examine the lock.
"This one's even easier, it's just a regular old Schlage," Brandon said, angling his tool into the lock. "Get 'em at any ..."
A shock of electricity flew through Brandon at that moment, shoving the man to his feet and back against the wall. His tool remained, bent and smoking, sticking out of the lock.
Mick sighed and said into his sleeve, listening to his earpiece. "Brandon's down. Yeah. Okay."
Stephen looked to Mick, who said, "Bugger 'im, knock the door down."
"That went so well last time," Stephen said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"Shut yuir hole and get us through this door!" Mick barked.
Stephen shoved Brandon's form out of the way with a foot and braced himself. He grunted and threw himself at the door, which gave way immediately ... and Brandon howled with terror as he disappeared into the darkness. Mick shone his flashlight through the door and found that it led to a passage going straight down, an iron ladder's rungs descending safely. Stephen, bleeding and angry, lay moaning at the bottom ... next to what looked like another door.
Mick stood up and said into his sleeve, "Now Stephen's down. Tricky place this is, Eliot. Wot? Staircase up, then a ladder down, lock shocks the hell out of Brandon, and Stephen knocks the door down just to fall and 'urt 'imself. Wot? I dunno, 'aven't gone down yet to look at 'im. Come to think of it, Brandon may be alive, I dunno. Okay."
Mick put two fingers on the side of Brandon's neck and jumped. "Bugger me, 'e's alive." Lifting his sleeve to his face again, Mick said, "Brandon's alive, and I can 'ear Stephen moanin' like a Cockney 'ore, so 'e'll be all right. Okay. Right."
Mick patted Brandon on the head with the pistol and said, "Be back in a jif, lad." Carefully, Mick lowered himself on to the ladder and down to the bottom of the passage, its walls also featurelessly blue. At the bottom, another door sat closed. Mick looked down at the dazed Stephen and shrugged. Mick tried the knob and was amazed to find it open. He pulled the door open a bit and bumped into Stephen's prone form. "Bloody 'ell," Mick muttered, shoving Stephen with his foot, getting fresh grunts of pain from the man. Once he got the door open, he couldn't suppress a laugh. "Eliot," he said into his sleeve, still chuckling. "This way won't bleedin' work. Got meself a brick bloody wall 'ere. Note on it says 'Go 'ome!' and I can't see any way past it. Wot? Okay. Right."
Mick carefully removed the note and folded it in two, sliding it into his pocket. He then looked down at Stephen and grunted. "Probably make me carry yuir bleedin' arse up this damned thing. Fah ..."
Grunting, Mick made his way back up the ladder, down the steps, and back out the front of the gallery. He nonchalantly crossed the quiet street, ducked to get under a low-hanging tree, and walked over to the Suburban. He climbed back in the passenger seat and produced the note, handing it to Dare.
Dare looked it over for a moment, flipped it over in his hands, smirking slightly. "This sh*t is funny," he chuckled, handing it back to Eliot. "Bag it and check it when we get back. Mick -- whaddaya think about trying the back door?"
Mick frowned, thinking. "Will I have to drag Brandon and Stephen back 'ere?"
Dare shook his head. "Nah, I'll get Ata to do it. He likes lifting."
"Them I'm all for a rear entry."
All three men laughed at that, and Dare started to move the car across the street, close enough to the alley to see Ata, who was waving goofily at them.
"Off I go, then," Mick said, hopping back out of the truck. Mick strolled up to Ata and asked, "Wot's wot, lad?"
"Garage door here," Ata said, making a sweeping arc with his arm, "and smaller door here. Tapped it, sounds like it's open space behind it. Doors open out, though."
"Course they do," Mick said, squinting. "Brandon's better at this ..." Mick pulled out a velvet case, just a bit smaller than Brandon's and pondered it. "Bugger it," he said finally, pulling his handgun and firing at the knob of the door, blasting it off. The door swung ajar and Mick slowly opened it with the barrel of his pistol. Almost predictably, it was dark inside.
"I'm too old for this shite," Mick growled, grabbing his Mag-Lite. He shone it inside, and saw a large open garage space. "C'mon, Ata."
Mick and Ata, weapons drawn and lights flashing, slowly entered the garage space. Ata ducked some hanging chains, which looked like they'd open the garage door, and headed right. A black Jeep Cherokee sat quiescently, ready to drive out the door, a thin layer of dust covering its chassis. Mick slowly treaded his way along the wall, towards what looked like a small office. He beamed the light across the labels of numerous crates stacked high -- "Ghanaian walking sticks" read one, "Shona masks" read another -- and reported in.
"Boxes of ... art I guess," he said quietly into his sleeve, "a Jeep, prolly '90, '91 model, real clean. Nothin' much 'ere ... still 'ear Ata walkin' around, so 'e's alive." Mick noted with some grim amusement that he could recognize the shape of the passage Stephen had fallen down perhaps twenty yards ahead of him, behind the office. "Ata," Mick called, "see that long part, 'eaded towards the ceiling? That's wot Stephen fell down."
Ata said something that sounded like a curse, but Mick surely didn't speak the language, so he didn't understand it. A plate glass window allowed a peek into the office, and Mick's light found a tidy desk, invoices, a silent computer. Mick dutifully conveyed all he saw. After ten minutes more walking around the dusty boxes, he found the envelope.
It was a simple plain white envelope, full sized, the kind you send a letter in, lying on the floor. In simple print, perhaps done with a marker, the words "READ ME" were emblazoned on the front of it.
"Note 'ere, Eliot," Mick said, aiming his gun at it. "Says 'Read Me' on the front. Want for me to bring it back? Read it 'ere? Oh, it could be poisoned, righ ... wait a tic! Oh 'ell, all right."
Mick shoved his gun into his belt and picked up the letter. "Ata!" Mick hollered. "If I bleedin' die, shoot the bastards for me, wot?"
"Sure thing," Ata replied noncommittally, walking up.
Mick took a deep breath and opened the envelope. Shaking it, a single sheet of paper fell into his hand -- no powder, no gas, no surprises. He shoved the envelope in a pocket and wiped his stubbly beard with his hand, perspiring. "Right. Lessee 'ere ... 'Go 'ome ... don't want to fight you ... left paperwork for gallery in office, take it ... please stop following blah blah blah ...' Nothin' important 'ere. I feel all right. Eliot, 's just a bleedin' cease and desist letter, 'armless. Yah, I'm fine. Says the deed to this place is 'ere, she's givin' it away. No, I don't want a bloody art gallery! I'm pretty sure ... 'ang about ... Ata, you want a bleedin' art gallery? I thought not, no. Sure come on, it's quiet in 'ere. No tripwires, nothin' funny. Right."
Mick put the letter in his pocket, as well as the flashlight. "Eliot's comin' in to look around and poke at the computer, doesn't want us muckin' up the place. C'mon." Mick and Ata carefully made their way out, trying not to disturb anything Eliot might be looking for. They stepped back out into the bright sunshine as Eliot was walking over.
"He's not coming in," Eliot sighed.
"Came all this bleedin' way and 'e's not gonna see 'is lovely new gallery?" Mick quipped.
Tapping on the palmtop Eliot said, "He thinks that ... whadda ya know. He's right."
"Wot?"
"There's about a hundred pounds of C-4 in the walls," Eliot said appreciatively. "Probably won't trigger for any of us. Just him. He was right."
"Bloody 'ell," Mick wondered. "So ..."
Eliot slid the palmtop into a leather sheathe on his belt and smiled, adjusting his eyepatch quickly. "I go in grab as much as I can from the computer, you two go get Stephen and Brandon, and we burn the place to the ground. C'mon, chop chop."
Eliot walked past them and Ata shrugged at Mick as they walked back around to the front. From the Suburban, Dare simply watched them, still spinning the pen through his fingers.
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