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Wesley Osgood knew it was time to get out of New Orleans.
The writing on the wall hadn't even dried yet; still fresh, still red. Delvecchio, Murphy, and Vernon. All impeccably dressed, flawlessly groomed. All alive this afternoon, sitting with him at Brigtsen's. He remembered Delvecchio, mouth half full of roast duck, whistling at the waitress. It got a laugh at lunch break. It gave chills now.
The police, apparently having failed to put the murders together yet, contacted Osgood after each body was found. Murphy's wife, coming home early with the hopes of finding her husband with a suspected lover, found his body slumped on the sofa, television set blaring meaningless static. Vernon's mother let herself into his apartment to drop off some fresh cookies. Her son sat at the dinner table, eyes sightless for hours. The chicken noodle soup that sat on the table was half-finished.
Delvecchio's murder was the boldest. He represented the firm at the Morial Convention Center. According to witnesses, he had excused himself. Twenty minutes later, an impatient restroom patron opened the nearest stall, and found the lawyer, mouth wide open in a silent scream. In a capacity crowd, no one had seen a thing.
The police told Wesley Osgood that the victims' driver's licenses were necessary to identify the bodies.
At the stroke of ten, he packed all the good suits from the closet. He cleared out all money from the firm's multiple accounts. He left an explanatory message with the secretary, telling her not to look for him.
By ten-thirty, he abandoned his Toyota Sequoia in the parking lot adjacent to the St. Charles Streetcar stop at Carrollton and Claiborne. Anyone looking for his SUV was going to be out of luck. If he got to the E-2 line by eleven, he could still make it to Louis Armstrong Airport, and take the first available flight out of Louisiana.
The stop was deserted as he waited for the streetcar. He cursed as the 10:30 trolley pulled out a few hundred feet in front. Only fifteen minutes until the next one, he reminded himself.
Osgood sat down on the bench. The advertisement on the back was for the Law Offices of Delvecchio and Associates. He looked at the four men smiling back, and quickly realized that the only face in the picture that was still alive was his own. He rubbed his hands through his thinning black hair. Why would someone be hunting down everyone in his firm? Why would someone want them dead? Sure, Delvecchio was a lecher, and Murphy hadn't been faithful since his wedding night, and Vernon bilked thousands of dollars from clients a month, but that's not worth killing for. Was it?
He turned to see a man, sitting on the opposite side of the bench. The new visitor looked like he had stepped out of a film noir. A bright red fedora matched his trenchcoat, which partially hid a perfectly tailored black wool business suit. A red dress shirt accentuated a black tie. Straight blonde hair spilled under the brim of the fedora. His eyes were hidden by a pair of Oakleys, the only truly modern accessory.
Osgood felt the need to laugh. Anything to break the cycle of fear. "Hey, buddy," he said. "1942 called. It wants its fashion back."
The man in the red trenchcoat smiled. For the first time, Osgood noticed the stranger's leather gloves, clinging tight to the fingers.
"A bit hot out for the coat and gloves, isn't it?"
The man in the red trenchcoat nodded. With a calm, methodical pace, he slipped off the right glove, laying it gently on the bench.
Osgood looked away, toward the road. When is that trolley coming?
His path of vision was blocked as the man in the red trenchcoat stood in front of him, holding out a business card.
"For me?" he asked. The man nodded.
With a nervousness he couldn't explain, Osgood took the business cards. Written on the front face were two sentences.
"You're going to die now. Please don't be afraid."
Before Osgood could scream, the man gripped him with his ungloved hand. The pain was swift. Within seconds, steam blew out of the unfriendly handshake. Osgood could feel his stomach, his lungs, his throat heating up. Water vapor burst outward from his mouth, ears, from behind his eyes, seeping through the sockets. His skin instantly warped and wrinkled, eroding away his facial features. Soon after, Wesley Osgood felt nothing else.
The stranger walked back to his side of the bench and replaced his right glove. Without bothering to look for witnesses, he calmly strode out of the trolley stop.
Ten minutes later, another visitor entered the station at Carrollton and Claiborne. It walked over the body of Wesley Osgood, checked for life. When it knew that the lawyer was dead, it growled. Only when the 10:45 trolley turned the corner at St. Charles and Carrollton did it leave, hiding under the cover of bushes and shrubs, taking great care not to be seen by human eyes.
Faith-Mari Hopkins didn't know how she got where she was. She knew she must be on a mission, since she could see herself in the lone mirror of this strange place; the sky blue leotard, light blue tights, and mask were proof that she was on the job. The shouts of her teammates let her know she was needed, and that she was also in grave danger. The Victorian designed building had two floors; the walls were free of furnishings, the floors free of dust, couches, or anything signalling a host. The action, it seemed, was taking place on the second floor.
Without hesitation, she ran up the stairs. Awaiting her was an empty bedroom, sans bed, desk, or any other furniture. The closet door was open... and Kelly Penrose lay half outside the shadows, barely breathing, eyes looking skyward from within her blue mask.
"Penrose? Are you okay?" Faith-Mari ran into the bedroom.
"Stop... don't come in..." Kelly began, only to be stopped when a claw, made entirely of matted fur and claws, swooped down on her, scratching into her uniform. The downed angel tried to hold on to the doorframe, but the being inside was far too strong. Bits of the frame broke off in Kelly's hands, and she was dragged into the darkness, leaving only the low sneers of the beast's mouth, the swooshing of its claws, and the
final, chilling screams...
Faith-Mari could see its eyes glowing inside. Red like oxygenized blood.
It leapt for her from the closet. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the horrible fate that awaited her...
...and a phone rang in the corner.
Faith-Mari opened her eyes. The beast was gone. The walls began to wobble as the dream state gave way to the waking world.
Safe in her bed, she fumbled for the receiver, almost knocking the cradle off the nightstand.
"Hopkins, this is Karla. There is a situation that has been brought to our attention that needs your immediate attention. We expect you in the Deputy Director's office in one hour. Do not delay." The receiver clicked.
Faith-Mari jumped out of bed and walked toward her closet for her business attire. For a brief moment, she froze, expecting something unfamilar, and unwelcome, in the dark.
Blue Angels: Boiling Point
-
The Great Dutch Ninja
- Henchman
- Posts: 53
- Joined: 19 years ago
- Location: Medford, MA
Last edited by The Great Dutch Ninja 6 years ago, edited 1 time in total.
-
The Great Dutch Ninja
- Henchman
- Posts: 53
- Joined: 19 years ago
- Location: Medford, MA
The reception Faith-Mari received at Langley was warmer than her first trip. Total strangers from Counterintelligence congratulated her on breaking the weapons ring that eliminated Stackhouse Industries' leak into Langley. Everything looked brighter inside; the halogens glowed, the co-workers' smiles gleamed. Even the consoles for the elevators looked lighter.
The underground floor resumed its hustle and bustle after the gloomy atmosphere of the past month. Cubicles were filled with desk agents, eager to find the latest leads. Field agents returned to their posts around the globe. The grid was back in play.
Beyond the cubicles, the door to the Deputy Director's office swung open. "Hopkins, front and center."
Faith-Mari attempted to smooth out the wrinkles in her business attire, gave a quick tug to her opaque blue tights. She entered the office, encountering a brute bulldog of a man; short, wide-shouldered, barrel-chest straining his dress shirt and black suspenders. His grey buzzcut looked freshly mowed. A Dutch Masters cigar stood upright, clenched in his teeth.
"Hopkins, good to see you're finally here." He held out a catcher's glove-sized hand. "Dr. David Whitman. I'm your new Deputy Director."
Faith-Mari zipped through the handshake, then backed into the couch, sitting down.
"Now, don't be worried," said Dr. Whitman. "I know y'all have had problems with your last DD, but that's a past problem. I'm more worried about your methods. A lot of people around here are mighty impressed with you bringing down Roberds." He pointed at his gravel-toned, wrinkled mug. "Do I looked impressed to you?"
Faith-Mari shook her head. "No, sir."
The doctor picked up a readout from his desk. "One building lost, costing the city of Boston hundreds of millions in reparations. One company Mini-Concorde totalled. You guys were lucky to get back to Logan in one piece."
"In all fairness, sir, the damage was caused by an enemy force..."
"I don't want to hear it, Hopkins." Dr. Whitman blew smoke in Faith-Mari's face. "With the right amount of training, there should be zero damage. No deaths, no loss of property, nothing." He chuckled, dropping back in his chair. "You know, when I became an agent, I actually used my training and incorporated it into my missions. Over two hundred of them. You can't even fathom two hundred missions, Hopkins. All you had to do was spray on a little more L'Oreal, pour yourself into a leotard and tights, shake everything you had for the johns on the recruiting committee, and presto. You're CIA Agent Barbie, aren't you?"
She could feel her short blonde hair stand on end, and her hands balled into fists. "With all due respect, sir, I have undergone training every bit as strenuous as yours..."
"Sure thing, cupcake." Whitman grinned. "Probably learned eighty different ways to strike a pose. For the love of this country, if I had my druthers, I'd put all of you behind a desk where you belong." He sighed as he grabbed a dossier out of a drawer. "But seeing as how Ms. Lee outranks me, she told me to put you on this. Appears four lawyers from the same firm were eliminated in a rather gruesome manner in New Orleans. Ms. Lee wants you and Agent Penrose to find out why, and to apprehend those responsible. "
"What about Cyan McCullers and April Hsu?"
"They have been assigned to a case in the Unexplained Phenomena division. Agent McCullers is leading that crew."
Faith-Mari stood up from the couch. "Sir, I don't think Cyan is right for leader. She is too impulsive, and quick-tempered. She alerted VSI to our presence in Boston."
"And when you're Director of ANGELS, you can make personnel decisions," said the director. "Everything you need is in this folder. All other information is need to know."
"That's what Roberds said about Boston," said Faith-Mari.
Whitman leaned across his desk, coal-colored eyes unblinking. "Don't ever compare me to that scumsucking punk ever again. Unlike everyone else on this floor, I care about how the agency's competency."
"Then why be Deputy Director of a department you hate?" Faith-Mari wanted nothing more than to jump across the desk and show David Whitman she was every bit the agent he was.
"Because our last DD didn't think with the brain in his head. Brass wanted someone who can run a tighter ship." Dr. Whitman tossed the dossier at Faith-Mari, who caught it without flinching. "You want to prove me wrong, princess? I'd love to see you do it. Penrose and a pilot are waiting for you."
The angel nodded. "Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy eating words." She closed the door behind her, leaving the Deputy Director alone. He propped his legs on the desk. He shook his head.
"ANGELS," he muttered under his breath. "Brother."
The hangar let in enough light for Faith-Mari to identify Kelly Penrose and Pilot Dylan Smith, chatting against the fuselage of the Cessna Citation. They could barely get through an exchange without giggling like schoolchildren. Smith's hands began to slip down the sides of the angel, toward her tights. Faith-Mari whistled, getting their attention.
"Hate to break up the love in, but we got clearance. To Louis Armstrong Airport, Smitty. And this time, keep your eyes to the sky. We don't want to be wearing a 747."
Smitty blushed as he bowed. "See you on the ground, Kelly." He disappeared into the cockpit.
Agent Penrose waved.
"So, you're milking this whole city savior thing for all it's worth, aren't you?" asked Faith-Mari.
Kelly bit her lip. "Maybe." She turned to look behind her, making sure Smitty wasn't within earshot. "Agent Hopkins, being part of your outfit was the best thing that ever happened to me. For the first time in my life, I felt useful. I felt needed. And if it weren't for that, I wouldn't have been an afterthought to Smitty."
Faith-Mari smiled. "Well, I'm glad to see your purpose of using the CIA to get a boyfriend has been such a resounding success."
"No, that wasn't the reason I got into the agency. I wanted to help keep America safe." A long, awkward pause followed.
"But the fringe benefits aren't too bad, are they?" asked Faith-Mari.
35,000 feet over the American Sunbelt, Hopkins and Penrose changed into gear. Gone were the baby blue uniforms of their rookie campaign; in were the dark blue leotards and electric blue tights that signalled full-fledged angel status. In case Smitty had any thoughts of breaking his promise, Faith-Mari installed a curtain between the cockpit and cabin.
"Now, we're going to do some surveillance work on the Delvecchio offices, see if there were any cases that would've made them some enemies. We might even find who we're looking for. Failing that, we're going to pool our resources with the NOPD."
Kelly shrugged. "Didn't know we shared information with the locals."
"This time is different. We have a contact in New Orleans, Inspector Seson Villone. She's been following this case since the first body was found." Faith-Mari opened the dossier on the desk, fused to the floor in the center of the cabin. "She would've been an Angel herself, but she was never accepted. Nothing to do with ability, intelligence, or anything along those lines. Just something that's..."
"Let me guess," said Kelly. "Need to know basis. Love those words when they're put together. Especially when Dr. Whitman says them."
"So you've met him already." Faith-Mari brought her fist down on the desk. "We can't slip while he's watching us. He thinks we're a disgrace to the force, like this is the first time we've donned the uniform." She looked down at her body. "Then again, it's the first time we're wearing this uniform."
Kelly giggled. "Not for me, it isn't." Faith-Mari spun to look at her underling.
"How do you mean?"
"Well, let's just say you can get the uniform out of Langley pretty easily. And Smitty so enjoys playing the thief. And he loves being..." and here Kelly used finger quotations, "...'captured' even more."
Faith-Mari blinked. "I think that's TMI, Penrose."
"And if you thought Roberds was a fan of the outfit, it's like catnip to our little flyboy. Can't keep his hands off..."
"I said, Too Much Information." Kelly quickly stopped. Faith-Mari grabbed her by the shoulders. "I need you to be sharp, kiddo. We got a sicko on our hands, and you don't want to end up like Delvecchio and his boys."
"How so?"
Faith-Mari showed her the pictures of the four lawyers after they were discovered. Kelly gulped.
"Point well taken."
As the Cessna Citation crossed into Louisiana, a phone rang on the top floor of One Canal Place, chief among New Orleans' most extravagant skyscrapers. The man at the desk picked up after one ring.
"You saw the Citation leave Langley?"
"Without question. Heading south by southwest. Looked like it's coming your way," said the man's agent.
"Very good. Keep your post." He hung up, pressing down on his speed dial. Even though no one spoke on the receiver, the other side didn't even wait for the first ring to pick up.
"I know you're there," said the man. "And I have a new assignment for you, Bronson. We have some trouble flying down from Langley. Make sure they don't interfere in my affairs, and we might talk about alleviating your debts to us. You know that I am not one for juvenile jokes. However, if they are too persistant for their own good, I want you to give these angels a taste of Hell. Go get 'em, Boiling Point."
On the other end, Bronson Harris replaced the receiver on its cradle. With an unswaying calm, he stretched the leather gloves over his hands. After retrieving his fedora and trenchcoat from the rack next to the door, he exited his decaying white-washed detached home in Chalmette. Within the hour, he would cruise past the city limits of The Big Easy.
The underground floor resumed its hustle and bustle after the gloomy atmosphere of the past month. Cubicles were filled with desk agents, eager to find the latest leads. Field agents returned to their posts around the globe. The grid was back in play.
Beyond the cubicles, the door to the Deputy Director's office swung open. "Hopkins, front and center."
Faith-Mari attempted to smooth out the wrinkles in her business attire, gave a quick tug to her opaque blue tights. She entered the office, encountering a brute bulldog of a man; short, wide-shouldered, barrel-chest straining his dress shirt and black suspenders. His grey buzzcut looked freshly mowed. A Dutch Masters cigar stood upright, clenched in his teeth.
"Hopkins, good to see you're finally here." He held out a catcher's glove-sized hand. "Dr. David Whitman. I'm your new Deputy Director."
Faith-Mari zipped through the handshake, then backed into the couch, sitting down.
"Now, don't be worried," said Dr. Whitman. "I know y'all have had problems with your last DD, but that's a past problem. I'm more worried about your methods. A lot of people around here are mighty impressed with you bringing down Roberds." He pointed at his gravel-toned, wrinkled mug. "Do I looked impressed to you?"
Faith-Mari shook her head. "No, sir."
The doctor picked up a readout from his desk. "One building lost, costing the city of Boston hundreds of millions in reparations. One company Mini-Concorde totalled. You guys were lucky to get back to Logan in one piece."
"In all fairness, sir, the damage was caused by an enemy force..."
"I don't want to hear it, Hopkins." Dr. Whitman blew smoke in Faith-Mari's face. "With the right amount of training, there should be zero damage. No deaths, no loss of property, nothing." He chuckled, dropping back in his chair. "You know, when I became an agent, I actually used my training and incorporated it into my missions. Over two hundred of them. You can't even fathom two hundred missions, Hopkins. All you had to do was spray on a little more L'Oreal, pour yourself into a leotard and tights, shake everything you had for the johns on the recruiting committee, and presto. You're CIA Agent Barbie, aren't you?"
She could feel her short blonde hair stand on end, and her hands balled into fists. "With all due respect, sir, I have undergone training every bit as strenuous as yours..."
"Sure thing, cupcake." Whitman grinned. "Probably learned eighty different ways to strike a pose. For the love of this country, if I had my druthers, I'd put all of you behind a desk where you belong." He sighed as he grabbed a dossier out of a drawer. "But seeing as how Ms. Lee outranks me, she told me to put you on this. Appears four lawyers from the same firm were eliminated in a rather gruesome manner in New Orleans. Ms. Lee wants you and Agent Penrose to find out why, and to apprehend those responsible. "
"What about Cyan McCullers and April Hsu?"
"They have been assigned to a case in the Unexplained Phenomena division. Agent McCullers is leading that crew."
Faith-Mari stood up from the couch. "Sir, I don't think Cyan is right for leader. She is too impulsive, and quick-tempered. She alerted VSI to our presence in Boston."
"And when you're Director of ANGELS, you can make personnel decisions," said the director. "Everything you need is in this folder. All other information is need to know."
"That's what Roberds said about Boston," said Faith-Mari.
Whitman leaned across his desk, coal-colored eyes unblinking. "Don't ever compare me to that scumsucking punk ever again. Unlike everyone else on this floor, I care about how the agency's competency."
"Then why be Deputy Director of a department you hate?" Faith-Mari wanted nothing more than to jump across the desk and show David Whitman she was every bit the agent he was.
"Because our last DD didn't think with the brain in his head. Brass wanted someone who can run a tighter ship." Dr. Whitman tossed the dossier at Faith-Mari, who caught it without flinching. "You want to prove me wrong, princess? I'd love to see you do it. Penrose and a pilot are waiting for you."
The angel nodded. "Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy eating words." She closed the door behind her, leaving the Deputy Director alone. He propped his legs on the desk. He shook his head.
"ANGELS," he muttered under his breath. "Brother."
The hangar let in enough light for Faith-Mari to identify Kelly Penrose and Pilot Dylan Smith, chatting against the fuselage of the Cessna Citation. They could barely get through an exchange without giggling like schoolchildren. Smith's hands began to slip down the sides of the angel, toward her tights. Faith-Mari whistled, getting their attention.
"Hate to break up the love in, but we got clearance. To Louis Armstrong Airport, Smitty. And this time, keep your eyes to the sky. We don't want to be wearing a 747."
Smitty blushed as he bowed. "See you on the ground, Kelly." He disappeared into the cockpit.
Agent Penrose waved.
"So, you're milking this whole city savior thing for all it's worth, aren't you?" asked Faith-Mari.
Kelly bit her lip. "Maybe." She turned to look behind her, making sure Smitty wasn't within earshot. "Agent Hopkins, being part of your outfit was the best thing that ever happened to me. For the first time in my life, I felt useful. I felt needed. And if it weren't for that, I wouldn't have been an afterthought to Smitty."
Faith-Mari smiled. "Well, I'm glad to see your purpose of using the CIA to get a boyfriend has been such a resounding success."
"No, that wasn't the reason I got into the agency. I wanted to help keep America safe." A long, awkward pause followed.
"But the fringe benefits aren't too bad, are they?" asked Faith-Mari.
35,000 feet over the American Sunbelt, Hopkins and Penrose changed into gear. Gone were the baby blue uniforms of their rookie campaign; in were the dark blue leotards and electric blue tights that signalled full-fledged angel status. In case Smitty had any thoughts of breaking his promise, Faith-Mari installed a curtain between the cockpit and cabin.
"Now, we're going to do some surveillance work on the Delvecchio offices, see if there were any cases that would've made them some enemies. We might even find who we're looking for. Failing that, we're going to pool our resources with the NOPD."
Kelly shrugged. "Didn't know we shared information with the locals."
"This time is different. We have a contact in New Orleans, Inspector Seson Villone. She's been following this case since the first body was found." Faith-Mari opened the dossier on the desk, fused to the floor in the center of the cabin. "She would've been an Angel herself, but she was never accepted. Nothing to do with ability, intelligence, or anything along those lines. Just something that's..."
"Let me guess," said Kelly. "Need to know basis. Love those words when they're put together. Especially when Dr. Whitman says them."
"So you've met him already." Faith-Mari brought her fist down on the desk. "We can't slip while he's watching us. He thinks we're a disgrace to the force, like this is the first time we've donned the uniform." She looked down at her body. "Then again, it's the first time we're wearing this uniform."
Kelly giggled. "Not for me, it isn't." Faith-Mari spun to look at her underling.
"How do you mean?"
"Well, let's just say you can get the uniform out of Langley pretty easily. And Smitty so enjoys playing the thief. And he loves being..." and here Kelly used finger quotations, "...'captured' even more."
Faith-Mari blinked. "I think that's TMI, Penrose."
"And if you thought Roberds was a fan of the outfit, it's like catnip to our little flyboy. Can't keep his hands off..."
"I said, Too Much Information." Kelly quickly stopped. Faith-Mari grabbed her by the shoulders. "I need you to be sharp, kiddo. We got a sicko on our hands, and you don't want to end up like Delvecchio and his boys."
"How so?"
Faith-Mari showed her the pictures of the four lawyers after they were discovered. Kelly gulped.
"Point well taken."
As the Cessna Citation crossed into Louisiana, a phone rang on the top floor of One Canal Place, chief among New Orleans' most extravagant skyscrapers. The man at the desk picked up after one ring.
"You saw the Citation leave Langley?"
"Without question. Heading south by southwest. Looked like it's coming your way," said the man's agent.
"Very good. Keep your post." He hung up, pressing down on his speed dial. Even though no one spoke on the receiver, the other side didn't even wait for the first ring to pick up.
"I know you're there," said the man. "And I have a new assignment for you, Bronson. We have some trouble flying down from Langley. Make sure they don't interfere in my affairs, and we might talk about alleviating your debts to us. You know that I am not one for juvenile jokes. However, if they are too persistant for their own good, I want you to give these angels a taste of Hell. Go get 'em, Boiling Point."
On the other end, Bronson Harris replaced the receiver on its cradle. With an unswaying calm, he stretched the leather gloves over his hands. After retrieving his fedora and trenchcoat from the rack next to the door, he exited his decaying white-washed detached home in Chalmette. Within the hour, he would cruise past the city limits of The Big Easy.
-
phoxy_brown
- Sargeant
- Posts: 108
- Joined: 20 years ago
another excellent start, Dutch...there are so many different directions this thing can take. love the descrpitive narrative. too many many subplots to mention...eagerly anticipating the next installment
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The Great Dutch Ninja
- Henchman
- Posts: 53
- Joined: 19 years ago
- Location: Medford, MA
Thanks for the comments. Been meaning to get to pz's for a while now, but I've been away from the WWW for a few days. Hope you enjoy.
****
Faith-Mari had excused herself from Kelly and Smitty upon arriving at the airport. She knew they wouldn't question her, as they would have some time together. They didn't even ask for a reason why she needed to duck back into the airplane.
Once in the cabin, she redressed into her white blouse and dark blue business jacket. As she reached for her skirt, a voice filtered through the air. Don't do it.
Spinning around, she saw an empty cabin. Of course. What else would it be? she thought.
Visions of the dream flashed across her mind's eye. The dancing midnight shadows. Kelly Penrose's screams. The growls of whatever lay beyond the door of the closet...
Faith-Mari shook her head and grabbed her skirt. After completing her redressing, she removed her mask. Believing in dreams is childish, she reminded herself. Now is the time to put away childish things.
"What's with the business attire?" asked Kelly as Faith-Mari descended down the steps of the plane.
Faith-Mari nodded. "I think you're good enough to handle the investigation of the Delvecchio offices yourself. Seson Villone is expecting me in her office at the precinct today. I figure we make this a boom boom deal. You get the evidence, I get the leads. We find our homicidal friend, and split back to Langley."
Kelly shook her head. "So I'm doing all the grunt work, and you're slinging back drinks with the detective."
"Yeah, pretty much." Faith-Mari, Kelly, and Smitty walked out of the hangar, and a gloomy, rain-streaked sky greeted them. "Smitty, stay in the terminal and wait for us to call."
"Will do," said the pilot. "At the rate I'm going, I could probably write a guide on the best airport bar olives in the U.S."
"Look forward to reading it," said Kelly as she gave Smitty a peck on the cheek goodbye.
Faith-Mari grinned as the pilot disappeared among the throngs of passengers and waiting families, leaving the two angels hidden in the darkness of the entrance. "I'll see you in a few hours."
"Want any souvenirs of the city when you're done having tea and biscuits with the lieutenant?"
"The files will suffice," said Faith-Mari.
Kelly nodded and walked back into the hangar, away from wandering eyes. As she left, Faith-Mari heard the voice from the airplane say, You're never going to see her again.
Ignoring the warning, Faith-Mari moved into the mass of travelers, looking for the nearest Ground Transportation sign.
The police force of New Orleans has a reputation that ranks among the worst in the United States. Traces of corruption, bribery, and sanctions run rampant down every corner of the city, along with tales of "shoot first, ask questions later" marksmanship.
Precinct 2 went to great lengths to dispel that public image. Over the last few years, the southwest section of the city boasted the sharpest drop in violent crime in the city. The cops were watched as closely as the streets. A borderline of no tolerance crept down the spine of Washington Street; if you were hoping to break into an apartment, sell drugs, or launch a drive-by on the west side, and you could almost consider yourself caught.
“Like what you’ve done with the place,” said Faith-Mari to Lt. Sesen Villone as the pair strolled by the doors of the precinct.
“You would have no idea how much work it took to make uptown look this nice. And that’s why I requested your help. Four dead bodies don’t look good on us, especially when there’s no one holding the bag for them.”
The angel watched the officer and wondered why she didn’t make the grade in Langley. Lt. Villone took great pride in her significant contribution to the district’s peace. But it was more than her efficiency that piqued Faith-Mari’s interest. If she didn’t know any better, she would think the elements were arranging themselves to illuminate Sesen. The wind danced along her raven-streaked hair, blowing the shoulder-length strands with newspaper-ad perfection. Although the clouds from the oncoming storm blotted out the sun, sliver-thin rays highlighted her mahogany skin and her tall, athletic build, which her sports jacket and knee-length skirt did little to hide.
“We’ll find your problem soon enough,” said Faith-Mari. The first droplets of rain splashed on the sidewalk, the shoulders of her jacket, the crown of her head. Within seconds, her cropped blonde hair darkened into a drenched maple.
“Anything you know that we don’t? Anything we’re allowed to know? I know how secretive Langley can be,” said Sesen with a slight bitter tinge.
“If we did, we’d be busting our friend right about now,” said Faith-Mari. “Any witnesses?”
“Amazingly, no.” Lt. Villone looked skyward, letting the rain splash on her face. “You’d think there would be. The killer was lucky to catch Wesley Osgood at the streetcar stop without being noticed. He could’ve just as easily had a dozen bystanders. Taking him out on Carrollton and Claiborne took some major cajones.”
“Or some major lack of synapses,” said Faith-Mari.
“No,” said Sesen. “Not him. I don’t think he cares if he gets caught or not.”
Faith-Mari looked at her colleague. “How do you know it’s a he?”
The precinct door opened behind them. “Lieutenant Villone, a call for you on line two.”
Sesen waved back. “Call it a policewoman’s hunch. You stay in purgatory, you get a better view of the scum than you do from an angel’s point of view.” She ran back into the precinct, leaving Faith-Mari alone to soak in a Louisiana thunderstorm.
“Hope you find something, Penrose,” she said before turning to follow the detective. Before she moved a step, a hand gripped down on her shoulder, keeping her in place.
“Well, well,” said a familiar voice. “If it isn’t Fearless Leader, looking like a drowned little rat.”
Cyan. Faith-Mari knew it right away. As if today wasn’t bad enough already.
Kelly Penrose welcomed the thunderstorm. More cover of darkness, more people staying indoors. More of a chance of sneaking into the Delvecchio office undetected.
Using the gutter systems, she climbed up to the second floor of the multi-corporation offices. Of course, the firm would be closed today; how can a business run when there is no one to run it? Once she jimmied open the window, she stepped into a maze of shadows that almost blended into the office. By far, the brightest object in the room was her uniform, as her blue leotard and tights reflected whatever scant light existed. Empty desks gathered dust on the far end, file cabinets stood unopened, and the only sound being made was the constant tick of the grandfather clock, standing in the corner.
Kelly went to the file cabinet, relieved that each drawer was chronologically filed. Saves me a lot of time, she thought. Opening the files for March, she peered through each case. The usual mix of legitimately wronged plaintiffs and crackpot lawsuit collectors raced through her fingertips until she saw the name Eliza Reid, written on the last file. A picture of a frail, middle-aged woman, tired, salt-and-pepper hair hanging limp over her shoulders, timid eyes staring out through oversized, coke-bottle glasses. Her blazer carried the snake-eyes symbol of the Marwolaeth Corporation; two dice, each showing a single dot.
She tiptoed to Murphy’s desk. Opening the bottom drawer, she was surprised to find another file dedicated to the mousy plaintiff. According to the papers attached, Reid had been an accountant for Marwolaeth’s new Riverboat Gambler’s Casino in Houma. That casino had been in the news not too long ago…
“Reid. I remember her,” said Kelly.
Boiling Point always carried two options whenever he went out on the hunt. The option to kill was God-given. The option to stun splashed around in a plastic bottle he kept in his trenchcoat.
When he walked up to the glass window of Delvecchio’s front door, he noticed a figure moving inside. By instinct, he began to undo the Velcro strap of his right glove. He could feel the heat flowing through his hand, warming up to lethal temperature. He grabbed onto the handle, and the brass knob glowed an unnatural red. Without making a sound, he cracked open the door, peeking inside.
The first sight of Kelly Penrose created an altogether new emotion. Sure, Boiling Point had been dealing out death sentences since before the nickname came to pass. Not many of them were women, but occasionally a boss saw a situation fit for an executioner; molls who sought the arms of other men, witnesses who saw things that were to be smothered in shadows, the infrequent lawyer who meddled in company business. More than a few of these women were pleasing to the eye, but that was irrelevant to the task at hand, or to the retribution his benefactor promised in exchange for a job well done.
But it wasn’t just the significant beauty that made Boiling Point replace the glove on his right hand. Unnoticed, he watched her flip through the files of the Delvecchio office, and gulped as his target next perused Murphy’s desk, exhibiting a dancer’s grace as she moved across the office. It’s often the little things that unlock a man’s heart, and there was something about how Kelly Penrose moved, the skip in her step, the way the lazy ringlets of her hair bounced gingerly against the scoop-neck of her leotard…
As soon as she spoke the name of Eliza Reid, he snapped out of his funk. Time to take care of business.
Kelly jumped back as the man in the red trenchcoat and fedora kicked the door down and stepped into the office.
“Not with the cleaning crew, I take it?” she asked.
The stone face behind the Oakleys slowly moved side to side.
Kelly nodded. “Right. Then you won’t mind if I do this.” With a running start, she connected with a spinkick to the side of Boiling Point’s face, knocking him through the doorframe and flat on his back. The angel pursued her attacker, but moved in too close. Boiling Point trapped her ankles in between his legs and rolled to the right, tripping her down to his level. As he jumped back to his feet, Kelly kicked from the floor, catching him with a couple of well-placed blows to the midsection, stunning him.
With Boiling Point stumbling back into the office, Kelly went inside for the kill. As the assassin leaned against Murphy’s desk, she ran at full speed, poised to strike with an uppercut.
She telegraphed the move, and Boiling Point ducked, the wind from the miss whistling in his ear. Kelly lost her footing with the failed punch, and he took advantage, scoring with a knee to her mid-section, doubling her over.
Kelly tried to move away, but Boiling Point didn’t want to lose his advantage. Grabbing his prey by the back of the neck and the seat of her leotard, he threw Kelly into the file drawer, causing it to topple. The angel lay trapped underneath.
Using his normal, methodic pace, Boiling Point first slid the file cabinet off. He then picked up his injured enemy and tossed her onto the side of Murphy’s desk.
Struggling to get to her feet, Kelly bent over the desk. She was unable to lift herself upright, even when the smell of chloroform was strong behind her.
She tried to fight off the kerchief when Boiling Point placed it over her nose and mouth. She pushed backward, hoping to find a wall to stun him, but he was far stronger at this point. A gloved hand pressed the cloth against her face, and his other arm wrapped boa-tight around her waist. She felt her uniform slide off her shoulder as she began to lose consciousness. Before she surrendered to sleep, she was puzzled as the man in the red trenchcoat and fedora whispered into her ear:
“Save me, angel… save me…”
****
Faith-Mari had excused herself from Kelly and Smitty upon arriving at the airport. She knew they wouldn't question her, as they would have some time together. They didn't even ask for a reason why she needed to duck back into the airplane.
Once in the cabin, she redressed into her white blouse and dark blue business jacket. As she reached for her skirt, a voice filtered through the air. Don't do it.
Spinning around, she saw an empty cabin. Of course. What else would it be? she thought.
Visions of the dream flashed across her mind's eye. The dancing midnight shadows. Kelly Penrose's screams. The growls of whatever lay beyond the door of the closet...
Faith-Mari shook her head and grabbed her skirt. After completing her redressing, she removed her mask. Believing in dreams is childish, she reminded herself. Now is the time to put away childish things.
"What's with the business attire?" asked Kelly as Faith-Mari descended down the steps of the plane.
Faith-Mari nodded. "I think you're good enough to handle the investigation of the Delvecchio offices yourself. Seson Villone is expecting me in her office at the precinct today. I figure we make this a boom boom deal. You get the evidence, I get the leads. We find our homicidal friend, and split back to Langley."
Kelly shook her head. "So I'm doing all the grunt work, and you're slinging back drinks with the detective."
"Yeah, pretty much." Faith-Mari, Kelly, and Smitty walked out of the hangar, and a gloomy, rain-streaked sky greeted them. "Smitty, stay in the terminal and wait for us to call."
"Will do," said the pilot. "At the rate I'm going, I could probably write a guide on the best airport bar olives in the U.S."
"Look forward to reading it," said Kelly as she gave Smitty a peck on the cheek goodbye.
Faith-Mari grinned as the pilot disappeared among the throngs of passengers and waiting families, leaving the two angels hidden in the darkness of the entrance. "I'll see you in a few hours."
"Want any souvenirs of the city when you're done having tea and biscuits with the lieutenant?"
"The files will suffice," said Faith-Mari.
Kelly nodded and walked back into the hangar, away from wandering eyes. As she left, Faith-Mari heard the voice from the airplane say, You're never going to see her again.
Ignoring the warning, Faith-Mari moved into the mass of travelers, looking for the nearest Ground Transportation sign.
The police force of New Orleans has a reputation that ranks among the worst in the United States. Traces of corruption, bribery, and sanctions run rampant down every corner of the city, along with tales of "shoot first, ask questions later" marksmanship.
Precinct 2 went to great lengths to dispel that public image. Over the last few years, the southwest section of the city boasted the sharpest drop in violent crime in the city. The cops were watched as closely as the streets. A borderline of no tolerance crept down the spine of Washington Street; if you were hoping to break into an apartment, sell drugs, or launch a drive-by on the west side, and you could almost consider yourself caught.
“Like what you’ve done with the place,” said Faith-Mari to Lt. Sesen Villone as the pair strolled by the doors of the precinct.
“You would have no idea how much work it took to make uptown look this nice. And that’s why I requested your help. Four dead bodies don’t look good on us, especially when there’s no one holding the bag for them.”
The angel watched the officer and wondered why she didn’t make the grade in Langley. Lt. Villone took great pride in her significant contribution to the district’s peace. But it was more than her efficiency that piqued Faith-Mari’s interest. If she didn’t know any better, she would think the elements were arranging themselves to illuminate Sesen. The wind danced along her raven-streaked hair, blowing the shoulder-length strands with newspaper-ad perfection. Although the clouds from the oncoming storm blotted out the sun, sliver-thin rays highlighted her mahogany skin and her tall, athletic build, which her sports jacket and knee-length skirt did little to hide.
“We’ll find your problem soon enough,” said Faith-Mari. The first droplets of rain splashed on the sidewalk, the shoulders of her jacket, the crown of her head. Within seconds, her cropped blonde hair darkened into a drenched maple.
“Anything you know that we don’t? Anything we’re allowed to know? I know how secretive Langley can be,” said Sesen with a slight bitter tinge.
“If we did, we’d be busting our friend right about now,” said Faith-Mari. “Any witnesses?”
“Amazingly, no.” Lt. Villone looked skyward, letting the rain splash on her face. “You’d think there would be. The killer was lucky to catch Wesley Osgood at the streetcar stop without being noticed. He could’ve just as easily had a dozen bystanders. Taking him out on Carrollton and Claiborne took some major cajones.”
“Or some major lack of synapses,” said Faith-Mari.
“No,” said Sesen. “Not him. I don’t think he cares if he gets caught or not.”
Faith-Mari looked at her colleague. “How do you know it’s a he?”
The precinct door opened behind them. “Lieutenant Villone, a call for you on line two.”
Sesen waved back. “Call it a policewoman’s hunch. You stay in purgatory, you get a better view of the scum than you do from an angel’s point of view.” She ran back into the precinct, leaving Faith-Mari alone to soak in a Louisiana thunderstorm.
“Hope you find something, Penrose,” she said before turning to follow the detective. Before she moved a step, a hand gripped down on her shoulder, keeping her in place.
“Well, well,” said a familiar voice. “If it isn’t Fearless Leader, looking like a drowned little rat.”
Cyan. Faith-Mari knew it right away. As if today wasn’t bad enough already.
Kelly Penrose welcomed the thunderstorm. More cover of darkness, more people staying indoors. More of a chance of sneaking into the Delvecchio office undetected.
Using the gutter systems, she climbed up to the second floor of the multi-corporation offices. Of course, the firm would be closed today; how can a business run when there is no one to run it? Once she jimmied open the window, she stepped into a maze of shadows that almost blended into the office. By far, the brightest object in the room was her uniform, as her blue leotard and tights reflected whatever scant light existed. Empty desks gathered dust on the far end, file cabinets stood unopened, and the only sound being made was the constant tick of the grandfather clock, standing in the corner.
Kelly went to the file cabinet, relieved that each drawer was chronologically filed. Saves me a lot of time, she thought. Opening the files for March, she peered through each case. The usual mix of legitimately wronged plaintiffs and crackpot lawsuit collectors raced through her fingertips until she saw the name Eliza Reid, written on the last file. A picture of a frail, middle-aged woman, tired, salt-and-pepper hair hanging limp over her shoulders, timid eyes staring out through oversized, coke-bottle glasses. Her blazer carried the snake-eyes symbol of the Marwolaeth Corporation; two dice, each showing a single dot.
She tiptoed to Murphy’s desk. Opening the bottom drawer, she was surprised to find another file dedicated to the mousy plaintiff. According to the papers attached, Reid had been an accountant for Marwolaeth’s new Riverboat Gambler’s Casino in Houma. That casino had been in the news not too long ago…
“Reid. I remember her,” said Kelly.
Boiling Point always carried two options whenever he went out on the hunt. The option to kill was God-given. The option to stun splashed around in a plastic bottle he kept in his trenchcoat.
When he walked up to the glass window of Delvecchio’s front door, he noticed a figure moving inside. By instinct, he began to undo the Velcro strap of his right glove. He could feel the heat flowing through his hand, warming up to lethal temperature. He grabbed onto the handle, and the brass knob glowed an unnatural red. Without making a sound, he cracked open the door, peeking inside.
The first sight of Kelly Penrose created an altogether new emotion. Sure, Boiling Point had been dealing out death sentences since before the nickname came to pass. Not many of them were women, but occasionally a boss saw a situation fit for an executioner; molls who sought the arms of other men, witnesses who saw things that were to be smothered in shadows, the infrequent lawyer who meddled in company business. More than a few of these women were pleasing to the eye, but that was irrelevant to the task at hand, or to the retribution his benefactor promised in exchange for a job well done.
But it wasn’t just the significant beauty that made Boiling Point replace the glove on his right hand. Unnoticed, he watched her flip through the files of the Delvecchio office, and gulped as his target next perused Murphy’s desk, exhibiting a dancer’s grace as she moved across the office. It’s often the little things that unlock a man’s heart, and there was something about how Kelly Penrose moved, the skip in her step, the way the lazy ringlets of her hair bounced gingerly against the scoop-neck of her leotard…
As soon as she spoke the name of Eliza Reid, he snapped out of his funk. Time to take care of business.
Kelly jumped back as the man in the red trenchcoat and fedora kicked the door down and stepped into the office.
“Not with the cleaning crew, I take it?” she asked.
The stone face behind the Oakleys slowly moved side to side.
Kelly nodded. “Right. Then you won’t mind if I do this.” With a running start, she connected with a spinkick to the side of Boiling Point’s face, knocking him through the doorframe and flat on his back. The angel pursued her attacker, but moved in too close. Boiling Point trapped her ankles in between his legs and rolled to the right, tripping her down to his level. As he jumped back to his feet, Kelly kicked from the floor, catching him with a couple of well-placed blows to the midsection, stunning him.
With Boiling Point stumbling back into the office, Kelly went inside for the kill. As the assassin leaned against Murphy’s desk, she ran at full speed, poised to strike with an uppercut.
She telegraphed the move, and Boiling Point ducked, the wind from the miss whistling in his ear. Kelly lost her footing with the failed punch, and he took advantage, scoring with a knee to her mid-section, doubling her over.
Kelly tried to move away, but Boiling Point didn’t want to lose his advantage. Grabbing his prey by the back of the neck and the seat of her leotard, he threw Kelly into the file drawer, causing it to topple. The angel lay trapped underneath.
Using his normal, methodic pace, Boiling Point first slid the file cabinet off. He then picked up his injured enemy and tossed her onto the side of Murphy’s desk.
Struggling to get to her feet, Kelly bent over the desk. She was unable to lift herself upright, even when the smell of chloroform was strong behind her.
She tried to fight off the kerchief when Boiling Point placed it over her nose and mouth. She pushed backward, hoping to find a wall to stun him, but he was far stronger at this point. A gloved hand pressed the cloth against her face, and his other arm wrapped boa-tight around her waist. She felt her uniform slide off her shoulder as she began to lose consciousness. Before she surrendered to sleep, she was puzzled as the man in the red trenchcoat and fedora whispered into her ear:
“Save me, angel… save me…”
-
The Great Dutch Ninja
- Henchman
- Posts: 53
- Joined: 19 years ago
- Location: Medford, MA
Cyan McCullers and April Hsu walked in between Faith-Mari and the precinct front door, dressed in the same office attire. Cyan wore a self-satisfied grin on her face, one that looked like it had glued on since the assignment began.
“Congratulations, McCullers. You got what you wanted.”
“No thanks to you,” said Cyan. “I read your report on the Roberds case. You said I allowed myself to be taken hostage.”
Faith-Mari shook her head. “Shows that you’re looking for problems. I said anyone of us could’ve been taken away. They happened to choose you. I did not question your tenacity or courage. You took it to Monstrosity first. But sometimes that’s not the best way to go. That’s why I made the recommendations in the report.”
“Because you were afraid the truth would come out.” Cyan sneered. “Face it, Faith-Mari. You didn’t want someone getting the good cases. But we can’t always get what we want. Agent Hsu and I are going to bust this one wide open. We’ll be sitting back in the French Quarter, sipping on margaritas, while you and Little Miss Sycophant are scrounging around for names.”
“And just what case would that be?” asked Faith-Mari.
Cyan wagged her finger in front of her former superior. “I don’t think so, babe. “
“We’re here on a case from the Unexplained department,” said April. Cyan spun around and glared at her.
Faith-Mari nodded. “Go on.”
April slowly exhaled. “There have been several different sightings of an unknown animal roaming New Orleans. Some witnesses said it looked like your ordinary, garden variety werewolf. Orders are to capture it. If it’s just a stray wolf, which is unlikely, or some exotic pet or zoo specimen, then we’ll just let it be. But if it’s something worth observation…”
“And it is,” said Cyan. “Why else would Dr. Whitman assign us to a case? We’re not dog catchers; we’re government agents.”
“The question I’d be asking is this: why would he make you leader in the first place? April’s far more qualified.” Faith-Mari stood tall, almost expecting Cyan to deck her. Instead, the redhead lightly tapped her on the cheek.
“Not your call, dear. The good doctor sees the makings of a good leader in me. Who was the guy who saw a leader in you? Ah, yes. Carter Roberds, the traitor.” Cyan laughed.
“I don’t think I’d still be leader if Ms. Lee thought we had botched the Boston job.” Faith-Mari brushed past her former associates. “Good luck with the dog catching.”
Cyan smirked, then turned to face April. “Don’t ever usurp my authority again.”
Bronson Harris made a left turn onto North Rampart Street, paralleling the oceanfront of the city. His gloves gripped the steering wheel of his red ‘69 Dodge Charger. The screaming in the trunk initially caught him off guard; he hadn’t expected Kelly to wake up so quickly. Without hesitation, he turned up the volume on the AM radio. The angel’s pleas drowned in the rapidly ascending violins of Shostakovich’s Piano Trio No. 2.
The trip was taking too long. Canal Street seemed a thousand miles away. Too much time to think about how the life you’ve chosen (and the parts you didn’t choose) led you to where you are today, at the wheel of a muscle car that breaks down every few hundred miles, with the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen bound in the trunk. You stay alone long enough, and everything reminds you of the wrong turns…
How the waterfront reminds you of a weekend spent on a Florida beach. The way you cried when your mother spanked you for trying to run into the Gulf, knowing full well that your reaction to the water would arouse attention. How she hit you so hard that you fought back, gripping her swatting hand with yours, how the smoke brought attention anyway, and by the time the lifeguards were able to pry you off, she was already gone…
How the corner of Rampart and Canal brings you back to the same place, eight years ago. Abandoned by family, missed by no one, and being mugged by a man in a crisp new suit, swinging downward with a blackjack. Didn’t he understand that you were homeless, penniless, and the owner of nothing that would interest such a well-to-do man? How you couldn’t help it any more, and you grabbed him by the face, screams fading after a few seconds, and flames jumping out from the sockets and silent mouth?
How the boss found you anyway, and in return for killing a top lieutenant, you would be subordinate to him, do jobs for him, and never be free again, regardless of how many times he said this would be the “last sanction”?
Turning fully onto Canal Street, the waterfront disappeared, as did the corner. Only the cold steel of One Canal stands before you, a monument to a future that never ends.
He turned into the parking garage, driving up to the top floor, closed off to all but the boss’ employees. When he opened the trunk, Kelly Penrose jumped out, surprising him. She burst through, running down the top level, hands still tied together with plastic cuffs. She got out a lone cry of help before Boiling Point tackled her to the ground and reapplied the chloroform. Kelly went under quicker this time; she was still half-stunned from the original dose.
When she stopped kicking, Boiling Point brushed the hair away from her face. He pulled the collar of her leotard back over the shoulder, making her appearance as good as new. With a minimum of effort, he cradled Kelly in his arms and carried her to the elevator. The boss was waiting.
The smell of boiling potatoes woke Kelly Penrose from her slumber. She tried to look around, but she lacked the energy. She felt the plastic cuffs tying her wrists and ankles to the wheelchair. She sat at the foot of a sleek, obsidian dinner table, overlooking six empty chairs. At the opposite end, Boiling Point prepared a meal without using the stove. Instead, he simply dipped his hand into the pot of water, and steam rose from the kitchen.
The door next to the stove opened, and Kelly recognized the tall man in the frame, even though he was amassed in shadow. He was in the same court case as Eliza Reid.
“I have to tell you, Bronson, the amount of money you save me on energy bills should make you a free man in no time at all. As for you, my fallen angel, we have much to discuss over dinner.” He stepped out of the shadow, a six and a half foot tower, dressed from neck to toe in a white three-piece suit and tie. Huge, Elvis-style sunglasses covered his eyes. A night-colored slick of hair crowned his head, and his right hand clutched a metal cane with a diamond handle.
“Meyrick Marwolaeth,” said Kelly, still dazed.
“Glad to see I’m so famous,” he said. “Not so glad to see that my enterprises are considered important enough for the CIA to send down their runway model spies.” Marwolaeth straightened his tie. “Bronson, the first course, if you will.”
Boiling Point nodded. He carried two bowls, filled almost to the edge with chicken noodle soup. The first bowl rested on Marwolaeth’s placemat without disturbing a drop, but the second bowl spilled over on Kelly’s plate, causing broth to drip across the surface.
“Sorry about my servant,” said Marwolaeth. “He knows only force, and has learned only the language of violence. He’s not much a bright light for any of the finer things in life.” Marwolaeth lifted a spoonful of soup up to his nose, sniffing the aroma, oblivious to Boiling Point’s gloves balling up into fists.
“You had the lawyers killed,” said Kelly.
“Well, of course I did, my little Aphrodite,” said Marwolaeth. “You take from my businesses, I take the equivalent back. You steal my money, I steal your life. An even trade, I assure you. Bronson, be a good butler and feed our guest her meal. She doesn’t have the means to do so herself.”
Boiling Point gently opened Kelly’s mouth. She offered little resistance as he poured a mouthful of broth.
“Hope you enjoy it,” said Marwolaeth. “I added a little zing to the recipe. A heavy concentration of sodium Amytal. Gives it a nice garlic finish, as well as a heaping helping of truth. In a few moments, we’ll be ready to talk about your friends. Bronson, some wine.”
Boiling Point left the spoon in Kelly’s bowl, but not before stroking her brunette ringlets. Marwolaeth whistled.
“The wine. Now.” As Boiling Point left for the wine cellar, Marwolaeth shook his head. With both hands, he rested the wooden cane on his lap. “Forgive him, my lamb. He has a brutal talent, but he’s without culture. Couldn’t tell you the difference between a Montrachet ’78 and a box of Franzia Chillable Red.”
“You’ve left too much of a trail. The NOPD will find you.”
Marwolaeth laughed. “Highly doubtful. I’m afraid an unfortunate fire is going to engulf Mr. Delvecchio’s office later tonight. Don’t know how. Just a gut feeling. And that’s not the only thing that’s going up in flames tonight.”
“Eliza Reid,” said Kelly.
“Give the girl a cookie. Yes. Bronson will be too busy having fun downtown. So I will have Alpha and Beta take care of our last little problem. Ladies?”
Two identical women marched into the dining room, single file. They turned to face Marwolaeth. The women wore matching white hooded catsuits that betrayed their athletic builds. Their faces, with high cheekbones, long, straight noses, and empty blue eyes, were the only features uncovered by their uniforms. Tinted goggles rested on the tops of their heads. Both women carried an AK-91 machine gun.
“You know the address,” said Marwolaeth. “Now is the time. Go.”
Alpha and Beta nodded. They pulled down the goggles over their eyes, then marched back out of the dining room.
Kelly wanted to tell Marwolaeth that he was going to be caught, that any chance of covering up his tracks was doomed to failure, but a sudden spasm arched its way through her central nervous system. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
“A very heavy concentration of sodium Amytal,” said Marwolaeth. “Now, my lamb, what’s your name?”
“Kelly.”
“All right, then. Who else is trying to get me?”
“Congratulations, McCullers. You got what you wanted.”
“No thanks to you,” said Cyan. “I read your report on the Roberds case. You said I allowed myself to be taken hostage.”
Faith-Mari shook her head. “Shows that you’re looking for problems. I said anyone of us could’ve been taken away. They happened to choose you. I did not question your tenacity or courage. You took it to Monstrosity first. But sometimes that’s not the best way to go. That’s why I made the recommendations in the report.”
“Because you were afraid the truth would come out.” Cyan sneered. “Face it, Faith-Mari. You didn’t want someone getting the good cases. But we can’t always get what we want. Agent Hsu and I are going to bust this one wide open. We’ll be sitting back in the French Quarter, sipping on margaritas, while you and Little Miss Sycophant are scrounging around for names.”
“And just what case would that be?” asked Faith-Mari.
Cyan wagged her finger in front of her former superior. “I don’t think so, babe. “
“We’re here on a case from the Unexplained department,” said April. Cyan spun around and glared at her.
Faith-Mari nodded. “Go on.”
April slowly exhaled. “There have been several different sightings of an unknown animal roaming New Orleans. Some witnesses said it looked like your ordinary, garden variety werewolf. Orders are to capture it. If it’s just a stray wolf, which is unlikely, or some exotic pet or zoo specimen, then we’ll just let it be. But if it’s something worth observation…”
“And it is,” said Cyan. “Why else would Dr. Whitman assign us to a case? We’re not dog catchers; we’re government agents.”
“The question I’d be asking is this: why would he make you leader in the first place? April’s far more qualified.” Faith-Mari stood tall, almost expecting Cyan to deck her. Instead, the redhead lightly tapped her on the cheek.
“Not your call, dear. The good doctor sees the makings of a good leader in me. Who was the guy who saw a leader in you? Ah, yes. Carter Roberds, the traitor.” Cyan laughed.
“I don’t think I’d still be leader if Ms. Lee thought we had botched the Boston job.” Faith-Mari brushed past her former associates. “Good luck with the dog catching.”
Cyan smirked, then turned to face April. “Don’t ever usurp my authority again.”
Bronson Harris made a left turn onto North Rampart Street, paralleling the oceanfront of the city. His gloves gripped the steering wheel of his red ‘69 Dodge Charger. The screaming in the trunk initially caught him off guard; he hadn’t expected Kelly to wake up so quickly. Without hesitation, he turned up the volume on the AM radio. The angel’s pleas drowned in the rapidly ascending violins of Shostakovich’s Piano Trio No. 2.
The trip was taking too long. Canal Street seemed a thousand miles away. Too much time to think about how the life you’ve chosen (and the parts you didn’t choose) led you to where you are today, at the wheel of a muscle car that breaks down every few hundred miles, with the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen bound in the trunk. You stay alone long enough, and everything reminds you of the wrong turns…
How the waterfront reminds you of a weekend spent on a Florida beach. The way you cried when your mother spanked you for trying to run into the Gulf, knowing full well that your reaction to the water would arouse attention. How she hit you so hard that you fought back, gripping her swatting hand with yours, how the smoke brought attention anyway, and by the time the lifeguards were able to pry you off, she was already gone…
How the corner of Rampart and Canal brings you back to the same place, eight years ago. Abandoned by family, missed by no one, and being mugged by a man in a crisp new suit, swinging downward with a blackjack. Didn’t he understand that you were homeless, penniless, and the owner of nothing that would interest such a well-to-do man? How you couldn’t help it any more, and you grabbed him by the face, screams fading after a few seconds, and flames jumping out from the sockets and silent mouth?
How the boss found you anyway, and in return for killing a top lieutenant, you would be subordinate to him, do jobs for him, and never be free again, regardless of how many times he said this would be the “last sanction”?
Turning fully onto Canal Street, the waterfront disappeared, as did the corner. Only the cold steel of One Canal stands before you, a monument to a future that never ends.
He turned into the parking garage, driving up to the top floor, closed off to all but the boss’ employees. When he opened the trunk, Kelly Penrose jumped out, surprising him. She burst through, running down the top level, hands still tied together with plastic cuffs. She got out a lone cry of help before Boiling Point tackled her to the ground and reapplied the chloroform. Kelly went under quicker this time; she was still half-stunned from the original dose.
When she stopped kicking, Boiling Point brushed the hair away from her face. He pulled the collar of her leotard back over the shoulder, making her appearance as good as new. With a minimum of effort, he cradled Kelly in his arms and carried her to the elevator. The boss was waiting.
The smell of boiling potatoes woke Kelly Penrose from her slumber. She tried to look around, but she lacked the energy. She felt the plastic cuffs tying her wrists and ankles to the wheelchair. She sat at the foot of a sleek, obsidian dinner table, overlooking six empty chairs. At the opposite end, Boiling Point prepared a meal without using the stove. Instead, he simply dipped his hand into the pot of water, and steam rose from the kitchen.
The door next to the stove opened, and Kelly recognized the tall man in the frame, even though he was amassed in shadow. He was in the same court case as Eliza Reid.
“I have to tell you, Bronson, the amount of money you save me on energy bills should make you a free man in no time at all. As for you, my fallen angel, we have much to discuss over dinner.” He stepped out of the shadow, a six and a half foot tower, dressed from neck to toe in a white three-piece suit and tie. Huge, Elvis-style sunglasses covered his eyes. A night-colored slick of hair crowned his head, and his right hand clutched a metal cane with a diamond handle.
“Meyrick Marwolaeth,” said Kelly, still dazed.
“Glad to see I’m so famous,” he said. “Not so glad to see that my enterprises are considered important enough for the CIA to send down their runway model spies.” Marwolaeth straightened his tie. “Bronson, the first course, if you will.”
Boiling Point nodded. He carried two bowls, filled almost to the edge with chicken noodle soup. The first bowl rested on Marwolaeth’s placemat without disturbing a drop, but the second bowl spilled over on Kelly’s plate, causing broth to drip across the surface.
“Sorry about my servant,” said Marwolaeth. “He knows only force, and has learned only the language of violence. He’s not much a bright light for any of the finer things in life.” Marwolaeth lifted a spoonful of soup up to his nose, sniffing the aroma, oblivious to Boiling Point’s gloves balling up into fists.
“You had the lawyers killed,” said Kelly.
“Well, of course I did, my little Aphrodite,” said Marwolaeth. “You take from my businesses, I take the equivalent back. You steal my money, I steal your life. An even trade, I assure you. Bronson, be a good butler and feed our guest her meal. She doesn’t have the means to do so herself.”
Boiling Point gently opened Kelly’s mouth. She offered little resistance as he poured a mouthful of broth.
“Hope you enjoy it,” said Marwolaeth. “I added a little zing to the recipe. A heavy concentration of sodium Amytal. Gives it a nice garlic finish, as well as a heaping helping of truth. In a few moments, we’ll be ready to talk about your friends. Bronson, some wine.”
Boiling Point left the spoon in Kelly’s bowl, but not before stroking her brunette ringlets. Marwolaeth whistled.
“The wine. Now.” As Boiling Point left for the wine cellar, Marwolaeth shook his head. With both hands, he rested the wooden cane on his lap. “Forgive him, my lamb. He has a brutal talent, but he’s without culture. Couldn’t tell you the difference between a Montrachet ’78 and a box of Franzia Chillable Red.”
“You’ve left too much of a trail. The NOPD will find you.”
Marwolaeth laughed. “Highly doubtful. I’m afraid an unfortunate fire is going to engulf Mr. Delvecchio’s office later tonight. Don’t know how. Just a gut feeling. And that’s not the only thing that’s going up in flames tonight.”
“Eliza Reid,” said Kelly.
“Give the girl a cookie. Yes. Bronson will be too busy having fun downtown. So I will have Alpha and Beta take care of our last little problem. Ladies?”
Two identical women marched into the dining room, single file. They turned to face Marwolaeth. The women wore matching white hooded catsuits that betrayed their athletic builds. Their faces, with high cheekbones, long, straight noses, and empty blue eyes, were the only features uncovered by their uniforms. Tinted goggles rested on the tops of their heads. Both women carried an AK-91 machine gun.
“You know the address,” said Marwolaeth. “Now is the time. Go.”
Alpha and Beta nodded. They pulled down the goggles over their eyes, then marched back out of the dining room.
Kelly wanted to tell Marwolaeth that he was going to be caught, that any chance of covering up his tracks was doomed to failure, but a sudden spasm arched its way through her central nervous system. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
“A very heavy concentration of sodium Amytal,” said Marwolaeth. “Now, my lamb, what’s your name?”
“Kelly.”
“All right, then. Who else is trying to get me?”
-
The Great Dutch Ninja
- Henchman
- Posts: 53
- Joined: 19 years ago
- Location: Medford, MA
I didn't know how this story was going to end when I began, but the more it comes together, the darker it's getting. Just a word of caution beforehand.
****
Sesen Villone unlocked the door to her downtown apartment, which held enough room for a book of matches and a thimble. She kicked her shoes off from the doorway and placed her jacket on the coatrack, the one with one of its arms severed. Somewhere in the living room, the ceiling released another drop into one of the many buckets splayed across the floor.
“The life of the law,” she said to herself. Meanwhile, men like Meyrick Marwolaeth can stretch out in their padded promenades, looking over the city like kings over their dominions, free to play, steal, and kill.
But now was the time for the law to rest. It had done its job for the day, unsuccessful though it may have been.
Sesen flipped her midnight mane of hair to one side as she walked to the cabinet in the far corner of the apartment. Walking over old newspapers, half-filled buckets of water, and every magazine clip of Marwolaeth Casinos that she could find, she held onto the wooden knobs, shaped like outstretched hands. Pulling the doors open, Sesen gazed at the bowl of flour that sat on the top shelf.
Marwolaeth found a way to kill the lawyers. Despite everything she had done to protect them, after creating the amulets around their necks, after turning them into wanga so that Marwolaeth or his known hired guns could never touch the wearers of the amulets without feeling the icy cold hands of death grip them for all time…
He must’ve gone outside the company to find an assassin. And unless she could find him out, and find so much as a hair to bring back… only then would Eliza Reid be safe. If she fell, there would be no more lines of defense. The recent bad luck of Marwolaeth’s empire, the guilty verdict in the embezzlement charges due in great part to Miss Reid’s testimony, the constant pressure of Precinct Two, and now the interest of the CIA’s ANGELS division (and this added coincidence caused Sesen to smile; the fact that Karla Lee would send four angels in two teams to talk to her over a non-national security issue assured her that Bondye and the loas wanted Marwolaeth caught)… all would be for nothing. His treachery would be free to roam across New Orleans.
Sesen thought about the recent visitors from Langley; Faith-Mari as the rains began, her partner scouring the city for evidence that could eventually point back at Marwolaeth, and the two nosy ones, the ones who asked about the wolf-like creature that crawled through the city. She was relieved to find out that, in their infinite wisdom, the CIA had not put together two and two, and that the discovery of the lawyers’ bodies and the sightings of the wolf were eerily close to each other in both time and location.
But now was not the time for tangents. Eliza Reid was the last hope for the safety of New Orleans, whether she knew it or not. Her amulet, given to her by the lawyers after the case as a gift “from a grateful follower of the Marwolaeth case” was the last barrier between his dementia and the power he desperately wanted.
She grabbed a handful of flour from the bowl and spread it across the floor. With the blank white coating in front of her, she drew the elaborate, intersecting straight lines and diamonds that symbolized the loa Ogoun, of iron and fire, seeker of justice.
She knew that Bondye would not approve of using the tricks of the bokor, the practice of the Petro branch of voodoo. But why He would allow Marwolaeth to continue on this planet, unchallenged, was a mystery to her. She knew that this is what needed to be done.
She pressed her hand on the symbol of Ogoun. Within seconds, she felt the first snap of her bones restructuring, her vision changing colors and dimensions. It was starting again.
The phone rang in the penthouse an hour after Meyrick Marwolaeth left the dinner table, One Canal Place, and the waterfront of New Orleans. Bronson Harris, the only conscious person there, slowly walked to the hanging.
“Bronson, I trust you and our talkative friend Kelly are having the time of your lives. And I hate to interrupt you, but I’ve been told from some loose lips at Precinct 2 that there are more Blue Angels with interest in my affairs. I want you to go to Louis Armstrong Airport. If there are any Angels there, neutralize them. If there are any CIA there, neutralize them. Make sure they can’t leave New Orleans until Miss Reed has been dealt with. And when the situation has been sanitized, dispose of Miss Penrose. Do you understand?” Bronson remained silent.
“Very good," said Marwolaeth. "You will be rewarded for your tasks. They shall not interfere with the Rising.” The line went dead.
And then he heard the elevator ring.
Cyan McCullers could hardly be more proud of herself.
From looking at the case files of the wolf sightings, she noticed how each sighting was preceded by the murder of one of Faith-Mari’s dead lawyers.
From the info she received on the four lawyers by the Precinct, she immediately noticed the same name appearing as the first officer at the murder scenes: Lt. Sesen Villone. Strange, considering some of the cases were well outside Precinct Two boundaries.
From talking to the lieutenant’s fellow officers, some of whom were more than happy to spread dirt on their colleague, others of whom were happy to brighten the day of a stunning redhead in a short skirt and electric blue tights, most of Villone’s time in the last two years had been directed at putting the mogul/casino tycoon/preacher Meyrick Marwolaeth. She may not have been able to give the man jail time for his crimes, but the case was successful in sullying his image.
And who represented the city in convicting Father Marwolaeth? Four guys who were rotting in the “Cities of the Dead,” as the locals seemed to call them.
And who better to visit this evening than the lead suspect? If Father Marwolaeth can be rolled up, sent to interrogation, cracks, spills the beans on the assassin and the wolf, that’s two birds with one stone. And then, maybe then, Karla Lee would see who the head of this Angel class truly is.
Cyan and April entered One Canal Place in their business outfits, soaked in the torrential downpour that overtook the city by mid-afternoon.
“Coast is clear,” said April. For a building that usually bustled with business, the silence was unusual. And a tad unsettling.
The security guard at the help desk lifted his large frame from a swivel chair and advanced toward the pair. “Y’all are supposed to be at the sermon. Mandatory tonight at St. Charles. All Marwolaeth employees and devotees.”
“Actually, we’re here from a different company,” said Cyan.
“Don’t see how that’s possible,” said the guard, straightening the tie that draped across his barrel chest. “Mr. Marwolaeth owns the building. Now why are you pretty young things hanging around?”
“We came to see him.” Cyan’s glare betrayed her impatience.
“And I already told you, he ain’t here.”
A single blow from Cyan sent the security guard spinning around 360 degrees, landing awkwardly on his side.
“I’ll take a look for myself, if you don’t mind,” said Cyan.
April shrugged. “Crude, but effective. I’ll check out St. Charles.”
“Not a chance,” Cyan said. “If he’s there, visibility is too great. We’ll wait for him. And if Rent-a-Cop was lying, we have our chance now. Time to suit up.”
They slipped off the business attire in the elevators, revealing their field uniform. Cyan smiled, taking pride in the leotard’s darker blue color; she was a full-blown agent now. She dragged her finger across the white stripe on the shoulder of the fabric, symbolizing her leadership of the team.
“Looking sharp,” she said.
“Um, thanks,” said April, knowing full well that the compliment wasn’t meant for her.
The elevator’s ping indicated that they were in the penthouse suite level. Marwolaeth’s home.
The doors swung open, revealing a wide expanse of a dining hall, and an obsidian table with plates, some half-filled with food. The only sign of life was the column of steam that came from the kitchen.
“Let’s get our man,” whispered Cyan. April nodded.
They turned the corner of the elevator. Meyrick Marwolaeth wasn’t there. Instead, there was a blond-haired young man, draped in a red trenchcoat one size too big, sunglasses looking downward at the stove pot, his hand dipped in to the wrist, arm disappearing in a cloud of steam.
Cyan stopped, unsure of what she was seeing.
“Where’s Father Marwolaeth?” April asked.
The man in red refused to turn around. Silent, he began to stir the water in the pot with his bare hand.
“Is he here?” asked Cyan.
He nodded.
“Where is he?” April began to reach for the plastic handcuffs on her utility belt.
The man shook his head. From the visible corner of his face, Cyan could see him smile.
“What’s so funny?”
Boiling Point tossed the pot of water in a single motion. The scalding wave smacked Cyan across the face, sending her down to the floor, screaming. He looked down at the wounded angel, then up to April. With his gloved hand, he motioned to her.
April went in feet first, connecting with a crescent kick that sent Boiling Point sliding down the cabinets. She bounced his head repeatedly against the metal doorframe, scrambling his brains. A solid right fist cracked the right lens of his Oakleys.
“Not so tough without a weapon, are you?” she asked. She lifted Boiling Point up by the lapels of his coat and shoved him facefirst against the refrigerator door. “Let’s see what you know about Father Marwolaeth.” She slapped the plastic cuffs around his hands, binding them together. She was too busy with tightening the plastic until it was too late.
With his cuffed, ungloved hand, he reached back and held tight against the bare skin between April’s glove and sleeve. The angel kicked Boiling Point in the back, then pushed her feet against the base of his spine, trying to pry herself free. She continued to struggle even as the first puffs of steam vented out of her eye sockets, her mouth, and her nostrils. Her porcelain skin began to crackle and warp, wrinkling into unrecognizable shapes and folds…
When she stopped breathing, Boiling Point released her. He turned to see the still smoking form of April, her uniform partially melted into her skin. He looked around for Cyan, but couldn’t find the angel who’d been screaming on the floor moments before. The closing door in the front of the penthouse suite let Boiling Point know where she had gone.
He opened the utensil drawer, withdrawing a steak knife. After a few swipes, he cut himself free from the cuffs. As he ripped off the remaining strips, he walked into the bedroom. Kelly continued her chloroform-induced slumber, her hands and ankles bound together with cables. He cradled her in his arms and exited the penthouse. He made no attempt to hide the fallen angel. The police were too afraid to search Marwolaeth’s premises. And the scalded one was injured, perhaps blinded by the pot of water. She would be causing no further trouble.
With a smile, he carried the sleeping angel into the elevator car.
Eliza Reid spent the day in her apartment, afraid to go outside. She read of Wesley Osgood’s murder in the Times-Picayune in the morning, and spent the next several hours checking the locks on her doors, peering through the blinds, and watching the news, hoping for a miraculous capture.
In between bouts of paranoia, she called the competing casinos, looking for a return to blackjack dealing. Each call was greeted with a hang-up upon the mention of her name. If she was going to rat out Meyrick Marwolaeth, why wouldn’t she blow the whistle on them?
It was almost sunset when the adrenaline rush of fear began to subside. Eliza slipped into a Tulane basketball t-shirt that hung formlessly over her body, and a pair of pajama pants. Maybe some Wheel of Fortune is what the doctor ordered, she thought.
With a gentle tug, she lifted the chain of a ruby amulet over the t-shirt. She had been slightly unrattled when Delvecchio and his staff presented her with the amulet. The anonymity of the gift-bearer was unsettling, and she felt as thought she had paid off for speaking, just as she had been paid by Meyrick Marwolaeth for keeping silent. Still, the thing had its charm, its faint glow of sunset red, and its indescrible aura...
As she flipped through the channels to her television set, she didn’t notice the two hooded, white catsuit-clad sylphs running by her window. She didn’t notice the rustling in the trees outside her apartment. And she wasn’t aware of the danger until two red dots lit up, one over her heart, and the other between her eyes…
****
Sesen Villone unlocked the door to her downtown apartment, which held enough room for a book of matches and a thimble. She kicked her shoes off from the doorway and placed her jacket on the coatrack, the one with one of its arms severed. Somewhere in the living room, the ceiling released another drop into one of the many buckets splayed across the floor.
“The life of the law,” she said to herself. Meanwhile, men like Meyrick Marwolaeth can stretch out in their padded promenades, looking over the city like kings over their dominions, free to play, steal, and kill.
But now was the time for the law to rest. It had done its job for the day, unsuccessful though it may have been.
Sesen flipped her midnight mane of hair to one side as she walked to the cabinet in the far corner of the apartment. Walking over old newspapers, half-filled buckets of water, and every magazine clip of Marwolaeth Casinos that she could find, she held onto the wooden knobs, shaped like outstretched hands. Pulling the doors open, Sesen gazed at the bowl of flour that sat on the top shelf.
Marwolaeth found a way to kill the lawyers. Despite everything she had done to protect them, after creating the amulets around their necks, after turning them into wanga so that Marwolaeth or his known hired guns could never touch the wearers of the amulets without feeling the icy cold hands of death grip them for all time…
He must’ve gone outside the company to find an assassin. And unless she could find him out, and find so much as a hair to bring back… only then would Eliza Reid be safe. If she fell, there would be no more lines of defense. The recent bad luck of Marwolaeth’s empire, the guilty verdict in the embezzlement charges due in great part to Miss Reid’s testimony, the constant pressure of Precinct Two, and now the interest of the CIA’s ANGELS division (and this added coincidence caused Sesen to smile; the fact that Karla Lee would send four angels in two teams to talk to her over a non-national security issue assured her that Bondye and the loas wanted Marwolaeth caught)… all would be for nothing. His treachery would be free to roam across New Orleans.
Sesen thought about the recent visitors from Langley; Faith-Mari as the rains began, her partner scouring the city for evidence that could eventually point back at Marwolaeth, and the two nosy ones, the ones who asked about the wolf-like creature that crawled through the city. She was relieved to find out that, in their infinite wisdom, the CIA had not put together two and two, and that the discovery of the lawyers’ bodies and the sightings of the wolf were eerily close to each other in both time and location.
But now was not the time for tangents. Eliza Reid was the last hope for the safety of New Orleans, whether she knew it or not. Her amulet, given to her by the lawyers after the case as a gift “from a grateful follower of the Marwolaeth case” was the last barrier between his dementia and the power he desperately wanted.
She grabbed a handful of flour from the bowl and spread it across the floor. With the blank white coating in front of her, she drew the elaborate, intersecting straight lines and diamonds that symbolized the loa Ogoun, of iron and fire, seeker of justice.
She knew that Bondye would not approve of using the tricks of the bokor, the practice of the Petro branch of voodoo. But why He would allow Marwolaeth to continue on this planet, unchallenged, was a mystery to her. She knew that this is what needed to be done.
She pressed her hand on the symbol of Ogoun. Within seconds, she felt the first snap of her bones restructuring, her vision changing colors and dimensions. It was starting again.
The phone rang in the penthouse an hour after Meyrick Marwolaeth left the dinner table, One Canal Place, and the waterfront of New Orleans. Bronson Harris, the only conscious person there, slowly walked to the hanging.
“Bronson, I trust you and our talkative friend Kelly are having the time of your lives. And I hate to interrupt you, but I’ve been told from some loose lips at Precinct 2 that there are more Blue Angels with interest in my affairs. I want you to go to Louis Armstrong Airport. If there are any Angels there, neutralize them. If there are any CIA there, neutralize them. Make sure they can’t leave New Orleans until Miss Reed has been dealt with. And when the situation has been sanitized, dispose of Miss Penrose. Do you understand?” Bronson remained silent.
“Very good," said Marwolaeth. "You will be rewarded for your tasks. They shall not interfere with the Rising.” The line went dead.
And then he heard the elevator ring.
Cyan McCullers could hardly be more proud of herself.
From looking at the case files of the wolf sightings, she noticed how each sighting was preceded by the murder of one of Faith-Mari’s dead lawyers.
From the info she received on the four lawyers by the Precinct, she immediately noticed the same name appearing as the first officer at the murder scenes: Lt. Sesen Villone. Strange, considering some of the cases were well outside Precinct Two boundaries.
From talking to the lieutenant’s fellow officers, some of whom were more than happy to spread dirt on their colleague, others of whom were happy to brighten the day of a stunning redhead in a short skirt and electric blue tights, most of Villone’s time in the last two years had been directed at putting the mogul/casino tycoon/preacher Meyrick Marwolaeth. She may not have been able to give the man jail time for his crimes, but the case was successful in sullying his image.
And who represented the city in convicting Father Marwolaeth? Four guys who were rotting in the “Cities of the Dead,” as the locals seemed to call them.
And who better to visit this evening than the lead suspect? If Father Marwolaeth can be rolled up, sent to interrogation, cracks, spills the beans on the assassin and the wolf, that’s two birds with one stone. And then, maybe then, Karla Lee would see who the head of this Angel class truly is.
Cyan and April entered One Canal Place in their business outfits, soaked in the torrential downpour that overtook the city by mid-afternoon.
“Coast is clear,” said April. For a building that usually bustled with business, the silence was unusual. And a tad unsettling.
The security guard at the help desk lifted his large frame from a swivel chair and advanced toward the pair. “Y’all are supposed to be at the sermon. Mandatory tonight at St. Charles. All Marwolaeth employees and devotees.”
“Actually, we’re here from a different company,” said Cyan.
“Don’t see how that’s possible,” said the guard, straightening the tie that draped across his barrel chest. “Mr. Marwolaeth owns the building. Now why are you pretty young things hanging around?”
“We came to see him.” Cyan’s glare betrayed her impatience.
“And I already told you, he ain’t here.”
A single blow from Cyan sent the security guard spinning around 360 degrees, landing awkwardly on his side.
“I’ll take a look for myself, if you don’t mind,” said Cyan.
April shrugged. “Crude, but effective. I’ll check out St. Charles.”
“Not a chance,” Cyan said. “If he’s there, visibility is too great. We’ll wait for him. And if Rent-a-Cop was lying, we have our chance now. Time to suit up.”
They slipped off the business attire in the elevators, revealing their field uniform. Cyan smiled, taking pride in the leotard’s darker blue color; she was a full-blown agent now. She dragged her finger across the white stripe on the shoulder of the fabric, symbolizing her leadership of the team.
“Looking sharp,” she said.
“Um, thanks,” said April, knowing full well that the compliment wasn’t meant for her.
The elevator’s ping indicated that they were in the penthouse suite level. Marwolaeth’s home.
The doors swung open, revealing a wide expanse of a dining hall, and an obsidian table with plates, some half-filled with food. The only sign of life was the column of steam that came from the kitchen.
“Let’s get our man,” whispered Cyan. April nodded.
They turned the corner of the elevator. Meyrick Marwolaeth wasn’t there. Instead, there was a blond-haired young man, draped in a red trenchcoat one size too big, sunglasses looking downward at the stove pot, his hand dipped in to the wrist, arm disappearing in a cloud of steam.
Cyan stopped, unsure of what she was seeing.
“Where’s Father Marwolaeth?” April asked.
The man in red refused to turn around. Silent, he began to stir the water in the pot with his bare hand.
“Is he here?” asked Cyan.
He nodded.
“Where is he?” April began to reach for the plastic handcuffs on her utility belt.
The man shook his head. From the visible corner of his face, Cyan could see him smile.
“What’s so funny?”
Boiling Point tossed the pot of water in a single motion. The scalding wave smacked Cyan across the face, sending her down to the floor, screaming. He looked down at the wounded angel, then up to April. With his gloved hand, he motioned to her.
April went in feet first, connecting with a crescent kick that sent Boiling Point sliding down the cabinets. She bounced his head repeatedly against the metal doorframe, scrambling his brains. A solid right fist cracked the right lens of his Oakleys.
“Not so tough without a weapon, are you?” she asked. She lifted Boiling Point up by the lapels of his coat and shoved him facefirst against the refrigerator door. “Let’s see what you know about Father Marwolaeth.” She slapped the plastic cuffs around his hands, binding them together. She was too busy with tightening the plastic until it was too late.
With his cuffed, ungloved hand, he reached back and held tight against the bare skin between April’s glove and sleeve. The angel kicked Boiling Point in the back, then pushed her feet against the base of his spine, trying to pry herself free. She continued to struggle even as the first puffs of steam vented out of her eye sockets, her mouth, and her nostrils. Her porcelain skin began to crackle and warp, wrinkling into unrecognizable shapes and folds…
When she stopped breathing, Boiling Point released her. He turned to see the still smoking form of April, her uniform partially melted into her skin. He looked around for Cyan, but couldn’t find the angel who’d been screaming on the floor moments before. The closing door in the front of the penthouse suite let Boiling Point know where she had gone.
He opened the utensil drawer, withdrawing a steak knife. After a few swipes, he cut himself free from the cuffs. As he ripped off the remaining strips, he walked into the bedroom. Kelly continued her chloroform-induced slumber, her hands and ankles bound together with cables. He cradled her in his arms and exited the penthouse. He made no attempt to hide the fallen angel. The police were too afraid to search Marwolaeth’s premises. And the scalded one was injured, perhaps blinded by the pot of water. She would be causing no further trouble.
With a smile, he carried the sleeping angel into the elevator car.
Eliza Reid spent the day in her apartment, afraid to go outside. She read of Wesley Osgood’s murder in the Times-Picayune in the morning, and spent the next several hours checking the locks on her doors, peering through the blinds, and watching the news, hoping for a miraculous capture.
In between bouts of paranoia, she called the competing casinos, looking for a return to blackjack dealing. Each call was greeted with a hang-up upon the mention of her name. If she was going to rat out Meyrick Marwolaeth, why wouldn’t she blow the whistle on them?
It was almost sunset when the adrenaline rush of fear began to subside. Eliza slipped into a Tulane basketball t-shirt that hung formlessly over her body, and a pair of pajama pants. Maybe some Wheel of Fortune is what the doctor ordered, she thought.
With a gentle tug, she lifted the chain of a ruby amulet over the t-shirt. She had been slightly unrattled when Delvecchio and his staff presented her with the amulet. The anonymity of the gift-bearer was unsettling, and she felt as thought she had paid off for speaking, just as she had been paid by Meyrick Marwolaeth for keeping silent. Still, the thing had its charm, its faint glow of sunset red, and its indescrible aura...
As she flipped through the channels to her television set, she didn’t notice the two hooded, white catsuit-clad sylphs running by her window. She didn’t notice the rustling in the trees outside her apartment. And she wasn’t aware of the danger until two red dots lit up, one over her heart, and the other between her eyes…
-
phoxy_brown
- Sargeant
- Posts: 108
- Joined: 20 years ago
OMG!!! This is off the chart, man! I love the dark territory that you have ventured into and eagerly await the next installment to see what other mayhem you have in store for our ANGELS. I'm trying to wrap a story up now and find myself in the same predicament of how to wrap up. Anyhoo, take your time, but not too long...this is truly a classic work in the making with nice plot twist and solid character development.
-
The Great Dutch Ninja
- Henchman
- Posts: 53
- Joined: 19 years ago
- Location: Medford, MA
Thanks chthulu1. I knew it might be a bit strong for some, but it's just how it's naturally progressing. I always thought Chrysalis was a safe PG-13, as is the third story (coming out soon). But Boiling Point.... this is a hard R, for the scene preceding this post, and for a scene in this post (just to give you fair warning).
****
Alpha and Beta took to their normal positions; Alpha took a standing position, with Beta kneeling and to the right, ready to take out any duckers or jumpers. They didn’t know why Morwalaeth’s Number One Son wasn’t put on the assignment, like the others. They didn’t care. It was finally time to do some actual work.
The dots were lined and steady. The target didn’t suspect a thing. There was only one problem.
“I can’t pull the trigger,” said Beta.
“Huh?”
“I don’t know why, but I can’t. You take her out.”
“One body bag, coming up.” Alpha tried to put the minimum pressure necessary to squeeze the hairpin and terminate Eliza Reid. But a cold and constant wind blew down her spine, through her veins, into her marrow. Beads of sweat ran down her face and dampened her catsuit.
“I can’t do it, either. Get some courage and do it yourself.”
A solid crash echoed through the kitchen of the apartment, followed by a scream inside. The two assassins looked in. The red dots now highlighted the curio cabinet that was once behind Eliza.
With a loud roar, an animal the size of a man smashed through the window of the apartment and tackled Beta out of her kneeling position. The automatic weapon flew out of her hands and into the nearby bushes.
Beta screamed as the beast’s claws made fresh scratches into the skin. That was when she noticed the beast sniffing the new wounds for a second, heard the screams from Alpha, and then a blinding stab of unmatchable pain before the world went black…
She noticed them driving up to Eliza Reid’s apartment. She watched as the spell worked its magic on the weak minds. She knew them from earlier contracts placed by Meyrick Marwolaeth. They couldn’t pull the trigger.
Sucks to be them.
She smelled the fresh run of blood as soon as she tackled the kneeling one. As she pinned the assassin down, she could sense the intricate coursing of the veins and arteries, reading them almost as if it were a map… watching the lifeforce speed up as the adrenaline entered in force.
She opened her jaws as wide as possible, then dug in, teeth-deep, into Beta’s neck. The white catsuit clad body, now streaked with rivers of red, went rigid in shock for an instant, and then went limp with the final, severed scream.
She now turned to the dead woman’s partner, trying desperately to open fire with her weapon. With a simple swipe, she batted down Alpha, causing similar wounds on the left side of her face.
She pinned down Alpha with her paw, keeping her prey face down. Using the power of the bokor, she changed her face into human form, even as the rest of her body remained in its wolf shape.
“Who killed Delvecchio and the others?” she asked.
Alpha whimpered, unable to give an answer.
She growled, then sank her claw deeper into the assassin’s shoulder, eliciting a high-pitched shriek. “Who is working for Marwolaeth?”
“Oh, God. Please don’t kill me,” said Alpha. “It’s some freakshow named Harris. Bronson Harris. He can boil people like a stove. He lives in Chalmette, off the highway. He’s the one you want. Get him.”
“Oh, I will,” she said. “But first, I feast.” She turned over Alpha, who yelled at the sight of Lt. Sesen Villone’s face topping a wolf’s body. “And when Bondye damns your soul, tell them it was Lougarou who brought you.”
And then the feast began.
Faith-Mari couldn’t believe it took so long to figure it out.
It took a trip to the Delvecchio office. It took checking out the folder to the Reid account that Kelly Penrose had apparently left on the desk.
And it didn’t hurt to see the evidence of struggle that was left behind.
Heading to One Canal, she knew that her mission was twofold; question Marwolaeth on the murders, and rescue Kelly, if she needed rescuing.
She removed her dress apparel on the elevator ride up, revealing her new dark blue uniform. Unlike Cyan McCullers, she looked at the white bar and wondered how she came to be a leader. Didn’t she almost get her group sucked into oblivion in Boston? Didn’t she send Kelly alone to the Delvecchio office? What happened to her?
Her thoughts snapped back into place with the ringing of the doors. She exited the cabin and turned into the kitchen, where the only person in sight was the security guard, mopping up a pool of water. To Faith-Mari’s confusion, steam was rising from the wet tiles.
“Isn’t that the janitor’s job?” she asked.
The security guard spun around. “Ah, hell’s bells. Not another one of you. Look, it’s cool to come in dressed as you are, but when it comes to the kicking and punching, that’s when the fun ends for me.”
Faith-Mari grabbed the security guard by the collar, causing him to lose grip on the mop. “Where is Meyrick Marwolaeth?”
“You won’t find him here,” said a voice in the back. Faith-Mari looked behind the guard and caught a glimpse of Cyan McCullers, stumbling out of the corridor and into the kitchen entrance. Her face was blotched and red from the previous assault.
“Oh, no. Not you again,” said the guard. Faith-Mari promptly clamped down on his neck nerves, giving him an instant blackout.
Cyan held onto the countertop to keep her balance. “I bet you’re happy now, Hopkins.”
“About what?” asked Faith-Mari. “Where’s April?”
Cyan sighed. “April’s dead. And that’s another thing you can pin on me, isn’t it?”
“She’s dead? How?”
“We got blindsided by a guy in red. Took her out the same way he took out Delvecchio and his boys. Burned her alive. I heard the guard refer to him as Mr. Harris. ‘Oh, Mr. Harris, you’ve done it again. Lit another one up.’ And he took her body away, and cleaned it all up. And now he’s got Kelly, and who knows where they are now.”
“Let me call someone to get you, and I’ll go find him out.”
Cyan laughed. “So you can get all the glory again, Hopkins? First, you had to save poor little me, and now you’re going to clean up my mess? No. I’m going to gut this coward.”
Faith-Mari shook her head. “Cyan, you’re scalded. You probably can’t see straight. You need medical assistance.”
“I’m seeing no one.” The redhead stumbled to the silverware drawer and took out a large butcher knife. “You aren’t getting credit for this one. You didn’t earn it.” She lashed out awkwardly at Faith-Mari, who easily backed out of the way.
“You can’t be serious.”
“As cancer,” said Cyan. “Ms. Lee will know who the true leader is.”
“Leader?” asked Faith-Mari. “You couldn’t lead a river to the ocean, you psychopath.” A sudden fist, coming from Cyan’s non-armed hand, struck Faith-Mari flush in the jaw, flooring her.
“Say that again, if you can.” Cyan straddled Faith-Mari, knife outstretched. As the blade came down, Faith-Mari gripped the taller girl’s arm, keeping the point inches from her heart. With her free arm, Faith-Mari reached into Cyan’s mask and poked into her eyes. With an opening ready, she dug both feet into the attacker’s middle and monkey-flipped her over, causing Cyan to land back first into the skyscraper’s window, cracking it.
Cyan struggled to get up to her feet, but immediately struck out with another swipe from the blade. Faith-Mari could hear the whistle of the wind as the knife came close enough to cut a line across the midriff of her leotard, but not lose enough to draw blood. With as much power as she could muster, she unleashed a massive crescent kick, which connected with the jawbone.
Cyan flew back, cracking through the window as the earlier spiderweb gave way. Faith-Mari reached for Cyan impulsively, but it was naturally too late. She looked down from the broken window as Cyan fell through the foggy clouds that obscured the view of downtown New Orleans.
The room chilled as the cold, high air and rain drizzled into the penthouse. Faith-Mari slumped back into the building, half-relieved and half-devastated. She felt her tear ducts swelling to capacity.
No time for that, she thought to herself.
She searched near the telephone for any leads on “Mr. Harris.” It only took seconds for her to find a black book, filled with Marwolaeth’s contacts and numbers. Thankfully, there was only one Harris: Bronson. The address for his Chalmette home was scribbled under his name.
“Be right there, Kelly,” Faith-Mari said as she entered the elevator.
Boiling Point kept a freshly chloroformed Kelly in the trunk of his Charger, which he parked in the 3rd floor of the Louis Armstrong Airport garage. With the angel unconscious, he was free to search the concourses for signs of the Cessna.
He blended into the masses of travelers and waiting families, only noticeable by his outdated fedora. He looked at terminal, at each hangar, waiting for a sign.
He found it with Hangar 18. It was locked, the only hangar to not reveal its innards. Boiling Point smiled. He found them.
He waited at the Cajun Country Bar, outside of Concourse B, with a window facing the hangar. As soon as the first person walked inside, he would be on the job.
He grabbed a menu, waved a waitress over, and pointed at the sweet vermouth with a twist. As he waited for his drink, a conversation drifted his way.
“So, my girl works for the government,” said the young man in the fighter pilot’s jacket. “Only known her for two months, and I already know, man. She’s fun, she’s foxy as get out, and she can save the world.”
“Yeah,” said a disheveled man in a business suit, downing another pilsner. “I remember when I felt that way about my ex-wife.”
“But you don’t understand. She really can save the world. She’s that powerful. And that’s so hot. So tonight, when she gets back from work, I’m surprising her. I’m going to take the knee, and I’m going to say, ‘Kelly Penrose, will you marry me?’”
“Well, I’d advise against it,” said the businessman. “A year from now, your bar glass is going to be one part beer, two parts tears.”
“Believe me,” said Dylan “Smitty” Smith, “she’s worth it.” He patted the businessman on the back and exited the bar.
Boiling Point shed a single tear, which turned to steam as it ran down his face. He left the table without his drink and walked into the bathroom. With his gloved hand, he took out a blank business card from his trenchcoat. Using a switchblade, he poked a hole in his thumb, creating a dot of blood. He dabbed it and began to write.
Dylan Smith opened the personal entrance to Hangar 18, careful not to turn on the bay doors. He left the door open; he didn’t expect the check-up to be long. As he strutted to the Cessna:
“Kelly Anne Penrose, will you marry me?... Kelly Penrose, will you be the one for life? … You’re my North Star. Will you marry…”
He was interrupted by the slamming of the door behind him. Walking up to him, twenty feet behind, was a tall figure in a large red trenchcoat and broken Oakleys.
“Can I help you?”
The man outstretched his hand, holding a card.
“What’s this?” Smitty took the card. On it, written in blood: “Kelly Is Mine Now.”
“The hell is this?” he asked. Then the tall man in the red trenchcoat gripped him by the hand, and steam began to rise from the wrist.
When the body cooled off, Boiling Point stuffed Smitty into a duffel bag and carried it off the runway. He made it to the Charger without an incident; even in these days, a man in broken shades carrying an eighty pound bag doesn’t lift many eyebrows. He looked both ways before opening the trunk. Kelly Penrose stirred in the opening stages of revival. Boiling Point smiled, then unloaded the duffel bag into the trunk. The opening shrieks from the trunk were muffled into silence by the slamming of the door.
He sat behind the wheel and turned on the radio, trying to drown out Kelly from inside the car, where she could be heard. As he turned up the weather report, he could hear her yell out, “I hate you! I hate you!”
He turned onto the highway, heading northeast to Chalmette. He could still hear her voice inside his head, even as the news bulletins could be heard from thirty feet away. Never had he met the family or friend of a victim. He always knew that he was the cause of grief for dozens, if not hundreds of people, but he had never experienced that loss, pain, and vitriol first hand.
He punched the steering wheel, then stopped off the side of the road to regain his composure. He looked into the rearview mirror, then took off his sunglasses. Was this him? Was this his life?
Boiling Point sighed, then turned left, back onto State Road 46.
****
Alpha and Beta took to their normal positions; Alpha took a standing position, with Beta kneeling and to the right, ready to take out any duckers or jumpers. They didn’t know why Morwalaeth’s Number One Son wasn’t put on the assignment, like the others. They didn’t care. It was finally time to do some actual work.
The dots were lined and steady. The target didn’t suspect a thing. There was only one problem.
“I can’t pull the trigger,” said Beta.
“Huh?”
“I don’t know why, but I can’t. You take her out.”
“One body bag, coming up.” Alpha tried to put the minimum pressure necessary to squeeze the hairpin and terminate Eliza Reid. But a cold and constant wind blew down her spine, through her veins, into her marrow. Beads of sweat ran down her face and dampened her catsuit.
“I can’t do it, either. Get some courage and do it yourself.”
A solid crash echoed through the kitchen of the apartment, followed by a scream inside. The two assassins looked in. The red dots now highlighted the curio cabinet that was once behind Eliza.
With a loud roar, an animal the size of a man smashed through the window of the apartment and tackled Beta out of her kneeling position. The automatic weapon flew out of her hands and into the nearby bushes.
Beta screamed as the beast’s claws made fresh scratches into the skin. That was when she noticed the beast sniffing the new wounds for a second, heard the screams from Alpha, and then a blinding stab of unmatchable pain before the world went black…
She noticed them driving up to Eliza Reid’s apartment. She watched as the spell worked its magic on the weak minds. She knew them from earlier contracts placed by Meyrick Marwolaeth. They couldn’t pull the trigger.
Sucks to be them.
She smelled the fresh run of blood as soon as she tackled the kneeling one. As she pinned the assassin down, she could sense the intricate coursing of the veins and arteries, reading them almost as if it were a map… watching the lifeforce speed up as the adrenaline entered in force.
She opened her jaws as wide as possible, then dug in, teeth-deep, into Beta’s neck. The white catsuit clad body, now streaked with rivers of red, went rigid in shock for an instant, and then went limp with the final, severed scream.
She now turned to the dead woman’s partner, trying desperately to open fire with her weapon. With a simple swipe, she batted down Alpha, causing similar wounds on the left side of her face.
She pinned down Alpha with her paw, keeping her prey face down. Using the power of the bokor, she changed her face into human form, even as the rest of her body remained in its wolf shape.
“Who killed Delvecchio and the others?” she asked.
Alpha whimpered, unable to give an answer.
She growled, then sank her claw deeper into the assassin’s shoulder, eliciting a high-pitched shriek. “Who is working for Marwolaeth?”
“Oh, God. Please don’t kill me,” said Alpha. “It’s some freakshow named Harris. Bronson Harris. He can boil people like a stove. He lives in Chalmette, off the highway. He’s the one you want. Get him.”
“Oh, I will,” she said. “But first, I feast.” She turned over Alpha, who yelled at the sight of Lt. Sesen Villone’s face topping a wolf’s body. “And when Bondye damns your soul, tell them it was Lougarou who brought you.”
And then the feast began.
Faith-Mari couldn’t believe it took so long to figure it out.
It took a trip to the Delvecchio office. It took checking out the folder to the Reid account that Kelly Penrose had apparently left on the desk.
And it didn’t hurt to see the evidence of struggle that was left behind.
Heading to One Canal, she knew that her mission was twofold; question Marwolaeth on the murders, and rescue Kelly, if she needed rescuing.
She removed her dress apparel on the elevator ride up, revealing her new dark blue uniform. Unlike Cyan McCullers, she looked at the white bar and wondered how she came to be a leader. Didn’t she almost get her group sucked into oblivion in Boston? Didn’t she send Kelly alone to the Delvecchio office? What happened to her?
Her thoughts snapped back into place with the ringing of the doors. She exited the cabin and turned into the kitchen, where the only person in sight was the security guard, mopping up a pool of water. To Faith-Mari’s confusion, steam was rising from the wet tiles.
“Isn’t that the janitor’s job?” she asked.
The security guard spun around. “Ah, hell’s bells. Not another one of you. Look, it’s cool to come in dressed as you are, but when it comes to the kicking and punching, that’s when the fun ends for me.”
Faith-Mari grabbed the security guard by the collar, causing him to lose grip on the mop. “Where is Meyrick Marwolaeth?”
“You won’t find him here,” said a voice in the back. Faith-Mari looked behind the guard and caught a glimpse of Cyan McCullers, stumbling out of the corridor and into the kitchen entrance. Her face was blotched and red from the previous assault.
“Oh, no. Not you again,” said the guard. Faith-Mari promptly clamped down on his neck nerves, giving him an instant blackout.
Cyan held onto the countertop to keep her balance. “I bet you’re happy now, Hopkins.”
“About what?” asked Faith-Mari. “Where’s April?”
Cyan sighed. “April’s dead. And that’s another thing you can pin on me, isn’t it?”
“She’s dead? How?”
“We got blindsided by a guy in red. Took her out the same way he took out Delvecchio and his boys. Burned her alive. I heard the guard refer to him as Mr. Harris. ‘Oh, Mr. Harris, you’ve done it again. Lit another one up.’ And he took her body away, and cleaned it all up. And now he’s got Kelly, and who knows where they are now.”
“Let me call someone to get you, and I’ll go find him out.”
Cyan laughed. “So you can get all the glory again, Hopkins? First, you had to save poor little me, and now you’re going to clean up my mess? No. I’m going to gut this coward.”
Faith-Mari shook her head. “Cyan, you’re scalded. You probably can’t see straight. You need medical assistance.”
“I’m seeing no one.” The redhead stumbled to the silverware drawer and took out a large butcher knife. “You aren’t getting credit for this one. You didn’t earn it.” She lashed out awkwardly at Faith-Mari, who easily backed out of the way.
“You can’t be serious.”
“As cancer,” said Cyan. “Ms. Lee will know who the true leader is.”
“Leader?” asked Faith-Mari. “You couldn’t lead a river to the ocean, you psychopath.” A sudden fist, coming from Cyan’s non-armed hand, struck Faith-Mari flush in the jaw, flooring her.
“Say that again, if you can.” Cyan straddled Faith-Mari, knife outstretched. As the blade came down, Faith-Mari gripped the taller girl’s arm, keeping the point inches from her heart. With her free arm, Faith-Mari reached into Cyan’s mask and poked into her eyes. With an opening ready, she dug both feet into the attacker’s middle and monkey-flipped her over, causing Cyan to land back first into the skyscraper’s window, cracking it.
Cyan struggled to get up to her feet, but immediately struck out with another swipe from the blade. Faith-Mari could hear the whistle of the wind as the knife came close enough to cut a line across the midriff of her leotard, but not lose enough to draw blood. With as much power as she could muster, she unleashed a massive crescent kick, which connected with the jawbone.
Cyan flew back, cracking through the window as the earlier spiderweb gave way. Faith-Mari reached for Cyan impulsively, but it was naturally too late. She looked down from the broken window as Cyan fell through the foggy clouds that obscured the view of downtown New Orleans.
The room chilled as the cold, high air and rain drizzled into the penthouse. Faith-Mari slumped back into the building, half-relieved and half-devastated. She felt her tear ducts swelling to capacity.
No time for that, she thought to herself.
She searched near the telephone for any leads on “Mr. Harris.” It only took seconds for her to find a black book, filled with Marwolaeth’s contacts and numbers. Thankfully, there was only one Harris: Bronson. The address for his Chalmette home was scribbled under his name.
“Be right there, Kelly,” Faith-Mari said as she entered the elevator.
Boiling Point kept a freshly chloroformed Kelly in the trunk of his Charger, which he parked in the 3rd floor of the Louis Armstrong Airport garage. With the angel unconscious, he was free to search the concourses for signs of the Cessna.
He blended into the masses of travelers and waiting families, only noticeable by his outdated fedora. He looked at terminal, at each hangar, waiting for a sign.
He found it with Hangar 18. It was locked, the only hangar to not reveal its innards. Boiling Point smiled. He found them.
He waited at the Cajun Country Bar, outside of Concourse B, with a window facing the hangar. As soon as the first person walked inside, he would be on the job.
He grabbed a menu, waved a waitress over, and pointed at the sweet vermouth with a twist. As he waited for his drink, a conversation drifted his way.
“So, my girl works for the government,” said the young man in the fighter pilot’s jacket. “Only known her for two months, and I already know, man. She’s fun, she’s foxy as get out, and she can save the world.”
“Yeah,” said a disheveled man in a business suit, downing another pilsner. “I remember when I felt that way about my ex-wife.”
“But you don’t understand. She really can save the world. She’s that powerful. And that’s so hot. So tonight, when she gets back from work, I’m surprising her. I’m going to take the knee, and I’m going to say, ‘Kelly Penrose, will you marry me?’”
“Well, I’d advise against it,” said the businessman. “A year from now, your bar glass is going to be one part beer, two parts tears.”
“Believe me,” said Dylan “Smitty” Smith, “she’s worth it.” He patted the businessman on the back and exited the bar.
Boiling Point shed a single tear, which turned to steam as it ran down his face. He left the table without his drink and walked into the bathroom. With his gloved hand, he took out a blank business card from his trenchcoat. Using a switchblade, he poked a hole in his thumb, creating a dot of blood. He dabbed it and began to write.
Dylan Smith opened the personal entrance to Hangar 18, careful not to turn on the bay doors. He left the door open; he didn’t expect the check-up to be long. As he strutted to the Cessna:
“Kelly Anne Penrose, will you marry me?... Kelly Penrose, will you be the one for life? … You’re my North Star. Will you marry…”
He was interrupted by the slamming of the door behind him. Walking up to him, twenty feet behind, was a tall figure in a large red trenchcoat and broken Oakleys.
“Can I help you?”
The man outstretched his hand, holding a card.
“What’s this?” Smitty took the card. On it, written in blood: “Kelly Is Mine Now.”
“The hell is this?” he asked. Then the tall man in the red trenchcoat gripped him by the hand, and steam began to rise from the wrist.
When the body cooled off, Boiling Point stuffed Smitty into a duffel bag and carried it off the runway. He made it to the Charger without an incident; even in these days, a man in broken shades carrying an eighty pound bag doesn’t lift many eyebrows. He looked both ways before opening the trunk. Kelly Penrose stirred in the opening stages of revival. Boiling Point smiled, then unloaded the duffel bag into the trunk. The opening shrieks from the trunk were muffled into silence by the slamming of the door.
He sat behind the wheel and turned on the radio, trying to drown out Kelly from inside the car, where she could be heard. As he turned up the weather report, he could hear her yell out, “I hate you! I hate you!”
He turned onto the highway, heading northeast to Chalmette. He could still hear her voice inside his head, even as the news bulletins could be heard from thirty feet away. Never had he met the family or friend of a victim. He always knew that he was the cause of grief for dozens, if not hundreds of people, but he had never experienced that loss, pain, and vitriol first hand.
He punched the steering wheel, then stopped off the side of the road to regain his composure. He looked into the rearview mirror, then took off his sunglasses. Was this him? Was this his life?
Boiling Point sighed, then turned left, back onto State Road 46.
-
phoxy_brown
- Sargeant
- Posts: 108
- Joined: 20 years ago
Wow, dude!!! I thought I was dark...you beat out this time, but--- I LOVED IT!!! Can't wait to see how this ends up.
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The Great Dutch Ninja
- Henchman
- Posts: 53
- Joined: 19 years ago
- Location: Medford, MA
Thanks very much. It's cool to see the comment about Cyan, because I do have plans, as will be seen in the conclusion. Hope you enjoy.
****
Lougarou absorbed the last drop from the two assassins. This was the first time she fed since learning how to control her ability to transform, and the meal made her feel complacent. With some effort, she shook off the satisfaction. She looked into the apartment, and saw the terrified face of Eliza Reid.
“Leave New Orleans now,” said the Villone-face of the wolf. Eliza stood still, a slight noise emitting from her mouth.
“They will send others,” said Lougarou. “Leave now!” The shout shook Eliza from her frozen stance, and she bolted for the door.
The Villone-face smiled. Now was time to run for Chlamette.
On the way home from his sermon at St. Charles’, Meyrick Marwolaeth watched in interest as an ambulance rushed past his limousine. With every turn his chauffeur made, the sirens blared ahead. His eyebrows raised when the paramedics jumped out at One Canal.
“Pull over,” he told the chauffeur. When the wheels came to a stop, he left the limo running, sliding through the crowd of pedestrians. A police officer blocker his path.
“What happened here?” he asked.
“Looks like some girl who was celebrating Halloween on the wrong day jumped off of thirty-one. She should be dead.”
The minister nodded. “Let me through.” Without reprimand, the officer cleared his path.
The young woman lay face-down, broken in a cobweb of concrete. She blinked, and a tear ran down her scalded face.
Marwolaeth knelt down beside her as the policemen scattered the crowd. “What were you doing in my suite?”
Cyan coughed. “I’m… going… to kill her.”
He leaned closer. “Who?”
“Faith-Mari.”
Marwolaeth stood up. “Miss Hopkins? Aren’t you with her?”
Cyan strained to lift her head, and the faint crackle of bone resonated. “No.”
He grinned, and turned to face the paramedic beside him. “Do you know who I am, son?”
The mop-haired young man nodded. “Of course, Father Marwolaeth.”
“Good. Take her to Ponchatrain Memorial. Take her down to basement level three.”
The paramedic’s face pinched in confusion. “There is no level three, sir.”
“Trust me on this. Go to level three. Ask for Dr. Zorin. Tell him the prototype he’s asked for has finally arrived.”
“Yes, sir.” Another medic arrived with a stretcher. Using the utmost care, they placed Cyan on the cot and wheeled her into the ambulance.
The trip to Chlamette took no more than thirty minutes. Faith-Mari had to get creative with methods of reaching Bronson Harris’ home. Calls to Dylan Smith weren’t answered. Taxi drivers would easily remember a short-haired, masked blonde in a slashed blue leotard. Her journey included an empty pickup flatbed here, the trunk of a station wagon there… a half-dozen rides in all before she made it to within walking distance.
As soon as the skeleton-like veneer of the two-story came in sight, so did Boiling Point. Too late, she tried to jump into a wall of hedges in a neighboring lot. He had been walking back to the Dodge Charger, but with the new threat in sight, he broke into a blind sprint behind the house. Telling herself to be careful, Faith-Mari took off in pursuit.
She stopped when she heard slight, muffled cries from the trunk. Popping the lock open was a cinch, thanks to the all-access key tucked inside one of her utility belt’s pockets. A loud round of coughing greeted Faith-Mari, along with the faint smell of scalded skin and dirty water.
“Kelly?”
The freed angel’s hair, usually light and curly, was soaked with sweat and matted against the side of her face, and the fresh rain from the continuing deluge dampened and darkened her uniform. Beneath her was a mass of bones and warped, stretched skin that bore minimal resemblance to Dylan Smith.
Kelly retched from the trunk, pale as a cadaver. “He killed Smitty, Faith-Mari. Why? He wasn’t even an agent.”
Faith-Mari assisted her teammate out of the trunk. “I don’t know. But he’s going to be answering a lot of questions soon.”
Kelly grabbed Faith-Mari by the arm. “Don’t let him touch you.”
“I won’t.”
Behind Bronson Harris’ house lay the Archambeaux Memorial Gardens, adorned in freshly-painted white signs, walkways free of debris, and neatly mowed grass. The headstones were freshly chiseled every couple of months, and the statues of Confederate generals, prim Southern ladies, and choruses of cherubim and seraphim looked almost alive from within their gray veneers.
Memorial Gardens, thought Cyan. Because the word cemetery carries too much weight.
Her train of thought was interrupted by a trail of automatic fire. Roses exploded in front of impacted chips of tombstones. Faith-Mari ducked out of the way, but not before catching a glimpse of Boiling Point’s fleeing figure, ducking inside the charnel house that formed the centerpiece of the gardens. Resting in a deep rut, the Olde English styled building looked, to the far-off viewer, to be half-buried in the plots itself.
Despite every reasonable fiber of her mental being telling her not to give chase, Faith-Mari rushed for the front door. Above her, knee-high gargoyles grinned down upon her, as though awaiting the arrival of a feast.
Abandon all hope, she thought. Splashing through the deepening pools of water that formed around the charnel house, she quickly kicked open the door, half expecting a fresh burst of gunfire. When there was none, she cautiously entered.
Awaiting her was the result of a Nawlins flood. The house itself was filled halfway to the roof in water. Airtight coffins floated along the surface, having been loosened from the ground. Some of the caskets were opened, leaving a faint smell of formaldehyde and dust.
As Faith-Mari reached the pit of the downstairs well, Boiling Point emptied another clip in her direction, hitting the wall directly to her left. Attempting to take advantage of the diminishing light, she jumped into the half-filled pool, disappearing into water the shade of pitch. She waited for twenty seconds, waiting to hear the sound of gunfire, or the sound of retreat. Forty seconds. A minute…
She burst through the surface, gasping for air. A new series of bullets zipped along the water, like skipping rocks. Faith-Mari heard Boiling Point toss aside the automatic.
And the sound of something bubbling. She felt the chill of the charnel house water begin to give way, and warm…
Using the arm strength that years of gymnastics training made possible, Faith-Mari propped herself into the nearest floating casket. The slight sound of crunching bones let her know she wasn’t the only occupant.
Footsteps crunched along the upstairs well across the charnel house. Bubbles and steam filled the room.
Desperately, Faith-Mari looked inside the casket for anything that could be of use. She sighed in relief when she felt the long metal cane that had been buried along with its owner.
“Hope you don’t mind if I use this for a minute, sir,” she whispered as she paddled her way to the far side of the charnel house. The steam soon became as dense as fog, and when she had reached the stairwell, Faith-Mari exhaled. Here’s hoping I’m good with directions.
Her boot made its way onto a cold, dry step
Thank Heaven for small favors, she thought. Like a mutant who puts too much stock into his own power.
Boiling Point locked the door behind him when he re-entered the two-story from the back entrance. He watched over the backyard, automatic at the ready. Whatever doubts he had about his ability to continue his line of work were temporarily on the shelf. He knew he was being hunted, and as long as the CIA maintained the hunt, he was ready to defend himself.
When he was satisfied that the blonde angel wasn’t coming out, he turned back into the house, ready to exit from the front to unload Kelly from the trunk.
He stopped when he saw the wooden remains of the door splintered across the front hall. Fleur-de-lis pattern wallpaper hung in tatters along the walls.
And then he heard the growl behind him. He spun around in time to catch Lougarou by the wrist, her claws stopping centimeters from his face. Instantly, he turned on the heat. The wolf’s hand began to glow red. She howled in pain, and the smell of singed fur permeated the saturated air. With another growl, she bit down on Boiling Point’s shoulder, digging her teeth in muscle deep.
Without making a sound, Boiling Point grabbed Lougarou by the head and scratched at her eyes, causing the wolf to back away. He ran up the stairs to the second floor, then locked the door. Keeping his automatic at the ready, he waited, listening for any sound.
“Hey,” said a voice behind him.
He turned to catch a two-by-four between the eyes. As he fell, the automatic fell out of his hands, bouncing off the ground. His lights dimmed, he looked up. Kelly stood over him, wooden plank in hand.
“I got something for you,” she said. Boiling Point moved out of the way, feeling the swoosh of the board as it smashed into the hardwood floor.
The door caved in half, and the next slash sent shards flying across the room. Lougarou jumped blindly into the room, missing the rising Boiling Point and tackling Kelly down. Her claws sank into her shoulder, making fresh rivulets of blood to seep into her leotard, causing the brunette to scream. As Lougarou jumped off of Kelly and into the closet, Boiling Point ran out of the balcony and toward the entrance. Within seconds, the sound of the car’s ignition could be heard upstairs, and the squealing of wheels.
When Lougarou came to, she knew that Bronson had escaped; his scent was faint, and disappearing fast. But there was a new, strong scent. It was the same as when she had pounced on the assassins, fresh and metallic. She looked from outside the closet, and saw the little brunette, ringlets dampened and askew, her shoulder dribbling blood.
She knew that the brunette was not the enemy, but she needed more energy. She needed to feast. The power of need overpowered any sense of right or wrong. She had been warned of this by the houngons, that when one dabbles in the power of the bokor, that one is always in danger of becoming one herself, that the powers will corrode all moral codes…
She raised her claw to stab the injured angel through the heart…
Faith-Mari heard the screams from the entrance of the graveyard. She saw Boiling Point’s Charger leave the carport and speed off toward State Road 46. This time, she would make sure her teammate was alright. Boiling Point was exposed now; catching him would be a matter of time.
When she entered the front of the building, a sense of déjà vu flooded her senses. The smashed in door provided the only unusual decorations. The fleur-de-lis wallpaper presented the only additions to an otherwise bare floorspace.
She ran up the stairs, knowing what she’d find.
“Stop… don’t come in,” she heard Kelly say.
Not this time, said Faith-Mari. She saw the automatic, laying on its side near the doorframe. As soon as she grabbed the handle, she saw the claw come out of the darkness of the closet, outstretched, its shadow spreading over Kelly’s heart.
She fired the rest of the round into the darkness. A low moan echoed out of the closet, then a sharp, snapping sound, like bones crunching. Faith-Mari pulled Kelly out of the creature’s range. Spinning the gun around to use as a bludgeon, Faith-Mari reached inside the closet and turned on the switch.
Laying inside, body riddled with bullets, was the fully human form of Lieutenant Sesen Villone.
“I have your assurance that this will work,” said Marwolaeth, entering the secret basement floor of Ponchatrain Memorial.
“It will be a strenuous process, at least for the subject,” said Dr. Abraham Zorin, his shoulder-length, carrot-colored hair framing coke-bottle glasses that accentuated his coal-colored eyes. “But it should be successful. We have enough cable to restructure her back. It’ll take time; we lost count at over 100 fractures in the back, never mind the neck.”
“Then fix her, Doctor.” Marwolaeth re-entered the elevator and pressed the up button.
Left alone with the subject, Dr. Zorin whispered in her ear, “This may be a bit discomforting.”
As he inserted the first cable to connect the shattered back plates, Cyan McCullers’ shrieks could be heard in the legitimate floors of the hospital.
“Why would she attack us?” asked Kelly as Faith-Mari tended to her wounds in the bathroom.
“I don’t know. But I think that’s why she was rejected by ANGELS. Director Lee looks down on mutant powers, especially if they aren’t easily mastered.”
Kelly took off her mask. The events of the day carried their own monstrous weight. April and Cyan were gone. And so was Dylan Smith.
“So much death,” she said. Her face tensed, holding in a deluge of tears. “I’m going to get them, Faith-Mari.”
“And what are you going to do when you find Marwolaeth and Harris?”
Kelly looked up to her leader. “I’m going to kill them both.”
Faith-Mari shook her head. “You know Lee and Whitman won’t authorize that. They want arrests, not body bags. Justice is the best revenge.”
Kelly’s stare grew cold. Faith-Mari no longer saw the warm amber of the shy angel that sat in Carter Roberds’ office a few weeks ago. What she saw frightened her.
“Sometimes, revenge is the best revenge.” With her good arm, she gripped Faith-Mari by the wrist. “If they won’t let me do this, I want you to declare me dead. Tell them Boiling Point killed me. I won’t let them stop me. This is something that needs to be done.”
Faith-Mari finished wrapping the bandage around the wound, then gently pulled the leotard’s shoulder back over. She hugged Kelly as tight as she could. “I wish I could make this go away, kiddo. I hope you come back. I can’t authorize you doing this, but I won’t stop you, either.”
“Thank you,” whispered Kelly.
“She is complete, Father,” said Dr. Zorin.
“Excellent,” said Marwolaeth. He couldn’t help but smile. The death of Sesen Villone meant the spell was broken. And it took a Blue Angel to do it. Maybe I should start paying them instead of the assassins, he thought.
“Miss McCullers, are you cognizant?”
Cyan moaned, barely opening her eyes. Her newly-reassembled body was covered in white hospital linen, leaving only her scalded face visible.
Marwolaeth took off his shades. “You may be excused, Doctor. This will only take a moment.” He waited for the door to close, leaving him along with Cyan.
He stared at Cyan, looking past the blue irises, the inner workings of her eyes, into the synapses that fired into the brain. “You will help me spread the word of the Rising. You will be my right arm. You will respond only to me. Is this understood?”
“Yes, Father,” said Cyan.
“Now, my new angel, unleash your wings.”
Faith-Mari entered the ANGELS level to find the office under a greater cloud of gloom that she had first found it. On the far wall, an agent was pinning three new golden stars to join the memorial of those lost in the field.
“Miss Hopkins, I just want to tell you I found this mission utterly…” Dr. Whitman began.
“You knew about Sesen Villone’s condition, didn’t you?”
Whitman looked down. “Of course we did.”
“And you knew she had been following Bronson Harris’ trail, didn’t you?”
“We suspected as much,” he said.
“Then she died for nothing. And if she had caught him, then we weren’t necessary. So that means that April, Cyan, and Kelly died for nothing, too.”
Whitman looked up without a hint of regret. “From a certain point of view, yes.”
“Then you killed three perfectly good agents for no reason at all.”
The veins in Whitman’s neck began to strain out of his shirt. “We knew the situation. An angel is to be prepared for any scenario, with as much, or as little, information as possible. I did not boil April Hsu or Kelly Penrose. I did not cause Cyan McCullers to snap and charge at you. Do not confuse the good guys with the bad guys, miss.”
“Yeah,” said Faith-Mari. “The bad guys did not send us in there blind. This is not a test, sir. These are people’s lives.”
“Naïve girl. Everything’s a test. When we send someone to North Korea to disassemble a bomb, it’s a test. If someone fails, we do it again until an angel passes. When we go to Iran and intercept centrifuges, it’s a test. When we send a cadre of angels to find a simple hitman, it’s a test. And three of you failed.”
A tear trickled down Faith-Mari. “They didn’t fail, sir. They died.” She slammed the door to Dr. Whitman’s office behind her and walked to the dressing room. As she took off her business jacket, she looked at the three empty lockers to her left.
A. Hsu
C. McCullers
K. Penrose
Faith-Mari sat down on the bench, covered her face in her hands, and finally let go. She cried until her eyes went dry.
A few days after the incident at Chlamette, Boiling Point drove to the Father’s Church, located in the slums of Iberville, long after the doors were closed. He knew someone would be inside.
The only light shined from the back booth. Taking off his fedora, he stumbled inside the confessional.
“Sit down, my son,” said Meyrick Marwolaeth. “What do you wish to confess?”
A business card slipped through the panel. On it: “I can’t do this anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
Another card. “I can’t do this. They know who I am now.”
A brief pause seemed louder than any words.
“You’re of no use to me,” said Marwolaeth. “See to it that you leave the city at once. Never come back.”
Boiling Point nodded, then calmly walked out of the confessional. As he passed the pews, he felt a chill pass through the church. Cold air crackled his bones. He opened the front of the church, and saw her standing at the foot of the sidewalk.
The ringlets were gone, cut down into a short pixie hairdo. The mask and leotard were gone. In its place were a tattered khaki trenchcoat, red blouse, and black nylon skirt. Sheer brown tights encased toned legs, disappearing into jet-black army boots.
Kelly Penrose was back. And she was armed.
Boiling Point reached for his glove, but the first blast from the shotgun tore off his arm at the elbow. The second blast took out his knees from underneath, leaving him facedown on the concrete. He heard the crunch of the boots’ footsteps walk toward him above his muffled cries.
She grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, bringing him up to kneeling level. For the first time, she saw his eyes: cobalt blue, almost iridescent.
“Release me,” he said.
“Gladly.” She placed the barrel of the shotgun under his chin, then pulled the trigger.
She kicked open the door to the confessional. Marwolaeth was gone.
As she stood on the priest’s side, she wrote a brief note. She then reached into her coat and pulled out a single rifle round. She placed it on the chair, next to the note:
“Father: the next one has your name on it. Sincerely yours,
Sniper.”
• * * *
Blue Angels created by Mighty Hypnotic
Based in part on characters created by pzgr6
Written by Liam Venture (a.k.a. The Great Dutch Ninja)
Blue Angels: Boiling Point
Starring Faith-Mari Hopkins
Kelly Penrose
Bronson Harris
Cyan McCullers
Co-Starring Sesen Villone
April Hsu
David Whitman
With Karla Lee
And Meyrick Marwolaeth
(if it pleases the board,)
The Blue Angels will return in Blue Angels: Vengeance is Mine
****
Lougarou absorbed the last drop from the two assassins. This was the first time she fed since learning how to control her ability to transform, and the meal made her feel complacent. With some effort, she shook off the satisfaction. She looked into the apartment, and saw the terrified face of Eliza Reid.
“Leave New Orleans now,” said the Villone-face of the wolf. Eliza stood still, a slight noise emitting from her mouth.
“They will send others,” said Lougarou. “Leave now!” The shout shook Eliza from her frozen stance, and she bolted for the door.
The Villone-face smiled. Now was time to run for Chlamette.
On the way home from his sermon at St. Charles’, Meyrick Marwolaeth watched in interest as an ambulance rushed past his limousine. With every turn his chauffeur made, the sirens blared ahead. His eyebrows raised when the paramedics jumped out at One Canal.
“Pull over,” he told the chauffeur. When the wheels came to a stop, he left the limo running, sliding through the crowd of pedestrians. A police officer blocker his path.
“What happened here?” he asked.
“Looks like some girl who was celebrating Halloween on the wrong day jumped off of thirty-one. She should be dead.”
The minister nodded. “Let me through.” Without reprimand, the officer cleared his path.
The young woman lay face-down, broken in a cobweb of concrete. She blinked, and a tear ran down her scalded face.
Marwolaeth knelt down beside her as the policemen scattered the crowd. “What were you doing in my suite?”
Cyan coughed. “I’m… going… to kill her.”
He leaned closer. “Who?”
“Faith-Mari.”
Marwolaeth stood up. “Miss Hopkins? Aren’t you with her?”
Cyan strained to lift her head, and the faint crackle of bone resonated. “No.”
He grinned, and turned to face the paramedic beside him. “Do you know who I am, son?”
The mop-haired young man nodded. “Of course, Father Marwolaeth.”
“Good. Take her to Ponchatrain Memorial. Take her down to basement level three.”
The paramedic’s face pinched in confusion. “There is no level three, sir.”
“Trust me on this. Go to level three. Ask for Dr. Zorin. Tell him the prototype he’s asked for has finally arrived.”
“Yes, sir.” Another medic arrived with a stretcher. Using the utmost care, they placed Cyan on the cot and wheeled her into the ambulance.
The trip to Chlamette took no more than thirty minutes. Faith-Mari had to get creative with methods of reaching Bronson Harris’ home. Calls to Dylan Smith weren’t answered. Taxi drivers would easily remember a short-haired, masked blonde in a slashed blue leotard. Her journey included an empty pickup flatbed here, the trunk of a station wagon there… a half-dozen rides in all before she made it to within walking distance.
As soon as the skeleton-like veneer of the two-story came in sight, so did Boiling Point. Too late, she tried to jump into a wall of hedges in a neighboring lot. He had been walking back to the Dodge Charger, but with the new threat in sight, he broke into a blind sprint behind the house. Telling herself to be careful, Faith-Mari took off in pursuit.
She stopped when she heard slight, muffled cries from the trunk. Popping the lock open was a cinch, thanks to the all-access key tucked inside one of her utility belt’s pockets. A loud round of coughing greeted Faith-Mari, along with the faint smell of scalded skin and dirty water.
“Kelly?”
The freed angel’s hair, usually light and curly, was soaked with sweat and matted against the side of her face, and the fresh rain from the continuing deluge dampened and darkened her uniform. Beneath her was a mass of bones and warped, stretched skin that bore minimal resemblance to Dylan Smith.
Kelly retched from the trunk, pale as a cadaver. “He killed Smitty, Faith-Mari. Why? He wasn’t even an agent.”
Faith-Mari assisted her teammate out of the trunk. “I don’t know. But he’s going to be answering a lot of questions soon.”
Kelly grabbed Faith-Mari by the arm. “Don’t let him touch you.”
“I won’t.”
Behind Bronson Harris’ house lay the Archambeaux Memorial Gardens, adorned in freshly-painted white signs, walkways free of debris, and neatly mowed grass. The headstones were freshly chiseled every couple of months, and the statues of Confederate generals, prim Southern ladies, and choruses of cherubim and seraphim looked almost alive from within their gray veneers.
Memorial Gardens, thought Cyan. Because the word cemetery carries too much weight.
Her train of thought was interrupted by a trail of automatic fire. Roses exploded in front of impacted chips of tombstones. Faith-Mari ducked out of the way, but not before catching a glimpse of Boiling Point’s fleeing figure, ducking inside the charnel house that formed the centerpiece of the gardens. Resting in a deep rut, the Olde English styled building looked, to the far-off viewer, to be half-buried in the plots itself.
Despite every reasonable fiber of her mental being telling her not to give chase, Faith-Mari rushed for the front door. Above her, knee-high gargoyles grinned down upon her, as though awaiting the arrival of a feast.
Abandon all hope, she thought. Splashing through the deepening pools of water that formed around the charnel house, she quickly kicked open the door, half expecting a fresh burst of gunfire. When there was none, she cautiously entered.
Awaiting her was the result of a Nawlins flood. The house itself was filled halfway to the roof in water. Airtight coffins floated along the surface, having been loosened from the ground. Some of the caskets were opened, leaving a faint smell of formaldehyde and dust.
As Faith-Mari reached the pit of the downstairs well, Boiling Point emptied another clip in her direction, hitting the wall directly to her left. Attempting to take advantage of the diminishing light, she jumped into the half-filled pool, disappearing into water the shade of pitch. She waited for twenty seconds, waiting to hear the sound of gunfire, or the sound of retreat. Forty seconds. A minute…
She burst through the surface, gasping for air. A new series of bullets zipped along the water, like skipping rocks. Faith-Mari heard Boiling Point toss aside the automatic.
And the sound of something bubbling. She felt the chill of the charnel house water begin to give way, and warm…
Using the arm strength that years of gymnastics training made possible, Faith-Mari propped herself into the nearest floating casket. The slight sound of crunching bones let her know she wasn’t the only occupant.
Footsteps crunched along the upstairs well across the charnel house. Bubbles and steam filled the room.
Desperately, Faith-Mari looked inside the casket for anything that could be of use. She sighed in relief when she felt the long metal cane that had been buried along with its owner.
“Hope you don’t mind if I use this for a minute, sir,” she whispered as she paddled her way to the far side of the charnel house. The steam soon became as dense as fog, and when she had reached the stairwell, Faith-Mari exhaled. Here’s hoping I’m good with directions.
Her boot made its way onto a cold, dry step
Thank Heaven for small favors, she thought. Like a mutant who puts too much stock into his own power.
Boiling Point locked the door behind him when he re-entered the two-story from the back entrance. He watched over the backyard, automatic at the ready. Whatever doubts he had about his ability to continue his line of work were temporarily on the shelf. He knew he was being hunted, and as long as the CIA maintained the hunt, he was ready to defend himself.
When he was satisfied that the blonde angel wasn’t coming out, he turned back into the house, ready to exit from the front to unload Kelly from the trunk.
He stopped when he saw the wooden remains of the door splintered across the front hall. Fleur-de-lis pattern wallpaper hung in tatters along the walls.
And then he heard the growl behind him. He spun around in time to catch Lougarou by the wrist, her claws stopping centimeters from his face. Instantly, he turned on the heat. The wolf’s hand began to glow red. She howled in pain, and the smell of singed fur permeated the saturated air. With another growl, she bit down on Boiling Point’s shoulder, digging her teeth in muscle deep.
Without making a sound, Boiling Point grabbed Lougarou by the head and scratched at her eyes, causing the wolf to back away. He ran up the stairs to the second floor, then locked the door. Keeping his automatic at the ready, he waited, listening for any sound.
“Hey,” said a voice behind him.
He turned to catch a two-by-four between the eyes. As he fell, the automatic fell out of his hands, bouncing off the ground. His lights dimmed, he looked up. Kelly stood over him, wooden plank in hand.
“I got something for you,” she said. Boiling Point moved out of the way, feeling the swoosh of the board as it smashed into the hardwood floor.
The door caved in half, and the next slash sent shards flying across the room. Lougarou jumped blindly into the room, missing the rising Boiling Point and tackling Kelly down. Her claws sank into her shoulder, making fresh rivulets of blood to seep into her leotard, causing the brunette to scream. As Lougarou jumped off of Kelly and into the closet, Boiling Point ran out of the balcony and toward the entrance. Within seconds, the sound of the car’s ignition could be heard upstairs, and the squealing of wheels.
When Lougarou came to, she knew that Bronson had escaped; his scent was faint, and disappearing fast. But there was a new, strong scent. It was the same as when she had pounced on the assassins, fresh and metallic. She looked from outside the closet, and saw the little brunette, ringlets dampened and askew, her shoulder dribbling blood.
She knew that the brunette was not the enemy, but she needed more energy. She needed to feast. The power of need overpowered any sense of right or wrong. She had been warned of this by the houngons, that when one dabbles in the power of the bokor, that one is always in danger of becoming one herself, that the powers will corrode all moral codes…
She raised her claw to stab the injured angel through the heart…
Faith-Mari heard the screams from the entrance of the graveyard. She saw Boiling Point’s Charger leave the carport and speed off toward State Road 46. This time, she would make sure her teammate was alright. Boiling Point was exposed now; catching him would be a matter of time.
When she entered the front of the building, a sense of déjà vu flooded her senses. The smashed in door provided the only unusual decorations. The fleur-de-lis wallpaper presented the only additions to an otherwise bare floorspace.
She ran up the stairs, knowing what she’d find.
“Stop… don’t come in,” she heard Kelly say.
Not this time, said Faith-Mari. She saw the automatic, laying on its side near the doorframe. As soon as she grabbed the handle, she saw the claw come out of the darkness of the closet, outstretched, its shadow spreading over Kelly’s heart.
She fired the rest of the round into the darkness. A low moan echoed out of the closet, then a sharp, snapping sound, like bones crunching. Faith-Mari pulled Kelly out of the creature’s range. Spinning the gun around to use as a bludgeon, Faith-Mari reached inside the closet and turned on the switch.
Laying inside, body riddled with bullets, was the fully human form of Lieutenant Sesen Villone.
“I have your assurance that this will work,” said Marwolaeth, entering the secret basement floor of Ponchatrain Memorial.
“It will be a strenuous process, at least for the subject,” said Dr. Abraham Zorin, his shoulder-length, carrot-colored hair framing coke-bottle glasses that accentuated his coal-colored eyes. “But it should be successful. We have enough cable to restructure her back. It’ll take time; we lost count at over 100 fractures in the back, never mind the neck.”
“Then fix her, Doctor.” Marwolaeth re-entered the elevator and pressed the up button.
Left alone with the subject, Dr. Zorin whispered in her ear, “This may be a bit discomforting.”
As he inserted the first cable to connect the shattered back plates, Cyan McCullers’ shrieks could be heard in the legitimate floors of the hospital.
“Why would she attack us?” asked Kelly as Faith-Mari tended to her wounds in the bathroom.
“I don’t know. But I think that’s why she was rejected by ANGELS. Director Lee looks down on mutant powers, especially if they aren’t easily mastered.”
Kelly took off her mask. The events of the day carried their own monstrous weight. April and Cyan were gone. And so was Dylan Smith.
“So much death,” she said. Her face tensed, holding in a deluge of tears. “I’m going to get them, Faith-Mari.”
“And what are you going to do when you find Marwolaeth and Harris?”
Kelly looked up to her leader. “I’m going to kill them both.”
Faith-Mari shook her head. “You know Lee and Whitman won’t authorize that. They want arrests, not body bags. Justice is the best revenge.”
Kelly’s stare grew cold. Faith-Mari no longer saw the warm amber of the shy angel that sat in Carter Roberds’ office a few weeks ago. What she saw frightened her.
“Sometimes, revenge is the best revenge.” With her good arm, she gripped Faith-Mari by the wrist. “If they won’t let me do this, I want you to declare me dead. Tell them Boiling Point killed me. I won’t let them stop me. This is something that needs to be done.”
Faith-Mari finished wrapping the bandage around the wound, then gently pulled the leotard’s shoulder back over. She hugged Kelly as tight as she could. “I wish I could make this go away, kiddo. I hope you come back. I can’t authorize you doing this, but I won’t stop you, either.”
“Thank you,” whispered Kelly.
“She is complete, Father,” said Dr. Zorin.
“Excellent,” said Marwolaeth. He couldn’t help but smile. The death of Sesen Villone meant the spell was broken. And it took a Blue Angel to do it. Maybe I should start paying them instead of the assassins, he thought.
“Miss McCullers, are you cognizant?”
Cyan moaned, barely opening her eyes. Her newly-reassembled body was covered in white hospital linen, leaving only her scalded face visible.
Marwolaeth took off his shades. “You may be excused, Doctor. This will only take a moment.” He waited for the door to close, leaving him along with Cyan.
He stared at Cyan, looking past the blue irises, the inner workings of her eyes, into the synapses that fired into the brain. “You will help me spread the word of the Rising. You will be my right arm. You will respond only to me. Is this understood?”
“Yes, Father,” said Cyan.
“Now, my new angel, unleash your wings.”
Faith-Mari entered the ANGELS level to find the office under a greater cloud of gloom that she had first found it. On the far wall, an agent was pinning three new golden stars to join the memorial of those lost in the field.
“Miss Hopkins, I just want to tell you I found this mission utterly…” Dr. Whitman began.
“You knew about Sesen Villone’s condition, didn’t you?”
Whitman looked down. “Of course we did.”
“And you knew she had been following Bronson Harris’ trail, didn’t you?”
“We suspected as much,” he said.
“Then she died for nothing. And if she had caught him, then we weren’t necessary. So that means that April, Cyan, and Kelly died for nothing, too.”
Whitman looked up without a hint of regret. “From a certain point of view, yes.”
“Then you killed three perfectly good agents for no reason at all.”
The veins in Whitman’s neck began to strain out of his shirt. “We knew the situation. An angel is to be prepared for any scenario, with as much, or as little, information as possible. I did not boil April Hsu or Kelly Penrose. I did not cause Cyan McCullers to snap and charge at you. Do not confuse the good guys with the bad guys, miss.”
“Yeah,” said Faith-Mari. “The bad guys did not send us in there blind. This is not a test, sir. These are people’s lives.”
“Naïve girl. Everything’s a test. When we send someone to North Korea to disassemble a bomb, it’s a test. If someone fails, we do it again until an angel passes. When we go to Iran and intercept centrifuges, it’s a test. When we send a cadre of angels to find a simple hitman, it’s a test. And three of you failed.”
A tear trickled down Faith-Mari. “They didn’t fail, sir. They died.” She slammed the door to Dr. Whitman’s office behind her and walked to the dressing room. As she took off her business jacket, she looked at the three empty lockers to her left.
A. Hsu
C. McCullers
K. Penrose
Faith-Mari sat down on the bench, covered her face in her hands, and finally let go. She cried until her eyes went dry.
A few days after the incident at Chlamette, Boiling Point drove to the Father’s Church, located in the slums of Iberville, long after the doors were closed. He knew someone would be inside.
The only light shined from the back booth. Taking off his fedora, he stumbled inside the confessional.
“Sit down, my son,” said Meyrick Marwolaeth. “What do you wish to confess?”
A business card slipped through the panel. On it: “I can’t do this anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
Another card. “I can’t do this. They know who I am now.”
A brief pause seemed louder than any words.
“You’re of no use to me,” said Marwolaeth. “See to it that you leave the city at once. Never come back.”
Boiling Point nodded, then calmly walked out of the confessional. As he passed the pews, he felt a chill pass through the church. Cold air crackled his bones. He opened the front of the church, and saw her standing at the foot of the sidewalk.
The ringlets were gone, cut down into a short pixie hairdo. The mask and leotard were gone. In its place were a tattered khaki trenchcoat, red blouse, and black nylon skirt. Sheer brown tights encased toned legs, disappearing into jet-black army boots.
Kelly Penrose was back. And she was armed.
Boiling Point reached for his glove, but the first blast from the shotgun tore off his arm at the elbow. The second blast took out his knees from underneath, leaving him facedown on the concrete. He heard the crunch of the boots’ footsteps walk toward him above his muffled cries.
She grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, bringing him up to kneeling level. For the first time, she saw his eyes: cobalt blue, almost iridescent.
“Release me,” he said.
“Gladly.” She placed the barrel of the shotgun under his chin, then pulled the trigger.
She kicked open the door to the confessional. Marwolaeth was gone.
As she stood on the priest’s side, she wrote a brief note. She then reached into her coat and pulled out a single rifle round. She placed it on the chair, next to the note:
“Father: the next one has your name on it. Sincerely yours,
Sniper.”
• * * *
Blue Angels created by Mighty Hypnotic
Based in part on characters created by pzgr6
Written by Liam Venture (a.k.a. The Great Dutch Ninja)
Blue Angels: Boiling Point
Starring Faith-Mari Hopkins
Kelly Penrose
Bronson Harris
Cyan McCullers
Co-Starring Sesen Villone
April Hsu
David Whitman
With Karla Lee
And Meyrick Marwolaeth
(if it pleases the board,)
The Blue Angels will return in Blue Angels: Vengeance is Mine
Revenge is a dish best served cold, or in this case a shotgun. Darker than I would write it but still good Ninja, can't wait to see where this goes in the third story. Also does Cyan now actually have wings, or do I have to wait and find out.
Yes Supergirl, that's right its a necklace for you....What's the matter you don't like Kryptonite?