Black Madonna

6

Just before three in the morning, the black van rolled quietly into Cheney Walk, and Geraint lowered the window to reassure the resident security patrol. His government ID seemed to pull slightly less weight than the leader of the goons with him, who knew the senior guard on duty.

“We have a little semi-official business with a certain foreign gentleman, Charles,” the man said meaningfully.

“Sure, Jim,” the ork security guard said impassively. “Try not to disturb the neighbors, eh?”

The van rolled another few meters forward, and the rigger parked it a little way down a side street.

“Now, lads, let’s get this straight,” Jim said to emphasize the final briefing. “As little noise as possible and keep the casualties down. Disable at all times. Use the grenades and the tank shots whenever possible, and let’s keep this nice and quick and painless. For us, anyway.”

A dry laugh came from a dark-haired elf toying with an elaborate weapon that appeared to combine a grenade launcher, integrated taser, and trank-shot barrel all in one, and that was before the manufacturers had added stabilizers, IR sights, and whole range of other gizmos. Geraint had been impressed by the size of the elf’s muscles to even carry the thing, though the gyromount harness was obviously helping with that. That he could still move with amazing swiftness when encumbered by the monstrosity was a testimony to his wired reflexes.

It was a well-balanced squad, Michael thought. Two trolls for strength and power, two elves for speed and reaction, a dwarf who appeared to be a combined engineer, quartermaster, and tactician rolled into one, and a single human who looked as big as the trolls and as fast as the elves, not even Counting the chromed rigger. Judging by Serrin’s thoughtful look, Geraint guessed that one of the elves was a magical adept at the very least, probably assensing even as they were approaching the building. The team ordered the nobleman not to come in until they’d disabled anything that moved inside number 16, and he was only too happy to comply. The flag of the Tuscany Republic hung outside, but that wouldn’t do the occupants any good. it wasn’t the official residence of the ambassador Geraint had reassured them that while a raid might cause a slight ripple, it would be nothing he couldn’t handle.

The black-swathed, armored figures slipped out the back of the van and merged effortlessly into the night, leaving the rigger behind to monitor the scene from a dozen different angles and taking downloaded data from the head cameras of two of those approaching the building. Within seconds the familiar tinkle of breaking glass announced that a gas grenade had hit the first floor of the building even as rope lines were being fired to enable the elves to strike at any targets upstairs.

“Good, aren’t they?” Geraint whispered as they watched the monitors’ grainy image of broken windows and black figures darting into the building. “I think we can venture forth ourselves now. Right through the front door. Do you want to wait here?” He looked at Kristen, who shot back a look of disdain.

“Don’t be patronizing,” Senin admonished him. “She once saved my skin by shooting someone in the head.”

“As you wish,” Geraint said mildly, Climbing out of the van, Like the others, he wore light body armor, and Serrin had already locked a bullet barrier spell around himself and Kristen. They raced around the side street and made for the front entrance, already opened by one of the trolls who had a supercharged taser hefted at the ready.

“Not much resistance,” the troll growled rather disappointedly as they approached Then the sudden chatter of handgun fire came from the basement of the building.

“You spoke too soon,” Geraint said as he made for the inside of the building, gripping his machine pistol more firmly with one hand while fastening his respirator with the other to ward off the effects of the trank gas billowing down the stairs. Passing through the hallway, he dimly took in the large reception room to his right, where the dwarf had three terrified clerks bent over a table while he toyed with the trigger of a Predator and began handcuffing them. Geraint made for the stairs where the elf with the integrated arsenal masquerading as a single weapon stood, casually dumping a grenade down the stairs and standing back to blow open the doors at the bottom. The explosion was less than Geraint anticipated, the door flimsy and easily blown apart, with debris mostly flying into the underground garage rather than back up toward them. By the time he reached the stairs, the elf was already through the shattered doorway, hunting the prey that had escaped and sought to flee by car.

The whir of a taser line hummed through the semi-darkness at the figure racing toward the parked vehicles. Geraint could just see the man duck and the line whiz over his head; the elf cursed and decided to dispense with precise targeting. A second gas grenade went flying into the parking lot, but the man pulled something up around his neck that looked to Geraint like a respirator. Then, from above them, it seemed for a moment as if the entire building shook and reverberated. Geraint had never been in an earthquake, but be imagined this must be what one would feel like. it really did seem like the entire place might fall down around their ears at any moment. He stepped smartly out of the stairwell behind the elf, who let off a burst of gunfire to scare his target, then began to run at him like a cheetah with a jalapeno enema up its tail.

A deep, grinding sound like two rock faces trying to sandpaper each other to dust came from upstairs just as their quarry managed to get into the car, start it up, and steer the vehicle toward the garage doors, with the elf still in hot pursuit. The SAS elf dropped to his knees and launched another grenade shot as the car veered crazily toward the exit. It didn’t look as if the doors would open properly before the car got to them, and even if the elf missed, Geraint judged that the driver would quite possibly get his head ripped off together with the roof of his Westwind.

The cacophony of Sound made the Welshman turn and take the risk of making his way back up the stairs, leaving the fleeing car and its passenger to their elven pursuer. Upstairs, it seemed as if half the roof had collapsed. Plaster, wood, stone, and a once-fine chandelier lay strewn in the hallway. Geraint gripped his gun again and advanced up the stairs. Of the others, save for the dwarf completing his work, there was no sign.

When he got to the landing, the scene was astounding. Every door leading off it was open, and in one bedroom that approached palatial splendor he could see one of the trolls laid out cold with a seeping pool of blood spreading from his back and neck. Incongruously, in the bathroom someone had seemed to take serious objection to avocado green bath fittings by blowing them into ceramic shrapnel, but it was the scene in the large sitting room that caught his eye. The place was filled with broken glass and smashed furnishings, and there were at least three prone bodies in it. Of the ones moving, Serrin and the other elf were engaged in what appeared to be a desperate struggle. Michael was lying slumped in a corner but there was no blood on him and it looked as if he were merely knocked out cold. Kristen had her Predator gripped in both hands, waiting for a clear shot.

Serrin was standing rock still engaged in a magical struggle with a bizarre figure, a human-like form that seemed to be shaped of muddied clay, trying to claw its way toward him and Kristen. The other elf was flinging himself, long serried knife in hand, at a suited, dark-haired man crouched across a table from him, his gaze fixed on the clay figure. Even as Geraint approached, the clay figure managed to force its way to Serrin and strike him with one of its limbs, knocking the elf to the floor. The other elf leapt over the table and buried his knife in his opponent’s right shoulder blade only a hand’s length from his heart. As Kristen and Geraint poured bullets into whatever it was that had struck Serrin senseless, the man screamed and the clay creature wavered and began to topple. As it fell backward, almost as if in slo-mo, its form dissolved into a wave of rolling, liquid clay, pouring into a huge puddle of formless, slimy mud that seeped over the Persian carpet.

A haze of blue static began to shimmer into form in the center of the room. What Geraint had taken for simply a design in the weave of the carpet he now sensed was some kind of magical design, a ritual inscribing, though he knew little of such things. The knife-carrying elf, however, knew a lot more.

“Get the frag out of here! Move!” he screamed, grabbing the inert form of the group’s leader as he retreated. Mercifully, the man seemed only stunned and was already able to move with the elf’s help. Geraint didn’t have to be told twice. He reached down and drew Michael up under the arms, dragging him back onto the landing, leaving the slighter form of Serrin to Kristen. The three of them struggled out with their burdens, the elf going back a second time to pull out his troll comrade as well. The static was forming into what looked like ball lightning and was beginning to spin in a crazily off-kilter orbit around the epicenter of the room. The man in the suit lay groaning, barely conscious, flowers of blood blooming down the front of his once-perfect white shirt. Geraint rushed to help the elf, and they managed to drag the heavy troll out of the room and slam the door shut in time.

The room exploded. Its contents spewed out over the length and breadth of one of the wealthiest, most exclusive, and generally quietest streets in all of London, and the detonation was enough to send them all flying across the landing. Geraint hit the door frame of the bathroom and just missed getting his hands sliced up on the porcelain fragments from the broken toilet bowl. Serrin managed to roll with the punches and came to rest a meter away from him, but not before hitting him hard and winding him. Up the stairs, the dwarf and the second elf were rushing to their aid, and after them the rigger- responding with amazing speed-was there too. Conscious, unconscious, and walking wounded managed to stagger into the street. Lights were beginning to appear from every building around them.

“Anyone dead?” Geraint said desperately.

“No, but that’s a minor sodding miracle,” the elf he had assisted said grimly. “We hadn’t expected so much magic in the place. Serrin and I had our work cut out just to bloody contain it all. Let’s get the frag out of this drekhole and worry about the details later.”

The group’s leader was just about conscious, and the ork from the security patrol was advancing on him with worry etched into his face.

“Frag it all, Jim, I said keep it quiet!” he complained bitterly. “How the frag am I going to explain this?”

“You know the drill,” Jim said, grunting with pain, and handed the ork a grenade.

“Fifty thousand,” the ork said. Geraint handed him a credstick, but the ork refused.

“Not now. The police will be round any minute,” he said. “Tomorrow. Jim’ll bring it round.”

“Fine,” Geraint shrugged, struggling to help everyone into the van. The first curious onlookers were just opening their doors. The ork marched off, summoned his group, and dumped the grenade. He and the other guards reeled away from the anaesthetizing gas and were all slumped on the ground within moments. Sirens were beginning to raise their howl of protest from the surrounding streets. The van’s rear doors shut, and the rigger raced the vehicle like a bat out of the abyss.

“Well, I think we’ve certainly done enough damage to bugger any cover story that we were after their Old Masters,” Geraint complained. “Did we get our man?” he howled above the noise of the accelerating engine.

“Bastard got away,” the elf said impassively.

“Where’s Gungrath?” Geraint went on, trying not to fall out of his seat.

“Took a couple of hostages away in one of the cars,” the elf replied, explaining the absence of the second troll, who had recovered with astonishing speed. “Look, we’ve got to get to our repairman.”

“You got it,” the rigger yelled.

“There’s something wrong with the van?” Geraint said anxiously.

“Nah, ‘im,” the elf said, jerking a thumb at the troll samurai with blood coating his chest and back. “Stopped some very heavy-duty AP. I’ve patched him, but we’re going to need serious surgery here. And that’ll cost you, term.”

“Whatever it takes,” Geraint agreed.

“Drek it, I’ve got four last-response police APVs in the radar locks and we’re going to be lucky to get out of this,” the rigger said desperately as he cajoled more speed out of the vehicle. “Get out of my way. you dumb hag!” The car in his path narrowly managed to swerve out of the way of the racing van.

The elf grinned at Geraint. “Don’t sweat it, he’s never crashed yet.”

Serrin started from his stupor and looked dumbly around him. “Didn’t quite work out, did it?’ he said stupidly.”

“Not to worry,” Geraint said soothingly “We got some people we can talk to. Unfortunately, our Monsignor Seratini appears to have escaped.”

“Managed to stick a bug tracer on him,” one of the elves said happily. “Roger here can track him down within a hundred klicks. Where’s he now. Rog?”

“Somewhere off the Old Kent Road,” the driver said after a momentary glance at his array of monitoring panels. “Jeez, we’re being hauled in here. They’ve got locks on us and there’s a chopper on the way. Mister. I mean Your Lordship, you’re going to have to do some fast talking pretty soon. I can’t evade this lot. There’s another one every second.”

“Don’t forget, if we end up in jail it’s a hundred thou a year for our families,” the dwarf growled.

“You haven’t got family, you stunty bastard,” one of the elves said. “Born from a test-tube, you were. Face like that couldn’t have a mother.”

The dwarf hit him playfully in the groin with the barrel of his gun. The elf groaned with much feeling and rolled over in a ball, cursing. The van began to slow and came to a halt. The sirens behind them sounded like the Hounds of Hell.

Well, this is it, Lord Llanfrechfa,” Jim said casually. “Bulldrek or bust. You’d better have the connections they say you do or it’s twenty years in Parkhurst for everyone-and that’s going to cost you every last penny you’ve got.”

Geraint groaned. This was going to be a very expensive evening.

And it was. Exhausted and bleary-eyed, they reeled out of the elevator and waited for Geraint to go through the array of scanners and decide it was safe to go in. They’d spent hours locked in the holding cells until Geraint managed to pull strings at the highest level to get them free. Geraint would have to foot a sizable bill, in terms of political favors owed as well as money, to pay for the nights exploits. He was also uncomfortably aware that he’d have to do a hell of a lot of careful explaining to senior figures in the British government, and he didn’t have the best of cover stories to present to them just at the moment.

“Coffee, anyone?” he asked as they dumped their armor and gear in the cloakroom. Serrin shook his head and opened the far door of the room to make for the bathroom, sticking his head under the faucet and splashing cold water over himself. Kristen, pale and wild-haired, followed him anxiously with her eyes. Michael, having woken a lot later in the day than the elf, strolled into the huge central room and looked for the message he expected. The telecom and the faxbuffer store were both winking their warning lights at him. He began the data and message dumps, rubbing his sore back after the indignity of having been thumped senseless into the wall by the guardian they’d encountered inside the house at Cheney Walk.

“What have you got?” Geraint said as Michael began tearing paper from the printers.

“They work fast. They’ve downloaded the image data from the head cameras and it’s being processed right now. However, the gentleman in the suit upstairs was one Monsieur Jean-Francois Serrault. You’ll be interested to hear that the data pertaining to him cannot be found in Surete or French social security records, because he doesn’t officially exist.”

“How intriguing. Where did you get it?”

“That’s my business,” Michael admonished. “He’s a mage, as it happens. Freelancer. Get some more data on him later. Has some interesting friends in occult circles, according to this. Enough to keep us interested, I should think.”

“So what’s he doing in the residence of the Tuscan attache?” Geraint asked.

“Good question,” Michael replied. “Hopefully, I should have the answer to that shortly. We really should have done more homework on our friend Seratini before we went trick or treating, I think. Oh look,” he added, as an updated message came pouring onto the screen, “Good news. Our troll friend will be fine, which will save you a bundle. And our chappies have subcontracted the work of finding Seratini to some of their mates, who are on their way to collect him from somewhere in Brent.”

“Brent?”

“Yes, it’s rather down-market, isn’t it?” Michael agreed. “Well, anyway, we’ve got him and if we want to go and talk to him, we can.” They exchanged glances.

“Are you tired?”

“Absolutely exhausted, old boy, but I think we’d really like to know as soon as possible how our Italian friend comes to know a French mage who can blow half a house up even as he’s popping his clogs.”

“Won’t the police be keeping a watch on us now?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Geraint said. “It cost a lot of favors, but, no, they won’t. Not unless we do something terribly similar all over again.”

“Well, hardly,” Michael protested. “I mean, all we’re going to do is go and talk to someone. We can hardly end up in a pitched battle doing that, can we?”

Geraint had already gone to get his coat for another evening excursion. Had he known how totally, horribly wrong Michael was, he would have thought twice about tempting fate so blatantly.