Reign of Evil

CHAPTER 43

Yank sat behind the pilot, making sure he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. At this point, Yank doubted the pilot would do anything that would make him mad. He’d intentionally tried to terrify the poor kid, both because he needed the man to be afraid of something immediate and because Yank was pretty sick and tired of this whole idea of creating a white-only England. Each time they’d discovered a group had gone missing or someone was killed who had been involved with helping immigrants and refugees, it had served to fuel his anger. Add to that the ineffectiveness of the government and he wanted to punch something or someone. Not only had they emasculated Section 9—which should have been ten times the size of SEAL Team 666 because of all the supernatural shit going down in England—but it was clear that there was compliance at the highest levels, making him wonder how long they’d been planning this. That it took Jen’s death for anyone to notice was a terrible thing, but at least they had the chance to stop what had been inevitable before.

He tried to imagine how England would look without Queen Elizabeth and parliament and instead having King Arthur sitting on the throne. Would there be a round table? How would this sixth-century ruler be able to survive in the modern era? Or would it be kept a secret, King Arthur working from behind the scenes, ordering the complicit MPs to do his bidding? It was all too much.

The plane rumbled down the runway and took to the sky. Holmes and the witch were set up for a tandem, just as YaYa and Hoover were. They’d had to work on the straps for the team dog, but they’d managed finally. The rest of them wore regular commercial chutes, which would get them to the ground, albeit more slowly than their military counterparts.

Yank glanced out the window. They were in a Super Twin Otter de Havilland. He’d jumped out of this model before, so knew how to exit, but it didn’t mean he liked it. He remembered his first mission with Triple Six when they’d HALOed into the Sea of Cortez. Laws and Walker had given him no end of shit for supposedly being afraid of heights. Not that he’d let on, but someone must have let the secret slip.

Truth be told, he was terrified of heights and spent most of the time while he was in the air with his eyes closed in some form or fashion, even if it was only to pretend to sleep.

They were heading to Bratton Castle. He’d had the pilot program the coordinates into the navigation system. He glanced at them to make sure they hadn’t been changed. 51° 15’ 49.32" N, 2° 8’ 36.6" W. Check.

Laws had checked the wind and weather and had plotted for them to jump from an altitude of 4,000 feet north and west of their target. It would be a cold jump, but they wouldn’t be in the air for long. The two tandem jumper pairs were going out first, separated by ten seconds. Then the rest of them would pile out together. What the pilot did after that didn’t really matter. Either there’d be an entirely different England within a few hours or Triple Six would have accomplished their mission.

And what was that mission?

To kill the mythical King Arthur or at least stop him from becoming king once more, all while trying to not get killed by supernatural hounds and whatever else might be thrown at them. A hard-core terrorist looked easy by comparison. He fought the urge to rub at the bruises the hounds had caused when they’d taken him.

He glanced out the window, then averted his gaze back to the controls. He heard Laws laugh behind him but wouldn’t give him the chance to bring the phobia up again.

It wasn’t long before the pilot announced they were ten minutes out.

The SEALs set their watches.

They’d expected to hear from Ian and his Marines, but there had been radio silence. Several times during the short flight, Holmes had tried to establish contact but with zero luck. Everyone tried to keep their thoughts positive, but the mind could very easily spin lemonade into citric acid.

Laws posted by the open door hatch and got everyone in line.

Yank kept his eye on the pilot.

At five minutes, the pilot slowed the airspeed.

The SEALs did a radio check on their MBITR.

Laws counted down the last thirty seconds and sent YaYa and Hoover out first. After a ten-second gap, Holmes and the witch went next. Then it was Walker and Laws.

Yank patted the pilot on the back of his head, then slid out the door into the air. He let three seconds pass, then pulled his ripcord. He saw the line before him, with YaYa far to the front and lower in altitude. He searched for his landmarks. Keevil Airfield was northeast. He found the town of Bratton, then spied the white horse drawn on the side of the mound. He didn’t know where it came from, but it was made from something white and seemed as large as a football field. The plan was to land west of this landmark, then climb the mound together.

He watched as YaYa landed and rolled.

Holmes did better, standing up, using the witch’s weight as ballast.

Then Walker, then Laws, then it was his turn.

Just as he was about to hit the ground fear surged through him as he realized he’d just leaped from an airplane. He’d been so focused on the mission that he’d forgotten to be scared. He closed his eyes and winced as he landed. Still, with the extralarge commercial parachute, he was able to stand and walk it down.

They recovered their parachutes and placed them in a pile.

The witch looked like a freshly bathed cat.

“If there ever comes a time when you want me to jump out of another plane, don’t bother coming around. I won’t do it. England or no.”

“Wasn’t so bad,” Laws said. “Yank here is terrified of heights and he jumps all the time.”

“Of course we sometimes have to kick him out the door,” Walker added, “but he’s getting better.”

Yank rolled his eyes. He’d known the jibe was coming. Laws couldn’t help himself. Always the fucking merry prankster. Mr. Joker boy.

Laws patted Yank on the back. “What? No comment?”

“I’ll reserve my comment for the next time we’re sparring.”

Laws shut up at this, probably because he knew that Yank had forgotten more about fighting than Laws had ever learned.

Holmes checked his HK416. “Let’s remember this is a military mission.”

Yank watched as Laws almost came back with a smart-assed reply, then thought better of it when Holmes gave him a firm glare.

They all wore body armor over black sterile uniforms. Their Pro-Tec helmets had mounts for night vision, but their QUADEYES were in their cargo pockets, as were their ballistic masks. They wore Rhodesian military vests over their body armor, which had numerous pockets allowing them to carry ten spare magazines, as well as white phosphorous and fragmentation grenades. They wore their usual MBITR and Holmes did another radio check.

YaYa and Hoover took point, the dog ranging a dozen feet forward. Walker and Laws followed. The witch and Holmes came next. Yank brought up the rear.

He checked his watch. 0840 local time.

They reached the top of the mound without event. The pinnacle was mostly flat, running lengthwise for more than seventy meters, with a width of nearly twenty meters. Several piles of wood and sticks had been placed in the center, making Yank wonder if they might not be planning a bonfire later.

The witch found a location on the northeast side. It looked like any other place, but she’d stopped and said, “This is it.”

The rest of the SEALs faced outward around her while Holmes stood beside her as the witch unwrapped the item she’d brought.

Yank glanced back and saw a length of metal a little more than a yard long with a hooked end like a shepherd’s crook or a giant fishing hook.

She pulled the last of the canvas from it. “I found this laying around the museum. Belonged to a ninth-century Norse witch.”

Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “You stole it?”

“They didn’t know what they had. There’s more power in this than anything I’ve ever seen. It drew me to it.” She shrugged. “What do you want to do? Look at it behind a case or use it to help us save England?”

Holmes didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “How exactly are we going to get in?”

“That’s where the Tuatha comes in. It knows the secret knock.”

She began to hum. Her pupils rolled back, revealing nothing but white.

Yank shuddered. He hated when that happened.

She spoke something guttural in a language he didn’t understand, then struck the ground three times with the end of the metal staff.

Yank didn’t see what happened, but he heard her say, “Oh hell no,” then heard her fall.

He turned to see her splayed facedown. No opening. No doorway. Nothing except cold, wet grass.

“What happened?”

Holmes knelt and checked for a pulse. “She’s alive. Pulse is strong.” He glanced at Yank. “She acted surprised.”

Yank made a face. “Can’t be a good thing if a witch gets surprised.”

Holmes nodded.

Walker pointed toward one of the woodpiles. “Look. There.”

They watched as several pieces of wood fell from the pile to the ground as if there was something inside the pile pushing it free.

Yank and the others raised their silenced HKs but refrained from firing.

Then more wood fell until the entire pile had flattened across the ground. Yank saw both Walker and YaYa grit their teeth. When Yank looked back at the wood, he watched as the pieces began to come together. Small and large pieces, thick and thin pieces, they were moving together on their own for a common purpose. He couldn’t be sure how long it had taken, but it was suddenly a being. He could see legs, bent the wrong way, like an animal’s. A tall, slender upper body with long arms, a triangular head with what looked like horns jutting free. Only it wasn’t a body or a being, just wood somehow hewn together to make this… this creature.

When it turned its head to regard them he couldn’t help but let out a gasp.

Then it took off running.

“Hoover, YaYa, Walker, get that thing,” Holmes ordered.

All three looked at one another, including the dog. Then they were off. YaYa and Walker slid their rifles on their backs, barrels down for better ease of running.

He turned to Yank and Laws. “You two, help me and Ms. Moore.” He bent down to pick up the staff but snatched his hand back when it sizzled on the metal. “I think we’ve been tricked.”

“But who would do it?”

“My guess is that Tuatha was playing possum.”

Laws grabbed the witch under her arms. “Where to now?”

“Wherever that thing is going.”

“Do you have any ideas?” Laws motioned for Yank to grab her feet.

“Glastonbury Tor.”

Yank did the math. It was about forty miles away. They couldn’t possibly run it. They’d have to steal a car to get there in time.

Then they heard Walker give a shout over their MBITR.

“Oh hell! A truck just creamed it.”