With his ears ringing and his vision blurred, Wolfe staggered into his seedy hotel room. He’d ditched the car he’d stolen, and made his way back to where he was staying, through a series of alleys and crowded sidewalks. The police were everywhere, and he’d been lucky to escape their manhunt.
He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed. For a few minutes he stared at the water stains on the ceiling while trying to collect his wits. He was staying in the Hotel Carter on West 43rd Street. A search on Google had shown it to be the worst-rated hotel in Midtown. So far, it had lived up to its reputation. It wasn’t the kind of place where the police would come looking for him. At least, not right away.
His head was throbbing and he went to the bathroom and downed two aspirin with a glass of water. Then he gazed into the mirror above the sink. As a soldier, his speciality had been hand-to-hand combat, although he never would have known it by his reflection. His face was cut up, his left eye nearly shut. On the back of his head was a lump that made him wince every time he touched it, while his left ear looked like a blood sausage. He’d come out on the losing end of this one, that was for sure. The question was, why?
Everything had been on his side, from the element of surprise, to the fact that his opponent didn’t know how to fight. So why had he lost? He could blame it on bad luck, only that was a weakling’s excuse. Something else was going on here, and he was determined to find out what it was.
Sitting on the bed, he pulled his laptop from its case, and powered it up. It was noon, which made it five o’clock back home in England. The British lived for traditions. Tea at four, pubs closing at the stroke of midnight, and other strange rituals that were ingrained in the genes, and would never die. The Order was no different. He was required to contact them every day, rain or shine, come hell or high water, at five in the afternoon their time, regardless of what part of the world he was in, or what he was doing. Sometimes a phone call would do; if he was embedded in a city, as he was now, then it was over the Internet using Skype, which let the Order see and talk to Wolfe via the Web cam on his laptop. A loud beep signaled the connection had gone through. A minute passed.
“Come on, lads, I haven’t got all bloody day,” he grumbled.
A blue light flickered across his laptop’s screen. It expanded until he was staring at the Room of Spirits, a darkened chamber whose walls were covered with mystic signs from ancient Babylon. The room boasted several aquariums filled with poisonous reptiles and venomous snakes that snapped at the glass. Flanking the aquariums were life-size marble statues of the Oracle of Delphi, and the Greek sorceress Medea. It was here that the elders of the Order held seances, and peered into the future.
Three men dressed in black robes sat at a glass table encrypted with Zodiac figures, kabbalistic emblems, and algebraic symbols that pulsated with a life of their own. Each man wore a white plastic mask which covered his face. The elder in the middle addressed him.
“Hello, Major Wolfe. How are we today?”
“I’ve had better days,” Wolfe replied.
“Is something wrong?”
He tilted the laptop so the Web cam captured his damaged face. “See for yourself.”
The elders leaned forward in their chairs to study his face.
“You look rather beat-up,” the middle elder said.
“That would be an understatement. I nearly got bloody killed.”
“By who?”
“That little bastard Peter Warlock did this to me.”
“Did he catch you by surprise?”
“On the contrary. I had him right where I wanted him.” Wolfe paused to let the words sink in, then said what was on his mind. “He’s one of you, isn’t he?”
Clearly upset by his remark, the elders stirred in their chairs.
“What is that supposed to mean?” the elder on the left asked.
“Peter Warlock is more than just a psychic,” Wolfe replied. “He anticipated my every move, and knew exactly what I was thinking. I didn’t stand a chance.”
“You’re making excuses,” the middle elder said accusingly. “Admit it. You blundered.”
Wolfe brought his face inches from the screen. “Listen up, gents. I know when someone’s got my number, and Peter Warlock has it. He got into my head. Every time I tried to take him down, he anticipated what I was going to do. It was like trying to fight against myself.”
“You’re saying he’s different than the others,” the middle elder said.
“Much different.”
“Excuse us for a minute, Major. We need to discuss this.”
“Be my guest.”
The elders began to talk amongst themselves. Not knowing their names, Wolfe had learned to differentiate them by their accents. The elder on the left had attended either Oxford or Cambridge, and spoke like an aristocrat; the middle elder had worked in broadcasting and had what was commonly called a BBC accent; while the elder on the right was a commoner, and spoke with a Cockney bite. Finished, the elders resumed looking at him through the Web cam.
“What about the other names on your list?” the middle elder asked.
“I took out Madame Marie last night,” Wolfe replied. “Afraid there was some collateral damage. Her husband attacked me. No choice but to blow him away.”
“And the others?”
“I had a go at Lester Rowe this morning. That’s when I ran into Warlock.”
“Did you dispose of Rowe?”
“Afraid not.”
“Do you mean to say you’ve only eliminated one psychic so far?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve been in New York three days. This is taking too long.”
“Have I ever let you down?”
“Not yet, Major. But there’s always a first time.”
“I’ll get them all. You have my word.”
“Even Peter Warlock?”
“I’ll run a bloody bus over him if I have to.”
“Glad to hear it. Give us a timetable for your mission’s completion.”
“I’ll be done in forty-eight hours,” Wolfe replied.
“No sooner?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“How about thirty-six hours?”
Wolfe didn’t like this. Killing people by committee never worked. He made his own decisions, which was why he’d lasted as long in his profession as he had.
“I could, but it would mean a lot more collateral damage.”
“Squeamish?” the elder on the left asked.
“If you want a butcher, go to the meat market.”
“Is that an attempt at sarcasm, Major?”
“Take it any way you please.”
The elders fell silent, clearly displeased.
“Is forty-eight hours the best you can do?” the middle elder asked, breaking the silence.
“Yes, it is,” Wolfe said.
“Very well.”
A breeze passed through the Room of Spirits, causing the elders’ robes to flutter. The circular table began to rotate, and the strange signs etched on the glass glowed like night flies. The elders studied the signs while mumbling to themselves. Finally the table stopped spinning, and the signs lost their glow.
The middle elder addressed Wolfe. “We have reached a decision. It is imperative that you finish your mission. Find the remaining psychics on your list, and do away with them. A forty-eight-hour window is not preferable, but is acceptable. Once you are done, get out of there as fast as possible. Is this understood?”
“Understood.” Wolfe’s finger touched the mouse on his laptop.
“I’m not finished. We are bothered by your lack of resolve, and your defiant attitude. You were recruited into the Order because you’re a soldier, and soldiers do not run in the heat of battle, or question their superiors. Your mettle needs to be tested.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my bloody mettle,” Wolfe snapped.
“We feel otherwise.”
A hissing sound came out of the laptop. Behind where the elders sat, an aquarium wall had lowered, and a giant Burmese python spilled out, and slithered across the floor. Wolfe had encountered a Burmese python while in the army, and knew it was lethal. Jumping into the air, the python burst through the laptop’s screen, courtesy of the elders’ dark magic.
The python landed in his lap. Wolfe grabbed the snake before it could wrap its body around his throat. It was six feet long, and incredibly powerful. Falling onto the floor, he wrestled with the beast, knocking down furniture and causing all sorts of noise. Finally he got the python’s head between his powerful hands, and squeezed until it went limp.
The laptop had fallen on the floor. Its screen was facing him, and he saw the elders nod their approval.
“Good-bye, Major Wolfe,” the middle elder said. “Stay in touch.”
The picture became a pinprick, then disappeared. Wolfe stared at his hands. The python had vanished. In its place was one of his shoes, which had been lying on the floor.
“Bloody arseholes,” he said.