97.

  Elliot Zolstmann hurried along the nondescript modern design corridor with all its fluorescent LEDs, neutral gray carpets, empty cubicles, and even emptier offices. The sun had barely risen, yet Elliot's boss had been in the office all night, and that meant that Elliot too was in the office. This wasn't terribly unusual, but the events of the night were far from typical. Elliot was walking at a brisk pace; he'd been reprimanded more than once for running, as it was apparently unseemly. He had a thick manila file under his arm and sweat beading down his brow when he rapidly knocked on his employer's door.

  The door was impressive, frosted glass, taller than a normal man, and wider still, but there was no name on it. Again, while not typical, that was not unusual for the offices of The Orion Group, a subsidiary of the globally famous Sable Systems. Of course, there were about a dozen different companies that branched off between the two enterprises, but everyone knew who the real masters were. Elliott didn't wait to be beckoned into the office; he knew his employer would be waiting. He bustled in, and the office was shrouded in darkness. It had no walls but ceiling-to-floor glass that was currently frosted, but at the touch of a button, it could become see-through and show the entire landscape of New London’s Core laid out beneath.

  Elliott quickly hurried to the large, impressive cobalt desk that dominated the otherwise almost empty room. Behind the desk sat a small woman with coarse gray, neck length hair. She wore small wireframe glasses and had a large beaky nose that had swollen with age. She was reading a newspaper in a language that Elliott didn't recognize. While not typical, this was not unusual; his employer preferred physical copies of almost everything and liked to stay abreast of global news and enterprise.

  "Good morning, Ms Volkov," Elliott said quickly, slapping his legs together and standing smartly.

  "It is morning. Well done, Elliot," Ms Volkov said in her oddly inflectionless voice, her cold blue eyes never lifting from the newspaper.

  "Reports have come in from the events last night," Elliott said, presenting the file to Volkov. She sighed and folded her newspaper three times before setting it down on a silver tray next to her. She then reached out for the file, flicked it open with practiced ease, her eyes tracing down the page, reading with an almost inhuman speed from decades of practice.

  "How much have we lost?" she asked.

  "The entire shipment," Elliot replied. "Totalling somewhere in the region of about ￡85,000,000.”

  Volkov didn't even blink at the number.

  "And the Triad?"

  "Deeply upset. They are still demanding payment for the shipment.”

  "Of course they are.”

  “They say that they delivered the shipment safely and that it was our own…” Elliott hesitated, and for the first time, Volkov lifted her eyes, her cold gaze sending rivulets of fear through Elliott's body. "And, they're saying that we lost the shipment due to our own incompetence," Elliott finished.

  "Well, they're not wrong," Volkov replied. "They are savages, but they are useful. Pay them in full and offer them a discount on their next shipment of human cattle. Tell them we could take…" Volkov thought for a moment. "200 extra bodies on board, 250 if there are children. That should keep them happy.”

  "Yes, ma’am," Elliott said, scribbling down Ms Volkov's words in his own specific shorthand

  “And what of our situation?” Volkov asked.

  “It seems that our operations may have been dismantled in the boroughs of South London," Elliott said, trying to enunciate his words clearly. Ms Volkov hated it when people muttered nervously around her.

  "The boy down there, what's his name?”

  "He went by Brick, ma’am.”

  "Of course he did," Volkov replied. "He has been arrested?”

  "Yes ma’am," Elliot replied.

  "Do we know his whereabouts?” Volkov asked.

  "Yes, ma’am. He's currently at St. Thomas's Hospital for treatment due to wounds sustained. And is under police guard.”

  "Have him taken care of. Make it quiet," Ms Volkov said, with almost a tone of exasperation, as if this was just another silly chore that she had to complete. “Make it look natural.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “And how was our network compromised so thoroughly?”

  Elliot hesitated. The worse answer, even worse than a lie, was an admission that they did not know yet.

  “Investigations are still being carried out," Elliot replied. "We suspect that we may have had a leak that gave away the whereabouts of the warehouse.”

  "A leak?" Volkov repeated, her dead voice resonating around the empty office. "Did we not provide that fool with security?”

  "Yes, ma’am," Elliot said. "He had a dozen mercenaries from Red Company.”

  "And yet, ￡85,000,000 of product was destroyed under their noses," Volkov said, her voice careful and clipped.

  "Reports are strange, ma’am," Elliot said, and he immediately knew this was the wrong choice of words. It was not up to him to decide what was strange and what wasn't, nor was it up to him to decide what Ms Volkov should know and shouldn't know. He immediately realized his mistake and continued. "The mercenaries are reporting that they were attacked by pigeons.”

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  "Pigeons?" Volkov repeated.

  "Yes, ma’am. An army of pigeons attacked them, and they were led by a vigilante.”

  Elliot felt sweat trickling down the back of his neck; even when he read the report, it sounded too far-fetched to even be in a bad comic book.

  "What do they call this vigilante?" Volkov asked.

  "The Gutter Mage.”

  "The Gutter Mage.” Volkov repeated.

  "Yes, ma’am. Reports are he's been hampering our operations in the Mulberry Estate and further afield in South London. It seems he ramped up efforts against us. He defeated one of our key mercenaries, Black John, and burned the shipment and the warehouse down." Elliot explained.

  Ms Volkov leaned back in her giant chair, her face implacable.

  "One person. One person dismantled our entire operation in a matter of forty-eight hours," she said, more to herself than to Elliot.

  Elliot knew better than to respond and stayed quiet.

  "And what do we know of this Gutter Mage?" Volkov asked.

  "As of yet, ma’am, less than we should," Elliot replied. "He's not any known criminal element. He’s not from one of our rivals, doesn't have a gang or followers of any kind. He seems to be a completely solo enterprise," Elliot said.

  "But don't forget the pigeons, Elliot, he has an army of pigeons, remember.”

  "Of course, ma’am," Elliot said, swallowing dryly.

  "And our police contacts?”

  "They've done as you bid, ma’am," Elliot replied. "They've set this grizzled old loon, DI Woodley, on the case. He was the first one who began noticing there was a trend behind these attacks. He's been given permission to find this vigilante.”

  "Good," Volkov replied. "Anything else?”

  "Well, the report says they have blood samples," Elliot replied. "There is no known match in the criminal databases, which tells us that whoever this is doesn't have a criminal record. But we do have a picture." Elliot opened the file for Ms Volkov and showed her the grainy image.

  Volkov stared at the picture, her eyes a gray mist on a foggy morning.

  "And apparently they've been able to narrow down the list of potentials to a resident of the Mulberry Estate," Elliot added.

  Volkov sighed and tapped the picture before looking up at Elliot.

  "I want him gone," she said simply, with little to no inflection behind her words and no emphasis on the statement. "He's proven himself capable. Send one of our best. Who do we have currently operating in the Northern Hemisphere?”

  Elliot quickly tapped a few things on his WristPod and scrolled through a list.

  "We have Marianne the Red," Elliot said. "There's Nightshade, and Tank is still active. Juarez is currently in South America, but can be on the next flight out.”

  Elliot's eyes flicked up to Volkov, who had yet to say anything, so he continued.

  "Gas is currently in Ireland."

  "Gas," Volkov replied, and for the first time, there was just a hint of a stir in her cold, still face. "I want Gas on this. Tell him to be on standby. If this Gutter Mage surfaces again, tell Gas to hunt him down and make an example of him."

  "Yes, ma’am," Elliot said, nodding.

  Then Volkov waved her hand at him, dismissing him. Elliot gave a short bow before turning and making his way to the door.

  "Actually, Elliot," Volkov said.

  Elliot stopped and spun around immediately.

  "Yes, ma’am?”

  "His family too. Anyone he cares about," Volkov said. "Tell Gas he has a green light. That's the thing with cattle, sometimes they need an example set. Let them know what happens when one of them raises their heads."

  "Yes, ma’am," Elliot said, bowing and exiting the room.

  Volkov stared at the picture and slowly began unbuttoning her white blouse. Then she stood up, pulled off her jacket, laid it across the back of her chair, undid her remaining shirt buttons while staring at the grainy image on her desk. Then the shirt came off. She slipped out of her shoes, removed her skirt and stockings, and finally her underwear. She laid them out neatly on her desk. The little woman, who stood barely above 5’4, was now in her office completely naked. She picked up the picture and padded across the office to the singular bookshelf. Volkov laid her palm on the bottom-most shelf, and there was a slight electrical buzz as a palm reader read her biometrics. The bookshelf slid back, leading to the adjacent room, which was blocked off to all access except through the bookshelf.

  It was dark and cold in this room, cold enough that he saw his breath misting in front of her. Volkov padded slowly into the room. She hesitated just a moment and then stepped into the crooked circle of grave soil and knelt down in front of an altar. The shrine was covered in dead spiders, petrified ravens, and worms that still wriggled despite the nails put through them. The smell of death stained the place. Volkov knelt down inside the circle of grave dirt and lit the blood-red candle that was almost as thick and long as her forearm. Instinctively, she closed her eyes, and the whispers filled the room. She waited for them to congeal into one singular voice, the voice of her master.

  "Speak, slave," the voice intoned, sounding like it echoed from everywhere.

  Volkov opened her almost colourless blue eyes and kept them firmly glued to her bare knees, her head bowed.

  "Master, we have encountered a slight setback in the schedule." Even as she spoke, she felt the cold intensify. She could feel the tendrils curling around her, but she did not move. She did not dare to even quicken her breathing.

  "You summoned us for mortal business?"

  "I believe, Master, we have an issue. A practitioner has appeared, and he seems to be targeting our operations. I seek more knowledge about him." Volkov then held the picture up, her head still bowed. She felt the tendrils curl around her fingers and her wrist. "Is he of the enemy?"

  "No," the voice hissed back. "He is but a boy with a magic book. He is of no concern.”

  "He destroyed our shipment, Master."

  "Just a boy," the master hissed back again.

  "You are familiar with him?" Volkov asked and received no response. "Please, Master, if you know where I can find him, I can make an example of him."

  "We will not assist you in this," the echoing voice spat. "This is mortal business, and the boy may yet prove useful.”

  "Should I spare him then?" Volkov asked.

  "This is mortal business," the master repeated. “Do as you wish. Your fates are of no consequence to us."

  Volkov kept her gaze low and bowed her head further.

  "The sacrifices will continue, Master, but we have a need for more bodies, and this setback will push our schedule, but only slightly."

  "See that it does not."

  "Yes, Master."

  "The boy has been seen. He could yet destroy all that you've worked for, slave. I would be careful, for if you fail…"

  A tendril snaked out and wrapped itself around Volkov's throat. She gasped as it tightened but still kept her head bowed. Death was preferable to looking at the thing in front of her, but she felt her head being pulled up, her chin being raised, and she was forced to stare into the eyeless face and that wide, white, tombstone-tooth smile.

  "Nothing will stop us from being freed. Nothing!”