Kim Bauer belongs to 24.
Bo Jones & Dyson belong to Lost Girl.
Stanley Jobson belongs to Swordfish.
Frank Deveraux belongs to Supernatural.
Claudia Donovan belongs to Warehouse-13.
Angela Bennett belongs to The Net.
Matthew Farrell belongs to Die Hard 4.0
Milo Hoffman belongs to Anti-Trust.
FIC: The Armageddon Protocol (10/?)
Dean yawned as he awoke to blink blearily then groan at the light blaring through his window. They were in a convoy racing through Alabama’s dusty, windy backstreets, with Seth Gecko in the front car, Harris in the gleaming van in the middle with Cameron Poe riding shotgun, with a literal shotgun, and him and his brother bringing up the rear in the Impala. Dean opened a soda and chugged it down in one gulp before looking towards his younger sibling. “Doesn’t all this security seem a little like over-kill?”
“Dude,” his brother shot him a wryly amused look, “there’s close to twenty-five million in the rear of that van, of course Harris wanted security.”
“Yeah,” Dean shot his brother a lecherous look, “but maybe he could have set us up with a calendar-worth of nubile Slayers as back-up.”
“A calendar-worth?” Sam’s brow furrowed.
“You know, the full twelve.” Dean grinned then sobered. “But seriously, hiring Monster Hunter International? Even in our line of business they’re considered crazy.”
“Crazy prepared,” Sam shot back.
“No,” Dean slowly shook his head. “Just crazy.”
Angel glanced towards Willow as they exited the tunnel and found themselves in the London office’s bunker. “Please could you check the building above for alien wards?”
Angel waited patiently as the red-haired witch concentrated, her eyes closing and brow furrowing. Finally she opened her eyes and smiled. “If there’s any traps up there, they’re not magical in origin.”
“’If there’s any traps’. Comforting.”
Angel ignored his grand-childe’s ill-mannered snark to smile and nod at Willow. “Thanks.” He glanced at Spike and his son. “You two scout ahead, see if there’s any guards to deal with.”
“At once my liege,” Spike bowed mockingly before disappearing into the shadows with Angel’s son. Angel shook his head. It was days like this he wondered if the Master hadn’t had the right idea, at least about demanding respect from his childes.
The next few minutes passed with torturous almost glacial slowness, leaving Angel uncomfortably conscious that he was surrounded by girls that were more than capable of making him, a predator beyond compare, in turn their quarry.
He relaxed slightly as his grand-childe stalked out of the shadows, his son just behind. “People have been upstairs,” Spike reported. “The place has been tossed, looking for information, but there’s nobody up there any more.”
Sweat lathered Dresden as he forced the Nevernever to go where it didn’t want to, the Fae long having treaties about such things with W&H. It was like pushing against a fast-running river’s stream. No, more like swimming uphill in lava. Every limb burnt with the exertion and his lungs felt like they were pumped full of acid.
But finally he felt it, the end of their journey. Fighting back a ragged gasp he opened a portal and pushed into the building’s vault. The floor was tiled, every tile spotless, and case after case of books, so stacked with volumes that looked to be every human and many non-human cultures from history that many of the shelves bent in the middle, stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see. “Shit,” Faith muttered, “this is gonna take some time.” The beautiful Bostonian looked around, “Dresden, stick close to Lara and me-.”
“A pleasure my dear.”
Faith returned his wan smile with a dimpled one of her own. “Kim, Veronica, you’re with Syd, Rona stick to Danny like jam on toast.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
Danny gulped at the African-American Slayer’s coy look.
Faith let out a throaty chuckle then sobered. “’Kay everybody, spread out. Look for anything that links the firm in with the attacks. Plans, intel reports, that sorta thing.”
“Good gracious,” Dresden heard Lara Croft’s cut-glass accent, “here’s a copy of ‘Livingston’s Cryptids’.” The English noblewoman reached out, took a hold of a careworn, leather-backed book, and carefully, reverently lifted it off the shelf. A split-second later and the shelves disappeared, leaving a pair of what looked to be Golems in their place. “Oh bugger.”
Angel crouched at the foot of a tree, gaze moving ceaselessly as he peered around the darkness-enveloped forest. “You smell that mate?”
“Smell what?” Kennedy demanded a half-second before he had chance to reply to Spike.
“Blood,” Angel replied for his grand-childe, “fresh blood.”
“Human?” Willow looked up at him, the witch’s face pale and her expression drawn.
Angel confirmed Willow’s query with a nod. And then they were gliding quietly, inching their way towards the Deeper Well’s entrance. The witch let out a muffled cry as they noted the corpses stacked by the entrance, but then they were stalking past them and into the Deeper Well.
“Well hell, whoever wrecked this place sure had a zest for their work,” Rufus commented.
Bo couldn’t help but agree with the African-American hunter’s words. A huge sinkhole stood where BRPD’s gothic-styled headquarters had once been, the devastated area surrounded by yellow evidence tape and the black vans and suited men and women of the FBI, all working in what looked to be a vain flurry of activity.
“Anything would have a hell of a time trying to survive in that,” Rufus continued.
“I could go and look?” Bo volunteered.
“Thanks honey,” Rufus smiled at the brunette. “But I’m the one with a government agency id.”
“Who says you need an id?” Bo smiled. Rufus grimaced then nodded. Bo ignored the middle-aged man’s prejudices, some of the more old-fashioned hunters accepted the supernatural assistance without actually liking those giving them the aid, to press her point. “I’ll just go down there, pick out the information as easy as plucking an apple from a tree.”
“Okay then girlie,” Rufus nodded. “See what you can find out.”
Bo started down the slope leading to the disaster area, keen eyes scanning those fluttering around the edges of the devastation, missing nothing. She smiled as she found what she was looking for, a nervous-looking forensic technician in his mid-twenties with messy hair, pimples, and thick-framed glasses.
Part of being a succubus was picking the right target. Yes, her powers worked on all mortals, but some had wills that resisted, that took precious seconds to over-come, and if people struggled against her, others near-by might notice. This man though, there was a diffidence about him that suggested somebody eager to prove their worth and to please, a mind easily influenced.
Having found her target, Bo glided through the mass of agents, and reached up to place her hand on his shoulder. “Hey.”
The moment the man, little more than a boy really, turned towards her, she hit him with the full force of her smile, turning his knees to jelly and flushing his cheeks red. “Hey.”
She pushed her will into the man while keeping her eyes locked with his. “Whoever blew this building up did quite a job. What was it, an accident?”
“Not from one what the explosives experts are saying,” the tech shook his head. “This was deliberate. We’ve found plenty of burnt to a crisp corpses, but no survivors. Nobody got out of this mess alive.”
“Thanks.” Bo kept smiling at the man for just an extra second then released her grip and melted back into the crowd.
Rufus Turner grimaced as she gave him her report. “So the dude figures that everybody died? Son of a bitch.”
“Lucky they don’t know shit then,” rumbled a deep bass voice that made Barry White sound like his balls hadn’t dropped just yet.
“Excuse me, may I come in?” Giles knocked on the department’s door before opening it and walking in. His heart lurched as he strode in to be confronted by rows of computers. Technology hadn’t gotten any easier for him to stomach.
“Mr. Giles,” he was greeted at the department’s entrance by the department’s head, a quite stunning brunette by the name of Angela Bennett. “We don’t normally see you here.”
Giles forced a smile. “Yes, I’m sorry about that, I don’t often have the time.” His gaze swept through the room filled with their highly-paid consultants. The dough-bodied and highly paranoid Frank Deveraux hired on Bobby Singer’s recommendation, the ruggedly built Stanley Jobson, the pretty, red-haired punkish Claudia Donovan, the gawky Matthew Farrell, and rakishly handsome Milo Hoffman. Together they were the geniuses that not only protected the Council’s computer systems, but hacked any systems he required, and did any modern-day data-mining the Council desired. “However, I do have a new assignment for you.”
“Oh really?” Interest flickered deep within the brunette’s brown eyes. “Always up for a new assignment.”
Giles nodded, pleased by the department head’s enthused response. “How many of W&H’s clients do we know are corrupt but have no arcane protection on their computer systems?”
Angela’s brow furrowed as she looked towards Stanley Jobson. “Stan?”
“Give me a moment,” the naturalised Australian growled as he tapped at his keyboard. After a minute he looked up from his screen. “Of W&H’s fourteen hundred and fifty clients world-wide, twenty per-cent have arcane protection and another thirty-five per-cent aren’t what you call corrupt, no record of criminal action, bribery, tax evasion, contract breaking etc.”
“So that leaves us with six hundred and fifty businesses or clients in total?” Giles mused. “And how much money do these businesses have in bank accounts etc?”
“Well bear in mind fully a third of those clients don’t for various reasons have bank accounts; they keep the money in their own personal vaults etc. So that leaves us with four hundred and ten.” Stanley tapped at the keyboard some more before letting out a whistle and looking up. “We’re talking of about six and a quarter billion dollars.”
Giles’ mind reeled at the thought of all that money. What he was considering was a robbery on a scale that only the most ambitious Wall Street or Canary Wharf 1%er would consider. “Very well. What I want you to do is steal that six billion plus dollars from their bank accounts, wash it clean through holding companies, move 10% of it into the Council’s accounts, and split the rest equally between this list of fifty charities,” he passed a piece of paper to Angela. “However I don’t want you to transfer a dime until I’m sure W&H are behind the attacks and I’ve launched the Council’s physical response.”
“Wash it clean?” Frank Devereaux let out a jowl-wobbling choke. “It’ll be so clean it glows.”