Harry Pearce belongs to Spooks
Bond & M belong to Ian Fleming.
Eli David belongs to NCIS.
Eyal Lavin belongs to Covert Affairs.
Jack Ryan belongs to Tom Clancy.
Ari Tasarov belongs to Nikita.
FIC: The Armageddon Protocol (12/?)
Giles stared with dismay at the reports before him. As far as he could see there was only a few powers with the potential resources to hire enough of the powerful wizards to even attempt . Neither the Council or Monoc Securities had done so. The Vatican had the money but didn’t deal with sorcerers, good or evil.
So that left…
Giles shuddered, an undeniable and unpalatable conclusion staring him in the face. “It has to be Wolfram & Hart…”
Pearce yawned as he made his way through his front door and into his shadowy, silent house. As usual he wasn’t home much before ten at night. What wasn’t usual was the sort of problems he’d been having.
He’d been peripherally aware of the supernatural ever since he’d reached the upper-ranks of the intelligence service, but he’d never expected so many blatant attacks requiring cover-up in one day.
His tiredness evaporated at the creak of a floorboard behind him. Before he could turn, before he’d even fully registered the intruder, he felt a strong arm snake around his neck and an ice-cold blade slice into his back and impale his kidneys.
The last thing he felt was the indignity of his bladder loosening and then nothing but darkness.
M looked up when her door crashed open and Bond strode in. A warning about propriety died on her lips as she belatedly noted her best agent’s untypically fraught expression. “007,” she rose from behind her desk, affecting a business-like expression, “what’s wrong?”
“You have a secret passage,” the suavely-attired man spun around, dropped to one knee, and fired off a trio of shots through the door, the Walther PPK’s retort frighteningly loud in the normally orderly office, “out of here don’t you?”
“Yes I do,” M hurried to the door, her eyes widening at the inhuman corpse convulsing its last on her once immaculate carpet, blood pooling beneath it. Upon her appointment as head of MI6 she’d been briefed on the existence of the supernatural, but had never expected to see it in person. Things were clearly escalating in the supernatural world if it was intruding so blatantly on the normal or mundane world. “Good gracious, what is that thing?”
“I don’t know, but I do know five, well now three, of these things are rampaging through this building,” Bond replied before looking towards her, impatience in his eyes. “The way out, M?”
“Of course.” M nodded briskly before striding to the Gainsborough print hanging on the pastel-painted wall behind her desk. Her hands slightly clammy, she lifted it down off the wall to reveal the numeric keypad concealed behind it. She quickly entered a three digit code, the book case on the left wall silently sliding aside to expose the narrow, dimly lit opening and staircase behind it. “Hurry,” she ordered, “it’ll close again in fifteen seconds.”
“You first, ma’am, it is after all my responsibility to look after you.”
Eli David gasped as his door crashed open and one of his agency’s most celebrated agents, a middle-aged man by the name of Eyal Lavin hurried in. Before Eli could react, the agent had him by his tie, flinging him to the ground, and flipping his normally well-organised desk onto its side, papers and computer crashing to the carpet.
His eyes bulging, he opened his mouth to demand an explanation for this outlandish behaviour but the words died in his mouth when the floor began vibrating. His jaw dropped and his eyes bulged as he looked up to see a stone monolith squeezing through the office doorway. “Down!” Eyal grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him down, behind the over-turned desk while simultaneously lobbing a grenade between the impossible monster’s feet.
The explosion shook the room, knocking the book shelves to the floor, and blew out the windows behind them. A scorching heat briefly engulfed the room, arid smoke burning the back of his throat and filling his nostrils even as his ears rang to the explosion’s echo. His heart skipped a beat as he realised the golem, because that was what the creature had to have been, had been blown apart by the explosion, leaving nothing but clay-coloured rubble behind.
Sweat soaked Ari Tasarov as he stumbled through his previously considered so secure mansion, alarms blaring uselessly in the background, inter-mingled with the screams of his still dying security.
They’d been the finest men he could hire, former special forces every one of them. And the attackers had shredded through them as if they were paper.
He spun around at a sound behind him, heart thundering as he peered into the near impregnable darkness, his once so comfortable home now feeling more like a cold, twisted maze. When he couldn’t see anything, he turned back to the direction he’d been heading. Just a couple of more rooms and he’d been in his highly expensive and very secure panic room. Nothing could get him there.
A window imploded as he reached the end of the corridor, jagged glass shards flying around him as a winged, leathery gnome-like creature sprang inside and flew at him. He screamed as the monster lashed at him, its razor-sharp claws shredding his clothes and ripping deep gouges in his flesh.
His heart thundered as he grabbed the monster around its shoulders and threw it away from him, falling over his own feet in his panicked urge to retreat. He grunted as he hit the ground on his back, the impact driving the air from his lungs.
The beast was on him before he could retreat, its talons once more slashing at him. He screamed as it raked down both cheeks then sliced across his right eye, blood bursting from the ruined orb. The last thing he saw was its toothy maw parting in a vicious grin as the monster lunged for his throat.
“Hello Mr. Ryan. Good day sir?”
Jack forced a smile at the chauffer holding the door open for him. “Busy, Daniel, you know.”
The man, a former US Ranger, nodded. “Price of being in government, sir.”
Jack nodded as he climbed into the car, his chauffer closing the door behind him. That was true most days, but today was worst for quite some time, with world-wide attacks on powerful people with seemingly no motive or guiding force behind them. As many of the people were high-up in the intelligence and\or law enforcement businesses, they’d kept a lid on it so far, but it was inevitable that this would eventually leak out, and when that did, a panic could very well ensue unless they and the other world governments could show . He glanced to the front as his driver got in and made to reach for the evening paper on the seat beside him.
Then his driver turned the key in the ignition and the car exploded in an orange blaze.
Nergal snarled as he stalked through London’s shadowy streets, making his way onto Canary Wharf. Finally he stopped by an illuminated, glass-fronted skyscraper and snarled. It was late at night, but he knew that W&H worked its people 24/7.
Which meant, a cruel smile stretched across his face, there would be plenty of people to slaughter.
Nergal turned and grabbed the bonnet of a near-by rust-strewn white van. With a grunt he lifted the vehicle over his head and turned back towards the building. Then he flexed his arms and flung the van towards the building.
As missiles it was an unwieldy one, flipping bonnet over boot, but an effective one. Jagged glass exploded outward as the van flew inwards before crashing to the ground then with a great screech flipped side over side before skidding to a halt.
A smile on his face, Nergal stalked across the street and into the devastated reception area, the blaring klaxons music to his ears. He stopped at the over-turned reception desk, the pretty receptionist speared through the chest with a jagged wooden shard. He rang the bell and shouted. “Hello! Can I get some service here!”
His smile widened as the elevator situated behind and to the left of the desk pinged open and the Kevlar clad security swarmed out, the muzzles of their sub-machine guns peering up over their riot shields. Nergal laughed as their bullets thudded into them, their impact akin to gnats biting a human.
And then he covered the thirty metres separating him from the eight-strong team in a leap. His hands reached out to grab the helmets of the first two men and threw them into one another with enough force to shatter their skulls. His laughter echoing in his ears, amusement increasing at the growing panic on the remaining men’s faces as he ripped through them.
Finally he was dripping with blood, their shredded, twisted corpses lying around him.
“You’re not wanted here.”
Nergal dropped the last of the men and turned around to stare at the intruders, a short, thin man with a pencil moustache and slicked back hair, and a tall, grey-haired woman with piercing eyes and sharp features. “John Dee and Morgana Le Fay,” he sneered. “Two powerful mages, but not powerful enough to hurt me.”
“There is very little left that can hurt you now, Ethan,” Morgana replied, a taut look on her alabaster features. “But we can move you.”
“No,” Nergal started forward then gasped as he was grasped in a typhoon that crackled with lightning. “No!” he screamed as he felt himself being lifted as the typhoon contracted around him, taking with it the air in his lungs. And then just like that the typhoon dissipated. “NO!” he screamed as he looked around his unfamiliar surroundings and found that he was no longer within the W&H office.
Xander stiffened as Giles strode into the briefing room, the look of weariness on the head Watcher’s face stilling all conversation. “Thank you for coming here,” Giles cleared his throat then took his seat, “I’m afraid the evidence Angel’s group found at the Deeper Well more or less confirms my initial suspicions. Wolfram & Hart is behind this attack.” A concerned mutter worked its way through the listening crowd, a mutter that only ended when Giles began to talk again. “To that end, we now have five targets to attack.”
“Finally we get to the ass-kicking,” Faith muttered alongside him.
Giles continued, either having ignored or not heard the Slayer’s grumblings. “Firstly is their Cairo facility, where they keep their weapons R&D lab. Secondly, there’s the Montreal facility, a warehouse where they keep various dangerous artefacts they hope to eventually weaponise or duplicate. Thirdly there’s the Australian outback facility that controls the satellites they use to record and hack the communications of the major intelligence, agencies, multi-nationals, governments, and faiths. Fourthly, there’s the Zurich facility, a bank for their most exclusive clients where they keep a billion pounds in physical cash as opposed to electronics transactions across the world’s ten most important currencies. And finally, an Amsterdam facility where they have a drugs lab. I’ve split you into teams and organised that you each have the information you need for whichever facility you’re going to attack.”
“If you had this information to hand already, why have you held off ordering a full attack on W&H before?” Dean demanded.
“Wolfram & Hart are old, their origins go back to long before the first recorded human empire,” Giles replied. “Attacking them will lead to a considerable loss of lives, potential collateral damage, and could lead to a just as great or even greater enemy taking their place anyway. Better a Cold War than that.”
“Better the devil you know?” Faith queried. “Like Communist Russia replacing Nazi Germany?”
“Exactly.” Giles nodded and forced a smile.