Chapter 37

[seymoure]

Chapter 37
“The Alabastard”

At the front lobby of the hospital was their army.

First there was the heavy muscle. Spooks and mobsters garnered by the underworld contacts brought in by favors called up by Emilio Sanchez, they were not the men you wanted to meet, no matter what alley you had to go down. Darks alleys, downtown streets or command performances, these were not people you wanted to share space with.

There was “Marbles” Onyz and his power hitters. They were 12 guys who had whacked enough people to populate a large village. There is a line in “Folsom Prison Blues” where Johnny Cash sang about a guy who killed a man in Reno just to watch him die. To these guys, that was a punch line.

In the Spook arena there was a team known as“C-Z Bizet.” These 5 seemed to be outfitted by James Bond’s “Q” himself. There were more armaments on these men than on most battleships. If, however, you didn’t know they were fighters you might believe them to be buddies about to leave on a fishing vacation. Sanchez wouldn’t explain what the title of the group was about, nor the agency they were involved with. He did allow that they were the best in the business.

Vaskania’s fellows were represented by 7 men who looked like they might be the board of directors of utility.

Three vans pulled up outside, full of electronic equipment and people able to use them. These were all here in response to a couple of calls from Sebastian Claus.

Claus, Sanchez, Vaskania, Dante & Muntz waited with the assembled troops for the return of any one of twenty intelligence gatherers recruited by Harriett from her contacts in the supernatural underworld.

Assembling an army was one thing, telling them who you were going to attack, and where, was altogether another.

Suddenly the vans, in unison, burst into flames. The operators barely were able to escape safely.

Everyone was drawn to the front of the building with preparedness in their nerves and readiness in their eyes.

That was a good thing.

For, at that moment, through the front doors rolled an alabaster cloud of smoke.

From that cloud walked the leisurely figure of Damien Kane.

A little tension crept into the room.

He stood wordless for a moment and then smiled.

The flames erupted from his eyes and filled the lobby.

Nothing was untouched.

© 2005 by C. Wayne Owens