CHAPTER SIX
George Grosskopf, Assistant Deputy Director, Special Investigations Unit, thought that he might as well buy stock in Pepcid AC and Ambien. There were things man ought not wot of. And he, for his sins, was the guy in the federal government in charge of all of them.
During his slow climb up the FBI ladder George had tried, like any sane agent, to stay off the Special Circumstances call list. Unfortunately, not only did he get more than his fair share of SC investigations, he managed to survive them all, not a common characteristic of the positions. If you weren’t killed by your third, you were generally driven insane. Statistically, five was about the maximum any field agent could handle. He’d had a total of eight.
So since he’d managed to get up to Section Chief when the previous head of SIU had dropped dead of an almost assuredly natural heart attack, he’d been tapped to replace him. Since that day he’d never gotten a night’s sleep without a triple dose of the strongest sleeping pills known to man. And don’t even get started on the acid reflux.
As an ADD, even of the smallest and most secret section in the Bureau, he reported directly to the Deputy Director. And while other ADDs might have to wait on hold or call back later, he never did. Of course, he rarely hit the red button on his STU-III. But when the DD got a call from SC-SIU, he dropped everything. Because it meant the shit was about to hit the fan.
Nobody visited SIU. Damned few people had any idea what it was other than a box on the manning chart. It was deliberately buried deep in the belly of the Hoover Building. If he didn’t occasionally have to run to the DD’s office like a bat out of hell, he’d rather it be in the satellite office in West Virginia. SIU didn’t exist, and he liked it that way.
So he’d been sort of surprised to be asked to meet with a guy from DARPA. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency often interacted with the Bureau on aspects of national security and counterintelligence. But how the guy had picked SIU for his visit was anyone’s guess.
“Doctor Roland,” George said as the scientist entered his office.
Roland was a “suit” scientist. Nice suit, no less. Armani. Probably an egghead as well, but he’d gotten far enough up the feeding chain to have the standard bureaucrat look. Five foot eleven. Two hundred, maybe two-ten. Brown, brown. Wore contacts. No distinguishing marks.
“ADD Grosskopf,” Roland said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me so quickly.”
“I was curious what interaction there might be between my office and yours,” Grosskopf said, noncommittally.
“I can’t open up the details of the compartment; the information is highly secure,” Roland said, uncomfortably.
“It’s a shield office,” Grosskopf said. “My SCI classification is the same as the Director’s and I do more secure work. You can talk.”
“In that case, I think it’s a case of blue on blue, frankly,” Roland said, smiling disarmingly and sitting down in the lone chair. “We have a contract with a company that is investigating some advanced concepts in crowd management. Some of the people they work with are…unusual people. Recently some of them had a visit from the FBI. The company contacted me to find out what was going on. I checked into it and found that it was an SCI investigation out of your office. So I’m here to try to calm the troubled waters.”
“That’s vague enough that while I get what you’re saying, I have nothing to go on,” Grosskopf said, flatly.
“It involved some officers of a corporation called Trilobular,” Roland said, sliding a packet onto the SC’s desk. It appeared to be a pamphlet for a corporation, and the design on the front was…three curves forming three lobes.
There had been occasional moments in his job when George wished he could crawl under a rock and forget everything he knew about Special Circumstances. He knew he was the best guy to be sitting in the seat; he just wished he wasn’t. But there had never previously been a time when he wished he could just have a stroke, right now—go out quick and not have to hear the rest of a conversation.
He was feeling that way.
There were never very many SC investigations. So he read the field reports every morning. And he had a near-eidetic memory. Furthermore, not only were the Madness killings a major SC hot spot, the description of the jewelry the “hostess” wore was strangely hard to forget. He’d read Kurt’s report, including his reporting of Adept Three Everette’s reactions and suspicions.
And now he had found out that the US Government, specifically the DOD, had its fingerprints all over the Madness killings.
Oh. Joy. Might as well call Chattanooga “Raccoon City.”
There was only one thing to do. Dissemble.
“I can take care of that, I’m sure,” Grosskopf said. “But I’ll need the contract code, the SCAP box, and the name of the contracting company.”
“Why?” Roland said, frowning.
“To make sure we don’t stumble on each other again,” Grosskopf said, smoothly.
“Very well,” Roland replied. He pulled a file from his briefcase and laid it on the desk. “I rather thought you might need some of that. This is all that is transmissible for the purposes of this discussion. It’s a very sensitive project.”
“I understand,” George said, standing up and holding out his hand. “Sorry we had this little bump.”
“No problem,” Roland said, all smiles. “But to be clear, there are no more issues, right?”
Grosskopf knew what he should say but he just couldn’t do it.
“When you speak to the company representative, assure him that there will be no further interest from the FBI.”
“That’s not the same as there is no further interest from the FBI,” Roland said, a touch angrily.
“Dr. Roland,” the ADD said. “Let me be perfectly blunt. If you do not assure the company representative that there will be no further interest from the FBI, then you will never work in government service again. Or as a Beltway Bandit. When it comes to who meets the criteria for secure information, the FBI Deputy Director is God. And in certain matters, and this is one, I sit at his right hand. You. Will. Assure. The. Company. Representative. If you have to give an Oscar-winning performance to do so.”
“What is going on?” Roland asked, ashen.
George flexed his jaw muscles for a moment then smiled thinly.
“This is all that is transmissible for the purposes of this discussion. It’s a very sensitive project.”
“Satire…”
“Is all I’m willing to give you at the moment,” Grosskopf said, now furious. “Except one more thing. The next time DARPA decides to go fucking around with the supernatural, clear it with this department first!”
“How did you know…?” Roland asked then paused. “What is Special Investigations?”
“You are now beyond your need to know,” Grosskopf said. “But you can be assured that my DD will be talking to your Director by the end of the day. Good day, Dr. Roland.”
* * *
Grosskopf took several deep breaths after the door was closed, then picked up the handset of his STU and hit the red button.
“Sir, we have a serious problem…”
* * *
Germaine looked at the secure message from the Special Investigations Department and the added note from the Deputy Director and sighed. He had been dreading this day. Thus far, through careful manipulation, the Foundation had managed to head off most scientific inquiry into the realm of the supernatural.
The frank reality was that in most cases it simply wouldn’t work. Gods and demons did not care for humans prying into their secrets and would actively work against experimentation. “It seems a fact that miracles can only occur in an environment devoid of skepticism.” This was held up by scientists as proof that “believers” were simply deluded.
What scientists failed to appreciate was that they were trying to quantify something that active, thinking entities simply did not want quantified.
But there were occasional attempts, researchers willing to stake their reputations on quantifying “the paranormal.” And they almost invariably failed. If the powers that created such paranormal events didn’t ensure it, the Foundation certainly tried its best. In most cases, funding simply dried up. “Investigate ghosts? Get a real job.”
The “almost” usually had to do with demons. Some researcher would find a functional summoning method and use it. And usually end up dead or possessed. It happened to poor Tesla in the end.
This, however, was something different. The psychotics in Chattanooga were not even members of the test group. And the researchers apparently had managed to avoid possession. This, in fact, was a nightmare. The entity matched nothing he, even with his vast knowledge of the occult, recognized. But there was one lead.
And there were others, a very few, with more knowledge than he. And access to even more esoteric tomes and texts. He picked up the phone.
“Dr. Carson, it is Germaine. I would like you to look at a symbol and see if you can find any information on it…”
There was another call he felt he had to make. As he talked to Dr. Carson, he pulled out his pad and started typing in a message in Attic Greek.
The language of the Vatican.
* * *
Barb was frustrated. She knew that the plague affecting the area had something to do with the Art District. But a solid hunch was not enough for a search warrant.
They’d interviewed more counselors and determined that, whatever their differences, all seven of the Madders had “anger management issues.” But that was all they had. A hunch about the Art District, a trail of shell corporations and seven psychotics with “anger management issues.”
“We need a break,” Kurt said, looking at another set of field notes.
“We need to get a look inside those buildings,” Barb said.
“I mean a break as in ‘coffee,’” Kurt corrected. “Want anything?”
“No,” Barb said.
As if by timing, as soon as Kurt was out of sight her cell phone rang. It was the ringtone of the Foundation: “Amazing Grace.”
“Mrs. Everette, it’s Augustus.”
“How are you, Mr. Germaine?” Barb asked.
“Busy. This will all sound very dramatic, but bear with me. I would request that you go, unaccompanied, to Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic church and see Sister Mary Katherine. The sister will introduce you to a man there. You should block out at least one hour for doing so. He has additional information for you on this matter.”
“Very well,” Barbara said, nodding. “I take it asking for a hint is pointless.”
“It is,” Germaine said. “Godspeed.”
* * *
When Kurt came back Barb was gone. He shrugged, set down the two cups of coffee and picked up another set of notes.
* * *
Our Lady of Perpetual Help church turned out to be a sprawling campus just off of Interstate 75 that included not just a church but a Catholic school and a large rectory. Barbara eventually found the nun she had been directed to find, and was led to a small residential building behind the main buildings and directed to a room at the end of the hall.
The man who opened the door was dressed in a pink polo shirt and green slacks and was tall, dark and handsome. Those were the three words that went through her mind along with a quick and strong stab of physical attraction. She suppressed the latter and said a very quick prayer of forgiveness. But he was just hot as hell. Latin, unquestionably, despite a definite northern US accent, bit over six feet, slender but strongly muscled with the face of a fallen angel who’d enjoyed the ride. The sole feature that was awry was that his nose had had somewhat poor reconstructive surgery. Faint scars of sutures laced the left side. And that, in fact, only added to the look.
“I’m Barbara Everette,” she said, somewhat flustered. “Is this…?”
“Mrs. Everette,” the man said, smiling broadly in return. Nice teeth. Nice. He extended a hand, which turned out to be heavily calloused. “I am Brother Marquez. Welcome.”
“Brother?” Barb said as the man waved her into the room. There were two small suitcases and three ballistic nylon bags cluttering the double.
“Brother Karol Marquez,” the monk said, closing the door. “I am the team leader for Opus Dei Special Action Squad One.”
* * *
Barbara sipped some really excellent tea and watched the monk preparing his own coffee. His movements were quick and sure, but now that she was past her initial shock she could detect the sharp and semi-robotic motions of a person who had trained extensively on close-quarters battle.
“That’s an interesting coffee maker,” she said, wanting to slap herself for the inanity. But Brother Marquez had her thrown. She hadn’t felt this attracted to a man since she met Mark in college.
“With as much traveling as we do, I find carrying some small creature comforts to be lacking in sin,” Brother Marquez said, looking over his shoulder and giving her another movie-star grin. The coffee maker took small cup-like packets that made one cup of coffee or tea apiece in about twenty seconds. She made a mental note to get the name of the manufacturer. “Given that Indonesia is a coffee producer you would think you could get a decent cup. Such is not the case. And the idea of coffee that is taken from feces…There is a special circle of Hell, I am positive, reserved for people who give other people coffee made from rat droppings. Especially unawares.”
Brother Marquez took a seat on the end of one of the beds and pulled a file out from under one of the nylon bags.
“Germaine made a request of our cardinal superior to have us visit this area,” Marquez said, taking a sip of his coffee. From the smell of it, it made espresso seem weak. “And I cannot say that he was wrong.”
Barb flipped open the thin file and surveyed it.
“There’s almost nothing here,” Barb said. “Nothing we don’t have. The psychosis is supernaturally induced. We’d deduced that. It’s not even true psychosis. They’re simply dead. Soul-drained. But still vital. It has the potential to have a wider effect. Okay, we’d considered that. The source will be a demon or mystical device that will have a symbol…that’s the same symbol as Vartouhi was wearing. That’s just confirmation that she’s involved, and I was pretty certain on that. But a mystic symbol is not enough for a search warrant.”
“Indeed,” Brother Marquez said. “But that symbol is why we are here. The reason that that file is so…sparse is that it is what you can give your FBI contact. He’ll be sent a similar file though his channels, since the FBI is aware of the information. Upper echelons of the FBI are aware of…more. Some of it I do not have. Need to know, as they say. But some more I do. A tale I shall tell.”
“Go ahead,” Barb said, getting comfortable. “Does it start ‘Once upon a time’?”
“Given my background, I suppose I should start ‘So there I was, no shit…’” Marquez said with a grin.
“You were military?” Barb said, surprised.
“For my sins,” the monk replied. “Or, rather, I am now in this position for my sins during my military service and before,” he added with a shrug. “But I digress. So there we were, no shit. My tale starts with a group of French archaeologists in Syria in 1923. The proverbial shepherd boy had found some pottery fragments, which attracted the attention of a local magistrate. A small expedition visited the area. They found a city that had been destroyed, they believed, by an earthquake or possibly waters drying up or just drifted away. There were some fragmentary inscriptions of no known language. Almost everything was shattered, destroyed, gone. They only found one fragment that was of any value at all.”
The monk pulled a somewhat larger file out of a bag and slid out a picture. It was a copy of an old sepia-toned photograph that showed a piece of chiseled stone. The only thing that was clear on it was the symbol the hostess had been wearing. There might have been some human figures and flowing script, but it was so worn as to be illegible.
“Unknown race, unknown religion, the lost civilization, Terra X,” Brother Marquez said with a shrug. “The archaeologists catalogued their meager finds and took back the stone tablet. It was filed under ‘uninteresting’ in the French Museum of Archaeology, and moldered there for several decades.
“In the 1950s the Hittite language was finally deciphered, and it opened up a door into the past. A fragmentary codex of the Hittite history detailed the destruction of a race called the Osemi.”
“Never heard of it,” Barb said.
“That is because the Hittites were quite complete in their destruction,” Brother Marquez said, frowning. “And I cannot find them wrong in that. The Osemi were, according to the Hittites, worshippers of demons. And given that the Hittites were worshippers of Baal, that’s saying something. Let me correct, worshippers of a demoness. Her name was not recorded by the Hittites, perhaps so that her name would be lost. But the Osemi were fanatical in her worship. And to them she gave, quote, great powers in battle. End quote.”
“Define,” Barb said.
“The Osemi were, apparently, the original suicide bombers,” Marquez said, grimacing. “Certainly suicidal in their attacks with, quote, the strength of ten men and caring not for harm. They would push themselves upon the spear to kill the spearman. End quote.”
“Ouch,” Barb said. “Sounds like… Actually, that sounds like PCP zombies.”
“Excuse me?” the brother said, confused.
“My FBI contact’s term for the seven…afflicted,” Barb said. “They act like they’re on PCP. They don’t have a pain response, among other things. As with any psychotic, extremely strong. Clumsy, but fast when they’ve got a target. And they just won’t stop. One reason being that they truly are undead. No soul at all. If you do fight them, don’t have any qualms. You’re not killing anyone, you’re just stopping some sort of flesh robot.”
“Joy,” Marquez said, frowning. “And we shall have to stop them if it comes to it. My story ends, as most do in our business, with more questions than answers. We only recently, as in today, found the link between the Osemi and the stone tablet. What the archaeologists had found was the civilization of the Osemi. But without the Hittite codex, that was impossible to determine. And ask me about the stone tablet.”
“What happened to the stone tablet, she asked with wide eyes,” Barb said, smiling tightly.
“Gone,” Brother Marquez said, shrugging. “Vanished from the Museum. When, no one knows. There is a high-level request in to Interpol to find out where it went. We will see what they turn up. However, this,” he added, pointing at the file, “indicates that someone, somewhere, knows somewhat more. We just don’t get to.”
“Joy,” Barb mimicked, sarcastically. “We’re trying to stop this…whatever is going on, and we don’t get all the information available?”
“Try pulling ops in the Rockpile in the same condition,” Marquez said. “You’re a military brat. You should understand need to know. Here’s the important part. You were involved in the action in Roanoke.”
“Yes,” Barb said, sighing. “It wasn’t fun.”
“So you’re aware that demons can control groups,” Marquez said. “But they normally can only make large groups…still. They may be able to make them move in a particular direction, to shuffle out of or into a room. But they cannot direct them to fight with any real functionality. They cannot force them to kill themselves.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Barb said, her brow furrowing. “What’s the point?”
“This demoness seems to be able to easily create very large groups of maniacal killers,” Brother Marquez said. “And according to something in the briefing documents with no attribution, to force large groups to act in more complex ways. Even if they are not sworn to her.”
“That…violates the doctrine of free will,” Barb said, frowning. “The Lord gave the earth to Satan but gave man free will. She can’t…”
“Well, welcome to the varsity, Mrs. Everette,” Brother Marquez said sarcastically. “Sometimes it’s more complicated than Catechism. I haven’t seen anything in the documents I have that show where the information came from, but I was given it by Germaine. And he wasn’t going to make a mistake that simple. She can control large groups, apparently against their free will. There may be a complication of which the…providers are not aware. It is possible that she or her acolytes can only control these flesh robots. But that’s the nature of intelligence. You go with what you have, not what you’d like.”
“Do I get to read the thicker file?” Barb asked.
“Yes,” Marquez said, handing it over. “But it’s not for your FBI contact. He’s simply not cleared for it.”
“And I am,” Barb said, bemusedly. “What fun.”
The thicker file didn’t have much more than Marquez had given her. Very little was known about the demoness or the Osemi, only the sparse data from Hittite records. And for some reason it was “a known fact” that she could control “groups equal to or greater than thirty” in complex actions. From the combination of “known” facts it was “highly probable” that a larger group could be turned into “directed or undirected” psychotic killers. Joy.
“Says here Kali can’t even do this,” Barb said. “And she’s thoroughly bound, right? A greater goddess of murder can’t turn large groups into psychotic murderers, and this minor demoness can?”
“That appears to be the case,” Marquez said, getting another cup of coffee. “Most such groups were definitely under the influence of drugs or simply in high-combat state. Berserkers with our newfound friend Frey, thuggees with our unquestionable foe Kali. Possibly the Jaguar Warriors of Quetzalcoatl.”
“And it violates free will,” Barb said. “I don’t buy that. Free will is…If there is no free will…”
“Free will is not…absolute,” Marquez said. “A tale I shall tell thee.”
“Another one?” Barb said, smiling faintly. “How many do you have?”
“Only my confessor knows that,” Karol said, smiling. “But this one touches on such questions. Once upon a time a young man came to America from Colombia under pressing circumstances.”
“How pressing?” Barb asked, taking a sip of tea.
“Very,” Karol replied, frowning. “A matter of a money dispute that turned quite ugly with a cartel. Blood was shed. Not that blood had not been shed before; that was what the money dispute was about. The young man felt he was owed more than he was paid. The buyer of his services disagreed. The buyer was a member of the cartel. One does not kill one’s clients. Especially if they are members of the Cali cartel.”
“I see,” Barb said, her eyes wide.
“The young man decided that enough was enough with such things and went to work, very much under the table, for a lawyer in New York,” Karol said, looking into the distance. “The lawyer was an immigration lawyer and asked very few questions about background. The young man was paid for various services, none of which involved bloodshed. Translation: Looking up people who were in areas that angels would fear to tread. Fortunately he was not an angel and had no issues. Suchlike. And he was happy. He continued his schooling. He hoped to become a doctor or a history professor someday. Possibly an immigration lawyer like his friend. The lawyer worked in the Twin Towers.”
“Oh,” Barb said, her jaw working.
“The young man went to an Army recruiter in New Jersey on September 12th, 2001,” Karol said, taking a sip of coffee. “If you don’t mind, I shall make another cup. Would you care for a refresher?”
“Please,” Barb said, holding out her cup.
“The Army recruiter, like the lawyer, asked few questions,” Karol continued, making coffee and tea clearly on muscle memory. “Later, more were asked. It is a funny thing about getting a security clearance. As long as you are absolutely truthful, under current laws, nothing that you say can be held against you. A polygraph can be a very refreshing experience. Better in many ways than a confessional. So many people hold things back in the confessional. Honesty is good for the soul and a polygraph requires quite complete honesty. I have made a recommendation to the Holy See that polygraphs be required for confessionals, but I doubt they will see it my way. I digress again. The young man joined the Army. He was trained as an infantryman. He went to airborne school. He joined the Fourth Infantry division. Two months after joining his unit, he was in Iraq. He got quite a reputation since he sustained the most strikes from IEDs of anyone in his unit without being medically evacuated. Also a few minor scratches here and there.”
“The nose?” Barb asked.
“He was, in fact, shot in the face. And two other places. Scratches, as I said. He, however, came to the conclusion that driving around as a mobile IED magnet was not the life he preferred. However, there were hajis…”
“Hajis?” Barb said.
“Pardon my descent to colloquialism,” Marquez said. “Insurgents. There were insurgents that needed killing. However, a better place might be in a more elite group. So he requested a transfer to the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center for training as a Special Operations weapons technician. It was as a member of the United States Army Girl Scout Brigade that he experienced a life-changing event. There are some very strange things going on in Afghanistan, Mrs. Everette. Very strange indeed. And occasionally when such things come up OCONUS—outside the continental United States—the designated red-shirts to support the local versions of FLUF are the US Army Girl Scout Brigade or similar groups.” He handed her a refilled cup and shrugged.
“I see,” Barb said.
“This forced him to consider the state of his immortal soul,” Marquez continued. “To wit, if there be demons, then there was a hell. In that case, given some of his actions over the years, he was in deep doo-doo. You have no clue, I’m sure, Mrs. Everette, how many Hail Marys contract killings cost. Also, that there were aspects of his personality that he had always considered to be…psychological that might not, in fact, be mundane. And he found that despite the many positive things he’d done in the military over the years, it was not the best place for repentance. Temptations of the flesh are high around military bases, and he had always had a bit of a weakness in that regard. So he got out. Reluctantly, in many ways. But he ended his term of service.
“That left him with the question of where he could spend a great deal of time repenting for his many…many…many sins. After talking about it with a couple of understanding priests, he decided that the best place was as a monk.”
“Jesuit?” Barb asked.
“Heaven forbid,” Karol said with a laugh. “Those leftist pantywaists would pee themselves if they ever saw a demon. No, Cistercian. Nothing like spending eighteen hours a day on your knees in prayer to catch up on those Hail Marys. A small cell and a lot of time on his knees was his lifelong goal.”
“So what happened?” Barb asked.
“A bishop came to visit,” Karol said, looking into the distance again. “He did the usual rounds of glad-handing, and then sat down with a certain monk and questioned him at length and in detail. The bishop was strangely knowledgeable in the area of military operations, and especially close-quarters battle. It turned out later that the bishop had been one heck of a swimmer in his day. The bishop then explained that the monk had a ‘skillset’ that the Holy See needed more than they needed a bunch of Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Anyone could pray. Very few could kill a man at two thousand yards. And that there were certain rituals he was going to need to go through before being fully prepared to serve the Lord. And thus the former infantryman…among other things, became a member of Opus Dei.”
“This has a point, right?” Barb asked.
“Part of the rituals were to find and eliminate every trace of demons in the soul,” Karol said, turning to look at her finally. “More people are possessed than you can possibly imagine, Mrs. Everette. By and large their demons are minor creatures, wills with a life of their own. Anger, lust, gluttony, all the usual sins. Vanity. So, so many vanity demons—and greed. Any suburban mall is awash with them. A person with an interest, a hook, is subject to being caught by one and pressed towards more sin and more. And once they are in, they are very hard to get rid of. All the confessions, all the prayers, all the benedictions had not rid m— the young man of his demons. It took multiple exorcisms to do so. And a great deal of will.
“Such demons can be resisted. But think of cases of major possession. Where, then, is free will? You, Mrs. Everette, are an example of the rare case of a person without hooks. You were rid of original sin by your baptism and you have lived a life avoiding sin. You know you are proud and you work against your pride. You know you are beautiful but strive against vanity. You have a temper and control it through prayer and good works, despite the many frustrations you find in your life.”
“And this has what to do with free will?” Barb asked.
“Everything,” Karol said. “A person who has let demons into their soul has already made the choice. They have chosen Satan over God. And to the extent that they wrestle with a demon, it is usually over something they fear in the mundane world. Don’t kill a person or strike them, because you will be arrested. Not because it will damn your immortal soul. For anything less than that, most people go at it with abandon. Lust, envy, hatred. Vanity again. Pride. Being holy is not about going to church on Sunday and spitting on people the rest of the week. It’s not even about being under the sacrament of priesthood, as has been clearly shown. One must be as free of sin as it is possible to be in this fallen world to truly be in a state of grace. How many people do you know who are totally without sin, Mrs. Everette? How many in this town can cast the first stone?”
“All seven of the afflicted had ‘anger management issues,’” Barb said. “Were bullies in school, two of them were abusers of their partners. Do you think that had something to do with it?”
“Well, let’s see,” Karol said, shaking his head. “We have a demoness of anger, hatred and murder who has placed her seal upon this town. And we have people who already had anger management issues suddenly becoming violently and homicidally insane. I don’t know, do you?”
“So you’re here as what?” Barb asked.
“Backup,” Karol said, handing her a bracelet. The silver charm bracelet had only a cross hanging from it. “Pull the cross off and it activates a signal and a homing beacon in the bracelet. We’ll be there within a minute though the hosts of hell stand between us. And you can be assured my brethren will not be susceptible to the siren call of a demoness. Unlike the mundane security of this town. On that level, we are accredited with the Federal Government as special contract personnel on an undercover anti-terrorism task force with authorization to use due force. All the rest is paperwork. I’ve been trying to convince the bishop that doing paperwork should be counted as penance but he’s so far resisted my blandishments. Ring-knockers.”
“So what do I do?”
“Find her lair,” the monk said. “Find her place of worship. Then call us. We will be close.”