Seven Deadly Sons (9 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As bars went, the Mengele was a rundown dump, even by the most generous of standards. The exterior of the building was falling apart, in need of more repairs than it would take to just build a new structure. Inside, a lack of sufficient light hid rotted floors and walls and tables that even swine wouldn't eat off of.

But the shaven-headed men in the bar didn't care. Cold beer and Nazi flags more than made up for the state of their beloved watering hole.

The door to the bar slowly opened, spilling in bright sunlight that made most of the skinheads in the bar wince. A few of the two dozen men held hands up, shading their eyes to see who was coming in. After all, everyone they knew was already in the Mengele.

The newcomer was tall, just over six feet, with a mop of blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He was wearing long basketball shorts and a t-shirt two sizes too large. And he was barefoot.

The blonde, his hair streaked with gray, walked in, letting the rickety door slam shut behind him. He sat on a wobbly stool at the bar and nodded at the bartender, Henry, a bull-necked man the size of a wrestler.

"I think you're in the wrong bar," Henry said. He crossed his arms over his chest, flexing his biceps so the SS and swastika tattoos on them moved. They matched the biker vest he wore on his otherwise bare torso, which was covered in Nazi and motorcycle patches.

"I'm looking for a few good men," the newcomer said in a thick German accent.

Chairs skidded and slid across the rotted floor as the two dozen patrons of the Mengele all stood as one. Three shuffled over to the newcomer, arraying themselves in semi-circle behind him.

"You talk funny," Joey "Adolph" Moreno said, pulling a switchblade from his back pocket. "You a kike?"

The blonde newcomer whirled around suddenly, his movement so fast no one had time to react. He was off the barstool and up against Joey, chest-to-chest before the addled brains of the Mengele's patrons even registered he had begun to move.

The blonde plunged two-inch long canines into Joey's neck, puncturing his carotid artery and sending two streams of blood gushing out.

The nearby skinheads, and Heinrich, jumped and took steps back.

Joey spasmed in the vampire's grip, his eyes rolling up in his head. After just a few seconds, the blood sucker released its hold on Joey and he staggered backwards, eyes glazed over, barely able to stand.

"No, I am not a Jew," the newcomer said. Then his clothes and body exploded, his skin sprouting tan and white fur from every pore, his skeleton stretching and his muscles swelling. In seconds, he had transformed into an überwolf.

Before the skinheads present could send the signal from their brains to their mouths to scream, the überwolf grabbed Joey in its two clawed hands—one around his throat, one in his groin, where Joey's right leg met his body. The monster twisted, then pulled—a sickening sound of shattering bones and wet meat tearing filling the air as he pulled Joey apart.

The überwolf dropped the two pieces of skinhead on the bar floor then turned toward the screaming skinheads still alive.

***

"Colonel! Colonel!" Dr. King called out over the intercom set in the wall beside the chamber's door.

Mark Kenslir looked over at the intercom, fist hovering over the frozen head of Eric Mosley. The head Laura had just poured liquid nitrogen over.

"Just a minute, Doctor," Kenslir said. He smashed his fist down, exploding the frozen head into a fine spray of dust. Laura flinched as the debris hit her.

"Great," she said brushing the debris off her clothes and shaking it out of her hair. "Now I've got dog in my hair."

Kenslir checked his watch, then crossed to the intercom. "We're almost done here, Dr. King—can't this wait?"

"I may have a lead on the our missing überwolves. Both of them."

Kenslir looked to Laura, who shrugged then used a small brush to dust the pieces of Mosley's head off the table, catching them in a dustpan. The blood from his unfrozen stump of a neck had already stopped gushing out, the tissue sealing itself.

"I can't leave just yet. What do you have?" Kenslir said. He cybernetically activated his tactical glasses, switching on the connection to the building's computer and communications network.

"The intense cold Agent Keegan felt," Dr. King said excitedly, his voice broadcast over the small speakers built in the earpieces of the glasses. "I believe it wasn't an effect of the portal, but rather it came
from
the portal."

Laura was poking at the stump of Mosley's neck, but nothing seemed to be happening. She went back to brushing the table and then the floor, maneuvering the remaining frozen pieces of Mosley's head into the dust pan.

"As you may know," Dr. King continued, "the Reich built a number of submarine bases in Greenland and South America during the war. They also were in the process of constructing bases along the coast of Antarctica."

"You're talking about Highjump," Kenslir said. He watched as Laura poured the frozen granules of vampire head into a plastic baggie then gave him the thumbs up.

"Dead?" Kenslir asked.

"As a doornail," Laura said. "Told you."

Kenslir moved to the end of the surgical table and kicked at a locking lever, releasing a brake. "Go on, Doctor King."

"Yes, Highjump was one of several post-War operations that ferreted out the locations of the Nazi south polar bases so they could be destroyed. Aerial bombardment, I believe."

"And?" Kenslir moved toward the door, Phillips reaching over and activating the lock. The huge door began to swing inward.

"I believe our überwolves are operating from such a polar base. There were documents recovered from Berlin suggesting SS operations were moving Ahnenerbe research to an unidentified polar base in the final days of the war."

Kenslir wheeled Mosley's corpse out of the vault, Laura, Phillips and Hornbeck following him.

"I believe the intense cold confirms the portal device is located at an abandoned polar base," Dr. King concluded.

Kenslir paused at another blast door—the one leading into the Fountain Chamber. "Greenland? Those bases weren't destroyed."

Once the door was open, Kenslir and his companions entered the Fountain Chamber, where Jason Trumball, Doctor Guerrera and Josie Winters were waiting.

"He's dead?" Josie asked, surprised.

Kenslir held up a finger for her to wait.

"I believe they are operating out of Neuschwabenland, in Antarctica," Dr. King said.

"Highjump targeted all the south pole bases, Doctor."

"Yes, I know, but there was a phone call placed to Antarctica from here in Miami just thirty minutes ago. A satellite phone call."

Kenslir paused at the edge of the Fountain. "Have we checked to see who made the call?"

"The satellite phone in Antarctica is registered to an Argentinean holding company."

"Good work, Doctor King," Kenslir said. "Have Major Campbell dispatch some Ghost Walkers to all known Nazi base locations in Antarctica. And get me a point of origin for the call here in Miami."

Kenslir severed the connection and motioned to Laura.

"Good news, everyone—we may have found our Nazis," he said.

Dr. Olson moved to the edge of the water withthe plastic bag holding the frozen dust that used to be Mosley's head.

Kenslir flipped a lever on the surgical table and tilted it, then undid the shackles on the body's wrists and ankles. The body slid off the table, neck stump-first into the water. Laura immediately began pouring in the ice granules from the plastic bag.

"Doesn't this feel all sciency?" she said, grinning.

"Orders, Colonel?" Phillips asked.

"Assemble your team, Chad," Kenslir said, watching as the water in the Fountain began to roil. "Let's do a helicopter deployment."

"Yes, sir," Phillips said, then nodded to Hornbeck. The two men jogged away, out of the chamber.

"Jason?" Kenslir asked turning to Trumball. "You ready?"

Jason looked to Dr. Guerrera, who Kenslir noticed was now avoiding looking at him. "You'll do fine," Dr. Guerrera reassured the young man.

Once Mosley's hand came out of the water, Kenslir grabbed it and hoisted him out—considerably less gentle than he had been with Laura Olson.

"What? Where am I?" the security guard asked. He felt at his head, testing to see if it was intact.

"Sorry, but there's no real time for this," Kenslir said. "This is Jason Trumball, one of our specialists."

Jason extended his hand.

Mosley looked around, trying to take it all in. He felt at his teeth. "I'm cured."

"Of vampirism, at least," Laura said, glancing down at Mosley's exposed groin.

The security guard finally realized he was naked and blushed. Dr. Guerrera handed him a bathrobe. Mosley slipped it on hastily, tying it off at the waist. Then he noticed Jason was still waiting, holding his hand out.

"Sorry," Mosley said, reaching for the hand. "Aren't you kind of young to-"

As soon as he grabbed the teen's hand, blue light flickered between their palms. Mosley felt a sudden wave of numbness sweep over his body, then it was gone. Jason stepped back.

"He's good," Jason said.

"What was that?" Mosley said, looking at his palm. It was uninjured.

"Curing you of your vampirism—permanently, we hope," Kenslir said. "But we can't take any chances. Doctor?"

The Colonel nodded to Dr. Guerrera, who now had a small metal box in her hands. She held it up, at eye level, one end pointed at Mosley.

"Mr. Mosley, could you please look at the light?" she asked.

"Light?" Mosley asked, confused.

The end of the metal box popped open, separating into two pieces that folded out on springs. A bright yellow light flashed in the box and Mosley went immobile. Instead of freezing, the color seemed to fade from him, a gray wave radiating out from his eyes, rapidly traveling over his body, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. Both he and his robe were turned to stone.

"All right, let's get this guy in storage and prep for mission," the Colonel said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Does anyone want any popcorn?" Pam Keegan asked. She had her jacket off and was tilted back in her conference room chair, her bare feet up on the large table.

Javi Wallach frowned at the small FBI agent. "Is this some kind of joke to you?"

Keegan shrugged and grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl in her lap. "Suit yourself."

"I'll have some", Alvarro Sierra said. He didn't see what the big deal was. The Mossad agent might be a bad ass, but she was no match for a vampire. He felt perfectly fine staying in the Detachment's headquarters, watching a live feed from the team's headcams as they prepared to raid the small bar the überwolf was believed to be in. Wallach should be glad they made her stay behind.

Keegan held the bowl out and Alvarro grabbed a handful of popcorn as his eyes went from monitor to monitor on the walls of the room. In addition to Colonel Kenslir, Josie, the werewolf named Jimmy and the redheaded vampire, he counted seven stone soldiers. He wondered if there were any more. Seven was an odd number.

The live feeds showed the team split up. The stone soldiers were in two helicopters, orbiting the sight at three thousand feet. One helicopter held soldiers marked on each other's headup displays as ZEUS, JANUS, and BRIONES. They were accompanied by Jimmy Kane, marked as HADES. The other helicopter had ATLAS, JOHNSON, STEVENS and JACOBSON.

Alvarro wondered why some of the men had mythological call signs and the others didn't.

Josie Winters was on the ground, elevated in the bucket of a cherry picker phone company truck, watching the small skinhead bar from at least two thousand feet away. Two soldiers marked simply as HAYNES and BARNETT were in phone company uniforms with her, pretending to work on a junction box located at ground level. Alvarro wondered what their powers were, or if they were regular humans. They hadn't looked special.

Finally, Colonel Kenslir, tagged as ANTAEAN and the redhead, OLSON, were in civilian clothes in a large Mercedes convertible, just pulling up in front of the bar. Kenslir was now wearing tan slacks, a loose blue Bermuda shirt and the same tactical glasses everyone else, except Jimmy Kane, wore. Dr. Olson was wearing a low cut, bright floral dress—white with lots of colorful flowers.

And they were arguing.

"They don't go with my outfit!" Laura said, glaring at the Colonel.

"Command needs to see what you see, Olson," the Colonel growled. "We don't have time for this."

"Where would I put the transmitter?" Laura demanded, holding up a small black box roughly the size of a pistol magazine. It was connected by a thin wire to one earpiece of her tactical glasses, which she held in her other hand.

Kenslir opened his mouth as he looked down at her chest, then caught himself—she clearly wasn't wearing a bra. "I don't know—tuck it in your underwear. The wire'll reach."

"I'm not wearing any," Laura said, smirking. "Later boys!" she said, looking into her own glasses, the tiny camera built along the top edge of the communication device transmitting her image back to the Command Center. She opened a glove box and shoved the tactical targeting glasses inside and closed it.

Colonel Kenslir frowned, but decided this was one argument he wasn't going to win.

"I'll do all the talking." He stepped out of the car, closing the door and heading toward the building.

"I like my men quiet," Laura said, getting out of the car and hurrying to catch up to him.

The Mengele was a rundown brick and wooden structure, possibly once a house, spray painted with graffiti, its neon window sign flickering, some of the letters burnt out. A Nazi flag hung in the other window, for anyone not familiar with the name of the infamous World War II butcher. Wire mesh covered both windows, which were painted black on the inside.

Kenslir pulled the front door open, hearing the screech of metal as old hinges and a spring groaned in protest. Beyond the door, the interior of the bar was smothered in darkness, with only a few interior lights on.

The Colonel stepped in, Laura catching the door behind him and mumbling to herself. "Geeze, whatever happened to ladies first?"

The occupants of the bar, at least twenty young thugs with shaved heads, wearing various pieces of surplus military uniforms, tall black leather boots and t-shirts with the sleeves cut off regarded Kenslir and Laura Olson coldly as they walked in. The Colonel headed directly to the bar.

"You lost?" the bartender asked. He was a big man, nearly Kenslir's size, wearing a patch-covered leather vest over his bare chest. He was wiping out a beer mug with a dirty rag as he watched them.

"We're looking for someone," Kenslir said, standing in front of the bar. He raised his hand in the air. "About this tall, blond hair, blue eyes."

"Hitler with a bad bleach job," Laura Olson chimed in, smiling. She leaned on the bar with one elbow, her back to the front door, watching the patrons. Kenslir shot her a dirty look.

"You see any blondes?" the bartender asked contemptuously. The shaved-head patrons all were continuing to stare at the couple angrily.

"Maybe he's already left?" Kenslir suggested.

"Wow," Laura said, tossing her hair and taking in a deep breath through her nostrils. "It's hard to say over all the B-O in this place, but it smells like you boys have some really big dogs."

The bartender stopped wiping out the mug and glared at her. "What did you say?"

"You'll have to pardon my friend," Kenslir said. "She likes to hear herself talk."

"I like to make noise," she said, winking at the Colonel. "But I was saying somebody's poochie needs a good bath. It reeks in here."

Kenslir looked more closely at the bartender's hand. He'd missed it at first, since the hand was covered by the dirty washcloth the man was using, but it was bandaged. The Colonel turned and glanced around at the many skinheads at the tables.

All had gauze and bandages on their left hands.

>>>COMMAND<<< Kenslir cybernetically texted over the tactical glasses he wore. >>>WE MAY HAVE A PROBLEM<<<

"What's that on your glasses?" the bartender said, leaning forward a bit. He'd seen the small flash of light in the translucent lenses as the words Kenslir cybernetically typed were displayed in his field of vision. In the dark confines of the bar, they weren't hard to miss.

"You know, dear," Laura said, running a nailed finger down Kenslir's back. "I'm feeling a bit hungry. I could just woof down some Chinese."

The bartender's eyes clouded, filling with black, like ink. He snarled, his lips curling back to reveal vampire-like canines on his upper and lower jawline.

Before the patrons of the bar could react, the Colonel spun in place, pivoting on his left foot, his right whipping out in a sweeping arc, up and over the bar. His heel crushed into the side of the bartender's head, breaking the man's neck and sending him crashing into the wall behind the bar.

The skinheads in the bar all leapt to their feet as Kenslir completed his spin and put his desert booted-foot back down. Like the bartender now laying on the floor, head bent at an impossible angle, they all had black eyes and bared fangs.

"DEPLOY!" Kenslir yelled, balling his fists.

***

Isaac Jacobson felt a thrill—almost like when his body had been flesh and blood and adrenalin could course through his veins. This was it. A real fight, that would let him push his new body to its limits.

Back at the Tower, the überwolf had been a deadly opponent. But it was all alone when Colonel Phillips and the team's own vampire had shown up. Between the stone soldiers and the demonic Dr. Olson, the Nazi supersoldier hadn't stood a chance.

Leaping out of a helicopter at three thousand feet, Jacobson knew this fight was going to be very different. Colonel Kenslir had identified twenty-two possible targets in the ramshackle structure below. Even with seven stone soldiers, Jimmy Kane, Laura Olson and the Colonel, they were still outnumbered. And that was just the way Jacobson liked it.

Ten seconds after he'd leapt from the helicopter, Jacobson's automatic parachute deployed, billowing out behind and above him. His legs swung around and his speed dropped considerably. At just fifty feet above the rooftop of the small building, the automatic controls again activated and he dropped free of the parachute.

Weighing over four hundred pounds, the stone soldier crashed into and through the roof of the Mengele like a bomb. He kept his arms crossed in front of his chest as he smashed through the roof—making himself a smaller object for increased penetration, just as he'd been taught.

He landed roughly inside the bar, twisting his right ankle and nearly falling. But being made of living stone, the landing hadn't been painful in the least. He caught his balance and looked around for the nearest target as his right hand dropped to the large, sword-like knife strapped to his leg.

The interior of the bar was in chaos. Jacobson, Atlas and Stevens had all hit their target—the remainder of the team had, or were landing outside, around the building. Colonel Kenslir and Dr. Olson were meanwhile throwing skinhead vampires around in a brawl that shook the building.

A surprised skinhead hesitated, ready to leap at the Colonel's back. Jacobson grabbed at the monster with his left hand as his right pulled his gigantic Bowie knife clear of its sheath.

The skinhead hissed at its new target. Jacobson was surprised at its speed, but didn't flinch or recoil as a mortal man might have. Clawed hands found his throat and tried to compress the stone.

Jacobson grinned and drove the point of his oversized knife up, into the hybrid vampire's chest. He felt bone part as the knife sliced through cursed flesh. He opened the monster up from its stomach to its chin, his knife blade erupting from the top of its skull.

The monster shuddered, a look of surprise on its face as its internal organs spilled out over Jacobson's arm. He felt the body go limp, so he pulled his arm and blade free.

Colonel Kenslir was in the air now, unleashing a jumping, spinning kick that brought the side of his booted foot against another skinhead's jaw. The beast had been attempting to stand, apparently bowled over by another blow Jacobson had missed. Boot crushed bone, and the bald head separated from the neck, ripped loose by the incredible force of the blow.

Kenslir landed and spun to face his next attacker, ignoring clawed hands reaching for him. He punched forward with his own hand, fingers held stiff and straight. He punched through skin and bone, reaching directly into the vampire's chest. Just as quickly, Kenslir jerked his hand back out, taking with it the skinhead's still-beating heart.

Laura Olson was whirling and slashing as well. Her bright, thin dress was matted with streaks of blood, and her fingernails were extended out, several inches—vicious claws that were ripping through skinhead flesh like knives.

The newly-cursed monsters weren't prepared for this furious attack. They staggered back, some holding shredded faces together, willing their accelerated healing powers to work. Others watched in horror as their guts spilled out of stomachs sliced open like wet paper bags. One staggered around, blind, his face caved in by a punch that drove his nose to the back of his skull.

Atlas was on the move as well, a bowie knife in each hand, hacking and slashing. He sliced one head open from crown to chin, separating it into two halves. Another skinhead found the top of his head sliced cleanly through, just above his eyes. He collapsed, lifeless, to the floor along with the top of his skull and most of his brains.

Wayne Stevens wasn't faring as well. His own knife was pushed deep into the chest of a vampire, the blade sticking out of its back—a perfect heart strike. But the creature had grasped Stevens' hand and wouldn't let go, pinning the knife in place. A second skinhead leapt on Stevens' back, arms looped around his neck, as if trying to pull his head off.

Colonel Kenslir stepped in, smashing his fist down atop the impaled vampire in a hammer blow. The head exploded like a balloon, showering Johnson and the immediate area in brains. Kenslir then leapt straight up, into the air, his foot striking out and catching the vampire on Stevens' back square in the face. Head and body separated and Stevens was able to shrug the headless corpse off. 

The Colonel landed, then pivoted, ducking a slashing blow from behind. He turned, still crouched low, then rose up, an uppercut pulverizing another vampire directly under the chin. The monster's head snapped back as vertebrae and jawbone shattered.

"Whoo-hoo!' Laura Olson yelled triumphantly, blood splashed across her face. She was behind a skinhead, who had fallen to the floor, one of his legs missing from the knee down. She had a hold of the cursed thug's head with both hands. With a quick twist and pull, she ripped it off, producing a geyser of dark blood. Then she moved on to the next vampire, a gleeful nightmare covered in blood.

The fight had been raging for literally only a few minutes and already the skinheads were decimated. The first few to charge forward, Kenslir and Olson had simply shoved back with their superhuman strength, crushing ribcages. These first skinheads were now recovered, their injuries healed. But the second wave were literally in pieces—torn apart by Kenslir, Olson and the three soldiers that had crashed through the ceiling.