The King of Plagues

Ledger.”

Bunny gave him a sharp look. “The captain’s back?”

“Yeah, and he’s already chasing this like a hound dog. Got into some shit in England. Cap’n put three of ’em down.”

Bunny straightened. “Does that mean we know something?”

“Don’t know what we know, but when were you ever around Cap’n Ledger when the bad guys weren’t trying to take a shot? Ain’t a good place to stand if you want to be safe, but if you want to go hunting in Indian Country, then saddle up.”

Bunny sniffed and let out a breath, blowing out his cheeks and stretching his big arms until his shoulders popped. “Okay, then. If he’s in it, then I’m definitely in it.”

Top slapped him hard on the shoulder as they walked over to the SUV.

Khalid stood by the rear passenger door and had overheard the conversation. “We’re all in it now, big man,” he said. “They drew first blood.”

John Smith leaned against the rear fender, a plastic coffee stirrer between his teeth. He nodded.

“Then it’s their ass,” said DeeDee. “Let’s bring the pain.”

She held out her fist and took the bump from Bunny and then the others.

They piled in with DeeDee driving and Top riding shotgun. The TacV was armored and stocked like a rolling arsenal. It also had Sirius radio uplink and DeeDee dialed it over to Classic Blues. The song that was playing as they rolled out of the Warehouse was Robert Johnson’s “Hellhound on My Trail.”

They took that as a sign. Or maybe a credo, because they were the Hellhounds.

Interlude Twenty-nine

The Seven Kings

Three Months Ago

Toys touched Gault’s arm just as they were about to enter the Chamber of the Kings. “Sebastian,” he said, “please consider what you’re about.”

Gault smiled, but it lacked warmth. “Oh my God, will you stop with this bullshit? You’ve been whining about this for weeks now.”

“It’s my job to give you a perspective check, don’t forget.”

“It’s not your job to advocate small thinking.”

“Oh, please, that’s not—”

“Besides, since when did you become squeamish?”

Toys stepped back and folded his arms. “Squeamish? Is that what you think?”

“Pick a better word, then. ‘Timid’?”

Toys felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh … be careful now, Sebastian,” he said softly.

Gault stepped toward him so that their faces were inches apart. “I’m going to tell you for the last time, Toys … stop pushing me. Learn your fucking place.”

With that he turned and swept into the chamber.

Inside, the other Kings were on their thrones, their Consciences by their sides. The screens on the walls showed charts and maps or ran with lines of carefully gathered intelligence. Eris sat on her throne, a magazinethin laptop on her thighs. She had half-glasses perched on her nose and Toys thought that for the first time she looked closer to her age.

Here’s hoping you have a stroke and die, you bloodsucking hag, he thought.

When Toys and Gault were in their seats, the King of Lies stood. The Saudi was dressed in a European suit, his beard trimmed short, and he wore no ghutra on his head. It made him look like a different man, and Toys wondered if the longer beard was indeed part of a disguise.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I trust you’ve all had a chance to read through the preliminary report prepared by Plagues? Yes?” He looked around, saw general nods, and continued. “Gold has reviewed the financial requests and informs us that the overall cost for this operation is three percent higher than anticipated, but I think we can all agree that it will be worth the investment of those additional millions.”

More nods.

“The next phase is twofold. The logistical phase will be jointly managed by Fear and Gold, for all of the obvious reasons. The Goddess and I will continue to oversee the disinformation program. Goddess?”

Eris raised a hand to acknowledge the applause. Toys glanced at Gault and saw that he was fairly glowing with pride and lust. The fool. Toys cut a look at the American and saw that his hands barely touched as he pretended to applaud.

Lies then introduced Gault, who stood to a renewed wave of applause. He bowed to Eris and then stood silent for a moment, his dark eyes drifting from face to face around the table, waiting as the chamber gradually fell into an expectant silence.

“I’ve reviewed all of Kirov’s work,” began Gault, “and although I hold my predecessor in great esteem, there were some serious flaws in his theories. The short version is that some of the science is simply not going to work. We can push the boundaries of science, but we cannot break them. Not yet, anyway. I know this comes as a blow, because for years now the frontiers of paleomicrobiology have been crumbling as scientists like Professor Kirov hammered away at them with innovative ideas and radical research. But it is the nature of science that some experiments do not succeed even when most of the evidence seems to lead toward success.”

No one applauded that comment. A scowling King of War said, “Kirov assured us that this would work. He was ready to take a team to Egypt to harvest the bacteria or virus or whatever it was from the tomb of the Pharaoh’s son. Our whole campaign was built around his recovering and reactivating that disease. Now you’re telling us that it was all a waste of time? We’ve invested considerable time and funds into this venture.”

“With respect, Brother War,” said Gault with a placating smile, “that is Kirov’s problem. He may have been overenthusiastic when crafting that plan, since much of what he promised was based on speculation, not on research.”

Toys found himself crossing his fingers under the table. If Gault had hit a dead end, then there was some chance that he was not going to destroy himself with another harebrained plan.

“Kirov’s theory was that the Death of the Firstborn was a communicable pathogen. That much he had already proven to be incorrect. His secondary approach was to then create a new pathogen or mutate an existing virus to target only firstborn children and use that against the children of the Inner Circle. It’s bold, it’s ballsy, but it’s equally flawed. There is nothing genetically unique about firstborn that would open a selective door to a designed pathogen. Granted, crafting such a disease would have been beautiful, and though it would have contributed to the desired goal of overlaying science with religious mystery, it simply cannot be done. To labor on it is an exercise in futility, and a costly one at that.”

“Then we are going to come up short on our campaign,” said the American, smiling faintly and cutting a look at the Goddess. “We’re screwed.”

“No, my brothers,” Gault said with a smile, “we are not. If science has taught us anything it’s that a way will open. When one form of treatment fails, we often learn enough from its failure in order to design a more effective protocol. Observation and compensation are key to scientific advancement.”

Eris smiled. “Tell them,” she purred.

Gault leaned his palms on the table. “The answer lies within the phenomenon of pain. Our desire is to hurt the Inner Circle. Hurt them so deeply, so profoundly, that they will be crippled. Unable and unwilling to make another move against us. That is the true task.”

The Kings and Consciences turned slowly to look at one another, and there were many thoughtful nods.

“Kirov had the right idea, but not the right plan. I have a better plan,” Gault continued. “One that allows us to use everything we’ve already done. The disinformation campaigns through social media and the Internet, the manipulation of extremist cells, and the whole culture of modern terrorism. But it adds an element of coercion that has only been touched upon before.”

Toys noticed that Santoro sat up straight at the word “coercion” and his lips wriggled into an unpleasant and