One of the security guards in front of the building got a message on his radio, probably to notify him about the VIP’s arrival, because he snapped at the others to look sharp. Cigarettes were stubbed out and cell phones were put away.
I scanned the street through the binoculars, but still no sign of the buyer. The taco truck was busy and had a decent crowd waiting in line. It was Labor Day weekend, but it wasn’t as hot as usual, so people were sitting around the plaza, eating and having a nice time. There were other people walking by, but nobody was heading toward the unremarkable building of boredom.
A bullet bike drove past our van. The rider was obviously female. Though she was wearing a helmet, the riding outfit was so formfitting it didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Hertzfeldt whistled appreciatively. Even Trip, who tried ever so hard to always be the gentleman, obviously noticed her, though unlike the Newbie, he at least tried not to stare. Plus, Trip was currently in a serious relationship and if there was ever anybody who took the concept of loyalty seriously, it was Trip.
The rider slowed down enough that I thought for a second she might be our mystery buyer, but then the bike passed by the front of the building and kept going.
Boone got back on the radio. “They’re getting out of their vehicles and heading inside. I’m guessing snake cultists from the sleeve tats, but there’s one larger figure wearing a hood and a mask and carrying a big red backpack. That’s got to be our seller. Way he’s dressed, he’s gotta be the real thing.”
“Nasty-ass reptoids.” Hertzfeldt shuddered.
So only one of the sellers had come. By their standards they were still within the terms of the auction contract, because from what I’d heard, the lizard monsters thought of their human cultists more like pets than equals.
“Alright, everybody,” Boone said. “The stone is probably in the backpack. We let the deal go down, let them part ways, then Team Harbinger nails the buyer, and my boys will tail the snake morons back to wherever they’ve been hiding so we can clean out their nest.”
“We can’t make that call until we see who the buyer is,” Earl cautioned. “I know these scaly assholes have been a thorn in your side, Boone, but if we have to choose between letting them get away, or grabbing the package, the package comes first. That’s the big picture. Keep your eye on the prize.”
“Roger that,” Boone obviously didn’t like it much, because when a tribe of reptoids moves into your city, starts eating people, and idiots start worshipping them and doing human sacrifices in exchange for dark magic blessings, that gets super annoying. However, Boone had been at Severny Island and seen the world-ending magnitude of the threat gathering there. He knew what was at stake. It wasn’t every day MHI could score an Isaac Newton original capable of smoke-checking a chaos god.
“No matter what we’ll stick at least one car and one of Milo’s drones on the lizard lovers’ convoy.” Earl said. “Things that mostly eat the homeless really piss me off too. It’s not like those folks don’t already have it hard enough already without being terrorized by reptoids.”
“Thanks, Earl.”
I noticed a car approaching from the opposite direction. The blinker came on as it slowed to enter the parking lot. “This is Pitt. I’ve got something in front. A silver BMW sedan is pulling up to the front entrance now.”
The car stopped. Two security guards moved to get the rear door. Oddly enough, I noticed that one of the men was carrying an umbrella. He popped it open to protect the new arrival from the sun.
“Curious.” Trip raised his new camera with the giant telephoto lens and took a picture. Milo hadn’t been the only one to go nuts putting new equipment on the company card once given the surveillance excuse. “Somebody must have requested shade.”
“Maybe it’s a vampire,” Hertzfeldt suggested.
What a Newbie thing to say. I started to correct him, because it would take way more than an umbrella to protect a vampire from bursting into flames beneath the sun, but then I watched a very tall, very thin, very pale man unfold himself out of the back seat. Once safely under the umbrella’s shade, he checked out the street, his eyes hidden behind odd persimmon-colored sunglasses.
“This is way worse than a vampire.”
Trip, who almost never used profanity, simply said, “Aw, shit” when he recognized the buyer.
“You know that albino guy?” Hertzfeldt asked, worried.
“Unfortunately, yes.” I got on the radio. “We have eyes on the buyer. And, uh . . . Earl?”
“Go ahead, Z.”
“Promise not to hulk out.”
“Spit it out already.”
I looked over at Trip, grimaced, then reluctantly pushed the transmit button. “It’s Stricken.”
The radio was silent for a long time. Trip and I exchanged a very nervous glance, because Earl hated Stricken probably more than anyone or anything on this plane of existence. To be fair, we all hated the former head of Special Task Force Unicorn, but for Earl, it was really personal.
“Are you sure?”
Holly got on the radio. “I can see him too. I can confirm it is Stricken. If I can get a clean shot, want me to blast him?”
“Naw. I’ll handle that son of a bitch,” Earl snapped.
On the bright side, Stricken no longer worked for the government, so murdering him was no longer off the table. The word was that the Feds had busted him for committing hundreds of felonies, up to and including treason. Last I heard, he was a fugitive being hunted by the MCB. So if Earl lost his shit, went all werewolf, ripped Stricken’s head off and kicked a field goal
