Reign of Evil

After a brief conferral, he and Magerts placed the men where they had planned, based on reconnaissance using Google Maps. The lots to the right and left of the home were empty, but across the road was seven-foot shrubbery capable of hiding men from view of the house. There was also a rather dense blackberry thicket in the empty lot to the right, which seemed to present an impenetrable view both to and from the home. Neither would provide cover enough to stop any rounds, but they’d provide excellent concealment.

Fifteen men were placed behind the shrubbery. They all carried SA80s, a suite of white phosphorous, smoke, and fragmentation grenades, Fairbairn-Sykes commando knives, and of course their swords. Eight men with the same armament were placed behind the thicket and were under the command of Magerts. The remaining seven Marines were stationed at the house where they’d previously conducted surveillance. Two of these men carried L7 General Purpose 7.62mm machine guns, which were placed so they could fire from the front and rear of the structure. The remaining five were armed as the others and were to be the Quick Reaction Force, moving where designated if needed. They were under the command of Sergeant Ronald Scott, who was eager to engage and disappointed he wouldn’t be part of the initial fight.

Ian and Magerts had decided to try to lure whatever forces were waiting for them outside. Attempting to break into the place would be suicidal. Ian stared up toward the height of Glastonbury Tor, which rose five hundred feet above the plain. The Tor was topped by St. Michael’s Tower, which was still standing even after much of it had been destroyed by a twelfth-century earthquake. The far side of the Tor was terraced, but the near side had a gentle slope, only slightly disturbed by terracing. A thin path ran from the summit down to the rear of the Tudor home. A wider, more formal path bisected the hill from southwest to northeast.

They observed their target for forty-five minutes to ascertain whether there were any roving guard forces or security elements, but there were none.

Ian checked his watch. 0830 hours. It was time to knock on the front door. He wore a black turtleneck under a black leather jacket. He wore black 5.11 pants with black boots. A black beret covered his head. He felt the heaviness of the amulet he wore beneath his shirt. He’d never used it before, but since they were going against magic, he thought he’d try. Taken from the body of a dead seventeenth-century witch hunter by one of his predecessors, the logs from the 1800s professed its ability to provide protection to the wearer against magic. Whatever the truth of it, he was about to find out.

He pulled free an M34 model United States white phosphorous grenade. The UK had ceased to use them in 1997, but for Ian they were so much more useful than his other options. On the one hand, a smoke grenade would merely conceal the door. A fragmentation grenade would destroy it and possibly innocents behind it. The white phosphorous grenade, on the other hand, could burn at 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit for up to sixty seconds. He liked it because of its duration and its disruption.

He pulled the safety, then the pin from the cylindrical grenade, then stepped free from the shrubbery and walked across the street. When he was ten feet away from the door, he tossed it. The spoon flew free and it rolled until gently bumping into the door. Then he turned and walked into the street, continuing east down the road.

He heard the pop and the hiss, then the roar of white phosphorous burning violently. Walking away as he did would put eyes on him instead of the two hide sites. He felt an itch in the center of his back like someone was training a rifle on him. Would he even feel the bullet? Not if it hit his spine or the back of his head.

Then he heard Magerts through the radio coms. “Front door is on fire. They’re breaking it down from the inside. They’ve tossed a body on top of the grenade. Jesus. It burned right through.”

Ian prayed that it wasn’t Trevor but suspected that it probably had been. Bastards.

He kept walking until he knew he was out of sight, then peeled off to the right and made his way back using the shrubbery as cover.

A howl went up from somewhere behind the house. As it died in the overcast morning, it was followed by another.

A minute had gone by, but the grenade was still spouting flame. The doorframe was on fire. He could see shadows through the flames but couldn’t make out anything inside.

And the party still went on.

The howls came again… closer.

A hound tore around the left side of the house. It skidded to a stop and regarded the burning canister in front of it. As it circled it was joined by another. They both regarded the grenade as it died, their heads turning at odd angles, as if they were trying to decide what it was.