Reign of Evil

And he took advantage of the hesitation by storming up the stairs. He took them two at a time, his sword in First Point position, his knife held low. Although he was focused on the woman, he saw when his men raised their rifles. He heard two shots and flinched, but no bullets took him. Instead, his men went down.

He shouted, “NO!” as he took the last two steps and plunged his blades into her. Her body went rigid, but she didn’t go down. She clawed at his face with her hands. He pulled the sword free, stepped back, and swung it through her neck.

Her head rolled free as her body fell, blood gushing with the last pump of her heart.

He stepped aside, remembering that she’d been a victim as well. Then he went to his men. Instead of dead, they were merely wounded. Magerts had shot them in the legs.

Ian felt a hand on his back and turned to it.

“Couldn’t let you be the Light Brigade, sir.” Magerts smiled apologetically. “I thought there might have been another way.”

Ian stared at him.

“They’re my men too,” Magerts added.

Finally Ian nodded. “Have someone bind their wounds. Let’s see what happened to the rest of our men.”

Five rooms ran off the landing. They checked the two on the right and found men and women zip-tied, much like downstairs. The Marines had made it this far. On the other side of the landing were three rooms. One was a bathroom and was empty. They opened the door next to this one carefully and also found it empty. So where were they?

He exchanged a glance with Magerts, who appeared equally vexed.

When they opened the final door they found what they’d been looking for. It was an immense bedroom with a second sitting room off of it. Seven of his men stood like statues around another seated in a chair. His face was contorted around the stitches that had been applied to his lips, pulling them shut at odd angles. Blood had seeped from the inexpertly made seam of his mouth but was now dried. He wore so many wounds his skin had taken on a reddish hue. He had holes in his hands and feet like he’d been crucified.

“Oh, Trev.” He pushed aside the men, who appeared to be waking from a trance, and fell to his knees beside his man.

He pulled away the sign they’d hung around his neck. Trevor was no Lord of Misrule. He was a hero and would always be a hero.

Ian turned and saw the bathroom. He rushed into it and grabbed a washcloth and wet it with water. He turned to leave but felt a presence. He paused a moment, then jerked aside the shower curtain. A fat man stood trembling.

“Let me explain,” he said.

Ian grabbed him by his hair and jerked him from the shower and threw him into the room.

Several Marines recognized him and made exclamations.

“Take care of Sir MacDonald. Do not let him up until I am done with my man.” Ian flashed his rage at the men. “Do you understand?”

They all nodded hastily, then stared fearfully at the Member of Parliament. They’d been placed in a precarious position, but for now they were more afraid of Ian, so they followed his order.

He knelt again in front of Trevor. Wiping gently at the blood on the man’s beaten and sewn face, he spoke to him in a low voice, promising him that he’d take care of his mother and Preeti and that his death would not be in vain. He cried as he said these things, eventually bringing forth a knife that he used to cut the threads that had been used to sew Trevor’s mouth shut. Then he untied his hands and legs and brought him from the chair. Cradling him like he was his own child, Ian carried Trevor to the bed and laid him in state, crossing his hands over his chest and closing his eyes. He said a simple prayer over the body, then turned.

Ian gazed upon Sir Robert MacDonald, unabashed at the tears that had flowed and were now drying upon his face.

“You were part of this.”

Sir Robert held up his hands. “It wasn’t me; I swear.”

Magerts came from the sitting room. “Found these two trying to hide.” He presented two women in their thirties, fit, naked, and tattooed. Their eyes were dull and dilated. “I asked them what happened, but they’re too stoned to even talk.”

Ian returned to the task at hand. “Then who was it?” He pointed to where the women were being zip-tied. “You going to blame them?”

“I—I—“

“Speak up!” Ian slapped the MP in the face. “Had you any honor at all you’d be ashamed. This man was defending your country.”

“Found this in the other room beside his pants.” Magerts held out a leather pouch. Inside were long curved needles used to reupholster leather. Also present was a half-used roll of string-like thread.

Ian took it. He glanced from the MP to the pouch and back.

Sir Robert turned away.

Ian’s eyes shot wide as rage fired through him. “You.”

“It wasn’t… you don’t understand. They have power… power like you’ve never seen before.”

“What does that have to do with my man?”