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Easter01's Father Michael's Saga

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Easter01
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PostEaster01 on Tue Apr 25, 2017 2:26 pm


The Warlock Executive
A Father Michael Story
by Joanne and Richard Easter (c) 2017




Part 9

Earlier that same day, Father Michael had driven one of the agency’s black Renault vans due north from Lyon, one of a convey of four such vans that headed out of the city on the A-6, the “Autoroute du Soliel,” shortly before noon. The vehicle was equipped with a GPS navigation system, a necessity once they got off the main roads. In the passenger seat beside him was André Thibodeaux, head of the security forces employed at the Directorate 14 headquarters in Lyon. Thibodeaux, an apparently humorless man in his early thirties with a military haircut, was also the leader of a large pack of werewolves who resided in a small commune just outside the city, and whose members made up most of the security team for the agency. He wore dark glasses and an earbud receiver and had a microphone clipped to his collar to allow him to communicate with the rest of his team. Marcel and Simone were in the back seat; Marcel’s head was slumped against the headrest, his eyes closed, although he was not really asleep. His female companion alertly studied the passing landscape, but her attention was not really on the scenery.

They made good time, cruising up the six-lane highway that followed the broad, flat Saône River valley from Lyon through a landscape checkered with agricultural fields and occasional tracts of forest. About an hour out, as they entered the Burgundy region, vineyards became more numerous in the landscape, long rows of post-and-wire trellises a little over a meter in height upon which the vines had been trained. Now, in early June, the vines had already finished flowering and had set the fruit which, in the autumn, would be harvested and converted into the product for which France was famed the world over. With their thick stems, Michael knew, many of the plants were nearly a half a century old; there was a common belief among vintners that older vines produced the best grapes.

Michael studied the reflections of his two young comrades in the rearview mirror. The two were obviously irritated with one another, and the silence between them was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Neither one had said a word to each other since getting into the vehicle back in Lyon. At last he sighed. “All right, my friends. Enough is enough. What is wrong with you two?”

Marcel merely opened his eyes a slit and closed them again, choosing to ignore the query, but Simone turned her view away from the French countryside and glanced briefly at Marcel before answering. “This pig-headed Frenchman must have his own way, all of the time!”

At this, Marcel sat upright and thereupon ensued a rapid and heated exchange in French that Michael had trouble following. The priest was relatively fluent in the language, but when two native speakers go at it hammer and tongs there simply was no way he could keep up. He exchanged a glance with Thibodeaux, who merely raised an amused eyebrow and commented, “They are arguing about where to go on their honeymoon.”

Simone broke off her argument with Marcel. “Father, this barbarian wants to spend our honeymoon in some jungle in the middle of nowhere!” She was still speaking in French, but in deference to Michael spoke more slowly and precisely.

Marcel leaned back in the seat. “Australia is not the middle of nowhere,” he grumped. “It is a perfectly civilized place.”

“Hah!” Simone exclaimed. “You want to take us into the outback. If that is not the middle of nowhere, what is it? Nothing but desert and kangaroos!”

“I hear kangaroos are very tasty,” her fiancé said sullenly, and crossed his arms across his chest while she glowered at him. If she had been in panther form, Michael surmised, her tail would have been lashing.

“So, Simone, where is it you want to go?” Michael asked. He knew they were both upset because the current crisis at the Directorate had resulted in the postponement of their June wedding plans. They were both very much in love, as anyone could tell, and normally were very easy-going, but in their frustration had become rather short-tempered.

“I want to be pampered!” she exclaimed. “I want a romantic paradise, someplace beautiful, someplace where I don’t have to think about demons or vampires or zombies. I thought, the Côte d'Azur, but this, this stubborn Frenchman wants to honeymoon in the dirt or jungle or someplace awful like that! He wants to go hunting!”

Michael and the security chief exchanged another amused glance. Marcel wanted to take this lovely Frenchwoman somewhere to rough it and go hunting on their honeymoon?

“It’s not like that!” Marcel said hastily, also speaking in his native tongue. “Yes, I want to go hunting, but mostly I just want us to be able to go someplace where we can just be ourselves. If we want to be cats, we can be cats, without worrying about upsetting someone. If we want to be human, then we can be human.” He heaved a great sigh. “I just want to be alone with Simone, where we can be completely natural. The Australian outback just seemed like a good idea. Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles, and no one around to worry about if we want to shape-shift. We could just be panthers and live off the land.” He was silent a moment. “There is no place in France where we can do this. There is no game to hunt. I grow tired of killing things I cannot eat, demons and such.” It was the longest speech Michael had ever heard him make.

“Canada,” Thibodeaux said suddenly. The two in the back seat turned their attention to him. Michael spared him a quick glance, and then focused back on the highway.

Thibodeaux turned around in his seat to face them. “You should consider Quebec. I believe it would have everything you might want. Think about it. French-speaking, for a start. Quebec is a big city, where the young miss can shop and be pampered to her heart’s content, but outside the city you will find an enormous wilderness. Plenty of big game in the region, deer, moose, caribou.” As he saw them considering the idea, he continued. “I spent a couple of weeks in the province back in ’08, and was quite impressed. Rented a cabin in the Jacques Cartier national park, and did quite a bit of hunting. My style, that is,” he said, and exposed his teeth in a very wolfen grin.  
 
At Merceuil, about one-thirty in the afternoon, they left the A-6, turning onto a two-lane country road that would take them the last five kilometers to Meursault. Just before arriving at the community, which harbored about 1,500 residents, Michael turned south on another road. The area around Meursault was entirely devoted to grape culture and all the fields were vineyards; the region was noted for white wines made from Chardonnay grapes. After a few minutes’ travel, Michael turned the van onto a long gravel drive that led back through the vineyards to the old winery, a huge stone structure originally built as a monastery by Cistercian monks more than 800 years before. The monks had made wine here for many years until the building came into private hands, and thereafter eight generations of the same family made award-winning wines until the last remaining vintner in the family passed away a few years before. The property was now under dispute by an assortment of heirs and wine was no longer being made, although the vineyards had been leased out and were still in good condition and the cellars were full of wine in large wooden casks, awaiting final disposition.  

The building, three stories in height, was surrounded by a circular gravel roadway. Michael halted the van before the main door, the other three vehicles pulling in behind him. Michael opened the vehicle door and got out, stretching to relieve the cramps produced by a long drive from the city, as did Marcel and Simone. Thibodeaux, the security chief, instead was immediately on guard, scanning the terrain and building for weak points as he strode back along the line of vehicles where the members of his team were now emerging. Two were female, sister-wolves of the pack, as well. All were wearing dark suits over black shirts and dark glasses, rather the standard “uniform” for any security force. Each also was wearing an earpiece headset with microphone for communication among themselves and the other personnel on site, including Michael’s team, who were similarly equipped.

Michael and his two companions walked around to the rear of the van and opened the back door to retrieve their weapons and supplies. Although their part in this mission was intended to be primarily “observe and report,” after their experience with the demons in the London subway tunnels they were taking no chances. The priest would carry the sword Tizona, of course, but in addition, each was equipped with a sawed-off shotgun. Marcel would be toting his preferred 10-gauge Remington SP-10, and Michael had followed his lead in this, but Simone had again provided herself with the similar but lighter-weight Browning Auto-5. There would be no further nonsense about salt-loads for the weapons, of course; this time there would be full loads of armor-piercing shells in the magazines, solid sabot slugs capable of piercing nearly ten millimeters of steel plate.

“Very glad to be outside again,” Marcel observed in a low voice, speaking English, this time. “Two hours in a car that smells of dog is just too much!” Were-panthers and werewolves did not associate under normal circumstances, but they were all employees of the same organization and accustomed to working together from time to time.

Simone hushed him. “Ssshh! Imbécile! You know what good hearing these wolves have! Be nice!”

They heard a quiet cough at the moment and looked up to see Thibodeaux grinning at them from two car-lengths away. “No offense, mademoiselle! I expect your friend is just in a bad way from an urgent need to visit the kitty-box!” Marcel just grinned back at him, without a word, completely unembarrassed. It was all in good humor; the security chief and Marcel had often been known to go drinking together in Lyon after work hours and the back-and-forth ripostes relating to their polar opposite shape-shifting forms were just a normal part of their relationship.

Thibodeaux directed most of his men to take up stations around the perimeter of the building, each toting a fully automatic Aitchison Auto-Assault 12-gauge shotgun slung to his back and a Glock-17 sidearm at the hip. The AA-12s had been recently acquired by the Directorate for special operations against especially dangerous supernatural threats, and sported a 32-round drum and a switch that allowed the user to select semi-automatic or full automatic fire, the latter at a rate of more than 300 rounds per minute. Like the agent’s weapons, these were loaded with armor-piercing rounds. Two of the security team accompanied Michael and his companions to the front door, which they pushed upon and entered ahead of the agents.

High above, on the slate roof next to one of the chimneys, one of Dortmund’s demon imps observed the arrival and deployment, yellow eyes narrowing at the sight of the priest and the two were-panthers. It was due back to report to the master soon, who would be very interested to learn of these latest arrivals. It jumped with a start, and began vigorously scratching its side with one of its hind feet. It seemed that this world had its own tiny demons. It stopped scratching and searched carefully until it had located the little irritant, popping it into its mouth. At least these little flea demons were crunchy and delicious.

Inside, Marcel, the last one in, closed the door behind him. A uniformed officer of the National Gendarmerie who had been standing off to one side, out of sight through the briefly opened door, came forward to greet them, extending his hand. “Welcome!” he said cheerily in French. “I am Commandant Rosseau of the Mobile Gendarmerie.” The commandant was a short, slim man in his early thirties, with sandy hair and a faint moustache, and carried himself with an air of obvious competence. “You must be Father Michael Mendez from the Directorate.” He took Michael’s hand and pumped it vigorously, and then paused, still holding Michael’s hand in his grip. “Ah, Father…is that a swordstrapped to your back?”

Michael chuckled. “Indeed it is. My personal weapon and a family heirloom. Perhaps an idiosyncrasy of mine, but it has served me well in the work we do.”

The commandant did not exactly roll his eyes, but it was clear he considered the sword to be a rather strange and anachronistic weapon to be taking into combat. “I see…and your companions?”

Marcel stepped forward and introduced himself, while the two security men took stations on either side of the door, not bothering with the introductions. Rosseau turned next to Simone, and raised an eyebrow. “Mademoiselle, it is a pleasure to meet you, but truly I must admit that I am not used to seeing warriors in such small packages. Nor so attractive, either!” She shrugged, adjusting the shoulder strap on her shotgun, and took his hand without comment.

“There is much more to our Simone than you might think,” Marcel said, dryly. The commandant just smiled and shrugged and then turned to business.

“I expect you will want to review our arrangements?” When Michael nodded, Rosseau said, “Please, follow me,” turned and led the way out of the room. They went into an interior room which had no windows, where the commandant opened a door in the side wall that revealed a flight of stairs down into the basement level.


THE WARLOCK EXECUTIVE
continues with Part 10
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Last edited by Easter01 on Thu Apr 27, 2017 4:40 pm; edited 1 time in total




Easter01's The Father Michael's Saga can be found: Here

Easter01's Short Stories can be found: Here

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Samantha61
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PostSamantha61 on Wed Apr 26, 2017 4:46 am

Just read part 8..omgosh.. runcircle I can't wait to read part 9..omgosh runcircle

This is a scared nail bitter for sure :multistars:

watermelon Thank you so much Joanne and Richard.. watermelon


Thank you so much Crissi, it's beautiful
~hugs and smiles my dear, dear BFF's~
I am so proud of all of you..
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szanne7000
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Postszanne7000 on Wed Apr 26, 2017 8:58 am

I love the background information - honeymoon, hunting, dog smelling car, LOL!



Thank you, Crissi, for my beautiful signature <3
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Easter01
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PostEaster01 on Thu Apr 27, 2017 4:36 pm


The Warlock Executive
A Father Michael Story
by Joanne and Richard Easter (c) 2017




Part 10

At the bottom of the stairs was a large room with mortared stone walls, the ceiling spanned by enormous wooden beams; on either side of the space were long rows of large wooden wine casks, laid on their sides and stacked two high; presumably still filled with the most recent vintage produced by the former winery and awaiting sale. The room was dimly lit by a series of ancient light fixtures dangling at intervals from the ceiling beams, and by this light Michael could see that the room was filled with troopers in combat fatigues engaged in a variety of tasks. Some were field-stripping and cleaning their weapons, some were sharpening combat knives with hand-held whetstones, and several small groups were amusing themselves by playing cards on some of the tables that were scattered about the room.

“I have a full squadron here, a little over a hundred men,” Rosseau remarked as he led them toward the far end of the room. “Not all of them are in this room, of course, about half are getting some sleep elsewhere in the building, a few are upstairs in full combat dress - discretely hidden, of course. We have been here for two days, and, as ordered, we completed all of our exterior preparations on the first day and have remained here in the cellar, out of sight, since then.”

At the end of the room were two wooden tables that had been pushed together and set against the far wall, and on the tables was a bank of large flat-screen computer monitors that showed shifting views of the exterior grounds of the vineyard. Seated before the monitors, with his back to them, was an enormous bald-headed black man with an athlete’s build, who was absorbed in watching the landscape as it changed from one camera to the next. Another trooper sat beside him, focused upon a monitor with an aerial view of the property, his hand on a joystick. An officer wearing the insignia of a captain stood behind the large black man, his hand on his shoulder, speaking to him in a low voice. As they approached the tables, the standing man sensed their arrival and turned, snapping off a crisp salute as he identified the commandant.

“Sir!” he said, quickly. The two technicians remained fixed upon their duties.

The commandant returned the salute, rather casually. “Captain Berger, these are the agents from the Directorate who will be assisting us with the operation,” Rosseau advised him. “Father Michael Mendez, Marcel Guillon, and Simone Bataille,” indicating each in turn. If the captain was surprised to find a priest and a petite blond female participating in a combat operation, he gave no sign, merely acknowledging the introductions with a nod to each. “Would you be so kind as to brief them on our preparations and the tactical situation?”

“Yes, sir,” the captain agreed, and turned his attention to the trio of civilians. “What we have here is an eminently defensible position. This old building has stone walls at least fifty centimeters thick which should withstand anything short of field artillery, and with small windows on all floors which will provide good firing points with minimum exposure of our men to incoming fire.” He turned and gestured toward the monitors, which displayed the vast fields of trellised grapevines that surrounded the winery building. “As I am sure you saw on your way in, it would be virtually impossible to approach our position by coming across the fields since those trellises completely surround this location and are more than a meter in height. The only routes in are the access roads, or by coming down through the rows themselves. Only the ends of the building would be vulnerable to hostiles moving through the rows. On the front and back sides, the only way in is straight down the roadways that come in to the building.”

Marcel raised a finger. “Pardon, Captain, but I would think all that greenery would provide good concealment for anyone coming in low?”

“That is true,” Captain Berger acknowledged. “We do have cameras positioned at rooftop level on the building which gives us something of an elevated view, at least for the closer rows. But we are not depending on visual surveillance alone. We came prepared with quite of bit of tech to make sure we have a secure perimeter and to give advance warning of any enemy approach.”

“Please continue, Captain,” Michael encouraged.

“We have…oh, before I forget, I should mention that our camera surveillance can be switched to a light intensification setting at sundown, which gives us night vision as well.” The captain seemed slightly embarrassed at this minor hiccup in his presentation. “We also have a small drone circling over the property at about 2,000 meters. It is capable of both visual and thermal imagery, and is periodically relieved when low on fuel to maintain a constant presence, night and day. After dark, we will bring it down to a lower altitude. I was about to say, we have set up a perimeter of motion sensors around the building, at about 200 meters out.”

“Anything larger than a mouse comes this way, we will know about it,” Rosseau added, with satisfaction. “Very good briefing, Captain. Thank you. I’ll take it from here, but please accompany us.” Rosseau led them to a side room, which he had obviously set up as a temporary office, and closed the door after the three Directorate agents and his captain had filed in. He gestured at some chairs clustered around a long table covered with maps and papers. “Please be seated. Would anyone care for some bottled water? No? Very well, then.”

The three agents unslung their sawed-off shotguns and hung them from the back of their chairs before taking a seat. Michael also unbuckled the leather baldric slung across his shoulder and laid Tizona, in its half-scabbard, on top of some papers on the table. Captain Berger viewed the weapon with great interest, and stepped forward to inspect it. He turned to Michael. “May I?” he asked, and when Michael nodded his approval, the captain slid the sword out of its scabbard and held it at arm’s length across the table, the tip dipping slightly, and then brought it up vertically. As the commander watched with some amusement, he stepped back and made a few experimental passes with the blade. “Not as heavy as I might have thought, for the length…nearly a hundred centimeters, I would guess?” he commented. “A fine weapon, well-balanced.” He held it up to catch the light and studied the inscriptions. “The Ave Maria on one side, I see, but my Spanish is…rather inadequate. That is Spanish, on the other side? What does it say?”

“It says, ‘I am Tizona, made in the year 1040’” Michael informed him.

“That is amazing! You carry a thousand-year-old sword!” Berger walked back to the table and, now with considerable reverence, slipped the sword back into the scabbard. “Thank you, sir, for allowing me to handle such a remarkable weapon!”

Michael nodded. “You showed rather good form, just now. Have you trained with this sort of weapon?”

Berger grinned. “Not really, but I do like to fence…”

At that moment, the commandant interrupted by clearing his throat, rather pointedly, and focused a not-quite-severe frown upon his officer, who grinned rather boyishly and ducked his head without embarrassment and pulled out a chair at the table. After all had taken their seats, the commandant turned to Michael. “What can you tell us about the nature of the enemy we face? I received a rather disturbing briefing from your Director himself. I am not quite sure I believe everything he told me.”

The three Directorate agents exchanged meaningful glances, and then Michael spoke up. “What exactly did Director Kriger tell you about the opposition?”

Rosseau reached up and took off his cap and set it on the tabletop, and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. “Just enough to make me doubt his sanity, but…orders are orders. He said that this position may be attacked by creatures that are enemies, not only of France, but of all humanity. He said that they were…not quite human?…and very hard to kill. He suggested that we make preparations as though we were going to be facing light armor and troops in Kevlar vests.” He paused for a moment. “What did he mean, not human? Are we going to be facing some kind of space aliens, or what?”

Michael drummed his fingers lightly on the table. “Tell me, commandant. Do you believe in monsters?”

Rosseau cleared his throat. “I quit believing in monsters when I was a child, but your Director seemed quite serious about this, and he had the backing of Interpol and the government. So, if he says we are going to fight monsters, then my men will be prepared to fight monsters.” Michael waited patiently, and then the commandant added, “Since you and your team appear to be the resident experts, perhaps you could tell us exactly what kind of…monsters…we face?”

Michael was not quite sure what to tell Rosseau, thinking that it might strain the commandant’s credulity beyond repair by informing him that he faced supernatural demons, but then Marcel came to the rescue. “Mutants, Commandant Rosseau. You will be facing mutants. They will be somewhat humanoid in shape, but will be covered in scales or natural armor and possess fangs and claws. They are savage beyond belief and will not hesitate to kill you or your men if you do not kill them first.”

“My God!” Captain Berger exclaimed. “Where do these things come from? Why do they attack us?”

Michael took back the conversation at this point. “We do not really know where they come from, sir, although we very much would like to find out and put a stop to further incursions. As to your second question, we believe that there is someone directing these attacks, someone who has some unknown purpose in mind. I need to point out that there might not be any attack here at all. This is one of two possible locations that these creatures might strike, and similar preparations have been made at both sites. We learned there was a spy in our organization feeding information to the master of these creatures, and so we planted disinformation to encourage a possible attack upon the Directorate leadership.”

Both the commandant and the captain were obviously shocked by the information they had just received, but recovered quickly. “Yes, yes, your Director told me something of this,” Rosseau replied. “This operation is being set up to give the appearance of a meeting of Directorate leaders, but really is just bait to lure in your enemies. My instructions were to quickly prepare this site to withstand a determined attack, then remain concealed but alert while your people set up the façade of the false meeting upstairs. I assume your security agents, who just arrived, will be lending their support if an attack actually comes?”

“You can count on it,” Michael assured him. Marcel and Simone, and the werewolf security team, all had strict orders from the Director not to shape-shift, but only to carry out the fight in human form. There was no sense in risking a friendly fire incident; in the heat of combat, some of the Gendarmerie troops might be startled into accidentally shooting a panther or werewolf that suddenly appeared in their sights. “They will be supplemented by others, all well-armed, who will be arriving soon, posing as caterers. This evening, more will come, disguised as our station chiefs.”

Commandant Rosseau laid his hands down flat on the tabletop. “That is good! From your description, the enemy force sounds quite formidable, if not quite believable - no offense to you or your Director! My men are all seasoned veterans, so you can be assured that we will defend this place against any attacker, man or monster. My superiors, in consultation with your Director, have authorized the use of deadly force. Our rules of engagement are quite clear: we are prepared to drive away or kill anything that comes against us here.” Michael was well aware that the troops in this building were members of the Groupe d'intervention de la Gendarmerie nationale, known as GIGN for short, an elite force of professionals who conducted special ops both in France or as an adjunct to the French military overseas, when needed.  Such men would be hard to rattle, even when confronted by something far beyond their experience.

There was a moment of silence in the room after the commandant’s confident assurances, and then Michael asked, “How are your men armed? These creatures have hides, that in our experience, are capable of deflecting the standard 7.62 mm NATO rounds, and they seem to be impervious to pain.”

Rosseau nodded. “Yes, your Director mentioned something of this, as I said.” He turned his attention to his second in command. “Captain. Will you please fetch one of the Barretts?” Captain Berger immediately rose to his feet and went outside the room, returning almost immediately with a scope-mounted rifle, all in matte black with a metal stock, which had a small bipod attached to the front. On seeing the weapon, Marcel smiled wickedly and extended his hands, taking the rifle and examining it with obvious pleasure.

“This is the Barrett M82A1 recoil-operated, semi-automatic sniper rifle,” the captain said briskly. It is a bit heavy, at thirteen and a half kilos, but since we have a stationary position weight is not a major consideration. This is the short-barreled version, about 51 centimeters, but can be fired accurately out to nearly 1,000 meters. Most of our men have been outfitted with this weapon for the operation.”

Marcel passed the rifle to his fiancée, who hefted it experimentally, feeling the weight. Simone aimed it at one corner of the room and peered through the extra-large scope. “Night vision?” She asked.

“Yes, mademoiselle.” He came around the table to her and pointed to the top of the scope. “The switch for night vision is on the top, here. This is the American-made AN/PVS-4 scope, a very advanced design capable of adjusting to changing light conditions.”

She expertly detached the large box magazine from beneath the weapon and pulled out one of the rounds, inspecting it carefully. “This is very unusual, is it not?” The heavy shell was nearly the length of her hand.

“Our mission parameters called for armor-piercing rounds to be used in an anti-personnel role. This is the first time we have ever had such instructions, but given the Father’s description of these creatures, I expect they’re just what we need.” The captain smiled, an expression which made him look almost boyish despite the severity of the subject. “These are Raufoss Mark 211 rounds, 12.7 mm. They are armor-piercing, with a tungsten core, and both explosive and incendiary components. These rounds are quite capable of penetrating lightly armored targets. I can’t imagine any sort of creature that could withstand a hit from one of these. That magazine holds ten rounds,” he added.

The Raufoss had proved to be quite lethal and controversial in the international community. The International Red Cross had been trying for some time, without much success, to have it banned for use as an anti-personnel round. Most nations continued to use the ammunition; the attitude of the American military was pragmatic: a target was a target. Tests had shown that about half the rounds would detonate after striking a soft target (a human body), the explosion occurring roughly half a meter after impact. This meant that the round would usually pass completely through the body before exploding, so that the cone of fragments would affect others standing nearby. If the targets were wearing body armor, this produced a much higher rate of detonation. Given the demons’ proven resistance to ordinary projectiles - the Directorate weapons specialists had speculated that this was due to a much greater body mass density than human flesh - most of the rounds should detonate immediately on impact with a demon’s hide.    

Simone reloaded the round back into the magazine, and started to pass the weapon on to Michael, but when he shook his head slightly, she just laid it on the table next to Tizona.

“Very impressive, Captain,” Michael acknowledged. “Like you, I expect the effect will be devastating on our opponents, should they attack this place. What other weapons have been issued to your men? Anything heavier?”  

“Heavier? Ah, yes, we have some heavy weapons! We have Browning M2HB heavy machine guns concealed at windows on all sides of the building, two each in front and back, and one at each of the narrow ends. Each of the guns is served by a three-man crew, and capable of firing more than 400 rounds per minute, although sustained fire at that rate would quickly wear out the barrel. These use the same ammo as the rifles, the Mark 211, although every fifth round is a tracer.”

“That is still going to leave some gaps in your field of fire, near the building corners,” Marcel observed.

“Yes, sir, that is true,” Berger acknowledged, “but the best we can do from a fixed position. However, the machine guns are not the only heavy ordnance we have. The men are divided into four-man fireteams, and one man on each team has been issued an ABL light anti-tank weapon. The projectiles have heavy nose caps which allows them to be skipped off the ground for an airburst.” He grinned, rather wickedly. “That should give them something to think about.”

The commandant now spoke up, for the first time since Berger had begun his briefing on weaponry. “We do have one other little surprise. You are familiar with the American Claymore anti-personnel mine?” When the members of the Directorate team nodded, he continued. “The French army uses something similar, the MAPED F1, a fragmentation device with a shaped charge. We set them up around the building, about fifty meters out, most of them in the lanes leading in, and have them rigged to detonate on command.”

“Sounds like you have the defense of this place well in hand,” Michael commented.

“Yes, sir. We plan to give your…mutants…a hot reception if they show up.” Rosseau briefly dry-washed his hands, obviously relishing the prospect.

“Well, commandant, it may be that they will hit the other site and we will just spend the evening here cooling our heels,” the priest observed. “Once the ‘caterers’ arrive to augment our numbers, and then the fake station chiefs, the stage will be set. All we have to do is wait, and keep a sharp lookout.”

“That we will do,” Rosseau agreed, and then paused. “One thing, however. My information was rather vague about what sort of weapons these hostiles might be carrying…?”

Michael frowned slightly, drumming his fingers lightly on the tabletop. “I see you still don’t quite understand the nature of our opponents,” he said quietly, trying to be tactful but still get the point across. “They don’t carry weapons of any sort. They don’t need them.”

The commandant and the captain just stared at him.  


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Postszanne7000 on Fri Apr 28, 2017 8:39 am

hehehehehehheheh

...they really don't get it, do they?



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PostSamantha61 on Mon May 01, 2017 9:31 am

That last sentence haha..just got done reading parts 9 and 10..awesome..girl that had to have taken forever to get all that information on weapons..I love how you describe in very detailed on everything, the landscape the weapons, everything..

I can't wait to read the next part..omgosh..I hope it is the fight itself lol..

Thank you Joanne & Richard awesome job..
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Postpoppy100 on Mon May 01, 2017 9:51 am

  I have not read it yet Easter01,, but sure it is a Great story .. cutehug


thanks for your lovely siggie Crissi  hugsmilie 
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PostEaster01 on Mon May 01, 2017 7:06 pm


The Warlock Executive
A Father Michael Story
by Joanne and Richard Easter (c) 2017




Part 11

Jacques Fournier emerged from the front door of the neighborhood bistrot in the south end of Meursault, patting his belly in appreciation of the fine meal he had just consumed. It had been a most excellent cassoulet of pork sausage and white beans served with fresh bread, a specialty of the little restaurant. Jacques was fifty-two years old, a rather thin man with a slight potbelly and a day’s growth of whiskers on his face, and lived alone. Most evenings he could be found at his favorite table in Clement Mathieu’s café, close to the kitchen door. This evening he had been joined by two of his friends from the winery down the street where they all worked, and had ordered an extra bottle of wine to go with their dinner. Shortly before nine o’clock, when the bistrot officially closed, his friends had taken their leave, but he had lingered on to finish the rest of the bottle, reluctant to return to his empty apartment. After receiving some rather pointed looks from Madame Mathieu, who clearly wanted to close up the restaurant and, with her husband, was bustling about gathering up the tablecloths and putting chairs up, he at last stood and stretched and headed for the door.  

As he stepped out into the night, he heard the latch of the bistrot door click firmly into place, and moments later the light shining through the narrow windows went out, leaving only the dim pool of illumination cast by the carriage light hanging from a bracket above the door. There were no other lights in the vicinity; the street was dark and deserted. Although Meursault received quite a few tourists during the summer months, it was, after all, an agricultural community and most of the population went to bed rather early. The street was lined with a hodge-podge of one- and two-story structures, most built of mortared limestone, some few of brick, and some coated with a smooth white stucco finish. The buildings nestled tightly, forming a continuous line down either side of the street. The few gaps between buildings were occupied by rock walls of one or two meter’s height, access to the interior courtyards provided by brightly painted wrought-iron gates.  

He took a couple of steps, finding himself a bit unsteady on his feet after having consumed more wine than was his usual habit, and leaned back against the limestone masonry of the building. Pulling a rather shabby gray beret out of his jacket pocket, he gave it a shake and put it on his head. He extracted a packet of filtered Gauloises from the opposite pocket, and then began patting his trousers, trying to recall where he had placed the small box of wooden matches he favored.

An odd greenish light coming from the walled cemetery down the street caught his attention as he tapped a cigarette out of the packet and tucked it between his lips. Damn kids, he thought, up to their pranks again. He shrugged - what can you do? - and fished a match out of the little box (it had been in his shirt pocket, after all) and struck it against the side of the box. It flared briefly, and he was just about to bring the flame to the end of the cigarette when he heard a muted rumbling sound coming down the street towards him. It sounded rather like a herd of unshod horses, or perhaps a stampede of oxen, and kept getting louder, although he could as yet see nothing in the darkness of the street. He peered down the street, and then swore as the match burned his fingers and flung it to the ground, the cigarette still dangling from his lips.

Jacques froze in disbelief as an enormous shape came out of the darkness into the faint light from the fixture, trotting down the center of the thoroughfare. It looked like a lumpy collection of boulders fastened together in a man-like form, but it towered far above him, able to peer inside the second-story windows if it chose to do so. Each footfall sounded like a pile-driver striking a wooden post. Riding on its shoulder was a small, bat-like creature that hissed when it saw him. The huge thing turned its massive head to look at him, and opened its mouth in a malevolent grin that exposed a dark cavern full of sharp teeth, and then it turned its gaze back forward and continued down the cobbled street and disappeared into the night.

As he stared after it in shock, another creature came into the light, smaller but even more bizarre than the first, a thing out of a nightmare, bristling with spikes from head to toe that sparkled in the light. It was closely followed by another thing, just like it, and then another, and another, perhaps a dozen all together, and then a host of man-like things with animal heads, oxen, goat, and ram, a whole parade of horrible monsters trotting swiftly down the street. He shrank back against the wall as each one, in turn, swiveled its head and fixed him with a brief stare such as a cat might give a cornered mouse, each briefly flashing him a gruesome fang-filled grin. There was a short gap in the procession, and then came a swarm of monstrous beetles, like giant cockroaches, clicking and clacking as they scuttled on six legs after the spiked monsters, and then more monsters, and still more, each seeming more awful than those who came before.

The last of the monsters passed him by, and then, after a long gap, came a procession of a half-dozen snarling motorbikes, Triumphs and BSAs and American Harleys, wheeling slowly down the street, the riders lightly gunning the engines. Lights began to wink on in second-story windows as they passed, sleeping citizens at last roused by the noise. The riders were all female, his dazed senses noted, all dressed in black leather, with faces that were unnaturally pale even in the faint light of the crescent moon and the carriage lamp above the doorway. The women also smiled at him as they rode past, with their thin bloodless lips, and somehow those smiles seemed even more horrible than the fang-filled grimaces of the monsters that had come before.

As the last one passed him by, Jacques waited for what seemed to be an eternity, flattened against the wall, before he could take a few tottering steps out into the middle of the street, and stared into the darkness into which the cycles had disappeared. He was still staring, the unlighted cigarette still in his mouth, forgotten, when the vampire came up from behind and took him in its embrace.


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PostSamantha61 on Sat May 06, 2017 11:56 pm

Oh no..omgosh..that was a weird part girl lol..but different..I love it lol..
I'm sorry it has taken me so long in between parts to read them.. shame
This part was very short..but I bet the next one won't be lol..

Great job Joanne.. :multistars:

Can't wait for the next part glasses my glasses are all clean lol..


Thank you so much Crissi, it's beautiful
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I am so proud of all of you..
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PostEaster01 on Sun May 07, 2017 5:09 am

Sam, it's true. This was a short chapter because
it's time for everyone to hang on to their seats.

Easter01

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PostSamantha61 on Sun May 07, 2017 11:21 am

claphands1 Yippee watermelon watermelon I'm ready.. hiding


Thank you so much Crissi, it's beautiful
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Postpoppy100 on Sun May 07, 2017 1:08 pm

        short or not.. You always get a hug of me Easter01   doggyhug


thanks for your lovely siggie Crissi  hugsmilie 
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PostEaster01 on Sun May 07, 2017 5:00 pm


The Warlock Executive
A Father Michael Story
by Joanne and Richard Easter (c) 2017



Hell-Hound

Part 12

“Sir, we’ve got movement on the outer row of sensors,” Sergeant LaCroix calmly informed Commandant Rosseau, his eyes riveted to one of the monitors before him. There were now two additional technical specialists seated at the electronics table to assist LaCroix and to handle communications for the command center.

It was now shortly before ten o’clock, full dark, and the GIGN force had been on high alert ever since seven-thirty, when a dozen Directorate agents posing as station chiefs had arrived in two black vans. The basement area was now nearly deserted, the majority of the troops sent to their positions on the upper floors. Only the command center team and Michael’s team remained below ground. Michael had strict orders from Kriger to remain out of the fighting unless absolutely necessary; this was to be a GIGN operation and he and Marcel and Simone were only to observe and report. The commandant had seemed quite confident that he and his men could handle anything that might come their way, but the Directorate agents were not so sure, and kept their weapons handy.

The lights had been turned on in the main and second floors. The shutters of the first floor were closed, concealing forty troopers armed with Barretts and ABL anti-tank weapons like their counterparts in the upper floors. The shutters of the second floor had been left open deliberately for the benefit of anyone who might spy upon the “meeting” being staged there. Two large wooden tables had been shoved together and draped with a tablecloth. The agents - all members of the Directorate security force and thus also members of the same werewolf pack as those outside - had earlier consumed a meal provided by the “caterers” (also werewolves). The remains of the meal had been cleared away and the men at the table had continued the charade of a meeting for anyone who might view them through the windows. Beneath the table, and stacked out of sight next to the windows, was an impressive array of weaponry. Another twenty men, members of the GIGN force with Captain Berger among them, were concealed on this floor and ready for action.

The third floor remained dark, but was not empty. Behind each window were armed men, six fire teams manning the Browning machine guns and another two dozen each armed with Barrett rifles; all wore night vision goggles. The higher elevation was not ideal, because the men would be unable to depress their fire to cover the base of the building, but was deemed necessary to position the men so that they would be firing at a downward angle to reduce the chance of stray rounds from the Brownings finding their way into the homes of the local population. The nearest house was nearly a kilometer distant, for the vineyards of the estate were extensive, but rounds could carry for a considerable way.

Rosseau quickly stepped over to see, leaning forward and placing one hand on the tabletop and the other on the sergeant’s shoulder. “Where?” he asked curtly. “Show me.” Michael and his companions, who had been idly conversing a few meters away, now moved forward to observe, but careful not to interfere.

LaCroix tapped the monitor with his right forefinger. “On the lane leading in to the building, right in front.”

“Menard…what have you got on the drone?” Rosseau snapped.

The technician with the joystick controlling the airborne drone indicated a monitor showing a surreal greenish landscape with a large number of white dots moving down from the top of the screen. “They’re coming in fast and dumb, sir…straight down the lane. I make it as eighty to a hundred hostiles, coming in bunched up.” He hesitated a second. “The heat signature for the one in front is awfully big, sir…do you suppose they have some sort of armored unit?”

“Not according to the intel I was given, but if it is, we’ll deal with it. Looks like we will see some action today, after all. Alert the troops!” he ordered the man in charge of communications. “Instruct the perimeter guard to pull back in behind the wall and be ready to engage the enemy.” This last order was intended to bring the Directorate security force, who had been patrolling the perimeter near the winery building, back into prepared positions behind a low rock wall that ran across the front of the building, which contained some rather unkempt and overgrown landscaping.  

“Good!” The commandant smiled confidently. “Let’s give them a little welcome. Arm the mines in that sector, front and back.” LaCroix used a mouse to open a window on one of the monitors, and selected a group of MAPED mines with the cursor. “Active, sir.”

“Wait for them to get inside the kill zone,” Rosseau instructed. The mines on the access roads had been placed in two lines, twenty-five meters long, on either side of the road, facing each other. Anything caught in the zone between the mines would be shredded.

“Fifty meters, sir,” Menard reported. “They’re moving pretty fast.”

“Be ready, Sergeant.”

From his vantage point, Michael could see the oncoming invaders progressing down the screen toward two lines of red dots which had been superimposed upon the monitor and which, he supposed, represented the rows of MAPED mines. As he watched, the lead elements of the demon force entered the gap between the explosive devices.

“Wait a bit, wait a bit…” Rosseau cautioned. “Let’s get as many as possible inside the kill zone.”

Unseen by the commandant, who was behind him, Sergeant LaCroix, a seasoned veteran, rolled his eyes. Like he needed some officer to tell him when to spring the trap.  

“Now, Sergeant!” Rosseau ordered, anticipation gleaming in his eyes.

The center of the monitor flared brightly as the mines detonated, and from outside the building the sound of the explosions worked its way down to the basement level as a low rumbling.

“Report, Corporal!” Rosseau was tightly gripping the back of the man’s chair, his teeth bared in a predatory grin.

Menard examined the monitor closely. “They’re still coming, sir! Only seven…no, eight…down!”

“That’s impossible!” Rosseau shouted. “Nothing could have survived that! That whole force should have been annihilated.”

“Sir! They’re almost on us!” Menard was obviously struggling to retain his professional demeanor.

Rosseau whipped around to Lefebvre, the communications technician. “Quick! Tell the men to fire at will!” The tech relayed the order, and moments later they could hear the muffled sound of the heavy machine guns opening fire, and the staccato reports of the Barrett rifles mixed with thumps from the explosions of the ABL shells.

“Sir! We’ve lost Kite One!” Menard exclaimed, referring to the drone stationed overhead, which had been dropped down to about a hundred meters’ altitude.

“Malfunction?” the commandant asked quickly.

“No, sir. I think something took it out!”

“Well, man, launch Kite Two. Quickly, now!” In a farmyard about a mile distant from the winery, a small military helicopter-style drone which had been on standby, waiting to relieve the one now overhead, began to power up, startling the two men of the troop who had been detailed to hold it in readiness since they had received no indication that it would be needed so soon.

Rosseau quickly turned to Michael. “I thought you said these things did not have weapons,” he accused.

Before Michael could reply, there was a series of loud simultaneous crashes from upstairs, and then a louder explosion. Rosseau swore violently “Now what!” There were no cameras inside the building, since no one had foreseen the need. “Get me a report!” he ordered Lefebvre, pounding the tabletop with his fist. “Find out what’s going on!”

The third floor of the building was a scene of total chaos, and no one had time to answer Lefebvre’s urgent requests for a sitrep. The crashing they had heard was the impact of a half-dozen of the bat-winged flying demons who had swooped in, above the surveillance drone, and burst through the upstairs windows. One of the creatures, as it dived toward the winery, had casually knocked the drone out of the sky with a single swipe of a clawed foot. The man-sized creatures, the jaws of their reptilian heads filled with razor-edged teeth, were now rampaging among the men in the upper floor. Despite their long experience and professionalism, the GIGN troops were panicking as the savage beasts ripped at them with teeth and talons. One man, carrying one of the anti-tank weapons which he had been about to fire out the window at the onrushing demons, reacted instinctively when he was seized by one of the horrible creatures, and jammed the ABL into its chest and pulled the trigger. The shell pierced the creature’s body and detonated a half-second later, disintegrating the winged beast and killing the trooper and five other men nearby.

In the lane outside, the pack of demons was now only twenty meters from the building. The blast from the fragmentation mines had taken out five of the spike demons, who despite their formidable appearance were rather delicate, and three of the minotaur-like monsters. The rest had ignored their fallen companions and rushed forward, tattered and bleeding but still intently focused on their goal. The massive rock monster was in front of the pack, its hide cratered and pitted from the blast fragments and dozens of hits from the Raufoss rounds, but in its present form, it could take a tremendous amount of punishment…and it was very, very angry.

The bulk of the demons were now so close to the winery building that the troops on the upper floor could no longer bring their weapons to bear, not that there were many of them able to pay attention to what was going on outside given the carnage that was occurring in their midst. The Brownings had been abandoned as the men sought to defend themselves in desperate individual battles, all semblance of organization and discipline lost. Nearly as many troops were being taken out accidentally by their companions as were killed by the demons, caught in the weapons crossfire.

Despite the loss of the Brownings, the remaining floors were pouring a concentrated fire upon the invaders that would have been deadly to any human force. Adding to the storm, the men of the Directorate’s security team, who were now kneeling behind the one-meter high rock wall across the front of the building, began to pepper the onrushing monsters with armor-piercing sabot slugs from their AA-12 automatic shotguns. The armor-piercing rounds and explosive shells of the defenders were taking a toll among the demons, their numbers now reduced almost by half, but were far less effective than had been expected. It took multiple, well-placed hits to put a monster down and keep it down. The intense fire directed at them knocked down many of the demons, but most quickly scrambled to their feet and kept coming, leaving only a handful of mortally wounded monsters in their wake.

The rock demon roared at the impacts on its hide and continued to run forward, crouching slightly but otherwise ignoring the firestorm, much as a man might be moderately inconvenienced by a sudden summer rain shower. Several more of the demons dropped in their tracks to fall writhing upon the ground, their bodies smoking and hissing as they shriveled into little more than a black and greasy stain in death. Only three of the spike demons were left, but there was still nearly half a hundred monsters running toward the building.

“Mother of God,” the man beside Thibodeaux gasped as he caught his first full view of the rock demon through his night-vision goggles. “Look at the size of that thing!”

“Just shut up and keep firing,” Thibodeaux shouted.

Zorug, the rock demon, reached the front of the building and, without slowing its pace, crashed through the wall, taking out the door and a substantial amount of masonry surrounding it. The creature took three large steps inside before its great weight caused the ancient floorboards to give way, dropping it down into the basement level command center in a splintering crash.

The horde of monsters poured in through the opening like a dark flood and began to spread through the building and up the stairs in search of prey, as the startled troopers inside whipped around and tried to bring their weapons to bear on this assault from an unexpected direction. Abruptly, all fire to the outside ceased as the firefight began inside the lower floors.

Outside, the last of the demon horde, the hell-hound pack, paused in its rush toward the opening in the building and stopped a few paces short, sniffing the air and bristling, seeming oblivious to the torrent of shotgun projectiles that continued to lash at their hides. There was a dozen of the savage creatures, huge beasts that measured nearly 120 centimeters at the shoulder, covered with shaggy black hair and with flames burning in their eyes. As one, they turned left and right to face the security team crouched behind the walls, sensing a natural enemy in the presence of the werewolves.

“Oh, crap,” Thibodeaux muttered. “This is not good.”


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Postszanne7000 on Sun May 07, 2017 10:34 pm

Part 11 - omgtext

Part 12 - “This is not good.” You think? heheheheh



Thank you, Crissi, for my beautiful signature <3
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PostEaster01 on Tue May 09, 2017 8:07 pm


The Warlock Executive
A Father Michael Story
by Joanne and Richard Easter (c) 2017



Werewolf

Part 13

On a low rise about half a kilometer from the battle, the two groups of vampires, the bikers and the Goths, loitered beneath the cover of a grove of trees and watched the fireworks. The bikes had been left in a convenient barn outside the town, since the vampires could move much more quickly and silently on their feet; the bikes were, after all, just for show, part of their assumed persona. They had no way of knowing that they were completely invisible to the aerial thermal imaging sensors of the drone overhead, although their keen senses had picked up the faint buzz of its motors and they had made an astute guess as to its nature. Vampire bodies always assumed the ambient temperature of their environment, and so could not be distinguished from the background by heat sensing devices. There were fourteen vampires beneath the trees, four couples, male and female, attired in Gothic fashion, in addition to the six members of the gang of female biker bloodsuckers.

Black-haired Sheila leaned closely against the shoulder of her lover, Billy, the leader of the gang of Gothic vamps, making small pleasure sounds deep in her throat, her forefinger winding and unwinding the silver chain around her neck, as the light show before them continued to escalate. “Ooooh, that’s so pretty!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide, as the Browning machine guns opened up on full automatic, the tracers sketching arcs of light through the night. His arm around her waist, holding her possessively, Billy explained what they were seeing, and then swore as high-explosive rounds began landing among the group of silhouetted monsters pounding toward the winery building. “Well, pet, I'm glad it’s that lot takin' an 'idin' from the Frogs, and not us! Only a bleedin’ git would run straight into that sort of fire. Demons,” he said contemptuously, and spat on the ground. “Barkin’ mad, the lot of ‘em.”

Randi, the muscular, tattooed leader of the female bikers, glanced at him with distaste. Although the two groups were both under the shelter of the trees, they did not mingle and remained with their own kind, disdainful of the lifestyle chosen by the other set. “The warlock’s gonna be cheesed off if we don’t cop into the fight,” she commented. Her companion, the scrawny, dirty-blonde Libbie, nodded vigorous agreement, and quickly stared down at her feet. “But I’m so ‘ungry,” she whined, in a low voice. “Can’t we just go eat them?”

“Oh, sod th’ warlock!” Billy released Sheila and turned to face the other leader. “How’s 'e gonna know? This?” He reached up, pried the radio receiver out of his ear, and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. There was a sharp popping sound as he crunched it flat. “Oops. I fink its broken. Shame.” He flicked it away into the darkness. “We'll do us part, right, but we're gonna be keen about it. Not walkin’ up into th' guns like a pack a nutters. We'll just sit tight 'ere wile that lot softens them up a bit, right, and then stroll in and pick up th’ leavin’s.”

When Randi did not respond but began to look thoughtful, he added, “Besides if this is so important ter the bloody wizard, why ain't 'e 'ere?” He spat on the ground again, for emphasis.

Randi was silent a moment longer, and then nodded. “Yor right. Why should we risk ourselves in this crazy attack? I might already be dead, but I don't fancy bein' blown ter bits and spendin' eternity that way.”

“Right. So just set back and enjoy th’ show.”

“Oooh, look!” Sheila tugged on his sleeve. “They’ve broken into th’ buildin’!” She clapped her hands in her excitement. “Them demons will eat them right up!”

Billy put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a fond squeeze. “That's awright luv. I expect there will be plenty of treats left for us.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Gauloises that he had just recently acquired, and lit one with a wooden match. Vampires did not need oxygen to survive, any more than they needed to consume human food, but their lungs were perfectly functional at moving air in and out; otherwise, how could they speak? He drew in a lungful of smoke and contemplated the long-distance carnage below with satisfaction.

Back at the winery, the din inside the building was rising to a crescendo comprised of gunfire, occasional explosions, the shouts and curses of panicked men battling for survival, the shrieks and growls of monsters, and other sounds too horrible to describe. The scene before the building was almost peaceful by comparison, a frozen tableau of motionless men and demons that belied the tension of the moment. The hell-hounds had stopped in their tracks, confronting the security team but not advancing. Thibodeaux and his pack members stopped firing and cautiously rose to their feet, uncertain just what was happening.

The largest hell-hound took a step forward, and then another, its companions remaining in place, until it had approached to within two meters of Thibodeaux, and stopped again. It fixed him with a hard, unwavering stare from eyes the color of blood, its lips curled back to reveal gleaming teeth, yellow saliva dripping, the coarse hair of its body bristling and tail tip twitching slightly, and it snarled a harsh challenge. Its breath was vile, and its body reeked of a foul, musty odor that Thibodeaux inhaled with distaste. The creature snarled again, and then whipped its head around and trotted back to rejoin the other hell-hounds, leading them out into the space in front of the building where they formed a half-circle and waited for the humans to respond. All stood stiff-legged, mouths agape to display moist red fang-filled caverns.

“What do they want?” the man beside Thibodeaux whispered, tightly clutching his weapon, ready to bring it up and fire upon an instant.

The security chief made a slight gesture with his hand, palm down, never taking his eyes from the alpha leader of the hell-hounds. “I think…” he said slowly, “that it is a pack challenge. They want us to fight them as werewolves, not in human form.”

“But what if they attack us while we are changing?” There was uncertainty in the man’s voice, but no fear. “It takes a moment…”

Thibodeaux could feel his skin beginning to tingle, the first sign of an impending change into wolf form. His body was reacting instinctively to the threat posed by the hell-hounds, and he could tell that the others of his team felt it also, the beginning of an involuntary shift. “I don’t think we have any choice,” he said. There must be something about the hounds, some pheromone or some magical aura that they gave off, that was prompting the change. The men and women of his team exchanged looks, and gathered behind their captain, laying their weapons on top of the stone wall as the hell-hounds waited, the demon leader pacing back and forth in anticipation.

There was no time for the careful removal of their clothing; Thibodeaux and his people were fully in the grip of the change. As one, they fell to their knees, the cells of their bodies beginning the painful realignment that marked the transition to werewolf. Bones crackled and clothing shredded as their bodies grew and limbs stretched into canine form, thick fur sprouted and canine teeth elongated. In mere moments, a dozen werewolves crouched in the narrow space before the winery building.

Thibodeaux shook his head vigorously and fixed narrowed eyes upon the leader of the hell-hound pack. It would be hard to say which form had the advantage. The werewolves were heavier in build, more massive, but the hell-hounds were larger, taller, and light on their feet, moving with an almost feline grace. Their numbers were equal, a dozen on each side. Well, very soon they would find out which was meaner and tougher, hell-hound or werewolf.

He stalked forward slowly, lips retreating in a silent snarl, hackles raised, the members of his pack following behind, until he was but a few paces away from the hell-hound leader. The two groups stood in silent confrontation for a moment, and then each began to move sideways, circling around each other in the space before the building, looking for weakness. There was a sudden explosion of glass above them as one of the minotaur beasts was propelled backwards through a window, landing in a motionless heap a few meters away from the circling packs, who were so focused on each other that none spared a glance for the creature. The minotaur beast began to smoke and shrivel, and soon there was nothing left but an oily smear.

The windows of the third floor were now awash with a flickering yellow light from fires ignited by the incendiary Raufoss rounds, never intended to be used on targets inside the building. There was a brief chatter of machine-gun fire as one of the embattled occupants of the floor wrestled one of the heavy weapons around and turned it upon the bat-winged invaders, but it quickly fell silent amid a chorus of blood-curdling screams. The flames sprang higher and higher until the entire floor was ablaze. On the main and second floors, gunfire rose to a crescendo as demons clashed with soldiers in pitched battles.

Thibodeaux-wolf suddenly launched himself at the hell-hound leader, nearly two hundred kilograms of cold canine fury hurtling through space. The hound sprang up to meet him and the two collided in mid-air, slashing at each other with their teeth. The greater mass of the werewolf knocked the hell-hound to the ground, but it nimbly scrambled to its feet as Thibodeaux lunged after it, seeking to fasten teeth in its throat, and danced away. This was the signal for a general melee, as all the members of both packs now closed for one-on-one combat. The air was rent with snarls and growls, and involuntary shrieks when fangs tore at tender flesh. In moments, half of the werewolf pack was down, their greater strength proving to be no match for the unnatural speed and ferocity of the hell-hounds.

Thibodeaux was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but was still on his feet, nearly exhausted, tongue lolling. He was now facing three of the hell-hounds, the leader plus two of his pack who, having dispatched their opponents were now free to combine against the remaining wolves. He lowered his head, guarding his throat, and took a few cautious steps backward, the hounds pacing forward as he retreated, until finally his rump backed into the stone wall and there was nowhere else to go. The hell-hound leader now sat down and glared at him, a gaze filled with both malice and satisfaction. One of the two hounds dashed in and slashed at Thibodeaux’s side and dashed away, tearing open a long gash, and immediately the other hound rushed in from the other side, ripping at his hide. Again and again they came, as he spun wearily to try to meet the savage attacks, always just a little too late to counter the slashing teeth, until finally he began to totter and sway from the loss of blood. In moments, he would be on the ground, and that would be the end.

From out of the night, like a guided missile, a jet-black feline form collided with the hell-hound nearest Thibodeaux, and the two bodies went rolling across the yard in a tangle of claws and teeth, the hound shrieking as long fangs fastened into its throat. The newcomer shook its head, and dropping the limp form of the hellhound to the ground, opened its mouth in a scream of panther fury. At the same time, another silent black missile smashed into the other hound, bowling it over, pinning it down and ripping at its exposed belly with the long claws of its hind feet. The hell-hound writhed and twisted briefly under the were-panther, and then stopped moving. Marcel and Simone planted their front feet on the smoking bodies of their victims and snarled at the hell-hound leader, who had risen to its feet at their arrival and was rapidly backing away.

Minutes earlier, the enormous rock demon had crashed through the floorboards of the main floor and dropped into the basement, the unexpected arrival shocking the command team. Zorug, the demon, landed heavily in the center of the room, crouching to absorb the impact, and immediately fixed his gaze upon the human occupants. It grinned with evil delight at the sight of the puny humans, and let out a roar of challenge that shook dust off of the ceiling. Commandant Rosseau gaped at the unbelievable sight, momentarily frozen into immobility, and then his warrior’s instincts responded to the threat. “Weapons!” he shouted, and raced to the wall where a group of Barrett rifles was leaning against the wine-casks, close at hand. He snatched one up and threw it to Sergeant LaCroix, who had immediately leapt to his feet when the monster came crashing in upon them and who snagged the bolt-action rifle out of the air and quickly chambered a round, taking aim at the advancing demon, all the while muttering “Crap, crap, crap” under his breath. The huge man, naturally known as “Tiny” to his comrades, was hard to rattle, but this creature was not like anything he had ever seen. Rosseau barely had time to grab another rifle for himself, because the creature had begun advancing upon the small knot of humans by the electronics table, but the other techs had scrambled to their feet and jumped out of the way, grabbing weapons from a stack on the opposite wall.          

Father Michael, sword in hand, crouched near the stack of wine-casks, ready to move in any direction, waiting for an opportunity to get close enough to the monster to strike. Tizona, alert to the presence of this and so many other demons, was shining with a brilliant white light, emitting a high-pitched wordless song of challenge that seemed to goad the demon into a fury. It swiveled, faster than Michael had thought possible for a creature of its bulk, and swung a massive fist at him intended to smash his head into pulp.  Michael ducked instinctively and stepped back quickly, and the demon’s fist smashed into the row of casks, splashing them with Chablis and releasing a flood of wine that cascaded down onto the floor. Rosseau and “Tiny” LaCroix were now in action, sending round after round of the explosive 12.7 mm Raufoss projectiles at the demon, and Marcel and Simone had brought their shotguns into play, peppering it with sabot slugs, but the weapons fire seemed to have little effect other than to spall off small chunks of the creature’s rocky hide.

“Get back! Get back!” Michael shouted. “You can’t hurt it with those!” Rosseau, who did not lack in courage, ignored his warning and stepped forward, aiming his Barrett up into the monster’s gaping mouth. Before he could pull the trigger, the demon slammed his fist down on the commandant’s skull, driving him to the ground where he flopped for a moment, his head pulped, and then stopped moving. The rock demon now strode up to the end of the room and, with one giant fist, swept the electronics table clear of equipment, sending computers and monitors flying in a cascade of sparks. Dropping his rifle, LaCroix dived between the creature’s legs and rolled clear, but the other three technicians were less fortunate, cornered with no place to go, and the monster slapped them against the wall in a broken heap.

As the demon paused, staring down at the smashed bodies, Michael saw his opportunity at last. He swiftly crossed himself, and raising Tizona, ran forward to plunge the blade into the monster’s back. It sank deeply, without resistance, as though the rock-bound hide of the creature was no more than soft butter, and the demon Zorug froze in place, reaching back with both hands to claw at the sword impaling his back, hissing in pain and disbelief, while Michael twisted the weapon. The wound in its back began to smoke and sizzle, and in an instant the demon burst into a brilliant white flame, roaring in agony as its flesh was consumed by the magic of the enchanted sword. In moments, there was nothing left of the creature but sodden ashes, awash in the pool of wine spreading across the floor.

Michael let the point of the sword drop to the floor, and staggered back to be caught and steadied by the strong arms of Marcel. Sergeant LaCroix, in the center of the room, rose to his feet, his uniform soaked with wine and dripping, and ran to the corner to his fallen comrades, ignoring the body of Commandant Rosseau, who was obviously beyond help. He knelt down to examine the bodies, checking for pulses, and then, swearing foully, stood up and glared at Michael. “That was no damn mutant! Just what the hell did you Directorate people get us into!”

Recovering quickly, Michael pointed above his head, where there was a tremendous racket of gunfire, screams and growls. “Sergeant, there is no time to explain! Your men need help, and they need it right now!” LaCroix curtly nodded agreement. He picked up one of the Barrett rifles, checked the action, scooped up a handful of clips and stuffed them into one of his large uniform pockets, and raised an inquiring eyebrow at Michael. “Awright, Father, let’s go kill some mutants!”

Michael turned to Marcel and Simone. “Go, Father!” Marcel said quickly. “We’ll be right behind you!” Michael raised Tizona in a two-handed grip and, leading the way, raced across the room and charged up the stairs, Sergeant LaCroix right at his heels.  

Back in the basement, Marcel and Simone began quickly stripping off their clothing. In less than a minute, both stood nude and ready to begin the change into their panther forms. Marcel looked up at the gaping hole in the floor above their heads, and then placed his hands on Simone’s shoulders. “This is going to be bad, sweetheart. We might not make it.”

“I know,” was all she said, and rose up on tiptoe as he cradled her face in his hands, and kissed her tenderly.

“We’re going to have to be fast and smart, if we’re going to survive this,” he said, when at last they parted. When she nodded, he said, “Ready?”

Seconds later, there were two massive, jet-black cats crouching on the basement floor. As one, they leapt upward, through the hole, and into the fight.


THE WARLOCK EXECUTIVE
continues with Part 14
coming soon




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Samantha61
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PostSamantha61 on Tue May 09, 2017 9:37 pm

Omgosh just read part 12..not good, not good at all.. scared this one was a nail bitter for sure..awesome job girl..job well done lol..

Will be reading the next part I hope today


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Postszanne7000 on Wed May 10, 2017 3:09 am

Thank goodness for Tizona...

...now, if only people would listen to the Father when he tells them things...



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PostEaster01 on Thu May 11, 2017 8:15 pm


The Warlock Executive
A Father Michael Story
by Joanne and Richard Easter (c) 2017




Part 14

Michael came through the doorway at the top of the stairs, followed by LaCroix, and the two men emerged into a scene that literally resembled a Hieronymus Bosch painting of the torments of Hell. The overhead lights illuminated a sea of bodies, among which roamed an assortment of monsters, diverted from joining in the attack upstairs by the opportunity to feast upon human flesh. Immediately before him were two of the minotaur-like beasts, one with a bull’s head and one bearing the features of a ram, with horns curling backward, who were engaged in a tug-of-war over a dead trooper’s body. The creatures were snarling at each other, baring shark-like teeth. The GIGN soldiers had taken a toll of the demon attackers, however, for there were numerous black, oily splotches on the floor marking where monsters had fallen and, in death, shriveled away. The floor and walls were liberally dabbed with sprays and swatches of blood, and a foul, greenish ichor was splattered about. Just to the left of the struggling beasts, one of the insect creatures lay on the floor, its carapace shattered and leaking green goo, its legs kicking it slowly around in a circle as it died.

The two minotaur beasts were too absorbed in their contest to notice the arrival of the humans, but in the background another bull-headed creature, clutching a severed arm in its mouth, noticed them and, removing the partly devoured limb, bellowed a warning and challenge at the intruders. Across the room, other monsters, all of the minotaur type, threw aside the body parts upon which they had been feasting and, growling, began to converge upon Michael and Sergeant LaCroix.

Angered beyond reason, Michael heard himself screaming as his lifted the blazing sword and lunged forward to decapitate one of the two minotaurs fighting over the body before him, as LaCroix stepped up at the same time and shoved the end of his Barrett into the snarling mouth of the second and pulled the trigger. The creature’s head exploded, and the two monsters dropped to the floor and began smoking. Michael raised his sword again and prepared to meet the demons charging across the room toward them.

At that moment, two panthers suddenly appeared at the near edge of the gaping hole before the space where the front door had been, having leaped up from below, and took a quick look around, looking for something to attack. LaCroix swore, and swung his rifle around to deal with these new threats, but Michael quickly blocked the movement with his hand. “Stop! Not them! They’re on our side!” The huge black man swore again, and gave him a dubious look, but turned his weapon back toward the approaching minotaurs.

From outside the gap in the front wall, they could hear a ferocious snarling and squeals of pain. The two panthers exchanged a glance; they knew the sound of a wounded werewolf. The security team outside was under attack, and these were their own people. Instantly they turned and sprang across the hole in the floor and raced outside.

Inside, the minotaur beasts were almost upon them now, at least ten, perhaps more, for it was difficult to make an accurate count in the middle of a fight. Fierce bellows emerging from fang-filled maws, hate-filled yellow eyes glaring, clawed hands raised for disemboweling swipes, the creatures rushed forward in a mass intended to overrun and crush the puny humans beneath their hooves. Michael and LaCroix raised their weapons and braced themselves to receive the monsters. Tizona rose and fell, a shining pillar of white flame. Michael hacked and stabbed, danced and weaved among the fallen monster bodies, shouting at the top of his voice, calling upon God for strength to slay these vile foes, as LaCroix fired shot after shot, no time to aim, simply firing from the hip, and at last, with no time to change clips, forced to use his rifle as a club, beating down the monsters with sheer brute strength.

On the small hill to the east, Billy dropped the stub of his cigarette onto the ground and scuffed it out with the toe of his boot. “Well, ‘ave a lookit that. Th’ ‘oole place is on fire.” They could see that flames were shooting out of the windows of the top story of the winery; it seemed that soon the entire building would be consumed. He closed his eyes and sniffed the night air, and sighed with satisfaction. “Blood, luvly blood. Plenty o’ blood spilled tonight. Time we took us share.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I guess we should go cop wot we can find.” Billy turned and cocked his head at Randi and her lover, Libbie. “Well are yer lot comin' or not?” Randi made a disgusted sound and gestured for him to lead the way.

Billy jerked his head sideways at the building, and Sheila and the six other Goth vampires, and then the six female bikers, fell in behind him as he silently flowed down the hill, drawn by the coppery scent of blood like moths swarming to a candle flame.

Michael fell to one knee, holding the hilt of Tizona in one hand, point down in the wooden floorboards, perhaps all that kept him from collapsing. Beside him, LaCroix also sank to his knees, clutching the bent barrel of his battered rifle in both hands, using it as a prop to keep him upright. The last of the monsters was now a smoking heap of meat on the floor that shrank rapidly to a black smear as they watched. The clothing of both men was shredded from the grasping claws of the monsters they had battled, and both were covered with blood from dozens of small wounds. Michael reached up to push his hair out of his face and to wipe away the blood from a scalp wound that was trickling down into his left eye.

LaCroix let out a deep breath. “My friend, you do this for a living?” Michael could only shake his head, too exhausted to reply. From upstairs came a constant rattle of gunfire, mixed with bestial roars and the shouts of beleaguered men fighting for their lives.

The sergeant sighed, and rose slowly to his feet. “It seems it is not yet over, Father.” He extended a hand to the priest, who took it gratefully and struggled to get his feet beneath him.      

At that moment, there was a great sound from above of wood popping and cracking, accompanied by terrified cries. A rush of men and monsters came swarming down the stairs in a great hurry, no longer fighting, the panicked demons shoving the smaller humans out of their way, and rushed for the opening to the outside. Michael and LaCroix shrank back against the wall to let them pass, and then there was a tremendous crash and a gout of flame blasted down the stairs, throwing the last batch of humans and demons into a tangled, snarling heap at the bottom. They struggled to their feet and also ran for the ruins of the doorway, one demon roaring in outrage and panic as another elbowed him aside, falling into the gaping hole in the floorboards. One of the troopers shouted at LaCroix as he ran past, “Get out! The whole place is going up!” and his warning was accompanied by a loud groaning sound from the floorboards overhead, and a furnace roar of flames that could be heard through the stairwell. The sergeant tossed his useless rifle aside and ran for the outside, skirting the edge of the gaping hole, with Michael, clutching Tizona, close behind.

At the sound of the crash, Simone looked up from where she knelt in the short grass before the winery building, trying to staunch the bleeding of the wounded man who lay before her, using a scrap of cloth from the clothing shredded during the werewolves’ transformation. Michael, along with the two remaining team members who had survived the hell-hound battle and whose injuries were moderate enough to allow them to assist, were dragging the more severely wounded farther away from the intense heat of the burning building. One of the female wolves, Aimée, had been killed in the fight with the hell-hounds; she was survived by her sister-wolf, Claire, who was among the injured being assisted. As werewolves, they would heal quickly, but perhaps not in time to be ready for further combat any time soon. All were completely naked, now that they had reverted back to human form; the wolves’ clothing was no more than scattered scraps behind the wall, and Simone and Marcel’s garments remained in the basement, but under the circumstances they worked without embarrassment.

The hell-hounds had all been slain; as fast and vicious as they were, they had been no match for the greater speed and agility of the panthers. The victory, such as it was, had come at a terrible price; of the dozen men of the werewolf security team, only six remained alive, and all bore grievous wounds from the fangs of the hounds. Even the were-panthers had been marked with painful gashes that continued to seep blood, though none were serious. Marcel, who had been the first subject of Simone’s ministrations, wore a blood-soaked cloth tied around his back and neck, and she sported a make-shift wrapping around her upper left arm.  

As the slate roof of the burning winery building caved in, the heavy debris collapsed the upper floor and pancaked it down into the second story, sending a gout of flames and sparks billowing skyward. As she watched, the flaming figure of a minotaur beast leaped through one of the broken windows and plummeted to the ground, followed by another, and another, desperate to escape what had suddenly become an inferno. The gunfire in the upper stories ceased immediately, and was replaced by the bellow of monsters and screams of humans trapped in the fire.

She leaped to her feet as a swarm of monsters came rushing through the gap in the front wall of the building, but they paid no heed to the people outside but kept running, disappearing into the darkness down the road from which they had launched their attack. There were no more than a dozen of the creatures, minotaurs and insectoids, the last remnants of the invading force. Close upon their heels came the human survivors, a mixture of GIGN troopers and Directorate security men who had been fighting the demons on the second floor. Most having lost their weapons in the chaos, they ran out into the cleared area before the building and looked frantically about, expecting to be attacked at any moment, coughing and hacking from inhaled smoke. Their agitation subsided quickly when they saw that there were no more monsters in the vicinity, only a handful of naked human beings, and their eyes goggled at the sight of Simone before them, magnificent in her nudity despite the blood and dirt caked upon her. Several of the men dropped to the ground on their hands and knees, for the moment, no longer able to stand upright.

Michael and Sergeant LaCroix now came staggering out of the building, not a moment too soon, for behind them the remaining floors now collapsed down into the basement level, leaving only the ancient and massive stone walls starkly standing, flames shooting out of the window openings and a burst of flame erupting from the former doorway opening. When the sergeant saw Simone, he quickly stripped off his overlarge shirt and walked over to her and draped it across her shoulders. She gave him a quick smile of appreciation and put her arms through the sleeves. It hung on her like a circus tent, but she rolled up the sleeves and tied a strip of cloth around her waist to gather it in, and knelt down again beside the wounded man.

The men of the GIGN force had just been ground up between Hell and a hard place. There were now only thirteen men left of what had been a troop of more than a hundred, and a casualty rate of nearly ninety percent was virtually unheard of in the annals of modern warfare. It was no wonder that their professional composure had been shaken. These men were the best police officers that France had to offer, veterans all, and many had served in military operations overseas, including Opération Daguet during the 1991 Gulf War, in Afghanistan, and on various peace-keeping missions in northern and central Africa, yet nothing in their experience had prepared them to deal with the sheer ferocity of an assault by creatures straight out of their worst nightmares.

The men of the Directorate security force had fared little better, with only three survivors escaping from the building, which, added to those who had fought the hell-hounds outside, left nine alive out of the original complement of thirty. Being werewolves, the men of D-4’s security force were accustomed to dealing with the supernatural, but even they had been rocked by the horrific forces arrayed against them. Once they were outside, however, and saw so many of the other members of their pack dead or injured on the ground, they sprinted over to help, followed by Father Michael, who plunged his sword heedlessly point-first into the ground and dropped to his knees beside a wounded man. Tizona was no longer glowing, assuring the priest that there were no longer any demons close by. Despite their own injuries, in short order, the surviving members of the pack had carried the wounded away from the fire and had the dead lined out in a row, while Marcel, Simone and Michael tended to the injuries of the fallen.

The first of the GIGN troopers to recover was Captain Berger, who considered his escape from the chaos of the second floor to be nothing short of a miracle. The defenders on this floor had just a few seconds more to prepare when the demons had crashed through the front of the building and massacred the men on the main floor, and they used these moments well, overturning the heavy tables used for the conference and taking up positions behind them. Even so, the battle went badly for them from the very start. The first creature to reach the top of the stairs was a damned enormous bug, a man-sized cockroach, and it scuttled across the room on six legs with astonishing speed, seizing the first man it came to and ripping him apart with its pinchers before his comrades could bring their weapons to bear. An instant later, the thing exploded in a hail of projectiles, splattering green goo over everything in the vicinity. It only went downhill from that point, as more and more nightmare creatures swarmed into the room.

Berger took a couple of steps back from the crowd of traumatized men, toward the burning building, and put two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. “Listen up!” he shouted, over the roar of the flames. The men turned toward him. His figure was only a dark silhouette backlit by the flames, but his men knew his voice, and he had picked this position so that he could scan the faces now turned in his direction. So few, he thought, so damned few.

“You men have been through Hell,” he said, speaking loudly to be overheard. “But you survived, and we’ve got a lot to do before we can get out of this place.” Seeing that he now had their full attention, Berger began issuing orders. “Duval, Barbier, you’ve had advanced first aid training. Go help the lady,” and he pointed to where Simone was still tending the injured man, whom he saw was Thibodeaux, head of the security force, and who was now sitting up as she wrapped a make-shift bandage over the wound. “Any of you men with serious injuries,” the captain continued, “go with them.” The two troopers indicated by Berger helped a third man hobble over to Simone, supporting him between them, but there were no other takers. The GIGN men had regained some of their professional confidence and were not concerned with minor wounds.

“Legrand, Clement, I want you to head over to those vehicles and look for water and any first aid supplies you can find.” Off to his left, about fifty meters distant, the Kangoo vans that had transported the Directorate team were lined up in front of a smaller outbuilding, along with the larger van used by the “caterers” and several additional vehicles that had brought in the security men posing as D-14 station chiefs “While you are about it, check them for any spare weapons, and get on the radio and let HQ know what has happened here. We are going to need some help, and right away. Snap to it!”

He smiled with relief when he saw the huge form of Sergeant LaCroix. “Sergeant! Take the remaining men and get those weapons off the wall, there, and form a defensive perimeter.” He was referring to the automatic shotguns that had been left behind when the security team outside had changed to werewolf form to fight the hell-hounds. “We’re going to be stretched pretty thin, but do the best you can. We have to be ready in case any of the creatures come back at us again.” LaCroix strode over to the wall and picked up one of the 12-gauge Aitchison Auto-Assault shotguns and inspected it carefully, and then grinned broadly and began issuing orders of his own to the seven men now detailed to protect their position.

Simone cinched the bandage tight around Thibodeaux’s waist. “Do you think you can stand up?” she asked, quietly, and when he nodded in the affirmative, she put her right arm around his back, just above the wounded area, and let him drape an arm around her shoulders and slowly rose to her feet, bringing him up with her. He winced as he regained his footing, and staggered slightly while she steadied him.

“Mademoiselle, you are stronger than you look,” he murmured, as she stepped back. “Remind me later of how embarrassed I am to be rescued by a couple of cats.” She gave him a mildly reproving look. “In all sincerity, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. We would all be dead on the ground if not for you and Marcel.”

Simone started to reply, and stopped abruptly, turning to the east. Her nostrils flared as she sampled the air, and she turned quickly to Marcel, who had been wiping blood from one of the walking wounded a few meters away, trying to determine the extent of the man’s injuries. His attention also had suddenly been diverted by the scent he had picked up.

“I smell vampires!” Simone hissed.

“Yes…” Marcel replied, all senses alert, “…and a great many of them!”  

Around them the men of the werewolf pack had also paused in their activity, wolf senses detecting a malign presence out in the dark.


THE WARLOCK EXECUTIVE
continues with Part 15
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Last edited by Easter01 on Sat May 13, 2017 9:05 pm; edited 1 time in total




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Postszanne7000 on Thu May 11, 2017 9:47 pm

But, of course...

Out of the frying pan, into the fire, now into the darkness!



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Samantha61
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PostSamantha61 on Thu May 11, 2017 10:32 pm

Don't say anything Suzanne I haven't read the last 2 parts lol..


Thank you so much Crissi, it's beautiful
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I am so proud of all of you..
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Postszanne7000 on Fri May 12, 2017 7:25 am

giggle



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PostSamantha61 on Sat May 13, 2017 4:56 am

runcircle oh no not another round runcircle this isn't good no way no how.. runcircle
How in the world do you do this Joanne..this is so exciting and nail biting..omgosh how you can pull this big of a fight off..
I had to read both parts..couldn't just stop at one lol
I am still so much in awe of you..

I am so still and always will be your biggest fan
winner


Thank you so much Crissi, it's beautiful
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I am so proud of all of you..
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PostEaster01 on Sat May 13, 2017 3:45 pm

thau  Thank you soooo much.

As Sam will tell you, I'm not done yet.

I still have several more surprises....

Joanne

omg




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Postszanne7000 on Sat May 13, 2017 3:53 pm

Oh, I bet you do, Joanne!

<3 <3 <3

...I can't wait :D



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PostSamantha61 on Sat May 13, 2017 4:31 pm

When is the next round watermelon watermelon runcircle


Thank you so much Crissi, it's beautiful
~hugs and smiles my dear, dear BFF's~
I am so proud of all of you..
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Broomhilda's Sims2 DWJ
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