CdG Chapter 2, FINAL draft.
Roland and Auntie Exposition are on a roll, the plot is kinda thin and tends to gape a bit.
And it's one huuuge mofo. I need to stop ranting and do smaller chapters. But heh
Chapter 2 : Da Capo.
Da capo: ‘From the head’. A musical instruction, often abbreviated ‘D.C.’, meaning ‘repeat from the beginning until you come to the word 'fine' (end) .
***
It had taken less than an hour for the rescue team to locate Roland and bring him back to the base.
Adding tracking devices to the infantry gear had been a clever move; it allowed the Trackers to find, without delay, the Paladins that had had the bad luck to get stranded while fighting Jumpers. Many lives had been saved thanks to that measure.
Pity that a cunning little bastard like O'Conner had noticed these devices right away and systematically took them off of the agents he abducted.
Roland scowled. This was absolutely mortifying. They couldn't even keep count of how many were killed amongst their ranks by that brat - some said roughly ten a year, and others mentioned numbers like fifty or seventy. It was disheartening.
Roland stormed through the building, straight from the landing area to the debriefing room, without taking the time to clean up. The information he was carrying was of the utmost importance.
On his way through the corridors, Roland noticed a very young man sitting outside of the recruiting office. Roland halted in front of him and pointed at a notepad the boy was holding.
“You there. Give me that.”
The young man gaped at him. Roland absent-mindedly observed that the youngster had a very long neck and a total lack of chin which, combined with his current bewildered expression, failed to give him an astute look.
Roland snapped his fingers impatiently, “Come on boy, I need your notepad to write something down. Do you have a pen too?”
The boy nodded three or four times for good measure and handed him the notepad while fumbling for a pen in his shirt pocket. Roland grabbed the pad and the pen before resuming his walk to the debriefing room.
When he arrived there, the report about the Rice case was already halfway through. The Legate was listening sternly, writing down a few things from time to time, to be able communicate the new elements to the High Command later.
Roland's jaws tightened. He didn't like that part of his job: the whole… bureaucratic side.
The Legate was sitting at one end of a wooden table while a small group of men, standing up, were clustered together on the other side of the room. One of the men was holding a sheet of paper and was plodding through its reading, visibly ill at ease.
“...We are sorry to have to inform Your Highness of the loss of seven field agents today, and among them, the Veteran Nicholas Han. We report that another three agents have gone missing. We are most sorry to have to inform Your Highness that we are not yet able to certify where David Rice is located, even if we can assure Your Highness that precautions have been taken to ensure that...”
Roland's lips twisted in a sneer. Yes, this case was an incredible mess, and things were not looking up, that was for sure, but did they have to grovel that much?
The sorry-so-sorry litany was still going on. This was absolute nonsense. They were loosing time bowing and scraping, precious minutes that could save lives. Roland hastily wrote down a set of coordinates on the notepad, then cleared his throat and walked up to the Legate.
“Your highness, please forgive my interruption, but I must urgently draw your attention to another major problem. It seems that the North African section has lately been neglecting important information. I would suggest that you contact Ferumbras without delay, to advise him to dispatch a team at this location. This,” he said, tearing the page where he had written the coordinates off the notepad and presenting it to the Legate, “is the exact location of Griffin O'Conner's last hideout. If they could gather some data this time, it would be most helpful. That Jumper is starting to become a real danger to our kind; he knows too much. ”
Without sparing a glance at Roland, the Legate extended a smooth, delicate hand to take the piece of paper, folded it slowly and put it neatly away. Roland was exasperated by such a blatant dismissal. He ground his teeth and breathed deeply; insulting a Legate was not advised. So he picked his most humble expression, and tried again.
“Your Highness, I must insist, this is extremely urgent.”
No reaction.
Okay, if humble didn't work, he'd try a different approach.
“Sir,” he hissed, dropping the honorary terms, “Can I be bold enough to enquire as to why there's no Elite Paladin on O'Conner’s trail? He is too experienced to be handled by Regular, or even Veteran Paladins! I was taken off his case three years ago, but I never was replaced. Why is this? We knew he was hiding somewhere in North Africa, so why wasn't Otuel assigned on his case? We need to put O'Conner down for good. God only knows how many of our agents he’s murdered already!”
The Legate finally glanced up, and Roland could see the contempt in his eyes. Obviously, he hadn't appreciated being berated by mere foot soldier. Legates were slow, bureaucratic creatures. Things had to follow the official route.
The Legate pursed his lips.
“Well,” he paused (Roland wondered briefly how someone could manage to put such a heavy drawl on a world like that), and pursed his lips again. “Roland, may I remind you that your main target is David Rice?” Lips. Pursed. (What a disgusting habit, really...) “Other targets are none of your concern.”
Fine. Be that way. Two could play the bureaucratic game. “Sir, I hereby ask you to be reassigned to the Griffin O'Conner case.”
“Thank you, Roland.” The tone was clipped, disdainful. Almost insulting, really. “Your demand will be taken in consideration in due time.” The Legate stared at him. Roland refused to back down, and held his stare. “Sir, I-”
“You are dismissed, Roland.”
Roland had to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain from answering. He nodded curtly and walked out of the debriefing room.
No, they wouldn't even considerate his 'demand'. He knew it. They had pitchforked him into this case, three years ago, and they wouldn't take him off of it until Rice was dead. The High Command was more obsessed with a Jumper robbing banks and threatening their money than a Jumper decimating their army.
Roland was sick and tired of the High command. All these pompous pencil pushers had no clue what a Jumper really was, how evil and rotten they could be. How important it was to eradicate them.
How every Paladin life counted.
Roland had always resented his hierarchy for taking him off O'Conner's trail. He'd been so close; he'd almost had the monstrous brat in Prague... It had been a true nightmare at first, having to start again from scratch. Especially with a Jumper like Rice, who'd left so few traces. Three years spent obsessing over a Jumper, and ignoring all of him, up to his name... It had been Hell.
Roland was made to fight, to deal with that scum, not to sit in an office, impotent, waiting for the Trackers to announce another theft.
But things were finally looking up. It seemed that Roland's talents were not so wasted any more. Not only was the noose tightening around Rice, but the brat was obviously connected to O'Conner.
Even if the High Command didn't take his demand into considoration, he was sure to meet O'Conner again while going after Rice. Roland smiled contently.
This time, he could kill two birds with one stone.
Roland went back to the young man in front of the recruiting office, and handed him the notepad and the pen. He gazed down for a couple of seconds, thoughtful. Maybe... Yes, this would have to do.
“Boy, you haven't been assigned to a department yet, right? You're just in?”
“No sir- I mean yes sir, I... this is my first...” his voice faltered, then rushed on “Well, to be honest I was told to-”
Roland held his left hand up, effectively interrupting the flow of words. “Rejoice. You are officially joining the fight. I need a new aide-de-camp; my previous one was killed today.”
The young man staggered under the blow. He seemed to lose his colouration, and slumped slightly on his chair. His lower lip almost quivered. But he didn't protest.
“Perfect. I take note of your dedication, and I am glad you volunteered with so much enthusiasm.”
The young man opened his mouth, but his survival skills seemed to kick in and he closed it right away. Roland thanked God for this small grace; at least the boy knew when to shut up.
“I take you know who I am?”
The boy blinked rapidly and swallowed before answering in a small voice, “Yes Sir.”
“Good. I expect you to do your duty. Work hard and you won't disappoint me.” Roland reached for a set of keys in his pocket and handed it down to his new assistant. “Go and collect my last aide-de-camp's computer; you’ll need the data stored inside it.”
The young man took the keys and thanked him meekly.
“Hold on, I was forgetting... I need the detailed listing of all the female Trackers that are working in North America.”
“But... that’s at least two thous-”
“Yes, by tomorrow morning will be just fine,” Roland interjected sharply. “Thank you for your promptitude.” The boy was gawking again. He'd have to lose that habit, and fast. Roland stepped away from the chair and gestured in mock respect. “Go on then, don't let me detain you.”
As he watched the boy jump out of his seat and scramble away, Roland's thoughts drifted back to the picture he'd seen at Rice's father's house. He was sure he had already seen that woman somewhere before. If he was right, he knew how the brat had managed to have his tracks covered during so many years.
Now, a Paladin giving birth to a Jumper, wasn't that an interesting thing?
That night, Roland didn't sleep. He had things to organize.
***
-Four days later-
'Access Denied'
“Shit.”
Griffin typed down another combination.
'Access Denied'
“Fuuuuuck...”
What was the use in spending time questioning field agents if the head honchos didn't keep them updated with the new passwords? Leaning backward, Griffin gave a half hearted kick to his desk that sent him spinning around slowly. His chair was squeaking ominously with each revolution; time to get a new one. This one didn't seem to appreciate the damp air of the cave.
Griffin rubbed his eyes tiredly. The last three days had been a royal waste of time. He'd completely failed to sneak into the weapon prototypes' section. Something was bugging him. These fuckers were working on something.
Something big.
Something worse than that rotten wormhole machine. He couldn't say why, or how, but he had a real bad feeling about this whole business. A feeling that told him that if he didn't find out what the fuck was about to happen, he'd better find a helluva deep hole, crawl down to the bottom of it, and wait for the storm to pass.
A drop of water landed on Griffin's brow.
Jesus H. Christ. The fucking ceiling was leaking again.
Stalactites were one of the perks of living in a grotto twenty feet underground. Other privileges included a fairly large crop of mushrooms, the faint but persistent fragrance of eau-de-mould, and the air conditioning perpetually switched on cold.
Griffin sneezed, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He was going to catch his fucking death in there.
That was it. From now on, his next potential lairs had to be inconspicuous, isolated, easily defensible and with at least ONE fucking opening to let the sun in.
Standing up, Griffin reached for his jacket and put it on in one swift movement. Time to catch some sun.
He needed some fresh news: if he couldn't get information by hacking through the Paladin database, it was time to go back to the good old fashioned methods. Griffin grabbed his battered shoulder bag and shoved inside the essential tools of the trade; binoculars, tracking and listening devices, pad and pencil to sketch, butterfly knife, thick newspapers (a good Millwall brick could always come in handy), a couple of hand grenades and some money.
Pleased with his preparation, Griffin Jumped to a small town near Marseilles. He had a good hour walk ahead of him before reaching his destination.
Griffin had mixed feelings about France. In his mind it was so deeply associated with his mother that he doubted he could ever hate this country.
But for a Jumper, France was one of the worst places to be. The head of the French Paladin section, Renaud de Montauban, was one of those die-hard fanatics. Roland in a 3P suit, really. It was very, very hard to survive under his rule. France was littered with Paladins scouts triangulating most of the cities, even the small ones. Whenever he was in France, Griffin had to be extra cautious. Never Jump inside a city, always outside, then walk or drive in, always wear sunglasses, hats, high necked coats... whatever could conceal his face.
And avoid big cities like the plague.
French trackers worked in a very tight network. You couldn't Jump somewhere in Paris without the whole country being aware of it five minutes later. Worst, most of their infantry was very efficient and dedicated; with the Novices kept in training camps, all the field work was left to Experts and Veterans.
A sloppy Jumper, or simply an inexperienced one, didn't have a chance. Even the Spanish section wasn't as fucked up as the French one. They were maniacs.
But for someone attentive enough, even in France it was possible to find office workers in little towns; people that didn't feel really concerned, or that simply were too bored. Boredom was good.
It led to gossiping.
Gossiping that happened, let's say, during the lunch pause at the local bistro.
Griffin liked to tune in to what he called 'Radio Paladin' once in a while. It was risky, but it was a good way to keep tabs on what was happening and to have access to inside information. Most of the gossip was rubbish, but sometimes he came across interesting stuff - the wormhole blocker, for example. Griffin had known about it a week before it was launched.
The Paladins’ network security was perfect, but the employees were only human.
When Griffin arrived at the bistro, three regulars were already halfway through their meal. They always sat at the same table, just beside a large plating station. Griffin sat on the other side of the station, within hearing distance but not close enough to rouse suspicion.
He asked the waiter for a café noir, taking extra care to pronounce his words without the slightest trace of accent, and grabbed a newspaper, pretending to be deeply engrossed by the results of the last Marseilles-Paris football match.
On the other side of the station, the conversation hadn't really picked up yet. The Paladins were mainly complaining about working too much and blabbering on about their boss's pettiness. But then, the youngest put down his knife and cleared his throat.
“Les gars, il parait que Roland va débarquer en Europe....”
“Guys, I heard that Roland is coming over to Europe.”
The French pronounced 'Roland' with a hard R and a mute D, which made it quite hard to spot. But Griffin had quickly learned that however different the pronunciation, in any language, Roland's name was always mentioned with the same cautiousness.
One of the Paladins, a tall one with jet black hair chuckled warmly, “You're a bit behind, Jérémy, aren't you? He was in Europe all right, but that was last month. He's already back in the States.”
“No, no, Emilien, you don't understand. I mean, I heard he was coming over, like, for good. They say that when his current case is over, he'll be promoted Judge Inquisitor; that he'll be posted in Paris. Can you imagine that, guys? Having him here?”
Griffin's fists tightened on the newspaper, wrinkling it slightly.
Roland as a Judge? That was bad -fucking- news. Judges hardly left their offices, and were always under heavy protection. If Roland became a Judge, it'd be a lot harder to get to him. It'd be virtually impossible. This was bad, bad, BAD news.
Griffin suddenly realized that the waiter was staring at him quizzically. Griffin gave him a crooked grin and nodded sheepishly toward the newspaper, explaining, “Ces putains, de Parisiens, là...”
The waiter snickered and gave him an approving look. It always worked, to blame outbursts on sport results.
A circumspect silence had greeted the news at the Paladins' table. They didn't seem to be exactly thrilled about the whole Roland thing either.
The tallest man, Emilien, broke the silence with a small laugh. “Well, don't worry then, Jérémy. We've got time. Roland has been on the same case for the last three years. Some kind of bank robber... Anyway, the point is, it's not going to end that soon. By the time it's over, a nice, cozy place will be vacant in the USA, and he'll stay there.”
The young man didn't seem too convinced. “I don't know... They say they have new elements, and that with these, Roland is pretty much assured to get to the bank robber after all. They say it's a matter of days.”
The third Paladin spoke up: “Well. It's high time, if you want my point. It's ridiculous to have an Elite Paladin taking so long to catch a Jumper. That's a disgrace.”
The tallest man huffed at that. “Shut up Aurélien, you don't know what you're talking about. You've never done field work before.”
That remark seemed to hit home, for Aurélien bristled and spat, “Oh, because you, you've done so much more than me?”
“No, I didn't.” The tone was wary. “But my brother did. He was a Sensitive, you know? He could feel them Jump. He was a field agent, and he was tailing one of them when he was murdered.” At these words, the two other men slumped glumly into their seats. The Paladin went on, “Jumpers are malicious and resourceful, and they won't hesitate if they have the opportunity to strike at us. Don't either of you ever underestimate these bastards.”
Griffin smirked.
He muttered under his breath “Amen to that, bro. Glad to know that the feeling's mutual...” before downing his coffee in one gulp, paying for it (tipping generously) and getting up.
He'd heard enough for the day; it was time to head home.
So.
Roland was getting dangerously close to dear little David. That was bad news. Not because of the probable loss that would result of it per se, but because of that whole Judge business. Roland as an Inquisitor, well, how was that for a problem? Shit. Griffin had to kill him before the Paladin dealt with David. Or during. Using the brat as bait was a possibility too.
Anyway, Griffin needed to keep closer tabs on the boy. Where David went, Roland would follow.
Knowing the Paladin's modus operandi, it hadn't been hard for Griffin to find where David was hiding. A quick scan through the USA health database had told him that David Rice was the son of Mary Rice (gone AWOL twenty years ago) and William Rice, who was currently a brain-dead resident of the Ann Arbor hospital.
Typical Paladin work. If they didn't kill the family members right away, they left them worse than dead - then they just waited for the Jumper to run head first into the trap. It worked all the time.
Four days ago, Griffin had Jumped to Detroit, and then gone by train to Ann Arbor. Jumping directly to David's girlfriend's apartment had been a big no-no.
The weather had been sunny, but windy enough to give him an excuse to pull up the neck lapels of his coat. The least easy to identify he was, the better. The good thing with Sensitives was that they relied a bit too much on their 'gift' and were only paying attention to the Jumps - few of them actually bothered to look around for Jumpers.
Griffin had walked to the park in the front of the hospital and spotted them right away; two of them, sitting on a bench, trying to look inconspicuous and failing miserably.
He had chuckled at the sight. “Seriously guys, you should drop the grey trench coat thing. Not only it's butt ugly, but it makes you kinda easy to spot.”
He had bought a coffee at Starbucks before picking a bench to sit on. He hadn't needed to see the hospital entrance - just wanted to be able to keep an eye on the two Paladins. Follow the tail, you'll find the cat.
He'd settled there, drinking his coffee, and distractedly listening to two old ladies chatting about a terrible flood at the local library ('I tell you, they said that they repaired it the last time, but it was lies, I tell you, lies!'), and how it had been bought over by some big company ('Isn't that a shame? You can be sure that they will knock it down!'), and how things were generally much better in the good ol' times.
Griffin'd been starting to get slightly bored when it had happened; the two Paladins' heads had whipped around. They'd dropped their newspapers, jumped up to their feet, and ran straight toward the hospital. They had obviously felt a Jump inside the building. Griffin had been about to get up and head carefully inside too when a sudden movement on the other side of the park had caught his eye.
David had been standing across the road, in the shade of a building. A good handful of Jump rot had been slowly settling down around him as evidence of the young man's chaotic state of mind. He'd gazed longingly and woefully at the hospital for a few moments and Jumped away.
Following him from there to his new place had been a piece of cake. The boy was getting more cautious, but it was still far from being enough. Once he'd known where David lived, it'd been much easier to keep an eye on him.
But it had been three days since Griffin had checked the boy's position, which meant that he had to fit a trip to the USA in today's schedule. As if it wasn't busy enough.
Thinking back to that moment when David had been standing on the other side of the road, in front of the hospital, Griffin snorted. That boy really wore his heart on his sleeve. While he had been looking at the hospital, his face had sported such an intensely tragic look that it had almost been comical. The boy was so naive; he'd looked like a lost child whining after his dadd-
'Go on, Dad!'
Griffin reeled.
The memory had just come out of nowhere. For a few seconds, he had been able to picture his father's face again. He'd been so sure he had forgotten it long ago. He'd tried more than once to draw both of his parents, when he'd been younger, but he'd never managed to. He convinced himself that he'd forgotten their faces, and had given up trying. But right now, the memory had been crystal clear.
Griffin licked his parched lips and tried to hold on to the memory. He screwed his eyes shut in concentration. If he could remember the features well enough, he might be able to draw it this time, and-
'Oh come on Dad, I know the rules! Stop nagging at me!'
Griffin suddenly felt nauseous. He could feel trickles of cold sweat running between his shoulder blades. He shouldn't try to remember these things. The past belonged to the past-
'Dad!'
Shut up.
' Dad! No, stop that! That tickles!'
…shutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshu-
'Dad...?'
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
The echoes of his own voice - raw, angry, crazy, demented - brought him back to reality.
Griffin slowly realized that he was kneeling on the ground, in the middle of a field, almost prostrated. His hands were deeply burrowed in his hair, and he was pulling at it, as if he'd been trying to extirpate the thoughts out of his mind.
“Fuck...”
Griffin breathed hard, trying to fight off the urge to retch.
“Fucking hell...”
There was a copper tang in his mouth, as if he'd just tasted blood. He spat on the ground; no blood, just saliva. His throat was dry, constricted. He was shaking all over.
“Bloody hell...”
Griffin lay down slowly, and rolled onto his back. He closed his eyes, balled his fists and pressed them down to his eyelids. Darkness. He refused to see anything else. No pictures, no familiar faces. Nothing. Just darkness. Blessed, comforting darkness.
He started feeling better after a couple of minutes. Griffin slowly sat up and brushed the dust off of his jeans. He'd made a mess of himself again.
“You've got to get your shit together, mate... this is seriously starting to get embarrassing.”
These random bouts of craziness were not a good sign.
He neatly filed the recent events under the 'things that never happened' header, decided he'd walked far enough, that it was safe to Jump back to his lair. After all, he had things to do, a war to wage and Paladins to kill.
He needed a change of scenery.
So, what was dear little David doing today?
***
Dear Little David was being nauseatingly sweet, holding hands with his lady-love in a small café.
Griffin suspected David was the kind of boy who'd put marshmallows in his hot chocolate.
***
Roland had spent the last couple of days in the office of the Head Judge Inquisitor of Northern America. They'd worked together on the case; triple checked each and every piece of evidence, and had come to the same conclusion. There was no doubt possible.
Now had come the time to take action upon what they had discovered.
He walked to the weapons room with the two men he'd chosen to accompany him in this mission - he'd chosen them in particular because of their devotion to the cause. At the entrance, Roland presented an ID to the guard.
“Roland, Elite Paladin, requiring weapons for myself and two Veterans.”
The guard let them in without even glancing at the ID. Roland walked to the centre of the room and heard the two veterans exchange ushered words behind his back.
“What kind of weapons do we need for this?”
“I don't know. Nothing too heavy, I guess. We only need them as a dissuasive measure, after all.”
Roland didn't hesitate. He knew exactly what weapon he needed.
Sin deserves and demands punishment.
***
Griffin sighed. Tailing people like David stopped being fun after one hour or two.
The Boy Wonder and his significant other had been wandering up and down the busy streets all morning, pointing at buildings and giggling like kids. Griffin had been about to give up and Jump over to Newcastle to have a pint when suddenly the couple turned left into a small street. Griffin sauntered to the corner and risked a careful glance. He just had the time to see them Jump.
“Sheesh, you retard... You're really taking her everywhere, aren't you? You never learn, do you?”
Griffin waited a healthy amount of time before following them carefully through the Jump Scar...
...and landing in the middle of a snow bank, near a river.
Fuck. Griffin hated that kind of unexpected landing.
He followed the footprints and finally saw the young couple in the distance, standing in front of a large white house. Griffin Jumped to the top of a nearby hill and took out his binoculars.
He watched as David walked toward the house while the girl (Molly? Bettie?) stayed outside.
“Nice move, Casanova, leaving the lady standing outside in the cold. Making the job easier for the Paladins to grab her while you're not there to protect her, too.”
The boy really had no clue, hadn't he? Didn't knew that some Paladins could feel his Jumps? Tsk tsk tsk, newbies...
Five minutes later, David finally got out of the house. An older woman was walking him back to the top of the stairs. Looking at the woman, Griffin was struck speechless.
For Fuck's Sake.
That sneaky rat bastard had just been visiting a Paladin - and not just any Paladin. One of the head Trackers of the USA, nothing less. Well, well, well, the wonders never ceased....
Griffin just sat there thinking, fiddling with his binoculars, barely paying attention to the young couple when they left. He'd catch up with them later.
What was that shit? There was something seriously wrong with this situation. What had David been doing here, for starters? Was that the explanation as to how he'd managed to never leave a trail, during all these years? If he had a Tracker cleaning up his moves, that explained a lot of things...
Griffin supposed that all Paladins weren't zealots after all; that maybe there was one or two more lenient than the others. A leniency that could be greatly encouraged by hefty sums of money, or information about other Jumpers. Was David giving up other Jumpers to save his hide? Exchanging information for a relative freedom?
No, that wasn't logical. Before meeting Griffin in the Coliseum, David had seemed absolutely sure that he was the only Jumper around. Was he paying her, then? Was it why he'd robbed so many banks? But that didn't make sense either. Not only had David ignored the existence of other Jumpers, but even the word 'Paladin' had surprised to him.
But...
What if...
What if it had all been a much deeper than that? What if David had been cooperating with the Paladins all along? Letting them use him as a tool, in exchange of a temporary reprieve? It could work. Approach other Jumpers, pretend to be a rookie that doesn't know a thing long enough for the other Jumper to let their defence down, and then... wham bam, off to rat out to the Paladins?
The fact that David might be deceptively cunning hadn't even occurred to Griffin. People couldn't just pretend to be that dumb and careless. You had to be a fantastic retard to be that convincing. But still. What if David was much, much clever than he looked?
Shallow water runs deep, heh?
Griffin snapped out of his musings when a chill ran through him, making him sneeze. He'd been sitting still, thinking, for too long. He was frozen to the bones. He was about to sit up and leave when a sleek black car left the main road to come to a stop in front of the house.
Griffin slowly went down to his stomach, observing intently. He knew that kind of car too well and Griffin didn't believe in coincidences.
The doors opened simultaneously and four people got out.
So. The three wankers over in France had been right.
Roland was there, with three other Paladins. Griffin knew two of them; they were veterans who liked to work with Roland. But he'd never seen the third one, a woman. From the purple strap she was wearing on her right sleeve, he knew what her job was, though.
A Judge Delegate here could mean only one thing. You didn't bring the big guns along for a tea party.
Griffin stayed as still as he could and followed the progression of the small group toward the house through his binoculars. When the porch hid them from his view, Griffin cursed under his breath for a very long time.
***
Roland knocked on the door, which was opened straight away. He smiled down at the woman.
Roland loved to be right.
“Mary Engelier, I must inform you that you are under arrest for high treason. Please, follow me.”
To Roland, few things actually surpassed the look in a traitor's eyes when they understood that they had been discovered. Surprise, pain, anger, hatred, fear... It was a true kaleidoscope of the human soul.
A flicker of desperation went through the woman's eyes.
Roland picked his smoothest voice to add, “Without resistance, please, Mrs Engelier.” The 'please' had been absolutely gratuitous.
She didn't move, and kept staring at him. She hadn't even glanced at the rest of the delegation since she'd opened the door.
“Can I grab a coat?” Her voice was low, but steady.
Roland couldn't help but admire her nerves. Despite the situation she was in, she hadn't lost her demeanour. Things were getting interesting.
“No.” Roland's smile widened. “You won't need one.”
At these words, her mouth set in a tight line. A flash of fury made her eyes shine briefly. “Fine. Just let me tell my daughter that-”
Roland tutt’d and glanced back over his shoulder, to the Judge Delegate. With a jerk of his head, he beckoned her.
The Delegate stepped forward and cleared her throat. “Mrs Engelier. I must remind you that as the Rule XCVI stipulates, someone suspected of treason can not be allowed any communication with anyone other than the Inquisition Squad. Please, follow us.”
Roland hadn't taken his eyes of the woman as the delegate talked to her. He saw her hesitate, and step backward. Things were getting very interesting.
With a jerk of his wrist, Roland set his tether open and buzzing. “Surely you won't try anything stupid, my dear? You know the penalty for disobeying a direct order from a Judge Delegate, don't you Mrs Engelier? Or should, I say Mrs Rice?”
***
Griffin watched the small group leave the house.
The woman's head was held high, and she was staring straight ahead. But her walk was a little stiff, as if she had difficulties coordinating her movements. He hadn't seen what had happened, and he couldn't pick out any visible restraint, but he'd only needed one look to understand that she was following them against her will.
When they got to the car, he saw Roland push her none too gently inside.
Griffin waited for the car to disappear completely, and for the sound of the engine to die out before sitting up. The snow had melted under him, and his t-shirt and jeans were completely soaked. He was in for a helluva cold this time. He needed dry clothes.
But that'd have to wait. Right now was going to have a little chitchat with dear little David.
Griffin Jumped back to the small street he'd came from. David's new flat was just a few blocks away from there; he’d seen it last time. It wasn't a bad location, anonymous enough, but it wouldn't keep Roland away for long. Especially if, as Griffin suspected, David's Paladin contact had just been arrested and wouldn't be able to erase the boy's sloppy traces any more.
From what Griffin knew, Paladins didn't lightly bring out the accusation of treason. They gathered evidence patiently first, checked all the possibilities, and then only went for it. But once the process had started, nothing could save the accused. The woman would be dead in two or three days. It depended on how much resistance she had, and how long it'd take them to get out of her all the information they needed.
After all, they weren't called Judge *Inquisitor* for nothing.
***
When he arrived in front of the flat, Griffin listened intently. No noise. It looked like no one was home. They were certainly frolicking around in a place exotic enough for Davy boy to show off his Jumping skills.
He'd have to wait for them to get back.
Griffin didn't actually mind waiting; it was the whole 'wait outside in the cold' part that bothered him. So he let himself in.
Lock picking could come in handy when you had to slip into a place for the first time.
Once inside, Griffin took in his surroundings carefully. It was a nice two-room flat; a cozy little place with fancy decorative stuff, kitsch little reproductions of famous paintings, small heaters under every window to keep the cold out, a large bed (ah, l'amour!...) and a small but fully furnished kitchen.
It was a lot warmer than outside, but Griffin was still cold. The drenched clothes were clinging to his skin in the most unpleasant way. His teeth were chattering uncontrollably. He needed to warm up, and fast.
He rummaged through the kitchen cupboards for a while and finally found what he'd been looking for: a bottle of rum. It was three quarters empty, but it was better than nothing.
He heated up some water in a pan and choose a large mug. In it he poured what was left of rum, and added a spoonful of sugar. When the water was boiled, he added it to the rum and stirred.
Griffin picked an armchair that looked comfortable enough and dragged it near a heater. Watching the telly was out of question, as he had to avoid noisy stuff. There was a pile of books in a corner of the room though, so he knelt in front of it to have a look. Most of the books were in English, but some of them were in French and German - there was even an antique copy of El Cantar de Mio Cid. Griffin picked it up and opened it carefully. When was the last time he'd read a book?
He went to grab his mug and then sat down in the armchair, putting his feet up the windowsill. Hopefully, that would dry his jeans a bit.
With a good book and a hot grog, he didn't mind waiting at all.
***
Darcy, Darcy darling dear,
You left me dying, crying there
In whiskey, gin, and pints of beer
I fell for you my darling dear