CHAPTER 59: OLD MAN WINTER | THE RAID—I
CYPRUS ALLEY—NOVEMBER 26th, 1992 | MORNING
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“You’re sure this is right?” Arthur asked, his face settling into a long, undecided frown.
“Positive,” Captain Holmes said with an affirmed voice.
Leroy’s body ached as they proceeded along industrial catwalks along the exterior of Spectre.
His body still carried the fatigue of two days of unrest, which had hardly been remedied by the handful of hours he’d slept prior to Arthur and Captain Holme’s arrival. In the same vein, his wounds were raw. Vaguely, he recalled Moira force feeding him a single vial of pasteurized demon blood. It was doing its job. Very, very slowly. Janice’s unorthodox application of Stoneskin was a saving grace, sure, but it itched like a motherfucker. Fortunately, his mind felt sharp.
Sweat beaded along Leroy’s face. Of the elixirs that Janice had brewed in preparation for the raid, he elected to only take one prior to their departure: Vigor, a Bluestein patented potion. He’d taken it before, maybe three times in his whole lifetime, and he hated the way it made him feel. Jumpy, alert, unsettled—frankly, just shy of paranoid. Better than early onset narcolepsy.
“We went over this, Arthur,” Leroy said, stopping for a moment to grab hold of the railings.
“No, we didn’t, you and Bullface over here muttered and nodded over some building plan that looked older than the two of you combined,” Arthur said, exhaling as he leaned both arms over the rails closest to him, “and we’ve been climbing the equivalent of a steel corn maze, only on a bunch of catwalks and ladders. Whatever we’re looking for, it’d be easier to make our own way in by busting through the walls. Or something.”
“The ‘or something’ is why we’re sticking to the plan, Arthur,” Captain Holmes said.
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Leroy pressed his hand onto a piece of paper laid out on the coffee table, groaning as he did so. Janice still held one of his arms to help him lean forward. His body ached. Esme’s coffee helped, but not much, and it took about everything he had in him to stay just conscious enough to be coherent.
Opposite of him, sitting on the floor, was Esme. She studied the yellowing paper in quiet interest. Cameron stood just to the side of the couch Leroy sat upon with Janice, eyes narrowed in quiet focus. The other couch was occupied solely by Tania, who sat criss-cross on the couch furthest from Leroy.
“You can all thank our golden boy over here for the building schematics,” Leroy said. If he had his cap on, he’d be tipping it to Captain Holmes, who, opposite of Cameron, stood with his arms crossed. He issued Leroy a nod.
“You can thank the Department of Risk Assessment and Restoration for that, not me,” Captain Holmes said.
Leroy wondered if he’d just flashed his badge and asked for it, or if he’d lied to get his hands on it. Definitely the former. Few people were as earnest as Captain Holmes, which, in fairness, was likely more of a detriment than he realized. Leroy didn’t have the balls to tell him that, nor would he. Better that his heart stay gold than rust away in Brinehaven’s fog; it was nothing short of a miracle that it hadn’t already.
“Now, this map, it’s outdated. The original building plan for Crancourt Steelmill, which you all now know as Spectre,” Leroy continued. “And any of you who’ve been inside know that Velvet has gutted most of the inside to make room for his nightclub.”
“Looks like there’s a back entrance and a few side doors,” Captain Holmes said.
Leroy shook his head. “Like I said—outdated. If memory serves me right, what used to be the back doors to exit the building are now part of the walls and sound systems closer to the DJ stage, and the side doors were sealed off. Probably for sound containment, or something.”
“Great, just great,” Arthur said, puffing. “So. One way in, one way out.”
Leroy nodded. “On the ground level, yeah. But look here.”
Leroy moved his finger across the building plan.
“A scattered mess of apartments and mixed use buildings that have been built next to Spectre,” he continued, “and there’s still some old catwalks and access ladders. The whole nine yards. Hell, if you’re on any rooftop in Cyprus Alley, you can still see some of the old chimneys from when it used to be a damn factory.”
“And you want us to, what, climb up? Find a way in?” Cameron asked.
“No,” Leroy said, shaking his head. “You and Tania will take the front door.”
Cameron glanced towards Tania. Neither of them nodded, but both seemed content with that arrangement. Tania’s silence had been persistent ever since she told Leroy off, and frankly, he couldn’t blame her. He went over her head in a way that betrayed her trust, in the way that he usually did. But she was a piece of the puzzle, and not the last one that felt like a price when you fitted it into place. That piece was Marcus. She was a means to an end, and her anger didn’t bother him—maybe it would one day, but that day would have to wait until the next one was over and done with.
“Kessler,” Leroy continued, “I don’t need the specifics. I need to know if you’re ready for that kind of heat. You’ll need to take out the two at the front, the Hispanic lady with the AR15, and the gray-faced accursed, and whoever else might show up after you’re done with them.”
Cameron nodded.
He was different. Whatever had happened to him during the Rite of the Whispered Name had left him a changed man, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that. Leroy couldn’t pin it down. Maybe it was his eyes; wolfish still, but more focused than before, not like the predator who reacted because it was scared, but like a beast that had just been made aware of the power it held, and didn’t need to scream and shout to prove it.
Tania, on the other hand, had nothing to prove. Temperance and ferocity were an unlikely combination, but she’d made it a point to demonstrate that she had both in abundance. That was valuable. She was valuable: a verifiable cannon that only needed someone to steer it.
“And us?” Arthur asked.
“You and Captain Holmes are with me. We’ll go up here,” Leroy said, lifting his finger and placing it elsewhere on the building schematics. “There is a service platform, a maintenance door. By the looks of it, it’ll grant us access to at least the second floor of Spectre. Once we’re there, we hang out for a bit, wait for Cameron and Tania to bust through the door, and jump in while all eyes are on them.”
“Right. And how’ll we know when they make it inside?” Arthur asked.
“You’ll know,” Cameron said assuredly.
“He means you’ll—we’ll—hear it,” Captain Holmes said with a nod.
Janice cleared her throat. “And me?”
“And you stay here, with Esme,” Leroy said.
Janice opened her mouth and closed it. “At the very least, each of you should take one of the potions I’ve prepared. Given the limited timeframe, my lack of supplies, and well, less than ideal workspace, I could only produce seven elixirs. Which, well, is now five, given the Stoneskin I applied to Leroy, so—”
“One for each of us,” Arthur said, a snide smile on his face. “Is it a uh, first come first serve sort of situation?”
Janice shook her head. “I believe it would be best if I assigned the potions.”
Tania rose a brow in Janice’s direction and hardly denied herself the brief chortle that escaped her lips.
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“First, I have one vial of Vigor, an elixir that is.. in many ways, an energy drink, with a minor level of danger awareness—”
Leroy lazily raised a hand. “Veto’d, Janice. That one goes to me.”
Whenever he decided to take it, he’d be up for another two days straight.
Maybe more. The thought of that scared him. At the very least, he’d have the chance to get another few hours of rest by tomorrow morning. He’d learned, however, that sleep debt was a very real, very annoying problem, and it was one that the body did not forget. By the time this was all over, Leroy imagined it would take more than a week or two to feel some semblance of normalcy. A self-induced hibernation was about the best thing he could think of barring a brief medically induced coma.
Janice distributed what remained of her elixirs to Cameron, Tania, Arthur and Captain Holmes, and muttered about what they did, how they might serve them, and so on. Leroy had tuned it out in favor of securing quick intervals of thirty-seconds worth of shut eye. Some several moments later, Cameron nudged him awake, and proceeded with explaining the plan.
They would all wake up early, and head to Spectre outside of its normal business hours. Cameron and Tania, their irregular shocktroopers, would storm the front door, and draw any remaining guards to them like moths to their very big, very angry flame. Leroy, alongside Arthur and Captain Holmes, would advance along the exterior access walkways until they reached the second floor; and make a direct route to the VIP Lounge where Marcus was likely lying in wait. Janice and Esme would hold down the fort at Allure Artificery, where, per Captain Holmes’s orders, Constable Heathcliff and Constable Briggs would keep the street closed and monitor the sidewalks for any suspicious activity.
By the time Leroy was assisted back up the stairs and into Esme’s bed, he laid on his back with a taciturn scowl.
If Bluestein Philterworks was working independently to try and take him out, it wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility that they were now in direct cahoots with Marcus Velvet. Either a small army of Argent Group ether-heads bought and paid for by Bluestein awaited them, or, they’d given him the funds to hire muscle that hit just as hard, or harder, than the likes of Dean Dresker. And that was in addition to Marcus's private security.
Sure, Hughes was gone. Leroy had seen to that. But his much more worrisome counterparts, drunken thaumaturgist Aria Remeau and Rachel Chen with her Blade of One Hundred, were real, credible threats. Concerning ones. Marcus, arrogant and infuriating as he was, wasn’t a complete idiot. He likely had plans of his own. Contingencies—and when contingencies weren’t your own, they were chaos made real by way of countermeasures.
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Leroy lingered on the hand rail.
They’d made it to the proper service platform, and all that was left to do was to pry it open. His view was a strange one in either direction. In front of him were thin rectangular windows that peered inside the empty dancefloor of Spectre. During the day, it looked newly abandoned; vast and open with the occasional industrial fixture, a soundstage meant for a DJ with no music, a copious amount of neon lights that had yet to turn on. Spectre looked more like a warehouse than a nightclub.
Behind him was Cyprus Alley in all of its glory. Mismatched brick buildings, a singular and narrow winding two-way road, and a menagerie of apartments, small businesses, and crooked storefronts that were almost too obviously scams. It was a mess, but it was home, and Leroy was bothered more than he was angry that Marcus Velvet had reduced all of its conmen, thugs, prostitutes, and honest-to-God normal people trying to make a living into a network of eyes and ears that belonged to him.
For the first time in a long time, Leroy felt like he was doing someone more than himself a service. Minister Rostavich wrote him an arbitration note for Marcus Velvet’s head, and when he did, Leroy didn’t think to ask for any compensation. He didn’t want any compensation. Go figure. One of his first pro-bono jobs was a civic duty, and a cover-up. Community service and conspiracy, hand-in-hand, would be the saving grace of people like Mr. Huang, Ruby Shakur, and anyone else greasy enough, stupid enough, or proud enough to call Cyprus Alley their home.
Leroy wondered if he’d ever be compelled to do it just for the sake of doing it. He turned back towards Captain Holmes, who stared at the access latch in earnest, arguing with Arthur over how they might open it.
Do not kid yourself. You are doing this to save him.
Cold whispers. Leroy should’ve figured. Yaerzul’s voice crackled into his mind like frozen mites biting into the folds of his brain. He leaned over the hand rail, wincing, with his hand pressed firmly against his temple.
Arthur glanced over his shoulder. “You good?”
“Fine. Must be a side effect, you know, from Janice’s potion. Plus, this body of mine isn’t as sturdy as it used to be. Don’t get old, Arthur,” Leroy said haphazardly. He refused to turn around, and waved a dismissive hand.
If you wanted to save him, you’d handle this yourself. In your own way. Yet you stand here about to enter the belly of the beast, bringing it the very lamb that it seeks to slaughter, a shepherd of danger. This is a mistake. A folly. Your fool’s errand.
Leroy gritted his teeth and clenched the railing. Yaerzul laughed, and the demon’s frigid voice forced Leroy’s brows into a deep furrow.
He will die here today.
“He won’t,” Leroy hissed.
And it will be his body added to the mountain of corpses who you have slain; your obelisk of bones built on the busy work of inaction—a monument that honors only your failures and the power I have bestowed upon you which remains wasted. A trophy, Leroy Callahan, of a revenge that festers and ferments through your neglect. You disappoint me.
“I tried!” Leroy shouted.
His voice was louder than he anticipated.
He realized it too late, and turned back towards the windows and the access door into Spectre. Captain Holmes paced over to him, concern concealing the anger in his beady eyes. He placed a hefty hand on Leroy’s shoulder, and Arthur stared with a long face and a raised brow. Behind them, the access door idly creaked. Absent any sigilmasonry, Leroy figured the two of them would find a way to open it sooner rather than later.
“Listen,” Captain Holmes began, his voice low and meaningful, “you’ve had a rough two days. A rough week, if I’m being frank, Leroy.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Leroy said.
“It’s a bit late to be backing out anyways,” Arthur muttered. “It was his idea after all. His plan.”
Captain Holmes exhaled. "That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, that’s what it sounded like,” Arthur said.
“I worded it wrong. Alright? He’s looking a little worse for wear. What I mean to say is that, Leroy, you’ve been dragged through a shit-filled gutter, and you look like it too. You’re a damn poor actor. You’ve been wearing your misery on your face and now you’re, what, talking to yourself? What the hell was that?” Captain Holmes asked. He almost looked offended, like he’d passed a ball to Leroy and he’d dropped it.
“Just open the access door,” Leroy said, nodding towards it.
“You gonna’ be able to keep it together?” Captain Holmes asked.
“Yes,” Leroy insisted. “Janice saw to that. I’ll be fine. Plus, courtesy of Esme, I have a brand new toy. When you realize you could’ve just as easily gotten your bow artificed, Arthur, you’ll wonder why the fuck you bonded your soul to that rickety old thing.”
“Canis is a family heirloom, thank you very much,” Arthur said, tutting.
A loud crash filled the air. He couldn’t see it, or even smell it, but Leroy could hear the dust and debris. A wry smile stretched across his face, and he nodded towards the inside of Spectre.
Arthur was the first to step forward, his hand gripping the sides of the now opened access door. In front of them was a direct drop onto the 2nd level of Spectre. Far, but not far enough to break anyone’s knees if they landed on the bartop.
The last time Leroy had been there, the bar was busy and so too were the people: night-goers who had been too caught up drinking, doing drugs, or making bad memories with strangers they’d never remember. Now it was all empty. Dangerously empty, and far too close to the VIP Lounge for it to go unmanned. If something was there waiting for them, it wasn’t hiding. It was waiting for them.
“Sounds like our shocktroopers made it inside,” Leroy said. “Let’s move.”
He withdrew his LAR Grizzly from the inside of his trusty leather jacket; newly charred in some places no thanks to Dean Dresker. Captain Holmes regarded it with a solemn expression, where Arthur’s brown eyes were wide in some convoluted mixture of surprise and disgust.
“What the fuck is that?” Arthur whispered.
The top-slide of the gun was a grim white in color and in stark contrast to the gunmetal of the pistol itself.
What filled in the absence of gunmetal was big, bulky teeth with an undeniable impression of durability. They looked hard and far, far from brittle; and yet they were shaved down, as if sandpapered to match the exact measurements of where the metal had once been, and presumably, with perfect holes burrowed through them so that the barrel, recoil spring and guide rod could all somehow function. Esme had told Leroy that much, at least.
Permafrost grew out from the rivets and grooves between the teeth. She’d said the permafrost wasn’t decoration; the cold was what kept the teeth from splintering under recoil. Runes, all carefully etched, created a beautiful, symmetrical mosaic of symbols and characters along the remaining gunmetal. Leroy didn’t pretend to understand how runes could hold a moving part together, only that the slide wouldn’t cycle at all without them.
“A gun with teeth for a slide, frosty plaque that will never, ever go away, covered in the runewriting graffiti of the only person in the world who could make it. Esme calls it Old Man Winter.”
Leroy switched the safety off.
“A bit on the nose, if you ask me. But I think it’ll grow on me.”
LEROY WATERS
CAMERON KESSLER
JANICE OLIVERA
ESME O'DOHERTY
TANIA ACKERMAN
ARTHUR YEAGER
CAPTAIN HOLMES
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