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London—Urban Wars
In war, life and death hung in tenuous balance. In war, taking a life in battle wasn’t murder, but victory.
And still, death won.
In war, planning the death and destruction of the enemy was strategy.
And still, death won.
Violence, like a virus, spread from city to city. A stray spark in Hanoi kindled a fire in Chicago. A fire set in Berlin burst into a blaze in Tokyo. Wild winds of fury carried flames to New York, to Moscow, to Brazil, to Hong Kong.
And cities across the globe burned.
The human race consumed itself in a conflagration of rich against poor, culture against culture, with some beating the drums of fanaticism, be it religion or politics or the gnawing hate of the other.
And so, death won.
The twelve who gathered in the bowels of the old stone church understood the horrors and miseries of war. They had taken lives in battle, through strategy, through guile and deceptions. And accepted that the blood on their hands would leave a stain.
It seemed peace couldn’t win unless death won first.
Though they’d come from different walks of life, war had bonded them. They called themselves The Twelve, and each brought to the war room, in what had been a place of worship, their own skills. Skills noted by the Underground.
They’d been recruited, then trained in other skills.
Killing skills.
Their number included a teacher, an actor, a dancer, a cop, a medic, a young scientist, technicians, a retired soldier called to duty once more, a thief, a mechanic, an heiress.
All spies now, all soldiers in a war that swept through cities around the globe and threatened to leave them in smoking rubble.
Deep under the streets where blood and death had become horribly normal, their headquarters included a large round table, like Arthur’s of old. Counters held computers, listening devices, communication centers.
Weapons of war—the guns, the knives, the grenades, the explosives—they stored in racks and cabinets.
A room off the main was set up as a makeshift infirmary and dispensary. The medic treated wounds there when necessary, and dispensed the drugs—locked in another cabinet—for use against the enemy. Hallucinogens, sleeping powders, poisons, venoms.
Though each knew the names the others went by in this time of war, they called the medic Fox.
Another room held wardrobe, wigs, hairpieces, makeup, face putty, and more used in disguises. Though the actor continued to use her name as part of her cover, they called her Chameleon.
Yet another room served as a workshop to make explosives, the wiring, the timers, and the remotes used to detonate.
The teacher, who at the dawn of the wars had dug the broken and bloody bodies of her young students from the rubble of the bombed school, now made bombs. Her purpose, one she’d vowed when weeping over those broken and bloodied bodies, was to destroy those who would murder children.
She’d met the medic that day, the day that had changed her life forever. Out of the smoke and blood there had been a light.
They’d loved, they’d married and created a cherished child.
To keep her safe, they took the child out of harm’s way in the care of a trusted friend.
They called the teacher Fawn.
She worked with the retired soldier most directly, the one they called Rabbit.
The others, due to his age and experience, considered him the de facto leader.
He stood now, gray hair shaggy, his face lined with time and duty, and scanned the table. All battle-scarred, he knew. Some physically, and every one of them in heart and mind. But they’d fight on. He trusted them as he trusted himself.
They’d become, over these ravaged years, family.
“Before we begin briefing on this mission, a bright spot. The intel on North America, and this has been confirmed by the Underground and MI6. While pockets of enemy activity remain, the tide’s turned. Revolutionary headquarters in several major cities have been infiltrated or destroyed.
“Mole.”
The heiress nodded. “I can confirm. My contact in New York reports the city is in the hands of our allies, enemy forces are surrendering. Washington, D.C., reports the same, as does Los Angeles, Chicago, Dallas, and up into Canada—Montreal, Toronto.”
She brushed back her fall of icy blond hair. Though studs sparkled at her ears—she’d come from a dinner party—they pretended to be diamonds.
She’d sold most of her jewelry to buy food, medical supplies, weapons—whatever those suffering required. She glanced at the dancer they called Panther.
“My sources also confirm.” Her accent came from Eastern Europe, her birthplace, and the birthplace of her illustrious career. “Cease-fires are being negotiated even now.”
“Good news, but you wouldn’t know it from London.” The thief, Magpie, shrugged. His voice reflected his life on the streets.
“Not yet.” Under the table, Fox took Fawn’s hand. A connection of hope. “But North America stabilizes, Europe will follow, and the world follows that. I’ve treated more enemy wounded than our own these past weeks.”
Like Panther, Fox’s accent spoke of his homeland in Ukraine.
“Some are deserting, retreating,” Fawn added. “Running out of London.” Her hand tightened on her husband’s.
“Our baby’s fine,” he assured her. “If they run, they don’t run to fight but to survive.”
Because they were a family there, he lifted her hand to his lips. “We’ll see our girl very soon. And your sons, Panther. We’re grateful you gave us a safe place for our daughter.”
“Fawn hid my sons here before London became too dangerous for them. We—we all—look out for each other.”
“And the innocent,” the scientist called Owl added.
“Always.”
The tech called Wasp lifted a hand. “And Italy? I haven’t heard from my brother in Rome for more than a week. My wife and my mother in Tuscany can’t reach him.”
“The fighting is intense in Rome,” Panther told him. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thank you.”
“I spoke with my sister this morning.” The other tech, Cobra, lit a cigarette. “She says, as does Fox, she’s treating more of them than us.”
Beside him, the detective constable known as Shark lit his own cigarette. “My intel says the same. On the run, outnumbered. Supply line issues on all sides, but we’re used to that. We may not have hit flash point yet, but we’re close.”
“We’ll be closer when we complete our next mission,” Rabbit said. “Wasp, if you will.”
He rose to man a computer.
“If we could have the map on-screen. Our target is here. Beneath these buildings, evacuated early in the conflict, is Dominion’s London headquarters.”
A murmur went around the table.
“This is confirmed?” Fox demanded. “Our last intel indicated the West End was more likely.”
“Misinformation—likely deliberate.” Chameleon pressed her lips together. “I don’t like being duped. If we’d moved on it, as I pushed for—”
“Your cover would’ve been blown.” Shark gave her a cheeky grin. “Cooler heads, my lovely.”
“Normally I say bollocks to cooler heads, but in this case…” Now she shrugged, tossed back her bold red hair. “I can’t, yet, confirm the target.”
“I saw what I saw, heard what I heard.” Magpie spoke up. “And no, I wasn’t seen, I wasn’t heard. Scavenging, scouting out a new area, and I stumbled on a tunnel that shouldn’t have been there. Happened on some air ducts, a handy way to get around. They’ve got a war room, at least twice this size. Well-equipped, well-manned. An armory—and I was tempted there, but the well-manned discouraged me. Better to report back and live another day.”
“We need to go back, get the full scope.”
“I got a pretty full scope, Fox, and sent the old SOS to Rabbit.” Magpie used his finger in the air to draw an X and two I ’s—the symbol for twelve.
“And that’s why we’re here. Part of that full scope is a prison.”
“In the HQ?” Mole asked. “I’ve been hearing about a prison in Whitechapel.”
“And you hear well and true,” Rabbit told her. “Magpie was able to take photos of that building and location while slithering through the duct system.
“The prison is the second part, simultaneous with the first. The first, destroy enemy HQ; the second, take control of the prison and release our people.”
He looked at Magpie. “One more trip through for you, mate, photos if you can get them, any additional information. Fawn, Hawk, and I will build the explosives, Fawn and Hawk will place them.”
“Team Two—Fox, Panther, Chameleon, Wasp as tech—will hit the prison, using the explosion as cover and as signal to move in.
“Mole and Owl, lookouts for team two. Magpie and Shark, lookouts for team one. Cobra and I will run communications here.”
For days they worked on details, on timing, on weapons, approaches, escape routes.
When it was done, when Command green-lighted the mission, they suited up, sat around the table once more for a final briefing.
And Rabbit passed a bottle of whiskey around the table.
“A drink before the war. This is our flash point, the turning point in this long, hard battle. And we will succeed. Tonight we take lives, and we save countless others. Remember what we fight for. Not ourselves, but the innocent.”
He looked at Owl.
“Our children.”
Then at Fox and Fawn, at Panther.
“Not just for England, but for all. To The Twelve.”
They drank, not knowing that one who drank with them was a traitor.