Wickerman Cove

Part 4: Astoria

Silence. Echo. Secrets.

Steph checked her phone again. The app gave her three mysterious words... that were nothing like the actual experience of hunting an archaeologist through New York on a Friday night. At least it was supposedly accurate in terms of location.

Astoria's smells – roast meat, freshly baked bread, traffic fumes and spilled beer – bombarded her, a thousand miles away from the smells of the base, or Timbuktu. She'd managed to sleep on the flight this time, although since it was domestic that didn't add up to much. The world felt too busy, too loud, and her bags made her feel like a walking target. Her luck was probably going that way – survive a fire fight in Mali and get stabbed by a meth head in America.

Normally, she would have liked the bustle and the smell of good food. Tonight, it made her want to punch people. Ditmars was a party street, at least up to the piano factory. Crowds of New Yorkers in their best clothes streamed past. Steph had had to change into her fatigues, since everything she'd worn in Paris needed a wash. On the upside, it meant fewer guys yelled comments about her ass.

On the downside, the weight of her bags made her back and legs ache. Not to mention that they made her double as wide, and this being New York, everyone seemed to take it personally.

(In Timbuktu the streets were packed and narrow, but everyone just accepted it and shoved each other without complaining. Much.)

It was crazy that she should get here from a huge, crumbling, overpopulated city and feel like New York had too many people, but as she dragged herself past an Italian restaurant, Steph wanted nothing more than to murder the next asshole who breathed too loudly.

Not to mention the asshole who had just flaked on her.

"Hitch," she said, adjusting her earpiece. "When you said I should come to New York, I assumed you'd be briefing me. This is bullshit."

"Absolutely," Hitch said, using the tone he always did when she was about to be talked into a bad idea, "and I'd intended to give you a full rundown here at the office, but stuff came up while you were in the air. You Know Who are flying me to Washington on a matter of national security."

Steph ground her teeth. "You'd better not be on your way to a game."

It was an unfair thing to say: Hitch had battled a gambling addiction all the way through basic, but by the time they passed out he'd licked it. He didn't even go to meetings, although you'd never see him within a mile of a deck of cards.

"Honestly," Hitch said. "National security. Anyway, your CAC is still valid, so I sent everything to your Marine Corps email address. It won't expire while you're working for me, and Doctor Etrange has a department expenses card. Go nuts – treat this like a spa weekend. Once she's checked out the artefact, you and I can talk back here in New York."

"This had better be a spa weekend," Steph said, looking around for the café Etrange was at, "because I don't have a weapon. If someone tries to take a bite out of your archaeologist, I'll be down to fists and harsh language."

Hitch laughed. In the background, someone said something. "Yeah, sure, just a second," he said, turning his attention back to Stephanie. "Are you still qualified to make arrests?"

"I was until now," Steph said. "I suppose I probably still am, since I haven't officially been canned yet."

"Okay," Hitch said. "So, you're covered by LEOSA, and you've got a permit for Florida. Just head to a gun store when you get to Maine and pick something up. Charge it to the department, and I'll make a call so you don't get any red flags."

Steph was idling outside another Italian place, green, red and white neon staining the pavement as she struggled with her bags. There was a gun store that looked open, but New York City gun laws were tough. Or at least, tougher than Maine.

"Okay," she said, putting her sports bag on the ground, feeling pretty safe that it was too heavy to steal. "Is this on the level? I don't wanna bust up some diner in Lovecraft Country only to find out this is off the books."

"I promise," Hitch said, "this is a one-hundred-percent legit operation... and it isn't Lovecraft Country, Maine is Stephen King country."

A youngish blonde woman with a cane almost fell over the bag, and Steph tried to turn her glare of annoyance into a smile of apology. The world flashed from positive to negative.

Great. She was getting a migraine.

"Oh, come on," Steph said. "Now I'm getting a headache. Last time, you promise – on your balls and anal virginity – this is on the level? If you're getting me to work on some sort of black op, I swear, I'll take this to CBS."

"Zoubie," Hitch said, "I have to go now, but I promise – this is a mess, but it's above board. Just get anything you need and take her wherever she wants to go."

"Fine," Steph said, and hung up. It made her feel like she was in a movie, plus she was pretty sure Hitch was about to do the same thing.

She was about to get her first look at Dr. Penelope Etrange.