Wickerman Cove

Part 16: The March of Progress

Everything happened very quickly. It didn't help that Steph hadn't really noticed that the room ever had a flight of stairs – between the general disarray of the room and the possibility of crazed cultists, she'd been a little distracted. Still though, what she'd mistaken for a reading nook was a blind corner that opened onto the stairs.

Now there was a guy with a Russian pistol in his hand. Not just a Russian pistol, but an SR-1, the official firearm of Russian Special Forces, the FSB, and a bunch of other people you wouldn't expect to see in small town America.

Of course, it wasn't as if there weren't any SR-1s in the US. During Vigilant Eagle she could probably have picked one up herself.

On the other hand, this guy just radiated... something. He didn't look Russian. The scar down the side of his face was deep, but not sinister. He was just above average height, but not so much he'd stand out in a crowd. He had a beard, dark hair and brown eyes, and although he was built, he didn't look like The Rock or anything.

No visible tattoos either.

Still, there was just... something.

He hadn't been expecting to see them any more than they'd been expecting to see him. He was coming down the stairs with his pistol loose in his hand, hanging to one side. His other hand was occupied with an armful of papers and what looked like a tablet computer.

There was a moment where they all just stared at each other. Steph had her borrowed pistol almost at the ready anyway. She brought it up fast enough to catch him flat footed.

He looked at her over the sights and smiled apologetically, so casually that for a second she expected the sheriff to tell her that he was supposed to be there. If the professor was important enough to check on, maybe he was important enough for a bodyguard? Even if it was some ex-FSB/Spetznaz skull crusher.

"I am sorry," he said, with an accent. Unfortunately, despite joint manoeuvres and missions with the UN, Steph couldn't say much more than he was from somewhere east of Austria. "One moment, please, I am sorry."

He smiled and nodded as if it was all a terrible misunderstanding and, to Steph's chagrin, Penny smiled and nodded back. He made a move towards the flat post at the bottom of the stairs.

"That's enough," Steph said, gesturing with her gun. "Stay where you are and get down on your knees."

He smiled again. "I will, I understand," he said, "but I will put down the gun, if that is alright? I have credentials."

"You with anyone else?" the sheriff asked, her own weapon now trained on him.

The man put the gun down on the flat top post. He had dark blue jeans and a black Henley, with scuffed Converse. Pretty much what you'd expect for a 30-something guy on a summer morning.

He did have a tattoo, now that she looked closer, curving up from just beneath the edge of his collar – a twisting, geometric pattern of black lines.

"I will reach for something in my back pocket," he said, moving slowly, "and it will clear everything up."

Steph gave him the slightest nod, immediately feeling bad that she hadn't let the sheriff take the lead. The Russian-esque guy reached behind himself and brought back a slim leather card holder, the same sort cops used to hold their badges. He raised it just above shoulder level, adjusting the tablet and papers.

"Alright," he said, moving his thumb to flip the wallet open, "here are my credentials."

Steph got a brief impression of something that looked like a pentagram, maybe with an eye at the centre, before the world exploded.