Operation Magpie
Rowan
“So…” Thriller begins, leaning through from the back with his elbows propped on Tuesday’s and Bear’s seats.
“What I’m hearing is that we’ve got bugger-all intel.
” He checks the point off by raising a finger.
“That of the hundreds of threats the General gets from pissed-off Remus Wolves over what happened to his brother aeons ago, this specific threat is credible enough to send us…” He raises a second finger to join his first, then aims them like a gun toward the run-down-looking retail unit we’re parked in front of. “In there?”
“Aye.” I kill the engine.
Thriller blows out a breath, then a slow, creeping smile spreads over his face.
Guardian’s eyes glow purple, and his strong hand closes over Thriller’s bicep.
His powers temporarily alter Thriller’s brain chemistry to lower his threat perception—a bit like popping a couple of anti-anxiety pills.
It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the alternative.
I catch Guardian’s gaze in the rearview mirror and nod my thanks.
But Thriller isn’t wrong. The Dogs of War have the highest level clearance of any werewolf military branch, so if there were any further intel to be had on this, we’d have it.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, and Delilah taps his on his laptop while he searches for the ownership, history, and blueprints of the suspiciously closed shop in the otherwise vibrant and bustling neighbourhood of Raleigh Court.
General Romulus and his twin brother, Remus, are the original werewolves.
From them, all other werewolves descend, but Remus vanished some two thousand years ago and so the majority of modern werewolves are Romulan Wolves.
Remus’s disappearance was never solved, however, and his descendants blame his brother.
As such, there are hundreds of threats against the General each year, but given his longevity and protected status, very few are ever taken seriously.
At least, in the ten years since I graduated from the military academy, there has never been this level of response to one.
“I don’t think this is Remus Wolves.” Bear’s quiet musing draws my attention. Smaller than us, he’s tucked into the far corner of his seat with his shaved head propped against the window, where he watches the locals buy their morning coffees from independent businesses. “This isn’t their MO.”
“Bear’s right,” Tuesday agrees, rifling through the pockets of his combat trousers.
“For starters, those extremist Remus Wolves are always super noisy about anything they plan to do. They’ll even take credit for stuff that isn’t theirs—glory hogs.
So they should be shouting about it from every available rooftop, but they’re not. ”
Finally victorious in his pocket-hunting, Tuesday produces a squashed packet of cigarettes.
“I’m fuckin’ dying for a ciggie, d’ya mind if I…?” He indicates the busy street with a tilt of his head toward his window.
I nod, knowing full well he’s not about to bum a light from a passerby but go plant some spyware on our target building.
“Tuesday?” I call, right before he shuts the door. “No urinating in public.”
He turns, forearm braced on the top of the truck door, and salutes me with the hand that holds his smokes. “Not where anyone can see.”
Bear watches him leave. “You know, last time I found two sensors that he forgot to clean up?”
“Aye, it’s why I reminded him not to leave evidence behind where someone can see.” I turn to face Bear from between the front seats. “What’s on ye mind?”
His wolf is forward, making his eyes look almost white despite the shadow from his lowered brow.
“All the intel anyone has on this operation is coming from the General himself. He raised the threat, and that’s why it’s being taken seriously.
He pointed us at the witches, he instructed our Intelligence Corps to infiltrate their Council, and it’s he who’s directed us to this magical artefact that we’re now here to ratify. ”
I keep quiet, even though I’d had the exact same thoughts when the General’s chief of staff called me personally to issue the Command Orders. Nothing about Operation Magpie is running through the usual channels.
Bear sits forward. “What was it you said Admiral Guerrieri told you when he called? That the General can’t describe what this trinket looks like because he’s never seen it? Yet he remembers the exact height, weight, and look of the witch who crafted it thousands of years ago?”
I huff out a laugh at how ridiculous that sounds when Bear rephrases it.
“Aye. She was…” I clear my throat and imitate the Admiral’s Italian accent. “Bellissima, long and flowing hair, silver, like the full moon in a clear sky.”
Thriller howls from the back seat. Horndog.
Bear scowls, then turns to face him. “Thriller,” he starts. “Do you remember Venice?”
Thriller smirks and leans back, dragging his palms up his thighs then biting his thumb. “Venice… I’ll never forget Venice. She was a fiend. I didn’t know whether to fight her or f—.”
Guardian’s grip on his arm tightens at the insinuation, and Thriller sits upright.
“Nah, mate. You get me wrong.” He shows Guardian his hands in a surrender motion. “Like, she was an actual fiend, you know, of the demon variety? Bear and I had her cornered in a flooded staircase, and she took a human skin to fight her way out.”
Bear, smiling, nods in encouragement. “And you could tell Guardian everything about both her physical forms? Her stature and mannerisms?”
“One hundred percent. She was iconic in both. I mean, six arms with those pincer-like barbed hooks for hands…” He presses all his fingertips together into a point and makes stabbing motions with them.
“But they transformed into long, pointy-tipped, burgundy nails, and shiny silver bracelets. If you’d met her in human skin, you’d never have known she—”
“But you remember the mission? The intel she had?” Bear interrupts.
Thriller cracks out laughing and claps his hands like a kid.
“Mate. Honest to god, I’ve never seen anything like it.
So, picture Bear and me in this flooded stone stairwell in the stinking Venice underbelly, and she has this pendant—which isn’t a necklace at all but a flash drive—and she fucking swallows it.
” He stops laughing and sits up, suddenly sombre.
“Had to break my claws out to eviscerate her and retrieve it.”
“This is what doesn’t make sense, Ranger.
” Bear turns back my way. “Even at the height of having one of his…” He waves vaguely in Thriller’s direction.
“He remembers exactly what that intel was, where it was, what form it took, and what form it ended up in. And you’re telling me that our beloved General—the greatest of us all—can remember everything about this witch from two thousand years ago, but not what this magical artefact is? What it looks like or does?”
“Aye.” I scrub my hand over my face and scratch through the short beard hairs. “For all the intel we have, the Luna del Lupo might not even be a trinket at all.”
“That thought had crossed my mind.” Guardian’s not-at-all-ominous comment drifts through from the back of the truck.
“Aha, finally!” Delilah cuts in. “For people who specialise in protective wardings, the Witches Council really do need better firewalls.” He turns his laptop screen so we can see. “This building is a front.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I could’ve told you that when we first pulled up,” Thriller pipes up.
Delilah ignores him as if he never spoke. “The Target is home to the Raleigh Coven.”
I take off my sunglasses, hooking the arm into the neckline of my T-shirt, and stare hard—again—at the single-storey building in front of us.
Our Target is at the end of a row of six retail units.
Its windows are covered with yellowed newspaper sheets that are taped into neat rows and block any view in or out.
Bear snorts a laugh. “So, we’re meeting with a witch they wouldn’t name, about an artefact they can’t describe, inside a coven? I’d like to know how this witch was identified when we have so little intel.”
My wolf comes forward. We might be the General’s specialist military unit, but the Dogs of War are my pack. I’m their alpha. They look to me to keep them safe.
“About that…” Delilah clears his throat. “The General’s Office didn’t give us the informant’s name, but I can. Meet Georgie Hoffman. Not a witch, but handfasted to one. Her spouse is the Raleigh Coven’s Historian.”
“Not a witch?” I ask, turning the laptop my way. “Admiral Guerrieri definitely said the word witch. Are ye sure?”
Delilah’s glare cuts through my consternation.
“As a sign of my deep respect for you, Ranger, I’m going to pretend you never asked that.
” He snatches back his laptop. “When the Intelligence Corps infiltrated the Witches Council, they had about as much to go on as we did: a pretty witch and an artefact named the Luna del Lupo. Their search entries in the Council’s database are all here—they really do need to train them better in the art of discretion. Still, makes my job easier.”
He brings up an image: an email sent to all coven Historians registered nationwide.
Brightest Blessings,
Fellow Historians, this is a formal request for your assistance.
The International Archive for the Collective History of Witchcraft is looking for a missing inventory item.
Catalogued as part of a private collection, the Luna del Lupo was confiscated during the occupation of the Allied Countries in the 1930s.
When the collection was rediscovered in the 1960s, the Luna del Lupo was missing.
Beyond its name, and that it dates to Roman antiquity, there is no further description of the item. Could the Luna del Lupo be among your collection?
The IACHW is offering a large monetary reward for its safe return to our collection. If you think you might have it, please contact us.
I laugh, incredulous. “That’s how they gathered our intel? Sent a fishing email baited with money? Christ, it’s no wonder the Admiral was tight-lipped.”
Delilah scoffs. “They had quite a few responses, as you’d imagine, and Georgie’s is where they sent us.”
“I guess when this is a bust, they’ll direct us to the next idiot on their list.” Thriller groans from the back seat. “Can’t fucking wait.” His legs bounce.
Glancing at Guardian in the rearview mirror, I nod in response to his unvoiced questions. Yes, this mission needs to be over already. Yes, we could do without stepping foot inside a coven. Yes, we’d better hope that whatever intel this Georgie thinks she has pans out, or else…
“The good news…” Delilah’s cheery voice, and the sudden snap of his laptop closing, cuts off my thoughts. “The Raleigh Coven are late starters. Breathworks is their first listed calendar event today, and it doesn’t start until oh-ten-hundred hours.”
I check my watch… 09:07.
Tuesday’s loud knock on my window aggravates Thriller’s wolf, and a low growl rumbles in his chest. I lower the window. “Only one heat signature detected inside the shop,” he confirms.
My head drops back. Finally, some good news.
“Bad news,” Delilah pipes up. “There’s a basement level that runs under the whole parade and the only access is through our Target. Your infrared penetrate that, Tuesday?”
“Faaark.”
Answers that then.
“Right.” I sit forward and clap my hands. “This is what we’re going to do: Tuesday and Delilah, surveillance and exfil routes. Ye have a list of coven members now, I need to know who might already be inside for this breathworks class.”
Delilah collects six earpieces from his bag, takes two—one each for him and Tuesday—climbs out of the truck, and slings his bag over his shoulder.
“I want a visual perimeter maintained at all times. And no matter what happens inside, ye both stay out. Ye know where the Nest is. If we’re not out when breathworks starts, ye make yer way there. Each wolf for themselves. Got it?” I hold Tuesday’s gaze until he nods.
They separate as they walk off, and I turn to the others. “We don’t look like witches, historians, or even people who frequent libraries.”
Thriller snickers.
“Ye…” I point at him. “Are a fuckin’ liability on this mission. And yer coming inside with me. Which means Guardian and Bear are coming too. Family outing.”
“Why would the General withhold intel when the threat is against him? It doesn’t make sense,” Bear grumbles as he looks back out of his window and over toward the Target.
“We get in, we find out what Georgie knows, we get out. When we’re all safely back at the Nest, we’ll call the General’s Office.
I want the answers to those questions too.
But right now, we’ve a job to do. Yer lead on this, Bear, because for some unknown reason yer less intimidating than us.
” He smiles at that, and something inside me loosens a little.
“Guardian, as our resident American, yer with Bear. Put the informant at ease, do it fast. She either has what we need or she doesn’t, but I want this done in under five minutes.”
I collect the remaining earpieces Delilah left for us in the centre console, and hand them over.
Together, we exit the car.