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His pay stubs might have said "Department of Homeland Security," but Jacob Traxler knew that wasn't who he really worked for. If the agency that employed him had an official name, he didn't know it. Everyone he worked with just called it "The Agency," and for all he knew that was its actual name. No one really talked about it, or much of anything regarding The Agency, its structure, or its purpose. It was a level of secrecy that took some getting used to, but what he knew of the cause, he believed it to be just.
If someone asked him, he wouldn't say he was an anti-lycan bigot, though he knew several other agents who made their hatred of werewolves quite plain. He knew that werewolves generally didn't choose that life, but that didn't stop them from being a national security threat. He didn't care whether they were wiped off the face of the earth; as long as they were outside the nation's capital, they could do whatever they wanted as far as he was concerned.
There was footage – he'd seem some of it – of a werewolf absolutely wrecking the shit out of a Chicago SWAT team about ten years ago. It was in full wolf form, but Traxler understood that some of them could actually stop mid-transformation to become the stereotypical wolf-man from pop culture. Police departments didn't always have silver ammunition available for their officers, so their guns were not fatal to the beast on those rare occasions when they could get a shot in. The thing moved so quickly they had to slow the footage down in some parts for anyone to make sense of what they were seeing. The wolf's jaws were powerful enough to crush bones, and that's just what it did. He didn't know what was more terrifying: its speed or its strength.
Most unsettling of all was the clearly human intelligence that the wolf exhibited. In an especially vicious dog attack, the brutality is scary, but the animal is working off of sheer instinct without problem-solving ability. This werewolf was able to ascertain which of the cops were its biggest threat and deal with them one at a time, methodically, punching holes in Kevlar vests with his teeth and raking huge gashes with its claws. The worst moment for Traxler was when the beast leapt at the commanding officer, sending the man to the ground, and pinning him with its weight. The officer's terrified screams only stopped when the wolf bent down and ripped his throat out in a single, almost casual motion. Its strength was such that the man was nearly decapitated in the act. When the cops realized they were outmatched they tried to affect a strategic retreat, but the wolf pressed the attack, unfazed by their tactics.
Most of the officers' body cams were destroyed in the attack. The footage was known as "The Butler Tape" after Specialist Wes Butler, whose camera had the only salvageable content. It was passed around departments as a warning and object lesson to police on just how dangerous even a single lycanthrope could be.
If that was what a lycanthrope could do to a team of trained police officers, Traxler shuddered to think of what one could do unleashed in the halls of Congress. Sure, there were always threats to lawmakers, but bombs and guns could be detected with machines and stopped before they could get close enough to do any harm. If there was a virus or mutated genome that caused lycanthropy, doctors had yet to be able to isolate it with any degree of reliability. He'd heard there were some researchers in Kyoto that had a few promising breakthroughs in that field, but even then, the results of their so-called "werewolf test" took weeks for a supercomputer to process.
No, at this time, it was simply safer to keep the lycanthropes out of D.C. completely.
Traxler didn't always understand how some of his assignments contributed to The Agency's mission, but that didn't matter. He didn't have to understand. The proof was in the pudding – by every measure available, they kept the city free of preternatural menaces. There were others he knew of, primarily witches, but among all the types of supernatural threats, lycanthropes were the most dangerous. And even then, there weren't that many.
It had been a pretty manageable job.
Until now.
He'd only been to the Home Office a handful of times since working for The Agency. Most of the time, his assignments came directly from Mitchum. Even though they were technically partners, Traxler knew precious little about the other man. The only thing he knew for sure was that Mitchum had been in The Agency for nearly two decades before Traxler joined up. He suspected a few other things – namely that in a previous life, Mitchum had been a werewolf hunter, and that he used to be married but no longer was – but those were pieced together from snippets of dozens of conversations the two of them had over the years. The man was frustratingly circumspect.
The text he'd gotten that morning was from Mitchum: Home Office, 0900. He didn't provide any additional information that one might expect from such a summons, such as the office number or why they needed to meet in person. Others might have been bothered by such scant information, but Traxler didn't need anything more. There was only one reason to meet in person at the Home Office.
The Manager was getting involved.
If Traxler knew little about Mitchum and less about The Agency, then The Manager was a walking, talking question mark. The only thing he knew for sure about the man was that he was unquestionably in charge of The Agency. Traxler had no idea what qualifications or previous experience the man had to earn such a position, but the man's orders were followed without question, even by the likes of Mitchum.
Traxler didn't even know the man's last name. He had no nameplate on his desk, and no one ever addressed him by any other title or honorific. It was as though he was in some kind of witness protection program. He made the mistake, once, of asking Mitchum what the deal was.
"Don't waste your time on that," had been the other man's simple reply.
He tried to put it out of his mind as he pulled up to the Home Office. It was a fairly nondescript two-story building. The first floor was smooth gray concrete dotted at regular intervals by small rectangular windows set high on the wall. The second floor was slightly wider than the first and was entirely covered in mirrored blue glass that exactly matched the color of the first-floor windows. There was no obvious security, not even a guard shack into the parking lot. It could have easily been a banking office or medical building. That was, he knew, the whole point. The Agency relied on obscurity to keep its existence a secret.
The fact that this was very similar to the way lycanthropes kept themselves hidden wasn’t entirely lost on Traxler. He did not, however, appreciate the irony of it.
He pulled into a parking space and checked the time; he still had about fifteen minutes before the appointed time. Good. In some arenas it was expected that he'd arrive early for meetings, but around here they wanted people to show up on the dot. Nine AM meant nine AM, not a minute early nor a minute late.
Besides, he needed some time to collect himself before going inside. If he found Mitchum a bit unsettling to be around, The Manager was something else altogether. Whenever he had doubts about the mission, Traxler reflected on The Manager's utter, unwavering commitment to the cause. He wouldn't call the man a zealot, but he didn't know of another word that came close enough. The difference was "zealot" tended to imply a lack of rationality and that couldn't be further from the truth in this case. Without a doubt, The Manager was the smartest, most rational individual he'd ever come across – and he'd met the head of the FBI.
After ten minutes, he stepped out of his car and began walking toward the building. In keeping with the facade of being an ordinary office, other agents were making their way through the parking lot too. He gave a small perfunctory wave to a few he recognized. He didn't know if any of these worked explicitly for The Agency or if, like him, they were only obliquely in its employ. He'd long since given up trying to understand the organizational structure that The Manager had to, well, manage. Hell, he didn't even know how many people worked for The Agency (directly or otherwise).
In keeping with the rest of the building, the main door was unremarkable. He reached into his jacket and produced an ID badge, which he placed against a small reader on the right side of the door. There was a small ding, and a red indicator light turned green. He pulled the door open and stepped into a room that he supposed served as the "lobby." There was even a low-slung desk for a receptionist or security guard, but it was empty. Traxler strode across the room, his footfalls echoing loudly off the polished stone floor.
Traxler passed through an automatic turnstile that required a different badge to clear. The Manager's office was on the second floor. He moved past the elevator bank to the staircase beyond. He thought it was the epitome of laziness to take an elevator up a single floor. He didn't even consider it for fewer than four stories.
Once he emerged from the stairwell, he turned right and headed down a short hallway that terminated in a set of double doors made of some kind of honey-brown wood. The marble floor gave way to lush blue carpet. There was no badge scanner here, and the door wasn't even locked. Traxler opened the right-hand door without knocking and stepped into what was certainly a kind of executive suite. There was another receptionist-style desk immediately inside, empty as well.
Beyond the empty vestibule was another wooden door, which Traxler approached with confidence. He checked his watch: 8:59:43 AM. Close enough. He opened the door.
"Traxler." The Manager spoke mildly without looking up from his desk. He was studying a thick paper file, flipping back and forth between a few pages, his brows knitted in concentration. Traxler remained standing in the doorway, waiting for the other man to invite him in. He knew it was unwise to interrupt The Manager's concentration. After nearly four minutes, the other man spoke again: "Come on in, we have a lot to go over."
"Yes sir." Traxler stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. It was only then that something struck him. "Will Mitchum be joining us?" Previously, when he'd gotten orders directly at the Home Office, Mitchum was there too.
"Not this time," The Manager said, finally looking up from the papers. "He's on assignment."
"Oh yeah?" Traxler kept his tone measured and light, hoping to entice the other man to let some additional information slip.
He shouldn't have bothered. "Yes." The Manager looked up as Traxler took the chair opposite him. "Did you review the report on the Cooper pack?"
"Yes. I still don't understand why we used cameras instead of rifles." He'd reviewed the footage. There was something particularly unsettling about seeing the wolves in harsh shades of green from the night-vision lenses. From the distance they had been observing, they could only catch fleeting glimpses of their furred forms darting between the trees. Even so, he saw several opportunities where a trained sniper could have made a clear shot.
The Manager smiled thinly. "You've seen the Butler tape, I assume?"
Traxler sobered. "Yes. Of course."
"So then you know why we didn't just go in guns blazing."
"Yes, but from a far enough distance–"
"And if the snipers miss just one shot, then what? You know how unreliable even the best silver ammunition can be over long distances. The wolf escapes, or worse, comes at our men, and how many do we lose if that happens? No, we needed to ascertain whether the computer readout was correct, and positively confirm how many of them there actually were." He looked down at the papers on his desk again, shaking his head. "Nine werewolves! Haven't had to deal with a group this big in a long time." He paused, considering, then added: "Maybe ever." Those last two words were spoken in a softer tone that Traxler did not care for, especially coming from The Manager. If it were anybody else, Traxler would have called it “uncertain.” Surely The Agency dealt with large wolf packs before. Even if it wasn’t during The Manager’s tenure, there had to be records, logs, some kind of playbook for them to follow.
Right?
"So, what are we going to do?" Traxler finally asked.
"Us? Nothing. Not directly. Not yet." The Manager turned the file around, so it was facing Traxler, and slid it across the desk. "What do you know about this?"
Traxler picked up the file folder, frowning slightly as he skimmed the first page. "The Cruciform Knights? Those religious nuts? What the hell can they do?"
The other man chuckled. "More than you know. Read on."
Traxler did as he was told, mindful of the silence hanging heavy in the air between them. He read as quickly as he could while still trying to take in the information provided. Archimedes Brown, religious extremist, founder of the Cruciform Knights, and very outspoken anti-lycanthrope advocate. He was based in D.C. but traveled around the country from time to time whenever there was a prominent lycan-related event in the news. He was the first person to speak out against any proposed legislation to criminalize werewolf hunting, and all the cable news channels loved him for the ratings he could attract with his outlandish religious proclamations.
And, according to this file, he was also trained by British SAS before farming himself out as a bomber for the IRA.
The Manager spoke up then, as if he knew where exactly in the file Traxler had gotten. "He's someone who doesn't shy away from violence in defense of what he believes."
Traxler didn't react to this, continuing to read in case there were any other surprises. Though "special forces trained mad bomber" was a hell of a bar to set. The remainder of the file seemed to delve into the man's history after leaving Ireland, the formation of the Knights, and their activities since then. Two members of the Cruciform Knights were convicted in the ambush slaying of a werewolf in Tempe, Arizona several years ago. Traxler remembered hearing about that on the news. It was exceedingly rare for anyone to be found guilty in the death of a werewolf, which meant the premeditation must have been so blatant even a jury couldn't ignore it. Reporting at the time implied that their actions were sanctioned by the Knights, but nothing was ever actually proven at the trial. According to the file in his hands, however, Father Brown had prior knowledge of their plans and did nothing to alert police.
There were similar items scattered throughout the file, following the same pattern. The Cruciform Knights officially did not sanction violence, but their members seemed to take matters into their own hands, often with the tacit support of Father Brown and others in leadership.
"How long have we been gathering intel on these guys?" Traxler tried to keep the surprise out of his voice but wasn't entirely sure he succeeded. Some of the information contained in the file could have altered the outcome of criminal trials. He wasn't sure it would be enough to put Father Brown himself behind bars, but it was certainly more comprehensive than any individual police department was privy to.
If The Manager heard anything unusual in his tone, it didn't show. He shrugged idly. "Our investigative scope includes anything related to preternatural creatures within the District of Columbia. The Cruciform Knights injected themselves into the national debate on the matter and consequently came under our purview." The words, if spoken by anyone else, could have come off as defensive, but The Manager's tone was dry and matter of fact.
Traxler didn't press the matter. "So, this is my assignment, then?" He was starting to put two and two together but wanted to make sure that four was the answer he was supposed to get.
The Manager leaned back in his chair, the leather cushions giving a soft sigh at the movement. He regarded Traxler with eyes that were so light a shade of blue they appeared to be gray. There was something in the gaze that reminded Traxler of a shark; always thinking, always in motion. He could be engaged in an intense conversation with somebody and still be turning over a problem in his mind, balancing both activities with ease. His physical prime might have been behind him (Traxler guessed the man to be pushing seventy) but his mental acuity was still very much intact.
"If I have to tell you," The Manager finally said, "I'm not sure you're the man for this assignment."
Traxler's first instinct was to bristle, but he schooled himself quickly. If he let the man push him into a defensive stance, he very well could give the job to someone else. Whatever hesitation Traxler might have about the sudden appearance of this file, he would not shy away from what needed to be done. "I just have some questions," he admitted. "What exactly are the Cruciform Knights going to be able to do that we can't?"
The other man nodded. "That is a fair question. And it ties directly into Mitchum's assignment. Which means you're going to have to take this one on a bit of faith."
It was an uncommonly forthcoming answer. There were only a handful of things that Mitchum could be doing to give this collection of religious nuts and bigots any semblance of an advantage over a pack of werewolves. The most likely explanation was that it had to do with equipping the church with weaponry of some kind. But The Agency had weapons aplenty so there was something more to it that wasn't quite connecting for him.
"I can do that." He held up a finger. "One more question, then. Just how much am I able to tell him about who I am and why I'm there?"
"Why, you can tell him as much as you like. I leave those details up to you." Traxler narrowed his eyes. He thought he could detect a hint of humor in The Manager's tone, but everything about the man's expression indicated he was being serious.
"Okay," Traxler replied, stretching the word out to signal his uncertainty. He thought he perceived a faint twinkle of amusement in The Manager's eyes at that.
"Here, take this. You might need it." The Manager slid another folder this one closed, across the desk to him.
Traxler set the Cruciform Knights' file down and picked up the other, opening it to a random spot. It was thicker, with several glossy photographs mixed in with the various reports and computer printouts. He smiled thinly. "I think I can work with this," he said.
"I rather thought you might," The Manager said, turning his attention back to one of the other files on his desk. Traxler didn't need to be told to realize he was being dismissed.
He tucked the folder under his arm and saw himself out.
Guess it was time for him to find religion.