Me and Mr. Jones

Cover: Jason standing in front of a black 1994 Corvette with tinted windows. He is wearing a floor-length tan trenchcoat, a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his face, and a pair of dark sunglasses. He's holding a HUGE gun in each hand... on arm is down at his side, gun pointed at the ground. The other arm is across his chest, gun pointed to the side. Text across the bottom: "Brooks... Jason Brooks."

"hat the hell happened in here?" said Detective Marilyn Dobbs. She'd just stepped through the shattered front entrance of a supposedly abandoned veterinarian's office. She and her partner, James Royce, followed a trail of carnage and smashed furniture to a storage room in the back. The storage room's door was smashed as well... and there was a huge jagged hole in the floor that seemed big enough to drop a truck through. She had to skirt around it just to get to the trap door that lead to the stairs.

"You ain't seen nothing yet," said Detective Royce. "Wait'll we get downstairs."

Just then, a uniformed officer emerged from the basement and ran straight for the back door. He'd just managed to made it outside before his digestive system shifted into reverse, emptying his dinner of spaghetti and meatballs out onto the lawn.

"Geez,..." Royce mumbled. "It wasn't THAT bad..."

"Rookie," said Dobbs. "C'mon... show me what we got."

Detective Royce descended the wooden stairs, and Detective Dobbs followed close behind her. There was no need for flashlights; the forensics officers had already crammed more lights than a baseball stadium into the medium sized basement. A half-dozen officers wandered around among the evidence... which consisted mainly of three corpses hanging upside-down from the ceiling, three more corpses laying on the floor, and more blood than Marilyn had seen since she quit homicide in New York. The place reeked with the smell of meat... a smell that had already drawn every fly within miles.

"Well," said Royce. "Whadaya think?"

Detective Dobbs looked around, running her critical eye on every detail. Her mind worked like a machine... objective and emotionless. The grotesque horror of the scene didn't phase her one bit. She'd seen worse.

"Okay," she said after a few moments. "The hanging guys... and lady... had their throats slit. Somebody climbed up that ladder and did 'em while they hung. The ones on the floor were shot. I don't see very many bullet-holes in the walls, so it wasn't an outright fire fight."

Marilyn looked at the three bodies on the floor.

"Now THERE'S a familiar face," she said as she pointed to the female corpse. "That's the woman who hit me with the tranquilizer."

"Kidnap attempt. Trying to grab Brooks?"

"I think maybe Brooks didn't take to kindly to being snatched."

"If he WAS snatched."

"Hmmm... looks like the female took a shotgun blast to the chest... and there's the shotgun right over there-"

"We got it," said one of the forensics officers. He walked over to the floor were the shotgun lay and took a picture of it with his Polaroid camera.

"That isn't what killed her, though," said Marilyn. "Check out her neck... or what's left of it."

"Looks like something took a bite out of it. Think she was still alive at the time?"

"Probably."

"There's blood everywhere," said Marilyn. "and quite a bit of it in that tub below the hanging corpses. Looks like they were bled out on purpose, like slaughtered animals. The blood was collected in that tub... but you'd get a LOT more blood than that from three adults."

"So where's the rest of it?" said Royce.

Marilyn shrugged.

"Heeeey, what's this?" said one of the forensics officers. He was kneeling on the floor, holding a sword in one latex-gloved hand.

"It's a sword, what the hell does it LOOK like?" said Marilyn. "Bag it and tag it... put it with the rest of the evidence. And I want FINGERPRINTS, dammit!"

"Who's prints you think we're gonna find on that sword?" said Royce.

"One guess," said Marilyn "And his initials are Jason Brooks."

"You think your guy did this?"

"He's not 'my guy,'" said Marilyn. "He may or may not be the shooter, but I guarantee you that he was here."

"So you think he's innocent?"

"Huh? No, he's guilty as hell... but maybe not for doing THIS. Those throats weren't cut with a sword. NOBODY here was cut with a sword."

"Found a knife over here... before you came in," another one of the forensics gatherers held up a clear plastic bag containing a large knife."

"Bingo," said Dobbs. "Ten to one, Brooks fingerprints aren't on that blade."

"Ten to one?" said Royce.

"Okay... four to one."

"So what the hell happened?"

"Geez, Royce... do I have to do everything?"

"Yes."

"This is obviously a cult. They had some kind of... animal or something... feeding it fresh blood. Somebody busted in and took 'em out. But not before they did these poor guys up there."

"I dunno, Dobbs... that's a stretch."

"Okay, so what do YOU think happened."

"I don't know. I'm keeping an open mind."

"Well... just don't open it so wide that your brain falls out."

"Besides," said Royce. "If this is a simple 'bust in and shoot the cult whackos' job... what the HELL made that hole?"

Dobbs looked up at the huge hole.

"I don't have a clue, Royce. Not one damned clue."

he evidence collection van... an old Ford Econoline with a new fancy police paint-job... wound its way through the empty streets of downtown Rock Springs. The drive from the crime scene on the outskirts of town was long, slow, and uneventful. Officer Russell was almost asleep in the passenger's seat, leaving Officer Levine to his own thoughts as the van turned off of 2nd Avenue and onto Main Street.

"Almost there, Bob," said the driver.

Bob Russell sat up in his seat and adjusted his uniform.

"Why's it so dark?" he said. The street lights along Main Street were out for several blocks. The van rolled slowly down a long tunnel of darkness, with deserted office buildings on either side.

"Damned power company," said Officer Levine. "And folks WONDER why crime's on the way up. Hell... it's because they can't keep the street lights on half the time."

"Yeah, well-"

KA-KLUNK!

Something heavy landed on the van's roof. Instinctively, Officer Levine hit the brakes and Officer Russell drew his weapon. The police-issue revolver was only halfway out of its holster when something shot down past the windshield and impaled the hood of the van. It was a sword. The medieval weapon pierced the aluminum hood and skewered the distributer. Its heart impaled by a shaft of mighty steel, the van's engine coughed and died a quick death.

"What the HELL!?"

"Somebody's on the roof!"

Officer Russell was the first one out. As soon as his feet touched the asphalt, he swiveled left and right with his weapon held ready. There was another sound...

Shhhhling!

"What?"

A shadow moved in front of the officer-

WHOOSH-KLANG!

The tip of the sword... freshly drawn from its scabbard... knocked the gun from the officer's hand. Officer Russell caught a glimpse of a man dressed in black... swinging a blade like something out of a fantasy movie. Before he could make out the man's face, the pommel of the sword struck the officer in the forehead, knocking him unconscious.

On the other side of the van, Officer Levine heard his partner hit the ground.

"BOB!" he yelled. He reached into the van and grabbed the radio. He pushed the talk button at the same time that he saw the shadow appear around the front of the van. Levine spun... his finger already squeezing the trigger of his weapon

WHOOSH-WHOOSH-KLANG-WHOOSH-KRACK!

Thud.

Levine and his revolver hit the ground at about the same time.

The shadowy figure spun and, with a flourish, thrust his sword into the black scabbard on his right hip. Then he grabbed his other sword and yanked it free of the van's engine. He walked around to the rear of the van. Black-gloved hands grabbed the handle and tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge.

The figure stepped back-

WHOOSH-
KA-TANG!

The sword sliced the flimsy lock in half, and both halves of the rear door fell open. The figure sheathed his sword, looked up and down the dark street, and then quickly stepped into the van without making a sound.

"o now that we're here," said Jason Brooks. "You mind telling me what's going on? WHY are we halfway up the east coast walking through the worst neighborhood I've seen since 'Boyz In the Hood?'"

"Escaping from the police," replied Donovan Wilde... the disembodied ghost that had been haunting Jason since Friday night. It was Monday morning now, and Jason couldn't be more tired... tired of Donovan and tired of the curse that the ghost had stuck him with.

"Aren't we supposed to be hunting demons or something?" said Jason.

"No need to hunt them. They'll come to you, remember."

"Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me that the rest of my short life will be one giant freak-show. And thanks for saddling me with this freaking Affinity crap! Got me walking around here like the freaking Punisher! Jason adjusted his tattered, stained trenchcoat... which reeked of smoke, gunpowder, and... chickens? "And riding all the way up here in the back of a chicken-truck was a DAMN GOOD idea, Donovan! Thanks a WHOLE LOT for THAT!"

"You complain too much," said Donovan.

"I'M the one walking around with an arsenal under my coat... which smells like a CHICKEN FARM now, by the way! I think complaining is WELL WITHIN my rights!"

"This is good verses evil... you have no rights. Shut up and make a left at this next street."

"Watch your mouth, Casper... I still owe you an ass-whuppin' for screwing up my life."

"I didn't screw it up; I just... changed it."

"CHANGED IT!?!"

"And YOU accepted the Gifts of your own free will. Remember that."

"You didn't bother to explain the demons and the guns before dropping dead in my arms. If you had, I'd have left your ass on that street-corner by your damned self!"

"Turn here, Jason."

Around the next corner was a short street leading to a large chain-link fence. The fence had to be nine feet high...not counting the coils of razor-wire attached to the top. Mingled in with the razor wire were two video cameras. One was pointed right at Jason, and the other swiveled back and forth, panning the narrow street. Mounted beside the gate was a plastic box, which held a speaker and a large white button. On the gate itself was a large red and white sign:

"DANGER!
ELECTRIFIED FENCE
HIGH VOLTAGE"

Underneath it was a smaller, hand-made sign which read:

"Extra-Crispy."

"Niiiiice," said Jason.

On the other side of the fence were several rows of what looked like garages. There had to be a hundred of them... Each one was identical in construction and color. Just beyond the gate was a large brick building with a huge, ugly sign attached to the roof:

"BRYSON'S SELF STORAGE.
AUCTIONS HELD MONTHLY."

"Okay, we came all the way up here on the back of a chicken truck to see THIS place?" said Jason.

"Yes. Push that little button on the gate."

"You see that sign? Do you know what 'electrified fence' means? I ain't pushing JACK! YOU push the damn button! There's probably some crazed redneck in there that's gonna catch a Vietnam flashback and blast my ass straight back to-"

"I heard that," came a grumbling voice from the box on the gate. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Tell him Smith sent you."

"Smith sent me, man."

"Smith, who? I don't know any Smith. And that ain't tellin me who YOU are, is it?"

"Tell him your name is Jones."

"Jones?" Jason said aloud.

"You sure about that?" said the voice on the speaker.

"Say no," said Donovan.

"Hell no."

There was a long pause. And then:

"You a cop?"

"Nope."

"FBI? BATF?"

"Uhhh... what?"

"Naahh...," said the voice. "No Fed would be that obvious. C'mon in. And be quick about it."

The gate made a loud buzzing sound, and it slid open. Not all the way.. just wide enough for Jason to walk through without touching it. It immediately closed behind him.

"You mind telling me what the hell THAT was about?" said Jason as he walked toward the brick building, which was obviously the office. Amazingly, the door was unlocked. Jason entered.

The voice from the box belonged to short fat, balding man wearing a stained white T-shirt. He sat at a filthy desk, which was behind large counter stretching from one wall to the other. There was no empty space on the desk... it was all taken up by three small televisions, a CB radio, and a large, bizarre piece of equipment that displayed a series of jumbled lines.

The man was pointing a double-barreled shotgun at Jason's head.

Jason felt his fingers twitch... and the muscles in his arms tighten. Despite the gun already pointed at his face, he knew that he could put a bullet through the fat man's head before the man could even fire the shotgun. He didn't WANT to know that... but he did.

Jason examined the man's aura. It was remarkably clean... there was very little darkness in it at all. Almost none, in fact. This man was one of the good guys.

"Don't take this the wrong way," said Jason. "But you might wanna put that shotgun down before I bust a cap in your ass."

"A smart ass, eh?"

"No. I just know something you don't. You seem like a good guy, and I really don't wanna hurt you. But if you don't move that gun, I'll do it anyway. Nothing personal."

The fat man stared at him, then lay his shotgun on across his lap.

"Friend of Jones, eh?"

"No, I AM Jones," said Jason. "I'm a friend of Smith."

The fat man stared at him again. Then sighed.

"Since you're here talking to me... I guess that means Smith is out."

"If by 'out' you mean 'dead,' then yeah."

"Damn," said the man. "You're, uhh... You're his replacement, right? He told me there'd be one. That if anything happened to him-"

"Yes," said Jason. "That's me."

"I'm Bryson," said the man. He stood up and shook Jason's hand across the counter. "You smell like a chicken farm."

"Thanks. It's my new cologne... it's called 'Eau de Kicking Somebody's Ass.'"

"Heh. You're a funny one. Don't worry about it... Smith came in here with some God-awful smells on 'im all the time."

"So what do you do, Mr. Bryson?"

"Nobody calls me 'Mr. Bryson' except for cops and Feds. I'm just Bryson. If that's too many syllables for ya, just call me Bry. And what I DO should be obvious."

"Humor me."

"This is a storage yard, genius. I keep stuff for people."

"Among other things," added Donovan.

"I guess you're here to get Smith's stuff, eh?"

"Stuff. Right."

"Got it in the back. Stay right here."

There were two closed doors behind Bryson's desk, one on each end of the room. Bryson unlocked one of the doors and vanished into a back room. He closed and locked the door behind him. Jason instantly felt nervous.

"Okay, who is this guy?" said Jason.

"Bryson," Donovan replied.

"And?"

"I told you in Rock Springs that there was more to your Gifts."

"I can shoot. I can see auras. I'm immune to Jedi mind tricks and I'm a demon-magnet. What else is there?"

"Just be patient."

Bryson emerged from the back room carrying three briefcases. They were thick and heavy... and secured with combination locks on either side of the handle.

"Fresh from the safe," he said. He plopped the briefcases down on the counter one at a time.

THUD...

"One-"

THUD...

"Two-"

THUD...

"And Three-"

"Open them," said Donovan. "The combination for the locks on the briefcases is 7412 left and 8376 right."

Jason unlocked the first briefcase and opened it slowly, halfway expecting a miniature demon to leap out of it and attach itself to his face.

"...Jesus Christ!" Jason gasped. He slammed the briefcase shut.

There was no demon.

Instead, the briefcase contained more money than he'd ever seen in one place. It was filled with neat stacks of hundred dollar bills.

"Everything okay?" said Bryson.

"Uhhh..."

"Demon-fighting isn't a low-budget affair," said Donovan. "It takes money and equipment. This should get us off to a nice start. Now, ask him to show you the back room. We'll be needing some things."

"Uhh... back room?"

Bryson looked at Jason, then hit a button under the counter. A portion of the counter slid away, allowing Jason to step behind it.
 

"Follow me," said Bryson. Bryson went through the other door behind his desk... which lead to a small, disgusting bathroom. Jason joined him reluctantly. Bryson closed and locked the bathroom door, then did something with the sink that Jason couldn't see. Another door... a hidden one... opened behind them, revealing a room that was at least twice as large as the front office. The place was packed with weapons. Guns. Knives. Stacks of ammunition that reached the ceiling. Rifles and shotguns hung from the wall like pieces of art. Handguns and various nasty-looking blades sat behind glass countertops. Mysterious crates of unknown items were piled in a far corner... most of them had Chinese, German, or Russian writing on them.

"Oh my God," said Jason as he entered. The secret door slid closed behind him.

"You want Smith's usual stuff or you want something different?" said Bryson. "Smith was into the explosives... but they're mighty hard to come by. It'll cost ya..."

"Uhh-"

"You're the warrior now," said Donovan. "Let the Affinity guide you."

"What if i don't want to?" said Jason.

"Eh, what's that?" said Bryson.

"Just open your mind and let it come."

"Yes, Obi-Wan..."

Jason stood in the center of the room and did as Donovan instructed. He cleared his mind and took deep, slow breaths. He kept his eyes open... letting them drift across the hundreds of weapons in the room. He looked at each of them one at a time...

"That one," said Jason. He pointed to an AK-47. He had no idea what it was, but when he saw it he simply knew he had to have it. Bryson took the weapon down off of the wall and lay it on the counter. "And the one next to it," said Jason. "And this shotgun back here. That rifle over there. And this one... those two... those three handguns right there... and that one..."

In a little under five minutes, Jason has picked out some fifty weapons... rifles, handguns, and shotguns of various calibers. He looked at the impressive stack of firepower that Bryson assembled for him. As he did, his eyes caught something he hadn't seen before. It was a pistol. It sat in a far corner of a display case, yet it seemed to beckon to him. The stainless steel, five-shot revolver had an eight-inch barrel with the words "Raging Bull" expertly machined along its length. It had a black rubber stock with a small red stripe down the back. The gun drew Jason's eyes and refused to let them go. It was as if he were hypnotized... he couldn't stop looking at it, not even to blink.

"You like that, eh?" said Bryson. He took the weapon out of the case and handed it to Jason. The weapon was heavy...very heavy... but it felt good in his hands. "That there is a .454 Casull... THE most powerful handgun in existence. No other gun even comes close. That baby's got four times the power of a .357. TWICE as powerful as a .44 magnum. You can hunt BEAR with that thing."

"What about demons and vampires?"

"Heh... now yer starting to sound like Smith. Jones, WHATEVER you shoot with that thing ain't getting up again... if it can be killed, that gun will kill it. And ya can't ignore the intimidation factor... If a man is lookin' down the wrong end of THAT weapon, he'll get him some religion REAL quick! You like it?"

"Hell yes."

"I can cut you a sweat deal on one?"

"One?" said Jason. He looked at Bryson. "I'll take six."

"etective Dobbs... Royce... you got something to tell me?"

Captain Gavin... a small, middle-aged man with a stern, permantenly-red face... glared at the detectives. Marilyn Dobbs and James Royce sat in a pair of uncomfortable chairs in front the police chief's desk.

Marilyn flipped through her notepad and Royce just waited quietly.

"Well?" said Gavin.

"Here's my theory," said Marilyn. She closed her notepad and looked the captain in the eye. "We got ourselves a cult. A nasty one that somehow thinks human sacrifices fit under the 'Freedom or Religion' clause. John Doe... who's body the crime lab has YET to positively identify... was involved with them somehow. Perhaps he was a member, or a former member. Whatever the connection, something goes sour between him and the cult leaders. A fight erupts and John Doe gets himself fatally injured... but NOT before blowing up one or more people with a car bomb. Doe makes it to Jason Brooks... an accomplice, possibly a professional... before he dies. Now the cult is hunting Brooks as well, and Brooks takes it upon himself to finish the job that John Doe started. He is either kidnapped, or he tracks the cult leaders to a veterinarian's's office on the outskirts of town. He takes em out, right in the middle of whatever ceremony they'd been performing. One man escapes... and Brooks chases him across town... blowing up a sporting goods store, engaging in a shoot-out with the police, and trashing an ambulance in the process. They end up in the metalworking plant in the industrial district. Two of them enter... and only one of them walks out. The next night... despite a full manhunt... Jason Brooks or another accomplice manages to hijack the evidence van carrying ALL the physical evidence from the cult massacre, leaving both drivers naked and unconscious by the side of the road."

"I'm amazed," said Captain Gavin. "I am TRULY amazed that you can say that with a straight face. Where to you GET this from, Dobbs... A SATANIC CULT!?! In Rock Springs!?!"

"We had them in New York. Sometimes the cult leaders fight... wasn't all that unusual for assassinations and mob-style hits to be mixed in with the occasional human sacrifice."

"This ain't New York, Detective!"

"Not YET it isn't," said Dobbs. "But just because this USED to be a small town doesn't mean you can continue to run this place like it's 1954. This town is in the big-leagues now, and with that growth comes the kind of crime you aren't used to dealing with. Serial killers, street-gangs, and satanic cults.. for starters."

"What about you, Royce? You buy into this BS?"

"Well... her theory does ignore a few points..."

"Oh, thanks a LOT, Royce!" said Dobbs.

"What about the guy and his wife who say they were attacked. They saw Jason Brooks... but the WIFE said that Brooks SAVED her from..."

"From what, Royce?" said Dobbs. "Go on... say it..."

"Some kind of.... animal."

"THAT'S not what she said. She said it was a monster... eight feet tall, gray skin, fangs claws, and WINGS. Are you calling THAT a reliable witness?"

"It's the same thing that some of our officers saw at the store."

"It's what they THOUGHT they saw," said Dobbs.

"It matches the woman's description. Coincidence? What about the damage to the vet's office? AND let's not forget the bodies. One police officer and an employee of the store... torn apart by something that definitely wasn't human. And drained of blood. We need to explain THAT somehow, too."

"So what are you saying, Royce," said the captain. "that a vampire did it?"

"No... I'm just saying that Dobbs' theory doesn't explain all of the facts."

"The hell it doesn't! Blood was taken by the cult for sacrifices!"

"So this cult guy... running for his life from an armed hit-man... stops to collect blood?"

"He's in a cult," said Dobbs. "That means he's CRAZY! Of COURSE he isn't going to act rationally! Maybe he THOUGHT he was a vampire! As for the damage and the sightings, It was probably some exotic animal-"

"An eight-foot tall, gray gorilla with wings?" said Royce.

"Check the zoos," said Dobbs through clenched teeth. "Check 'em in every city within 1000 miles... I'll bet we'll find some missing animals. DANGEROUS missing animals."

"No animal droppings," said Royce. "No animal tracks. No animal hair. No animal-"

"Royce, shut up," said Captain Gavin. "BOTH of you have been watching too much 'X-Files'. But at least Dobbs HAS a theory, even if it IS BS! Look, you two... we've had a lot of activity in the past few days. People are starting to worry. They're starting to make phone calls. They're starting to ask ME what he hell is going on... and all I got is it's either a satanic cult or a friggin' vampire!?!"

"I didn't say it was a vampire," said Royce. "I just said-"

"And where is Jason Brooks now, eh? He MUST still be in town if he's knocking over evidence vans, right?"

"Perhaps Brooks didn't do it. Could be an accomplice... Or it could be the bogeyman, right Royce?"

"All I said was-"

The phone rang.

"Gavin, here," the captain barked into the receiver. "What? WHAT!? Oh, that's just great. Yeah... yeah... right... on the way." Gavin hung up the phone. "GUESS who that was?"

"Mayor?" said Dobbs.

"No... that was the crime lab."

"Great... they finally get an ID for our John Doe?"

"Nooo, just the opposite. They LOST John Doe!"

"What?" Dobbs and Royce said at once.

"Somebody broke into the morgue early this morning and SNATCHED the body right out from under six guards and about twenty security cameras. Nobody saw a damn thing. Nothing on tape. The body, and all the paperwork associated with it... are gone."

"First the evidence van..." said Royce. "Now this."

"You know what's happening, don't you?" said Dobbs. "All the physical evidence in this case is disappearing. Hell, right now all we got left is the stuff from the church."

"That's here in the evidence room at the station," said Captain Gavin. "It ain't goin' nowhere. You two get down to the crime lab and see what the hell happened. And if EITHER ONE OF YOU comes back talking about vampires or satanic cults, I'm gonna gave BOTH your hides!"

"Yes, sir," said Royce as they left the captain's office.

"Stop kissing ass," mumbled Dobbs. "You get some kind of perverse pleasure from making me look bad, don't you?"

"I just didn't think your theory accounted for all the facts."

"Well, next time get a theory of your own before you start shooting holes in mine, got it?"

"I was just trying to help."

"Help this-" said Marilyn as she extended her middle finger.

"Soo... looks like your guy Brooks struck again, eh? But what would he want with a dead body?"

"Covering his tracks," said Dobbs. "And if you call him 'my guy' one more time I'm gonna yank your tongue out and slap you to death with it."
 

"o the next question is:" said Jason. "How the hell am I supposed to carry all this?" Bryson had assembled up his new purchases... more weapons an ammo than some police departments... into a neat stack on the floor. "I SURE as hell ain't jumping onto any more chicken-trucks."

Jason looked around to see if there was anything in the room that would help him with his transportation problem. Something else caught his eye.

"What's that over there?" Jason pointed to a tan, floor length trenchcoat hanging from a coat-rack behind the handgun display case. There was a dark brown, wide-brimmed hat sitting on top of the rack.

"You like the coat?" said Bryson. "Check it out... something I designed myself."

Bryson pulled the coat open, revealing a weapon harness sewn into the inside.

"You can fit four guns in here... big ones like the 454. And two smaller ones up the sleeves... I recommend snub-nosed .357's. Plus these extra-deep inside pockets here for ammunition... or more weapons if ya want. And look here..." Bryson took the coat down and handed it to Jason. "Feel this..." The back of the coat, from just above the waist to just below the neck, was thicker and harder than it should have been. "Body armor. New stuff the Feds are using... thinner and lighter than Kevlar, but just as tough. This coat is for those unfortunate souls who have to worry about being shot in the back. Try it on."

Jason slipped out of his own ratty trenchcoat and tried on the new one. It was a bit too big for him... the sleeves and shoulders were loose, allowing for unimpeded movement. The long coat floated over his feet like a shroud. It was perfect.

"Don't forget this-" Bryson tossed the hat to Jason. It was thick and heavy as well. "Not completely bullet-proof... but if somebody shoots you in the head with a low-calibre weapon, they'll be mighty disappointed with the results. Probably still hurt like hell, though."

Jason put the hat on.

"How do I look?"

"Like a cheap detective," said Bryson. "Not that that's a BAD thing... I used to BE a cheap detective."

Jason pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from his old coat and put them on. Then the tilted the hat forward and to one side, so that it hid a portion of his face. Finally he took two of the huge .454's and held one in each hand. He turned suddenly, and the floor-length coat billowed around him like a cape.

"What about now?" Jason said.

"You're startin' ta scare me, Jones. Ya really are."

"Good. I'll take it."

'Jones' paid Bryson a small fortune for he weapons, but was still stuck with the problem of what to do with them.

"I'm gonna get a hernia trying to carry all this. Geez, I never knew guns were so damned heavy!"

"We aren't done yet," said Donovan.

"We aren't? What ELSE is there?"

"Eh?" said Bryson, who couldn't hear Donovan's disembodied voice. "Talkin' to yourself? Just like Smith used ta do."

"Ask him to help you carry the weapons out to thirteen."

"Thirteen?"

"Oh, yeah... almost forgot Smith rented that," said Bryson. "Want me to help ya carry this stuff out there?"

"Uhhh... sure."

They gathered the supplies... neatly wrapped in non-suspiscious brown paper bags... and carried them out of the office. They walked down the rows of storage rooms and stopped outside one of the larger ones. It was marked with the number '13' in large black letters.

"This is as far as I'm going," said Bryson. "What's in these storage rooms is the customer's business. Better if I don't see anything. You take care of yourself now... don't end up like Smith."

"I'll try not to," replied Jason.

"I'll open the rear gate for ya, it'll close automatically when ya leave. Just don't take all day. And don't worry... you was never here. If anybody asks, I never seen ya before in my life. See ya around, Jones. Ya need anything, ya know where I am."

Bryson waddled back to his office without looking back.

"So what's HIS story?" said Jason. "Why does he have an arsenal in the back of his office?"

"Better you don't know," said Donovan. "Good allies are hard to come by."

"So I can just walk in here and buy all kinds of weapons with no background check or nothing? And this is one of the good guys?"

"Good verses Evil, Jason. Laws are irrelevant. Bryson knows that. He supplies tools to people who need them."

"Like who?"

"He's a good man, that's all you need to know."

"So what's behind door number 13, here?"

"Open it."

There was a combination lock on the door, and, of course, Donovan had the combination. Jason removed the lock and lifted the heavy garage door, revealing a large shape covered with a silver tarp...

"Is that what I think it is?" said Jason.

"Yes."

Jason entered the dark, garage-sized room and yanked the tarp off of the object.

"Oh..." Jason's mouth hung open, and refused to close. "Oh. Ohhhh..."

Sitting before him was a 1994 ZR-1 Corvette. Black. With tinted black windows. Jason closed his eyes and opened them again. The car was still there.

"It's got a modified engine," said Donovan. "520 horsepower. Top speed of 190 miles per hour. 0 to 60 in 3.8 seconds. Bullet-resistant glass and panels. Secret compartments for weapons storage... I used them for swords and explosives, but there's no reason more traditional weapons won't fit."

"...oh..."

"There's a set of keys mounted under the left rear bumper."

"...oh..."

"Don't just stand there... get in."

Jason just stood there, trying his best not to drool.

After staring at the car for about a minute, he grabbed the keys, loaded the weapons into the back, and got in. He sank into the leather upholstery and placed his hands on the steering wheel.

"Briefcases full of money... a souped up car... you're just a regular Bruce Wayne, aren't you, Donovan?"

"As I said, demon-hunting takes money and equipment."

"Which came from WHERE, exactly?"

"The car belonged to a demon named Xarleyth, who was masqurading as a high-ranking drug lord before I cut him into pieces and dropped him into a large vat of holy water. After that, he didn't really have much need for his Corvette any more."

"...Jesus, Donovan!"

"This is a war, Jason. And like all wars, there is a certain amount of... how should I say this..."

"Loot?"

"Assets liberated from the enemy. A warrior should always make arrangements to pass his assets on to the one that follows... whoever that may be. I kept a certain amount of money... and this car... stashed away with someone I trusted. Which is exactly what the one before me did. AND the one before HIM."

"You got a boat and a helicopter, too?"

"Not any more. Brite destroyed the helicopter, and the boat sank off the coast of Florida... damned hurricanes."

"You... you're kidding, right?"

"No."

"You got a secret cave hidden under your mansion?"

"Well... as a matter of fact-"

"Never mind. Just... just never mind. This is mine now, right? The car... the money..."

"It's registered to Mr. Charles Jones... as are several offshore bank accounts that only I know exist. There are a half-dozen people in any city who can provide you with false identification good enough to withstand routine scrutiny by police and bank officials. Your life as Jason Brooks is over. Consider this an inheritance that came with your new life...Mr. Jones."

"I'm keepin' my name," said Jason as he started the engine. The performance-enhanced, 520 horsepower machine roared like an angry lion. "Oohh, yeah!"

There was a radar detector mounted in the dashboard, along with a police-band radio, CD player and several gadgets that Jason didn't recognize. Jason turned them all on. With all the lights blinking and the engine rumbling, Jason felt like he was sitting in the space shuttle.

"Remember when that demon trashed my car, and I said you owed me a new one?" said Jason. "Well... we're even about the car."

"I figured we would be."

Jason pulled out of the storage yard. He'd barely touched the accelerator, but the car shot out of the yard and into the street like a rocket.

"So," said Jason as he headed toward Rock Springs at an insane multiple of the speed limit... "I wonder what's been going on back home since we left?"

Author's Note: Wanna see Jason's new hardware? Check out the .454 calibur "Raging Bull" pistol and the ZR1 Corvette. Oh, and those performance modifications on the car? I didn't just make 'em up... They're for real.

Next Issue:   The Hands of Braxis!

copyright 2005 by Dark Icon Entertainment