Arcane Exfil Chapter 43

The retrieval from Kathyra’s workshop had been quick – their radios collected and Glock 21s back in hand. The AK, unfortunately, told its own story from that first night’s ambush. Amazing what the local weaponry could do to good Russian steel.

On the bright side, they still had one mag for the AKS-74U and a single tube for the Benelli, which beat throwing rocks but not by much.

OTAC’s armory had offered the local supplements: revolvers and cutlasses. The revolvers were just as comedically overbuilt as the rifles, but at least they weren’t quite on the same level of overkill. They’d be solid for punching through drake scales or Nevskor hide, less great for anything requiring follow-up shots. The cutlasses, well… they were pure medieval pragmatism. Anachronistic, yes, but at least they weren’t as finite as ammo.

They linked up with Elina at the garage, who’d requisitioned one of the larger Foreas – not quite an SUV but getting there.

The drive took about thirty minutes, mostly spent on steeling themselves for the mission ahead and daydreaming about home. The vehicle was honestly well-built – solid construction, reliable power, not much to complain about, really. But damn if it wasn’t a slog, even when compared to traffic on the I-95.

Their trip could’ve been faster; Miles kept wanting to push it further, but at forty miles per hour its narrow wheelbase and leaf springs turned the experience into a real-time physics problem. It was like riding in a Victorian-era engineer’s best guess at what a car should be. Matter of fact, that was exactly what it was.

By the time they arrived at the warehouse district, the city watch had already set up their perimeter. They rolled up to the cordon, parking right beside it.

Cole stepped out, flashing his OTAC badge to the local constable, who nodded them through with professional courtesy and a warning: “Been keepin’ the cordial, sirs, but fair few of the traders have turned proper restless on us.”

“Thanks for the heads up. Any trouble?” Cole asked.

The man shrugged. “Nothing untoward, sir. The usual grumbling about commerce and trade being hindered. Though that lot near the water’s been right antsy.”

“Alright. We’ll take it from here. Nothing in or out, unless they’re OTAC. Even if you hear gunfire.”

The constable nodded. “Understood, sir. We’ll hold the line.”

Cole led the team past the checkpoint, mental and physical enhancements at minimum burn. Their target was Warehouse 30, situated at the far end of the dock, past all the premium sites reserved for the larger companies. It also meant a greater distance from prying eyes – perfect for smugglers.

28 was the threshold at which Cole decided to take things slow. Even with the local lunch break wrapping up, traffic at this section of the port was almost nonexistent. The enemy might not have been thoroughly trained in counter-espionage, but it didn’t take special forces to catch someone walking across an open lot.

The warehouse ahead could provide an excellent vantage point with its sloped roof, but it looked exactly the same as the one behind it – which meant the fire escape would be on the far side, in full view of the cultists. If they wanted to get up there, they’d have to improvise.

“Loading platform to the awning,” Miles suggested, pointing at a freight elevator’s external framework. “Then across that to that stack of crates, then to the ventilation housing.”

The magical climate control units were bulky things, jutting from rooftops like mechanical mushrooms. Perfect for cover, solid enough to support weight.

Cole went first, channeling mana into his legs. Though the jump was well over twice his height, the enhancement rendered it trivial, enough to put the best NBA verticals to shame. He reached the platform at the top of his arc and stepped onto it like getting off an escalator. Solid enough. He waved the others up.

One by one they made the jump, Miles muttering something about ‘white guys can’t jump, my ass’ along the way.

The final approach to the roof required two more leaps, nothing they couldn’t already handle. Once they’d all made it up, Cole dropped to his belly and crested the roof, pulling out a spyglass to check.

It didn’t compare to having quality binos or a solid scope on hand, but he had to admit that the optics were surprisingly good, crystal clear even at an 8x zoom. There wasn’t much to complain about, except maybe that the brass fittings and ornate, flowery designs seemed a bit excessive for military hardware.

Through the lens, he got his first real look at their objective. The warehouse squatted near the water, completely blending in with every other weathered storage building along the docks. Preservation wards gave off that telltale shimmer in the shadows – expensive magic for supposedly cheap goods.

The scene below could’ve been any working port. Guys hauling boxes, bullshitting between loads, grabbing water when the supervisor wasn’t looking. Nothing screamed ‘demonic cult operation,’ which was exactly the problem. There was no way to sort threats from paychecks.

That young man wiping sweat from his forehead – cultist, or just some kid working his first job? The older guy favoring his left knee – bad guy playing longshoreman or actual longshoreman who got the shit end of the sticks when it came to employers?

The guards, at least, made threat assessment simple. If there was one thing to be certain of, it was that the cultists sure as hell wouldn’t hire random street muscle and expect them to keep secrets. No, they’d only trust their own people with security. But the workers? Without tactical indicators, everyone hauling cargo existed in the same operational gray zone. Made target discrimination a bitch.

The guards weren’t professionals – that much was obvious. Demon worshippers playing soldier, with all the swagger and none of the discipline. Some had revolvers poorly concealed under their coats, printing obvious to anyone who knew what to look for. Safe bet they were carrying blades too – easier to explain to authorities than firearms.

Cole swept the spyglass across the compound, cataloging what mattered. The main warehouse dominated the waterfront side, three stories of weathered brick and metal-reinforced timber. Two smaller buildings flanked it – one looked like an office structure, the other probably cold storage based on the frost patterns around the doorframe despite the afternoon heat.

The landward side had two entrances: a main cargo door big enough for wagons with those six guards trying to look casual out front, and a personnel entrance near the office building where the other two stood watch. Loading dock faced the water, currently shuttered but with another pair of guards posted there.

“Fifteen on the work detail, six pulling security outside the main entrance. Two more at the side door, two at the loading dock. Shit-tier arms, civvie as fuck, but hell, we could say the same about the VietCong,” Cole murmured.

“Yeah,” Mack agreed beside him. “Dude on the left of the side door keeps checkin’ his hip. Big-ass iron, like the one that punched through Graves back at Nolaren.”

“Can’t sort the sheep from the wolves,” Ethan sighed.

Mack’s voice dropped – he knew what that entailed. “Just like what Garrett said: ‘same shit, different toilet.’”

At least this time, it was more like one of those fancy Japanese toilets instead of some sorry gas station toilet. They had the advantage of force multipliers out the ass – years of counterinsurgency, science-supplemented spellcasting, actual fucking training. Meanwhile, these cultists ran merely on zealotry and whatever half-assed magical theory they’d scraped together.

This story originates from NovelFire. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Still, even idiots with guns could get lucky.

The warehouse’s front was pretty much covered at this point, but the ship remained a disconcerting unknown, and the rest of the warehouse’s perimeter was still snuggled into the embrace of the fog of war.

Cole checked his watch – it hadn’t even been ten minutes since they arrived. “We’re splitting up. Mack, you’re with Walker. Check the warehouse six. Need eyes on rear access points, guard positions, you know the deal. Elina, with me; we’re scouting the ship. Garrett, maintain overwatch. Hopefully, these fuckers won’t even know we’re here.”

Cole continued as everyone nodded, “Rally point’s here, fifteen mikes.” He caught Elina’s slight confusion and corrected, “Uh, minutes. If you get compromised, break contact and link up at the rear of Warehouse 27. Otherwise, it’s weapons free.”

“Roger that,” Mack confirmed.

Cole led a comms check before they left. It was a good thing they’d resisted the urge to cannibalize the radios for parts. The temptation had been there – reverse-engineering their tech could’ve jumpstarted Celdorne’s communication by decades.

But Miles had managed to cobble up enough lectures from memory to serve as a substitute, and right now, having secure short-range comms trumped theoretical kingdom-wide benefits. Still, once they had the local production figured out, being able to call in fire support from miles away would be a game-changer.

“Let’s move.”

Mack and Ethan backtracked, keeping low behind the roof’s lip. Getting down meant reversing their parkour – dropping from handhold to foothold, trying not to look like amateur burglars. Once they hit street level, Cole followed their route, working his way down the loading platform’s framework.

The approach to the ship was a gift from whatever urban planner had given up on this section of dock. Industrial districts were all the same – decades of accumulated crap that nobody wanted to pay to haul away. Rusted cranes frozen mid-lift, shipping containers that had evolved from temporary to permanent, pallets stacked like some kid’s fort gone malignant – it was a labyrinth, through and through. The cultists might as well have set up shop in a ready-made jungle gym.

They covered the distance in maybe three minutes, using every bit of cover out of habit more than necessity. The guards were still focused on the warehouse approaches and the main road, probably expecting trouble from inspectors rather than the dock side.

Cole stopped just shy of the ship’s bow, pressing his shoulder against a crate that had probably been there since the last Incursion. The wood was soft with rot, one solid push away from becoming mulch. It sure as hell wasn’t the most comfortable hiding spot, but this was the closest they could possibly get to the ship without running into the risk of getting spotted.

The SS Marigold squatted in the water like she’d given up on dignity somewhere around her third decade of service, once-golden lettering falling apart. Two hundred feet of rust-streaked pragmatism – the seaborne equivalent of a beat-up Corolla that just wouldn’t die. Perfect for smuggling. Nobody looked twice at ugly ships that showed up on schedule.

Two guards flanked the gangway, these assholes thoroughly dispensed with subtlety. Their revolvers were out and obvious, like they’d watched too many pirate movies. One had the physique of a docker who’d discovered beer was cheaper than food. The other carried himself with that particular brand of casual violence he’d seen in guys who’d started fighting young and never found a good reason to stop.

“Twelve crew topside,” Cole murmured to Elina. “Two on the crane, three on the bridge, seven handling cargo. Four guards total: two at the gangway, two at the bridge.”

The workers had formed a bucket brigade for boxes, except instead of water for a fire, they were passing crates with the kind of delicacy usually reserved for sweating dynamite. The divide was obvious once Cole looked – some handlers moved like they knew exactly what fresh hell lived inside those boxes, working like researchers in a bioweapons lab. Others just looked confused by the paranoia, probably wondering why everyone was treating military rations like grandma’s china.

A kid near the gangway – couldn’t be more than sixteen – shifted his grip on a crate and nearly dropped it. The guard closest went from bored to alert instantly.

“Steady on, you careless sod!” The guard’s voice carried across the water. “Drop that and you’ll work the month for nothing! Damn witless fool.”

The kid went pale, adjusted his hold, kept moving. Everyone in earshot suddenly found new respect for their cargo.

“Guy inbound from the warehouse. Don’t think you’ve been made, though,” Miles reported through the radio.

Cole glanced over. Some poor bastard in a clerk’s cheap suit sprinted toward the ship, sweat turning his shirt transparent despite the harbor breeze. Middle management in a demonic cult – talk about poor career choices.

The gangway guards recognized him, waving him aboard without challenge.

He made straight for the bridge where an older man in a captain’s cap was supervising the operation. The conversation was animated, the clerk gesturing back toward the warehouse.

Cole reached for his spyglass, stopping short. With the sun glinting over the rotten crate, there was a chance the florid device would shine like a disco ball and blow their cover. It was too bad Verna hadn’t taught them Owl Sight or some other sensory spell.

He turned to Elina instead. With her education, he had no doubt she’d mastered something along the lines. “Can you get anything?”

She focused, a light glow passing over her eyes as she enhanced them. She read lips from a distance, “The master yet parleys with the distributor… this Conway fellow. Conway remains undeterred; he refuses to move the goods due to the inspections.”

The captain’s response was clear even without enhancement – unhappy with indefinite timelines.

“The captain says there remain twelve larger crates in the hold,” Elina continued. “He requires half an hour at the least to complete the loading.”

More back and forth. Elina frowned, concentrating. “The clerk insists they abandon the remainder – the master would have them ready to make sail at his word, and distribute at the port of Auber instead. They’ve knowledge of the preservation wards – they know we’ve taken note of their accounts.”

The clerk left even faster than he’d arrived. The captain immediately started barking orders – the universal body language of ‘move your asses.’ The loading pace shifted, still careful but with new urgency.

“They’re spooked,” Cole observed. Ship could rabbit any time, and they’d be left holding their dicks while parasites sailed off to start Auber’s very own plague.

Because fuck him if any operation would ever make it easy for him. Cole pushed out a sigh. “Let’s check with the others.”

Mack and Ethan were already there when they returned. Cole went first, relaying what he and Elina found.

Mack went next, and of course, he didn’t have any better luck. “Shit’s locked down tight,” he reported. “Rear’s sealed. Metal door, probably barred from inside. Two more guards there, but they’re watching the alley, not the door. Standing like fuckin’ statues.”

“Service entrance on the east side,” Ethan added. “No guards, but there’s some sort of shimmer on the frame. A ward, or something.”

“Alarm?” Miles speculated.

“Probably,” Ethan said. But given his nod, he might as well have said ‘definitely.’

Either way, Cole had made up his mind on that avenue. “Yeah, we’re not fucking around with magical security. Not until we get a masterclass from Lady Verna, anyway. Anything on the roof?”

“Maintenance hatch on the roof, northwest corner. Also warded. But…” Mack paused. “The ward anchors are external. Little brass plates bolted to the frame. Could probably pry them off, kill the ward.”

Cole didn’t like the idea, but Mack brought it up despite his latest comment. That counted for something, and bumped up an otherwise chalked idea to Plan A, in case they needed to break in.

“How long?”

“Thirty seconds with the right leverage. But it’s exposed. Anyone looks up, we’re made.”

Cole paused to process the information. Ship ready to bolt, warehouse locked down tighter than a Baptist liquor cabinet, forty-plus hostiles, unknown civilians playing unwitting extras in this shitshow. Timeline measured in minutes, not hours.

“So,” Ethan said. “What’s the play?”

They had maybe thirty minutes before that ship tried to leave. Less if Conway the distributor decided his business license wasn’t worth whatever the cultists were paying. And to top it all off, Warren’s backup was still jerking off an hour away.

Cole looked at each of them. They were outnumbered eight to one – not nearly enough to beat out quality, but a point to the enemy nonetheless.

Back home, they’d at least get the option to call in air support and let JDAMs sort it out. An ugly last resort, definitely, but better than letting the bad guys potentially poison a whole city. Here, they didn’t even get the luxury of any last resort. It was do or die. Fuck them up, or get fucked up.

“We split up,” he decided. “Ship and warehouse, and we’re gonna have to go loud.”