The ominous gothic structures of Omenwich University turned majestic in the morning light. Eight bells resonated across the picturesque grounds as students made their way to one of the many libraries or pre-arranged meetings with their professors. It was Saturday after all and while weekend evening classes had been introduced the strictly traditional institution would not bend to providing day programs, especially on Sunday. It was this rigid adherence to tradition that had particularly attracted Callum Calderwood to the ancient university, that and their anthropological department was the most prominent in the world. Only the Miskatonic and Oxford compared, but the latter paled in comparison where the occult was concerned. The university had always embraced paganism. It survived the countless assaults of Christianity and had always been a sanctuary for the open-minded. The perfect haven for the young assistant professor whose extra-curriclear activities delved into areas that other institutes would frown upon. At Omenwich his eccentricities were protected and strange ideologies nurtured.



Callum merrily strolled down the lane. His home was only a mere fifteen minutes from the university, a relaxing walk across the Kingsmede bridge from his two story flat that over looked the river. He breathed in the fresh Spring air and took a few extra minutes to watch a few boaters as they meandered down the historic River Stour. He positively loved his home, but it seemed as if his work would be taking him away for undetermined amount of time.

Late last night, Callum had received a most disturbing email from a colleague at the Miskatonic University. He often collaborated with Professor Tyler M. Freeborn, both of them sharing the same passion to decipher the mystery of an ancient writing that had recently been discovered in America. Naturally the stuffy scientific community would not even consider its validity and so they had become each other's counsel on the matter.

Tyler's email had been, to say the least, shocking and Callum was still trying to get the images out of his mind. He was the assistant to Professor Ravenwood and part of the job included Saturday morning meetings with his students. Thankfully he only had a few as what he had seen lingered on his mind and he feared that he would be distracted at best for the better part of the day.

Elsewhere, in Central America....



It was hot and humid. Of course she couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t uncomfortable but when you are doing manual labor in the middle of a rain forest in the middle of the summer season, what could you expect?

Beatrice Chadwick was wearing light, cotton, khaki, cargo pants, a matching tank top, hiking boots and a wide brimmed hat to protect her head from the blaring sun. The Guatemalan heat was making her sweat rivers but she refused to give into the urge to go jump in the cool, refreshing waters of the river just down from where she was working. She was close….very close to something. She could just feel it. IT was the same feeling she got all the other times she discovered another artifact.

The local hired help didn’t seem to be in all that big of a hurry and Bea worked circles around them. She knew they thought she was some crazy English woman, barking orders at them in the dialect she had learned since her arrival a few months ago. They would just look at her, glance at each other, shrug and eventually get around to doing what she needed them to do on their own time. It was frustrating as hell, but at least she wasn’t alone.

As each five gallon bucket of fresh dug dirt was taken away, Bea tried not to let her frustration get the better of her. Patience, she had been told, is a virtue. So if patience was a virtue, if she slapped the shit out of the hired help, did that mean she had sinned? Oh bloody hell…like I have time to think such crazy things.

Bea always carried on conversations with herself, both verbally and mentally. After all, most of the time she didn’t have anyone with much intelligence to talk to when she was out in the thick of a dig. Who in the hell in their right minds would WANT to do something like this and like it?

She did.

Francis finished his whiskey, it was his fifth..or was it the sixth? As the Irishman set the empty highboy back on the bar the barkeep came right away and scooped the glass up and began to wash and rinse it.

Isn't that enough Irish? Isn't it time for you to go home?
Frankie eyed the American and put a hundred dollar bill on the bar.

Isn't it time for you to shut yer gob and pour me another drink...
The drunk Irishman growled.
Whiskey..again, if that's alright with ye Ma.
Frankie grunted as the bartender walked away.

Frankie loved to visit in America but this trip had been a headache. Frankie was runner of guns and had not yet made his delivery yet. His connections here in New York had been stringing him along for a solid week and Frankie was eager to offload his illegal goods and get paid. Frankie always traveled alone for business and when things got complicated like they had this time Frankie wondered if it was time to retire.

He had some faith left that the deal would be made after all American's love their guns don't they? Frankie had several dozen AK 47s and several cases of home pressed ammunition, untraceable and unstamped. He had stashed the hardware in a self-storage facility on the grungy part of town and was staying in a filthy cheap motel. Needless to say the stress of the job was getting to the Irishman.

He did not even look at the bartender as he brought another tall glass of whiskey. Frankie was chugging the drink down when his cell phone vibrated in his jacket. He held the phone to his glassy eyes.

MEETING SET FOR TONIGHT. 3 AM PIER 15.
It was the message he had been waiting for. Frankie looked to the clock over the bar, it was 11:30 pm, plenty of time before the meet.

Oi barkeep, I'll 'ave another if it doesn't offend yer delicate sensibilities...
Frankie barked as he began his long night.

Callum raised his collar against the cool wind blowing off the waterfront. He checked his watch and noted that it was now five minutes past two in the morning. Where the hell was that guy? His contact was supposed to have met him an hour ago and his patience was starting to wear thin, not to mention his nerves. Those sounds common to a ship yard were beginning to play on his mind, and he was starting to spook himself. It had been a week since he had received Professor Freeborn's email and though he hadn't dared to look at the images again they were still fresh in his mind. Honestly, if whomever had murdered those people hadn't written those characters in blood along the warehouse wall there is no way he'd be standing about, alone, in the middle of the night on some spooky pier. Unfortunately there was no way that Callum could get near the crime scene without some help and the security guard who had discovered the grizzly scene just so happened to be the friend of Freeborn's younger brother. That was how he caught wind of the strange murder that the New York police department had labeled the work of a serial killer.

It was important that Callum saw the crime scene for himself, but to do that he needed to get into the warehouse which he was beginning to think wasn't going to happen. Reaching into his satchel slung across his shoulder, he took out his 'pda' and checked his emails to pass the time. Three days ago he had sent a message to an archaeologist recommended by Professor Ravenwood to be well versed in Aztec history but had yet to received a reply.

Callum had noticed in one of the pictures obtained by Freeborn, that one of the murdered victims was wearing a rather odd necklace. The security guard who had taken the illegal photos had actually had the presence of mind to take a close up of the neck piece and allowed Callum and Ravenwood to identify it as Mesoamerican but could not tell whether or not it was Aztec. He had sent the picture to Beatrice Chadwick, currently on a dig somewhere in Central America in hopes that she could shed some more light on the subject. Unfortunately the neck piece was considered evidence in the ongoing investigation and hadn't been able to get in touch with the detectives so that he could take a look at it. Maybe with a specialist backing him up, they together could get a closer look, but that would rely on everything going to plan which just didn't seem to be happening.

The clock on the dashboard of Frankie's rented minivan blinked a quarter to 3, the Irishman drove it slowly past the grand boats and stacked containers around pier 15. Frankie was always a bit early to meets, he thought it was good business and he hated surprises. Frankie put the van in park and shut off the engine, now came the waiting.

Frankie was looking forward to concluding this shady business and going back home to Belfast. Ah Belfast, friendly people, welcoming pubs and paramilitary partisans. Yeah New York had it's charms but nothing beats home sweet home.

Frankie's ears pricked up as the sound of footsteps was echoing off the many stacked containers. Strange, it sounded like a single set. Frankie was sure there would be 2 or 3 men at this meet. Frankie reached across to the next seat and scooped up his pistol, he slipped it with it's attached silencer into his jacket and exited the vehicle.

Frankie walked in the darkness along a row of containers, barely making any sound. The footfalls were fairly loud, if this was his contact they sure were not being very discreet.

Frankie stood still the footsteps seemed to be coming to him! The Irishman pressed himself as flat as possible against the steel boxes at his back. The footsteps persisted and the figure came into view. Frankie was surprised to see a rather unassuming man dressed casually with a bag slung over his shoulder, you know the type of bag one carries when they are at University.

Frankie stepped from the advanced darkness of the row of containers and into the paler shadows.

It's a bit late for studies innit it? Frankie said to the stranger. His words were relaxed but the stranger could see that Frankie was in no mood for humor.

Elsewhere, in Central America....



Bea was tired. Dog tired. Another day of fruitless digging had left her frustrated. She was CERTAIN she was close to finding some more artifacts that supported her theory that the occult had been around for as long as society had believed in higher beings. How else would that explain some of the strange things she had discovered? Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow would be the day she found them. The same thing she told herself the day before and the day before that and the day before that.

As the sticky, humid air settled about Bea like a wet, wool blanket, she got up from her cot in her tent and walked over to the small, camp sized desk and flipped up the lid to her laptop. Booting the machine up, she waited for the machine to get done it’s usual processing when she clicked open her mail.

Several new items occupied her inbox, mostly investors wanting to know when they would see some payment on their investment, but one of them, from a Callum Calderwood, caught her eye. She didn’t know anyone by that name but from what she read on the subject line, “MESOAMERICA”, he was a fellow who had some inclination of her work.

Flipping the e-mail open, she read the contents and furrowed her brows. When she opened the attached image, her brows raised and she whispered softly to herself in the quietness of her tent.

”Well, I’ll be damned.”

Enlarging the photo all she could so she could get more details of the item, she studied it for a few more minutes before she brought up the e-mail sent to her and hit the REPLY button and began typing in her response.

Professor Calderwood,

It appears as though you have in your possession an artifact that predates any known, previously recorded artifact. I would be most interested to know where you discovered it and if I could be permitted to look at it, in person, for myself to authenticate its origin. I am currently in Guatemala and will be returning to London in two weeks. Please let me know when and where I can meet you and I shall be there.

Respectfully,
Beatrice

Clicking the SEND button, she waited for the e-mail to go through before she shut the laptop down and closed the lid to try and once more get some much needed rest before she traveled back to the dig site. Of course, with the tid bit of information she just recedived, she doubted she would be able to get much sleep, but at least now she would have pleasant dreams instead of nightmares of failure.

Or so she hoped.

Callum froze when the man slipped out of shadow before him. He felt he was about to become yet another American murder statistic until the man spoke. He knew a thing or two about the different accents and dialects of Ireland and recognized the man's. Purely Belfast. Of course this hardly put him at ease, since the Irish weren't any better when it came to being 'blanked' or worse.

"Studies?". Callum blurted out in his typical Scottish timbre as he considered the Irishman's choice of words. Was he really such a stereotype? If he didn't get his arse shot off he'd have to remedy that.

"Look mate." he said innocently, "I haven't got anything worth nick'n, but you're welcome to the few yankee greens in me wallet. I'm just out...", Callum paused to come up with an explanation for his present whereabouts in the the dark hours of the morn and came up with the worst one, "... site-seeing."

He visibly winced after the words fumbled out of his mouth as he nervously awaited the man's response.

"Site seeing...indeed, well listen up Scottie if you're carrying a shooter you best bring it out slow and give 'er over to me." The Irishman glared.

Frankie now had his gun in his hand, but he had not raised it, it hung in his hand at his side. As Frankie spoke he and Callum could hear muffled footsteps approaching. Frankie was beginning to think that this Scot had nothing to do with his meet after all. Frankie pulled Callum into the deep shadow of the stacked container.

"Quiet as a mouse now Scottie or I'll pop ye one." Frankie waved his gun in front of the man. Frankie shuffled sideways to the end of the long shipping box. The Irishman could not see anyone but he could hear.

What Frankie heard did not make him happy at all. In the darkness just beyond where he and Callum were hiding Frankie could discern the distinct sound of men whispering in Russian.

The last few times Frankie had done business in America he was aware of the Russians displeasure with him, the Irishman and his contacts refused to deal with them, opting to sell to their well established Irish-American contacts only. The Ruskies did not like this and had vowed to relieve Frankie of his goods the next time they found him in New York.

"Ah hell, it's the reds..." Frankie mumbled to himself. He quietly shuffled back to where Callum was.
"There are some bad geezers coming this way Scottie, if ye know a quiet way out then be on yer way. I have a vehicle near here I've got to get to..."

The footsteps were coming nearer, there were four men, they walked slowly and deliberately between the rows of containers. Frankie knew that they would be armed for war, ironically they would probably have the very kind of guns that Frankie was attempting to sell.

"They're too close now, ye best come with me..." Frankie grabbed Callum by the collar and shoved him out of the shadows, the Irishman pushed the bookish man in front of him as he quickly made for his rented van.

Callum spun around driving his elbow into the Irishman's throat, chopped the gun out his hand and drove him backward with a spectacular spinning back kick. Well, that's what he did in his mind. In reality he tried to be as compliant as he possibly could with the gun man at his back. Even though, subterfuge seemed to be the name of the game, he was not about to bet his life on the fact that the man wouldn't pop him if he had to, despite the fact that it would alert his Russian competitors.

If he lived through this ordeal he was definitely going to give Freeborn an ear full! All he wanted to do was investigate the scene of the ritualistic murder that had occurred at this pier over a week ago and now it seemed that he had walked into the middle of some shady deal gone awry.

As the Irishman pushed him along, Callum made sure he kept his mouth shut, but his eyes alone relayed the obscenities running though his mind. It was then that the email message of Beatrice Chadwick set off his PDA, and the professor's eyes widened with fear as 'King of Pain', by the Police broke into the still quiet of the night.

...There's a little black spot on the sun today... The song sounded loudly in the quiet of the shipyard, the Russians hearing it too moved quickly to the sound. Stealth was off the table now, the Russians were yelling to one another as they came near Frankie and Callum.

Frankie heard the bolts on several automatic rifles click, the Irishman could see his van it was just 30 yards or so in front of them.
"Run!" Frankie yelped as he hauled arse towards the waiting minivan. Frankie had just reached the van as the Russians opened fire. As Frankie reached the van there was no time to get inside, the Irishman slid on his knees behind the van for cover. The Scotsman was doing a fine job of keeping up, he was just behind Frankie as they reached the cover of the van.

The Russians were fanning out, they fired sporadically as they spread out trying to get all around the van. Frankie shot at them a few times, more to keep them at bay then to hit them, Frankie could not see the men from the rear of the van.

"I thought this was the city that was so nice they named it twice..." Frankie snorted as he fired at the muzzle flashes of the Russians' guns.

"We want the guns Ireesh, we do not want to keel you." One of the men yelled from the darkness.

"Come out with hands up and we no shoot, we only want guns." Their guns were silent, waiting for an answer.

Callum didn't have any troubles keeping up with Irishman he had always been able to run. In his day he had been a damn good winger, and would have still been on the rugby field if his academics had not taken priority. As he sprinted along with the gunman it suddenly dawned on him that he should just keep on going but instinct told him to stick with the guy returning fire. It also occurred to him that the Russians would simply assume by his accent that he was with his Irish cousin, rather than accept the coincidence.

"Bloody hell!" screamed Callum as he ducked behind the van, the horrific sounds of bullets penetrating the side of the vehicle trailing right behind him.

Callum pressed his back against the van and hugged his bag tightly. For the life of him he couldn't come up with a response to the Irishman's little New York joke, other than to acknowledge him with a frantic nod. He had never been shot at before, and it was honestly a thousand times more frightening than how they depicted it on the tele.

When the Russians screamed out their ultimatum, giving up sounded pretty good to Callum. "That sound's fair." he commented, "How's about we just give them the..." he thought about it then for second, "... guns? You're a gun runner? Oh, bloody hell. We're flamin' dead."

Callum could then over hear one of the men shouting something in his native tongue, a Georgian dialect. "They're going to flank us." the Scotsman translated, as he peeked round the other side of the van looking for the two men they sent to make their way around the warehouse behind them.

A little calmer now, Callum mustered the courage to ask the gun runner a rhetorical question, "So I take it that surrendering isn't an option?". It was his way of telling the criminal that he was on board with what ever plan he could come with up to ensure their, specifically HIS survival.

"I've been giving it some thought Scottish..."
Frankie said as he reached down the sleeve of his black Armani jacket and tore a long piece of his white shirt off.
"The Ruskies 'ave the advantage, let's give' em what they want..."
Frankie reached up and opened the small hatch to the van's gas cap, the Irishman unscrewed the gas cap and stuffed the piece of shirt inside the gas tank opening. Frankie then produced a zippo lighter and lit the piece of shirt and stood up. Frankie put his hands in the air and began walking back towards the Russians.

"Ye best come along Scottish.
Frankie mumbled as he walked.

"We surrender comrades, don't shoot we'll give over the shooters for safe passage."
Frankie shouted as he moved further from the van and more towards the Russians. The men came at Frankie and Callum as they walked, they pushed the two men to their knees.

"Karl, Sasha go and get guns." The man in charge barked, the two men slung their rifles on their backs and sprinted to the van. They opened the sliding door and found the 4 large crates of AKs. They shouted something in Russian to the other two men, they seemed pleased with their find.

"Go and help." The older man said to a third man he sprinted to the van to help the others offload the guns. The three thugs were just pulling the first two boxes out of the van when it exploded.

When the Irish gun runner pushed the material into the van's fuel opening he almost said "D' ya know what you're doin'?", but of course the man knew what he was doing, "The man was a flamin' gun runner y' ponce." he told himself. Best to just follow his lead and so that's just what he did.

Kneeling on the ground, Callum couldn't believe he trusted the bleedin' Irishman. These guys were bloody well going to shoot them in the backs! Looking over at the gun runner, he couldn't believe how cool the man was, he wanted to hit him and that's when the older Russian, glanced over at the professor and gloated. He snickered, then turned his eyes back to Irishman, "Your friend, he is, how do you say, 'spineless'." he said to Frankie.

The older man grinned with delight, when he saw the boxes of guns in the arms of his men, then his expression turned to cold and he looked back down to the two prone Kelts. He waved his gun back and forth between the two.

"So which is one who gets it first?" Asked the Russian and that's when, Callum saw Frankie glance over at him and with a very slight gesture of his eyes signaled him to hit the ground. Next thing, the Irishman was falling forward and as Callum did the same a wave of heat rushed over them from the exploding van, knocking to older man off his feet, landing hard on the ground in front of them.

Callum looked back, drawn to the blood curdling scream of a man being burned alive. One was on the ground futily attempting to extinguish the flames by rolling, but he was covered with petrol and unless he rolled himself off the pier the fire wasn't going to go out. Another was dead, his smoldering corpse lying still, a good forty feet from the wreckage that was the Irishman's van, and the third man miraculously was putting out the flames on his jacket and staggering over to one of the fallen guns.

Ahead of them the older Russian was starting to get up, his gun still in his grasp, while the other who was off to the side would reach a weapon in a few more strides. Callum looked to the Irishman, seeking direction. He was fast and could intercept the weapon, but he didn't know how to use a gun and was pretty sure he would be out matched physically by the Russian thug.

Frankie shook his head, it was humming from the blast. As the Irishman got to his knees he could see that there was still two of the Russians to deal with. Callum was just a few yards from the small Ingram machine gun on the ground, one of the Russians was coming quick to scoop it up. The old man was shaking off the effects of the blast in front of Frankie and the Professor, it would only be a second or so before he used his gun.

"Get that shooter Scottish, I'll have at the old man!" Frankie barked as he got to his feet and flung himself towards the older Russian. The old man got off a shot as Frankie collided with him, the bullet passed through Frankie's coat without injuring the Irishman.

"That's fughing Armani you bastard!" Frankie shouted as he tumbled into the old Russian.

If Callum had given himself even half a second to think about what he was going to do, he would of froze. As the Irishman charged the leader, he tore off toward the machine gun, the other Russian was slowly staggering toward. He seemed to be suffering from some severe concussion damage, but he didn't doubt that even in his weakened state the big man could kick his arse up and down the pier. His only chance was to beat him to the gun and that's just what he did. Sprinting like a mad man, fighting the weight of his school bag, he moved faster than he had in years, his legs fueled by the adrenaline pumping through his body.

As the Russian bent down to pick up the weapon, Callum intercepted it with a dive and slide across the pavement. The big man then swore something in his native tongue, a word that the linguist was unfamiliar with since his knowledge of the language did not extend into its profane use.

Flipping onto his back and sitting up, Callum thrust the gun into the Russian's face and it was that moment that he heard the gun shot. "Christ!" he exclaimed and couldn't tell whether or not the gun runner had been shot or not. Then the big man smiled, not exactly the reaction he wanted to see and his eyes quickly scanned over the gun searching for something that might not be turned on, rendering the gun useless. A safety! Yes, that was it. Now what the hell did the safety look like?

The big man loomed over him, taking a glance back to his boss struggling with the Irish gun runner, then he thrust his cold, dark eyes back to the smaller Scotsman. "Give the gun liddle man, and maybe I let you live." he demanded.

"Shit!" Callum cursed under his breath. He looked over at the gun runner who seemed pretty energetic for a man who was just shot. Maybe he wasn't hit after all?

The Russian was confident and casually reached into this jacket and pulled out a vicious looking knife. "Da gun!" he demanded once more.

Callum had no idea, if the gun would work and there was only one way to find out. He scrambled backward and managed to get to his feet, pointed the gun at the ground and squeezed the trigger. Nothing.

"Shit!" Screamed Callum as he back peddled away from the advancing Russian, "How does this bloody thing work?" he shouted to the Irish gun runner.