Judgement Night: Bureau 13 Book 1 Read online

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  Wildside Press

  www.WildsidePress.com

  Copyright ©1990, 2001 by Nick Pollotta

  1990, Ace Books, New York

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  BUREAU 13: JUDGMENT NIGHT

  A publication of

  Wildside Press

  P. O. Box 301

  Holicong, PA 18928-0301

  www.wildsidepress.com

  Introduction copyright © 2001 by Nick Pollotta

  All rights reserved.

  Printing history: 1990, Ace Books, New York.

  1995 Armada Press, Moscow

  2001 Wildside Press, New Jersey

  Bureau 13 is based upon the RPG “Stalking the Night Fantastic” copyright © TriTac Games 1982.

  www.TriTacGames.com

  Join the “Bureau 13” fan club!

  www.Bureau-13.com

  Cover illustration by Larry Dixon.

  This edition has been revised and expanded from the first edition.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic or otherwise, without first obtaining the written consent of the author. For more information, contact Wildside Press or email [email protected].

  Wildside Press edition: January 2001.

  As always, for Melissa.

  INTRODUCTION

  While demons committed unspeakable acts of horror, I sat laughing amid a thousand people screaming in raw terror.

  Sound like something from a Bureau 13 novel? Almost. That was me back in 1973, watching The Exorcist in a movie theater. Oh, I started out gasping and scared, but then my companion started giggling, then guffawing, and finally roaring in laughter. Naturally, I soon followed suit.

  Why was he doing this? Easy. My buddy, Wolf (real name Richard Anderson. Sound familiar? Thought so. Read on.) was working as a clerk at the same bookstore I was, and as the resident weirdoes we naturally struck up a friendship. However, while I wanted to be an author, Wolf fashioned himself a paranormal investigator, and often went away for long weekends to research supposedly supernatural events. Since the occurrences were sometimes purely human in origin, along with a cross, an ankh, and a Mogen David, he also carried a Colt .45 automatic pistol. Sure came in handy when he discovered a Hells Angels motorcycle gang in the old Bell Telephone pavilion at the abandoned 1965 World's Fair in New York. Nothing ghostly, or demonic was happening, just some whacked-out biker perverts killing homeless people and stealing their heads.

  Anyway, while we were watching The Exorcist he keep telling me how the producers got this wrong, or that incorrect, it doesn't work that way, and why did they make that up when the real version was so much scarier?

  As the population of America howled in fear, Wolf laughed, and soon I stopped watching the movie and started watching him, my mind already spinning along the lines of a novel about a supernatural investigation team. Yeah, I'd call it “The Wolf Pack.” Good title.

  Once I got back home, I started amassing notes and soon roughed out a plot and the main characters. The hero would be Richard “Wolf” Anderson, a self-made wizard grimly determined to battle with the forces of evil and thus learn more magic.

  His muscle would be, hmm, Mindy Jennings, a petite, but deadly, martial artist who was bored with contests and tournaments. She wanted to actually test her skills, and fighting demons sounded just fine to her. The team would need financial aid for equipment, silver bullets and such, so their backer for this endeavor was, George d'Renault, a bored millionaire who flipped a coin and decided to back a paranormal research team or buy the Dallas Cowboys. George became their gunbunny, a rank amateur now carrying a M60 machine gun.

  But months slipped by and I just could not seem to get the background for the characters to gel. Something was missing, something basic, yet very important. But what could it be?

  To rest my beleaguered brain, I went over a friend's house for some war gaming and was introduced to the RPG (role-playing game for those who don't know) Bureau 13 from TriTac Games. (although at the time it was called “Stalking the Night Fantastic.") As I read the box, all of the little pieces fell into place. Hey, the Wolf Pack could be team of FBI agents! Nobody has ever done that before! (remember, this was almost a decade before The X-Files) And this covert branch of the FBI fought supernatural criminals, but not all supernaturals. Case in point, it is not illegal to be a vampire. So if a vampire owned a herd of cows and only drank their blood, then no laws had been broken and the Bureau will have to defend the vampire against a mob of angry villagers.

  Hot damn, now you're talking! This is exactly what the Wolf Pack was supposed to be. Now I knew that with enough effort I could get the novel there, but I liked the tone of this. It resonated in my head and I made a decision.

  Swiftly, I started creating an FBI investigation team: the dashingly handsome Ed Alvarez, a private detective from Chicago. Ed looks a lot like me, and talks like me, and eats at my favorite restaurants, but then this was only my second novel.

  Then came, Jessica Taylor, the sexy telepath that Ed was secretly in love with. She knew (of course), but he didn't know that she knew. Now I could have fun with that. Ah, love!

  Okay, Mindy was perfect so she would stay as Mindy, but I'd give her a special weapon. Nice. Richard stayed the same, except I combed his wild mane of hair and removed his nickname since it was too distracting. As the team was FBI, they had ample monetary support from the government and thus no need of a financial backer, so George gained fifty pounds and became a war veteran from Viet Nam, an overweight warrior, still hard as steel in spite of the passing years. Pausing for a moment, I gazed thoughtfully at my alligator shoes, and out of the blue came Amigo, their pet lizard with a very big secret. As a military historian, it was obvious that having only one wizard was poor tactics, insufficient firepower, so I added Raul Horta (as strange a character as I have ever penned), and then rounded them off with a big, beefy, redheaded Irish Catholic priest, Father Michael Xavier Donaher. After all, somebody had to do the exorcisms. (Remember the movie that started this?)

  While my friends gamed, I furiously wrote in the corner, cackling in delight, knowing I had a winner here. That is, if I could get the book rights.

  A month later I finally tracked down Richard Tucholka, the creator of Bureau 13, introduced myself to him in the middle of the dealer's room at a SF convention and passed over the first chapter of a novel.

  Knowing of me from the hit SF/humor novel Illegal Aliens, Richard decided to read a page or two of the sample chapter right there. When he lowered the last page with tears of laughter in his eyes, he extended his hand and said let's a make a deal. Shazam, I had the complete rights to writing Bureau 13 novels.

  Over time, I gave him back the short story rights as other great writers wanted in on the fun; Lawrence Watt-Evans, Mercedes Lackeys, and such. But the novels were mine alone and I ran with the ball.

  After the convention I got hard at work and two months later, I sent the first book, originally titled simply Bureau 13 (now called Bureau 13 #1: Judgement Night) to Ace Books in New York. They called back in record time and offered a three book contract. Three? Sure! Then they delivered Dorian Vallejo, the son of the genius Boris Vallejo, as my cover artist. Superb stuff. If the paintings are ever on display at a SF convention, go see the original oils. The printed cover
s can not do them justice.

  The novels hit the bookstores, and suddenly fan clubs started appearing across the country, Baltimore, Pittsburgh, New Orleans, Seattle, then there was a Bureau 13 convention! My books were a hit with the cast of hard-boiled, wise cracking heroes who faced down any danger and fought hard to deliver justice, often at the end of a gun or magic wand. Suddenly, I was the Mickey Spillane of the supernatural.

  Then a Moscow publisher contacted me about translating the trilogy into Russian. Smiling broadly, I signed, and the books went ballistic in the Ukraine. Selling over half a million copies, just in time for Soviet Communism to fall apart and democracy to return to Russia. I take some small measure of pride in thinking that maybe my books helped bring down the Red Menace. Okay, they didn't, but it makes a hell of a story for me to tell over beer and pizza.

  Now this cult-classic trilogy has been rewritten, the real-world technology updated, and the books expanded, with a brand new fourth novel, Damned Nation written just for this re-release for Wildside Press in New Jersey, and Drofa Press in Moscow. Plus, additional deals are in progress with Germany, Australia, France, Italy, and Great Britain.

  An amusing anecdote for my English speaking readers, the Russian translators changed a few things, mostly that Mindy became a six foot tall Norwegian blonde, and a certain group of villains became ex-KGB agents now using necromancy to try and topple the god-fearing democracy of Russia and return the iron-heel of communism. Hmm, maybe I did help a little. Who knows?

  Now, since both my American and Russian publishers have asked me to say something about myself, rather than just chatting about the books here goes. Gang, if you read my books, then you know me. My heart, blood, and guts are in every one. Let me explain. A long time ago I heard a recorded interview with Frank Sinatra on the radio from 1955, and the disc jockey was trying to bust Frank's chops with snide remarks, but Sinatra was cool and answered every question with panache and humor. Finally, the DJ asked if Sinatra had a philosophy that he followed and Frank said yes. He did everything, every song, every performance, every movie, as if he was going to drop dead instantly after it was finished, and it would be by this one last act that he would be remembered forever—or forgotten completely. I was floored by that and turned off the rest of the interview to memorize his words. Now I have the phrase framed on the wall of my studio.

  “By this one book be remembered, or forgotten, forever.” That's it, folks, win, lose or draw, every book is all that I got. I hold nothing back.

  For those who want more, I'm half Sicilian and half Scottish, which means I occasional put on a dress and kill people with a pepperoni haggis. I used to be a stand-up comic in Manhattan, a martial arts instructor, an armed high security courier, owned a used bookstore, did voice-overs for TV commercials, and was a video store clerk. Now I write novels and am truly happy, living with my beautiful wife in a small town north of Chicago where there is a park named after Ray Bradbury, who was born and raised here, and I am only blocks away from a barbecue pit with the best smoked ribs in the known universe. Case closed, I am home.

  So now you know the backstory. For my returning readers, old friends await inside, facing new dangers, and battling even more impossible odds. But guts are always more important than guns, and those this FBI team have got in abundance.

  For all of the new readers, come on in and grab a weapon. Plenty of M16 machine guns to the left, or magical wands to the right. The tide of evil is rising, and the world is facing a supernatural war beyond imagination. But there's always room for one more hero on the battlefield.

  Welcome.

  —Nick Pollotta

  Chicago, Illinois, 2000

  INITIATION

  I finally found the murderer, and he was a lulu.

  It had taken me months of freelance work to track down the guy who killed my partner, and if the truth be known I broke more than a few laws doing it. But I didn't give a damn. As far as I could tell, the sick bastard had slaughtered over forty people across a dozen states. Each done the same way he killed Bill Smithers, my partner in Chicago, slit their throats and drained the blood like he was a freaking vampire or something.

  The castle was up on the old New York Palisades, deserted for years. I hid my car in the bushes, so nobody could spot the out of state plates. The lock on the front door was good, an expensive French model. Took me almost ten minutes to get through. Inside, the place was surprisingly clean, some of the rooms even carpeted. Not the usual thing for an undead. But playing on the Count Dracula routine, I checked in the basement.

  The place was huge, large enough to land a plane, with a high vaulted ceiling and granite-block walls. More resembled an underground warehouse than a cellar. In a corner was a big-screen TV and a brace of DVD players. Overflowing bookcases lined the walls and in the middle of the place, on a marble pedestal, was a large stainless steel coffin, with US Army Claymore mines wired to the outside. Yikes. Ever so carefully, I snipped away the wires on the anti-personnel charges. All those years watching the Discovery channel finally paid off.

  The lid was locked from the inside, so I filled the keyhole with stiff wire from my keywire gun. A lazy locksmith's best friend. A simple twist and the coffin opened on silent hinges. So much for stereotypes. Magnum in hand, I was surprised to find it empty. As I bitterly cursed, a chuckle sounded from behind, I turned and there the bastard stood.

  He resembled a computer hacker with that deathly pale skin and weird eyes. But he was sporting a natty Armani suit that was worth more than I had ever made, woven Italian shoes with tiny tassels, and a gold Rolex watch. What, no caviar-scented cell phone?

  A cop would have arrested him and sent the kook to a lunatic asylum. But I wasn't planning on reading this guy his rights. As far as I was concerned, he didn't have any. Not an animal like him.

  The murderer came at me with arms extended, as if greeting a long lost relative. His mouth full of those phony vampire teeth you can buy at any novelty store. Pitiful. I didn't have to draw my .357 Magnum; it was already in my hand. Without a qualm, I gunned the freak down, the thundering retorts of the Smith and Wesson echoing around the cellar. But he kept coming, as if my copper-jacketed hollow points had no effect. Must have been wearing a bulletproof vest.

  We went hand-to-hand and he had me in a second. Loonies are always strong. Adrenaline, or something. Maybe he was on PCP. The Count dragged me kicking across the basement and chained me to the stone wall. The chains felt oiled and were spotted with red flakes. I had a bad feeling Nut Boy had used these often.

  Chuckling, he went away and soon came back with two women. A blonde and a redhead. Real hot numbers wearing skimpy denim shorts, sleeveless T-shirts and also sporting those phony teeth. That was when I went cold. I sure hoped whatever they had wasn't a contagious disease. Death was infinitely preferable to insanity.

  They gathered around and made the expected remarks on how tasty and juicy I looked. I invented a few curses, which they took in stride. Then the Count waved the women on and they came at me with hands raised, their fingernails glistened like steel. Probably razorblades glued underneath.

  This was no time for finesse, so as they got close, I kicked the blonde in the left breast. She didn't bat an eye. That was impossible. There was no way a bra, much less a Kevlar vest, could be hidden under her T-shirt. Kicking a woman in the breast is like kicking a guy in the balls. Blondie should have dropped big time.

  Smiling, Red grabbed my hair and twisted my head about as if I was a child. Then she opened her mouth wide, exposing every inch on those long white fangs. They actually looked like her own teeth. That's when I realized the freaks were really going to drink my blood. I had faced death lots of times in ‘Nam as kid. In the back alleys of Chicago, too. But there was a big difference between a bullet in the chest, or a knife in the stomach, and having a trio of drugged out wackos suck me dry like a free cherry soda. That was no way for a nice PI to die.

  My brain was whirling with escape plans, none of them wo
rth a damn, when the door in the corner slammed open and in strode a SWAT team.

  Or at least that's what they resembled. There were three of them, two men and a woman. All were dressed in camouflage outfits, with backpacks, satchels and dozens of weapons hanging off them. One guy was tall and skinny, like he hadn't had a good meal since his last birthday. The woman was kinda short, slim and muscular-looking in a nice way. The other guy was downright fat. But he had a genuine shit-eating grin on his face as he worked the bolt on the huge M60 machine gun in his hands. I could tell this was a man who enjoyed his work.

  My three freaks spun about at the sound, and hissed louder than steam radiators. Geez, they were really putting in overtime on the old vampire act.

  As two of the SWAT guys separated, Skinny pulled out of his shoulder bag a melon-sized crystal ball and smashed it on the floor. Instantly every door and window was covered with stonework sealing us in. In spite of the situation, I dropped my jaw. Impossible. Yet I had just seen it happen. Maybe the ball was actually some sort of electrical device, an EMP bomb maybe, whose command signal pulse triggered the control mechanism for hidden sliding panels. It sounded lame, but what the hell could have happened? Magic? At this point, I began to wonder if they were really a rescue squad, or merely more loonies in on the fun.

  The vampires advanced slavering and growling. Red came at Fat Boy, and he let her have a full burst at point blank range. The heavy-duty combat rounds blew holes in her the size of Montana. She burst into flames and dropped to the ground, still screaming and trying to get at the lard bucket.

  One tough bitch. Incendiary bullets? I wondered.

  That was when I realized that the sphere must have contained BZ, military hallucinogenic gas, because everything started to get real funky.

  The other two vampire types flapped their arms and turned into freaking bats! No smoke, no special effects. And not dinky little zoo bats, but great big mothers who soared into the air and began circling around the room as if this was Wild Kingdom and I was Marlin Perkins.