XI. The Good German
A Punk, A Spy, A Professor & A Biker Walk Into A Bar. An Alliance is Born...
A sparsely lit round-table stood at the room’s center, cigarette smoke swirling around it. It had taken Lita everything in her power to clean up for the meeting. No joints, no hangovers; just a clear scruffy head and her ready-n-raring attitude. The darksome hippie-punk arrived wrapped in her world-weary denim and suede sandals, and took her seat in the white-hot pool of light.
Sitting to her left was Professor Smith, the white wolf’s Victorian tastes handcrafted for such a meeting. To her right was the one-eyed gray biker Mack Malten, whose buttoned-up leather vest and un-scuffed work boots were the best he could manage. The remainder of the table was filled out were wolves from all over. All colors, creeds, districts, occupations, vices, and more. More than just her brood of bikers, more than just the street-fighters her pals Ash and Charlie scrounged up. Firstly, Smith invited a few of his Northern acquaintances, fellow freedom-fighters of similar sartorial tastes, down to the posh accents. On top of that, Lita and Mack rallied some more street-racers with plenty of axes to grind against the state. Most important of all, however, was the telegram in her half-gloved hand and the empty chair about to be filled.
Word was fully out about General Godred’s retirement. His October surprise, a heart attack, happened around the time Lita and lawman lover Nic discovered the mysterious underbelly of Haven Police Station 607. Old King Leo was handing out promotions like Halloween candy on his way out the door, shuffling many familiar players around the chessboard of Top Brass. He even arranged a meeting between Lita and his successor, Adam Knox, on a flying trip thru the barrier and back. Breaking bread with an ex-cop wasn’t exactly on her bucket list, but Lita and Knox came to an understanding, and secured the other’s blessing. More importantly, she left with a letter of intent signed by both leaders about an official reconnaissance agent tasked with rendezvousing with her newly-established organization.
“While the doors are revolving here,” the black elder smiled during their sit-down, “I want a stable contact point from here on out. If the border is crumbling the way you says, Lita, and the patrols are being pulled in for beat-cop duty, Haven’s about to be an all-you-can-eat-buffet of intel. Knox and I agreed on one hound who fits the bill.”
His name: Roger Steele. A name that sat etched on her mind, from the moment she read the letter and his resume, all along the drive back to Haven, right up until the momentous day she finally arranged: Day One of the Avenger’s Creed.
And at long last, the hound made his leap from a name on a crumpled sheet of A4 to a slender, piercing figure, strutting from the shadows and into his designated seat. His ice-blue eyes matched the button-up beneath his slick leather jacket and the sharp cut of his muzzle. He didn’t smile, he didn’t wink, he didn’t allow for a molecule of emotion on his face. That said, he wasn’t particularly guarded or reserved either. His posture, while upright, remained relaxed. With a deferential nod from her desert-sent guest, the meeting had finally begun.
“Well then,” she sighed perkily, “here goes nothing. I’ve commandeered y’all here today for a little something I like to call a revolution. But it ain’t no Bastille-storming, get-er-done-n-overwit’ revolution. Trust me, if I could, I would. Nope, we’re banding together under the title of the Avenger’s Creed. I know y’all may have heard my pet name when they speak of me around the block, but I ain’t the headliner. I save my ego-juice up for making my kills and pulling my plans off. The Avenger is us, WE. The whole lotta ya, sat ‘round this table. And we didn’t just pick y’all for grievance collection or to pitch a fit at the Man whose got us all under the thumb. I need cats with skills who can pay the bills and make the thrills count. Hot-blooded bikers, four-wheeled killers, hounds with a steady shooting hand. Folks who can think with their minds, and put their passions behind a good plan.”
A few polite, though quiet, claps circled around the table. They were all on board so far, they just didn’t want to alert anyone to the meeting’s location.
“The cute little credo I’m trusting y’all to abide by boils down to this: 1. Keep cool at all costs. 2. Remember what you’re fighting for, the freedom of ALL of us. This ain’t a pick-n-sale on who gets the rights we’re fighting for. Don’t matter whose gang sign you flash, whose jaw you clocked in a tournament fight. All our asses are on the line. 3. Loose lips sink ships. Shit’s a miracle I got y’all here as-is. We’re starting with the cats we can trust before we try roping in any more. If we can operate thick-as-thieves at this stage, when we start expanding and getting more self-contained chapters across the city, we’ll be making some five-alarm magic. We clear?”
Every head at the table nodded. Lita nodded in kind, a slick grin creeping across her face. “Good. Now, a Mr. Roger Steele came a mighty long way for something special we can put in the Force’s hand, and that right there is gonna be Target One.”
She flicked her fingers, beckoning the well-groomed gentleman to her side.
“This here’s our tag-team partner for the Force out eastern way.” Lita continued. “Our way of getting shit to the folks who can make a splash on the outside while we work on this thing’s guts. I was working with ol’ man L.F. before, and am cool with the new white-hat in charge.” She was careful not to let the name slip before continuing. “But Roger’s gonna be our ol’ buddy-ol’-pal for as long as we stay functioning.”
She wrapped her arm around his leather-bedecked shoulder, Roger politely grinning while holding in the scoff of the century.
“Take lead, chief.” she bowed, mercifully relinquishing her musty embrace.
“Yes, quite.” Roger nodded. “We’re gonna be hitting Warehouse 454. Some of our preliminary surveys suggest that key military diagrams are being kept there on off-network hard drives. Only issue is it’s one of the five joints left in this heap that still keep real wolven guards employed.”
The rough map drawn by Roger highlighted all areas of concern, from the night watchmen routes to the drives’ estimated location based on nearby computer terminals within the complex.
“Ideally we get in and get out quietly,” Agent Steele continued, “but we in the Ambiorixians are not necessarily ones to cry over the state’s spilled blood.” The rumbling mirth exchanged by gangsters in the Creed’s ranks humored the out-of-town gray. “Alright Lita, who’s coming with?”
The mohawked punk looked around to the many faces cultivated for this momentous eve.
“Smith and Malten,” she began, throwing her thumb over her shoulder with each pick. “Hey Chuckie, which one of your fighters can snap a mean neck?”
“Devin’s got a light touch, doncha?” the black-furred prizefighter chuckled. “Devin” referring to a spare-framed, agile Indian wolf, dressed in a plain T shirt and jeans. A formidable fighter whose greatest weapon was his
“This one’s gonna take a good chunk of the night, so if y’all want to hang tight, that’s cool. Beer’s in the fridge. If y’all gotta bug out, that’s cool too.”
Beer in the fridge seemed to rope most into playing the waiting game.
“Quite a house-warmer, aren’t ya?” Steele quipped, shoving his hands into his leather jacket.
“Only the finest in hospitality.” the hippie-punk teased, her faux-English accent met with an approving smirk from the Professor. The odd quintet all sauntered out and made the short trek to their rides. Devin was the only one driven to the first meeting, so Lita took it upon herself to ride with her. The tan street-fighter hopped into the Red Devil, while the rest got into (and onto in the biker Malten’s case) their rides.
“I say,” Smith remarked, cloak billowing in the wind. “Fine specimen of automotive engineering, Mr. Steele.”
The slick black Dodge Charger, headlights veiled by a grill, was like a shaft of shadow against the cobalt blue of Haven’s night.
“Nothing like a 4-speed Hemi to play with.” the agent nodded, a proper smile splitting his sharp gray muzzle. “Your V-12 ain’t anything to sneeze at either.”
“How do you know it’s not an inline-6?”
The gray agent turned on his heels and strolled right up to the tall white Victorian vigilante. His ice-blue eyes cut right into the white wolf, but only for a moment. Then came that prior smile and a slap on the shoulder.
“You’re too damn proud of it being a V-12.” Steele answered. “Your ass wouldn’t settle for a stock V8 when she was built.
Smith broke his kayfabe and shook hands.
“Never the eye and wool shall meet then, sir.” the Professor chuckled. “Keen sense sent you into the trade you’re in.”
The out-of-town agent doffed his invisible hat and slid behind the wheel of his jet-black muscle car. Soon followed the green Jaguar, the dark blue chopper carrying the one-eyed gray biker, and the blood-red VW to finish the lineup.
A more conspicuous entourage there never was.
Lita got on the radio she re-tuned, everyone now on the same frequency. “We’re gonna roll through some of the tenement blocks. Cameras are always busted to hell and back by the residents there. That’ll take us from the 600s right to the 4s, no prob.”
She got her three copies before turning her attention to the tan fighter beside her. “You copy, Devin?” she scoffed.
“Yup.”
“Got anything else you say besides ‘yup’ and ‘nope?’”
“Nope.”
She couldn’t even be miffed. It meant a nice quiet drive, only the serene hum of her Red Devil’s front-loaded V8.
The cavalcade cleared scores upon scores of old, worn-down apartments before the warehouse came into view.
“Alright,” Lita radioed. “Smith’s our civvy, Devin and Mack are the muscle. Steele and I are going in.”
And to the punk’s surprise, there were no arguments, qualms, or queries made. Everyone fell right into place. Shit, she thought, this might be better than sex. That’s the way it felt watching the plan’s first half unfurl.
The 400s were close enough to Haven’s north district, so one of their scientists taking a stroll as a distraction would be helpful.
“Evening, chap!” crowed the dapper scientist. “Having a spot of bother with me digitized map. Mind pointing the way to Hembrooke Lane?” He strode up, confounded tablet in hand, and a good-natured guard came down to help. As luck would have it, the door was just ajar enough.
The Professor and his “assistant” strode away just long enough for Lita and Steele to sneak up the stairs and into the warehouse. With the map made clear, the Professor waved goodbye and rolled off in the distant street’s direction, far enough from view before he lapped the block. He cruised around the general area to keep in radio range of his cohorts.
Inside the warehouse, the denim-clad punk and her gray-furred agent crouched down to get a lay of the land through the wrought iron bars of the walkway.
“Must be where they keep the Ark of the Covenant.” Lita mouthed. The sheer maze of crates that awaited them would have been insanely daunting had Steele not made his map.
“If we have time,” Steele quipped, “maybe we’ll nick the Holy Grail too. Lucky for you, you dropped us in on a B-line right for the office.”
Quickly, but quietly, they clambered down the stairs. When the door behind them creaked, Lita and Steele dove behind the nearest wall of crates they could find. The silver cages of pre-synthed food-stuffs and building materials gave them enough cover as the night watchman got his bearings. The sharp-snouted agent peered over to see where the suited hound was headed. When he turned right, away from the duo, Agent Steele made his move.
“B-line it softly.” he nodded. “We got 45 seconds until he rounds into view of the office.”
Doing just that, duck walking with the best of them, the gray agent and the dark-furred vigilante made it to the door in 15. Unfortunately, they hadn’t lucked out the way they had going in.
“Need a paper clip?” Lita asked innocently.
“I thought it was the 25th century.” Steele gave a quick wink before producing what looked like a simple metal rod. It was, in truth, a universal key, which shuffled its various fragments of steel into the correct grooves of the keyhole. He gave it a gentle twist, the lock quietly giving way, and the door opening smoothly. By Second 40, they were in. And by Second 45, the guard saw only the closed door.
Next task, sifting through the drawers upon drawers of stashed drives.
“Key letter-number combo on them should be A81.” Steele whispered.
The duo dove through each drawer, swiftly thumbing through each item, always checking over their shoulder for any sign of intrusion. It was Lita who managed to find the drives labeled A81. Steele spun over to her and whipped out a silver gadget, which he plugged into each drive individually. When the bar reached 100%, he knew to unplug and move onto the next one.
“Shit, where you get this?” Lita quizzed.
Steele didn’t say a word, still downloading the files. When the last of the A81s were downloaded, he gave his answer. “File reader & courier made by our boys in the labs. 20 terabytes of data, download speed equivalent of a bullet train. We got the goods. Now we gotta get out alive.”
Carefully the duo crept back to door, duck walking along, leather shoes and sandals shuffling softly. With a careful flick of his gloved hand against the door knob, he turned the knob slowly, and pulled the door back...to reveal the guard standing in front of it, facing away.
The two froze. For a moment, it looked as though the uniformed wolf would spin around to greet them with his laser pistol. But by the grace of God, and whoever else dared watch over them, the guard strolled down the hall, and around the corner of boxes. The duo shuffled out, quietly closed the door, and scurried into the maze once more. All the while, hummed under his breath to a windy whisper, Roger Steele was talking in tongues. The phrase, “sie sind einfach gute Deutsche,” was spoken in a sing-song, march-like cadence as they crept along, up to the door. Words spoken in lock step with each step they took. It was probably to keep him sane, Lita thought, for no matter how light they took it, each footfall sounded like a Howitzer going off in the pin-drop silence of the warehouse.
By the time they reached the door, the guard rounded his corner of innumerable crates. By the time they opened the door, he heard the hinges swing. By the time they closed the door, they were outside.
Just in time to meet the other night watchman.
The black wolf, dressed in his smart cop garb, was met with a single round from Agent Steele’s Mauser, the compact semi-automatic he kept on him at all times. He holstered the slim peashooter and the duo bolted away for their respective rides. When Lita hopped into the Red Devil, she touched base with everyone involved.
Mack had kept out of trouble, patrolling from the shadows. The Professor made laps around the block, keeping an eye on any autocops in the area. Devin hadn’t anything to do throughout, and “stood guard” over Lita’s Red Devil. He kicked one guy in the gut for trying to touch it, but that was about it. When all four parties were, the night watch within the warehouse had no one to blame, and only an ambulance to call.
Only one hiccup came on the way back, and that was when one of the rogue gangs Mack Malten had made enemies of came to collect on Lita’s head.
Again.
Fortunately, she’d become skilled in the diffusing of bullshit, and simply drove through the hoards without remorse. The one hound who tried to get in her way was driven screaming into an alleyway. He took a kiss on the shins from the Red Devil’s bumper, and was last seen whimpering against brownstone wall. Those who got up from Lita’s snowplow driving were met with the business end of the Professor’s deep-green Jaguar, and the sharp steel of his ancient rapier. The heads that weren’t sent rolling by the antediluvian crusader’s blade were clubbed in by the glancing balled fist of biker Mack Malten. No club, no butts of guns required, just good old American muscle.
All the while, Devin seemed thoroughly un-amused by the affair. He rolled down the window to get some air, and when one final straggler from the gang came racing up the Red Devil’s passenger side, it took only crack of his tan fist to drop the pursuing biker on-site.
“Shit, you are good,” Lita cackled. “Next time I’ll make sure you ain’t just watching the watchmen.”
Devin flashed a blink-and-you’ll-miss it grin before returning to his stone-faced demeanor, one that held for the rest of the night.
When everyone had finally reconvened at the Creed’s headquarters, those who weren’t plastered were gone. Those who stayed didn’t take long to sober up when it came time to survey what was on the drives via Steele’s portable device.
“And that’s why I’m giving you all a clean bill of health.” the spy calmly remarked. “Because getting shit like this is what counts. Schematics on all kinds of coked-up modifications and creations being made to Old World designs and New World tech are what’s gonna help.”
All manner of guns, tanks, and more startled the Creed’s members, all except three.
Professor Smith observed the designs with a scientist’s natural curiosity.
“She does have a penchant for the Second World War, doesn’t she?” Smith admired. “Always fancied the T92 meself. As a model kit anyhow. Bit too big to defend the lab, wouldn’t you say.”
Steele gave an approving nod. “She ain’t the only fan around here.” he grinned, flashing his Mauser. “The HSc wasn’t exactly made for traipsing about Isonzo.”
Mack Malten’s mind raced with the comic-book carnage he could see upon learning about them, rattling the screen with make-believe Tommy gun fire like a kid with his favorite radio show on.
Then came Lita. Part of her nonchalance was due to how underwhelming the spoils were, compared to all the fanciful insanities she had endured. The other part, however, was due to other things on her mind.
“Quick question, chief.” she asked. “What was that lil’ tune you were humming on your way out the door?”
“In the warehouse?” he added. “Just a little something to keep me sane and keep my trigger-finger at bay. It’s a German phrase I cooked up. Roughly translates to ‘They’re Just Good Germans’ in fact. That’s what I am, you are, and every soul working that night beat. Just following the orders and getting a job done. Our beef ain’t with ‘em and if I don’t feel like making widows one night, I won’t. And I didn’t. The round I put in that guy on the steps was a stun-shot. Laser equivalent of a blank. God-willing, he’ll be alright.”
Lita cocked her head, puzzled, before the gray agent delivered his final elucidation.
“You yourself said it best.” Steele grinned. “Rule One: keep it cool.”
Lita nodded quietly, patting her contact on the back before gazing into the array of mechanical marvels she helped him steal. It was that moment she realized just how in business the Creed truly was, especially with a spy like Steele in the fold.