The New Magic - The Revelation of Jonah McAllister by Landon Wark (free ebooks for android txt) 📕

"What I can do, we all can do," he said with a conviction that made even Sasha pause.

"Well, let's see a trick," Sasha said. "A disappearing trick maybe. Get yourself out of here."

"I am just... Novice. There will be Adepts coming for you soon. Or even... Acolytes. They already killed your good friend Novak. Made him choke on his own filth."

Sasha harrumphed. "Oh. You have ranks? Acolytes of who?"

After a rasping breath the man whispered something inaudible where Sasha stood. One of the interrogators leaned in a little closer.

"McAllister, something," he relayed.

"Fucking Westerner," Sasha muttered. "Fine. Who else? Give me some names."

Western influence was a tricky thing and, to be honest with himself, above his pay grade. Better to deal with the locals who were backing them. With their little parlour tricks they might not need jobs, but locals still had families. Families who were within easy reach of the truncheon. A boy's neck was much easier to wring than a man's.

Whatever pocket change Westerners wanted to make was concerning from an economic standpoint, Sasha's bureaucratic brain reasoned, but he was no economist. The death of one of the people he was charged with protecting was far more troubling, and the message had to be sent that it would not be tolerated.

As the man sat, wheezing, Sasha balled up his fist until the scars creaked like the ropes of a schooner.

"Come on," he said with a practised patience as he laid the fist into the man's diaphragm. "Tell me of any friends I might have who are the disciples of this McAllister."

Within twenty minutes Sasha stepped out of the windowless room, knuckles popping as he wrung out his hand. Even though it was a necessary part of the job, he had a hard time watching as men broke. There was always so much snivelling and bawling. The names had started flowing and he excused himself, leaving the note taking to his subordinates.

Mentally he began composing a report to his superiors in the government. Questions about whether to include the creation of coins from thin air came and went. Better to include everything and let the higher-ups figure things out. He paused briefly, wondering if the interrogators would be playing at making pocket change in their homes later that night. He might even have a go at it himself. As long as the oligarchs kept on breathing then the politicians would be happy and the world would keep on turning, regardless of the financial situation.

"Get me some information on this McAllister." He motioned for an assistant to fall in behind him. "From the English, Americans, maybe Australians or Canadians."

"Already done," the aide, a lanky sullen man replied. "Apparently someone by that name blew up a hotel and killed a few Sheriff's deputies in the States. Unknown if it was in separate incidents.

"So he's violent," Sasha mused. "If he needs to be."

"Should I start detaining everyone hanging around with this... group?"

Sasha paused. He had orders to put a stop to the cult's meetings, but going after a large group was potentially dangerous, especially if they really could do things beyond dropping coins from their mouths. But his men knew the risks that came with their jobs, and how much more dangerous could these cultist malcontents be than garden variety machine gun wielding malcontents.

"Break up the meetings. Grab whoever is there and keep grabbing until you find this McAllister."

Sasha stopped somewhere in the middle of the transition from the back of the building to the front of the building.

"Someone is going to want to have a long talk with him."

Defenders of Civilization

Within the penthouse a single shaft of light speared through the otherwise dark space, falling on a trash bin in the corner of the room where a series of twisted and warped ballpoint pens lay, overflowing the crisp edges of the bin and falling into an inky puddle on the floor.

As he paced across the shag of the floor Raymond took a drag of the cigarette clenched almost tenderly in his teeth, revelling in the racing of his heart. There was no finer feeling as far as he was concerned. That standing on the edge of a cliff feeling, never knowing if your brain was messed up enough to push you that last step. The running, fighting, fucking kind of racing that let you know you were alive and ready to "lick a bag of wildcats" as his grandfather would have said. He had not felt it in a long time (at least not without pharmaceutical enhancement) and strangely had forgotten that it was something he found desirable. Maybe he could persuade a few of the guys to take another cliff diving trip to Brazil in a couple of months.

The idea died almost as soon as it was born. If he didn't get everything on track there wasn't going to be money for cliff diving in a couple of months, or anything else for that matter.

His watch buzzed. Opening of the day in the East. He swivelled the dial on the watch and a list came up on the face. Sitting down at the desk a few paces away from his bed, Ray opened up the laptop and shifted the mouse around. By the time he had the conferencing app opened the computer was already ringing. He slid the mouse over.

Christ it felt good. All those days sitting through meetings with the big man prattling on, sitting there like a zombie, waiting for the next boom or bust (both were fine as long as they were big). It was fine, but it lacked a sense of purpose. For the longest time he had thought that money was a goal in and of itself, but the defense of money... That was proving to be an intoxicating