Or so he liked to believe.
Looking around at the run-down brownstones that lined the streets, Morgan couldn’t help but ask, “Are you sure this is the right place? I can’t picture Lunt slumming it like this.”
Lazarus led the trio up the steps of a building whose doorway bore a sign that read Open thine eyes and see the truth. “Walther enjoyed the creature comforts but far more important to him was practicality. This location is less than two blocks away from a major Illuminati meeting place and a member of the guild owns every home on this street. It’s extremely well protected. Even the homeless man we just passed is probably just a plant, working in service to the Illuminati.”
Morgan paused, looking after the man in the threadbare coat. There was no sign of him. “So are we in danger here?”
“We’re always in danger,” Lazarus said, stepping into the building. There were four mailboxes in the lobby, labeled 1–4. The third of them featured a small set of stenciled labels across the front: Lunt. It was the only one that appeared unused recently — the box was stuffed full of papers, to the point that it was no longer serviceable.
Abby strode to the box and yanked out the papers, flipping through them quickly. “Lots of letters, postmarked from Europe. And there’s an envelope that’s pretty heavy.”
Lazarus accepted the manila envelope and ripped it open, shaking out its contents into a palm. It was a small fertility idol, though the face had been burned at some point, giving it an inhuman appearance.
After staring at it for a moment, Lazarus tossed the idol into the trash. “Discard all of that. We’ll take the garbage container with us on the way out.”
Abby dumped the contents of her arms into a nearby trashcan. She whispered an ancient spell, placing a protective barrier around the garbage container. If anyone besides her were to touch it in the next few hours, they would receive a nasty surprise: a blinding glow, accompanied by a loud squeal that would alert her to their presence.
Having protected the papers, Abby followed the men up the stairs, taking note of the peeling wallpaper and the overwhelming odor of sweat and urine that permeated the place. She’d been in worse locales but not by much.
“Something bugs me about this, Chief,” Morgan whispered.
Lazarus didn’t bother looking back as he replied, “You’re wondering why his papers have been piling up,” he said.
“Yeah. If The Illuminati really were watching this place, why wouldn’t they be checking his mail? For that matter, if the Nazis are trying to go through his stuff, wouldn’t they have rifled through it?”
“First, we’ve dealt The Illuminati several mortal blows lately. I expect that they’ve had far more serious concerns on their collective minds than going through dead men’s mailboxes. Second, for all we know, they have gone over each and every piece of mail in that box already and deemed them unimportant. And as for the Nazis, they probably know that whatever papers they need would have been in Lunt’s possession long before now and so they wouldn’t be found in the mail.”
Morgan nodded in agreement to each of those points. He didn’t feel foolish for having expressed his misgivings — in fact, he felt comforted by the fact that Lazarus had already mentally processed them.
Lunt’s apartment was on the third floor of the tenement building and despite the creaky nature of the stairs, the Assistance Unlimited team had made it to that level with scarcely any noise at all.
This was a good thing because it was readily apparent that someone had beaten them to the site — and was possibly still present.
The door to the apartment was open, revealing an interior that had perhaps once been decorated in stark contrast to the building itself. But the once-tasteful décor was now in shambles, having been ruthlessly ransacked. A single lamp that could be seen from the doorway was on, illuminating the scene.
Lazarus held a finger to his lips, warning his aides of the need for silence. He reached under his jacket to pull free his pistol from its holster.
Just as he stepped into the apartment, a gunshot cracked through the air. A bullet struck the lamp’s bulb, plunging the room into darkness.
Lazarus felt himself yanked into the apartment as the door slammed shut behind him. He heard both Abby and Morgan banging against it but it had been quickly locked.
Though surrounded by stygian darkness, Lazarus knew that his highly trained senses would be capable of evening the odds against his enemies — especially since they, too, would be hampered by the lack of light.
Strangely, Lazarus could hear no breathing, nor the footfalls of his enemy. Were they trained in stealth? If so, then his task might prove harder than he’d first assumed.
A strange, mocking sort of laughter suddenly filled the apartment, seeming to come from all sides. Lazarus froze, his ears ringing from the volume of the noise.
And then the attack came.
A series of quick martial arts-style chops to the back of his head sent Lazarus tumbling forward. He grabbed at the wall for support, sending something crashing from a nearby table. Then his attacker was upon him again, this time using the butt of a gun to deliver a powerful blow across the hero’s temple.
Lazarus gasped in pain, barely able to maintain consciousness. The laughter, which had paused for only a brief moment, was back, though it was of a quieter tone. In its wake, a man spoke and Lazarus tried to pinpoint where it was coming from — he had no idea if it was the same person who had attacked him, though he suspected it was.
“The famous Lazarus Gray,” the man said, in a voice that somehow evaded Gray’s attempts to decipher the man’s age or national origin. “I suppose it was inevitable that we would eventually cross paths.”
Lazarus swung his fist towards the place where his instincts told him the man might be standing but his blow pushed through open air. “Who are you? Do you work for the Nazis? Or The Illuminati?”
“Men call me The Darkling and I don’t work for anyone. In fact, a great many more people work for me than even they realize.”
“Touchy, aren’t you?” Lazarus paused, shaking his head to clear it. Straining his senses to their limit, he caught the faint whiff of smoke from just to his right — probably a tendril wafting into the air after the mysterious figure had fired his gun a moment before.
Lazarus threw himself in that direction, slamming hard into the shadowy figure. The man’s exclamation seemed equal parts surprise and pain.
Now that he had his measure of the man’s presence, Lazarus followed up with a punch that knocked the other man against the coffee table in the center of the room. Books and memorabilia belonging to Lunt spilled all over the floor.
As Lazarus sought to press his sudden advantage, he reached to where the man should have been but once more his fingers closed on nothing more than air.
From across the room — much farther away than the man should have been — the laughter came once more, followed by a slow clapping of hands. “Very impressive. Few men have ever laid hands upon me. I tip my hat to you.”
At that moment, the door to the apartment broke apart, pieces of wood flying. Abby stood there, her dark hair streaming behind her and her eyes glowing with mystic power. Morgan was at her side, gun in hand, and he immediately looked around the room, making sure that Lazarus was unharmed.
The light that streamed in from the hallway exposed the mysterious Darkling. He was tall and thin, his body cloaked in an ankle-length coat. A low-brimmed hat hid the upper part of his face, while the top of his coat was pulled up high enough to obscure his mouth and chin. What could be seen of his face showed that he wore a black and white mask, giving his features the look of a skull. He held an automatic in each hand and as Morgan burst into the room, he turned both of them upon the former confidence man.