“I’ll put you through straight away, sir. Thank you for calling.”
“Alastor.” The voice at the other end of the line was an ocean away, but he sounded as though he was right there, speaking into the old man’s ear.
“This is Portal,” the old man said. “I am in Minneapolis, and I just concluded a meeting with—” He hesitated, trying to remember Fries’ codename, and felt the warm bloom of anger within. “Damn it all, I’m too old for this cloak and dagger business. I just met with Fries. He’s been taken by the Directorate. I just saw their helicopter lift off from the top of his building.”
“Has he now?” There was not even a pause on the other end of the line before the answer came. “Much sooner than anticipated, but unsurprising. Operation Stanchion will proceed as planned. You are prepared?”
The old man felt the tug of warmth within, the burning of a fire that had been with him all his life. “Ready enough. My pieces are moving into place.”
A chuckle could be heard on the other end of the phone. “They thought we declared war on them months ago, these upstarts, this Directorate. They have no idea what war looks like, not most of them—none save for the Jotun.”
“He is old,” Portal said, feeling the shudder of the harsh Midwest autumn run through him. “Even compared to us, and he grows weaker since Peshtigo—”
“Yes,” the voice came again. One of his oldest friends; the words came clearly, as though he were in the same room. Miracle now, terror later, this technology, he thought. “Do not forget, Operation Stanchion has but one purpose—and lest you forget, in the midst of all that must happen—”
“I will not forget,” the older man replied, feeling the chill mingle with the excitement flowing through him. “The purpose of Omega is clear and has been since the days of old. I have not lost sight of it even if some of our own have. I will hold to Stanchion, to the plan I outlined for you—though,” he said with a chuckle, “I may occasionally forget the code words for the operation. I am, after all, somewhat older than most of your current advisors, and have little taste for the intricacies of their so-called ‘black’ operations.”
“I believe that is an outdated term,” the voice came from the other end of the phone.
“So is the concept of gods who rule the world,” the man who was codenamed Portal replied. “But that doesn’t make it any less accurate.”
“True enough. True enough. Take care, my friend. Take care of yourself-and our prize.”
“Oh, I will.” He let the smile tug at the corners of his lips, feeling the odd, drawn feeling from them as they began to chap from the wind. “I will ensure that Sienna Nealon will be ours.”
“Good enough,” the voice came again. “Until we meet again. Alastor out.”
The old man heard the click through the speaker of the phone, and kept it up to his ear for a moment longer. “So long, old friend. I’ll be home before you know it—with our prize.”
“Let me do an internet search for chili cheese fries,” a metallic, tinny voice blared from the speaker of his phone.
“What?” He held it up in front of him, staring blankly at the screen, which was lit up with a series of text bubbles. “No, I don’t want you to do an internet search. And where did you come up with chili cheese fries?”