Chapter 6 - Some Like It On The Top

Rayna

The tour was lengthy. Colonel Garrison brought us to almost all rooms of the facility except to those parts where Mr. Windstorm’s wheelchair acted as a hindrance. By the time we finished, it was already past 1300 hours. We took our late lunch anyway with the colonel in Hextrion’s employee cafeteria, but in a VIP room away from the rest of the soldiers.

Weirdly enough, Mr. Windstorm didn’t eat. He only drank wine—the most expensive available in the facility—and nothing more. He remained silent the entire tour too, and even while we were eating. He didn’t take his hood off, and his shades were back, hiding those unnerving eyes of his to my relief.

But honestly, I didn’t understand this paraded anonymity. Why would he go through lengths just to keep his physical features safe from inquiring eyes? Why did he show those eyes to me earlier? To George and not to the rest of the Hextrion staff and to the colonel?

Earlier, the urge to learn more about him was so strong, I just had to Google him while waiting for the tour to start. To my disappointment, I found little info and scarce pictures of him on the net; all of him wearing his wheelchair, typical white robe and sunglasses. And what was available on Wikipedia showed already what I know because of the files Uncle James sent me in the email.

Full Name: Mr. Axel Claude Windstorm

Status: Bachelor
Personal Details: Lord of Windstorm Hall and Owner of Windstorm Conglomerate and Steel Wings Mining, Inc.
Age: 29 years old—about three years older than me, it seems.
Height: 6 feet 4 inches tall—Hm, roughly five inches taller than me, and to think I didn’t notice this since he was riding a wheelchair.
Race: Half-European, Half-Argentinian—this explained why he had a slight English lilt to his voice.
Education: Studied at the most prestigious and expensive university in Europe
Current Work: CEO of Windstorm Conglomerate and it’s tens of thousands of sub-companies
Miscellaneous: Richest man on Forbes since 2021 and running eight years now. He has a rare degenerative disease of the spine still unknown to the medical community. He has two siblings, Gwendolyn and Dimitri Windstorm, who help with their family business. Has been a bachelor since the money world shone a spotlight on him. Has headquarters in Burj Khalifa, Makkah Royal Clock Tower, Shanghai Tower, and in the One World Trade Center, in New York, top floor.

I almost drowned in my saliva when I read the last bit. For him to actually occupy these skyscraper buildings—and all top floors at that—made me really wonder just how loaded this man was.

No wonder my uncle said Pentagon was kneeling before him like a king. Actually, he was even richer than a king if this info about him were to be the basis. I thought Uncle James was also overreacting when he said Mr. Windstorm was the most important man on the planet. I honestly was yet to see this for myself, but judging from what I encountered so far, I was leaning into that belief too.

And to think I was in charge of him and his safety... Santa Maria.

A cold dread washed all over me as I continued to eat my late lunch. When we finished thirty minutes later, Colonel Garrison led us to the ‘Oval Room.’ This was a place intended for doing covert meetings and planning operations—or so what he said. I sat meters away from Mr. Windstorm’s left, choosing to keep my presence as minimal as possible while they started discussing his donations.

“General Foch extends his thanks to you for the generous financing of our military department, Mr. Windstorm,” Colonel Garrison stated, practically with twinkling eyes against the dim lighting of the room. “He hopes that this partnership will continue for many, many years.”

“That is always possible, colonel,” Mr. Windstorm said in a casual tone. I couldn’t see even his profile because of his hood, and I wondered if he was just being friendly with the man with his reply. “But tell me, why do you need so much weapons and heavy equipment?”

Colonel Garrison placed both hands on the steel desk and slowly whispered, “For war, Mr. Windstorm.”

War? My brows knitted hard. It is the year 2030 now, and they were still thinking of war? What sick men!

I clenched my teeth and hands out of anger. I itched to punch this man’s snickering face to oblivion, but he was my superior, so all I could do was to stay still in my chair and simmer my anger away.

I noticed Mr. Windstorm glance briefly at my direction though, showed no emotion on his face, and then returned his attention to the colonel.

But what my superior said next was not what I expected at all.

“We have compiled many reports about the existence of werewolves in this world, Mr. Windstorm. They are as what we believe them to be: powerful, cunning, and dangerous men in the form of wolves. Some stand on all fours, some on two feet. They have thick furs that no ordinary bullets can penetrate. They have fangs that can easily open a man’s gut, crush bones, and iron. They form packs, acting as lethal assassin-for-hires all over the world, and they mostly operate during the night.”

I would have called this man insane if not for the pictures on the massive screen in front of us.

There were snapshots of blurry black, brown, white, and gray figures with wolf-like heads on the evening streets, behind highrise buildings, on the roofs of houses, churches and even St. Peter’s Basilica; behind windows, inside graveyards, on top of vehicles, and some running on the mountains, fields, jumping on gorges and climbing trees.

Trees. Mountains. The words echoed inside my head.

Exactly like the ones I saw this morning. Could it be that these were werewolves? Colonel Garrison said so himself they stand on all fours or two legs.

Then I remembered the largest wolf I saw on that hill staring at me. Was that a werewolf too? Did they exist on Bolivia too?

Shit.

I shivered at the high possibility.

“We are yet to gather intel about their hideout, their true objectives, and their leader, but we believe this goes true to what mainstream media tells the public already: that it is run by an alpha king,” the colonel continued.

The screen showed what they believed was the possible leader. The alpha king.

My breath was instantly caught in my throat. Damn, it almost looked like the one I saw this morning. As a reflex, I felt for my gun behind my back and the swiss knife hidden underneath my camouflage pants. I wasn’t sure if these weapons could wound such supernatural creatures, but at least I felt safer with them.

“Are you sure these aren’t just gangs who disguise as wolves, colonel?” Mr. Windstorm, choosing to be rational, stated. “Did you capture at least one already? Ensure that you are truly fighting with a creature of the night instead of a normal human?”

He had a damn point, but instead of showing concern, Colonel Garrison only grinned some more.

“With your donations of weapons, Mr. Windstorm, we are confident we will capture more than one. And the general himself will deliver a half-human, half-wolf’s head as a gift for you. Mayhap even the alpha king’s head.”

There was a pause. Silence reigned inside the Oval Room until my temporary employer replied: “I give you all my blessings then. You have my support all the way until you win this war with the werewolves.”

Colonel Garrison neared him, grabbed his left hand and sandwiched it with his like he was holding the miraculous Pope’s hand.

“The general would be very pleased to hear this, Mr. Windstorm. Very, very pleased.”