Chapter One: The Black Helicopter

Author note: This story is the fortieth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Double, Double, Toil and Trouble".

Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin. I also do not own Airwolf, a TV show from the 1980's from which I have discreetly borrowed from before. This story includes characters and concepts from Airwolf, but you don't need to be familiar with the show.

0112 ZULU
AZKABAN PRISON
BLACK SEA BRITISH ISLES

In the years following the Second Wizarding War, Azkaban Prison had seen more changes than it had in the prior three centuries of its existence as Britain's primary magical prison. No longer were the prisoners guarded by Dementors, slowly driven insane by the creatures' very presence. No longer were prisoners left to wallow in filth and decay, though prison conditions had yet to improve to the point of being even remotely acceptable by any objective Muggle standards.

Aurors now guarded the prison and house-elves served the prisoners' basic needs for food, water, and clean clothing. At the elves' quiet insistence, the prisoners were also provided cheap, but clean and relatively decent beds in addition to clean robes for daily use. In turn, the house-elves anchored their own magic to the prison in order to prevent any escapes. But nothing is perfect and only one crack is required to pierce a seemingly impervious defense.

The shadow that appeared out of the night went almost unnoticed as it approached the miserable, windswept island, hidden by magic and shifting seas. The craft's engines were whisper-soft, the sound of the blades blending into the roar and crash of the ocean against the isle's rocky coast. The Aurors on duty never even looked up as the black and white shape ghosted over the prison's roof. A low, wolfish rumble was the only sound it made as it hovered in place.

A hiss came from one side as a door opened and a man inside slipped out, gun in hand. The figure wore a gray uniform with a snarling wolf patch on one shoulder: a rabid winged wolf under a sheepskin. A solid black helmet hid his face as he crept into the prison complex with a single destination in mind.

The inmates regarded the newcomer with a mix of disdain and fear; though his clothing was Muggle, his bearing and attitude were those of a dangerous, ruthless killer. When he reached a specific cell, he inspected the two wizards inside. Beneath the helmet's visor, lips curved in a vicious smile. "Rastaban and Rudolphus Lestrange?"

"Who wants to know?" the elder of the two sneered.

The man lifted his gun, pointing it through the cell door. "Either you're who I'm looking for or you're in the way," he growled.

Faced with the Muggle weapon, the two unarmed wizards quailed and folded. "Yes," the younger confirmed, watching the weapon.

"Good." The gun lowered, slipping back into its holster. The figure slipped something out of an equipment bag on his belt and quickly separated the thing in two. One went over the top cell door hinge and the other went on the lower hinge. "Step back," he ordered; the wizards obeyed, watching as the man attached leads to the small blocks and stepped back himself. "Don't look," was the warning, two seconds before there was an explosion and the cell door fell inwards. The figure stepped forward, surveying his handiwork for an instant. "Come with me."

The Lestranges hurried out, unwilling to argue with any one, Muggle or not, who freed them from the miserable blood-traitors. The sound of the explosion had finally attracted attention from the Aurors, several of whom rushed into the cell blocks, calling to each other as they searched for the intruder.

Even as they searched, the helmeted man guided the Lestrange brothers towards the roof. Just as the escapees reached the final staircase, two Aurors caught up with them.

"Stop!" the lead Auror yelled, angling his wand.

Two gunshots rang out, dropping the Aurors. Without even breaking stride, the escaping group hurried onto the roof. The Lestranges nearly balked at the Muggle craft hovering in place, but the uniformed man pushed them inside, then hopped up himself.

The black and white helicopter lifted upwards as more Aurors raced onto the roof, hurling spells and yelling orders to stop. Not a single spell even marked the 'copter's white belly as it flew away, lazy and unconcerned by the Aurors' fury. A wolf's howl shattered the night and the helicopter screamed skywards, vanishing in less than a second.

1157 ZULU
MCKEAN PRISON
UNITED STATES PACIFIC COAST

The American magical prison lurked just off the California coast, on an island commonly referred to by Muggle and Magical alike as Alcatraz. To the Muggle population, Alcatraz was a tourist attraction, a former prison and military base, but to the wizarding population of North America, it was a prison that housed every wizard convicted of a crime, with spare facilities for those considered too dangerous to house closer to home during trial.

As a joint effort, McKean Magical Prison was staffed by Aurors from the United States, Canada, and Mexico; the duty was widely regarded as a punishment or for the dregs of the respective Auror Departments. Since the prison was located in the United States proper, the American magical community assumed the lion's share of management and jurisdiction over the inmates, as well as much of the cost, but all three countries valued McKean for its ability to successfully contain the very worst of their communities.

As the beginnings of false dawn touched the sky, the sound of whirling blades reached Alcatraz. A sleek black and white helicopter flitted low to the water, ghosting around the island's dangerous reefs without an ounce of fear or hesitation. When it reached a particular point, a pulse leapt from its nose to touch what looked to be a solid cliff. Then it tipped forward and flew through the cliff, completely unharmed as it passed through the powerful wards that kept McKean hidden from the Muggles. Once within the wards, the helicopter angled higher, towards an area once used for prisoner transport, back in the days when the American wizarding community had been experimenting with new ideas. The research had quickly fallen prey to those who maintained a rigid status quo within the wizarding world; thus had ended one of the few efforts to modernize the magical community. But the landing pad remained.

Three wheels extended from the helicopter's nose and stubby wingtips and the chopper touched down, though the blades on its back continued to whirl. From the helicopter's right side, a man emerged, clad in a gray uniform, with a black helmet and visor on, and a snarling wolf patch stitched to his uniform's shoulder: hidden inside sheepskin, a rabid wolf snarled and flared its wings. The man drew his gun as he ran to the open door and entered the prison, skidding down the stairs to a predetermined area.

When he reached the two cells, side-by-side, he regarded the two wizards within, amusement on his face under the visor. "Julian Anderson and Loki?"

Anderson studied him carefully, then smirked. "Here to spring us?" he inquired mockingly, spreading his hands. "Or are you here to take revenge?"

"You trust a Muggle?" Loki demanded of the former Auror.

The watching figure was even more amused as Anderson laughed harshly. "I hear that rat Onasi is using a fireleg these days, so you don't have to be a Muggle to use a fireleg. Not anymore. Blasted blood-traitors."

Loki's expression turned considering. "Well?" he inquired silkily of the man outside the two cells. "What shall it be? Freedom? Or death?"

"Today? Freedom." Two gunshots shattered the locks. "Move it."

Even as the two prisoners pushed their way out of their cells, three Mexican Aurors rounded the corner, screaming obscenities in their native Spanish and pointing their wands at all three men. Without even flinching, the uniformed man fired three times, then waved his charges up the stairs. More shouts rose behind them, but it had been so long since the prison's landing pad had been used that the three escapees reached it without encountering any other guards.

Anderson fumbled with the helicopter's door, but managed to pull it open with a soft hiss from the door seal. Loki followed him into the black craft's interior and their rescuer brought up the rear. The rescuer exchanged a solemn nod with the pilot, then the pilot pulled back on the controls, lifting the helicopter off the ground. The co-pilot tapped the controls to raise the landing gear, then the black chopper turned away from the prison and flew away, vanishing into the sunrise without a single spell impacting its metal skin.

Harry strode onto Azkaban's roof, his expression a thundercloud as he inspected the end of the escapees' path. Two Aurors dead of gunshot wounds and two of the most notorious remaining Death Eaters on the loose. And no one, no one, had heard anything until the intruders blew up the cell door. Though he was tempted to rake the prison guards over the coals for their carelessness, he was quite sure they were already doing it to themselves without his help. The two dead guards had been well-liked with grieving families that needed answers.

"Sir."

Harry turned, one brow arching at the waving parchment under his nose. "What's this?" he asked, taking it.

"Report from the American Embassy, sir," the Auror reported. "McKean's been attacked by a black and white Muggle flying thing, just like here."

The veteran Auror frowned, reading the parchment carefully. "If it's the same one, they're bloody fast," Harry growled. "Azkaban and McKean in one night?" The names of the escapees from McKean were unfamiliar, but Harry had little doubt that they were dealing with the same offenders.

"Minister Shacklebolt wants you to be our lead in the investigation, sir!"

Harry regarded the Auror, making a note to break him of the 'sir's when he got back. "See to it that our liaison to the Muggle Prime Minster requests autopsies for the two slain Aurors," he instructed. "They were murdered with a Muggle weapon; let's see if the Muggles can help us find the killers."

Without waiting for a protest, Harry swept away. He had an International Portkey to catch.

Harry glanced around the American headquarters of their Magical Congress, impressed by the imposing columns, golden phoenix statues, and the small memorial statues in the center of the main hall. The subtle black and bronze color scheme was a nice touch as well. Looking around, Harry spotted larger statues, representing the first twelve American Aurors, marching around the outer edges of the hall. The massive clock-like Magical Exposure Threat Level Measurer, looming at the top of the center columns, seemed a bit over the top, but it was not Harry's place to quibble with how the Americans chose to view their Muggle neighbors. It was, however, his place to find his American and Canadian counterparts for a meeting in…he checked his watch, sighing as he ran a hand through his messy raven hair…five minutes ago.

"Senior Auror Potter, good to see you again," one of the Aurors inside the meeting room exclaimed, striding forward with his hand extended.

Harry assessed the man: short, almost too short to be an Auror, dark eyes, and very light blond hair. "Senior Auror Simmons," he replied, shaking the other wizard's hand firmly. "I haven't seen you since that incident with Goyle."

Simmons sniffed, remembering that particular event with very little fondness. At the time, he'd quietly cheered the British Auror on as he laid claim to the Calvin children; later, after Parker's team had saved his daughter's life, he'd understood Parker's reaction much better. "Yes," he agreed in a clipped tone before changing the subject. "Have you met our American colleague before?" he inquired, turning Potter towards the final wizard in the room.

Harry surveyed the man. He was tall, on par with Harry's height or perhaps a smidgeon taller, and lean with receding and slightly wavy dark brown hair, a weathered, hatchet-faced profile, cool blue eyes, and a demeanor that bespoke his commitment to thoroughness and professionalism. His black robes and boots were impeccable and professionally tailored, the marks of a wizard looking to rise higher in his department, and his hands rested on a leather attaché case standing upright on the conference table.

"Mitchell Bruck, I presume?" Harry asked, extending his hand to the wizard.

"Yes," the wizard replied, his accent crisp, clear, and precise. "It is good to meet you, Senior Auror Potter."

"Harry, please," Harry urged, smiling as Simmons pulled out a chair for Harry before returning to his own. Glancing over at the blond Auror, the Brit questioned, "Any ideas from your Division's elite units?"

"Unit," Simmons corrected, a sour expression on his face. "Locksley screwed up royally and their commander yanked their Auror badges on us."

Harry's brows shot to his hairline. "What happened?"

Simmons shook his head. "Later," he murmured, darting a glance at Bruck, a look in his eyes that Harry couldn't quite interpret.

"Shall we begin, gentlewizards?" Bruck inquired, gesturing to the back of the room, where aerial crime scene reconstructions of both Azkaban and McKean hovered. Harry and Simmons shifted in their seats so they could look at the diagrams and Bruck began to brief them on the situation. "The Mexican Ministerio de Magia has authorized our Department of Aurors to act on their behalf in this investigation." A slight nod towards Simmons. "Canada, as you can see, Auror Potter, has dispatched a member of their elite Auror Squad. And, of course, you yourself are joining us from Britain."

"Based on the timing," Harry observed sourly, glaring at the Azkaban model, "They hit Azkaban first, then your McKean Magical Prison."

"Both attacks happened during the slow shifts," Simmons observed thoughtfully. "Late night for Azkaban and early morning for McKean." At Harry's startled look, the blond wizard smirked. "I read the initial Azkaban report while you were en route, Auror Potter." He leaned forward, his gaze intent. "Auror Bruck, how long has it been since McKean's landing pad has been used? Judging from the reports from McKean, no one even remembered it still existed until these wizards used it."

"Officially, the last time it was used was well over fifty years ago," Bruck replied. "However, given that we are confident that a Muggle flying craft was used at both prisons, I am…hesitant to conclude that we are, in fact, dealing with wizards."

"Why?" Harry asked bluntly. "Wizards aren't excluded from using technology and many of us in Britain know how to drive." He left out whether or not said wizards drove well. "Unless there's been a mass breach of the Statute of Secrecy, how would Muggles even know about our prisons, much less how to access their weak points." Cocking his head, Harry added sarcastically, "Not to mention, why would Muggles help Death Eaters escape?"

Simmons snorted. "Or our two, either," he agreed. "Julian Anderson wouldn't win any friends on the Muggle side of the fence, what with his hatred for all things Muggle and his nasty habit of targeting helpless children."

"Children?" Harry demanded, his eyes wide with horror.

Dark eyes went even darker. "He kidnapped my daughter and another Auror's daughter as well." Harry hissed in fury. "From what I hear, most Muggles would rather trounce scum like Anderson, not help him. Our last wizard's no innocent either; he came bloody close to breaching the Statute of Secrecy two Halloweens running. Attacked a roomful of Muggles both times, with magic."

Bruck scowled at this information. "The only name we have for him is Loki."

A tired nod from Simmons. "We spent weeks trying to track his real identity down, but we came up empty, Auror Bruck. He laughed in our faces the whole time, so we finally tried him as Loki and tossed him in McKean, so he could laugh all he wanted in there."

"Even so," Bruck took control again. "I contend that a Muggle helicopter is far harder to master than a mere Muggle car. Even in the Muggle world, such skill takes specialized training to acquire." He shrugged, deliberately nonchalant. "In light of that, I must advise expanding our focus to any potential Muggle suspects." He let that hang, then turned towards Simmons, his eyes narrowing. "And there has been a massive breach of the Statute of Secrecy, as you should well remember, Auror Simmons."

Harry stiffened, as did Simmons. Bruck could only be referring to one group.

"Your Division has spent the last three years coddling a group of Muggles, instead of Obliviating them, as you should have!" Bruck spat contemptuously at the rigid Canadian Auror. "These Muggles are certainly in a position to know about our prisons and possess sufficient authority to access the records and blueprints needed for this attack." Arrogance reeked. "As highly skilled members of Muggle law enforcement, I would not doubt that one or more of them is capable of flying the Muggle craft seen at both prisons."

"But why?" Harry insisted. "Why would they do something like this?"

Bruck's attention did not waver from Simmons. "Revenge is usually a fair motivator, is it not, Auror Potter? I have often found it so." Simmons' expression crumpled in sheer misery and he slumped in his seat.

"Revenge for what?" Harry pressed, looking between his fellow wizards.

It was Simmons who croaked out an answer. "Revenge for how we treated them."