Standing dark and menacing before the lead-reinforced window, Malo had already hotly disputed Soloman’s recommendation to reconstitute the team with new men. Turning to stare down, the lieutenant persuasively argued that this ... this thing was outside the parameters of any combat training they’d ever received, so what was the use of getting more men?
“They don’t exactly train us to fight monsters, Colonel,” he growled. “At least we’ve seen what this thing can do. And we won’t be taken by surprise again. But if you bring in more men who can be taken off guard by that thing’s speed or strength, maybe even guys who’ve never seen any combat, then you’re going to have a lot of dead soldiers on your conscience.”
Soloman understood the reasoning, and in truth half-agreed with it. He also knew that Malo and the remaining commandos, knowing what they did and as heated as they were about putting Cain in the ground, were probably worth three or four flesh squads.
It was one thing to see Cain’s inhuman power on tape; it was another to narrowly evade those talons and fangs while frantically tracking for a shot. That kind of combat experience can’t be replaced.
Yeah, Soloman thought after a moment, with good luck and a good plan they might neutralize at least a measure of Cain’s inhuman superiority. And, for certain, none of them would ever underestimate the terrific scope of that bestial force again. When they hit him the next time, they would hit him together and wouldn’t stop firing until every round and RPG was spent.
Lighting a cigar and listening closely, General Hawken wisely let the debate reverberate between Soloman and the Delta lieutenant, although he could have pulled his formidable rank. And Soloman respected him for it, knowing it wasn’t something a lot of generals would have done.
Out of sheer pride they would have thrown in their considerable weight, taking charge over those who knew far better than they. But Ben was from the old school, the old Army, and had long ago learned that in the field you had to trust those who knew the true nuts and bolts of combat.
Finally Soloman agreed to proceed with a single unit of seven men, and Malo stared down a moment, seething. “I’m going to kill that monster, Colonel. As God is my witness, I’m going to kill it.”
Father Marcelle, sitting silently across the room, smiled slightly. And as Malo lifted the MP5 he cast a glance at the priest. Then Malo crossed himself before dropping his hand over the hilt of a wicked-looking bowie knife strapped to his gunbelt.
“Pray for us, Father,” he said coldly.
Marcelle nodded without expression to gently cut the blessing in the air. “Dominus vobiscum coram inimico vestro.”
Malo, as fierce and warlike as any soldier Soloman had ever seen, bowed his head a moment to bless himself again and repeated, “In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Then with a frown he vanished through the darkened door, head bent like a medieval warrior casting himself upon some doomed quest.
Ben turned and picked up the phone as it rang. When he laid it down he stared at Soloman, gloomy. “Cain ain’t in the car,” he said. “They found it, and he ain’t in it. They’re gonna drag the river for his body but ... but I wouldn’t hold out hope.”
“I don’t,” Soloman mumbled, lifting a hand to his head. Somewhere in the chaos his face had been cut, and he couldn’t even remember how. A slender gash ran from the corner of his eye to his mouth. “This guy is going down hard, Ben. As hard as it gets.”
“Well,” Ben began, “let’s talk truth, old son. You already gave it to him hard. If you can’t put him down with that much ordnance, you probably can’t put him down at all.”
“He died once. He can die again,” Soloman said simply. “We’ve just been playing the wrong game.” He shook his head. “We’ve been playing his game fighting him with brute force. But that’s not going to work because he is brute force. We have to neutralize his advantages, somehow. Have to put him in a position where he can’t use that strength and speed. We have to put him on a human level.”
A heavy silence held, endured.
“Cain ain’t human, Sol.” The general’s voice was flat with conviction. “I don’t know what the hell he is. But he ain’t human.”
“He’s an animal.” Soloman closed his eyes, released a tired sigh. “He’s an animal. And that’s how I’m gonna hunt him. That’s how I’m gonna hunt him. That’s how I’m gonna kill him.”
***
“Your analogy of an animal is quite probably accurate,” Marcelle said after he’d retrieved another hot cup of coffee for Soloman. The priest walked slowly away, thoughtful. “Cain may indeed be an animal. But, to your advantage, he may also be a confused animal. I believe you possess more advantages than you realize.”
Finishing a slow sip, Soloman set the cup down on a table, staring for a moment. “There’s always advantages, Marcelle. The difficult part is rationally implementing them in a condition of pure terror. That’s why so few plans survive the first thirty seconds of combat.”
The priest walked forward. “Yes, I agree. But I believe that Cain revealed a weakness tonight. Nor do I think that it was a ruse. It was something he did out of pride – as always.”
Casting a glance to see Ben’s scowl, Soloman was glad that the general didn’t fully understand the true nature of the discussion. Ben was a good man, and he had his own suspicions, but the last thing he needed right now was yet another debate about supernatural forces at work. Marcelle apparently also realized it, tempering his terminology.
“Expatiate,” Soloman said.
“It was expressed by Cain himself, Colonel.” Marcelle was eminently priestly, standing without moving. “Cain said that he would remember all that he knew, which means he does not remember everything at this moment. And that may be the key.”
“Yeah,” Soloman agreed. “But remember what?”
“There is no way to be certain. This concupiscent misuse of Nature creates too many unknowns. Even Cain, who is more aware of his power than”—he glanced at the general—”than any other, has no certainty. But he is definitely frightened of something.”
“Earlier you said he fears time.”
“Time is only a measure of what he fears. There is something within time that he fears.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because Cain’s unnatural strength has virtually no limitations. He can kill and kill and kill almost without limit and could be, for all practical purposes, immortal. Even these men surrounding you possess only a slight chance for success if they again engage him in combat. And your narrow victory tonight may or may not be repeatable. You injured Cain primarily because you retained the remarkable presence of mind to tactically outthink him. But it is not a feat you are likely to repeat – neither you nor any other. Because no measure of human will and skill, or even courage, can match the force that Cain has become and is continuing to become.”
There was a dead silence before Soloman replied, “All right, Marcelle, you’re saying that Cain is afraid of some kind of event that he has a limited window to meet? What would that be?”
Marcelle frowned. “You told me that Cain said something mysterious and confusing when he was in the water treatment plant.” He began to stroll, lighting a cigarette. “Perhaps the answer lies within those words. Can you tell me what Amy—is that her name?”
“Yeah. Amy Milton. She’s asleep in one of the bedrooms. Her mother is in there with her.”
“Yes, I thought so. In any case,” the priest continued, “can you tell me what Amy repeated? Can you tell me what Cain said to her before you engaged him in battle?”
“She said Cain talked about the moon and planets. It sounds like some kind of Black Magic or something. And since Cain says he can’t remember everything he needs to remember, that fits with our theory on The Grimorium Verum.”
“I agree.” Marcelle concentrated. “And I believe that th
ere is one within the city who may throw even more light on this mystery. A man of great learning, and great wisdom.”
“Who?”
“The Archbishop of the Jesuit Order, Superior General Anton Aveling. He is knowledgeable about all things occultic, ritualistic and demonic – more knowledgeable than I or any other.” Glancing down at his watch, the priest added, “In a few hours the child will awaken. Then, with your permission, I could ask her a few simple questions. I believe I can accomplish the task without undue disturbance, and perhaps overturn a stone. If we are fortunate, the answer may reveal something of merit.”
Soloman waited a moment before he nodded. “All right. We’ll do it after Amy’s good and awake.” Bowing his head, he rubbed his eyes. “Right now I’ve got to get some rest … while we’ve still got time.”
Feeling the numbness of the morphine taking an edge off his concentration, Soloman picked up his shotgun and walked to the door, opening it to step into the cold heart of an utterly shadowed and dooming night. It was frosty on the porch, and Soloman zipped up his jacket as he moved outside.
Malo, motionless, was close beside the door, leaning on a rail. He’d lit a long cigar, smoked meditatively, and Soloman mirrored the lieutenant, leaning against the opposite post. He didn’t especially want to talk to Malo right now, but there was no place else to go.
None of them were straying very far from the safe house.
Four of the Delta unit were snatching sleep, and one was in the front yard, roving. A sixth was out back, and the seventh was monitoring an array of starlight and infrared cameras in the attic that covered every approach to the house, providing them with a small sense of safety.
Finally Malo looked over, chewing what looked like a Cuban cigar. Then the big Delta commando silently took another one from his jacket, offering. Soloman stared a moment into the impassive face and cigar and accepted with a grateful nod.
He also took a lighter from the lieutenant that had the lightning bolt of the 101st Infantry emblazoned on the side. After a brief silence Malo exhaled and spoke, his voice remarkably subdued considering the short period that had passed since his outburst.
“So, Colonel, where to now?”
Soloman continued to light. “Not sure, Lieutenant. Maybe New York. It’s too early to tell.”
“Huh. Been there.”
“Yeah, I figure you have.” Soloman blew out a long stream of smoke, felt a faint buzz from the cigar mingling with the morphine in his veins. Yeah, it was Cuban.
“How did you get this thing?” he muttered, gazing down.
“Got a buddy in Miami. Customs.” Malo stared into the faraway morning light that vaguely articulated skeletal trees against a cobalt-blue sky. “He comes in handy sometimes.”
“Is that where you grew up? Miami?”
“No,” Malo responded distantly. “Monterrey. The Chipinque Mesa beneath the saddle. Left after my folks died in that cement shack and made my way north when I was about six years old. I crossed the Rio up around San Diego back when the PD was still running BARF squads through the night, trying to catch the bandits. It was a real serious experience – for a kid.”
Scowling, Malo shook his bearded head, and Soloman knew he was remembering the horrific confrontation with Cain. “But that was nuthin’ compared to this, Colonel. Even Delta qualifications seem like a keg party compared to huntin’ this guy. The general’s right about one thing, for sure. This don’t belong to the military. It belongs to God.”
Soloman decided not to fuel the fire. “So who took care of you after you reached the States?” he asked.
“An uncle in Miami. He’s history now.” The reply held deep emotion calloused by time. “Yeah, they’re all history. Been dead awhile.” He paused. “Anyway, when I was eighteen I got my GED and put my mark on the line.” He moved his mouth around the cigar. “Been in since.”
“It worked out well for you.”
Malo laughed—an unusual expression for such an impassive face. “Yeah, I figured shootin’ and lootin’ was all I was good at, so I might as well get paid for it. And it went better than I anticipated. Eventually got myself a college degree to qualify for OCS, made light lieutenant. Got recruited for Delta a few years back, and it’s been good work, good pay. I ain’t got no complaints.”
“You’re a good soldier,” Soloman said. “And I know, ‘cause I’ve seen a few.”
“Yeah, I figure you have.” Malo turned his head to meet Soloman’s gaze. “Colonel James L. Soloman. Annapolis graduate. Former commander of the 72 Rangers. Supposed to be a super grunt with the mind of a scholar. A Renaissance Man. Soldier. Philosopher. Killer. Speaks German and French and Spanish and a couple more. Commanded at Albany. Lejeune. Okinawa. You were being groomed for the JCS, but you passed it over to run a top-secret program to hunt rogue counterintelligence agents. Worked in a blacked-out unit of SEALs and Special Forces and Force Recon with full authority and command – all of ‘em world class shooters. And, word is, you were the keenest hound to ever run in the pack. Could track a ghost through a fog, a fish through water.” He placed the cigar back in his mouth, looked out. “Yeah, everybody who’s a stud knows who you are, Colonel. You’re something like a legend, I guess. Just like we all know why you got out. . . I’m sorry about your family.”
Soloman revealed nothing. “It’s in the past. Right now we need to stay centered.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Malo grunted. “We’re in badass Indian territory on this one.”
Indian territory; hostile ground.
Soloman smiled; it’d been awhile since he’d heard that one. “Well, we’re down, but we’re not out. I think we might turn the tables on this guy if we get the chance.”
“Think so?” Malo was keen to it, as if he’d seen too much of the bad. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, Winston Churchill said it best,” Soloman continued, quoting. “’War opens the most fruitful field to all human virtues, for at every moment constancy, pity, magnanimity, heroism, and mercy shine forth in it, and every moment offers an opportunity to exercise one of these virtues.’”
There was silence as Malo considered it. Finally he muttered, “That’s almost poetic.”
Soloman laughed and thought of the Delta commando’s curious exchange with Marcelle. “I didn’t know you were Catholic,” he said quietly.
Malo spat out a sliver of tobacco. “I grew up Catholic ‘cause my mama was Catholic, God bless her heart. I know the rules, the prayers, when to stand and kneel and all that. But I don’t do it no more. I just don’t care anything for it, I guess. But you know what they say: There ain’t no atheists on a battlefield. And, anyway, it’s best to cover yourself. Can’t lose nothin’, for sure.” They were silent a long moment until he said, more morosely, “You really think we can take him?”
There was a faint disturbance in the question, a cold realization that they might not, in the end, have what it took to finish this fight. It was something Soloman had expected to hear eventually after Malo calmed down from the initial adrenaline rush.
“Yeah,” Soloman said, steady. “I think we can take him.”
Malo didn’t look back.
“We’ll see,” he whispered, black eyes narrowing to subdue a shadow of vivid fear. “We’ll see.”
***
Reptilian sounds, sounds of slow water and subterranean life, moved over him so loud in the gloom that concealed his form, and he heard his burned tendons grating against blackened bones. He moved slightly, growling at the agony of such horrible, searing wounds, and snaked a ravaged arm over his body, finally finding purchase. Then he began to crawl deeper into the darkness.
He knew that he should be dead, for surely nothing could have survived what he had somehow survived. But he had, indeed, survived, he realized with vengeful satisfaction, as he crawled slowly, so slowly ...
Darkness caressed him, a
nd the shadows seemed very much like the home he’d forgotten in the flaming trauma of his defeat.
What defeat?
In the depth of his wounds, he could not remember. He only remembered the dark flaming current and being swept along in blazing pain as he tumbled alive in the dark light that hurled him into the sea . . .
The sea?
No ... No ...
Not the sea ...
With a severe act of will, he opened his eyes.
No, he knew, not the sea; he was far from that sea where he had been hurled and where he would one day rise again, the apocalyptic image of pain and death and his long-awaited bloody deliverance. Yes, he was still far from that, though he knew it was coming ... one day.
Moving, he tensed his ravaged muscles in a fantastic sphere of agony that would have made him scream had he been less. But he would not scream.
No, he would never scream because that would acknowledge his defeat. So, in order to mock it, he would feast on the pain, despising what was his only claim, his only take from this hated loss.
Air flowed over him, cool and chilling, and he remembered where he was and how he had come here. He saw the darkness of the tunnel again as he tumbled beneath the water of the river, once again knew the fiendish struggle to gain the underwater entrance in the cascading current as his fingers locked desperately on the iron grate. Then he remembered swimming through the hideous burning, the breathless race to find a place to hide before the pain would be too great to overcome, and he would collapse.
And he had claimed his victory, finally raising himself above the water level where he had fallen on his face in the slime, slithering as a serpent, moaning and rolling in the tormenting prison of his pain until, exhausted, he fled into sleep, escaping the agony. And now he must feast, he knew, for this body, tremendous and magnificent though it was, could not overcome the damage without more blood.
Thrilled to Death Page 71