The Devil’s Due
Steven F. Freeman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by www.LLPix.com
Copyright © 2015 Steven F. Freeman
All rights reserved.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Ruth Gresh, Cheryl Snapperman, Myron Kaufman, Lynn Hesse, Chris Daniel, Priscilla Gould, Sarah Redmond, Elaine Rivers, Sarah Neau, Willow Humphrey, Sharron Grodzinsky, and Kathy Golden for their invaluable feedback and assistance.
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Book 4: Havoc
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CHAPTER 1
As Divband led his followers into the chamber, the girl inside the room looked up, her obsidian eyes wide with fright. Her arms encircled a column engraved with bas-reliefs of mythic creatures and fierce warriors. A thick knot of ropes around her wrists on the opposite side of the column kept her bound to the spot. The flicker of candles conferred a ghoulish appearance to the images carved on each of the circular chamber’s twenty-one columns.
“Hello, my dear,” said Divband. “What is your name?”
“Giti,” replied the girl in a trembling voice as she turned her head to look at him.
“I apologize for your restraints.”
“What have I done?” wailed the prisoner, who looked to be about fifteen. “Why am I being punished?”
“You are not being punished. You are being honored. Only you—a person pure in spirit and body—can fulfill the essential role in our ceremony.”
“What role? What do you want with me?”
Divband approached Giti. Her flawless complexion shone through a face distorted with terror. Divband couldn’t blame her. He saw how Ghoyee, his right-hand man, eyed her. A man of Ghoyee’s physical enormity and lustful glances would strike fear into the heart of any living creature. But Divband had no intention of letting Ghoyee have his way with Giti. She was destined for a more important role.
“The ancient charms can be invoked only through one who has not been defiled by the world,” said Divband. “You will serve as the conduit through which we call forth the black jinnd to aid our cause—and theirs.”
“How?” asked the girl. “I know nothing of the ancient spirits or their ways.”
“You role is simplicity itself. You must allow us to proceed with the sacred anointments.”
“What kind of anointments?” She screwed her face into a mask of skepticism.
“Just ink. I use it to draw a pattern on your body.”
The teen remained silent for a moment. “And if I refuse?”
Divband sighed. “Then I would be forced to administer medicines that will ensure your compliance. But the black jinnd respond most readily to a mind that is unaltered, so I would really rather not resort to those measures. Be a good girl, and don’t resist.”
Giti’s eyes darted from face to face but seemed to find no answer in the serious expressions she found there. Really, what choice did she have? She lowered her head in apparent acquiescence.
Divband motioned to Ghoyee and Meskin, another follower. The two unbound the girl’s wrists and led her to an ancient, rectangular altar standing in the center of the chamber.
“Lie down,” said Ghoyee, gesturing to the thick, stone slab.
Giti complied, her hands shaking as she moved her body onto the flat surface.
“Bind her hands and feet,” said Divband.
“But I am not struggling!” she said, fear spreading anew in her eyes. “Why must my limbs be bound?”
“After the anointing is complete, we must leave you in here for some time—long enough for the black jinnd to sense your presence and respond. During this interval, we wouldn’t want you to have second thoughts and leave.”
“I won’t go,” said the girl. “I promise. You can’t—”
“Bind her mouth, too,” cut in Divband. “The sanctity of Iblis’ temple must not be defiled with such noise.”
Ghoyee grinned. He drew a band of black cloth from a satchel at his side, wrapped it twice through the teen’s mouth, and cinched it with a knot, rendering her mute. Then he and Meskin fastened new strips of cloth around her wrists and ankles and secured them to ancient stone rings affixed to the floor underneath the altar. The girl seemed too stunned to offer much resistance.
Divband stepped forward. He peeled back Giti’s shirt to expose a perfect abdomen. Reciting an ancient creed, he picked up a silver bowl from an adjacent table. After dipping a wooden brush into the bowl’s dark contents and wiping away excess fluid, he began to apply strokes to the girl’s stomach. He replenished the supply of ink several times before completing a dark circle. Inside the circle, he painted a series of intersecting lines, eventually forming a pentagram, the points of which ended on the arc of the circle. Only upon finishing the anointing did he discontinue his chant.
“Light the incense,” said Divband.
Four more followers set small, richly-patterned urns on the four corners of the table, then lit the sticky gum within the bowls. Tendrils of smoke began to rise, and a sweet, sickly smell permeated the room.
Divband turned to the group of roughly forty believers. “Now, my friends, we must pray to the black jinnd to look favorably upon our request,” he said, glancing at the bound figure on the table. “The ways of the black jinnd are beyond man’s understanding.”
“Powerful are the black jinnd,” came a uniform response from the assembled crowd.
In observance of the ritual’s requirements, the group began a low chant as they filed out. Before exiting the stone arch that served as the room’s primary entrance, Divband looked back over his shoulder.
The girl’s eyes, wide with fear, seemed to beg for mercy. If only she knew what the coming hours would bring.
CHAPTER 2
In the dusty haze of Kabul, a young Afghani exited her dwelling and glided down the street. She hoped Uncle Dani had not heard her leave. This might be her only chance to send a message.
“Mastana!” boomed a voice from behind her. “Where are you going?”
“To the market, Uncle,” she replied. “I would like to prepare Qabili Palao for dinner, but we do not have all the ingredients.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” said Uncle Dani. “Besides, what do you think you’re doing, going out by yourself? You know I have to escort you.”
Although Afghanistan had officially relaxed its enforcement of sharia—Islamic law—over the last decade or so, Uncle Dani adhered to the strict interpretation that prohibited single females from venturing outside without a male relative acting as escort. Uncle Dani adhered to other, more extreme notions of Islam as well.
“Can you take me to the market, Uncle?”
“No. You need to take care of your mother. Her pain grows worse.”
Last month, the oncologist responsible for treating Mother’s pancreatic cancer had made a somb
er announcement: the disease had metastasized throughout her body. Mother was expected to live only a few more weeks, perhaps as long as a month.
“Yes, Uncle.” Hanging her head, Mastana returned to the house. She traversed the hall and entered her mother’s bedroom.
“Mastana, is that you?” came a weak voice.
“Yes, Mother,” replied Mastana as she reached her mother’s bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Ah—the pain! Where are my pills? Bring them to me, my dear.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Mastana removed two large orange pills and a tiny white one from a pair of bottles on the nightstand. She passed them to Mother, who swallowed them with a splash of water and a look of agony. The pain in Mother’s abdomen seemed to grow worse every day.
The painkillers and anti-nausea tablets rendered Mother more comfortable but held out no hope of curing her. Mastana hated the pills. They took Mother off to another place, a pain-free world to which Mastana couldn’t follow. The teen knew she was being selfish. She couldn’t deprive Mother of medicine just to have a conversation with her. Besides, such an approach wouldn’t work. The old Mother—the one with the lively mind, who would stay up talking on all manner of subjects until three in the morning—existed no more. The mind of the mother before her now drifted in and out of focus as it battled pain and the stupefying effects of powerful narcotics. Each day, the flame of Mother’s intellect dimmed, like a candle deprived of oxygen.
Soon, Mastana would be alone with Uncle Dani. The thought made her shudder. For years, Mother had shielded Mastana from her Al-Qaeda uncle. With Mother gone, Uncle Dani would waste no time recruiting Mastana into his nefarious plans. He had already hinted as much during the last week.
Mastana knew the Americans weren’t perfect, but as a group, she liked them. Her family had sold clothing to them for years. And the Americans at Camp Eggers had nursed her back to health after she had been injured by a marketplace bomb outside their gates. She had no intention of helping her uncle plot against them.
Desperate for help, Mastana longed to send a message to the American she most trusted—the injured soldier who had personally pulled her from the bazaar’s flaming wreckage the day of the bombing and carried her to safety. She and the soldier had become friends while she recovered in the camp hospital. She didn’t know exactly how he could help but felt sure he would think of something.
But first, she had to find a way to send a message to him. She had hoped to visit the internet café next to the marketplace, but Uncle had foiled that plan. If he prohibited her from traveling alone, how would she ever send for help?
After watching Mother drift into a fitful slumber, Mastana returned to her own bedroom to hide the tumult of emotions battling inside her chest. Tears of frustration soon gave way to raw fear. She had to find a way to contact her soldier friend before her life was forfeited in Uncle’s unrelenting jihad against the Americans, but how?
CHAPTER 3
Alton Blackwell knotted his tie and turned to Mallory Wilson. “You about ready?”
“Yeah, just give me a minute to finish my makeup.”
After more than two years of friendship followed by sixteen months of dating, the two had become engaged five months ago. Tomorrow, they would tie a knot of a different sort with an early-spring wedding.
Mallory dabbed at her left eye, then turned around to face Alton. “How do I look?”
He shook his head and smiled. “Honestly, I don’t think you realize how ridiculously beautiful you are.”
She returned the smile. “I’m glad you think so, Sweetie, but I meant am I ready for the rehearsal dinner? Everything look okay?”
Alton studied his fiancée. Mallory’s sable locks flowed in delicate cascades down her shoulders. The olive hue of her skin complemented the pale yellow dress hugging her petite, athletic frame. “You look amazing, as always.”
“So do you, Sweetie. Your stylist did an especially good job on your haircut,” she replied, hooking her arm through his.
Alton ran his free hand through his closely-cropped, chestnut hair. He kept himself in good shape with a consistent regimen of swimming and strength training. But between his height, which ran only slightly above average, and his disabled leg, an injury he had sustained while serving as an Army communications captain in Afghanistan, he still marveled that he had scored such a prize as his fiancée.
“Okay, let’s do this,” he said.
The couple emerged from the dressing room and walked down an empty hallway replete with richly-framed oil paintings and a thick, Persian carpet. The entire building had been reserved courtesy of Mallory’s mother, who had maintained her membership in the elite club after retiring several years earlier.
The couple pushed open the thick, oak doors of the country club’s banquet room to reveal a picture of Old South money. Plush, velvet drapes with gold ties covered enormous windows, and years of cigar smoke had deepened the hue of the Brazilian cherry floors. A mahogany bar adorned with gold leaf spanned most of the room’s rear wall, while a set of four sparkling chandeliers running the length of the rectangular room completed the scene.
Alton nudged Mallory and pointed to the back wall, where David Dunlow gestured in an animated fashion to a bar employee while Fahima, his wife, looked on.
When Alton and Mallory had served in the Army in Afghanistan, David had been their closest comrade. He had married the lovely Fahima, a barmaid at Gandamak’s Lodge, the Kabul restaurant in which the three soldiers had often met during their off-shift hours. A year ago, Fahima had immigrated to the US to marry David, and the four of them remained close friends.
Alton and Mallory joined their best man and maid of honor along the wall.
“Congratulations, Mallory…Al,” said David. Early in their friendship, David had unilaterally assigned Alton the nickname of “Al,” and despite lodging many protests over the years, Alton had never persuaded David to drop the moniker.
“Thanks, I think,” said Alton. “You’re not inflicting your humor on this poor guy, are you?”
“Hey, he loves my jokes.”
“Or he’s hoping for a tip,” whispered Mallory in Alton’s ear.
“If he’s been listening to David’s jokes for long, he’s earned one,” whispered Alton in return. Turning to the others, Alton raised his voice. “It looks like everyone’s here. I guess we should take our seats so we can get this show started.”
As Alton approached the guests-of-honor table, he saw Kayla and Ruth, his younger sisters, seated next to Gail, his mother. Beverly Wilson, Mallory’s mother, occupied a seat on the other side of the two empty chairs reserved for Alton and Mallory themselves. Scott, Mallory’s older brother, sat beside his mother.
The couple took their appointed seats, and Alton cast his gaze around the banquet hall. One of the room’s other tables was occupied by colleagues from Mallory’s FBI white-collar crime division. Another was filled by Alton’s closest friends from the Washington branch of Kruptos, arguably the world’s most advanced data encryption and security firm. As manager of the branch, Alton had supposed few colleagues, if any, would be willing to make the long trip to his Charlotte, North Carolina wedding, so he had been pleasantly surprised that eight had decided to make the journey.
The evening proceeded as rehearsal dinners usually do, with copious tears shed throughout the room and numerous toasts offered up to the happy couple. To Alton’s ears, the speeches echoed many he had heard in the past, but they now took on an entirely new meaning. His friends had done a fine job crafting thoughtful remarks, yet—in a way—they still fell short. How could any turn of phrase ever articulate the magnitude of the joy he would experience the next day? The words sufficient to impart such powerful emotions had yet to be created.
As the evening wound down and the guests trailed out, Alton found himself alone with Mallory at their table. He loosened his tie and rested his hand atop hers.
Mallory studied him for a moment. “You look
thoughtful, Honey. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m almost afraid to tell you.”
“Why?”
“Honestly? ‘Cause I don’t want to lower your opinion of me.”
“Nothing you say can do that,” said Mallory.
“I hope you’re right.”
“So what’s this big secret?”
Alton stretched out his damaged leg in front of him, easing the dull throb that had grown progressively worse during the long evening. “Do you remember the day I first met Scott, when he came to visit you in the hospital after the Rabinil case?”
“Of course. How could either of us forget that day? It was the first time we found out we had secretly loved each other for months.”
“Well, before we made that discovery, and I first saw you and Scott together, I hated him.”
Mallory wore a shocked expression.
“But then,” continued Alton, “when I learned he’s your brother, well…I thought he might be a decent sort of guy after all.”
Mallory punched his arm and laughed. “So Alton Blackwell was jealous.”
“Yeah, I was. From your point of view, he seemed like the perfect guy: someone you’d clearly known for a long time, tall, muscular…and not disabled.”
Mallory shook her head and put her free hand on his. “Well, now you know better. You’re the perfect guy for me.”
And for the first time, Alton did know it—completely, with all of his heart and intellect. The knowledge conferred a peace of mind he had never experienced, especially as he considered the better chapter of his life opening before him the next day.
“And you’re the perfect girl—for me or anyone. I’m just the guy that won the lottery and gets to marry you.”
CHAPTER 4
After two hours, Divband and his followers made their way back to the chamber where Giti remained bound to the stone altar. As he approached the chamber door, Divband could see the girl struggling against her restraints. She quieted as they entered the room.
The Devil's Due (The Blackwell Files Book 5) Page 1