The thought crossed his mind that he could be faking, trying to get him close and attack him. But no man would pull his own shoulders out of their sockets and bite his own tongue. Mooch screamed at him, but the sound was drowned out. He couldn’t believe this loser was going out like this.
Then the idea occurred to him. Kirk was not getting out, no, he was secure, but he could have a heart attack or something. It would do no good to kill him, not yet; he had so much more to tell him. He wanted to kill him with the knowledge that his girl was dead and that it was him who killed her. He wanted him to know who had done this to him.
What if he managed to kill himself? He was making a go at it. Mooch could see thick veins bulging in his forehead and running in cords up his neck. They were throbbing, and just as he took another step forward.
Holy crap, he was going to kill himself. Kirk wretched and didn’t stop screaming out in that crazy scary voice. Mooch could feel the fingers of fear creep up in his stomach.
“Fool! You can’t take me, I will take myself!” He bit down on his own lip and a spurt of blood shot up. Kirk spat but missed him. He started giggling, and it sounded like a cat fighting with an owl. His eyes bulged, and he grinned with a bloody smile. Mooch jerked backward.
He turned to get the tranquilizer gun from the other room when Kirk vibrated and jerked like he was hooked to a thousand volts of electricity. His eyes rolled back in his head, and blood ran from his mouth and nose.
Mooch stared in horror as his revenge and his plan to torment Kirk Weston vanished right before his eyes. “Oh no you don’t… you are not going to die that easy.” He rushed forward and grabbed the control to the cable system. He pushed the down arrow button, and the cables began to spin as he lowered Kirk to the hard, concrete floor.
Kirk Weston lay still, either dead or passed out. Mooch was sweating, and he cursed himself for keeping it so hot in here.
Rushing forward, he almost slipped in the blood and vomit but managed to keep his footing. He was blind with rage as he imagined Kirk Weston dead on the floor. His death would make for the ultimate failure. He would live on knowing that his old friend would never know who had won.
Mooch fell to his knees and pushed his fingers to Kirk’s neck. He waited and cursed when he felt nothing. He leaned over and pulled off his ski mask and put his cheek in front of his mouth hoping for some air to tickle his skin. Again, he felt nothing.
Kirk Weston was dead.
CHAPTER 28
KIRK WESTON HAD DONE some stupid things in his day, but this took them all, hands down. He had worked himself into a heart attack and forced himself to an early death. He saw a bright light and rolled his eyes. Really? A white light… come on, this was stupid.
He didn’t believe in God, and the idea of heaven or hell was just not something he had ever considered. Now he was not so sure. He couldn’t see anything but the big dumb light.
Cold pressed against his back, and he could feel some feeling begin to filter into his limbs and body. All at once, a flowing, sharp pain ran the length of his body. It ended in his head, and everything else ached and throbbed. It felt like he had stood on the highway and gotten hit by a semi truck.
His body hurt so badly that it almost didn’t hurt. Too much information was overloading his system. His nerve endings were fighting for brain space; they were all trying to have the same airtime and clogging, and his brain just shut the door and waited to reset.
He couldn’t remember where he was or what happened, but he now knew that he was not dead. A voice, muffled and far away, hit his eardrum, but he couldn’t make it out. It sounded like someone he knew, but he couldn’t place him.
The memory bank kicked in, the white light faded, and his vision began to clear. His eyes were open, staring out into eternity and seeing their future—good or bad. Kirk could see that he was on the floor, and someone was standing over him, but turned away.
He remembered it all. His blood pumped and boiled, but he did not trust his arms and legs to react. All he knew was pain and hate.
Mooch turned, and Kirk knew everything he needed to know with the sight of the kid. He was alive and was angry with him for leaving him. But Mooch was not himself, and now everything made sense. The rolling blackouts, the stock market going down… maybe even the virus. It all had the mark of an expert hacker… one with a vendetta.
However, Kirk didn’t care about his hurt feelings or what evil he assumed the mean old world had subjected him to. He had hurt Isis, had cut off her fingers, and that and the threat of death was unforgivable. This and other thoughts all raced through Kirk’s mind in the half-second it took for Mooch to turn and kneel down at Kirk’s side.
Mooch was looking at his cell phone and muttering under his breath. He looked at Kirk, reached toward his face, and lowered his eyelids. Kirk let him. He didn’t think he could stop him even if he wanted to.
“Creepy man.” Mooch said, and Kirk gathered all his hate and anger. Together, he and his strong anger willed movement. Twitching, Kirk opened his eyes and Mooch started. Kirk had his hands around Mooch’s neck and pushed him backward. Mooch yelped like a dog, and Kirk squeezed.
The screams of one Mooch the pooch were muffled as Kirk Weston choked him. Eyes bulging, Kirk pressed his thumbs into Mooch’s windpipe and poured all his remaining strength into the choke.
Mooch struggled and kicked, throwing Kirk off balance. He was weak, and everything hurt. He tipped over and landed on his shoulder. It wouldn’t have mattered which shoulder, they were both out. He screamed out, but only a guttural grunt escaped.
Mooch was up and on top of Kirk’s chest. He swung and hit Kirk across the jaw. One after another, Mooch pounded and punched Kirk in the face. Kirk passed out after the third one landed, and broke his nose. Now he wished he would have stayed dead.
***
Kreios ducked into an alley. I followed, and the thick crowd of people seemed to open up for the two huge men as they turned to follow us. I ran through all the information I knew about the Brotherhood, but all I could remember was that they were stronger in pairs.
Kreios stopped and turned around, and to my horror, pulled out a short dagger. He was going to fight. Running seemed to be the smart move in this case, but he did not look like he was in the mood to play cat and mouse.
I could feel the all too familiar calm wash over my body, and I let my instincts take over. My heart slowed, and I clenched my hands into fists. If they wanted a fight, I would give them one. I could feel the .9mm strapped to my chest in its holster, but I did not draw. Was I hoping to be killed? Or did I want to fight—was I beginning to crave the battle?
The first man stood a good six-foot-six and had wide shoulders and a fat neck. He grinned, and right before my eyes his skin began to bulge and tear as the demon inside began to tear itself from its shell. I recalled the last encounter, and my heart twisted into a ball. They were getting better at blending in and being able to walk separate of their host. It seemed that they created a shell that was not human but looked the part.
The demon cocked its head back and let out a guttural roar as large black wings unfurled and stretched up and out. They were full of holes and seemed tattered and not of much use, until one came across my chest so fast that I didn’t even see it coming.
I tumbled, end over end through the air, and landed on my back, hitting the pavement hard. I could feel the wind whoosh from my lungs, and I forced myself to get up. A bystander turned the corner, screamed, and ran. I jumped to my feet and clenched my fists.
Kreios had his dagger out and pounced on the large beast as the second man rushed me with an ax-looking thing in his hands. He was just as big as the first shell of a man, and had a shock of grey in his black hair. He was quick on his feet, but I was quicker.
I let him come, and as he reached for me, I took a hold of his coat collar, thrust him past me, and tripped him at the same time. He should have gone down, but he somehow stayed on his feet and backhanded me, almost connecting
with my exposed jaw. I bent backward and the blow went inches by the tip of my nose.
Kreios and the demon were making the sounds of monster and prey, but I was busy, so I had to trust that he would win.
I squared off with the panting hulk of a man, and he stared me down. I had a feeling that this guy was not used to being out-manned; he did not seem to enjoy missing. I gave him a smile, and that got him going again.
This time he swung and jabbed the ax in a skillful manner, but each blow, I was able to dodge. I could also feel something else. It was some sort of drain; I could feel the energy or life force begin to drain from my body. I at once knew what was going on. This beast was somehow sucking my energy and gaining strength as I grew weaker.
“Kill him quickly, Mark!” Kreios yelled from somewhere behind me. I could feel the strain in his voice, but I could also feel the wave of energy from my core begin to flow outward. I ran toward the end of the alley as my pursuer followed after me. He cursed, and as I turned, my hands were glowing bright white.
Not again. I knew that the last time this happened, I just about blew up an entire building. I did not want to endanger Kreios, but on some other level, I knew he would be fine.
Holstering his ax, the big man turned, picked up a green dumpster, and raised it above his head. No normal human could be this strong, but somehow this monster had the power of ten men. I wondered if all the Brotherhood could do this.
I charged him, knowing that my core was glowing and my hands were now bright orbs of light. The green, rust-covered dumpster flew through the air, and I slid on my knees bending backward as the metal box flew over my head.
Popping up, I pushed my hands out toward the attacker and willed the energy to move from my hands and into his body. The buildup hurt like fire as a blinding light shot from my hands in a tight stream and slammed into the big man’s chest. He screamed and staggered backward, and the flow of energy stopped, but he was still on his feet.
I stepped forward, now only a foot from his sagging form. His coat and undershirt were burnt, and I could see through the skin and into his chest cavity. The bolt of energy had just about gone through him.
I grabbed his head and forced my will to respond. Bright white light consumed my hands, and his head exploded like a melon. I let go, and he dropped to the pavement. A pool of dark blood ran from his carcass and I took one step forward, pulled my .9mm out, and put two in his chest. I was pissed.
Kreios yelled, and I turned to see the demon and Kreios in a hand-to-hand fight to the death.
My body pounded as the energy I used up took its toll. I charged the man who used to hold the winged demon and pulled him off Kreios’s back. He had a small dagger buried up to the hilt in Kreios’s back.
Kreios almost seemed to be ignoring the man as he struggled with the winged creature. I spun him around and pulled him into a bear hug. He fought against me, but I closed my eyes and let the energy drain from my body.
My hands were wrapped around him and aimed at his back. Searing hot energy burst from my chest and hands, cutting through the man’s body. He fell into wet pieces, and I fell with him to the ground.
I sucked in air trying to get more into my lungs. My chest and hands burned, but the light was already fading. So much for my shirt; it had a huge hole in the center and was burned and tattered at the edges.
I pushed myself up to my feet and staggered. Blood and guts covered me from head to foot. I slipped in the mess and almost fell again but managed to stay upright. Kreios let out a yell, and I looked up.
The huge monster bent its legs and took three massive flaps, taking out a fire escape on one side and breaking windows out on the other side of the alley. Kreios was on the demon’s back stabbing the beast in the neck with his dagger. The thing let out a yelp and took flight.
I emptied my .9mm into his chest but it didn’t seem to faze him. Kreios looked like a little kid riding on a dragon with the size difference. I ran after them as the thing took off farther down the alley. It crashed into a building, tumbled like a Ping-Pong ball, and landed on his back about fifty feet ahead of me.
Running as fast as I could, I looked through the dust and rubble for Kreios. He was gone, and the beast was fighting to turn over. Wings, bent and mangled, worked to right themselves. I loaded my .9mm with a fresh clip and shot him in the forehead.
Pop, pop, pop.
It turned its head and looked at me as if to mock my human efforts. My body was sore, and I felt like some of my strength was returning, but I still felt weak.
I scanned for Kreios but saw nothing. Then, in a blink, Kreios landed feet first on the demon’s neck and shattered it with a crunching sound that made me think of a thousand dry sticks. I looked up and then back to Kreios, who was reaching down and taking hold of the two large horns on the broken demon’s head. He twisted and yanked the head off and tossed it to the side.
I didn’t know what to say, what to think. “So, you fly now?”
Kreios leapt effortlessly to the ground, brushed rubble and dust from his shoulders, and smoothed his garments. “Yes. I learned when I was a boy.”
I waited for the rest of the story, but he walked to the overturned dumpster, took some newspaper, and handed it to me. “We need to burn the bodies… now.”
“I took the newspaper and it lit as soon as I touched it. I dropped it as once and realized my hands were still hot, but to me, it didn’t really burn. He picked up the flaming paper and lit the demon. It went up so fast that I wondered if it fire was its weakness. He took the two other bodies of the men and tossed their pieces into the blaze without saying a word. I just watched, not really knowing what to do.
“We must go.”
I nodded. We walked out of the alley and turned past onlookers who glanced into the alley, but the sight of the fire did not slow their progress. It was New York, after all—there are things to do and people to see.
CHAPTER 29
ISIS WATCHED IN HORROR as Kirk flexed his back and let out a guttural scream. It jolted her out of the drug-induced fog. Her hand throbbed, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. Kirk was losing it, and she knew this was it, the moment in every battle where you have that small window to turn the tables. This was that window.
Feet and hands were strapped down, but her captor had made one mistake. After he severed her fingers, he was so focused on Kirk and how he responded that he left the small, rolling metal table next to her. It was just beyond her reach, and she would have to grab a tool with only one finger and a thumb.
The strap on the wounded hand was not as tight because he had had to loosen it in order to pull it away from her body and cut off her fingers. Isis lifted her head and calculated the distance between her hand and the table of sharp tools.
Three inches might as well been three miles. Kirk was thrashing, and she could see blood pouring from his mouth as he bit down on his tongue. Oh God, what is he doing? But this was not the time to freak out; she was trained, and now was the time to let that dark part of her take over.
She could remember all the people she had killed, all the horrors they had died for. These memories brought out her evil nature. She was not weak, not just a woman. No, she was one of the most dangerous assassins in the world.
Isis could feel the boils on her face and body, but something was different. She didn’t feel bloated anymore. The antidote was working, and her swollen limbs were returning back to normal.
Testing her legs and arms, she noticed that her bonds were looser then even an hour ago. This was good, but her feet would not pull through the padded cuff. But her hands, maybe her hands could slip free in time. But she didn’t have time.
Kirk wretched, and the kidnapper stood watching him with clenched fists. He had forgotten about her for the moment.
Isis pushed her hand down into the wet blood and rolled it around, trying to cover her whole hand and wrist. If she were going to get free, it would have to be her wounded hand. It was wet and missing fingers.
> Once she had coated her hand as much as she could, Isis looked up at Kirk and forced herself not to scream out. He was vomiting and she could see him bite down on his lip. More blood ran down his chin and he laughed in some other voice. It sent chills up her spine. Her heart broke to see him like this.
It was hard to admit, but she loved him. More than she had ever loved anyone before. She was trained to shut off, to close down her emotions, and Kirk came out of nowhere and tore right through all her defenses. All she wanted was to be with him, to hold him in her arms and make everything okay again. Even if it meant quitting her life with the WJA, she would do it for him.
Now here he was killing himself to save her. He went through hell to get her the antidote, and now she was going to lose him.
No! Not like this… not at the hand of some psycho.
Relaxing her hand, she brought the cuff up and pulled. Her stubs pounded and started bleeding through the rubberized liquid bandages. Twisting a little, she felt it start to slide. She kept her eyes locked on Kirks face, and at once, he threw up and screamed out.
The mirror reflected his face, and when he went limp, Isis pulled with everything she had. Her wrist made a popping sound and came free. Not waiting to look, she took hold of the very knife that took her fingers and gripped it between her remaining finger and thumb.
The knife slipped, and she almost dropped it, but she steadied it and ran it across her other wrist strap. The knife was sharp, so it did not take much pressure, and once her other hand was free, she took the knife in her good hand and cut her feet free.
Her head swam, and every fiber of her body ached and screamed out in protest. She had been drugged, filled with more drugs to counteract the virus, and put through the trauma of losing three fingers, all on top of being stuck on a cold metal table for what seemed like forever.
She stood and stumbled. Gripping the edge of the metal table, she kept from falling. She blew her hair from her eyes, and looked up to see Kirk and the skinny little freak struggling.
IN YOUR DREAMS (Mark Appleton #3) Page 17