The Revelation Code (Wilde/Chase 11)

by Andy McDermott

  ‘Their fate is in God’s hands,’ he replied.

  ‘No it isn’t – it’s in yours! Tell Simeon to—’

  She broke off as Anna’s camera showed the two guards going through the gate. ‘They’re armed,’ Cross warned as one of the uniformed men drew a pistol. ‘Anna!’

  She was already moving, making her way across the grass towards the gate. Simeon raised his gun. The camera on his headset made the view suddenly resemble a video game, turning into a first-person shooter as Nina found herself looking down the sights.

  But it was no game. Real people were the targets. ‘No, don’t!’ she cried, but they couldn’t hear her.

  The guard appeared on Simeon’s monitor, flashlight flaring. He directed it down into the pit – and shouted in alarm as he saw the figures skulking in the darkness. He raised his gun—

  Simeon fired first. A puff of blood exploded from the guard’s chest, red turned greenish-grey by the night vision. He spun and collapsed to the ground. Simultaneously Anna rushed up behind the other man, snapping a hidden blade out from her sleeve and stabbing it deep into the side of his throat. Another gush of discoloured liquid fountained from the gaping wound as he fell.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Nina wailed, jumping from her seat. She had seen people die before – far, far too many times – but watching the deaths play out through the killers’ eyes was appalling in a whole new way. ‘You fucking psychopaths!’

  Cross’s jaw clenched in anger. ‘Sit down! Sit down and shut up!’

  ‘No! You’re—’

  Norvin shoved her forcefully down on to the chair. She gasped at a sharp pain through her lower body. Fear filled her – the baby! – but the stabbing sensation quickly subsided.

  Breathing shakily, she looked back at Cross. ‘You murdering bastard. You say you’re a man of God, but you’re just a killer.’

  ‘I’m doing the Lord’s work,’ he replied. ‘“Thrust in thy sickle and reap, for the time is come for thee to reap, for the harvest of the earth is ripe.” Judgement is coming, and all worshippers of the Beast will be cast into the lake of fire.’

  ‘You don’t know that they worship any beast.’

  ‘They’re Italian. They’re almost certainly followers of the false prophet.’

  It took her a second to get his meaning. ‘The Pope? You mean because they’re Catholics, they deserve to die?’

  ‘“They were judged each man according to their works.” We all will be, when the last day comes – even me. But God has chosen me to do His will, so my name is written in the Book of Life, along with all my followers.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ was all she could say.

  On the screens, Anna, Simeon and Trant hurried through the darkened grounds after the rest of the team. ‘Simeon, you and Anna get the angel to the jet,’ Cross ordered. ‘I want it here at the Mission as soon as possible. Paxton will be waiting with the chopper as soon as you arrive. The rest of you, hole up and wait for further instructions. As soon as the next angel is located, I want you ready to move out.’ He faced Nina. ‘You still have work to do, Dr Wilde. The Place in the Wilderness and the Throne of Satan . . .’ He tapped at one of the pads, the monitors flicking to show Eddie still trapped in the chair. ‘Your husband’s life depends on your finding them.’

  ‘I’ll find them,’ Nina growled, her glare at the cult leader filled with loathing. ‘Not for you. For him. But I’ll find them.’

  8

  New York City

  A voice brought Eddie out of an exhausted but restless slumber. ‘. . . went over there earlier. Normally they have twenty or thirty people working, but there’ll hardly be anyone there on those days.’

  The speaker’s identity came to him: Irton, his torturer, talking on a phone. A spike of fear-fuelled adrenalin instantly snapped him to full wakefulness. He was still tied to the chair, arms pinned painfully behind his back. His body cried out for him to move to ease the discomfort, but he resisted. The longer his captors thought he was still unconscious, the more he might overhear.

  The respect, even deference, in Irton’s voice told Eddie he was talking to his boss. ‘No, I wouldn’t think so,’ the American went on. ‘Is that still the plan? Okay, yes. No, the security’s only light.’

  A crunch of footsteps on the dirty floor nearby. ‘Hey,’ said another man. Eddie now knew that his name was Berman; the blond who had been waiting for him near the apartment. ‘I think he’s awake.’ A hand slapped him hard across the cheek. ‘Open your eyes,’ said Berman. ‘I know you’re faking it.’

  ‘Aw, but I was having such a shitty dream,’ Eddie rasped, seeing the third man, Raddick, behind Berman. ‘And you were there, and you were there . . .’

  ‘Cute,’ said Raddick with a mocking smirk. ‘Mr Irton, sir! He’s awake.’

  Eddie turned his head to see Irton standing by one of the pieces of abandoned machinery. ‘Chase just woke up,’ he said into his phone, before moving away and resuming his discussion out of earshot. Night had arrived, only darkness visible through the skylights. Illumination inside the warehouse was limited to a lamp-lit circle around the torture chair.

  ‘Thought you could play dead and listen in, huh?’ said Berman. ‘What, you think we’re idiots?’

  ‘That’s one thing on a bloody long list, yeah,’ Eddie replied. He had already braced himself for another blow, and sure enough it arrived a moment later. Wincing from the sting, he looked up at Berman. ‘An’ I just added “Slaps like a little girl” to it.’

  That earned him a full-blown punch to the face. ‘How was that?’

  ‘Fucker!’ He jerked against his bonds, making the chair rattle.

  ‘Enough!’ called the irritated Irton.

  ‘Oh, sorry, am I interrupting your call?’ shouted the Englishman. ‘I’ll leave if you want!’

  Irton scowled, then stalked through an exterior door, closing it behind him. Eddie looked back at the other two men. ‘Now he’s gone, you can play with your dollies in peace.’

  Berman raised a fist, but Raddick patted his comrade’s shoulder. ‘Hey, hey, he’s just trying to yank your chain.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ Berman moved reluctantly away, but gave Eddie a nasty look as he retreated. ‘You and me, we’re not finished.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Eddie replied, trying not to let his concern show. He had managed to withstand everything Irton and the others had inflicted upon him so far, but it had taken all his reserves of strength and willpower, and after more than a full day in painful captivity, he honestly didn’t know how much more he could take. So far he hadn’t been subjected to anything that would cause permanent injury, but if his kidnappers took things up a level to force Nina to cooperate . . .

  That was possibly the only thing keeping him alive. They needed him to make Nina do something for them. Without him, they would lose their hold on her. Was there any way he could turn that to his advantage?

  Before he could think any more about it, Raddick checked his watch. ‘I’m gonna get something to eat. You want anything?’

  ‘Chicken wings and fries,’ Berman answered.

  ‘I’ll have a burger if you’re going,’ Eddie piped up.

  Raddick ignored him and headed for the exterior door. He had a brief exchange with the man outside, then a car started up and drove away.

  Irton still seemed to be on the phone. If he kept talking . . .

  ‘Chicken, eh?’ Eddie said to Berman. ‘Isn’t that cannibalism? You’re kind of a chickenshit yourself.’

  The blond rounded on him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard me. Fucking coward. You’ll slap someone who’s tied to a chair, but when it comes to an actual fight, you’d shit yourself so hard your ribcage’d implode.’

  Berman stepped up to him angrily. ‘Screw you, Limey. I was in the United States Army. I’m no coward, I’ve seen action.’

  Eddie snorted sarcastically. ‘Yeah, right. I bet it’s a non-stop adrenalin rush in the fucking typing pool.’ He put on a bad, n
asal American accent. ‘If we don’t get that toner cartridge changed in the next five minutes, there’ll be hell to pay!’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I got a paper cut, give me a Purple Heart!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Berman’s hand cracked across his face.

  ‘That the best you’ve got?’ said Eddie, giving him a sneering grin. ‘My niece could hit me harder than that. When she was six.’

  The hand clenched into a fist. ‘You wanna see the best I’ve got?’ growled the American, slamming it against Eddie’s jaw.

  The Englishman’s head snapped back, blood squirting from a split lip – then he convulsed, mouth gaping as choking gurgles came from it. Berman stared dismissively down at him, only for his expression to change to concern as he realised his captive couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Oh, shit. Dammit, shit, shit!’ he hissed, panic rising at the thought that he might have killed a vital prisoner. A glance at the door, but he didn’t call to Irton, instead pulling the struggling man upright in a desperate effort to clear his airway.

  It had no effect. Eyes wide, Eddie shuddered, tongue squirming . . . then fell limp in his seat, head lolling to one side.

  ‘Shit!’ Berman hesitated, then checked Eddie’s neck for a pulse. He moved his fingertips across the skin, not sure of the result. Another look towards the door in fear that Irton might choose this moment to return, then he leaned closer to listen for the other man’s breath—

  Eddie lunged at him and sank his teeth into his throat.

  Berman tried to scream, but the Englishman had clamped his jaw around his Adam’s apple with the frenzied determination of a terrier, crushing his windpipe shut. He lashed and clawed at his attacker’s face, but the teeth only dug in harder—

  With a final growl of fury, Eddie forced his jaw shut. A horrible crunch came from Berman’s neck, and he lurched backwards, a ragged, gore-spouting hole where his larynx had been. Eddie spat out a revolting hunk of torn tissue as Berman fell to the filthy floor, blood gushing down his chest.

  The wounded man opened his mouth to cry out, but the only sound that emerged was a wet wheeze. He rolled on to his front, dragging himself towards Irton’s torture equipment.

  Eddie realised his intention. Berman wasn’t trying to find a weapon, but something he could use to make a loud noise and alert his boss.

  He threw himself from side to side, the chair’s frame creaking in protest. His previous attempts to break loose had been halted by his captors, but with nobody to stop him, it only took seconds before metal cracked. The frame shifted beneath him, but the chair was still chained to the floor.

  Eddie rocked forward to put his weight on to his feet. He strained with all his might, trying to stand. The underside of the chair’s back dug into his bound arms. He felt something give, a bolt or screw breaking loose . . .

  Berman reached one of the cases—

  The seat back ripped away.

  Eddie sprang upright. But his ankles were still tied to the chair’s legs. All he could do was fall bodily on to the other man.

  The landing knocked the breath from him – but Berman came off worse as his face was pounded against the dirty concrete. Eddie twisted, kicking at the broken chair as it strained against the chain. One of the ties slipped from the bottom of the tubular leg. Partially freed, the Englishman rolled and scrambled to his feet.

  Berman raised his head, spitting blood. His fingers clawed at the case of torture gear—

  Eddie’s foot slammed against the side of his skull. Berman fell limp as a last bubbling exhalation gurgled from the gruesome rent in his throat.

  Regaining his balance, Eddie slid the other restraint loose and booted the chair away. His hands remained cuffed behind his back. He had to get free, fast; if Irton had heard the scuffle . . .

  He still had blood in his mouth. Hoping it was all Berman’s, he brought his arms to his right side as he leaned his head back over that shoulder and spat the liquid over the cuffs. Then he pulled them as far apart as he could and bent down, straining to force them over his hips.

  The metal bracelets bit savagely into his wrists. But the pain was nothing compared to what Irton had already put him through. His blood-slicked forearms slithered over his jeans as he writhed to work them lower, every millimetre of progress a battle. The handcuff chain reached his hip bone, but his arms were stretched to their limit.

  He pushed harder. A burst of pain – then suddenly the chain jerked past the obstruction. He breathed hard, but knew the worst was over. His military training had taught him how to escape from numerous forms of restraint, although he found himself wishing for the flexibility of his younger self.

  He dropped to a crouch, then rolled on to his back, drawing up one leg to bring his foot over the chain. The metal links rasped over the ridged sole of his boot, catching for a moment . . . then popping free. Eddie gasped in relief. Getting his other foot out was considerably easier. He jumped upright. His wrists were still cuffed, but he was almost infinitely more capable – and dangerous – now that they were no longer pinned behind his back.

  Berman had stopped breathing. Eddie gave him a cursory glance that contained zero sympathy, then checked the case. The unnerving collection of CIA-approved torture implements shone in the cold lamplight. None were of any use to him right now.

  But one of the rusty machines had what he needed.

  He hurried to it and pulled loose a handle; a hefty corrosion-scabbed metal bar about two feet long. Wielding it like a baseball bat, he ran to the entrance and took up position to one side. A faint electrical hum reached him from outside, but he couldn’t hear any voices. Had Irton finished his call?

  Footsteps, frighteningly close, told him that he had.

  The door opened. Irton stepped through, phone still in his hand. Shock crossed his face as he saw that the room was not as he had left it—

  Eddie swung the metal bar.

  Irton’s reactions were good, his right arm snapping up to ward off the blow – but not good enough. The crack of the phone’s screen shattering and the dull thud of the club striking first his hand and then his abdomen were almost simultaneous. He collapsed to his knees, winded.

  ‘Ay up!’ Eddie snarled as he slammed the bar down on the other man’s shoulders, knocking him flat. ‘Remember me, you bastard?’ He kicked the fallen American hard in the side, then crouched to search his pockets.

  Wallet, loose change, key ring. Eddie examined the keys. The smallest was for the handcuffs. He unlocked the bracelets and with huge relief tossed them aside, kneading the deep red grooves in his skin.

  He checked the wallet. It contained a Nevada driver’s licence in the name of Walter Jefferson Irton, a credit card in the same name, about two hundred dollars in banknotes and a small wad of receipts. ‘So you’re a torturer who claims expenses?’ he asked. Irton made no reply.

  A flick through the tabs showed that most of them were for convenience stores and fast-food joints in Brooklyn. There was also a parking receipt for the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Was that where he was, across the East River from Manhattan? Eddie glanced at the door, considering making a run for it before Raddick returned, but changed his mind. He might be free, but whoever these people were, they still had Nina.

  He hauled Irton bodily back into the illuminated circle and slammed him against the dirty wooden bench, knocking the laptop to the floor and toppling the camera’s tripod. ‘Oi! Wake up!’ Irton opened his pain-filled eyes. ‘Where’s Nina, and what do you lot want with her?’

  His only response was a malevolent glare. ‘Okay, so you’re not going to tell me anything,’ said the Yorkshireman. ‘Good job there’s all this stuff I can use to make you talk.’ He gestured at the equipment cases.

  The American’s face betrayed a moment of fear, but it was immediately replaced by defiance. ‘You won’t break me,’ he growled. ‘I can withstand pain for days if I have to. I was trained by the best.’

  ‘Funny, so was I, and I don’t remember seeing you at Heref
ord.’ He made as if to turn away – then smashed a fist into Irton’s face before ramming his head down on to the table. ‘How’s the withstanding going?’

  Irton spat out blood and a broken tooth. ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘Oh, you’re using rude words now? Guess that must have hurt.’ He stood behind the other man. ‘Where’s Nina?’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  Eddie kicked him hard behind one knee. Irton cried out as his leg buckled, hands splayed across the wooden surface to hold himself up. ‘See, the thing is,’ the Englishman said, ‘you’ve been trained in all this enhanced interrogation bollocks – waterboarding, electrics, stress positions, psych stuff. Break the mind, not the body, that’s the idea, right? Now me, I’m not that subtle.’ He again regarded the equipment in the cases, then spotted something better amongst the debris on the floor and picked it up. ‘This is more my style. Last chance: where’s my wife?’

  Breath hissing through his clenched and bloodied teeth, Irton glared at him over one shoulder. ‘Go fuck yourself, Chase. You think you can break me? Not a—’

  A grimy hammer smashed down claw-first on his left hand with such force that it dug into the wood under his palm. Irton screamed and flailed, but was pinned in place. ‘I can break that,’ Eddie said coldly. ‘Tell me where Nina is, now.’

  He twisted the hammer. Irton made a keening sound, face clenched in pain, but said nothing. Eddie frowned – then grabbed Irton’s left wrist before yanking the tool free and flipping it around. The torturer tried to pull away, but the Englishman held him in place and pounded the hammer down on to each of his knuckles. Bone cracked. Irton wailed in agony.

  ‘Where is she?’ Eddie yelled, letting go. The American crumpled to the floor, clutching his mangled hand. ‘Talk to me!’ He stood over Irton, waving the bloodied hammer in his face. ‘Tell me why you’ve kidnapped Nina, or I’ll take your other fucking hand off!’

  ‘All right! All right!’ Irton gasped. ‘Stop, stop, oh God! I’ll tell you!’

  Eddie gave him two seconds to compose himself. ‘Come on, then.’