Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  Gideon stopped, raised both hands and wiped the slurry away from his face so he could see better. His mouth was partially open. Kam could see he was trying to digest what was happening. But something was wrong.

  30.

  Kam extended his arm. “Gideon, is this yours? I’ll be happy to return it to you.”

  24.

  Gideon put his hands on his hips and then coughed up a ball of something and spit it on the ground. He looked woozy, unsteady on his feet. If Kam had known how much diesel fuel Gideon had swallowed, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Gideon almost went down on one knee but pulled himself up slowly.

  18.

  He turned to Kam – squinting in the bright light. He had lost track of the older woman in the crowd. And he had completely lost track of time.

  Gideon croaked. “How much time on the timer?”

  Kam realized then that Gideon still had plans. Plans that involved people dying. But there would always be men like Gideon.

  “One-twenty-something. I don’t know what that means. Two minutes, maybe?” answered Kam almost feeling sorry for the man, but lying anyway.

  Gideon cocked his head. He knew what Gideon was wondering. Who is this stranger?

  11.

  Kam pivoted his arm, knowing there was only enough time for one practice swing. He was reminded at that moment of the game he used to play with his daughter, when she was young. He used to toss her a big green sponge ball, and she would try and hit it with a plastic bat. Odd how these things pop into your head.

  8.

  Kam took one last look at the readout, took a deep breath and lobbed the device underhand in Gideon’s direction. “Here. Catch,” he yelled.

  The detonator arced up nicely and came down at shoulder height – a decent throw. Gideon caught it like a slippery football, with both hands, hugging it tightly to his chest. For a half second or so he looked quite satisfied.

  “I’m Professor O’Brien,” yelled Kam. Gideon looked up, recognizing the name. Then he just disappeared.

  A shock wave full of bits of dust and gravel and blood and bone punched into Kam’s body, sending him rolling across the ground, his eyes full of dirt, his ears ringing.

  When Kam finally looked up and wiped dust from his face, he was surprised to see only the remains of Gideon’s two legs teeter over and fall to the ground. That was all that was left of the prophet. Kam realized that a detonator alone would never have done that much damage. But Gideon had turned himself into a human bomb by soaking himself in the explosive paste. And of course he had asked for the detonator.

  Be careful he remembered Tamara saying. Sometimes you get what you wish for.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Walter was a retired police officer who had quickly grown bored of fishing everyday and decided to sign up with one of the local private security companies. To his surprise, he was placed on duty back at his old haunt, the Daly building, where he manned the security station at the front entrance three days a week.

  Today was not a typical day for Walter. His boss phoned him in the morning on his cell to say that their company was experiencing power outages and Internet problems. In fact, the mobile radios they used to communicate were down as well. Then later in the day, he got a garbled cell phone call telling him that government offices were being evacuated. Since phones and power were down most of the morning, they were apparently sending employees home. Walter wasn’t going anywhere though. As long as there were people working in the building, he would remain at his post.

  Walter had chatted with some of the police officers entering the building that morning, and they related some frightening stories. A large commuter plane had crashed in a residential area north of the city. Trains had stopped running. And the police database used by patrol officers was frozen. Every call today was like responding to a 211 with a jammed gun. You just did your best; there was no other option. No one was going home or evacuating. As long as the phones worked, and cops had gas in their cars, they were doing their duty.

  At 12:45, a man walked in the front door that Walter knew was trouble. For one, the guy was drenched in sweat. For another, his eyes were rolling around in his head like someone who just got off a tilt-a-whirl. He was either drugged or hiding something. And he was wearing a long brown overcoat on a hot June morning.

  Walter felt for his gun. He had never had to draw his weapon in all his years on the force. But he had been trained, had regularly visited the range to do his mandatory fifty rounds, and even went a few times on the weekends on his own time. He noticed for the first time that his hand was shaking slightly.

  The young man stood in the foyer, a few feet from the glass doors, and looked back nervously. Then he opened his coat to the security guard.

  "You shoot and I blow both of us to bits," was all he said, walking slowly towards Walter, his eyes crazed and bloodshot. Walter swallowed hard. A suicide bomber. His first. This was the new America – where a bomber looked just like the kid from the local Subway, the guy who built his sandwiches for him every day – gave him extra tomatoes and drowned the whole concoction in a river of mayo. They had a new flavor this month – Spicy Steak. Walter wasn't sure if he was going to live long enough to try one.

  "You can't come through here," Walter said, his gun out, the safety off. That had all happened automatically, without any conscious thought. Walter looked at the gun with mounting surprise, like someone else's hand was holding the weapon.

  The kid was close. So close, Walter could smell his fear, could see the wires running across his chest, the neat stitching in the homemade vest. He was momentarily impressed with the craftsmanship.

  "Go ahead and shoot. This switch will open, and I will blow up this whole building," said the young man.

  "What do you want?" asked Walter.

  "I want to see the Chief of Police!"

  Walter tried a simple lie. "The Chief isn't in today," was all he said. But the lie was a poor one. He could hear the waver in his voice, the slight hesitancy.

  The bomber smiled. "I'll see for myself. Move away, or I will send you to your God." The young man then just pushed his way past Walter and headed for the elevators.

  :

  When Hyde reached the front door of Police HQ, he looked in to see a surprising sight. The lobby was nearly empty; a reflection of the kind of day Washington was having. But a lone security guard had his gun drawn and the suicide bomber was elbowing his way right past him.

  Hyde pushed his way into the lobby and jogged across the marble floor. Walter turned to him and recognized the Homicide Detective right away. Hyde told Walter to get down behind the base of the security scanner, which he did. When Hyde looked up, he saw that the bomber had reached the bank of elevators and was pushing the up button repeatedly.

  "You won't accomplish anything," yelled Hyde – and the bomber turned, his right hand held in front of him, the trigger device in his fist.

  "We already have. We've brought Washington to its knees. This will be, as you say, the icing on the cake." The bomber stood there, waiting for the bell to announce the arrival of the elevator compartment. Just like he had all the time in the world.

  "All the other bombers are dead,” said Hyde, trying to get a reaction from the young man, or stall him long enough until he could think of a strategy. The bomber frowned.

  "Then they are gone to a better place. I will join them soon."

  The elevator bell chimed and the door slid open. Thankfully, it was empty. The bomber backed into the lift, his hand still held high, his eyes still on Hyde. The detective was calculating furiously. Once the door closed, how much time did he have before the young fanatic reached the fifth floor, the office of the Chief. Hyde knew he couldn’t race up five flights of stairs in time. And time for what? He couldn’t think of any way to effectively disarm the bomber.

  Then he saw the bomber press the floor selection button with his left hand. How many times in his career had Hyde done that? Thousands! He stood there, their
eyes locked, Hyde counting in his head. One. Two. Three. Four.

  Then he saw the doors begin to close, taking forever. They were halfway, then almost together – when Hyde fired at the bomber twice, two shots grouped around the heart. Just before the doors closed completely, he saw the body jerk back. Then the door sealed shut. Hyde didn't move. He waited. The elevator was more than forty years old. Built like a tank. Elevator number three – the same shaft that delivered the killer with the AK-47 to Henry Daly's demise all those years ago.

  A terrific blast shook the building, muffled by the concrete and steel of the elevator shaft. Smoke and dust shot out of the frame of the elevator enclosure, drifting into the foyer like a ghostly fog.

  Then Hyde heard falling debris in the shaft, metal and stone and glass collapsing down into the basement. People came running. Several police officers entered from the street; guns drawn, the officers involved in the roadblock.

  Hyde remembered Henry Daly, the Homicide Sergeant. They had shared a beer together when Greg was still a rookie, a few weeks before Henry was murdered in cold blood.

  "This one's for you, Henry," Hyde said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  On J-Day, the planes did fall from the sky. Forty-two to be exact. The death toll was staggering. For months, the social media was filled with the heart-wrenching video journals of terrified passengers and amateur video of destroyed suburbs and burning landscapes. Some parts of the mid-west looked like the aftermath of war, once the fires had subsided.

  I guess it was.

  Most Americans were stunned by the toll of J-Day. The U.S. markets crashed losing over 25% of their value. Some banks never recovered; their data and records permanently erased from the financial ecosystem. Power was out for weeks. Two nuclear power plants were so damaged that some areas of the mid-west were evacuated. Months later people were still not allowed back to their homes due to the risk of a meltdown and radiation leakage.

  Europe was equally pummeled. Greece finally succumbed and declared bankruptcy, which caused banks to fail again all across the EU. Before the attacks could spread to other parts of the world, actions were taken to shutter networks everywhere.

  For weeks, the Internet was silent. People realized very quickly how dependant they had become on the digital nervous system. ATM’s were unusable, and most modern businesses could not function. Nervously, the networks slowly came back up, and the economy breathed a sigh of relief.

  But I don’t own a computer, and I keep a jar of cash in the freezer for emergencies, so nothing really changed for me.

  The Soldiers of Patmos church somehow managed to survive in spite of the evil their leader perpetrated. It was all part of God’s plan, the devoted said. What we saw was just a taste of the final reckoning. The end would come soon again.

  Kam O’Brien returned home with his wife and quietly disappeared into his retirement. I personally hope nothing exciting ever happens to him or Tamara again for the rest of their lives.

  I attended Jann’s funeral a few days after the FBI took over the cleanup and dispersal of thousands of what the media started to call militia refugees. Her division director was not happy with how I had seconded her to a project that ultimately caused her death. He blamed me. I couldn’t argue with him.

  “She was special, Hyde. She wasn’t motivated by politics or advancing her career. She just wanted to solve cases and catch bad guys. That’s all she wanted, and she was damn good at it. I’ll never find someone as good as her again.” Then he told my daughter and I a few stories about her that I had never heard before. My daughter laughed. And cried.

  Here’s what I should have read at the service – my confession.

  Jann, I’m sorry. I am an idiot. I should have grabbed on to you with both arms when I had the chance and never let go. I’ll miss you for the rest of my life.

  The cops I work with say I’m the most stubborn, pig-headed, and willful person they know. But sometimes that’s not enough. With Jann, I should have tried harder.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  A lot of cops I used to know would often fantasize about owning a neighborhood bar when they retired. Nothing fancy they would say – just a long narrow room with a serving counter, a few beers on tap, some big screens on the wall and a couple of pool tables. They thought the idea was romantic – in a macho sort of way. It’s not.

  A robbery detective I’ve known for years, Finn McKinnon, retired last year and got his wish. He bought a small bar, known as Joey’s, from his brother-in-law. He never even looked at the books, he was so anxious to take possession. It was fun for about six weeks. Then the bills, and the light-fingered staff who were robbing him blind, and the business permits and taxes and liquor laws and local extortionists, all started to drive him mad. But what could he do?

  There is a universal irony about neighborhood bars; they’re easy to buy, impossible to sell – and they never make you more than minimum wage in profit. If you’re lucky.

  So as often as possible I visit his bar and try to spend a couple of bucks there – hoping some cash will actually find its way into his pocket.

  Indra Chapertah, based on what I read on the Harvard University website, was a renowned expert on wormholes. A wormhole is a tear in the fabric of space-time. If we knew how to use one, theoretically we could travel from one place to another over enormous distances in no time at all. Just think of all the interesting places and people we might get to visit. And I’m being serious. My experienceon Friday night might as well have been a close encounter with a wormhole. With Joey's bar as the way station.

  I was leaving the bar about12:30 AM, by myself as usual. I figured I had about four beers over the evening, so I was waiting for a cab, when a black stretch limo pulled up in front of me. A big guy – and when I say big I mean taller and solider than me – squeezed out of the back door and pointed a substantial weapon at me, suggesting without directly saying so, that I get in the back seat.

  I instantly thought about disarming him, but I could see a very frail old man with thick-rimmed glasses sitting in the rear seat who looked about as dangerous as warm milk. So for some reason, I accepted the invitation. The big guy got in behind me and we joined the old man and a second security ape who was just as imposing as the first.

  They were very well dressed, all of them – this was the most formal hostage taking I had ever been involved with. But the whole episode seemed so clichéd I just couldn’t take it seriously.

  I gave the driver my home address and told him if he got me there in under thirty minutes, there was a tip in it for him. Nobody laughed.

  "Mr. Hyde," said the old man. "So happy to meet you finally."

  "And who are you when you're not at home," I asked him. My dad used to say that a lot to people when he was drinking. I'm not even sure what it means – but I’ve always like the cocky nature of the question. The old man just stared at me with his watery eyes.

  "There won't be any formal introductions tonight, Mr. Hyde. But I will tell you that you’ve earned the attention of some very important people. People whose focus most of us would rather do without in our daily lives."

  "These are people you know?" I asked.

  "Intimately," he said.

  "Lucky you.”

  "Perhaps yes, perhaps no."

  I shook my head. "People I know don't often use that word perhaps. Especially twice in one sentence. Just a suggestion."

  "Mr. Hyde, even though you are quite entertaining, you need to know how serious this is."

  "Okay."

  "As serious as it gets, in fact."

  "I don't need to be told twice," I said.

  "But apparently you do. You were told by your superior to stay away from Gideon Lean. Then special Agent Stone was killed and you still insisted on carrying on. Then officer Roberts tried to stop you, and you killed him. Finally, Rosencrantz warned you of the dangers . . ."

  Just the thought of Jann being included in this insane conversation made me want to rip the old
man’s head off and toss it onto the highway. He was admitting to complicity right in front of me. I noticed then that we were heading southwest, towards the waterfront. Apparently, they weren’t driving me home.

  "Are you threatening me?" I asked.

  "More than once, Detective. And you've ignored every single one."

  "These people you represent. Politicians?"

  "Oh, much higher than that."

  "The President?"

  "Higher."

  "The Pope?"

  The old man smiled, cracking a thousand lines across his craggy face. "The Pope is merely a pawn to the individuals I serve." He seemed quite pleased with his answer. He was clearly the poet laureate of the Illuminati set.

  I whistled. "You're a long way from the Fortress of Solitude on aFriday night. What's the occasion?"

  “The occasion is a surprise party for you.”

  I leaned into the old man just enough to raise his hackles. I felt two gun barrels press angrily into my ribs. “But I’m not surprised,” I said. “I’ve lived in Washington my whole life. This place is crawling with people like you. The smell of greed in the air must draw you guys like starving rats.” I leaned back again, nestled between my two pillowy security goons. “And I’m not surprised you’re lurking around. I just choose to ignore you. You make me sick to my stomach. You guys wear the stink of death on you like some bargain basement cologne. Really. It’s truly awful. I’ve completely lost my appetite.”

  The old man looked out of the darkened windows, probably trying to see if we were close to their destination. My guess was we were on Back River Neck Road, heading toward some deserted shipping docks on the waterfront.

  "Detective, you’ve said quite enough. I’ve grown bored of this conversation. Unfortunately, you are quite predictable.”