Battle Storm (The Battle Series Book 2)

by Mark Romang

Emily stood up. She smiled at Thorn. “I’m going to go get his bath ready for him. He’s a filthy little guy.” She started to walk up the stairs but then stopped at the bannister. “A package came for you today. It’s in the living room by the sofa. I think it must be the new prosthetic you ordered.”

  “I’ll check it out in a minute. I’m a little busy stuffing my face right now.”

  “Spencer has already asked me if he can have your old prosthetic.”

  Thorn laughed. “Did you tell him his legs are just fine?”

  “I think he just wants to take it apart and put it back together again. You know how he has mechanical aptitude.”

  “Well, I’ll find something else for him to take apart. I need the old prosthetic for a spare.”

  Emily left him to finish his food. Thorn soon heard bath water gurgling through pipes overhead. And then he heard laughter. Thorn finished his sandwich and took his plate to the sink. He entered the small living room and flopped down on a threadbare sofa. A tall brown package leaned against one sofa arm.

  Thorn grabbed up the package and looked at it. He frowned. The package felt too heavy to be a prosthetic. And he didn’t see a shipping label or return address. A premonition welled up inside him almost immediately. His fingers trembled and his heart began to race. It can’t be. Not now.

  Thorn slowly tore off packing tape on one end of the package. Adrenaline coursed through his limbs. Anxiety lanced his gut. The tube-like package stood at least forty-eight inches or roughly 120 centimeters long, long enough to be a…sword.

  Thorn removed all the packing tape off one end of the package. He reached inside the package. His right hand found a familiar object. His fingers slid over a pommel and wrapped around a hilt. The sensation made him shudder. Thorn closed his eyes, and then seconds later opened them. He pulled out a scabbarded sword from the package material. His breath fled.

  In his lap lay the most powerful sword ever forged. Rubies and sapphires glittered in its hilt. A Hebrew cipher etched the entire double-edge blade on one side. The sword once guarded the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden. Its rightful place was in the hands of an angel, not in the lap of a human. And yet this wasn’t the first time Thorn possessed it.

  Chapter 7

  Not quite six years ago Thorn graduated from Dallas Theological Seminary. He’d never had much use for religion until the accident he had as a member of the U.S. Navy SEALS. Like a lot of young men, he’d consumed his fair share of alcohol and bedded dozens of women while in his twenties. But then he stepped on a landmine during a recon mission in Afghanistan and nearly died. While field medics fought to save him, a near-death experience took him to the brink of hell. The unspeakable horrors he witnessed there changed him. He became a spiritual man.

  Because of his amputated leg, the Navy discharged him. And not long after entering civilian life he enrolled in the seminary, determined to warn others about the damnation awaiting unsaved people.

  After graduating from the seminary he became the pastor of a small church in Utah, a troubled church he would later learn to be haunted by demons. Two months on the job and he was genuinely afraid for the congregation and his own life. Not knowing what to do, he arranged for an exorcism to be preformed on the church building by a priest from Oregon. The exorcism actually worked, the demons were expelled from the church. But they didn’t go far.

  It was about then that Gabriel showed up, Gabriel the archangel, the same angel who visited Mary and Joseph and Zechariah the priest. Gabriel gave him the Eden sword and a pouch of manna that enabled him to see the spirit world, and told him to take the battle to the demons recovering in the nearby slot canyons. If he failed to do so the demons would reenter the church, stronger than before.

  Thorn did as Gabriel instructed and waged a three night war on the demons. But then he was somehow framed for murder and Gabriel helped him and his future wife escape to New Zealand. And now he found himself right back at square one, a reluctant warrior holding a holy sword in his lap.

  “Is there also a pouch of manna?”

  Startled, Thorn looked up and saw his lovely wife standing by the stairs, one hand tightly gripping the rail. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I haven’t gotten that far.” Thorn lifted the package upside down and shook it. An object slid out and landed on the wood floor. He looked down at a small drawstring pouch made from animal skin. The pouch looked like something a gold rush prospector would use to carry around his nuggets or gold dust.

  Thorn heard Emily exhale sharply. Her audible fear wobbled him. As her husband he was supposed to not only love her, but to protect her. And he didn’t know if he could do that now. An enemy approached them from another realm.

  Thorn stared intently at the manna pouch sitting on the floor. He barely noticed his wife as she sat down next to him. Emily picked up the pouch and loosened it. She peeked inside. “It’s manna alright.”

  Thorn looked at her. “It’s starting again,” he said, his voice as somber as distant thunder rumbling in a storm cloud.

  Emily nodded her head slowly. “We knew this time would eventually come. Gabriel said we would have a time of peace and preparation before we fulfilled the rest of the prophecy. I just always hoped Spencer would reach adulthood before it started again.”

  “Where is Spencer?”

  “He’s in bed, waiting for us to read and pray with him.” Emily took his work-calloused hand and rested her head on his shoulder. “You know we’re going to have to tell him everything at some point. After all, he is a part of the prophecy.”

  Thorn shook his head. “He’s a kid; he’s liable to tell someone. And then we’ll be discovered.”

  “But Adam, who is he going to tell? The nearest kid his age is like thirty miles away,” Emily said before falling silent. Thorn felt her tears streak his bare arm. A clock ticked loudly on the living room wall, each passing second bringing more questions than they could answer.

  “Do you think he can handle the truth?” Thorn finally asked. “He’s only five.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he can understand some of it, but not all at once. It’s too messy.”

  Thorn withdrew the Eden sword from its scabbard and rested the weapon on his lap. He looked at the letters etched on the blade. “If we could only decode this Hebrew cipher on the blade I think we would finally have some answers.”

  Emily sat up. “But you can read some of it.”

  “Yahweh will gather…,” Thorn said. “That’s all I can read. The rest is in some kind of code.” Thorn had studied the Hebrew language when in seminary. Though not an expert at the language, he could read it without too much difficulty.

  “Well, obviously the etching refers to God gathering something. And since God is all about love and relationships and people, I’m guessing the etching refers to the Rapture, as described in First Thessalonians chapter four. So we can probably assume the next word or two refers to the dead in Christ and those who are believers. So maybe the rest of the code could refer to a timeframe for when the Rapture will occur,” Emily speculated.

  Thorn shook his head. He tugged at his beard, a habit he did when lost in thought. “No one knows when this event will happen. None of the angels or saints in heaven know when the Rapture will happen, and Jesus doesn’t even know the date and time, only God the Father.”

  “Well, perhaps the code doesn’t refer to a specific date, but instead denotes a happening that will precede the Rapture.”

  Thorn shrugged his shoulders, beefy and strong from farm work. “You might be on to something there, Em. But the 24th chapter in Matthew already tells us what will precede the Rapture. There will be earthquakes and famine and wars breaking out. But this is only the beginning. Wickedness will increase dramatically. Christians will be persecuted. But even so the Good News will be preached to all nations. And then the end will come.”

  Emily looked him in the eyes. “And somehow the three of us are playing a major role in all this. Why else would we have the Eden sword and
a pouch of manna?”

  “Other than fighting demons, I don’t know. Maybe Gabriel will show up and give us the answers,” Thorn said, and slid the sword back into its scabbard.

  Emily shook her head dejectedly. “Angels fight demons all the time. We’re only mortals. Why on earth does God want us to physically battle them?”

  “I’ve been wrestling that question for the past five years. And I still don’t know the answer. Barring a face to face meeting with Jesus, I don’t think we’ll ever know.”

  Chapter 8

  New Plymouth, New Zealand—the next morning

  Dressed in a navy Huntsman bespoke suit and carrying an attaché case, Nikko Castellanos entered the Taranaki Base Hospital lobby. At the information desk he asked a volunteer where the orthotics department was. The elderly volunteer pointed him down a long corridor.

  Castellanos stalked down the corridor, his dress shoes click-clacking on the linoleum. With his natty attire, stylish wavy black hair and attaché case, he looked like a businessman or pharmaceutical salesman, certainly not an assassin moving in for a kill.

  Castellanos arrived in New Zealand late last night. He’d checked into a motel shortly before midnight, took a hot shower and slid into the sheets around one AM. He slept hard for six hours, dreaming often. Upon awaking he shaved and dressed, and by then his Subaru rental car was delivered to the motel shortly before eight AM. Castellanos drove to a nearby café recommended to him by the desk clerk and wolfed down a superbly crafted plate of eggs Benedict and cantaloupe, washing it down with two cups of robust coffee.

  Castellanos stopped at a door with an overhead sign designating the orthotics department. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and pulled open the door and entered. A plump young woman with red hair sat at the reception desk. She looked up at him, saw him smile at her and blushed. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I’m hoping you can,” Castellanos said, continuing to smile and pour on the charm. Castellanos produced a business card and handed it to the receptionist. “I apologize for not making an appointment, but I was in the area and thought I’d pop in. My name is Devin Weeks, and I work for Dawson and Shaw, a market research company. We’ve been contracted by Ottobock to survey their prosthetic users. I understand there was a clinic for amputees here recently in the orthotics department. I was wondering if you could give me the contact information for any patient that might be wearing an Ottobock prosthetic device.”

  The receptionist shook her head. “Medical records are private. I can’t help you, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, I understand. I’m not asking for the medical history of any patient. Anderson and Shaw are not trying to sell anything to the patients or use their medical records for financial gain. All we want to do is ask the amputee about their experience with the Ottobock prosthetic, and how the device could be improved. It’s just a short survey. All I need are phone numbers and/or addresses,” Castellanos said.

  “Well, let me pull up a screen. There may not be any patients using the Ottobock prosthetic. It’s one of the more pricey models.”

  Castellanos watched the plump woman’s face as she perused the computer screen. He held his breath and crossed his fingers. He needed the receptionist to come through for him. He didn’t have a backup plan.

  The receptionist looked up at him and smiled wistfully. “There is only one patient who wears an Ottobock prosthetic. A man named Adam Thorn. But there is no phone number listed. And his address is simply Highway 43, the Forgotten World Highway. Mr. Thorn comes in and makes payments in person every couple of months. We send his bills to a post office box here in New Plymouth.”

  Castellanos feigned disappointment. “Tell me about this Highway 43. How do I get to it?”

  “The Forgotten World Highway, or Highway 43, is a scenic two-lane highway that winds through the hill country. It’s very isolated and beautiful and…romantic. All you’ll find out there are big sheep and dairy stations. The highway starts at Stratford and ends 150 kilometers later at Taumarunui. Get on Highway 3 here in New Plymouth and head south to Stratford. Highway 43 starts there.”

  Castellanos smiled once more at the plump receptionist. “I guess I failed here.”

  The blushing young woman wrote something on the back of an appointment card and handed it to him. Castellanos took it, noted a name and a phone number scrawled in ink. He winked at her. “Well, maybe I haven’t struck out after all,” he said and left the office.

  ****

  Out in the hospital parking lot, Coleton Webb walked leisurely through a row of parked cars. When he approached a Subaru rental car he pretended to drop his keys near the Subaru’s rear bumper. Acting quickly, he placed a GPS car tracking device underneath the car on its undercarriage. The tracker had a magnetic housing a little smaller than an iPhone. Once the car traveled over ten miles per hour its GPS location would be sent to a server. Webb could then monitor the Subaru on his prepaid smart phone.

  The tracking device mounted in a discreet location, Webb stood up and walked back to his car, a Nissan pickup truck he rented with a prepaid Visa card. Webb climbed into his vehicle and slunk down in the seat. He watched the hospital entrance intently. Webb rubbed his forehead with a shaky hand. Alcohol withdrawals had brought on a killer headache. He hadn’t consumed a libation in twenty-four hours, and from past experience knew the next twenty four hours would bring on the severest withdrawal symptoms.

  “I see you,” Webb whispered to himself as he watched Nikko Castellanos exit the hospital and enter the parking lot. The well-dressed assassin climbed into his Subaru and drove off. Webb watched the car leave the hospital grounds. He looked at his phone screen and saw Castellanos’s car location traveling on a Google map. Webb waited another three minutes and then started his car.

  Chapter 9

  Stratford, New Zealand

  Nikko Castellanos felt conspicuous as he walked up to the stockyards. A business suit tailored on Savile Row didn’t mesh well with the ranch attire of the stock agents and sheep farmers clustered around the holding pens. But like he did at the hospital 30 minutes ago, he planned to use his expensive Huntsman suit to his advantage.

  Castellanos tried not to breathe in the barnyard air too deeply. The smell of cow manure and sheep dung overpowered his nose. On the drive down Highway 3 or Mountain Road as it is also called, he worked up another ruse to acquire information about Adam Thorn. After five years of fruitless searching for the fugitive pair, the past twenty-four hours had brought him a bonanza of information. But he still needed more. He needed an address. And once he had the address he could plan out the assassination.

  Castellanos approached two farmers leaning against a pen. “Hello! Beautiful morning to you,” he said and extended a hand to the nearest one. “My name is Landon Hawkins. I’m an estate attorney, and I’m looking for a certain individual who may frequent these stock yards from time to time. His name is Adam Thorn.”

  The two farmers looked at each other than back at Castellanos. He could tell by their bewildered looks that they didn’t know Thorn.

  The tall one with the ruddy face and bulbous nose shook his hand. Castellanos cringed at the powerful grip. “I’m William Jupp. But most people just call me Jupp,” he said “So what does this Thorn fellow look like?”

  “Adam is about six foot one, athletic build, dark hair and eyes, good posture. He’s in his mid-to-late thirties and keeps himself fit.”

  Both farmers shook their heads. “Your description doesn’t ring a bell. Does he bring sheep or cows here?”

  “I believe only sheep. He raises them somewhere off Highway 43.”

  “What do you want with Thorn? I’ll put the word out you’re looking for him,” the ruddy-faced man said.

  Castellanos found it difficult to keep from squinting. The midmorning sun blazed in a cloudless sky. “I’m afraid it is a bittersweet occasion. His cousin passed away, leaving him a small inheritance. Before Thorn’s cousin died he hired me to make sure Adam receives his
money.”

  “That’s too bad about Thorn’s cousin. I hope you can find Thorn. You might ask others around here. Just because we don’t know him doesn’t mean other farmers or stock agents won’t.”

  Castellanos nodded his head. “I’ll do that, Mr. Jupp. Thank you for your time,” he said and turned toward another group of men huddled around around a pen not far away. But then he turned back toward the man with the odd last name. “I just remembered something unusual about Adam Thorn that might ring a bell for you. Adam has a prosthetic leg. I believe it’s his right leg.”

  The short farmer wearing the overalls, who’d been silent up until now, spoke up. “That sounds like the fella helping George Wickam,” he said to Jupp. “George says this man can outwork anyone on the north island, even with only one leg.”

  Jupp nodded. “It sure does. George Wickam runs a big sheep station off Highway 43 near the Tahora Saddle. I know Wickam’s phone number. I can give it to you. Then you can let George know you’re coming.”

  “That’s okay. I prefer to do all my business in person. Thanks again for your help,” Castellanos said and walked back toward his Subaru. He smiled for the first time in days. He couldn’t wait to start spending the additional millions Henrik Skymolt would pay him once he proved Andrew Maddix, aka Adam Thorn, was dead.

  He’d keep a flat in Lyon for sure, and maybe even purchase a small vineyard in the wine country near France’s Provence region. The opportunities were endless. All he had to do was kill Thorn. How hard can that be?

  Chapter 10

  Near Durango, Colorado—that same moment

  Caleb Brennan sat on his porch swing and contemplated life. A lifelong bachelor and retired Navy SEAL, he always took time every day to reflect, to process his place and purpose on Planet Earth. Today was no different. A cup of coffee grew cold in his hand as he ruminated. Near his boots an English setter napped. Her paws twitched periodically.