by Mark Romang
Worse, he didn’t have any food or water on him. But there were plenty of sheep dotting the hills. He could slaughter one and have a feast. He needed to kill one anyway to acquire a tongue to pan off as Emily Thorn’s and satisfy Skymolt’s morbid requirement. A lack of potable water presented his greatest obstacle. He would have to figure out a way to filter water from a stream.
Castellanos diverted his eyes away from his wrecked rental car and focused them back onto the ATV. He was just in time to see Thorn running full tilt for a scrubby thicket. Castellanos snapped up his rifle and settled behind the riflescope. He centered the mil-dot reticle between Thorn’s shoulder blades. He squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 16
Running at top speed down the open hillside, Adam Thorn’s prosthetic foot hit a dip in the grassy terrain. He lost his balance, fought to regain it, but toppled to the ground. Blue sky flashed in his eyes as he somersaulted. From somewhere high above him a rifle barked. A bullet whistled over his head and entered the thicket, cracking limbs.
Once again like many times in Thorn’s post-military past, his handicap saved him. If he hadn’t fallen, the bullet would have entered his back and possibly struck his heart. Thorn didn’t bother rising to his feet. So close to the thicket, he just rolled into the brush, ignoring the brambles scratching his face and the pommel on the Eden sword bruising his hip. Fear canceled out his discomfort. Pain would come later if he managed to continue living.
He needed cover, not to stop the bullets, but to hide him from the gunman. Thorn kept rolling deeper and deeper into the thicket. Fear and adrenaline fueled his limbs. Stay alive, stay calm. Get off the X. Use your fear, he kept telling himself.
Thorn realized his eyes were closed. He snapped open his granite-black eyes and assessed his position. He stopped rolling but kept moving, crawling army-style, pressing though weeds and plowing through brush as fast as he could. Earthen smells filled his nostrils. He spotted the beech tree, a majestic giant soaring into the sky like a lighthouse on a jagged sea cliff. Thorn headed for the beech tree. Refuge lay behind the tree’s massive trunk.
A bullet tunneled into the earth near his head, spraying dirt into his face. Thorn blinked his eyes, clearing them. He lurched to his feet. If he kept crawling he’d be signing his own death certificate. He ran toward the beech tree, leapt over a fallen log and sprinted through a gauntlet of Mamaku tree ferns. The giant fern leaves slapped at him as he charged through them.
Thorn reached the beech tree and took cover behind it. A bullet ricocheted off the tree near his right shoulder. Thorn took a deep breath, tried to settle his frayed nerves. A quiet stillness settled onto the thicket. Thorn could almost hear his racing heart. He cocked his head, attuned his ear to unnatural sounds in the thicket. He wanted to hear his attacker’s approach. But all Thorn heard was George Wickam’s sheep bleating as they grazed on the meadow grass.
Thorn squatted down on his haunches. He carefully removed his rucksack from his shoulders. The rucksack had a name. He called it his “go bag.” Thorn kept survival essentials inside the rucksack. Among the items were water purification tablets, matches, paracord, fishing line, a compass, a space blanket, freeze-dried camping food, money, clean socks, a woolen shirt, et cetera.
Thorn removed a length of paracord and a small compact mirror from the rucksack. He then picked up a dead branch near his shoes. The branch’s diameter was about the size of his index finger and roughly twenty inches in length. Thorn tied the compact mirror to the end of the branch with the paracord. He then eased the mirror out away from the beech tree.
At first he saw nothing but brush and fern leaves. But after adjusting how he held the branch, the hillside behind him appeared in the mirror. His eyes spotted movement. A man dressed in camouflage descended the hill, a rifle slung over his shoulder.
Thorn debated what to do. He could slink off to another hiding spot while the shooter advanced down the hill. Or he could stay put and lure the man in and hope to defeat him in hand-to-hand combat. He was well-schooled in close-quarters fighting. And he did have the Eden Sword at his disposal as well as a SOG folding knife in his pocket. But ever since his near-death experience in the Afghanistan cave, he looked at human life in a different light, valued it at a higher level. He’d seen hell and its unspeakable horrors, witnessed the unrelenting torment and anguish plaguing the damned spirits. Thorn didn’t want to send anyone to that awful place by taking a life, even if in self-defense.
What should I do, Lord? I need to get to the cave. But I don’t want to lead the shooter to Emily and Spencer. Thorn agonized for a handful of seconds. And then he left the beech tree and disappeared into the brush.
Chapter 17
Wickam Sheep Station—that same moment
Emily Thorn bustled around the cottage looking for the manna. Adam said he put some manna in a tin, but didn’t say where he put the tin. Typical Adam—a great husband and father but verbally challenged.
In preparation for this moment, she’d packed a backpack with survival items years ago, things that would enable them to survive for a few days in the cave. But now that this dreaded moment had arrived she wondered if she’d forgotten anything. She knew she would never be able to make the cave feel like home, but the mother and homemaker in her wanted to try.
“I found it, Mom. It was in the refrigerator.”
She turned and saw Spencer holding a small tin. “You didn’t eat any of it, did you, Spence?”
Spencer shook his head. “But I want to, Mom.”
Emily took the tin from Spencer’s hands. “If you knew what you’d see you wouldn’t want to eat any manna.”
“What would I see?”
“You would see scary things not worth talking about.”
“Would I see angels and demons?”
Emily slid the tin into a side pocket on the backpack. “We really don’t have time to talk, Spencer. We need to get going,” she said and slipped her arms through the backpack’s arm holes. She cinched the sternum strap and waist belt and left the bedroom for the front door. Spencer followed close behind.
“So where are we going again?”
“We’re going to take a hike to a cave.”
“Are we going very far into the cave?”
Emily opened the door and walked out onto the porch. She locked the door behind Spencer. “Have you ever heard the word spelunking?”
“I don’t think so.”
“A spelunker is someone who explores caves.”
Spencer beamed. “Awesome. This is going to be fun.”
“Yeah, fun,” Emily echoed. She stepped off the porch and rounded the small house. They left from the back and headed northeast. The lava tube cave hid in a brushy ravine a little less than three miles from the cottage.
“You’re going to have to walk fast, Spencer. And you’re going to have to push through when you start to feel tired. The sooner we get to the cave the sooner you can start exploring. And you’re dad we’ll be there waiting on us.”
Spencer trotted beside her. “I won’t get tired, Mom.”
Emily abruptly stopped. She cocked her head. Anxiety twisted in her mind. She thought she heard gunshots high above them. The gunshots sounded like they came from the meadow Adam had taken the rams to.
“What is it, Mom? Why are we stopping?”
“I thought I heard something.” She looked down at her son. His big brown eyes looked back at her. Her heart lurched. If something happened to Spencer she would never forgive herself. And yet she felt as though she was leading him straight into danger, into a realm that was frightening enough for an adult, let alone a child. She reached down and grabbed his small hand. “Come on, let’s go. We need to make the cave before sundown.”
Chapter 18
UN headquarters, New York City—that same moment
Lucifer studied the oil canvas mural hanging in the Security Council Chamber. The mural painted by Norwegian artist Per Krohg stretched from floor to ceiling. The mural depicted a ph
oenix rising from its ashes, and symbolized the world being rebuilt after the Second World War.
Having spent thousands of years on Planet Earth, he had visited countless museums and galleries, including those at the Vatican. He had viewed most of, if not all mankind’s greatest artworks. He’d become quite knowledgeable regarding artistic techniques and styles, and also quite opinionated. He didn’t care for Renaissance or Baroque paintings because he was often depicted as an ugly monster in them. He much preferred Avant-garde artworks. And if he were to rate Per Krohg’s mural he’d have to give it a failing grade. But only because it symbolized hope, something he wished to remove from the world.
Behind him the Security Council held an emergency meeting to address the growing crisis between Iran and Israel. Representatives from fifteen nations listened politely to the secretary-general rattle off reasons to impose economic sanctions on Israel for attacking Iran after the Knesset bombing.
Lucifer turned to watch the give-and-take discussion. He found it amusing this diverse group of people thought they could influence the world for the better. Fifteen nations couldn’t stop his plans, not when the secretary-general unwittingly submitted to his whisperings. Like the American president, the secretary-general of the UN was a puppet in his hands.
Lucifer grinned smugly and sauntered around the curved table. Since before Jesus’ birth, he’d stirred up strife between world countries and God’s people. And he would continue this relentless pursuit until he was thrown into the abyss. His goals were simple yet ambitious: destroy Israel and her people first, and then the whole world, every man, woman and child.
He poisoned the world continuously, using self-reliance as his most powerful toxin. Self-reliance developed fully crowds out God. A godless society fosters selfishness and creates a loveless world. And without love the world is modeling clay in his hands. He could twist it into vile and hideous shapes.
For several minutes Lucifer listened to the banter, pleased with the way it headed. Besides economic sanctions, it sounded like the UN might even consider voting for military action against Israel, a most excellent development. But then Lucifer turned his attention toward the blue and gold silk draperies flanking the mural. He detected another presence and awaited the new arrival.
Drakon—his top general—walked through the wall and draperies and headed toward him. Lucifer stiffened. He could tell by Drakon’s countenance he didn’t have good news to share. “You’re a long ways from New Zealand, Drakon? Have you finished your assignment and killed the Maddix child?”
Drakon waggled his head. His reddish mane swished across his black eyes. “The child has elite guardians. Two Protectors shadow him wherever he goes. I will need reinforcements. This is why I come?”
Lucifer sighed. “Your predecessor, Selachian, often tested my patience. I fear you will do the same.”
“What have I done wrong, Master?”
“You lack initiative. You have the authority to move troops around however you see fit. Yet you wasted time coming here and asking my permission.”
“I’m sorry, Master. I will leave at once,” Drakon said and started to go.
“Wait, Drakon. I will go with you. The Maddix child is too important for us to fail. I will help you.”
“I welcome your assistance, Master.”
Lucifer grinned and patted the hulking brute’s shoulder. “Together we will rewrite the future, Drakon. If we work together we cannot be stopped.”
Chapter 19
Wickam Sheep Station
The hunting party consisted of New Zealand Policemen from the AOS—Armed Offenders Squad, and members of the STG—Special Tactics Group—police officers who train with the New Zealand Special Air Service Commandos and were the equivalent of an American SWAT team. They assembled on George Wickam’s sheep farm, tough men wearing black ballistic vests and Kevlar helmets. The elite officers carried Glock 17s and Bushmaster M4A3 carbines. Some of them also carried L96 sniper rifles. Two 4-wheel drive Nissan Patrols sat at the ready to transport them. Fifty yards away a pilot waited to fire up a night-vision equipped Bell UH-1 Iroquois helicopter.
Under a dying sun, Caleb Brennan leaned against a barn wall and systematically took in the manpower and firepower. Sadness permeated his body. Barring a miracle, Adam and Emily Thorn didn’t stand a chance. Worse, he’d just found out the fugitive couple had a son. By the looks of things, the boy was sure to lose his mother and father in the next few hours.
Near the Thorns’ cottage, two sets of bloodhounds bayed incessantly and strained at their handler’s leashes. The dogs had a good scent trail to work with and eagerly awaited the command to track. Brennan shook his head. Why did it have to come to this? An innocent man hunted down for a crime he never committed. He hoped the Thorn family was safely bunkered down in the cave. There was really nowhere else they could go. They could stay hidden underground for quite some time in the labyrinthine cave tunnels. But once the inevitable happened and they were surrounded, Brennan hoped he could somehow prevent Adam Thorn from being killed, that he would be given a chance to talk Thorn into giving himself up.
Brennan watched Special Agent Nick Loomis talk with the New Zealand Police inspector running the operation. A few yards away Special Agent Shank talked on a satellite phone. A cigarette dangled from Shank’s lips. Shank suddenly turned his head and looked at Brennan. He smiled at Brennan, a treacherous grin. A look that said, I gotcha. Shank walked over to Loomis and whispered something in his ear. Loomis turned and glared at Brennan. And then the two feds headed his way.
The two feds came up and stopped a few feet in front of him. Special Agent Loomis removed handcuffs from a pocket on his FBI windbreaker. “Hold out your hands, Caleb,” Loomis ordered.
“Are you arresting me?”
Loomis shook his head. “Not just yet. We’re detaining you so you don’t do anything stupid.”
Brennan extended his hands, allowed Loomis to cuff him. “What’s the matter, you don’t trust me?”
Special Agent Eric Shank grunted and rolled his close-set eyes. “Why should we? You lied to us. I was just on the phone doing some fact-checking. There were no shooting incidents at the Afghan National Police training center on the date you said. No soldier, policeman or private security personnel were even shot at. So there was no reason for you to cut your hunting trip short,” Shank said proudly.
Brennan sighed. “Okay, you busted me. But I can still help you arrest Thorn peacefully.”
Loomis shook his head. “We need you to stay in the background, out of sight. You’ll be flying with me in the chopper where I can keep an eye on you. Understood?”
Brennan smiled weakly. “Then we better hurry up and get on the bird before she flies off without us.” The helicopter’s two-bladed rotor was spinning now, and its turbo-shaft engine whined as it dialed up power.
Loomis grabbed Brennan’s shirtsleeve. “Come on, let’s go find Andrew Maddix.”
****
Dusk fell over the Tahora Saddle as Emily and Spencer Thorn hiked their way through thick brush and open hillsides. The temperature was still mild but would drop rapidly when darkness settled in. Emily stopped and took off her backpack. She pulled a fleece jacket out of the main pocket on the pack and made Spencer put it on. As Spencer wriggled into the fleece she pulled out a water bottle and drank. She then passed the bottle to Spencer.
Spencer took a slug and then handed it back to her. “Are we almost to the cave?”
“No, we have another mile to go,” Emily said. She had hoped to be there by now, but underestimated how long it would take. Spencer wasn’t complaining and tried hard to keep up, but his short legs didn’t cover much ground. “I need you to dig down deep, Spencer, and push through. Daddy will be waiting for us.”
“I’m not tired, Mom. Let’s keep walking.”
Emily hoisted her backpack up onto her shoulders and cinched it tight. She checked her compass heading, made sure they were on course, and then continued on. She still hadn’
t turned her flashlight on. She wanted to conserve the battery life for when they entered the cave. But she would soon have to relent. She couldn’t count on using the moonlight to illuminate their way. The clear day had given way to clouds late in the afternoon.
They hadn’t walked very much further when she heard the hounds. Bloodhounds possess and unmistakable voice. Their bays echoed through the valley and off the hillsides. Emily shivered. The hounds were tracking something. And by the excited sounds of their baying, they were hot on the trail of their prey.
You brought us here to New Zealand for a reason, Lord. But time is running out. We’re going to get caught if you don’t do something fast, Emily prayed. Besides the bloodhounds, she detected another danger pursuing them. She couldn’t see it but could feel it, an otherworldly darkness within the darkness kept pace with them. Emily thought about breaking open the tin of manna and eating a flake. But she knew as soon as the manna entered her mouth she would begin to see the spirit world, and the thought frightened her worse than the bloodhounds.
“Do you hear the dogs, Mom?”
“I hear them, Spence.”
“What do you think they’re hunting?”
“I don’t know, probably a raccoon or a bear.”
“We don’t have raccoons or bears in New Zealand.”
“You’re right, Spencer we don’t. We need to hurry up and reach the cave. Can you walk faster?”
“I’ll try.”
Emily patted him on the head. “Thank you, Spencer. You’re a good boy. Mommy loves you so much. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
****
Alrik Kroon, a real estate attorney at Skymolt International Properties strode up to Henrik Skymolt’s personal secretary. “Kirstin, do you know where Henrik is? He won’t answer his office phone, home phone, satellite phone, or cell phone. And I really need to talk to him.”