Behold Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by LC Champlin

  Nikes quieted his steps as he trotted toward the fourth passage. There, the Security placard as Birk had described.

  At the far end of the fourth hall another circle of red glared at him like the Eye of Sauron. Soon it would be his eye. The rifle’s light targeted the lens as he proceeded.

  The camera control room door waited, with a corpse in front. Nathan picked his way around the pool of drying red. Male, Caucasian, mid-thirties, and very dead. The body wore the standard security officer uniform, blood deepening the shirt’s blue to black over a small-caliber entry wound in the abdomen and two large-caliber holes in the heart. The silver name badge read Jared Connor.

  Nathan withdrew Birk’s access card. Swipe. Red light. “Work, damnit!” he muttered as sweat slid between his shoulder blades. Second swipe: green.

  Turning the handle with his left hand, he readied the AK in his right. Go! Light sliced through the murk, over a door on either side of the entry room and one at the back. HAL watched from above. The spot trick again.

  Ahead, faint blue light leaked through the door’s safety-glass window. Camera Control, read the room’s placard.

  With the stock-mounted light still on the camera, Nathan darted to the door but kept out of view from the narrow window. After the restroom incident, no doubt remained regarding who was watching the cameras. Swallowing hard, he peeked into the control room. Black and white monitors, courtesy of night mode, covered the rear wall. In front of them—an AK barrel stared back. A man in the control chair covered the door with his rifle as he spoke into a shoulder mic.

  Nathan’s jaw tightened in a reflex to keep his heart in his chest rather than in his feet. If another one of them wanted to die today, how could he deny their ticket to Hell?

  He shrugged off the second carrier and pushed it against the wall to the right of the door. The AK needed a different angle; he switched to left grip. With a fire rate of six hundred rounds per minute, he only needed a second.

  Now for the final test of Birk’s card . . . Green light!

  Chapter 57

  God’s Eye

  We Are – Thousand Foot Krutch

  Albin stared at the researcher, the silence a vacuum to draw out the truth.

  “That’s all fine, but . . . I lost my keys last night.” Birk looked away as he spoke.

  “How on earth—” the newswoman began.

  “Yeah.” Birk rubbed the back of his neck. “They fell out of my pocket somewhere, I guess.”

  “You seem to possess a knack for losing important objects. I believe I should take custody of your access card lest the same misfortune befall it.” Albin extended a hand.

  The idiot blinked.

  “Now. Unless you prefer I search you. I assure you, you will not enjoy that experience.”

  “Do it, Vic,” Behrmann ordered. “The last thing I want is to be locked in this building with gunmen.”

  “Why not just take my shirt, too,” Birk muttered as he produced the key from his back pocket and dropped it into Albin’s hand.

  ++++++++++++

  Nathan screwed the Bose earbuds in, then dropped to his belly behind the armor with his left shoulder squeezed against his ear. His left arm locked against his flank with the rifle against the doorjamb while his right hand covered his other ear.

  Aiming low for muzzle climb compensation—open door, open fire.

  Inside, 7.62 mms replied in a roar. Lead punched through wall, door, and glass, raining dust and shrapnel.

  One thousand one, one thou—release. His AK fell silent. One and a half seconds passed like one and a half years.

  Putting an eye around the carrier and doorjamb, he panned the light over the scene. A few monitors sparked in wreckage, casting intermittent horror-movie lighting on the lump in the chair. An arm hung over the chair, shiny with gore as the fluids watered the nonslip mat. An AK lay on the floor amid the wreckage.

  On his feet, Nathan edged into the room. Apparently the terrorists had left only one man to guard the monitors. Nathan retrieved the vest from beside the door. Two bullet holes marred the fabric. Better it than his face. He slipped into the armor but left it unfastened due to the bulk of his own plate carrier.

  The familiar cold sluiced through his veins, cooled his nerves like water over magma. After pushing the chair and its butcher-shop contents against the far wall, he recovered the AK from the floor and a curved magazine from the console desk.

  Most of the monitors still functioned, providing a moderator’s-eye view of the building interior. Maps of the floors with numbers corresponding to monitors occupied various areas of the wall and desk.

  The lab . . . There, Camera #13. Albin and the others seemed in discussion, or likely argument, given their natures. And the surrounding halls? Clear.

  What about the rest of the party? Camera #24, on level three, which matched . . . a break room, showed two bound, kneeling captives and an armed, pacing guard. Jordan and Murphy.

  He scanned the monitors, stopped at Camera #27: third floor, an office supply room adjacent to the break room. Rodriguez. She occupied a chair behind a table, hands tied behind her. Before her a dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair and beard leaned over the table on locked elbows. The camera angle hid her face, but not the terrorist’s grin.

  And JP? No corpses matched Marvin’s description, and nothing moved. Maybe they murdered him in a bathroom or threw him under a desk. A pity: he could have proven useful.

  In the hall on the third floor, four gunmen pounded toward . . . the stairs. On the second floor a pair of terrorists also trotted toward the stairs. One guess as to their destination.

  Nathan reached for the HT. “Albin, win the argument later.” Camera #13 showed the man raise a hand for silence and look into the camera.

  ++++++++++++

  At the sound of Mr. Serebus’s voice, Albin gave an inward sigh of relief. Raising a hand to silence the others, he looked up at the nearest camera. “Well done, sir.”

  “Thus far. Take two lefts outside, then take the loading dock service lift. In the main building, the bathroom is down the center hall. I’m closer, so I’ll play gofer if I’m able. I have guests about to arrive, but you have a clear path. The others are alive, but the terrorists are holding them hostage on the southeast corner of the third floor. The cameras are going offline shortly. Keep an eye on the doctor. Go.”

  Chapter 58

  Down and Out

  And We Run – Within Temptation

  Easing the door open, Albin scanned the hall. He turned left and trotted down the strip. Other than the pad of three sets of shoes, silence reigned. How could twenty meters stretch to two hundred?

  At the first left, he skidded to a halt and glanced around the corner, then proceeded toward the service lift.

  They should exit the building in less than a minute. Once out, he could rendezvous with Mr. Serebus and complete the escape. Caution, stealth, and the weapons from the cache in the bathroom would see them safely to the Armory. Then the military could dispatch a team to the Doorway Pharmaceuticals complex.

  Halting at the corner, he leaned around to find the way clear. The door on the right opened with Birk’s keycard to reveal a loading area. At its heart hulked the industrial lift’s cage of steel mesh and Plexiglas. Stretching four meters long and wide, it could accommodate factory-scale equipment and bulk orders. Boxes and crates lined the walls in the dim lighting. Hand trucks stood at the ready, left in their places when the workers departed.

  Albin moved to the lift gate’s control panel. While the building designers had seen fit to attach the security system to the backup power, they considered the lift extraneous. In case of fire, everyone knew to take the stairs. They obviously failed to conceive of terrorists taking over the building and stairs during a power outage, and civilians needing an alternate escape route.

  The gate opened with a manual lever, but the drop to the first floor measured four meters. Dropping the backpack on the
floor, Albin produced the cords. The cables carried ground as well as power lines, making them strong enough to carry a human. He began tying knots in the cords at intervals.

  “We can just dangle and drop,” Birk observed as Albin tied the line around the mesh’s support.

  Albin gave the cord an experimental tug; it held. “The counter-terrorism squad may find it useful.”

  After recovering the pack, he lay on his stomach, edged out as far as he could, and surveyed the chamber below. A door slammed in the distance on the ground level. Friend or foe?

  Switching directions, he held the cable and slid backward over the edge. He landed in a crouch. Birk and Behrmann thudded down beside him.

  Polished concrete floors and bare walls stretched into the murk. Windowless, the loading bay possessed garage and service doors. Like the loading area above, cargo rose in stacks along the walls.

  “What are you waiting for?” Birk whispered, halfway to the exit.

  “Go if you wish.” Albin shot him a glare before crossing to the door on the opposite wall, which led to the building proper.

  “Will Mr. Serebus meet us here?” Behrmann murmured as she joined Albin at the door. Given her proximity to him, she had no comprehension of personal space.

  “Keep silent,” he breathed, a futile order, then opened the door a centimeter. Edging out into the twilight, he tried to ignore his shadow and her mobile’s camera.

  ++++++++++++

  Now Nathan needed to—

  On Camera #27, the bearded interrogator held a semi-auto to Rodriguez’s forehead as he grinned at the camera. Behind him another terrorist held up a piece of copy paper that bore one scrawled word: Surrender. On another screen, Murphy and Jordan stared down the barrel of their guard’s AK, which shifted between them.

  “Goddamnit!” Nathan barely felt the sting as his fist slammed into the desk. “Surrender?” he snarled as he squatted to examine the monitors’ cables. They snaked to join a wireless receiver under the desk. Bingo. “Is that a confession? Because”—he grabbed the AK in butt-strike position—“we don’t negotiate with terrorists.” At the last word he brought the butt down on the receiver. Plastic splintered. “You won’t be using these anymore.” Another blow, more plastic shards. The light around him lessened, steadied. He straightened. Every remaining monitor showed No Signal in a blue box.

  He snapped a full magazine into the AK. Slinging it across his back, he headed out. The Armory would still accept him without the DHS agents. If it refused him, he would follow Plan B: Half Moon Bay Airport.

  Too bad about the officers; their combat training would have aided the trip. Then again, they rarely used force when he needed it. When he reached the Armory, the choice of whether or not to send a team to rescue the hostages would rest in the DHS’s and military’s hands. He could do no more.

  Pausing at the hall door, he eased it open. Still empty, but men’s voices sounded down the corridor.

  Right turn, full sprint to avoid the large-caliber, fanatical death that pounded down the main hall. Skidding to a halt at the T, he leaned out to check both directions.

  Left. Window ten yards away. He took off toward it. He could break it and escape before—

  The ground rushed to meet him as something locked his legs together. Break-fall training brought his arms up, saved his face. Kicking, twisting, he struggled to his back to bring the AK online with—a masked terrorist bear hugging Nathan’s knees, and two motherfuckers with assault rifles leveled at his head.

  Chapter 59

  Fall and Flight

  Way Down We Go – Kaleo

  The leg-hugger grabbed Nathan’s AK barrel and jerked it aside.

  “Drop it, bastard! Now!” the taller of the masked gunmen barked.

  Not fucking possible. This close, only to fall three yards from the goal? No. Three men. He could handle three. Die now in a struggle, or later as a hostage. They wanted him alive, otherwise he’d already be wallowing in his own blood.

  He yanked the AK. Pain exploded in his left thigh, seared through his muscles. Teeth clenched of their own accord, muscles locked. Stun gun.

  The pain ceased, allowing him a hissing breath. Then—Fuck! Another charge knifed through his body.

  Everything was . . . blurry. And heavy. He slumped back when the pain stopped. His body couldn’t obey after the tetanus. The AK slid from his hands.

  Struggle, fight, escape! He heaved up, but met a fist face-first. Floor met skull with the blow. Stars exploded across his vision.

  Pressure on his throat. Trying to strangle him? No, the terrorist wanted to stop blood flow, not oxygen. Get off, get off! His body wouldn’t obey.

  When did the hall turn into a tunnel? Darkness pushed down on his mind. Fight . . . stand . . . breathe… The blackness rose to swallow him.

  ++++++++++++

  Boots thudded on the tiles. Men’s voices rang. Albin risked a glance around the corner in time to see four gunmen bank left down a hall. He swallowed against the rock in his throat. Two more terrorists charged down the hall, reinforcements.

  There came a thud and the grunts of a scuffle, then muted voices. An interminable thirty seconds later, the combatants emerged with a limp captive in their midst. They turned right and plodded toward the stairs. A chill sliced down Albin’s spine and made his heart drop a beat at the sight of the unconscious prisoner. The cold vanished as the fever heat of rage seized him, raising a sweat.

  “That’s—They’ve got Nathan!” The reporter grabbed Albin by the shoulders, startling him back to full, damnable reality. “Now will you—”

  He shook free and sprinted back to the loading dock entrance. Darting through, he pushed past Birk. The pack slid from his shoulders. He caught the corner of the lift cage, swung around and in.

  Kicking the cord around his right foot and shin, he grabbed the line and inch-wormed back to the second floor. He scrambled over the edge, fingers like claws in the mesh.

  Regaining his feet, he dashed around the corner and the next right. At the intersection, he slowed, halted. Already his arrival might prove tardy, but dragging a man up steps would slow anyone. Breath coming in gulps, he glanced around the corner, down the hall toward the stairs. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three . . . Fifteen, then twenty, then thirty seconds passed with the fire door closed. They had taken Mr. Serebus to the third floor with the others, then.

  Turning, he crept back to the lift. The plan lay in shards like glass over the floor of his mind. The Armory strategy had functioned well enough when the terrorists held hostage people to whom neither he nor Mr. Serebus felt any particular loyalty. However, Mr. Serebus’s capture threw thermite into the works. Command and control clung to the man like a second skin; the instant he regained consciousness, he would begin maneuvering for release. Odds and experience favored him contacting his adviser or at least relying on his active involvement. One of the ducklings could go to the Armory, perhaps.

  At the bottom of the shaft, Behrmann and Birk squinted up as Albin eased himself over the edge. He dropped back to the loading bay. Step one: retrieve the weapons from the cache.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” he announced, facing the pair. Determination radiated from the reporter, but the researcher looked ill.

  “W-what the hell just happened?” Birk demanded, gathering enough courage to step up. “She says your boss got himself captured. I thought he was supposed to be the capable one!”

  Albin raised a brow. “He was capable enough to bring us this far. I believe you were leaving anyway. Make yourself of use and go to the Armory to summon help.”

  Birk stiffened, hands spasming into fists. “This is nuts. Utterly fucking insane! I am leaving,” he snapped as he headed for the service door at the far end of the dock, “but not to get you lunatics help. Do what you want. I can do at least as well as you people.”

  As much as seeing the whining wretch disappear would warm Albin’s heart, the re
searcher needed to fill a role, per Mr. Serebus. That role might eventually only involve holding a door open with his corpse, but even so . . . Albin strode after him.

  Behrmann pursued them. “You’re going out there alone? You can’t be serious. The gunmen—” She caught Birk’s wrist, but he yanked free and dove for the door. He slid out as Albin lunged toward him.

  If the terrorists on the roof saw Birk, they would investigate, after unleashing a hail of gunfire. Albin took an extra second to look for danger outside before giving chase. Birk dashed through the car park like a rabbit from a cougar. With a growl, Albin burst into a sprint. Height and fitness gave him the advantage.

  Movement flickered behind the decorative shrubbery across the road. Risking a glance, the sight brought him to a halt. “Birk, stop! The cannibals!” Wait, Birk was ignorant of the things.

  Two twitching figures lurched out of the bushes’ shadow and into full sun. Blistered, white skin stretched over their skulls. From the white-collar workers’ open mouths hissed the familiar sssssssaaaaah as oil dripped down their chins and button-down shirt fronts.

  Birk’s torso stopped before his legs, and only a reflexive twist landed him on all fours instead of his rear. Face nearly as white as the cannibals’, he scrambled up and took off back toward the Doorway building.

  Blast it all! Albin spun and pelted toward the loading bay service door. The researcher could fend for himself. Alone and unarmed in the middle of the car park, Albin may as well be naked.

  To the left, Birk pounded toward the corner of the building in the opposite direction of the service door. Where did the idiot think—Albin reached his goal, the western corner. “Birk! Here!”