Behold Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by LC Champlin

  “There is an indentation encircling your left ring finger. You are married but have removed the ring.” Cheel stroked his beard in thought as he murmured, “Why, I wonder? To mislead women regarding your marital status?”

  Deduction: Cheel’s tactics included emotional goading. He understood drives and vanities, but he’d have to do more than cast aspersions on Nathan’s fidelity to rouse a reaction. Also, Cheel was a long-range planner, avoiding comment on the blood to build suspense.

  “No, no.” The terrorist chief shook his head. “If it were, the indentation would not be present. Little time passes where the band is not in place. Since this is the case, it means you removed it and have not yet thought to replace it.” He grinned as he reached for something in the side pocket of his fatigues’ top.

  “I must admit I cheated a bit on that deduction.” He dropped a wallet—Nathan’s wallet—between them on the table. Nathan remained stoic. “If you were regularly unfaithful, your wallet . . .” Pause as he opened it and removed the gold wedding band, turning it in the light. Get your fucking hands off it! “Your wallet would bear the characteristic circular indentation. This is not a new wallet, either, which eliminates the possibility of lacking time to create the pattern.”

  Deduction: A modern Brutus or Antiochus, he had achieved his position through manipulation and subtlety. The fucking camel trader would use whatever method necessary to achieve his ends. In Cheel’s position, Nathan would do the same.

  “I thought you were going to use only my hands. Anyone can gather details from a wallet. As for your other statements, you could learn the information from the news.”

  “Indeed!” Cheel replaced the ring in the wallet. “You are quite correct. I did view your appearance. However, I did not need to. For instance, I know you have a lovely wife, Janine Crevan. You also have a son, David. He is nearly four years of age, yes? At the moment, they are at your compound in upstate New York.”

  One, two, three. Blood roared in Nathan’s ears. A bluff, it must be. Knowledge of Janine and David didn’t mean Cheel had captured them. The terrorist wanted Nathan’s imagination to charge off into panic. If anything, the bastard’s statement demonstrated he didn’t know as much as he pretended; Janine would prove more than a match for a squad of terrorists, especially in her home territory.

  “Is that it?” Nathan took another sip from his Dixie cup.

  Cheel smiled like a friendly colleague in the break room. “Next, the nails.”

  Nathan’s throat tightened.

  “Cut but not manicured, which implies a pragmatic, professional man. The blood under them is not your own.” Finally the climax. “Though you possessed the opportunity to clean them, you very pointedly avoided doing so.” He nodded over his shoulder to the trashcan where Nathan had thrown the towel. “If the blood belonged to you, you would have removed evidence of your injury. You instead left it as a reminder of your deeds.” His tone hardened. “This indicates you are proud of your actions and show no remorse for the blood you spilt. You show confidence and will stand your ground rather than beg for mercy if the situation becomes . . . less cordial.” The smile remained, but half-hidden daggers glinted in the eyes.

  “I make no apologies for defending myself.”

  “My men do not see it as do we gentlemen of logic. They demand your blood, extracted slowly, in payment for their comrades’. They are in their rights to demand recompense. You are angry over the deaths of the people in this building, are you not? Then you can understand their feelings.”

  No tirades about the Great Satan, or oppression, or the glory of Allah and his prophet. The only thing more dangerous than irrationalism? Rationalism. “If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve done so.”

  The raptor eyes held his. “You were with DHS agents on an Air Force Black Hawk, yet you do not appear to serve them. Whatever the truth, you are not someone to be discarded or underestimated. As such, I would rather have your support than your scorn.”

  Co-opting. It made sense now: Cheel wanted Arete Tech’s connections and resources. “Sri Cheel, I’ve always considered myself an upstanding patriot with conservative political affiliations. On the other hand”—he leaned farther forward with a cold smile to match his opponent’s—“I am a businessman. I make deals that benefit me. Yet, from what I’ve deduced about you, you have enough wisdom to distrust someone who’d betray their country just to save their skin. So it seems I’m between a rock and a wood chipper.”

  Cheel chuckled. “Tell me then, what have you deduced?”

  At least twice a month Professor S would play the part of a mad sphinx, promising the grand treasure of an A and freedom from the rest of the class meetings to anyone who could give the correct answer to one of his mindbenders. If the brave student failed, however, they received an F. Period.

  Nathan spoke to Professor S’s former students and watched the professor’s every move in class. The class met sixteen times. He only needed to attend five.

  Nathan leaned back, resting a forearm on the chair back. “You don’t consider fear, or blatant intimidation, an effective motivator. If you did, you’d have used the lives of my associates as motivation. Simply torturing me into submission was also an option. Still, you’re not a man to be underestimated. You probably even use the misconception of being squeamish as an advantage: before threats know what happened, you’ve eliminated them.” Nathan tilted his head. “How am I doing?”

  Cheel smiled with mild amusement. “Continue.”

  “You believe that if your organization behaved with more tact, it could achieve its ends more readily. That’s why there aren’t heads on pikes and cages with charred victims inside. You said I have what you want. If I were a betting man, I would wager you are referring to the files Dr. Birk downloaded.” What role did Birk play in all this? His handgun, access codes, and presence after the fire alarm indicated a conspiracy.

  Cheel leaned in, voice low: “You and I, we see things as they truly are. When one hand washes the other . . .” He trailed off, hands spread in welcome.

  “Hand in glove?” Nathan raised a brow.

  “If you agree to the terms.” A predatory smile followed.

  Chapter 65

  Cold

  Flesh and Bone – Killers

  Opening the door two centimeters and positioning the bottle to block it open, Albin peered out. The real danger lay above and in the building across the street.

  Spear ready, screwdriver glinting in the California sun, he edged along the building, toward the car park where he had last seen the cannibals. Earlier, they had appeared from behind the bushes across the street, but he couldn’t risk venturing too far into the open lest he attract the terrorists’ attention. He shook his head; the day he considered cannibals’ attention the right kind of attention was the day he needed to check himself into Manhattan Psych.

  He halted at the northwest corner of the building and took a deep breath. Spear leading, he stood back enough for a vantage of the building’s north face and car park.

  Success, if one called finding two blistered, staggering, oil-salivating abominations success. The pair stalked with mechanical movements before the building’s front doors.

  Never waste a crisis. Albin hissed, “Ssssssaaaaaahhh.” It lacked the mucusy tenor of the original, but it would do.

  The spear covered the space that the heads would occupy when the cannibals rounded the corner. He backed up to wait. Four seconds and five paces later, the guests of honor lurched into view.

  Ssssssaaaaaahhh! It hissed from the lead cannibal, strings of tar swinging from its maw. The second damned soul dropped to all fours and scuttled out and to its right.

  Keeping the polearm ready, Albin ran for the door. His pulse thundered in his ears and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth as he risked a backward glance. They advanced at half their usual speed. Did they exhibit caution?

  Around the corner, he lunged through the service doorway. “S
sssssaaaaaahhh,” he hissed again as he leaned out.

  Crunch. The screwdriver burst through the lead cannibal’s right eye as if through a grape and continued out the back of the skull. The thing dropped like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Blood welled from the eye socket when Albin yanked the spear free.

  The remaining cannibal paused for a heartbeat before trampling its comrade in pursuit of prey. Excellent.

  “Ssssssaaaaaahhh,” Albin hissed as he backed into the loading bay and moved toward the lift shaft.

  The foe crossed the threshold on all fours, its Mars-red gaze panning over the room as it turned its head. Oil dribbled onto the concrete. Then it leapt to its right with an agility that made Albin’s chest tighten.

  He put himself between the cannibal and the lift, spear in front of him.

  The foe advanced, zigzagging with sideways leaps. Then with a thrust of rear legs it exploded at him. Left! The thing’s slash missed him by centimeters.

  The attack should carry it into the cage. No. He retreated behind the shaft as the cannibal spun. It stalked after him around the lift. Should he dispatch it? It moved with a healthy human’s speed. He shifted right to keep the cage between them.

  As he sidestepped the rubbish bin, he caught it with his left hand, his right still training the spear on his attacker. Around the cage they circled until he returned to the lift door. Now or never; he couldn’t play Ring Around the Rosy all day.

  Ssssssaaaaaahhh!

  “Are you okay?” From above, Behrmann’s voice mingled with the hiss.

  “Come on,” Albin muttered as the infected wretch hopped around the corner on all fours like an ape. He cocked his left arm, the rubbish bin over his shoulder.

  Ssssssaaaaaahhh!

  The beast lunged at his chest.

  Stepping back and pivoting, Albin swung the bin with all his strength and momentum. Bin and cannibal struck the shaft’s back wall.

  Albin slammed and latched the cage door. “Do it now.” Words that evidently came from his mouth rang over the roaring in his ears. Chest heaving, sweat sliding between his scapulae, he forced his legs to carry him to the extension cord noose. Once Behrmann seated her collar, he would loop his around the neck to form crossties.

  A loop of yellow extension cord dropped from the second level, missed, then retracted. The cannibal ignored the cord, its attention on Albin. The Plexiglas rattled behind the mesh as the abomination slammed its chest against the barrier and clawed at the metal. The thing heaved, and black mucus-vomit splattered across the glass.

  Rust-red eyes stared at him, devoid of emotion but mesmerizing as a serpent’s. The horror and utter blasphemy of the creature riveted Albin.

  One attempt, two . . . “Stop wasting time and do it properly.” Then the loop landed around the head, slipped to the shoulders. The lasso tightened.

  Tearing his attention from the scene, Albin trotted to the service door, opened it a slit, then stepped out. He withdrew the syringe from his pocket and crouched beside the cannibal corpse. Tar pooled in the mouth between gummy incisors. Blood one shade from black puddled around the head. He thumbed off the needle cap, dipped the tip into the tar pit—a smaller, deadlier version of La Brea’s—and pulled back the plunger. Ten milliliters should prove more than sufficient. He then exchanged the dirty needle for a clean. Task complete, he returned to the loading dock, where he set the syringe on the nearest table.

  “Ready, Ms. Behrmann?”

  “Go!”

  Noose open, he took a breath before unlocking the cage. He braced his shoulder against the barrier as it swung outward under the cannibal’s weight. A flick of the wrist looped the cord around the neck. Pull and tighten.

  He leapt back. The cannibal lunged after him, only to yank itself off its feet when it reached the end of Behrmann’s tether. Circling behind the shaft, Albin grabbed his cord, which attached to the garage door. He pressed his hip into the line, forcing the cannibal back and against the outside of the cage.

  A moment later, Behrmann clambered down the clean side of the mesh and dropped onto the steel lift. She pushed a loop of the cord under one of the mesh’s support beams, then slid a hammer through to secure it and take out any slack. The cords kept the cannibal immobile, pinned it to the shaft wall.

  “Come.” Albin nodded for Behrmann to follow as he snatched up the jacket, plastic wrap packing material, and syringe.

  Flushed with excitement, she gave him a determined smile. “It was a little touch-and-go for a second there.”

  “I am aware.” Why did people insist on wasting time commenting about situations in which both parties were participating?

  After ascertaining the hall’s safety, he led the way out. At the main concourse, they sprinted across the open expanse, and stopped at the security guard’s body.

  Albin laid the Beretta on the floor, took the corpse’s right arm and shoulder, then nodded to Behrmann to do the same with the left. “Out of the blood and against the wall.” Green tinged the reporter’s face as they manhandled the rigoring carcass.

  “Thank God for gloves,” she muttered, trying to touch the arm as little as possible.

  “Indeed.” Albin pushed his own arm through the cuff and up the sleeve. He grabbed the cold hand, slid the sleeve up to the shoulder. Normally he used the technique to get David into a jacket when he helped mind the boy.

  “Too bad Officer Connor didn’t call in sick yesterday.” Behrmann clicked her tongue. “Poor guy, dying for nothing.”

  For professionalism’s sake Albin bit back a remark about holding a memorial service. “It will not be for nothing if his body assists us.”

  “You’re cold.”

  “I am quite comfortable, actually,” he deadpanned.

  Officer Connor? Why did the name sound familiar? While working the jacket down the body’s back, Albin glimpsed the name tag: Jared Connor. Of course! Username JCONNOR, password 11Torry1995. The small-caliber gunshot wound, like one Birk’s revolver could inflict, and the second username and password now made sense. Birk had much to answer for, possibly first-degree murder.

  “That solves one mystery,” Albin muttered.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” He tucked the plastic wrap around the chest, then zipped the jacket over the entrance wounds.

  Chapter 66

  Deal or No Deal

  Me and Mine – Brother’s Bright

  “Our terms are simple but generous,” Cheel began. “You were correct in assuming we came here for data, but obtaining it has proved to be more difficult than anticipated. We pride ourselves on never wasting resources. That includes human resources.” He paused to give emphasis with his thin smile. “I am willing to discuss options regarding your freedom once this data is in our possession. Do not worry; the options include you all going free unharmed.”

  “I see.” Nathan nodded as he stroked his goatee. “Why is it so important?”

  “Control. Advantage.” Cheel’s grin flashed as he finished, “Those are objectives with which you are intimately familiar, I know.”

  “Control of what? Advantage over whom?”

  “Is it not obvious? Control and advantage over one of the most dangerous forces on earth.”

  Legs aching to launch him out of his seat and at the bastard before him, Nathan glared at Cheel. “I assume you’re not referring to the stupidity of humankind.”

  Cheel laughed. “No, Mr. Serebus, though your guess is not far from the mark. As you had dealings in San Francisco proper, I am certain you noticed the new threat. Specifically, the people with cannibalistic characteristics and tremendous resilience to force.”

  Ah, now this would make the day worth it—if he could make Cheel talk. “At the St. Regis, they got a bit out of hand. Red Chief, as he called himself, allowed them to get loose. Then his men made the cannibals’ acquaintance.”

  Still, silent, Cheel stared at Nathan, into his soul. Then his teeth flashed in the
light. “The Dalits are not the only things to escape ‘Red Chief.’ He will answer for his failure.”

  Pulse hammering, Nathan pressed his palms onto the table to keep from exploding from the chair in anticipation. “Dalits.” The Hindu term for the Untouchables, the lowest rung of the caste system. “They’re human weapons, but Red Chief couldn’t control them. Not a good quality in a weapon. Are they infected with a virus, or is it a drug?” Pieces clicked into place at last. “Doorway’s research. The information to control the cannibals is in the Doorway files you’re so eager to locate.”

  “Did you not answer your own question? They are beyond humanity, untouchable in every way. Touching any of their bodily fluids risks becoming what they are.” Lip curling in disgust, Cheel shook his head. “It is beautiful in the way of Shaytan. However, control is indeed a difficulty with them. This can be rectified.”

  Nathan fought to keep his expression neutral. “Confident words, considering those monsters are multiplying across the city. At this rate, they’ll soon cover the continent. That doesn’t leave much for the Caliphate to preside over. Doorway,” (or whoever designed the contagion at first), “either gave you the beta version of the Dalit technology, or they defaulted on their production contract.”

  Cheel chuckled. “Do not worry. You will have the honor of assisting us not only in righting that betrayal, but also in preventing the Dalits from growing out of hand.”