Behold Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by LC Champlin

He turned back to Birk. “By the way, they’re not the wolves.”

  “Oh, let me guess: You are the wolf.” Rolling his eyes, Birk moved to the access terminal. “Unless Cheel loosens your leash, you’re just as powerless as your miserable hostage friends.”

  Silence fell. Then Nathan laughed.

  Chapter 83

  Ab Extra

  No Light, No Light – Florence + The Machine

  Albin looked over his shoulder at Behrmann, who nodded. A bit of the color had returned to her face, and determination had replaced shock at the terrorist’s death. Albin pointed with two fingers to his eyes, then to the left side of the passage between the steel walls. He repeated the gesture but indicated the reporter and the right side. She gave a thumbs-up.

  After shifting the rifle to his back and drawing the Beretta, he took point position as they advanced to the end of the corridor. Logically the gunmen would position themselves at the roof perimeter.

  Radio static to the right and left sent Albin and Behrmann behind air vents on their respective sides. Arabic orders snapped over the HTs, to which the snipers responded in more Arabic. The men’s tone sounded in the affirmative. Presumably the exchange counted as reporting in, which meant he could now strike with impunity.

  Two men occupied the roof. Thus, he needed to dispatch the first in silence to avoid alerting the second. Since other snipers were watching from the building across Harbor Street, the gunman farthest from that structure would make the best first target.

  Albin motioned for Behrmann to hold her position and keep watch before he crept leftward onto the open roof along the wall of vents and air handlers. The terrorist came into view near the end of the equipment farm. He watched the car parks, his AK in an at-ease position across his chest.

  Target confirmed, Albin eased back to Behrmann. On his way he collected a few scraps of shrapnel from the helicopter crash. Then he nodded for her to follow him back into the maze of steel.

  They squeezed between vents on a course behind the sniper. Before they reached the perimeter, Albin half turned to the reporter. He pointed to himself and mimicked tossing the shrapnel underhanded. Then he pointed to the PTT on his radio, clicked the air with his thumb twice before he pointed to her and mimed rapping on the vent. Pointing back at himself, he traced a circular course to indicate he would attack the terrorist from behind. Behrmann shifted her weight from foot to foot but nodded when he finished. He held a hand up to enforce her need to stay put as he sidled toward the perimeter.

  He edged to the corner of the last vent and peeked around. Beyond the chain-link fence that guarded the plant operations farm, the sniper had moved closer to the railing angle.

  Albin exchanged the pistol for the combat knife that came with the vest. Let the game begin. He tossed the first bit of metal blind. It thudded into the roof grit somewhere in the terrorist’s direction. Gravel crunched as the man turned. A double-click of the PTT signaled Behrmann to act.

  Clankclankclank. “Brother, come here; I need you.” Albin clenched his jaw. The reporter performed a splendid imitation of an Arab male’s voice, but must she deviate from the plan?

  Nearby, the sniper replied in Arabic. Three more seconds, then . . . Albin leaned out for a heartbeat, found the enemy at the maze perimeter.

  Wincing as his trainers crunched in the gravel, Albin crept toward his target, blade ready in a fighting grip. Behrmann whispered between the steel walls in—Arabic?

  The terrorist stepped into the passage fully. Now. Albin covered the distance in three strides and swung out behind the man, who whipped around, rifle up. Albin’s left hand snapped out to control the weapon. An AKM popped up behind the gunman, then crashed into the skull-spine junction. As the target fell, Albin’s combat knife punched through the left eye, sinking up to the hilt like an ice pick into a tomato. The weight pulled the weapon from his grip.

  He looked up from the twitching corpse and the blood that pulsed around the blade. Face flushed and breathing ragged, Behrmann loomed over her prey with the rifle aloft for another strike. Evidently she learned well from observation.

  With care he reached and out caught her trigger hand. “It seems you are indeed capable of killing in self defense, Ms. Josephine.”

  The blood drained from her face to leave her bone-white. She gulped and brought the rifle down to her chest. She tore her eyes from the corpse to meet Albin’s gaze. “I—Wow.” She shook her head in disbelief.

  “One down, one to go.” He refocused the reporter’s attention. “Are you well?” What constituted the proper response in such a situation?

  “Fine, yes,” she asserted, squaring her shoulders.

  “Splendid.” If she wished to experience a mental breakdown or attack of bleeding-heart humanitarianism, she could do so later. “We repeat the strategy. Whatever you said in Arabic worked well. You are indeed full of surprises.” He only half forced a smile with the last word.

  Her shoulders relaxed to a normal level of tension as she brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “A few phrases, that’s all I know.”

  “I see.” He bent to retrieve the knife, which came free with a squelch, and cleaned it on the corpse’s trouser leg. “So you asked him where to find a restroom?”

  At this she grinned.

  “I asked for a beer.”

  “No wonder the Good Muslim looked confused.”

  Chapter 84

  Fresh Meat

  Warrant – Foster the People

  Nathan moved up the processor grotto. Neural regrowth, CRISPR interference, genetic manipulation. The Istiqaamah might intend to simply sell some of it for profit, just as he had intended to do before the fate of the human race hung in the balance.

  Ahead, the lone guard leaned against the left side of the computer banks. He looked as if he’d survived a battle: haggard, weight against the towers, left hand on the left thigh, no weight on the left leg.

  Dark, desperate eyes met Nathan’s. Wounded? Not a gunshot, unless he’d managed to bandage it and change his pants. Maybe during the scuffle with . . . cannibals or whatever occurred earlier, when Nathan was preparing to leave for the data.

  “Come this way, sir,” the guard murmured as he pushed from the bank. He paled as he put weight on his left leg.

  Nathan held his ground. “Our time isn’t up yet.”

  The terrorist held up his hands, his AK across his back. “Please, Sayyid Serebus.” Exhaustion strained the voice. It sounded genuine, though you couldn’t trust anyone from this group.

  “Make it quick.” Trailing the limping man, Nathan risked a glance over his shoulder at Birk. Still on the job, the faker. He’d break out the hidden data any minute, if he hadn’t already.

  The Arab halted around the front of the processor bank, which he then slumped against. An iota of relief eased his expression’s lines. “A man told me you have the cure.”

  Cure? Nathan’s face locked into neutral. “And if I did, what then?”

  “The man said if I treated you well, you would give me it.”

  “Your leg.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  The beggar swallowed hard. “We check the main hall after we hear noise. There is a body. My brother searches it. I see a door is open.” The man’s eyes went hollow. How poetic to terrorize the terrorists. “In there is a ghul. I shoot it.” He mimed the action with a finger. “I check it. A man comes from behind. I try to fight him, but he is strong. I fall, he stabs my leg.” Left hand to thigh again. “He says it will turn me into a ghul but he and you have the cure. I do not believe him, but when I find my brother, he is”—gulp, wince—“sick. The black is burning his hand. Then I know the man tells truth. I . . . had to shoot my brother later.”

  “I see.” Albin. Fucking hell, Albin Conrad! Nathan struggled to keep a grin from breaking ear to ear. Good thing he’s on my side.

  “It depends on how well you treat me, doesn’t it.” Nathan tilted his head b
ack, eyes narrow. “Where is the helicopter landing after he has the files?”

  “The other roof now. The ghuls on the ground . . .”

  “If you’re lying, you will join them.” By all indications, Albin hadn’t injected him with the real toxin, given that the man hadn’t turned into an oil-drooling, scabrous monster yet.

  Nathan’s right leg snapped out to roundhouse the supposed wound. Scaling the power to a tenth of full meant no screams. The bastard gasped, dropped to his good knee, clutched his thigh.

  “Just checking. You don’t have much time.” A glance back at Birk. “And neither do we.” Back to the terrorist, “Protect me and the hostages if you want the cure.”

  Weak nod. Wincing, face greenish-gray, the Arab pushed himself to his feet as Nathan turned and strode back to the researcher.

  “You have it, I presume,” Nathan demanded when he reached the Good Doctor.

  Birk spared him a look of distaste. “I’m no less mercenary than you. If you want answers to your neural regrowth questions, you need me alive.”

  “Let’s see it.” Nathan put his hand out. Let the scientist grow anxious.

  Hesitation, then Birk dropped into the waiting palm a black disc roughly the size of a half dollar and half an inch thick. It resembled a miniature hockey puck. The connector that jutted from it matched the other storage device’s.

  “Good. Now go stand over there by the guard.” Birk opened his mouth, but Nathan shouldered between him and the terminal. “Go.”

  After Birk stormed off, Nathan turned to the screen. Standard database setup, nested folders on shared drives, password authentication required, probably half a million files useless to him. Cryptic, coded file and folder names added more hay to the stack.

  Three minutes until Cheel came knocking. Here, this looked promising: SAN_FRAN main drive, L_MARCUS personal drive. A Detail list of folders with numbers as names opened. Hovering the cursor over the top folder, G_0001A, alt text appeared: Proposition extended and summary for Project. Click-click. ENTER USERNAME AND PASSWORD.

  Several other tries yielded similar results. UNABLE TO OPEN FILE. No matter. Birk had delivered what Nathan wanted. The clicking and typing served its purpose to deceive the watching guard.

  Stepping right a bit farther, he pulled his knee to his chest as if to adjust his sock, and withdrew the data drive from its hiding place inside his shoe’s tongue.

  One, two, three, four. He reached for the PTT.

  ++++++++++++

  Albin settled each step with care as he closed on the target. At the corner of the corridor, he took a deep breath and leaned out. The second sniper lolled against the railing, rifle resting atop the concrete barrier.

  A stream of Arabic rattled over the man’s radio. No matter what languages one spoke, they never seemed to include the tongue one needed. If he spoke Arabic, the terrorists would hail from Russia, just to spite him.

  The gunman replied, then raised the AKM and peered through the scope at the adjacent roof.

  From Albin’s angle, he could see only the other building’s guardrail and the forest of vents, access huts, and air handlers. Easing back to the concealment of the maze, he double-clicked the PTT. On cue, Behrmann delivered her line in Arabic.

  The sniper called a reply but remained glued to his post. Albin snatched up a piece of shrapnel and shied it at the enemy’s back. Ducking into cover, Albin waited. A question in Arabic came, but no crunch of gravel underfoot.

  Blast it! Albin gritted his teeth as he restrained a growl. A direct assault might bring attention from the snipers on the other roof. Any distraction that proved serious would elicit a call for reinforcements. He needed something novel enough to attract attention but not to the point of arousing suspicion. Perhaps . . . It’s just stupid enough to make me look a fool.

  He retreated to a safe distance, where he unshouldered the backpack and opened one of the pouches. Ridiculous. Desperate times and all that. Fishing out its contents, he resumed the pack.

  He sidled back to his vantage. The bag of pecans flew through the air to strike the terrorist in the back. Albin withdrew behind the vent. A question in Arabic, then grit shifting under boots as the man investigated. The footsteps entered the maze. Albin peered around the corner as the sniper disappeared between the steel walls. Behrmann said something else in Arabic, drawing him farther into the trap.

  Albin advanced on the hostile. Rounding the corner, he found the target with his back to him. Excellent.

  Then the Arab paused.

  “Don’t shoot!” Behrmann pleaded from deeper in the maze, still invisible. This riveted the sniper and his AKM to the path ahead.

  Now. Albin stepped on the back of the man’s right calf while he wrapped a hand around the foe’s face and pulled it to the left. The knife plunged into the gap between the neck and clavicle. A spasm, then the body fell. Albin pulled the weapon free and drove it into the temple to finish the job. Grandfather Conrad would approve.

  Albin looked up as Behrmann stepped into the corridor. He motioned her over. “Retrieve whatever ammunition and weapons you can from the body.”

  Not waiting for a reply, he turned to the scoped rifle on the ground. He snatched it up and surveyed the opposite roof. Two terrorists presided over two kneeling, blindfolded hostages: Officer Rodriguez and Jack Murphy.

  “Why must it be hostages?” he muttered. The San Franciscan sun grew twice as intense. Sweat dripped down his spine as a breeze kicked sand in his face. Wind howled behind the vault door in his mind. “Not again.”

  Albin deserted the vantage to aid the reporter. Thus far she had recovered an AKM with four full magazines, and a Glock 22 with two magazines. With that much firepower he could pin down a troop, much less a squad.

  “Fetch the other body,” he grunted as he grabbed the corpse’s legs. “Stay below the rail’s level.” Bent double, he began dragging the body toward the rail.

  “What are you . . .” Green tinged her pallor. Then she shook her head and jogged off into the maze.

  Why people detested fresh corpses, he would never understand. “Soft,” he quoted his forbears as he leaned the body against the rail so that from a distance it resembled a terrorist on watch.

  On the opposite roof, the gunmen shifted their weight from foot to foot but otherwise held position as they guarded their hostages.

  The radio crackled, barely audible at lowest volume setting: “Sri Cheel, call the chopper. We have it.” Mr. Serebus. Albin let out a breath in relief.

  “At last,” the terrorist leader answered.

  Chapter 85

  Special Delivery

  Grit, Sweat, & Love – Brothers Bright

  Nathan joined the two bedraggled scumbags—Birk and the wounded guard—at the exit. “Shall we?”

  “Please,” through Birk’s clenched teeth.

  Confident stride and posture, determined expression. Nathan would look like the lion while he played the fox. Both camouflaged the amarok.

  Ali and a grunt met the three at the hall’s intersection, then led them to the office next to Lawrence Marcus’s. The nameplate read: Skylar Wong, Asst. Director of Research. Cheel sat behind the desk, fingers steepled, VAIO open before him.

  “Success?” Wide, dead smile and marble-hard eyes left no doubt that the two Americans should wish for success as much as he did.

  “You be the judge,” Nathan stated before Birk could fuck things up.

  Click. Nathan dropped Birk’s hockey-puck drive on the desk and stood back.

  Cheel inserted it into the adapter. In the silence that descended, the tap of his finger on the laptop’s touchpad resounded like thunder.

  One, two, three, four. Hold. Adrenaline made time slow, made Nathan’s throat stick closed, made beads of icy sweat drip between his shoulder blades.

  Cheel stared into the depths of the blue glow, eyes flicking over the drive’s contents. Evidently he had no need of Birk’s much-vaunted password
s.

  The gravity of the situation even filtered through Birk’s narcissistic skull: he chewed his lip but held his tongue while he fidgeted with his watch. The watch . . . the only thing the terrorists would ignore. Of course!

  “I must congratulate you, Dr. Birk.” Cheel’s announcement broke into Nathan’s thoughts with a tidal wave of relief. “Evidently you were successful in bypassing the fail-safes. There is even extra data here.”

  That motherfucker Birk had the data the whole damned time! He had even added files, probably gunning for a higher fee.

  Zippo-shaped drive in hand, Nathan stepped forward. “Sri Cheel, I was able to retrieve this, if it’s of any use.” What had Birk’s coworker been trying to protect by refusing him access to the server?

  “How enterprising,” Cheel responded as he accepted the drive that Albin and Birk had procured.

  Birk gawked at Nathan. “How did you get—”

  “The same way you came up with yours.” That shut him up.

  Cheel sat back, rubbed his cropped beard as he frowned at the screen. “This data is not critical, but it will certainly prove of interest.” No indication why the researcher died protecting it.

  “Happy to be of service.” Nathan smiled.

  Cheel removed the drive and closed the laptop. Reaching into his breast pocket, he removed a large-screen smartphone. No, not a smartphone, a case. He placed both drives into the padded container. Click. Closed, it disappeared back into his pocket.

  “Captain Ali,” he called as he rose.

  “Yes, Ustath Bassam?” the dog replied from his place by the door.

  “We are leaving.” Cheel brushed past, out into the hall. “Make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Yes, Ustath.” The Arab began rattling off orders into his mic as he and his master moved down the passage shoulder to shoulder.