Though his ears were ringing, he heard several voices whispering, then feet scuffing the floor farther down the corridor. He waited for three heartbeats, then leaned out and pulled the trigger repeatedly.
There was a line of five men heading his direction. The first and second took rounds to the chest and stumbled back, but the men behind them pushed past and returned fire. A shotgun blast tore up the doorframe beside Eric, forcing him to retreat further into the room. He swore, crouched, then fired at an angle into the hallway. His shots ricocheted off the concrete, sending shreds of brass and particulate into the air.
Eric held his breath and stepped into the hallway. His ploy had worked—the remaining men had flinched at the ricocheting bullets, lowering their weapons and turning their heads away. Eric squeezed the trigger three times in less than a second, adjusting his aim left and right. He didn’t pause to see if he had hit his targets—he was too exposed in the hallway, or “Fatal Funnel” as his instructors in the Army had called it. He ducked behind cover and waited. Several seconds passed without any noise from outside the room.
“Eric? Eric, are you okay?”
“You can bet on it. Something tells me these guards haven’t spent much time training for close-quarters combat.”
“You’re right, they haven’t. But they do have firepower. I’ve been inside the armory, and it’s scary how much they have in there.”
Eric’s chest tightened. He could handle amateurs with guns all day long, but there were certain things he wasn’t prepared for. Things like riot shields or…
In confirmation of his worst fears, a green canister clinked into view, coming to rest against the deceased guard outside the door.
With one fluid movement, Eric kicked the door shut and mashed his palms against his ears. A moment later, there was a deafening roar, and the door flew back open, smashing into his left knee. And even though he had covered his ears, the flashbang grenade wrought havoc on his hearing. As he winced and worked his jaw, trying to clear the pressure in his skull, another grenade bounced off the door and came to rest near his feet. This one was larger than the first and had the letters “CS” stenciled on the front. There was a flash, and the grenade began hissing white smoke from the top and bottom.
Eric’s eyes immediately flooded with tears, and mucus trickled from his nose. But he had trained in and around CS gas for years, intentionally exposing himself to it so he could learn to cope with its effects. Forcing the air from his lungs, he kicked the canister into the hallway. He assumed whoever had thrown the grenade would be wearing a gas mask, but in the confined space, the smoke would drop visibility to zero.
After counting out five seconds, he crouched low and entered the hallway, squinting against the stinging gas. He kept his back against the wall and moved forward, holding the MP5 close to his chest. A tall shape appeared in the blinding fog, then swept past him. He stayed perfectly still as another guard ran by, then another.
Fighting the urge to wipe his eyes, he paused long enough to make sure there were no other men in the stack, then jumped to his feet and gave chase. He skidded to a halt when the rear guard came into view—the men had stopped next to the Punishment Room while the lead man poked his rifle inside. Eric held the barrel of the MP5 inches from the rear man’s neck and pulled the trigger. The men were so well aligned that the first round passed through the first and second guards’ necks and hit the third in the back.
Eric followed their forward descent with his front sight post, then put a round in the back of each man’s skull. Mucus and saliva flowed over his chin and onto his blood-stained jumpsuit; he ignored the discomfort and grabbed the weapons and ammunition from each man before returning to the Punishment room.
Once inside, he could hear Cameron sniffling and crying out.
“It’s alright,” Eric said, placing his hand against the cell door. He coughed violently for several moments, then added, “I’m not leaving you.”
Byron watched the monitor eagerly as the smoke began to clear. The image that took shape wasn’t what he expected, and he leaned forward to study the security feed more closely. His enforcers were piled together, just outside the Punishment Room. “No,” he whispered, “it can’t be…”
A man with bronzed skin and an athletic build leaned in beside Doyl. “What would you have me do, my Lord?” When Byron didn’t answer, the man added, “I can lead another team into the basement. We can charge the room and—”
“No,” Byron interrupted, holding up his hand. “Don’t bother. We can seal off the basement and deal with him at our leisure. Right now, I need you to wake every man, woman, and child. Send the adults up the wall to stand guard and bring the children to me.”
“It will be so.” The man turned, then stopped short. “Father, would you also like me to bring the Rollins family?”
Byron thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Let them sleep. They’re safe in the temple, and I don’t want Martha to worry.”
The man bowed his head, then left the room.
Byron turned his attention to the monitor and wrung his hands together. After a long moment, he brought up the Temple physical security program and locked every door leading to the basement. Then he brought up the feed from the camera outside the Punishment room and stared at it. His fingers drummed nervously against his desk as he waged an internal war. Finally, his willpower crumbled, and he opened the email bearing the Eric Larson report. He scrolled through slowly, taking in the gruesome acts of The Nightmare. His hands began to tremble, then his forearms. Finally, his entire body was shaking, and he was forced to close the report.
His heart pounded in his chest, and he scrambled for pen and paper. Pressing the ballpoint in deep, he wrote, then underlined the word. LEVERAGE.
21
Wind and driving rain buffeted the helicopter. The pilot grimaced, struggling with stick, lever, and pedals to keep the bird airborne. She glanced at the instrument panel, then at a dim monitor that showed the helicopter’s position above Morgan County. Shaking her head, she spoke into her microphone. “We aren’t going to make it. We have to turn back.”
Jarrod unbuckled his seatbelt and moved closer to the Bell 429’s right rear door. Attired in nothing but his black metamaterial armor, he struck an imposing figure. His unnaturally defined and bulbous muscles twitched in the dim blue light, and his armor seemed to crawl along his skin. He keyed up a push-to-talk and said, “How far are we from the mountain?”
“Fifteen miles. I’m sorry, but I can’t get you any closer.”
Ward raised a hand to silence them. He held his phone tight against his ear, sheltering it beneath his headset. After several seconds, he exhaled forcefully and set the phone aside. “That was Kayla. She’s in position a half-mile downhill from the city, so she’ll be the primary means of extraction for you and Eric when the dust settles.”
Jarrod seemed to peer straight through Ward. “What’s the problem?”
“She…went in closer to do a quick recon. It seems Doyl knows we’re coming, though I have no idea how he found out.”
“That’s not a problem.”
Ward shook his head. “There’s more. In spite of the storm, Doyl positioned guards on the walls—hundreds of men and women.”
The armor at Jarrod’s collar bone crept up his neck, pooling in his eyes like spilled oil. “I will handle it.”
“I know you will, but I—” Ward stopped short as the helicopter banked sharply to the left. He held onto a handle above his head and leaned into his seat. “This is exactly what I was worried about. Collateral damage.”
Jarrod made no move to steady himself. His body seemed to float above the floorboard like a professional surfer riding a wave. “Don’t worry. No innocents will die tonight—not by my hands.”
“There’s too much risk, Jarrod. I think we should come back in a few hours when the storm has passed. Kayla can survey their defenses and report back; it’ll help mitigate the risk.”
“The weather ha
s made the call for us,” the pilot put in. “We have to get clear, or none of us will be involved in this rescue.”
Jarrod clicked the button. “This is close enough. Let me out here.”
The pilot shook her head. “I can’t land in these conditions. If we drop too much altitude, the wind shear might drive us straight into the ground.”
“Can you drop to five hundred feet?”
Despite needing to fight the controls, she slowly turned and looked over her shoulder. “Yes, but…why?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just take us down.”
She shifted further so she could look Ward in the eyes. He shrugged, then said, “Do it.”
The helicopter lurched downward, bleeding altitude in convulsive fits. As the ground drew closer, the pilot clenched her teeth and flipped a pair of night-vision goggles into place. “Five-fifty,” she grunted. “But I don’t see how this helps.”
Wind and rain blasted into the cabin. Jarrod had opened the rear door, and the wind tore it off its hinges. He stripped off his headset, tossed it to Ward, then plummeted backward into the darkness.
The impact sent a shockwave through his bones. Dense polymers incorporated into the cytoskeletons of his cells prevented any major damage, but the kinetic energy tore apart ligaments in his feet, legs, and hips. He ignored the pain and lay perfectly still, willing the micro and nanomachines toward the injured joints. Within thirty seconds, microscopic threads appeared in the damaged cartilage. The machines clumped together, ratcheting the connective tissue back into place. Five minutes after that, his body had healed every rip and tear.
Jarrod got to his feet and surveyed the surrounding terrain. The normally sunbaked soil was poorly equipped to handle heavy rain, and the torrent had already begun carving deep gullies. With three long strides, he reached the edge of an arroyo, knelt, then plunged his head into the water. What lay ahead would produce a tremendous amount of heat in his body, and he would need additional stores to cool himself. He pulled nearly two gallons into his stomach before getting to his feet.
His eyes focused, forming a composite image and piercing the rain. He shifted to face Holy Mountain, coiled the muscles in his legs, and launched himself forward.
22
The cell door made no sound as it pivoted on well-oiled hinges. Eric stepped inside, and his mouth fell open.
This room was twice the size of the one he had been detained in. And it was far from barren. Instead of an empty floor and unadorned walls, this cell had been packed from end-to-end with what looked like medieval torture devices. Racks, coffins, and wooden stocks and pillories lined the walls, and padded chains hung from the ceiling. Everything was padded and rubberized—probably to inflict as much pain as possible without leaving bruises—and sections of the floor had been replaced with sandpits. Small, round cages were held in place a few feet above the sand. The cages had water bottles attached and slots for food. They were designed, it seemed, to force victims to kneel in the coarse sand for days at a time.
Eric shuddered and hurried over to Cameron. The teenager was suspended by padded leather straps around his wrists and ankles. His body was parallel to the floor, inches above a bed of blunted nails. He was held in such a way that he could use his shoulders to raise himself above the nails, but any relaxation would force him to rest against their blunted tips. The boy was drenched in sweat, and his arms shook with the strain of holding himself up for hours.
Eric wrapped his arms around Cameron’s waist and lifted him up, even though the effort reopened several cuts on his back. Propping him on his hip to free up one hand, he unbuckled the straps, then gently lowered Cameron to the floor.
Relief washed over the boy’s face, and he bowed his head. After a long moment, he mumbled, “Sorry, I need a minute. This was only my third time in the hammock.”
Wincing with sympathy, Eric placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “Take your time. I’ll watch the door.”
It didn’t take long for Cameron to muster the strength to stand. Eric had barely checked the hallway when Cameron emerged from his cell.
“I have to admit, when the shooting started, I thought you were a goner.” Cameron glanced at the corpses in the hallway and clutched his stomach. “What are you, Special Forces or something?”
“A security contractor, actually.” He noticed that Cameron was looking down, and he gently lifted the boy’s chin. “Keep your head up. Focus on what’s ahead of you, not behind you, and we’ll get through this.”
Cameron hugged himself, then nodded. “What do we do now?”
“We only have two options: stay here and fight, or move forward and fight. This position is easy to defend, but there’s a chance they might rally and overwhelm us. If we move, we’ll be exposed and vulnerable, but we’ll have better mobility. There are risks with either choice, but whatever happens, I’m not leaving your side.”
Cameron glanced at the pockmarked hallway, then back at the torture chamber. “If it’s okay with you, I’d really like to get out of here.”
“Then stay close, and help me watch my back. Do you know the way to the nearest exit?”
The teenager pointed to the right.
“And how about the second-nearest exit?”
Cameron pointed to the left, then shrugged. “I know every inch of this place. Sneaking around is kind of a hobby of mine.”
Eric smiled. “Good. You can be my navigator.”
They left the relative safety of the Punishment Room and set out to the left. Eric walked heel-to-toe, holding a shotgun level. Cameron followed as quietly as he could and glanced over his shoulder every few seconds. When they came to an intersection, Cameron would tap Eric on the right shoulder, left shoulder, or in the center of his spine to indicate which way to go.
After three minutes of sneaking, they hadn’t seen or heard anyone prowling the corridors. When they reached an obscure exit at the top of a stairway, Eric had a sickening feeling they were walking into a trap. He had noticed more than a dozen security cameras along the way—it would be easy for Byron and his men to set up an ambush on the main level. But he had to move forward. If they stayed in the basement, the cultists would eventually figure out a way to trap and kill them.
He wiped the sweat from his palm and grasped the doorknob, then aimed the shotgun at the seam of the door. He visualized what he would do if he found a squad of guards on the other side, and his finger hovered above the trigger. He twisted the doorknob, and it didn’t budge. He frowned and tried again. Nothing.
“What’s wrong?” Cameron whispered.
Eric stepped back. “Locked. We might be able to trip the latch, though.”
Cameron shook his head. “No way. Not in the temple. I can pick any lock in the city, but not in here.”
After examining the edges of the door, Eric nodded in agreement. There were deadbolts on the top, bottom, and side, and they were probably electronically controlled. Which wasn’t good—if Byron could control which doors were locked with the push of a button, he could funnel them right into an ambush.
“Do you know any other way out? Are there doors that don’t lock?”
“No, they’re all like this one.” Cameron pondered for a moment, and his eyes lit up. “But we might be able to go through the floor.”
Eric shook his head in confusion, so Cameron continued, “I flooded a bathroom on the main level a few weeks ago, and they had to tear out the floor. I was supposed to fix it, but I never finished. They’re still waiting for the tiles to come in. I nailed down floorboards already, but I did a really crappy job. We might be able to pry them loose from underneath.”
Eric’s mind raced. If they could get past the security cameras and reach the main level by going through the ceiling, they might be able to sneak past the guards entirely. For the first time since he had been captured, he felt real hope. In his elation, he wrapped both arms around Cameron and held him tight. When he let go, Cameron gasped.
Eric’s brow furrowed at the
teenager’s terrified expression. He followed Cameron’s gaze to the bottom of the stairs, and his heart sank.
The barrel of a submachine gun stared back at him, and behind it, the glinting eyes of Kane Corvin. Through a dislocated jaw and two broken teeth, the bearded cultist hissed, “Drop your weapon, or the boy dies.”
23
Byron nodded in approval at the men and women patrolling the walls, even as lightning flashed overhead. His hard work had paid off—these people adored him so completely, so irrationally that they would gladly die for him. In the morning, he would allow some of them to rest, but for now, he needed the reassurance they provided. No man, regardless of how talented or ruthless he was, could get past the wall. And even if this ghastly vigilante made it into the city, there would be seven hundred adherents shooting down at him. The Nightmare would never make it to the temple.
Closing his eyes, Byron repeated the thought to himself. He will never enter this temple.
And yet, doubt tugged at his mind. It was doubt that had led him to take an additional precaution. If the stories were true, the shadowy man never attacked children. And children were in no short supply on Holy Mountain.
Byron closed the heavy doors and twisted a pair of latches, sliding four separate deadbolts into place. He turned around and smiled at two hundred and twelve expectant faces—the faces of every boy and girl between the ages of three and ten on Holy Mountain. “Don’t worry, my children. I will keep your parents safe, even in the storm. And the rest of us will enjoy storytime and cookies. Does that sound good?”
The anxiety didn’t fade from the young faces, but many of the children nodded.
Byron waded into the crowd, putting two dozen children between him and the door, then led them toward the Sanctuary. The procession compacted and moved forward slowly, spreading out when those in the lead reached the temple’s largest room. A few children filed into the pews to take their usual seats, but Byron raised his voice and told them to sit on the stage.
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