Jarrod shook his head. “I don’t want to live anymore, but my subconscious won’t let me kill myself, and the machines won’t let me die. I am a broken weapon with no purpose.”
Eugene pushed away from the wall. He couldn’t be certain if Jarrod’s remorse was genuine, but he believed it was with all of his heart. His thoughts raced, struggling to sift through right and wrong. Finally, he took a step forward and said, “So find a new purpose.”
Jarrod glanced up.
Eugene inhaled through his nose and continued, snapping off each word. “You killed my friend. Cry me a freakin’ river. Ever heard the term, ‘blue-on-blue?’ How about, “Friendly fire?’ You think you’re the first person to regret what they’ve done in combat? You think you’re the first soldier to make a mistake?”
He tapped himself in the sternum. “Think again. I hate myself for the people I’ve killed. I wish I had never joined the marines or learned how to fire a rifle. I wish rifles had never been invented. But I don’t get to snap my fingers and change the world. Weapons exist because evil men exist. And good men like you and me can either choose to let evil men hurt innocent people, or we can pick up weapons of our own and fight back.
“I’m pissed you killed Agent Ford. Just like I was pissed when U.S. artillery killed my best friend in Afghanistan. But when the smoke cleared, I didn’t march back to base and shoot the guys that had been manning the Howitzer. Why? Because I realized that no one is perfect, and sometimes war just sucks. It’s time for you to accept that you aren’t the perfect soldier, you’re just a soldier. And war sucks. Big time.
“You feel guilty about the people you’ve killed? Good. It means you aren’t a psychopath. But it really, really pisses me off to hear you say you don’t have a purpose. Katharos is still out there, and they can kill billions of people if they want to. You are the most capable operative on the planet, and I’m not going to let you sit around and watch the world burn.”
Jarrod stared at Eugene, unblinking. “Katharos is still operational?”
“Operational, and more dangerous than ever. Because now, they’re desperate.”
Jarrod nodded slowly. “What would you have me do?”
Eugene’s dour expression softened, then lifted into a smirk. “Get some therapy, because you’re a Grade-A headcase. After that, we’ll talk.”
San cleared his throat. “Jarrod, is there somewhere you can lay low? I don’t think bringing you to Hillcrest is a good idea. Some of the staff members might not be as…sympathetic as Eugene and I when it comes to Agent Ford’s death.”
Jarrod lowered his head. “Agent Janson. Did she…survive?”
“Yes. But I’m afraid she may never forgive you for what you did to her, and to Ford.”
“I deserve all her anger and more.” Jarrod turned toward the door. “I can think of only one place where I will be welcome. I will have to commandeer a vehicle to get there, but I should be able to arrive tonight.”
San snatched his keys off a peg on the wall. “Don’t worry; I’ll drive. We have a lot to talk about.” Turning to Eugene, he added, “Thank you, for everything. I would be lost without you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Maybe I’ll write a self-help book someday. A heavily-redacted self-help book.” Eugene shoved his hands into his pockets, then nodded at Jarrod. “Take care of yourself. And don’t kill anyone without my permission, got it?”
48
Ashley Forest, South Carolina
Kayla awoke to the sound of the doorbell ringing. She glanced at the clock, then at her phone. No missed calls, no messages—no reason for someone to visit her home unannounced at this hour. Her hand snaked out from beneath the covers, and she typed a six-digit combination into a miniature gun safe hidden under the bed. As her fingers wrapped around her Glock 19, she felt the bed shift; Eric was reaching for the gun safe on his side of the bed.
Tossing the covers aside, she stood and racked the slide on her pistol to chamber a round. “It’s alright, I’ve got this.” She dressed in a bathrobe and dropped the Glock into an oversized pocket. “I’m sure it’s nothing—Heidelberg probably got drunk and drove up the wrong driveway.”
Eric sank back against his pillow, thankful to stay in bed. “If it’s him, tell him I’ll kick his ass if I catch him drinking and driving again.” He held up his Kimber 1911. “And yell if you need backup.”
She smiled. “I’ll be fine. But thank you for offering.” She padded across the carpet, slipping into the hallway and moving quietly toward the front door. She paused in the living room, typed a code into a wall-mounted computer screen, and viewed the live footage from the camera hidden on the porch.
A man reached for the doorbell, pressed it, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He looked to be in his late fifties, was slightly overweight, and had black and gray hair. And he looked nervous.
Kayla studied the screen a moment longer, looking for signs of a concealed weapon and finding none. Finally, she approached the door and twisted the deadbolt. She left the chain in place as she opened the door and spoke through the gap. “Can I help you?” Her voice was high and friendly, and her face betrayed no suspicion, but her right hand grasped the Glock in her pocket, aiming it at the stranger’s chest.
“I’m sorry to just…show up like this, but I had no choice. My name is Santiago Torres, and I’m here on behalf of a mutual friend.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who?”
The man leaned closer. “Jarrod Hawkins.”
Kayla’s expression sank into deep sorrow without missing a beat. She brought one hand to her mouth and said, “I’ve been expecting this for a long time, but you can’t truly prepare, can you? Did you find his body?”
The man frowned. “I’m sorry…I don’t—”
She shook her head. “It’s hard to believe it’s been almost eighteen months since he disappeared. But a part of me still expects him to call, or walk right out of a crowd and give me a hug.”
“I—maybe there’s some sort of mistake. Are you Kayla Larson?”
She nodded, though she kept her gaze focused on the middle-distance.
“Mrs. Larson, I’m fully aware that you’ve been in touch with Jarrod recently. And—” He paused, took a deep breath, and continued. “He asked me to talk to you first because he was worried he might frighten you. He has been in an, uh, accident, and his appearance is quite different from what you remember.”
Kayla was wearing her best poker face. “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Torres. Is my friend alive, or not?”
The man’s shoulders sagged. “I promise, this isn’t a trick.” He pivoted and waved at someone waiting in the darkness. A second man approached and stood on the porch.
Kayla’s breath caught in her chest. His face looked like something out of a horror movie, and she suddenly hoped this really was a trick—a ruse to get her to admit her connection to the massacre at Holy Mountain. She swallowed, then whispered, “Jarrod? Is that you?”
The man nodded, his eyes downcast. A black tendril crawled upward from beneath his hood, and soon his face was covered with a featureless mask.
The door slammed shut, the chain clattered, and the door swung open again. Kayla wrapped Jarrod in her arms, tucking her face into his neck. “Oh, Jarrod…what happened to you?”
Jarrod hugged her back and pulled the metamaterial away from his face. “It’s alright; the scars will heal. But I…I…”
Kayla stepped back and studied him. She had never seen her friend at a loss for words, and it frightened her. “What is it?”
When Jarrod didn’t respond, Santiago spoke up. “His father passed away.”
This time, the shock on Kayla’s face was genuine. “Adam is dead?” She placed a hand on the door to steady herself. “When? And how?”
Santiago bowed his head. “He died of a heart attack, three days ago.”
“Three days? Why hasn’t anyone told me?”
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Larson. His death has been hidden from the
public for reasons of national security. Your employer, Thomas Ward, was present. We asked him to wait a week before telling anyone. But now you know, so he can give you the details if Jarrod isn’t feeling up to it.”
Kayla took Jarrod’s hand. She gazed into his eyes and said, “What can I do to help?”
San tapped the brakes and glanced over his shoulder one last time before he left the long gravel driveway. Though this was his first time meeting Kayla and Eric Larson, he knew he could trust them. They had welcomed Jarrod into their home like a prodigal son, embracing him and sharing the burden of his sorrow.
As the rusty sedan picked up speed, San felt warmth blossoming in his chest. Eugene was right—hope lies in small victories. To Katharos, human beings were nothing but numbers in an equation. San’s decision to put his worries aside and help his friend when he needed him most was not logical, but deep down, he knew it was right.
There was pain in the days ahead, pain San could avoid by numbing himself to casualty reports, or by treating a lost soldier as he would a pawn removed from the chessboard. But if the pain was what set him apart from Katharos, then he was glad for it.
Because a world with no value for human life is a world that isn’t worth fighting for.
49
September 14th
Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center
Baltimore, Maryland
Janson limped along the hallway, her fingertips grazing the rough wall. Every step brought searing pain, and she was forced to pause and rest every few feet. But she always clenched her teeth and pressed on, moving as quickly as her shattered body would allow. Soon, someone would realize she was gone or see her struggling. Her hand dipped slightly as it reached a doorway, and she stopped to feel its edges.
Please, she thought, let him be here.
She made a fist and banged on the steel door, ignoring the shockwaves of pain rippling through her arm. “If you’re in there, open up! We need to talk.”
The door slid open, and she nearly lost her balance as she stumbled into the room.
“Agent Janson? Good heavens, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be resting.” A pair of bony hands took her by the arm. “Please, take a seat.”
Janson felt the air behind her until her pinky glanced off the arm of a chair. She gripped the seat and lowered herself, thankful for the soft cushion. “Are we alone?”
“Er, yes.”
She turned her head toward the sound of Dean Wagner’s voice. “Good.” She set her mouth in a thin line, expressing emotion she could no longer express with her eyes. “Because I want to talk to you about Jarrod Hawkins.”
There was a tremor in Wagner’s voice as he said, “Why? Jarrod is dead.”
“Is he?” She smiled. “I talked to San this morning. He just wanted to wish me well, but I wanted to know what happened in Charlotte—if we nailed the psychotic machine that killed Clint. San’s a smart guy, but he’s a terrible liar. Jarrod is alive. I guarantee it.”
“Agent Janson, I don’t really have the pull around here that I used to—”
Janson interrupted him by tapping his desk with a bandaged index finger. “Project Nerium failed because of you. Jarrod Hawkins is out there killing people because you screwed up. And I’m willing to bet that big brain of yours has been trying to figure out how to stop him ever since he walked out the front door.”
Wagner didn’t speak.
“Do any of those ideas involve bio-enhancements?”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to make me stronger.”
She could hear him shifting nervously in his seat. “You have already undergone extensive modifications in the Alpha Experiments. There’s no need to worry; your strength will return as your body heals.”
Janson clenched her fists hard enough to crack the casts on her wrists. “It’s not enough! I want you to rebuild me. I want you to make me strong enough and fast enough to kill Jarrod Hawkins, once and for all.”
THE END
From the Author
Thanks for reading! Jarrod’s story continues in book six of the Dark Vigilante series, Heir to the Nightmare. You can find it by searching on Amazon for “J. J. Carlson” or by clicking this link: https://amzn.to/2YfGUbk
Before writing Summon the Nightmare, I researched over a dozen cults from the 1960s, ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s. Many of these cults, though based on different religions from around the world, shared a common thread: they justified selfishness. They encouraged their followers to ignore their moral compasses and seek happiness, no matter the cost. This, in turn, led to sexual depravity—group sex, polygamy, child molestation, sadism, and more.
I was reading the same story over and over. Four decades of different cults, different leaders, and different dogma. But they all had the same foundation of manipulation. These cults took advantage of humanity’s hardwired need for love and affection in order to draw in followers by the thousands. And they will continue to do so as long as human beings inhabit the earth.
The realization that these cults will keep on adapting and drawing in new victims sickened me. I decided to write a book about it, and Summon the Nightmare was born. But I didn’t realize a modern sex cult would arrive in the headlines just two months before the book was published.
I won’t name the cult here. It will suffice to say that the leader was involved in extortion, sadism, child pornography, sex trafficking, and forced abortions. As despicable as my fictional villains can be, they pale in comparison to their real-world counterparts.
I knew nothing about this modern-day cult when I wrote Summon the Nightmare. I didn’t need to. Cult leaders brainwash their followers the same way human traffickers brainwash sex slaves. They understand that people have basic needs that can be exploited. That’s why cults, though despicable in hindsight, continue to recruit new “Adherents.”
But the battle isn’t lost. We can fight back—not as vigilantes, but as advocates for the victims of these heinous crimes.
Be wary, be bold, be informed. But most of all, be kind.
-JJ
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