by Justin Bell
DARKNESS
RISING
Darkness Rising Series
Book 1
By
Justin Bell
Mike Kraus
© 2018 Muonic Press Inc
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www.JustinBellAuthor.com
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Table of Contents
Preface
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Author’s Notes
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Preface
Agent Liu crept forward in his deep crouch, staying low to the slanted metal roof. He glanced down over the edge at the parking lot below, which had several cars sprinkled throughout it, even at this ungodly hour in the morning. Drifting to the right, he spotted a dark blue panel van which was parked nose out, facing Summer Street, which cut between their observation area and the container terminal itself.
Setting up these stakeouts was always a challenge—making sure you weren’t too close to the action, but close enough to react quickly when things went down.
Time would tell if anything actually would go down today. For six months the radio chatter had been off the charts, a lot of it seeming to indicate a possible terrorist threat by ISIS on domestic soil. But the chatter had almost been too obvious and too frequent. Typical infiltrated communications never got too specific; they always had to go through several layers of analysis and opinion over in Fort Meade, and even then rarely did multiple agencies agree on the potential threat level.
Still, there was an edge to this recent chatter. A sense that this was more than your typical false blind. There might be some meat on this bone.
Liu looked at the van again, mentally counting off the agents that were inside. There were four of them total, a small team for a potentially dangerous operation, though they had Boston S.W.A.T. on call just in case. Liu liked what he did for the CBP and for Homeland Security, and recently there had been more than enough action to satisfy his thirst. Liu let his eyes drift upwards for a brief moment, looking at the pale pink pre-dawn sky, an unusual shade even for so early in the day, looking as if a child had chosen the wrong color to paint with. The clouds were thick, drawing off white curtains in front of the sun, though the faint orange glow could be seen just behind.
“Black Cat, this is Black Bird. You’re not sleeping on me, are you?”
“Negative, Bird,” Liu replied quickly. “Holding our position.” Though he couldn’t see it through the thick clouds of pre-dawn morning, Liu knew the support chopper was up there, watching over them.
“Roger. Freighter has docked and we have movement at the front-loading ramp, do you copy?”
Liu moved the binoculars to his face and looked through, narrowing the field of vision on a ridged, metal ramp that now extended from the angled side of the freighter to the loading dock near where the twin cranes stood.
He could see the vague shape of a few figures moving around on the boat and moving towards the ramp. Something didn’t feel right about this. Something hadn’t felt right about this since the chatter started.
“Ground Team, are you seeing this?” Liu asked.
“We’ve got eyes on it, but our angle’s bad, boss,” a voice replied. It was Sanderson. “Should we move in closer?”
“We’ve got eyes in the sky, Sanderson,” Liu replied. “Sit tight.”
Liu instinctively pressed his palm to the holster on his right hip and suddenly wished that he was more heavily armed than the government issued .40 caliber P2000 strapped there. Sanderson had the carbine inside the van, and he was definitely the best shot with it, but that didn’t make Liu feel any less naked.
“Black Cat, we’ve got eyes on a black duffel bag…hold up.”
Liu froze. Their intel had specifically mentioned the black duffel bag. Well, the chatter had just called it a black bag, but that seemed close enough for government work. This was government work, after all.
“Black Cat, we’ve got movement!” Black Bird’s voice chimed from Liu’s earpiece. “A dark van is coming in to intercept. Men on the ramp are running towards it, I think they might have spotted us!”
“Dammit!” Liu shouted, slamming his binoculars in the pouch on his left leg.
“Ground team, sounds like our air team just got blown. They’re on the move!”
Down below Liu could hear the dull roar of a diesel engine, and as it cranked to life, he charged forward, slipping off the edge of the metal roof. The brick building he was stationed on wasn’t exceptionally tall, and he dropped about eight feet before hitting the tall roof of a white pickup truck, his knees bending low to absorb the impact. Vaulting from the roof and feeling only a little guilty about the two size eleven dents he left in the roof, Liu hit the concrete and ran, crossing the parking lot in several swift strides. To his left he saw the blue van jolt backwards from its parking spot, brakes screeching as it clunked into gear.
By the time the van slammed over the low curb out into the road, Liu was at the tall, chain-link fence that separated Summer Street from the Conley Container Terminal, and in one leap he was three quarters of the way to the top. As he tossed himself over the other side, just to his right, the van slammed through the closed door of the fence, tearing the gate from its hinges and throwing it aside like discarded trash.
Liu angled right and jumped into the opening of his team’s van just as the driver hammered on the gas and sent it lurching violently forward. He leaned over between the two seats and looked out the windshield and could see the form of the other dark van growing quickly smaller as it steered away.
The van bolted forward across the parking lot, attempting an intercept course with the vehicle ahead, but they were still lagging just a little too far behind. Up ahead the other van twisted right and jumped a curb, bursting out onto a crabgrass and dirt covered vacant lot that ran parallel to the huge concrete building, rolling over the uneven ground and jostling up and down over the rocks and dirt.
In the pale light of dawn, a glint of metal shined from ahead of the dark van. “If they bust that fence and hit First Street, they’re gone!” Liu shouted, his voice echoing between the metal walls.
The hood of the van crashed into the chain link fence separating First Street from the vacant lot, sending the van lumbering out into the empty road.
Out of nowhere, a dark blur hurtled from the right, screaming down the street like a large, eight-cylinder bullet. The blunt front grill of the armored truck slammed broadside into the dark-colored van, punching into it like a fist into an aluminum can. There was a rending crunch of metal on metal as the van leaped into the air, tipping left and rolling over. Cockeyed in the street, the Boston S.W.A.T. truck
’s engine shuttered slightly, a thin wisp of steam reaching out from under the flattened hood.
“Careful, we’ve got movement!” a voice shouted in Liu’s ear, and he threw up a closed fist, telling Sandy to take it slow.
“Gun! Gun!” Liu shouted the two words, peeling himself away from the van and clasping both hands around the P2000 pistol. In the middle of First Street, the figure stood and turned, bringing up a K2 assault rifle. Liu adjusted slightly, squeezing off a pair of shots into the withdrawing darkness. The bullets smacked the side of the van in a series of bright sparks and the figure returned fire, his weapon chattering loud and long. Liu pulled back, turning and lowering his pistol as rounds thumped into the metal hide of the armored van.
Agent Sanderson shouldered his M-4 carbine and fired three times before hearing a muffled shout echo from the van ahead.
“You've got another coming from the opposite side!"
Black Bird's voice echoed in Liu’s ear as he made his way towards the front of the van.
“He's got the bag!"
Liu came around the hood, bringing his pistol up. He double tapped, the weapon kicking in his firm grasp.
The bag spilled from the man's hand as he shouted and toppled forward, crumpling to the paved surface of First Street.
“Get HazMat here!” Liu shouted into the air. “We need that bag!”
Liu's heart was an uncontrolled jackhammer as he looked up towards the sky and absorbed the beauty of the pink dawn sunrise. It was a sight he didn't think he'd ever forget.
He had no idea how right he was.
***
Around the same time that Agent Brandon Liu looked up in appreciation of a pink sunrise, a Challenger CL-601 business class private jet began its descent towards coastal United States. The sleek, white aircraft broke through the clouds, easing its way down into blue sky, the perimeter of California stretching out a few thousand feet below. The Pacific Ocean was a smooth slate of green and blue and from this altitude, the waves were more or less imperceptible.
“We have a CL-601 on approach,” Agent Houston said into his wrist-strapped microphone.
“Right on schedule,” Jameson replied. He stood less than ten feet to Houston’s left, binoculars pressed to his eyes and an M-4 semi-automatic strapped over his wide shoulders.
“What did we bet again?” asked Houston. “Lunch? Or tickets to the Giants?”
“You trying to fleece me for tickets?” Jameson replied.
“Lunch it is,” Houston said. “I’ll be expecting another extravagant meal at the taco truck.”
“Those are gourmet tacos, man. Expensive chow.”
“Next time, don’t place the bet.”
The most recent intercepts had warned of a small aircraft making landfall in California just as the sun was preparing to rise on this fine Tuesday morning. Houston had thought the information was pretty intricate for an intercept, but his bosses at Homeland had told him to go, so he strapped up and went. That’s the way this gig worked.
After retrieving the two spotters, the truck took off, crossing out into the street, the low light of pre-dawn bracketing the small shape of the plane up in the sky. Houston squinted up at the moving shadow.
Something didn’t look right.
As the truck thumped out onto the road, Houston spoke into his walkie. “I’m not liking this flight path. It’s veering north of SFO. We got any other private airfields in the area?”
There was a few heartbeats of silence, then a voice replied. “San Raphael. It’s north on 101 just a ways.”
Houston looked over at Jameson. “Right over the bridge?”
“Affirmative.”
“Damn,” hissed Jameson.
In the dozens of terrorist exercises the two Customs and Border Patrol agents had participated in, the Golden Gate Bridge had been a primary target in almost all of them. When they’d intercepted this latest chatter, they’d assumed the plane would come into SFO. That assumption may have been wrong.
“Forget San Francisco International,” Houston barked into his radio. “Get to 101, take us to San Raphael, and don’t wait for the red lights!”
There was no verbal reply, but he could hear the clunk and grind of a shifted gear and the truck surged forward, hanging a right and heading towards the Presidio. Houston looked through the binoculars again, keeping the plane cornered in the twin circles.
“Yeah it’s heading to San Raphael.”
“So what does that mean about the rest of the intel?” Jameson asked.
“Hell if I know, but for now, we play this straight.”
The black truck followed Veterans Boulevard onto 101 and hurtled towards the Golden Gate Bridge. Agent Lopez slammed his fist down on the horn, blasting at accumulating traffic on the busy road, which was surprisingly thick, even at this early hour in the morning.
Houston dropped down behind the cab of the truck, sheltering himself from the wind, and pulled the carbine from his shoulders, checking the magazine and then slamming it home. Jameson watched the plane as it continued its steady descent, lowering itself through the lightening sky.
“Did the intel say what these jerks are carrying?” he asked.
“Nope,” replied Houston. “Least not as far as I know, but they never tell us the good stuff.”
Houston looked back up again at the path of the plane, then looked over to his right as they passed Horseshoe Bay, heading up the thinning traffic towards Sausalito. The plane was low in the sky now, getting dreadfully close to landing. Houston pounded the roof of the truck, as if that might magically increase their speed.
***
At the administrative offices of Customs and Border Protection, a phone chirped and Agent Brunfield scowled at it as if it were a hunk of rotted meat.
Setting his coffee mug down, he scooped up the handset and worked it into the crook of his neck as he settled himself into the metal folding chair behind the desk.
“This is Brunfield. Kind of in the middle of something.”
“Chuck? It’s Brandon. Brandon Liu, from Boston.”
“Liu?” Brunfield asked, screwing up his face. “Long time no talk, man. What’s up?”
“Listen. I think you’ve been hearing a lot of the same chatter we have, and we put a stop to something this morning. Just in the nick of time by the looks of it.”
Brunfield adjusted his posture, suddenly paying a lot closer attention to the voice on the phone. As he straightened, he adjusted the handset.
“Yeah, we’re in the middle of some of that now.”
“Damn.”
“What’s going on, Liu?” There was a moment of silence on the other end, a silence that made Brunfield exceptionally uncomfortable. “Brandon, talk to me, man.”
“We dropped a couple of bad guys. Four of them, actually. Three of them were Koreans.”
“What the hell?”
“Right? Our thoughts, too. But more importantly they were carrying something. Something pretty goddamned scary.”
“I’m listening.”
“It was a nuke, Chuck. A suitcase nuke.”
Charles Brunfield sat rigid in the cold, metal chair, not moving, not speaking, his hand wrapped tight around the phone.
“Say that again?”
“A nuclear device, Chuck. It was lying in a canvas bag in the middle of First Street in Boston, for Christ’s sake. If you guys are hearing the same chatter we are—”
“Jesus, Brandon. Yes, we are. But not just us. Almost every office across the country has been hearing this chatter. That’s partly why we’re engaging it.”
“Tell your guys to play it careful, okay? This is serious. Deadly serious.”
“How far you spreading this word?” Brunfield asked.
“Far as I can. I need to keep calling, man. Get your boys on the horn and tell them to do this right.”
“On it.”
“Stay safe, Chuck.”
Charles Brunfield set the phone in its cradle, his eyes refusing to blink, th
e moisture drying from his lips. There must have been some kind of mistake. He swept the phone back from its cradle and immediately dialed his supervisor.
***
“What do you mean you lost sight of the plane?” Jameson shouted as Houston shifted in the back of the truck.
“I mean, I lost sight of the plane. It went down behind the trees!”
“Okay, we’re less than a mile from the airport,” Jameson said, turning his arm to speak into his communications device. “Proceed to San Raphael, we’ve lost sight of the plane, but believe it’s landed. Move quick and smart!”
Houston tossed the binoculars to his feet in the back of the truck, then picked up his weapon. With a lurching swerve, the vehicle pulled off onto the Smith Ranch Road exit, the road getting a little rougher compared to the freeway.
“Hold on, we got somebody coming! Full speed!”
“Is that them? Did they have enough time to disembark and get in a car?” Jameson asked, wrapping his fingers around the carbine but not lifting it above the raised side of the bed.
The car slowed slightly as it passed and Jameson leaned out further.
“You guys see a Challenger—?”
The car slammed forward just as it neared them, and Jameson glared into the windows as they passed.
“Dude in the back had an AK!” He slammed his palm on the roof of the truck in rapid succession. “Turn around! Those are our boys!”
The tires ground to a halt as the truck whipped its back end around, leaving black smears on the pavement as the vehicle charged forward, chasing down the red sports car.
The red car lit up the entrance ramp and was on 101 South before they could even blink, but Lopez kept the pedal to the metal and began closing the distance as the Golden Gate Bridge was coming into view.
On his belt, Jameson’s smart phone buzzed shrilly and vibrated, jolting at his hip. He glanced down at it, then shook his head. “I don’t have time for you, Brunfield.”