Eden's Exodus (Plague Wars Series Book 3)

by David VanDyke

  The man lifted his arm and brought the hammer down once more onto the head of the nail with a steady thud.

  Ramón the Razor vomited onto himself and his head lolled back until Spooky could only see his neck and chin. The man’s color had paled.

  “Don’t let him pass out,” said Spooky.

  The first man reached down into the bag and pulled out a syringe filled with clear liquid. He popped the cap off and jammed it into Ramón’s thigh before pushing the plunger down.

  Ramón started breathing rapidly as his head came back forward. He looked around at them and then down at his crotch.

  “Believe it or not,” said Spooky. “We have not yet done you any lasting damage. That nail’s head can be cut off, and testicles are very resilient organs. The damaged one will swell and be very painful for a while, but you should make a full recovery.” Spooky stood and walked over close to the man. He grasped him by the hair and lifted his head so they could look each other in the eyes. “I have not yet hurt you...but I will. That was just a taste. Why don’t we start over?”

  “Fuck you,” said Ramón weakly. He tried to spit in Spooky’s face, but only succeeded in a thin dribble down his chin.

  “Believe it or not, I respect that. I didn’t give you enough credit. I figured you for the type that would fold like a lily in a soft summer’s breeze, but you’ve shown you have some cojones.” Spooky smiled bleakly. “Well...one cojon anyway.”

  “I’m going to kill you all,” Ramón whispered.

  “This isn’t working,” said Spooky to his assistants. “Let’s try something else. Your little sister, Monica. Did she inherit your tolerance for pain?”

  The man looked at Spooky with wide eyes. “What the hell kind of Edens are you?”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear or read on the internet,” said Spooky, “but I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t change the subject. Are you going to make us put your sister through something similar, to get you to cooperate?”

  “You wouldn’t,” Ramón said softly.

  “How dumb can you be? Wait, don’t answer that question,” he said tapping on the head of the nail embedded in the chair. “I think you already answered that one.”

  “Do you think you’re really going to get away with this?” Ramón answered. “No one goes against the Mendoles Cartel and lives. No one. You’ll all...AHHHH…”

  “What’s the problem?” asked Spooky.

  Ramón was looking down at his crotch. The bleeding had stopped and the wound had closed tightly around the nail.

  “What you are experiencing is the wonderful healing properties of the Eden plague,” said Spooky. “You see, that shot we gave you not only contained adrenaline, but the virus as well. Unfortunately for you, that wound is healing with the nail inside, which is causing you a certain degree of discomfort, I believe.”

  “I can take the pain,” Ramón said.

  “But for how long? You know, now that you’re an Eden, this will never end. I can hurt you and you will heal. Then we can do it again. How many times do you want to experience this, and worse?” Spooky picked up another nail. “Perhaps we should move on to the toes next. Or the fingers?”

  “You can go to hell.”

  Spooky glanced over at his henchmen in amusement, and then squatted down to bring his head to his prisoner’s level. “I don’t think I could write a better straight line, Ramón, so I can’t resist saying…no, you’ll be going to hell first. The difference is, I can send you there every day, and then bring you back just long enough to despair.”

  “The devil take you,” Ramón snarled.

  Spooky sighed and stood. “Fingers, I think. A centimeter at a time.”

  By the time two and a half digits were gone, Ramón had lost all composure, simply screaming and gasping.

  Spooky ordered a break. “Soon, mi amigo, you’ll have no fingers at all. And then no toes. The Eden Plague doesn’t do anything about pain, by the way. If anything, it enhances it, because pain is the body’s way of conditioning you not to do stupid things.”

  “Okay…”

  “What?”

  “Okay,” Ramón mumbled. “Okay, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “I thought you’d come around,” said Spooky and nodded at his men.

  They pulled a small circular saw from their bag and plugged it into the wall. They then cut the head off the nail and pulled forcefully on Ramón’s damaged but healing testicle until it popped off the stump.

  Ramón screamed again and gasped. He lay slumped and panting, before finally looking at Spooky. “You are one sick bastard to come up with shit like that.”

  “Oh, I didn’t come up with it,” said Spooky. “A Chinese interrogator performed it on me when I was young. Don’t feel bad. I talked as well. Trust me, you’ll never forget.” He turned back to his two assistants. “Go ahead and get a full debrief. I doubt you will have any further resistance. I’ll expect the full report in my desk tonight.”

  “What about the Mendoles Cartel?” said the man still holding the circular saw. “They’ll know that the assassin failed and that we have him.”

  Spooky thought for a moment. “Let’s send them a message.”

  “What type of message?” the man asked.

  “The kind that cannot be misinterpreted,” said Spooky. “Why don’t we see what Reaper’s new team can do?”

  * * *

  In his office, Spooky opened the messages from Cassandra and Skull, reading them twice and then leaning back in his chair. Cassandra’s had been only intended for Markis, but Spooky had long ago inserted a tap on the Chairman’s communications.

  The mission is a no-go, he thought. It can’t succeed without military gear, money, or support from the Israelis. It will take a miracle for Skull to even get into Ethiopia with the Mossad on his trail.

  The Prince Richard contact is an interesting development, though. It might be useful to see if they can actually influence the Kenyans after the Israelis have pulled out. We can also always use the Queen’s false death and new identity in Australia as leverage to get what we want from the Brits.

  “There is no way they can possibly succeed,” he whispered. “It was a high-risk mission to begin with, which is the reason I wasn’t willing to commit many of my resources.”

  He read Skull’s warning again and smiled. So amateurish, he thought. Never warn a target of your actions. Still, it won’t do to make a real enemy of someone as unpredictable and resourceful as Skull. At least not until I have a plan to either pull him back into the fold or eliminate him.

  Then Spooky laughed at himself. Yet it seems Skull’s threat has had the desired effect, for it’s influencing my thinking. Perhaps he’s not quite as amateurish as all that. I must guard against underestimating him.

  Spooky decided to go down and talk to the Chairman about the situation. He’d recommend keeping all options open and seeing how the situation developed, but not to take any major risks to intervene.

  He started to stand, and noticed another sheet of paper on his desk. It was a list of the people remaining on Reaper’s team, after the latest round of eliminations. She was now down to thirty-nine.

  “Too many,” Spooky said to himself. “Far too many. Especially if we do have to go to Africa for Cassandra’s damned fool rescue mission. Time to start thinning the herd.”

  Spooky looked at the names on the list and crossed off nine more, reducing the team to thirty. He made sure his wild cards were still in the mix. He would cross off another ten to fifteen after the Mendoles operation – if they didn’t get killed.

  This will really piss her off, Spooky thought. Exactly how I want her. She works better when she’s worried.

  He locked his office and went to see Markis.

  Chapter 12

  The small boat in which Skull and Zinabu traveled headed almost due south before cutting west. The boat’s captain, not a Falasha this time, to the immense disapproval of Zinabu, was nervous about approaching the
coasts of Egypt or Sudan.

  “The Caliphate raiders come farther and farther out into the water,” Captain Shafiq told them. “They use Islam as an excuse to steal from people and have enslaved many, even fellow Muslims. We will be in Eritrea soon.”

  “Yeah,” said Skull, “I’ve been thinking about that. We’re going to need you to put us in a little farther south. Djibouti should be good.”

  “Djibouti is no good,” said Shafiq. “Somali pirates come up into those waters.”

  “What kind of sea captain are you?” asked Skull. “You can’t go north and you can’t go south. How do you make a living just working this narrow strip?”

  “Eritrea,” the captain insisted. “That was the agreement.”

  “What’s going on?” Zinabu asked.

  Skull leaned over and whispered to him. “I’ve been thinking about our less-than-hospitable exit from the Jewish state. The Mossad had worked out a deal not only with the Kenyans for asylum for the refugees, but with the Eritreans to allow us to land and come into their country. You heard Benjamin back there. They can’t allow our mission to go forward. How best to sabotage it than to tell the Eritreans to stop us?”

  “It’s a long coastline,” said Zinabu. “And we don’t even know if they are looking for us.”

  “Yes,” hissed Skull, “but don’t you think it’s better to be safe than sorry. Besides, Djibouti is farther south and closer to our destination anyway.”

  “I don’t know. We already worked out a deal with the captain. An agreement was reached; we cannot go back on it now.”

  “Why not?” asked Skull.

  “Because...well...because...”

  “Captain,” yelled Skull. “Change of course. Get us to a deserted part of the Djibouti coast.”

  Shafiq shook his head. “Eritrea.”

  “What we have here is a failure to communicate,” said Skull, standing up and walking toward the captain. “Turny the wheely thingy southy.”

  Shafiq shook his head and hung on tightly to the wheel.

  “Oh, mother of God,” said Skull in disgust. “Why does it always have to be this way?”

  “Maybe we should just go to Eritrea,” said Zinabu. “We can just catch another boat south.”

  “You’re missing the point,” said Skull. “There might be people looking for us in Eritrea. People who do not have our best interests at heart. Non-Falashas, to put it in terms you can relate to. You get me?”

  “Eritrea,” said the captain forcefully, pointing straight ahead.

  Skull sighed. “Now, Shafiq. Work with me here. Is it more money you’re looking for? If so, maybe we can do something about that. I’m willing to hear you make your best case. Talk to me, buddy.”

  “No Djibouti,” Shafiq said. “Somali pirates very bad.”

  “Not as bad as I can be,” said Skull, all levity leaving his face. “Why does it always come down to this?” he mumbled. Pulling one of his pistols from the small of his back, he walked over to place the barrel against the side of the man’s head.

  “What are you doing?” asked Zinabu.

  “Djibouti,” Skull said to the captain, ignoring his comrade’s concern. “Now.”

  The captain flicked his eyes toward Skull, but didn’t move. “No.”

  “Frankly, Shafiq I don’t get it,” said Skull. “You’re willing to risk your life to avoid a danger that you may not even run into? I’m right here and can be very pirate-like if that helps you decide.”

  “Alan,” said Zinabu standing up to walk over toward them.

  “You stay put,” said Skull, pointing a finger at the Ethiopian. He turned back to Shafiq. “Okay, I’m going to be plain. You got five seconds to turn this boat southwest or I’ll blow your brains all over the deck. One.”

  “What are we doing here?” asked Zinabu.

  “Two.”

  “Eritrea,” said the captain.

  “Three.”

  “Stop it!” yelled Zinabu.

  “Four.”

  “Pirates very bad,” said Shafiq.

  “Five.”

  “No!” screamed Zinabu rushing forward.

  Skull swung the barrel of his pistol back and slapped it against the base of the captain’s head, catching him as he fell and easing him to the deck.

  Zinabu knelt beside the captain and examined his head. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “I thought you’d be relieved,” said Skull. “Up until a few seconds ago you thought I was going to kill him.”

  “I am relieved,” said Zinabu, dabbing at the back of the man’s bloody head with a rag. “But in the short time I have known you, you have struck me as the sort of man who is in a frightful hurry to use violent measures.”

  “You are a shrewd judge of character, my friend,” said Skull.

  Zinabu shook his head and then looked at the wheel. “Who is going to get us there now?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Skull grabbing the wheel. “A Marine knows how to drive boats. You’re in good hands.”

  Zinabu merely grunted and tended to the fallen man.

  Skull used the GPS and maritime charts to keep them away from the Eritrean coast and heading south. Putting in at the right spot in Djibouti would be difficult; there weren’t that many deserted stretches of beach in the small country, but he had a few ideas.

  Shafiq had regained consciousness and been incensed at the sight of Skull driving his boat. He had screamed through the gag and thrashed against the ropes to no avail.

  “Just enjoy the ride,” said Skull. “I think you’ll find that as far as mutinies go, this one ain’t so bad.”

  It was near sunset when they were a few miles out from the beach Skull had chosen. He studied it through binoculars for several long minutes.

  “What do you see?” asked Zinabu.

  “Nothing,” said Skull, “which is exactly what I was looking for. Come on, let’s load our gear into the skiff.”

  Zinabu pointed at the captain. “Are we just going to leave him tied up?”

  “Don’t worry about him; just drop the anchor and load our gear.” Skull went below and with surgical precision used his knife to disable the boat’s radio. Pulling out money, he placed it in Shafiq’s shirt pocket. “This should cover the cost of the skiff, radio, extra fuel, and any inconvenience.”

  Skull then began carefully sawing at the captain’s bindings. When one of the strands parted, he stopped and tugged. He then cut a little more before putting his knife away. “That should take you about ten minutes to break through. By then, we’ll be long gone.”

  Shafiq started yelling through his gag again and struggling.

  “I suggest you not tell anyone about what happened,” said Skull. “Maybe Red Sea sailors are different, but most don’t look favorably on captains who lose control of their own ships. From my understanding, it’s a pride thing. Might be best if you pocket the cash and go on with your life. Your call.”

  Skull walked to the end of the boat and lowered the skiff, making sure it contained their bags and his equipment case. He had Zinabu get in, and then boarded before pushing away from the bobbing boat.

  “I probably should have checked this first,” said Skull laying his hands on the small outboard motor. “May not even have fuel, for all we know.” He pulled on the cord a few times and the motor started. “You had me worried there for a minute, Shafiq,” he called as they sped away toward the coast.

  The water turned choppy as the sun descended. “Take the yoke,” said Skull handing the outboard stick to Zinabu.

  “I’ve never driven a boat before,” said Zinabu hesitantly.

  “Nothing to it,” said Skull, “just hold it steady and don’t make any sudden movements. We’ll be fine.” Skull unlocked his case and began loading the gear into the large tactical rucksack inside. Disassembling everything, he wrapped the more sensitive pieces in clothing from his luggage. He then loaded an MP5 submachine gun and slung it across his chest before tossing the empty container ove
rboard.

  Zinabu stared at the gun as he handed the yoke back.

  “What? You want one?”

  “No,” said Zinabu shaking his head.

  “Good,” answered Skull, “because I only brought one.”

  As they approached the sandy coast, Skull saw only a thin strip of white with a border of pitiful scrub brush farther inland. He also thought he could see wisps of smoke rising in the distance, probably from cooking fires.

  Skull cut the engine and let the waves carry them in; as the bottom of the boat touched the sand, he jumped out and started to drag the vessel up onto the beach. Zinabu saw what he was doing and leaped out to help.

  After they had unloaded their possessions into a neat pile on the beach, Skull handed Zinabu a flashlight and one of the Mossad’s pistols.

  “What are these for?”

  Skull pointed at the smoke in the distance. “I need you to go talk to them. See about trading this boat for a ride to the Ethiopian border.”

  “Me?” Zinabu said. “Why can’t you go?”

  “Someone’s got to guard our stuff.”

  “I can guard our stuff,” Zinabu insisted.

  “Yes,” said Skull with a smile, “but I can’t communicate with them. Eritrea used to be part of Ethiopia, right? What do they speak here?”

  “Woleta probably. Maybe a little Amharic.”

  “And you speak both of those, right? Isn’t that what you bring to the party?”

  Zinabu shook his head in disgust and began walking toward the shrubs.

  “If they turn out to be hostile,” said Skull, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention me.”

  * * *

  The ride in the back of the battered pickup truck was dusty, hot, and uncomfortable, but it beat walking. Djibouti was a small country, but the roads were more like suggestions than facts, and they dominated the discussion among the three Eritreans in the cab, as far as Skull could tell. They didn’t bother to speak English.

  As the truck continued west the land began to rise, becoming more arid. They saw fewer and fewer people, but they could see vast herds of sheep and goats in the distance, tended by small groups in colorful robes.