(Wrath-09)-Spiders From The Shadows (2013)

by Chris Stewart

  It was a turning point for Luke. And though the course of his life would turn out to be very different from how he ever thought it would, from that moment on he never doubted what his destiny would be.

  I want to be like yousuwlyp* * * * * * *

  Sitting back a little farther from the circle of the others, Azadeh listened to Sam’s words. As she listened, she felt something she’d rarely felt before, something inside her warm and beautiful. It was emotional and spiritual, and it came with overwhelming power. A fire glowed inside her and her mind felt peaceful—alive and pure.

  The feeling brought overwhelming memories as her mind went racing back. She was a little girl going through her morning prayers. Her sixteenth birthday, the beautiful morning her father had given her the golden headband, knowing he’d given everything he owned to buy it for her. The night she was lost on the snowy mountain, the stranger appearing out of the storm and dark to keep her warm.

  Yes, she’d felt this burning glow a few times before, and she would pay whatever price she had to in order to make this feeling a permanent part of her life.

  * * * * * * *

  Lucifer watched them, listening to their words, and then began to scream. “NO! NO! NO!” he cried in unbridled rage and fury. “There is no hope! There is no future. You have nothing! Are you so blind you cannot see!? I have taken everything you need to be happy! I’ve taken everything you need to live. You’re going to die, you brainless mortals, you’re going to suffer here and die! Are you so stupid that you can’t see that you’ve lost everything! How can you be happy! How can you have any hope at all! There is nothing left here for you but pain and loneliness. How dare you feel this way!? How dare you look upon my Enemy and believe that He will help you!? How dare you look to His Great Work and ignore the great work of my own hands!?

  “I am the Second Son. You are my brothers. I am a fallen angel, but you have fallen with me! There’s only fury, there is no light. There is no hope. There is no answer. Now I command you to worship me! I should have been the savior! Worship the mighty works I’ve done! Worship the pain, dread and hopelessness! Worship the darkness I have created and settled upon this wretched world!”

  He stopped raging and stared at Sam, then clenched his fists and crd go back two

  FIFTEEN

  Sam had barely finished talking when the door opened suddenly and a mustached Air Force sergeant burst into the room. “You’re going to want to see this,” he commanded.

  They all stood. “What’s going on?” Sam asked.

  The sergeant nodded toward the hallway. “Come with me, sir.”

  Sam and the others followed the sergeant down a dimly lit hallway to a common room where a television was playing.

  Seeing the TV screen, Sara drew a sudden breath.

  James Davies’ exhausted face filled the screen. He was speaking slowly, his voice measured as he read a carefully prepared text from a teleprompter. Although his hands were animated, his face remained unusually passive and grim. And there was something about him, something—Sara didn’t know—something artificial about the dryness of his voice, his words powerful but not convincing, at least not to those who knew him best. An off-camera voice swore him in, then asked him to begin.

  “My name is James Davies. I am the Director of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. For the past two weeks, since just before the EMP attack against the United States, I have been working closely with Brucius Marino, the Secretary of Defense. Because of this, I have firsthand and intimate knowledge of what Secretary Marino intends to do, should he attain the presidency of the United States, a goal he is intent on accomplishing.

  “First, and most dangerously, should Brucius Marino be sworn in as the president of the United States, he would order an immediate and massive retaliatory nuclear strike against the twenty largest Muslim cities in the world. Even now, he is working with military strategic forces, through the Strategic Command Center at Offutt Air Force Base, so as to implement this strike within a day of his being sworn in.

  “Second, if Secretary Brucius Marino is sworn in as the president of the United States, he intends to sever all alliances, treaties, military agreements, and diplomatic accords with any allies who may have had knowledge of, or a hand in, the nuclear attack upon D.C., the EMP attack upon the United States, or the nuclear strike against Israel, this last despite the fact that Israel was the first to strike using nuclear weapons. The severing of these relationships and agreements will include but not be limited to expelling the United Nations from U.S. soil, severing all military agreements presently in place through NATO, as well as other agreements with our allies across Eastern Europe and the Pacific Rim.

  “Further, Secretary Marino and his staff are drawing up plans to target those nations that may have assisted any of our enemies in the development of their nuclear programs, including Russia, North Korea, Saudi Arabia, and France. These retaliatory plans include severe sanctions, sea and aerial blockades, support of opposition parties within these governments, pro-insurgency operations, destabilizing propaganda, and, in some cases, covert military operations, including assassinations of key leadership positions.”

  James Davies hesitated, _mewpx; } staring almost blankly, as if he had to concentrate in order to blink.

  “Finally, should Secretary Marino be sworn in as president of the United States, he will order our military forces to take the oil fields of the Middle East, including those in the allied nations of Saudi Arabia and Iraq. This will be the largest military operation since the invasion of Europe during World War II. But he will not stop there. He intends to occupy, using massive ground forces, the entire region, from Iran across the Persian Gulf to the Red Sea, including Bahrain, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates. If it is a Muslim country with significant oil reserves, he will invade it, claiming it for his own.

  “Finally, you should know that even as I speak here, the Secretary is putting his plans in place to assume his rightful place as the president of the United States. And yes, it is his rightful place, for as outlined in the Constitution, he is next in line to become the president of the United States. Yet knowing what he and his supporters intend to do—and I speak now as one of his dearest friends and most intimate professional advisers—I beg the Congress not to let this happen. They must take action. If Brucius Marino is allowed to ascend to the presidency at this severe time of crisis, he will take a most desperate situation and make it infinitely worse. He will cause war to fall upon one point five billion innocent Muslim people, raining nuclear death upon their cities, all for no other reason than revenge. He will destroy every conceivable friendship or alliance that our country desperately needs in order to survive. Winter is coming and we can’t clothe, house, or provide heat and living accommodations for our own people. Our hospitals, police, and other emergency services are completely overwhelmed. Right now, we have no choice but to rely upon our friends and allies. Secretary Marino is going to make it impossible for them to help us. Worse, with the plans he and his military advisers have devised to launch a massive and incredibly deadly ground war throughout the entire Middle East, we won’t have the resources we need to feed ourselves. We need these troops at home now, helping us to rebuild this great nation. Without them, we don’t have the manpower, we don’t have the resources, we don’t have the international goodwill to rebuild. Without our military resources, we can’t provide for the welfare, safety, or well-being of our own people. To launch a massive ground war now would be national suicide.”

  James Davies stopped, still staring directly into the television cameras. His dark eyes were filled with powerful emotions, his face now strai

  SIXTEEN

  Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex, Southern Pennsylvania

  James Davies was hauled away, his feet dragging across the floor, leaving random specks of blood to dot the dark blue carpet from the powerful dart that had pierced his neck.

  The first order of business out of the way, th
e real meeting was finally able to begin. It lasted for almost five hours before food was brought in; then the lunch was quickly eaten and the men went back to work.

  At three in the morning, they had their final agreement. They signed it, some of them smiling, some frowning, though in truth most of them were relieved.

  It had gone better than any of them could have dreamed.

  The world’s spheres of influence divided and allocated, the meeting was adjourned.

  * * * * * * *

  The old man met the king at the back of the room and pulled him aside. “This is the last time you will come here,” the old man said. He glanced behind him after speaking, shooting a nasty look toward the president of the United States. “It makes it difficult for the others. You are far too recognizable.”

  The king of the House of Saud glared with cold eyes at the old man. Their relationship was strained, accusatory and barely even civil. There was no balance any longer. The old man had delivered everything that he had promised the king: his brothers, the weapons he had used to destroy America, the kingdom with its uncounted wealth, pride and unfathomable power. Everything they’d ever talked about, the old man had delivered, leaving King al-Rahman to stand beside Nebuchadnezzar in the historic halls of power. But what the old man could build, he could destroy; what he had given, he could take back. Worse, the king had little purpose now, and the old man was through with him. The old man didn’t want to kill Al-Rahman—the king would kill himself soon enough—but the old man certainly wanted Al-Rahman dead.

  Like an infected wound, the king’s heart was fully putrid now. Everything that the ling was, he owed to the old man, which made the king hateful, resentful and ripe with pride, a deadly combination for any king, but especially for a king of Saudi Arabia descended from a long line of proud and powerful men.

  The king didn’t answer for a moment.

  “You have everything you’ve asked for. I gave it all to you. Now I need for you to listen. You must stay away. Stay away from Fuentes. Stay out of the country. There is nothing for you to do here. No good can come from it. If you’re invited, decline politely, but do not come. It will make our work much more difficult if you are identified at this critical juncture. I know you’ll understand.”I want to be like you killedwpx; }

  The king cocked his head, tempted to rebut him, but the red smolder in the old man’s eyes tamed him, turning his wrath aside. “Agreed,” he answered simply, a dog before his master, his tail between his knees.

  The old man watched and smiled, laughing inside himself. None of them were equal to him. None of them. They all wore down, some of them more quickly, some of them more stubbornly, but all of them would fall. Once he started talking to them, once they looked him in the eye, they would fall. Their defense against him would have been so simple: All they had to do was walk away. But as long as they listened to him, then all of them would fall. He could wear them down eventually if they listened to his words.

  The old man leaned toward Al-Rahman and lowered his voice to plant the seed. “The prince is still alive, you know.”

  Al-Rahman stared at him.

  “I’ve told you before, it is a problem. You’ve got to take care of him. He will grow, and when he does, he’ll come to kill you. Do you think he won’t come for his kingdom? Do you think the men who have him now won’t prepare him for that day? He is the only son of the oldest son. He should be king. He has been taken and hidden for a purpose. Every day you let him linger, they grow bolder, thinking you have forgotten the bloodline that survives.”

  Al-Rahman turned his eyes away, looking past the old man. “I have time—”

  “You will lose your kingdom then, you fool. Everything that we have worked for, everything that we have killed and died for, all of it will be gone. You risk your own good, but you risk mine as well. Mine and that of the brothers. We will not endure your foolishness. You must act or we will.”

  Al-Rahman moved his shoulders slightly. His breath smelled like Arab Chi and cigarettes, his armpits like sweat.

  The old man knew that the king was hesitant and he pressed the seed a little deeper, pushing into more fertile mental soil. “Think back over time,” he whispered now. “How many empires, how many kings have been brought down by a child who had claim upon a throne? I can name you at least a dozen, including the greatest kings. And whether you like it or not, King al-Rahman, this young prince has claim on you. You killed his father, his uncles and his cousins. You killed his grandfather, the real king,” the old man emphasized the word, digging into Al-Rahman’s soul. “You stole it from him, Abdullah. He knows it. Those around him know what happened, which is why they risk their lives to save him. But I’ve told you all this before.” The old man let his voice drift away now. He had him; he could tell that from the agitation in his eyes.

  “I’ll do it,” King al-Rahman said.

  The old man frowned and leaned toward him. “Do it now,” he sneered.

  EIGHTEEN

  Four Miles West of Chatfield, Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee

  Caelyn and Bono sat talking on the porch under the light of the stars, her head resting on his shoulder. The moon was just a sliver of white against the dark sky and the countryside was completely void of any light, the horizon a long, broken line that stretched forever beneath the starry horizon. Above them, a single yellow candle flickered in Caelyn’s parents’ bedroom. The sun had been down for almost two hours and their eyes had had time to adjust to the dark. Caelyn had rarely experienced such darkness, and it amazed her how well she could see, given only the flicker of natural light from the stars. Bono was not surprised, having spent many nights out on patrol in desolate areas.

  They sat on the porch swing, a cold breeze pushing dry leaves across the grass and along the lane to pile up against the picket fence. As they talked, there was a rustle of movement to their right and Bono immediately turned and listened. Caelyn seemed not to have noticed. Bono cocked his head. The sound of footsteps? Could it be? He listened again, certain he had heard it. Who? Why were they out there? Caelyn started to speak but he lifted a hand to hush her. She turned to him, sensing his growing tension.

  He peered into the darkness. His pistol was hanging on his web belt upstairs in their bedroom closet, hidden away from Ellie; now he wished that it was at his side.

  Caelyn didn’t move. Bono listened. Silence. The wind blew, moving leaves again. More movement with the rustle. Empty blackness as far as he could see. More motion beyond the tree line. An animal? Maybe nothing?

  No, he was certain of what he’d heard.

  Slowly, his footsteps light, every motion tight and under perfect control, he stood up from the porch swing, motioned to Caelyn to stay still, moved toward the steps, grabbed onto the pillar that held the slanted roof, then swung onto the grass in one movement. He crouched there, getting low enough to change the angle of his view so he could use the starlight to look up against the horizon. The existing light was weak but enough to illuminate the ground, the barns behind the fence, the trees in the backyard. Another sound. The sense of movement. Bono took a step forward, glanced back to Caelyn one more time, held his finger to his mouth, turned and started moving forward, still crouched. One step. Two steps. Stop to listen and to look. Staying low, still using the starlight to look for shadows against the horizon. Another step. An_ating the reachedother look . . . .

  The sound of running footsteps erupted across the grass, light and furious. Bono sprinted after them. A squeal of fear before him. Cries. A couple of voices, very young. Children?

  “Hey there!” he called out.

  “GO!” someone yelled out from the darkness. Bono ran again, but lost the sound of their footsteps when his own feet started crunching through the dry leaves under the huge oak. Without enough light to follow them, he stopped and listened, having to rely upon his ears. Darkness. Silence now. He listened, frowned in frustration, then rushed across the lawn, coming to the picket fence. Turning his head, he
strained to hear again. The footsteps faded in the distance, the voices hissing and whispering as they ran.

  Children! Had he heard children in the darkness?

  The voices were high and childlike, the footsteps short and quick, but the cries were also different from children’s voices somehow—more conspiring, agitated, conniving and devious. He peered across the open fields behind the fence, but the retreating footsteps were gone now, faded into the distance. He stared into the darkness until Caelyn came up behind him, moving quickly to his side.

  “There was someone out there,” she said. “I could hear them running.” She was fighting to keep her voice under control.

  Bono remained silent, continuing to look across the fields.

  “Did you see them?” she asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  He couldn’t see the expression on her face but he sensed her fear and agitation from the aggressive shaking of her head. “No,” he answered simply.

  “Who could it be?”

  “I don’t know, babe.”

  He glanced back toward the house. “Come on.” They moved across the dry lawn together, running toward the porch.

  “They were children,” Caelyn whispered as they ran. She was speaking to herself but Bono heard her anyway. “I saw their shadows. I heard their voices.” She stopped and gripped Bono’s arm, her fingers digging into his bare skin. “Children! Do you understand that? There were children out there in the darkness.”

  “I don’t think so. Not really children. They were something else.”

  “Something else?”

  “Kids. Teenagers maybe.”

  She shook her head but didn’t answer.

  Bono watched her carefully, glanced back toward the darkness, then pulled her across the lawn, onto the porch, and into the house. He shut the door behind them, locked it, and peered through the window. Feeling the kitchen table behind him, he turned and walked down the hall and up the stairs, his footsteps almost perfectly silent against the wooden floor. Thirty seconds later, he reappeared. Caelyn couldn’t see anything but his shadow, so she reached out, touching the canvas holster against his chest. “Baby, what are you thinking? You put that thing away!” Bono stood by the window, looking out intently. “You hear me, Joseph? Put that thing away. There are children out there, honey. You can’t even think about—”