Ways of Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 2)

by LC Champlin

  “Officer, you said you’re looking for suspects. Why?”

  Pistol Grunt advanced with caution, K9 and handler at his side. “Their ankle monitors’ signal placed them in this location. They’re also suspected of impersonating law officers.”

  Genuine indeed. They would drag him off before he could even peek at Birk’s—Doorway’s—files. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Washington would maul him for crashing the investigation scene, but what choice had the government left him? It wanted information, and he had attempted to provide it. That was his story, anyway.

  “Then you’ve found your suspects.”

  BANG!

  The left side of Pistol Grunt’s skull exploded in a red mist. Chunks of brain matter splattered onto the house. The round that obliterated his head hammered into the wall. His body dropped without a twitch.

  Chapter 18

  No Lives Matter

  Heavy Dirty Soul - Twenty One Pilots

  Nathan’s jaw dropped with the body.

  K9 Cop drew his weapon, unsure of whether to aim at the sniper’s location or Nathan.

  “Come on!” Nathan scrambled toward the fence. He bolted through the gate and into the garage.

  Boots pounding, animal panting.

  “In here!” Nathan stage-whispered. Sweat tracked down his face, between his shoulder blades. Blood hammered in his ears.

  “What’s—” Josephine broke off as the DHS officer and K9 swung into view in the alley. His handgun’s aim shifted from Nathan to the reporter and back again.

  “Get in!” Josephine dropped her golf clubs and waved for him to enter.

  The officer glanced in the direction of the sniper. Back to Nathan. “Everybody back up! Get on the ground.” The Shepherd tugged at its leash. Ropes of drool flew as it snapped and strained.

  The idiot would die if he didn’t move, but he’d shoot or set the dog on whoever tried to drag him to safety. “Get in before—”

  BANG!

  Surprise blossomed across K9 Cop’s face as his left deltoid blossomed outward with an aerosol of blood. Bone chips and meat sprayed. He sank to his knees, then toppled face-first into the concrete. The bullet had turned his chest cavity’s contents to Jell-O.

  Bastards, murdering law enforcement officers! The DHS grunts didn’t even have a chance to shoot back.

  Whining cut through the fog of rage. The Shepherd nosed its master’s body, licked his face. If Nathan grabbed the dog’s leash, it might turn on him.

  “Jo, get the—”

  “Tennis balls.” She bounced one on the floor and handed another to him.

  “Take the dog out of view of the body.”

  “Got it.”

  “Come on, buddy.” Nathan edged toward the leash, tossing the tennis ball in one hand.

  “Here, boy, see the ball?” Jo began a cheery, high-pitched attempt to lure the animal away.

  The Shepherd’s ears flicked up. Head cocked, it watched the two fuzzy, green balls. It worked for EMS when they needed to assist the human-half of a K9 unit. Josephine snagged the leash from the officer’s grasp. Nathan pocketed his tennis ball as she drew the dog off with word and toy.

  He grabbed the drag handle on the officer’s vest. The body left a trail of blood as he hauled it into the garage. Click. He shot the door’s deadbolt.

  His HT crackled. “Sir, what is your status?” Albin.

  “We’re fine, but two DHS officers are down from a sniper.” The officer’s duty belt would come in as handy as Batman’s utility belt, or possibly more so, since Batman didn’t carry a sidearm. Nathan buckled it on. “Jo has their K9. The shots were from the southwest.”

  “We will rendezvous as planned.”

  What else could he salvage? Another radio with a shoulder mic. Car keys in one of the officer’s pockets. Bingo. “I have keys to a cruiser, but no cruiser.” Rrrip. Off came the velcroed DHS chest badge. “No change in rendezvous location. No sign of the drone, either. Take care.”

  “Likewise. Out.”

  Farther along the body, the patdown showed a wallet, which Nathan pocketed, and an ankle holster with a short-barrel XD-S .45. Semi-auto and holster came off.

  “Thank you, officer.” Nathan laid a hand on the back of the man’s head. “We’ll honor your sacrifice and watch your partner.”

  Wincing, Nathan pushed to his feet. He hurried back into the house; Josephine and the dog waited in the far bedroom. The Shepherd flipped his tennis ball, unaware of his partner’s death. That would come later.

  “Her name’s Judge,” the reporter related as Nathan approached. “It’s on the vest.”

  “Appropriate.” He produced his tennis ball while he moved to the window. Judge sniffed it, her wag tempo at slow.

  “Now what, Nathan? If we—”

  Snipers to the front, mystery to the back, drones . . . somewhere. On the less abysmal side, the Percocet dropped the pain from a nine to a four. He could handle the fence. I have to.

  “—you think?” Had she talked the whole time?

  “We follow the back fence in the park.” Steeling himself, he climbed onto the desk. Next, out through the window feet first.

  “You don’t think sheltering in another house is smart?”

  And . . . touch down on the grass. “This neighborhood is ripe for looting. The patrol car is our best option. Leash, please.”

  The nylon strap dropped into his waiting hand.

  “Maybe,” she responded as Judge jumped to the ground. “There’s probably a car in one of the garages.” The newshound landed beside the dog. “But, it won’t have the same accessories.”

  “Correct.”

  A sly light came into her eyes. She lifted her chin and grinned. “Give me access to the car’s radio and you’ll see what Action News really means.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  He pressed the HT’s PTT. “Albin, how does the back look?”

  “Clear at the moment, sir. Ah, hold! We have visitors.”

  “Shit,” Nathan hissed as he waved Jo back against the house. He double-clicked the PTT in the affirmative signal. No gunshots or cries followed. If only he could get one of the handguns to Albin!

  Judge dropped her tennis ball, ears rigid, attention on the back fence.

  “Now what?” the reporter whispered.

  The sniper could cover the entire street, targeting anyone in view. A squad intent on breaching a specific house, though, meant a specific target. Did they belong to Cheel’s group? Or did they represent a gang that came to loot Avalon in general?

  Golden eyes flared in the back of his mind, illuminating the only sensible option. “We see what’s on their shopping list.” With the correct tactics, he might even pull a few weapons off them.

  “You mean go back inside?” Josephine looked at him as if he’d suggested they cartwheel down the street. Then again, that might prove safer. “But they’ll see—”

  “No.” Too bad the bastards hadn’t arrived before he exited. A recycle bin provided a step to facilitate his floundering back in.

  “What about Judge?”

  “Leave her out here. She has more training.”

  Josephine scrambled through the window. “The attic,” she announced as she moved to the room’s closet. After pulling the attic hatch down, she led the way up. Flashlights clicked on when he and Jo sealed the way behind them.

  Nathan’s P2X lit the attic in LED fury. Boxes, insulation, wires. He flicked it past Jo. She looked pale but determined. “Here.” The fallen officer’s duty weapon, a SIG Sauer 226R, shone in the Surefire’s beam. “Do you know how—”

  “Albin taught me.” She accepted the weapon with care.

  “Good man.”

  “It’s a last resort.”

  “Correct.” But not for the reason she meant. After shifting the XD-S to the duty-belt holster, he balanced on the roof joists to reach the area above the bedroom. The oxy took the edge off the
pain, dulled it from scalpel to restaurant steak-knife sharp.

  Crash! Glass shattered downstairs.

  Chapter 19

  Lure

  Mercy - Muse

  In Brentwood Park, on the opposite side of Birk’s fence, Albin and Bridges took cover behind two trees. Options scrolled through Albin’s mind: Run, abandoning Mr. Serebus. Hide here, reducing their effectiveness. Attack, engaging an unknown number of hostiles while possessing only knives and a bat. Or . . .

  When Bridges glanced over, Albin motioned to himself and the other man, then back over the fence. Brows knit, the economist pointed out toward the uncharted territory with its human predators. Albin shook his head before pointing to Birk’s residence. Bridges frowned but nodded.

  No more figures darted between the trees. Blast it all, why couldn’t they have waited a moment longer, at least until Mr. Serebus could bless him with a firearm?

  Bridges clambered back over the fence into the garden neighboring Birk’s residence, while Albin kept watch. The hair still tingled along Albin’s forearms. With a last look about, he followed the economist.

  “What now?” Bridges whispered, his back against the wall as he crouched behind a rubbish bin. “I know you don’t want to leave Nathan and Jo high and dry, but we’re not much help here. We should find the police car and break in. If they left any weapons in there, we can snag them and come back.”

  “If they require a distraction in the next few minutes, and we are not present to provide it, they may be killed.”

  “How are we supposed to—Wait a sec. That just might work.” Bridges raised his chin and cocked his head as his gaze settled on . . . the grill’s propane tank.

  Albin gave a nod and a thin smile. Though as inventive as Behrmann, Bridges lacked her propensity for pointless argument. “We need only detonate it.”

  “Have them use it for target practice.”

  “That may be feasible. Their sniper fired on law enforcement.”

  “So we make them think it’s a cop.” As Bridges spoke, he stripped off his jacket, or more precisely Birk’s jacket.

  “A lure.” There, the shepherd’s hook flower-pot hanger. Albin trotted bent double to retrieve it. He emptied the plant, roots to the ground, out of the green plastic pot that hung from the hook.

  Meanwhile, Bridges retrieved the propane tank. He tossed a nearby basketball toward the rubbish bin, then hefted the tank and followed the ball.

  After moving the scarecrow pieces over the fence, Bridges also handed across his duffle bag to Albin. What did the man put inside, the masonry section of a home-improvement store?

  They brought the supplies to a spot one tree row into the park. After sinking the shepherd’s hook into the ground, he hung the jacket on its arms. The basketball fit into the pot perfectly. He hooked the upturned pot like a helmet into the jacket to hold the “head” in place. Behind the scarecrow’s chest, Bridges mounted the propane tank on the rubbish bin. Then he set a torch he’d recovered from Birk’s house in the scarecrow’s shoulder region.

  Albin produced at lighter from his pocket, a souvenir from his first kill at St. Regis. Grinning, Bridges turned the tank’s handwheel while Albin flicked the lighter. A whiff of ethanethiol’s rotting-onion stench, then a flame the size of a candle’s burst to life.

  ++++++++++++

  Nathan glanced over his shoulder. Josephine, boning knife ready, moved deeper into the attic.

  Nathan crouched, let out a breath as his ribs ached. He pulled the insulation from between the joists, then drilled a peephole through Birk’s bedroom ceiling with the DHS officer’s folding knife.

  Men’s voices filtered from below. “Clear. Where’s the computer?” The computer?

  “Here.” A female.

  “Strip it.” The speaker moved into the kitchen. “Did you find the keys?”

  “They ain’t here, Sarge.”

  “Make your own, then.”

  They knew about the keys in the hot sauce? Nathan’s heart stuttered on a beat. The raiders had come for a specific objective.

  Below, a female in a bandana, dark clothes, and body armor set her AR-15 carbine aside in favor of playing IT tech with Birk’s computer. Little did she know the hard drive mocked her from four feet overhead.

  Four feet below . . . Prey. Howls sang in Nathan’s ears. Weightless, he floated above the scene. His hand and its XD-S moved of their own volition. Sights locked over her head. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Found it!” The voice came from outside the bedroom, causing the invader to whip toward the doorway.

  What the—Nathan’s finger snapped back to the weapon’s frame. What the hell did he almost do? Shooting her would bring the whole gang down on him. Wait, the floating sensation . . . The oxycodone.

  “The hard drive’s already gone,” the woman reported, abandoning the tower and heading toward the rest of the squad.

  Nathan bared his teeth as he pushed semi-upright. Splinting his chest, he shouldered around insulation to join Jo.

  She crouched over her own borehole in the floor / ceiling. Without looking up, she waved him over and pointed down. Erg; he lowered to one knee, balanced on the joists.

  Below, in the den, two men in tactical vests with AR-15s across their backs and wielding pry bars worked to loosen a section of boards from the window seat.

  Beneath the wood hid a safe: floor mounted, with a digital lock. The keys in the hot-sauce jar no doubt fit the hidden compartment.

  Hold on. Hot sauce, window seats, go home . . . Birk wanted them to find the safe! Why didn’t I see it before? The idiot possessed no concept of how to convey clues.

  These men must work with or for the terrorists. If they didn’t, then they somehow knew about Birk’s liberation of Doorway’s files. Either way, their acquisition of the safe’s contents boded ill for humanity and, more importantly, for Nathan’s plans.

  “Sarge, time for Mr. Seefor,” called the man on the left, shorter than his companion and wearing a black face-shield mask like a SWAT officer. Reaching into a pouch on his vest, he produced a rectangle in brown paper. The flashlights flickered across its label: C4 EXPLOSIVE.

  A man with a lifter’s build strode into view. The Brothers Masked fell silent. The newcomer’s pale, nearly shaved head passed a foot below the ceiling. Six-five? “We follow Red Chief’s orders.” Sarge. “Buck, you’re up.”

  Red Chief? The leader of the mercenaries who attacked Hotel St. Regis? A wave of dread struck Nathan, made his extremities tingle. Red Chief had wanted what he called “the remote,” which Cheel implied could control the cannibals if he could apply the Doorway data properly. Did Cheel fail to copy the data he stole from Doorway, or did the terrorists lack a critical research component that they believed Birk held?

  “Let me see.” IT Tech—Buck?—wove between Sarge and the Mask Twins to assess the safe. “This isn’t the usual piece of cheap crap, but it’s no vault either. Give me a minute.”

  Mask #2 slid his C4 back into its home. “I’m going to check the perimeter.” He reached for the PTT on his radio as he moved from view. “Any movement, boys?”

  Nathan pressed the insulation back over the peephole. “Albin,” he whispered into the HT. “Distraction.”

  A double squelch replied.

  Chapter 20

  Spark

  Smack Down - Thousand Foot Krutch

  Buck, aka Safecracker, crouched before the safe, cracking in progress. A locksmith could open a safe in seconds. A YouTube viewer could open one in minutes.

  With luck, the burglars would do all Nathan’s work for him. God hid resources in strange places. Of course, the tiny matter of how to recover the safe’s contents from the gunmen remained. The distraction had better come soon.

  She straightened, stepped back, then waved Sarge over. “Knock that keypad off and hit the handle. She’ll open clean.”

  In reply, the hulk deployed a hybrid hatchet, hammer, pry ba
r from his belt. Crack. Keypad bit the dust. More pounding, then click. Handle down, door open.

  Buck squatted to look inside. “What do we have?” Out came a leather zippered binder bearing an embossed MIT logo. Next, a box half the height of a shoebox, labeled Zombie Hot Sauce.

  “What is it?” Sarge rumbled.

  Shrugging, she brought the items to the desk. The binder’s zipper hummed. Inside . . . Comics? “What the fuck?” She shuffled through the plastic-encased volumes. “Weird Tales, Worlds of Science Fiction, Weird Science-Fantasy, Adventures Into Terror, Horror.” Not comics, but sci-fi and horror pulp magazines.

  Sarge picked one up while keeping the light available for Safecracker to open the hot-sauce package. Cards in protectors poured from the box. Spreading them on the desk, she shook her head. “Baseball, football, basketball, Magic. What the fuck is this shit?” While Birk might hold a secret love of retro sci-fi, he seemed like a man who enjoyed sports as much as he enjoyed prison. Even if he liked one athletic endeavor, he didn’t like all three.

  “Any rare ones?” Sarge elbowed the woman aside to investigate.

  “Sports aren’t my thing,” she snapped as she returned to the scene of the crime.

  “No high-dollars here.” Sarge rubbed his chin in thought. “Did you see any sports memorabilia here?”

  “No.”

  “Mm. He doesn’t seem like a sports fan.” Smart one, this hulk.

  “Sentimental value?” Safecracker glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe they were his brother’s or dad’s. Fuck it, maybe his mom collected ’em.”

  “Normally you collect just one sport. Some people like two. Three is rare, especially when none of these are valuable.”

  The hair on Nathan’s arms stood up. Stupid, rash opponents made mistakes and fell. Smart, wary opponents triumphed.