Ways of Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 2)

by LC Champlin

  Nathan’s hands itched to grab a chair, or anything not nailed down, and throw it. Shoulder muscles bunched, but ribs whined.

  He’d just told the Milquetoast to go sit in the corner, and now . . . “He’s stepping up.” Rage bled away like blood from a slit throat.

  “He’s insane,” Ken muttered, shaking his head.

  “Don’t underestimate a madman.”

  Albin covered the last ten yards to the mansion’s southern wall.

  Marvin and Judge ambled to a halt beside Nathan. “So that’s where Mikhail went! But where’d he get the gun? It’s not one of ours.”

  “Excellent question.” Slow, deliberate, Nathan turned to Ken. “Care to answer?”

  “Does he even know how to shoot it?” Ken hedged.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about my hardware engineer, Ken.” Hitting the PTT, Nathan turned to the screen. “Albin, Mikhail has taken it upon himself to be your backup.”

  “Brilliant.” Sarcasm weighted the word.

  Badal reached the back of the mansion, where he heaved a convenient garden statue through a window.

  “Badal’s inside.”

  ++++++++++++

  Albin sidled along the wall. What better way to start the morning than by clearing an unfamiliar structure that harbored terrorist mercenaries? Rifle up, he edged around the corner of Campbell’s residence. Surrounding bushes offered concealment for enemies.

  “Mikhail is armed,” Mr. Serebus informed him via the radio. “I can’t speak for dangerous, though.”

  “Understood.” If the engineer decided to risk his neck, he needed to carry his own knife to cut the noose.

  With a clear route ahead, Albin trotted with knees bent past the patio, rose garden, and tennis court. Wait. He whipped about to bring the AR-15 online with—Kuznetsov, who went a shade grayer.

  Albin pointed at Kuznetsov, then toward the Oshiro. The glare drove the point home.

  The Russian shook his head, face set like a prisoner’s at the gallows.

  Frowning, Albin pressed a finger to his lips, then drew it across his throat.

  At the window, he paused. Shukla had draped a lounge-chair cushion over the window frame’s jagged glass. The bedroom beyond held a bed, desk, television, and dresser. Judging by the 49ers bedspread and posters, it belonged to a teenage boy.

  Climbing through, Albin kept his finger near the rifle’s trigger. His heart echoed in the stillness. Keep your head. Slow, deep breathing reduced his pulse to bass-drum decibel range.

  The closet and bathroom doors stood open. Empty. Only five bedrooms and seven bathrooms remained.

  Chapter 47

  Cat Herding

  Built for This Time - Zayde Wolf

  Still no word from Sarge on the hostages. For all his talk about wanting to finish the mess ASAP, the continents could drift another mile apart in the time he took to decide.

  “You never answered my question,” Nathan pressed Ken. “Where did Mikhail get the rifle?”

  “I’m not his boss anymore. How should I know?”

  “Ken, if they run afoul of anything out there—”

  The Oshiro owner rolled his eyes. “You’ll crucify me. If you do, you’ll be no more innocent than Pilate.”

  If God delivered the cocky vermin into Nathan’s hands, they required no washing. “You prefer the role of dark god, not martyr, anyway.”

  “You don’t, Erebus?” Ken smiled, smug.

  “Serebus. And I don’t play God.”

  On the screen, morning sun washed the land in piss-yellow. Smoke from the fires in San Francisco and its environs smeared a haze over the sky.

  Exiting the Oshiro, a figure jogged toward the nearest shrub. Josephine! She rekindled his urge to slam a chair through a wall. She dodged from tree to tree, pistol up. At least she remembered to bring it.

  “Looks like another of your flock is on the lamb.” Ken clicked his tongue in disapproval.

  It would feel so good to slap the smirk off the bastard’s face with the pistol slide. But Ken held the key to the fortress, with all its traps and treasures. Thus, the advantage belonged to him.

  “Bridges.” Nathan turned to—empty air. Him too? Feeds from the cameras nearest the lab populated the edge of the screen. There, economist and dog heading up to the skydeck, likely for a better view of the situation. Good. At least one of his people, other than Albin, possessed common sense.

  “Call Marvin,” Nathan ordered the system.

  Calling . . . connected.

  “Marvin, there’s another drone.” Glance at Ken, who waved for him to continue. “Pilot it.”

  “Roger that!”

  Ken laughed as he looked over the camera views of Campbell’s residence. “My, my, it seems your fearsome team is in disarray. Now what will you do?”

  Pain arcing around Nathan’s ribs reminded his muscles to relax. Snarling, he forced his fists to loosen. The bastard wanted to provoke him.

  “You knew this would happen when you announced Hemali’s supposed kidnapping.”

  “I knew what would happen? That Badal would run after his sister if he felt leadership was wasting time?”

  Why did they need the inventor? If three IT specialists couldn’t solve the problem of gaining administrator rights to the Oshiro’s mainframe—and by extension the fortress itself—no one could. But, damn it, that required more time—and less Ken.

  Nathan spun to face the imp. “You want us all out there. If I go too”—arm rigid, he pointed to the drone screen—“then you’ll have the option of not letting us re-enter.”

  “Not to burst your paranoia bubble,” Ken began, looking doubtful, “but I’d rather you stayed. I promise I’m not the nefarious yellow devil you think I am.”

  Devil. The sun of realization blazed through Nathan’s clouds of confusion. “You orchestrated this ‘disarray.’”

  “How?” Ken’s doubt shifted to disbelief. “By telling you one of your employees was in danger?” He laughed. “And people think I’m crazy!”

  You are.

  “And why?” the bastard continued. “So I can take over your club? I already said leadership has no benefits.”

  Why indeed. Did this cluster represent Ken’s desire to live out his Faithful Dark game? Perhaps it stemmed from his belief system, stitched together from other faiths until it resembled Frankenstein’s monster. Religion motivated Islamic terrorists, so Ken’s “faith” might influence his behavior as well. As World Religions class at U of AA had taught, Beliefs + Believers = Behavior.

  Nathan eyed his rival. “A key point of lunacy is that the madman’s actions are inexplicable.”

  The statement received a bland expression from Ken. “Sometimes, Nathan, you really suck at arguing.”

  ++++++++++++

  In Campbell’s mansion, two bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a home entertainment room harbored no danger. Although clothes, knick knacks, and other debris of materialism littered the floors, biological wreckage did not.

  Albin advanced to investigate the hall connecting the drone-scouted areas with what he had cleared. The passage came into view as he sliced the pie around the corner. At the next step, the corpse would greet him.

  Or not. The invaders had removed it. Why? No blood stains on the floor, either. No matter; the rooms on the right and left still required clearing.

  Heartbeat rattling his teeth, he signaled to Kuznetsov to take the right-hand side of the door. The engineer eased into position as he glanced over his shoulder.

  Albin grasped the cold doorknob. Sweat made it slip as he turned. Keep your head. Throwing it open, he swept the area as he stepped across the front of the doorway—the fatal funnel.

  This room held an office, or it did before looters had made off with the computer and monitor. Only the mouse and keyboard remained.

  He stepped back into the hall, then pulled the door to a thumb-width of the frame. If anyone attempted to slip inside, h
e would know by the change in the gap.

  On to the next door. A reading room opened before him. The invaders who occupied this room lurked in the pages of books alone.

  In the hall, Kuznetsov kept watch, as pale as the corpse that once hung where he now stood. He nodded toward the bedroom that had held the bound hostage.

  Swallowing past the dust in his throat, Albin rolled his shoulder against the AR-15’s butt and advanced. Silence fell, other than Kuznetsov’s breathing and the pulse in Albin’s ears. Albin pushed the door fully open. A chair waited, but not a hostage.

  Sssssaaaahhhh!

  He whipped about. The cannibal hiss came from the unexplored portion of the house. If the creature didn’t sense their presence, they could complete the search without engaging it. Hostiles might overlook glass breaking, but the entire neighborhood would notice gunshots.

  He crept out to rejoin Kuznetsov. The engineer motioned him into the library.

  The radio squelched twice. The signal must mean danger, as Mr. Serebus would refrain from breaking radio silence here unless absolutely necessary.

  With an inward sigh, Albin eased the door closed. “Yes, sir?” he murmured.

  “Badal just took a north exit out of Campbell’s. But cannibals are coming through one of the windows at the northeast corner.”

  “I copy.” The room lacked a window by which to escape; thus, Albin waved toward the door. On point again, he edged into the hall.

  Figures ambled about the drawing room’s twilight. A piano chord jarred the silence as one fumbled over the keys.

  The whole affair felt surreal. Emotions, even dread and excitement, sank under the cold sand of his internal landscape. His body moved as if another will controlled it.

  He reached the dining room and its twin halls that he had cleared minutes earlier. A shaggy-haired teen in a 49ers jersey hopped from the left passage. He—it—pulled to its full height and threw back its head. Ssssaaaahhh! Oil slid down its chin to patter on the floor like rain from Hell.

  The cannibal fixed rust-red eyes on its prey. The orbs bulged from its sockets as it dropped to all fours for a lunge.

  Chapter 48

  Company

  The Yawning Grave - Lord Huron

  Albin darted forward to grab a chair from the dining table. Winding up like a discus thrower, he flung it at the monster. The missile struck the cannibal’s torso. A second chair—from Kuznetsov—crashed into the abomination before it could regain its balance.

  Albin bolted down the right-hand corridor with Kuznetsov.

  “They’re behind us!” the Russian hissed.

  Albin elbowed the bedroom door open. He dragged the Russian through, then slammed and locked the portal.

  “Watch the door.” Albin crossed to the window, where he put his back against the wall, left of the frame. Across the room, a mirror provided a view of the garden outside.

  “What about the hostages?” The engineer’s voice cracked. “Where are they?”

  “If I knew the answer, I would not be bumbling through the house, would I.”

  ++++++++++++

  One of the cameras watching the street pulsed for Nathan’s attention. Increasing it to half screen revealed a white Chevy cargo van with twin ladders on the roof. Following came a Dodge Ram with a KUV body—a modified bed topper with compartments along the sides. Nothing odd about utility vehicles, except not even the ultra-rich of Silicon Valley called a handyman in the middle of societal collapse.

  Where did the National Guard go? They should regulate traffic. Never a military detachment around when you wanted one.

  “Just keep driving, gentlemen,” Nathan muttered.

  No such luck; the vehicles rolled up in front of the mansion north of Campbell’s. The rear doors of the covered truck swung open. The van’s followed, disgorging a squad of operators in full combat gear.

  ++++++++++++

  The double squelch sounded. “Albin, get out. Now. Gunmen are approaching from the front.”

  Brilliant. “Yes, sir.”

  “Josephine went after you. She’s in the rear acreage. Get back to the Oshiro. There are at least four cannibals approaching from the rear.” Frustration clawed in the tone. “Ah, four more are inbound from the northwest. Go!”

  Outside, beyond the tennis court and rose hedges, a quartet of blistered, loping cannibals ranged across the rear of the property.

  “Mr. Kuznetsov,” Albin remarked with a glance at the bloodless, sweating Russian, “I sincerely hope you are skilled at evasion.”

  ++++++++++++

  The feeling of detachment returned. Nathan’s eyes fixed at middle distance, which happened to host the display. Cockroaches with rifles scrambled around the dollhouse at center screen.

  Meanwhile, the inventor chewed on his thumbnail. “How are you going to play this hand of singles you’ve been dealt?” His narrowed eyes indicated anticipation, as if he waited for his opponent’s next move in a board game.

  The schemer neglected one fact: God gave His enemies into the hand of His conqueror. Make that two facts: “I’m not playing cards.”

  Nathan gestured to the drone to break its holding pattern. Below, at the Dodge’s passenger door, waited Sarge. His bull build made the cab seem small. Motioning to his men, he sent them to secure the premises.

  “We’ve got company in the clouds,” Ken observed, pointing to a dot on a camera feed. The enemy drone.

  Nathan wheeled and headed for the exit.

  Chapter 49

  Create Your Own Reality

  Soldiers - Otherwise

  Albin double-timed to the hedge that guarded the patio. He risked a peek over the foliage to gauge the cannibals’ progress. A figure darted past on their far side. Not a cannibal or gunman—Shukla! He sprinted with panicked speed behind the creatures and into the concealment of a row of trees and native grass.

  “Does he know where—”

  Albin reached back and pressed a hand over Kuznetsov’s mouth by sound. After three heartbeats, he returned his hand to the rifle. Using his football skills, Shukla should remain clear of the cannibals’ clutches. The gunmen, however, presented a different problem.

  Albin pressed the radio’s transmit button. “Sir, Shukla is northwest of our position. Cannibals are blocking my route to him.”

  “I’ll send the drone.”

  ++++++++++++

  Nathan set his jaw as he trotted up the stairs to the tower. Each step increased the nausea, brought him closer to vomiting.

  At the middle landing, he rummaged in his pocket for control in pill form. Half would do. Too bad the drug didn’t act instantly. This is why people do IV drugs, the black bird of pain croaked as it flapped in his face.

  One more flight, then the skydeck opened before him. Marvin bounced on the balls of his feet in front of an open window. Nathan looked over his glasses out the breach in glass and technology. The real world.

  “Hey, I found Badal,” Marvin announced.

  “Excellent.”

  At Nathan’s gesture, his drone hummed toward Sarge and the vehicles. Downward—hold! The mercenary leader’s rifle stared up at the craft. One shot would annihilate the “birdie.”

  “Sarge, I presume.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m here to bargain.” Why did Sarge play dumb? “I only do that face to face. Send your drone, unarmed, over to the tower next door.”

  The skepticism of a man with experience and options stared down the camera. “Bargain, huh?” He reached for the PTT on his belt. His slimline headset put to shame the Retevis radios the terrorists at St. Regis sported. “Red Three, send the drone over to the Japanese junk pile’s tower.”

  In the distance, the enemy craft hummed toward Nathan.

  “What’s your offer?” Poker face.

  Stall. Give Marvin time to bring Badal back while watching over Albin and the others. “The data for the hostages. But I don’t purchase sigh
t-unseen.”

  The enemy drone slowed, shifted to a hover outside the open window, quad rotors buzzing. It sported a two-tone paint scheme with gray above and white on the belly. Smooth lines and rounded edges made the aerial vehicle that had dropped a bomb on a DHS truck look like a friendly robot from a Disney flick. No armaments apparent. Its camera swept the room.

  “Hostages? I don’t have time for this.” Sarge made the walk-away gamble.

  “Time is ticking for you to deliver to your client.” The same client who wanted “the remote” from St. Regis? “Is it free if it doesn’t arrive hot in forty-eight hours?”

  The mercenary paused. “It’ll arrive on time.”

  “Bring the drone inside. You deserve to see who you’re at the table with.”

  Hesitation. Come on, come on! Then the bird edged into the room.

  “Good.” Nathan strolled to within lunging distance. He began to orbit the craft, forcing the pilot to rotate the camera to track him. “We never had a proper introduction, despite you trying to murder me at Birk’s house. I’m Nathan Serebus, the man your boss wanted captured at the St. Regis.”

  “You’re the looter?” Sarge strode toward the side access gate in Campbell’s fence. His men moved in two teams ahead of him to secure the mansion. “If you’re really him, come out with your hands up and bring what you stole from us last night.”

  Something felt off about the situation—other than mercenaries, cannibals, and lunatics. Sarge had looked surprised at the mention of hostages. He now acted far cagier than he had in Campbell’s house. No mention of Hemali, either.

  “I want proof they’re unharmed, particularly Hemali Shukla.”