Ways of Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 2)

by LC Champlin

  “What’s underneath?”

  Keeping the big man in peripheral vision, Nathan produced the Surefire light and edged out to investigate.

  Ssssssaaaaahhh!

  Two cannibals bounded from behind the neighboring digester, zigzagging toward the humans.

  “Shit.” Nathan stepped back as he raised the .45. His foot slipped on rust. Jerking to the side, he grunted as he landed on his knee.

  Screee! The panel under him tore from half its attachments. He grabbed for a grate bar, caught it. Then the pain caught him. Fractures slashed with swords of flaming agony, turning his arms numb. Falling—

  Stopped by a vise grip around his wrist. “Gaah!” Darkness from within, not below, washed over him as nerves screamed.

  “Got you.”

  Gold orbs burned in the back of Nathan’s mind. Look. Forcing an eye open despite the pain, he obeyed. Below, his dropped flashlight illuminated piles of mulch.

  “Let go!”

  “What?”

  “Now!”

  Freefall. Nathan hit the heap like a paratrooper, rolling while distributing his weight along the side of his body, muscles absorbing the impact. Black wings of unconsciousness accompanied the talons of pain that pierced his flanks. Nausea begged to send up acid like dragonfire.

  He inhaled—or tried to. Pain lanced across his torso. He struggled to elbows and knees. His rib cage felt out of joint.

  “He’s not here,” Sarge rumbled from nearby. When did he drop in? “If he gets to the radio towers before us, we’re fucked. Buck says they—”

  “They who?”

  “Another group of contractors.” Mercenaries. “They’re using the ReMOT to establish a satellite uplink with the client. It’s scheduled for 14:30. Then they’ll start the broadcast at Radio Point.” A gesture indicated the nearby radio station.

  “That’s partially why Red wanted this community, isn’t it.” Straightening, Nathan came to his knees. As he leaned back, he took a deep breath and flexed his spine to the right, wincing. Ribs grated back into alignment amid a flood of endorphins.

  “The other contractors,” Sarge grated, “have the ReMOT’s frequency pattern.”

  “And by extension, the client has the potential to control the cannibals.” Fucking wonderful. “What about Buck? If she’s at the station, she can help us.”

  “She’s not on my side.” Bars of light filtered between the grates to highlight strips of Sarge’s glower.

  “Unfortunate but not disastrous.”

  “I’m leaving.” The towering mercenary stalked toward the access gate in the far wall. “The buyer will—”

  “Believe what we tell them.”

  “What?”

  “Trust me.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” The courier’s sat phone, which Nathan held at chest-level like a charm against evil spirits, stopped him.

  “So?”

  “Let me handle it.”

  “He’s probably delivered the ReMOT already.”

  “Good,” Nathan huffed as he maneuvered to his feet.

  A glint of steel amid the mulch. Esau’s tomahawk. “Hah.” Nathan grabbed the handle. I will return this, Red—in your skull.

  After taking a moment to load both the Rock Island and the Glock, Nathan followed Sarge into the main building. No sign of Marvin. If he used the common sense that had enabled him to avoid capture in the terrorist attacks thus far, he’d escape this fracas too.

  Tomahawk in one hand and Glock in the other, Nathan moved to Sarge’s left. As they left the building, the duo covered each other. Keeping low, they headed to the Genesis.

  After shutting down the RFI generator, Nathan raised the sat phone. Time to phone the mothership. Redial. Calling . . .

  “Is the asset secured?”

  “Good afternoon. I represent the Red Devil Goats. I’m borrowing this phone from your courier. Red Chief is in possession of the asset. He also has a copy of the ReMOT’s design schematics. In addition, he discovered that the data from Dr. Birk’s house, as well as the St. Regis and Hotel Vitale raids, contained a frequency pattern.” Or so they assumed.

  His heavy brow ridged in confusion, Sarge glanced back at Nathan and his amalgam of truth and falsehood.

  “What does he intend to do with these . . . advantages?”

  “He has a buyer for the schematics.” That should anger the client. “As for the frequency pattern, I believe he intends to test it after the ReMOT is installed at the radio station. He believes it will give him control over the cannibals.”

  “I see. Do you have any additional information about the frequency pattern, as you call it?”

  Nathan shot Sarge a look of I-told-you-so. Shaking his head, the big man continued surveying the area for danger.

  “We secured a copy of it. I’ll be more than happy to hand it over to your team at Radio Point.”

  “Proceed to the transmission station.”

  Call ended.

  “If you have any men who are loyal to you, Sarge, round them up. We’re about to interrupt the regularly scheduled programming with some breaking news.”

  Chapter 98

  Vice a Mask

  Warrior - Evans Blue

  Sarge and his men parked their assorted vehicles fifty yards from the radio station, while Nathan pulled the Genesis up behind them.

  A football field away, Red’s Ram hulked next to two older model Buicks. No doubt the Goats lurked inside the station with the mercenaries in charge of the broadcast.

  Carbine ready, Sarge emerged from his gray Ford F-250. “Don’t fuck up.” His expression remained impassive.

  “Likewise.” Face equally dead, Nathan drew the Glock before raising the bandana over his face.

  They headed toward the station’s two-story broadcast building, Sarge’s men ranging ahead as an advance squad. Behind them, Nathan quickened his pace to take the lead from Sarge. The lieutenant didn’t attempt to regain it. Acid churned in Nathan’s stomach, liquid fire to supplement the hot coals of pain in the rest of his body.

  Three mercs with ARs exited the radio station’s front door. The defenders wore ski masks and baggy street clothes.

  “Hold,” Sarge ordered his men, who halted, rifles leveled at the threat.

  Behind the home team appeared a male in similar gear but wearing a Raiders jacket. “The boss said you have something extra for us?”

  “Is Red Chief inside?” Nathan asked.

  “He volunteered to be extra security. And he said you,” Ski Mask Leader addressed Sarge, “turned on him and we should shoot you on sight.”

  “But the client told you differently,” Nathan deduced, “given the lack of lead flying in our direction.”

  “They also said to stall Red Chief here.”

  Sarge snorted like a bull. “Are you getting paid to risk your asses doing either?”

  “We can make it worth your while to leave the building and let us settle this,” Nathan offered.

  Ski Mask adjusted his grip on his carbine. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d be fucking overjoyed to bounce. But we don’t get paid if we don’t nail the uplink and broadcast.”

  The blackout still rolled, so they must have generators if they wanted a strong radio broadcast signal. If he destroyed the power source, it would cancel the party. For everyone, including Nathan. Having the key to controlling the cannibals but no way to turn it would top the irony charts.

  Nathan checked his phone. “It’s 14:15. Are the uplink and broadcast going to be ready?”

  “Do we look like fucking amateurs to you?” Ski Mask narrowed his eyes. “Wait until the broadcast’s over, then you can fight it out with Red Chief. First, though, hand over the frequency file so our client stays happy.” He held his hand out.

  Head cocked, Nathan fixed Ski Mask with a glare. “It’s our file. I need to supervise it.”

  “That’s not—”

  Sarge cleared his throat
. It moved phlegm and four armed men. His mercs closed in.

  “Fuck it. Come on. But only you two.” The Masked Man gestured for Nathan and Sarge to follow.

  Exchanging a glance, they entered the station’s cramped reception area.

  “Get on the ground!” Two mercs with ARs and armor materialized ahead as Nathan dove to the right, behind a coffee table.

  “Not in here!” Ski Mask was yelling.

  Nathan swiveled on his back and kicked the table at the gunmen.

  BANG-BANG-BANG! Wheeeee—The ringing in his ears drowned anything else. Pain hammered nails into his sides, but tomahawk in hand, he scrambled toward the nearest shooter. Sarge barreled in, reaching them first.

  A gout of blood sprayed from the tangle of combatants as Nathan launched past; his blade had opened a gunman’s artery.

  Drawing the handgun, Nathan started down the hall. A presence behind him—Sarge, as quiet and powerful as a jungle cat, and just as deadly.

  Don’t think about being in the belly of the beast, or being surrounded by beasts. The golden eyes burned strong and steady in the back of Nathan’s mind.

  The two men moved down the hall, past offices and studios, heading for the heart of the broadcast center. Ahead stood a door marked Tech Department.

  Stack, with Sarge on point. Breach!

  A wall of computer monitors and terminals on the left, racks of transmission and computer equipment on the right. No one in the immediate vicinity, so the invaders eased along the end of the shelves.

  At the final rack, they paused. Nathan nodded to the left, down the last aisle. He padded to the end of it. Sarge signaled, then they stepped out to catch the room’s far corner in the angle of their ambush L. Nothing.

  Outside, gunfire thumped.

  Nathan turned to the broadcast equipment. Where had they installed—

  “The ReMOT.” Sarge pointed to the middle of the shelf. Amid the equipment hid the case he had produced from his CamelBak for Hoodie. Now cables snaked from the black box. He unlatched the front of it. The lid dropped down to double as a miniature keyboard. A screen glowed above it.

  “Good. It’s the satellite uplink I need now.”

  Sarge shrugged.

  “You’re too late.” Buck? Correction, Buck and an AR, aiming at them. Perhaps Sarge could charge her while—

  “Drop your weapons.” Ski Mask and three Goats came around the corner, the route Nathan had just taken.

  “Before you get hopeful,” Buck continued, tone as frigid as her glare, “your traitor-ass guys outside are busy getting fucked. I don’t think they’re gonna stay around long. They’re smarter than you two. Now drop your weapons.”

  The L pattern ambush worked perfectly—for the wrong people.

  Chapter 99

  Surrender Before Death

  Collapse - Adelitas Way

  Nathan and his pistol moved of their own accord: his body behind the ReMOT, the Glock muzzle against it. “Drop yours. All I have to do is unplug this and run out the clock. The government will show up soon.” Maybe if he delayed long enough, the military or police actually would arrive, like they had at Doorway.

  One of the closer mercs eased forward a step.

  “Or,” Nathan went on, pressing tighter against the box, stopping the gunman, “I can destroy it.” Bluff upon bluff.

  “I thought ya might have that bright idea, Hotshit.” A grinning Red swaggered around the corner behind Buck. He looked back the way he’d come. “So I bought insurance. Git out here, ya pussy. Time’s a-wastin’.”

  Sweat prickled over Nathan’s back as his pulse kicked up. Amanda? The girls? Carolyn?

  Head down, Jeremy—the fucking spineless, gutless, brainless excuse for a husband and father—trudged out to join Red. “Just don’t hurt him,” the hostage mumbled, face fish-belly white.

  They had Zander too? The fucker wouldn’t kill the boy; he’d sell him into the sex trade. Though Nathan’s nostrils flared and heat like that from an oven flushed through him, he held his post.

  “I’ll do whatever you want, just—”

  “How ’bout you just shut up before I get sick of your fussin’.” Red’s combat dagger lanced toward Jeremy in an exaggerated arc. The suburbanite half fell, half dodged. Red whipped the blade back for another strike, his grin flashing beside it. Then, with a laugh, he relaxed. “Made ya look.” The amusement vanished as he added, “Watch yerself. Be a shame for your young’un to be short a daddy. And vice versa.”

  Nails digging into the ReMOT’s rubberized exterior, Nathan forced his voice to remain low. “If I destroy the box, all this is pointless.”

  Red shook his head as if dealing with a mentally challenged toddler who refused to stop eating paste. “If you destroy it, you won’t have a hostage. Then what’s your plan? I thought we got this straightened out when you was in yer skivvies on the floor.”

  “Why should I surrender? You’ll just kill us anyway.”

  “Nah, you’re a valuable fucker. And I think Sarge and I can come to an agreement.” He eyed his former lieutenant.

  Sarge froze, then dropped to his knees as clicking sounded. Tased.

  “Well, Hotshit, you gonna blow that box or not?” Red folded his arms, knife in his fist like a scepter. “If you fuck around any longer, Buck here might get antsy and blow yer brains out. I can’t risk shorting that thing out with a Taser.”

  The tech mercenary raised her AR to cover Nathan.

  Royally fucked. With a sigh, he stepped away from the ReMOT. The Glock hit the floor as his hands went up. But as long as he still had life—

  Someone collided with his back, kicking him in the bend of the knee. The attacker rode him to the ground. Break-falls only worked so well with broken ribs. The impact sent a heat wave of pain searing over him. Zip-ties secured his hands behind him. Beside him, Red did the same to Sarge.

  The attacker on Nathan’s back disarmed him, handing the tomahawk to the chief motherfucker. Pocket contents also parted company with their owner. Good thing he’d left the satchel in the car.

  “Look at that!” Leaning close to Nathan, Esau hissed, “Thanks for finding my girl.”

  The knee in Nathan’s back prevented his reply, I wanted to return it to you blade-first.

  “A’ight, let’s git before the gov’ment rolls up.”

  Sarge growled as Esau hauled him to his feet. “Buck. He’s going to ruin the Goats. The world’s going to Hell; this isn’t like usual, when we do a job and go home—” Red’s backhand to the hulk’s face cut him off.

  “Shut yer dick hole!”

  The captors marched Nathan and Sarge out, down the hall. Behind trudged Jeremy.

  Daylight made Nathan squint as they stepped from the radio cave. If he could get the RFI generator online, it might block at least some of the broadcast.

  “Hey, Buck!” yelled a mercenary from . . . the cars. Fuck. “I got something in the trunk, like you thought. It’s a fan or something.”

  “Trash it! That’s what’s been fucking up our radios.”

  A clatter followed.

  Summoning every scrap of willpower, Nathan assumed a death mask of solemnity. It was up to him and him alone. No, I’m not alone. God had chosen him to conquer. Dying as a martyr now didn’t fit the plan; Nathan had many more victories to offer up to his God of War.

  One, two, three—“We can control the cannibals with the frequency. Turn off the uplink. Don’t give them more advantage.”

  Several yards away, Buck deployed a sat phone from the drop pouch at her thigh. “Red, I’m calling the client.”

  “Go on.”

  Red continued to march Nathan, Sarge, and Jeremy toward a white cargo truck. A mercenary threw the bay door upward. It rattled and squealed on its rollers, a sound from the pits of Hell, a harbinger of the imprisonment to come.

  A hum bored through the pounding of blood and residual gunshot-induced ringing in Nathan’s ears. It came from a yello
w Penske sixteen-footer. The generators! Fuck, he should have gone after them instead of trying a surgical strike on the satellite transmission. Now he had a scalpel—or combat knife—to his throat as a reward.

  If he could get around the front of the slave transport van, the angle of the vehicles would provide a sheltered route to the generators’ truck.

  Nathan cleared his throat and slid his gaze leftward to Sarge, catching the lieutenant’s attention. A flick of the eyes toward the truck—

  Sarge’s boot caught on a crack in the pavement, sending him lurching toward Red. A sidestep saved Esau from collision, but Sarge pivoted and rammed his shoulder into the chief’s center of mass.

  Red dropped an elbow between Sarge’s shoulder blades. Two other mercs dog-piled the giant.

  “Fuck me for being a nice guy!” Esau roared. The tomahawk materialized in his hand. “I will cut you so fucking small a wood chipper’d be jealous.”

  Chapter 100

  Pack Hunters

  Game On - Disciple

  Nathan dropped his weight. Twisting, he broke from his captor’s grip. Then he slammed a roundhouse kick into the merc’s knee. As the man’s leg went out from under him, Nathan rammed a shoulder into the bastard’s ribs, knocking him into Jeremy’s guard.

  “Jeremy, move!” Nathan barked as he pounded toward the front left panel of the transport truck.

  Yelling, gunfire—

  Crouching, he peered under the cab. A car—his car—sped toward the group of mercenaries. Swerve, brake, accelerate. Avoiding two tons of death on wheels occupied the gunmen. Not a dump truck, but it sufficed. “What goes around comes around, bastards.”

  With the enemy distracted, he aligned his wrists parallel and braced them against his hip until—Daggers twisted in his sides, snapping his resolve before the ties. “Fffuck!”

  No time for pain. He ran, half bent, for the generator truck. They couldn’t drive it off, since the machines inside fed the broadcast equipment.