The Path Of The Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  The Path of the Nightmare

  A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller

  A novel by

  J. J. Carlson

  The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  Copyright © 2018 J. J. Carlson

  All rights reserved.

  Visit www.brightinthedarkbooks.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  “If a man has not discovered something that he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.”

  -Martin Luther King Jr.

  1

  Cameroon

  60 miles north of Yaounde

  The black forest surrounded the road like an endless tunnel, choking out the light of the full moon. Jarrod Hawkins pushed the Range Rover to its limits, crashing through knee-deep potholes and slamming aside fallen trees. He had driven for twenty-three hours straight, stopping only to refuel the stolen vehicle. Cameroon, though far from Africa’s largest nation, covered more than 180,000 square miles, and much of it was rugged wilderness. With every passing minute, the Range Rover’s temperature gauge crept higher, and Jarrod knew he would be forced to stop soon.

  Gradually, the forest began to thin, giving way to homesteads, crossroads, and a small, unlit village. Jarrod eased the vehicle to a halt and killed the motor. He popped the door open and stepped into the moonlight. His dark eyes took in everything—the braided road, the ramshackle homes, and the pair of rusted pickup trucks blocking his way. Twilight was still hours away, but six men stared back at him. The drivers gripped their steering wheels, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Two gunmen aimed AK-47’s from the truck beds, and two men stood in the road, silhouetted by the headlights.

  A tall, dark man shouted a question in French. Jarrod didn’t answer, but he raised his hands above his hooded head.

  The tall man repeated his question in English. “You like that car?”

  The second man raised a Makarov pistol and said, “Did you think you could get away with it? Lose us in the forest? We know these roads better than anybody.”

  The tall man took a step forward and jabbed his forefinger at the Range Rover. “That’s my cousin’s truck. He saved his money for years and just bought it last week. I think he loves it more than he loves his own mother.”

  “I needed something reliable,” Jarrod murmured.

  The tall man spat. “You needed something? And you don’t think my cousin needed it more? Damn Americans. You think you’re so important. Our family is starving. That truck is a job. It’s a business. It’s money in our pockets and bread on our tables, and you think you need it more than we do?”

  The second man tightened his grip on the pistol and aimed it at Jarrod’s chest. The tall man took a deep breath and held up a hand to calm his companion.

  “We are good people,” the tall man said. “We don’t steal or kill. All we want is my cousin’s truck, and enough money to pay for repairs.”

  “I need it,” said Jarrod.

  The tall man scowled. “I don’t care. It doesn’t belong to you, and we are taking it back.” He pinched the air near his forehead and moved his hands back, gesturing for Jarrod to lower his covering. “Take off the hood.”

  “I need this vehicle,” Jarrod repeated. “If you try to stop me, I will kill everyone here but you.”

  The tall man laughed. “I think you need to open your eyes. My friends will cut you to pieces if you don’t cooperate. Now…take off your hood.”

  Jarrod kept his hands in the air, and the hood slowly withdrew on its own, revealing a black, indistinct mass above his shoulders. As the men watched, the mass vanished in a cloud of smoke.

  “Le Cauchemar!” The man with the pistol gasped. “C’est le Cauchemar!”

  The tall man’s eyes widened. He grabbed his compatriot’s shoulder and dragged him back. The drivers slammed their vehicles into reverse and careened down the road with the two men chasing on foot. One of the trucks plunged into the forest in a desperate Y-turn, and the men jumped into the back. Gravel plinked against the fenders, and the trucks disappeared in a cloud of red dust.

  Jarrod replaced his hood and climbed back into the Range Rover. He had many miles left to travel before the sun rose. And much blood to spill.

  United States

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Santiago Torres flicked his gaze from right to left, then back again. The sweat on his forehead condensed into a bead and rolled into his right eye. The multi-spectrum lights overhead felt like the desert sun, and he could feel his resolve beginning to crack. With a sigh of frustration, he seized his phone from his pocket. He glanced down long enough to find a number, then refocused his attention on the objects in front of him.

  “You never should have trusted me with this,” he said. “I’m completely lost.”

  The phone’s tiny speaker relayed every bit of annoyance in his wife’s voice. “Honey, this is your problem. I can’t make every decision for you.”

  “Why not? You already said I had to choose between blue-gray and gray-green. Why not pick a specific color for me?”

  “It’s only two options. Just choose one and come home.”

  “Anita,” Santiago sighed. “There are fifteen different shades of gray-green and twenty shades of blue-gray. And that’s just one brand; there are three other brands I haven’t even looked at.”

  “San, it’s your office. Either one of those colors will go with the rest of the house, the shade doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter? There’s a gray-green here that looks like a lime and an old spoon had a baby.”

  “Well, obviously don’t pick that one.”

  Another bead of sweat rolled into San’s eye, and he said. “Why can’t you do it?”

  “Because you’re spending more time at the house now, and I want you to make more decisions around here. I don’t have all day to talk to you on the phone, so just pick a color, grab two gallons, and come home.”

  San’s face flushed red. He took a deep breath and said, “Alright. Love you.”

  He hung up the phone, put the gray-green swatch back on the shelf, and put the blue-gray swatch on the counter. A round-faced girl in a paint-stained yellow apron looked up and smiled.

  “Two gallons of this, please,” said San.

  “Sure thing,” the girl replied. “What finish would you like?”

  San’s face fell. “Finish?”

  “Yeah, it’s the amount of glossiness in the paint. You could get flat, which has no gloss,
eggshell, which is good for common areas, semi-gloss, which I’d recommend for—”

  “Hold on a second,” San interrupted. Shutting his eyes, he reached into his pocket.

  Twenty minutes later, he walked out of the store with two gallons of blue-grey eggshell paint, feeling as if he’d just been interrogated by Nazi scientists. His thirty-year career as a physical therapist, prosthetist, and experimental weapons researcher had done little to prepare him for domestic life. His new job as a university lecturer demanded less than twenty hours per week, and he was excited to have more time with his family, but he had underestimated how difficult the transition would be.

  San halted behind his bulky sedan. In his shock, he dropped one of the paint cans, which broke open and splashed across the pavement. San had come to the hardware store alone, but the profile of a man’s face was visible in the passenger seat.

  His heart pounded. He crouched and tried to see who it was. A spark of recognition released a flood of relief, which washed away his fear and left frustration in its wake. Shaking his head, he popped the trunk and placed the remaining paint can inside, then put his phone into a dense, plastic box. He slammed the trunk and yanked open the driver’s side door.

  “Eugene, you about gave me a heart-attack,” he said. “And you cost me a gallon of paint.”

  The man in the passenger seat shook his head. “If it’s a custom color, I cost you two gallons. They have to mix the entire batch at once, or it won’t match perfectly.”

  San glared at Eugene. “Where do people learn this stuff? Did I miss out on some sort of life-skills training while working for the Pentagon?”

  “And then some,” Eugene said, smiling. “I’m sorry about the paint…I’ll get you some more after we meet with Daron.”

  San raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. “Daron? Does that mean you’ve found something?”

  Eugene shook his head. “Not something, someone. But we can’t talk about it here. Head toward the waterfront; I’ll fill you in when we get there.”

  Eugene reclined his seat all the way back and covered himself with a jacket. San put the car in drive and pulled forward, feeling guilty for leaving the mess of paint. He steered through the busy streets of Baltimore while Eugene gave directions.

  “Left up here, then your first right,” Eugene said.

  San looked incredulously at Eugene’s shrouded form and said, “How do you know where we are? You haven’t looked up once.”

  The jacket swished as Eugene poked his face out. “Practice. You’ll want to get in the left lane.”

  Shaking his head, San put his blinker on and obliged. The streets became narrower, dirtier, and less crowded as they drew closer to Back River.

  Eugene sat up and directed San into a weedy parking lot. “They should be here already,” he said. “Daron will meet us at the side entrance.”

  They crossed the empty lot, and Daron ushered them into an abandoned office building. The side door opened into a carpeted hallway that smelled like cat urine. Dried leaves clung to every corner, and cobwebs hung from the walls.

  “It’s, uh…charming,” said San, “but not quite as upscale as your last office.”

  Daron clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “This isn’t where we work. Sometimes, I wish it was. We just can’t afford to settle down.”

  “You mean when you’re on the job, right?” said San.

  Eugene laughed and said, “He means ever. We’re living the nomad’s life right now.”

  San frowned. “You can’t be serious. Where do you sleep at night?”

  “Who sleeps at night?” Daron said with a grin. “Night is for hunting. When we can, we nap in the truck.”

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” San stammered. “I didn’t know things were so difficult for you two.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” Eugene said as he led San into a dusty office. “We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  A stout lantern illuminated the small room. Four folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle amongst crumpled papers and dead insects. As they entered, a wiry, balding man with keen blue eyes stood and extended his hand.

  “San, this is Daniel Young,” Eugene said. “Danny, this is Santiago Torres.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Daniel,” said San.

  “Likewise. And you can call me Danny.”

  San smiled, his bright teeth shining even in the dim light. “Then I guess you’d better call me San.”

  “Danny works with the DIA out of the Pentagon,” Eugene said. “He’s been officially briefed on Hillcrest, Nerium, and Lateralis, and he’s here to help us out.”

  San shivered. He didn’t like to hear the names being spoken aloud. The Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center was his former place of employment. It was a massive building with a legitimate clinic above ground. Below ground, in the vast concrete sub-levels, highly classified and morally questionable experiments took place. San had provided expertise in nano-machinery and cybernetic implants for some of the secretive projects.

  Project Nerium was a broad-spectrum experiment based around the production of a human weapon. After years of research and development, hundreds of concepts were applied to one subject: Jarrod Hawkins. Prior to the final phase of the project, Jarrod escaped. When the security team failed to re-capture him, Jarrod was officially proclaimed dead and the project was buried.

  The word Lateralis brought even more unpleasant memories. Doctor Emily Roberts was the brilliant mind in charge of that project. She was also San’s best friend, or so he had thought. The project used similar technology to create an undead super-soldier that could be piloted remotely. When it was finished, Roberts showed her true colors. She betrayed her country, her co-workers, and her friends. She stole the technology for Project Lateralis in a ruthless encounter that left many of Daron’s men on the Hillcrest security team dead.

  In the weeks after Emily’s treasonous departure, the weapons development at Hillcrest was shut down. Daron and Eugene were given lucrative contracts to hunt down Roberts by any means necessary. San was involved unofficially. He had resigned from Hillcrest after Jarrod’s escape, but secretly maintained contact with both Emily Roberts and the living super-weapon. Eugene and Daron tried to keep him in the loop, hoping his familiarity with the dangerous subjects would prove useful in the investigation.

  San felt uneasy in the presence of the stranger from the Pentagon. He wasn’t sure what he could say without getting himself, Eugene, or Daron in trouble.

  Daron shut the door, pulling San from his musings. “Alright kids,” he said, “take your seats.”

  San, Eugene, and Danny sat down. Daron remained standing, gripping the back of a chair.

  “First off,” he grunted, “I want to clear the air. Some of you might be feeling anxious about sharing your secrets. Don’t. Everybody here is trustworthy. Don’t try lying or double-talking, or giving me any vague bullcrap. We don’t have time for tiptoeing around. San, you can tell Danny anything and everything. Danny, you’re here for us, not the other way around; if we find out you’re holding back, we’re done. Good luck getting the bigger picture from your intel briefings.”

  Eugene leaned toward San and whispered, “Daron and Danny are like peanut butter and jelly. It’s great that they’re friends, but sometimes the flirting gets out of hand.”

  “Shut it Carver,” Daron said. “We don’t all need to be friends; we don’t even need to get along. We’re here to help each other out. Some of us might get a promotion out of the deal and some of us might get revenge. Reasons don’t matter, only results.”

  Everyone nodded, but San alone was smiling. He always felt strangely comforted by Daron’s gruff demeanor. The world seemed dark and insecure after Emily’s betrayal, and Daron, having taken the loss of his security team personally, was a powerful ally. San knew the man would never hold back; he was as dangerous as any evil in the world.

  San had never been a man of action. His contributions to warfare were always
through the applications of science and engineering. The preceding weeks and months had plunged him into a world he was not prepared for, and his black-ops friends were the only barrier between him and crippling paranoia.

  “I’m sorry, San,” Daron said, “but you’re in the hot seat. I need you to tell Danny everything you know about Jarrod. It’s uncomfortable, but I don’t want you to feel like you’re betraying Jarrod’s trust and friendship. This isn’t an interrogation, it’s a conversation. When it’s over, Danny should be able to answer some of the questions you have about Roberts.”

  San’s face flushed, and the room started to spin. “How do you know about Emily? Where is she? Who is she working with? Why did she do it? Was she being forced to?”

  Danny glanced toward Daron, who said, “San, relax. We’ll get to it. You need to answer Danny’s questions first, it’ll give him a better perspective on Roberts. Just…take it easy.”

  San bit his lip and felt the heat at his collar begin to dissipate. “I—I’m sorry. You’re right. What do you need to know?”

  “I understand how you feel,” Danny said in a business-like tone. “The intelligence community is always looking for complete answers, but we never get them. We are forced to operate on tiny fractions of broken pieces that make up an enormous puzzle. We never find out what the puzzle looks like, and we seldom know if the pieces we are working with are even in the right place. At the highest levels of secrecy, analysts like myself are often deprived of key facts that would allow us to make meaningful connections.”

  Danny crossed one leg over the other. “That’s why I’m here, at great personal risk. I want to know, damn it. I want something to make sense after years of sorting data streams and writing briefings. I was told about Project Nerium¸ but I’m sure most of it was a lie. Since Doctor Emily Roberts fled the country, I’ve been assigned to organize the intelligence we have on her, but all I have are vague, highly redacted reports. The powers that be think I can do my job blindfolded, but I can’t. That’s why I need you to fill in the gaps.”