The Path Of The Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  Now it seemed he would have to leave again, bound for an unknown location with no idea when he would return. The man on the phone had identified himself as Agent Ford. Pierce knew him as Alpha One, a marksman who performed rigorous weapons tests with Pierce’s inventions. He and his counterpart, Alpha Two, had trained nearly fourteen hours per day, every day, in armed and unarmed combat. The Alphas were only called to action when there was an absolute need. Apparently, the current situation was dire enough to require their unique skills, which made Pierce more than a little uneasy.

  He was about to pour himself another glass of amber medication when the intercom on his desk beeped. He set the decanter back on its tray and answered the call. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Call from the front gate for you, sir,” his night-shift bodyguard replied.

  “Alright, put it through,” Pierce replied.

  There was a click, then another familiar voice said, “Hello?”

  A reflexive smile spread over Pierce’s face. “Tate, is that you?”

  “Sure is,” the man said, “I’m here to give you a ride. Somebody from the FBI called me and said you were needed for some top-secret stuff. He also said you might be nervous about the trip, which is why he wanted me to go with. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m happy to go anywhere in a stretch limo.”

  Pierce smiled and pushed a button on his computer. The security feed from the front door appeared on the screen, and he cycled through until he was looking at the front gate. A man in a hooded coat was facing away from the camera with the old-fashioned receiver to his ear. Beside him, a glossy black limousine idled with its headlights on.

  “Meet me at the front door,” Pierce said. “I’ll buzz you in.”

  “Thanks buddy.” There was a click as the man replaced the receiver in its cradle, and Pierce thumbed the button to open the gate. He watched the hooded figure stroll through, then pushed his chair back and left the room. His bodyguard met him in the hallway.

  “Sir,” the beefy man said, “would you like me to accompany you?”

  “Nonsense,” Pierce said with a wave of his hand, “it’s just Tate.”

  “Yes, but, I wasn’t able to see his face on any of the cameras,” the guard protested.

  Pierce shook his head. “I think I know the voice of my oldest friend. Why don’t you start a pot of coffee? I have some things to discuss with you before I leave.”

  The guard frowned. “Leave?”

  Pierce sighed. “Yes, I got the call a short while ago. One of my associates in Baltimore needs me to travel to Maryland. We can talk about it in a moment; right now, I’m needed at the door.”

  The guard held up a finger, but Pierce ignored him. The wizened engineer shuffled down the stairs, his hand on the cherry wood baluster. He and Tate had been friends since they both graduated from Cornell University nearly fifty years prior, and it had been months since they’d last seen each other. Though Pierce despised the idea of leaving his family, he looked forward to the hours he and Tate would spend in the luxurious conveyance. He crossed the century-old hardwood floor, gripped the heavy door, and pulled it open.

  His wide smile faded into a puckered frown. He didn’t recognize the person standing in front of him. It was a woman with short, sand-colored hair, wearing the same coat he had seen on the camera. Confused, he leaned over to see if his old friend was behind her. There was nothing but empty space between her and the wrought iron gate.

  When he brought his gaze back to the stranger, she smiled, and in a raspy voice said, “Geoffrey Pierce, for your actions against the Empress and Katharos, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

  Before he could say a word, she produced a suppressed .40 caliber pistol, leveled it in front of his face, and pulled the trigger.

  The steely gray Jeep Grand Cherokee tackled the hilly road with ease, despite being loaded with three men in full tactical gear. As the vehicle rounded a sharp curve, a grandiose home surrounded by acres of green pasture and picturesque outbuildings came into view.

  “Thirty seconds, tops,” the driver said.

  Aaron Stark tapped the keys on his laptop and nodded. “Take it nice and easy on the way in, Ford said the old man sounded spooked, and we don’t want to make it any worse. We need to secure him and be on the move in five minutes. Then we can—”

  Stark stopped short as the driver depressed the brakes and pulled to the side of the road to make room for a passing limousine.

  “You don’t think that was him, do you?” the driver asked.

  “Better not be,” Stark said. “Ford told him to wait there until we picked him up.”

  Stark thumbed a button on his vest and spoke into his radio, “Vehicle two, this is Echo—we have a limousine proceeding south—can you block the lane at the bottom of the hill and make sure Pierce isn’t inside?”

  “Copy, Echo, we’ll take care of it.”

  Hearing the response in his own earpiece, the driver let off the brakes and continued on. Thirty seconds later, the gray SUV stopped in front of a tall, iron gate.

  All three men jumped out, and Stark reached for the handset on the intercom. Before he could ring in, a voice near the house shouted, “Stay where you are! Hands where I can see them!”

  Stark frowned. Perching his hands on the butt of his slung SCAR-H 7.62mm rifle, he stepped up to the gate and peered through. The house’s massive front doors were open, spilling light onto the stone porch. A man lay on his back, just inside the doorway.

  “Hands up!” the voice demanded.

  Stark and his driver slowly complied, while the Jeep’s third occupant stayed hidden behind the vehicle, drawing a bead on the unknown target. As Stark’s hands moved upward, he casually flicked his night optical device. It swung into place, illuminating the night in shades of green.

  “I have eyes on one target, in the bushes, left of the door,” Stark whispered.

  “Got him,” the man behind the Jeep responded. “He has a gun up. Pistol.”

  “Give me a second,” Stark whispered. Raising his voice to address the man in the shadows, he said, “We’re with the FBI, we were sent to pick up Geoffrey Pierce.”

  “Yeah? That’s what the last guy said. And I don’t know if you noticed, but Mr. Pierce is dead.”

  Stark swore, then said, “Were they in a black limo?”

  A pause, then, “Yeah.”

  “We passed them on the way in. We have a second vehicle that can intercept them, but I need my hands to use my radio.”

  After another pause, then the man responded, “Alright, but take it slow.”

  Stark nodded, and slowly reached for his push-to-talk. The button clicked, and he said, “Vehicle Two, this is Echo. We have a casualty up here. Treat the limo as hostile, over.”

  “Copy, hostiles in limo. Delta is moving into overwatch position.”

  “Whoever they are,” Stark called out, “they won’t get away. Now will you please lower your weapon so we can sort through this?”

  The man took a step back, surprised that the newcomers could see him in the darkness. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are. I need you to stay right there until the police arrive.”

  Stark sighed. “I know you’re just doing your job, but we don’t have time for this. Right now, you have a high-powered rifle aimed at your skull. An easy shot at a distance of what, maybe a hundred feet? Probably not so easy with that pistol.”

  Taking a step back and gripping the handle to the SUV, Stark continued, “We’re going after that limo. Whether you live or die tonight is up to you.”

  The bodyguard wavered, then lowered his gun. He watched the three men duck into the Jeep and speed away, leaving streaks of black rubber behind.

  “Vic two,” Stark said, gripping his push-to-talk, “we are moving south in pursuit of the limo. Do you have visual yet?”

  “Negative. No sign of them.”

  Stark frowned. The winding lane leading up to the estate was impressive, but the
limo definitely should have made it to the bottom by now.

  His confusion vanished a moment later as the black limousine came into view, parked at the edge of the road.

  “Aaron, you seeing this?” the driver asked.

  Stark leaned forward to get a better look. The body of the limo was on its side, but the wheels were firmly on the ground. It was as if the top of the vehicle was a giant lid and had opened like a jewelry box. The Jeep’s headlights illuminated the interior, revealing nothing but a few cargo straps.

  “Get on infrared,” Stark ordered, “it might be an ambush.”

  The men complied, popping down night-vision goggles and twisting knobs to adjust the spectrum. There were no warm bodies in the forested hills around them.

  After a full minute of reconnaissance, Stark said, “Stay here and cover me. I’m going to take a look.”

  “It might be booby-trapped,” the driver said.

  Stark opened his door and put a foot on the ground. “I won’t get too close to the limo; I just want to see which way they went.” Using the door for leverage, he pulled himself out and brought his rifle’s stock to his cheek. His feet rolled from heel to toe as he approached the abandoned limo. The rifle swept from side to side like a third eye, and his elbows stayed tight to his chest, decreasing the size of his silhouette. He stopped at the edge of the road and peered down. Three sets of rugged tracks led up the hill, digging through the duff layer and into the soil.

  “Looks like they took all-terrain vehicles,” Stark said over the radio. “Maybe dirt bikes. We can put a call in to law enforcement and have them patrol the surrounding roads, but I think we lost them.”

  Stark returned to the Jeep and sank into his seat. He wasn’t looking forward to the report he would be giving Ford. Pierce was dead, and the team failed to capture whoever had killed him.

  As the secure phone dialed in, Stark wondered how on earth the assassins had arrived before them. The operation had been timed perfectly, allowing Pierce just enough time to gather his things before they arrived.

  “Hello?” a deep voice said, interrupting his thoughts.

  Aaron’s heart sank. The only thing worse than reporting a failure to Ford was reporting it to Daron Keeler. “Sir,” Stark said, clearing his throat, “Pierce is dead. Someone beat us to him.”

  There was silence for several long moments, and Stark held the phone away from his ear. To his surprise, Daron answered in a soft, puzzled voice. “They must have hacked our communications…but why wait until now to take out Pierce? They had to have known where he was, his address is a damn historic site…”

  Daron’s voice suddenly turned icy. “Exfil. Right now.”

  Before Stark could ask for an explanation, his driver said, “We have movement on the ridge.”

  Stark’s eyes widened. “Get us out of here—” he began, but his words were cut off by a deafening roar.

  He felt the pain in his eyes first as the brilliant flash seared his retinas. For a brief moment, he was aware of a jarring sensation, then he felt nothing at all.

  27

  Dressed in a set of next-generation fatigues he had taken from one of the Katharos security guards, Jarrod stepped out of the fog and onto the paved highway. A man driving a motorized scooter squeezed his brakes and swerved, passing within inches of him. He came to a halt a moment later, dropped the kickstand, and dismounted. He shouted curses at Jarrod in French and gestured wildly with his hands.

  Without saying a word, Jarrod brushed past the furious man and placed his hands on the scooter’s handlebars. This further enraged the owner, who shoved Jarrod as hard as he could. Jarrod ignored him, swung his leg over, and knocked the kickstand aside.

  It was the last straw. The man reached into a bag at the rear of the scooter and retrieved a small crowbar. Shouting a final warning, he raised the blunt weapon and swung for Jarrod’s head.

  Though he was standing right next to his target, he missed completely. The crowbar continued through the air, pulling him so far off balance that he had to grab Jarrod’s shoulder to steady himself. Shaking off the confusion, he reset his feet into a batter’s stance, gripped the crowbar with both hands, and swung at Jarrod’s back. This time, it connected with a loud clank. Pain shot into the man’s forearms and he dropped the crowbar. He stared wide-eyed at his hands, which were curling involuntarily at the shock. It felt as if he had struck a steel I-beam.

  Revving the 125cc motor, Jarrod released the brakes and lurched forward. The scooter strained beneath the weight of its new owner and belched blue smoke. The previous owner gave chase for several seconds, then fell behind. The speedometer rose to seventy kilometers-per-hour, but no further. The tiny vehicle wasn’t built for a man of Jarrod’s size, but it would get him to Djambala. Once there, he could procure something better.

  Within an hour, he drew close to the city, and the homesteads along the road transitioned to rows of flimsy huts. The road itself was surprisingly smooth, owing its sturdy construction to a government modernization project. Despite the rampant poverty around him, it was obvious that the locals were putting forth considerable effort to beautify their city. Concrete buildings were painted pastel blue near the bottom and white on top, and the line dividing the colors was perfectly straight. Shrubs were planted in neat rows around houses built with recycled wooden planks. The people were similarly beautified—they were clean, well-dressed, and most of them wore bright smiles.

  Few vehicles cruised the streets; most of the locals traveled on foot. Hundreds of pedestrians moved between shops, roadside markets, and tin-roofed community centers. Jarrod stopped in front of a building with a sign that read “Wifi à l'intérieur.” Wifi inside. He didn’t worry about securing the scooter, leaving the stubby key in its ignition. As he passed through the front door, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee filled his nose, temporarily obscuring subtler scents. He paused for a second to gather himself, then joined the small queue of patrons waiting to purchase food or drink.

  Jarrod’s senses of taste and smell were powerful weapons, but they were also the source of his greatest weakness. Just one breath of Roberts’s chemical formula could bring him to his knees, and that scent was in the air at the crowded cafe. There were no Katharos agents sitting in the room’s many plastic chairs—the scent came from his pocket. Molecules from the volatile liquid were sporadically diffusing past the rubber O-ring on the glass vial.

  Even after several hours, Franco’s interrogation had produced little actionable information. The agent gave detailed descriptions of every Katharos facility he was familiar with and divulged a wealth of information regarding tactics and training. But he gave nothing with strategic value, at least, nothing important enough to distract Jarrod from his primary mission. Franco had little knowledge of Project Lateralis or the whereabouts of Melody Hawkins’s desecrated corpse. In truth, the greatest gift Franco had to offer was the tiny glass vial.

  Jarrod shook off the dulling effects of the compound and focused on the people in front of him. Within seconds, he found what he was looking for. A woman in a lime-colored skirt was staring at a smartphone. The line moved forward, and she tucked the device into her waistband. Jarrod stepped out of line and grabbed a packet of sugar from a condiments table. Instead of returning to the rear of the line, he cut straight through the center, brushing against the woman in the green skirt. She frowned at him, and he mumbled an apology before moving to a table at the rear of the room.

  He breached the phone’s security in seconds and connected to the cafe’s wifi. He tapped a blue and white icon to access his little sister’s favorite social media application, then opened the search bar and typed in “DD Hawkins.” The screen went blank, then refreshed, showing the smiling face of Dorothy Della Hawkins. At a young age, Jarrod had remarked that he liked his sister’s initials, and from that point on, the dark-haired, bright-eyed girl refused to respond to any name but “Deedee.”

  Deedee was one of Jarrod’s many siblings, though one of only t
hree that were still alive. Most had perished from terminal illness at a young age. Jarrod’s adoptive parents couldn’t have children of their own and took it upon themselves to adopt as many unwanted babies as they could. Jarrod’s biological father had died while he was still in his mother’s womb, and his mother died giving birth to him. He entered the world alone, sick, and infirm, with a life expectancy measured in months. But his adoptive parents took him into their home and loved him as their own. Eventually, their passion brought them to babies with prenatal diagnoses for Down’s Syndrome. Many such babies were aborted, so the Hawkins family pleaded with the mothers to carry them to term and give them up in adoption.

  Jarrod’s three remaining siblings had all grown up with Down’s syndrome. Though they were viewed by some as a burden to society, he had seen them as a blessing beyond compare. He loved to make them laugh, and they idolized his athletic prowess. Deedee was so inspired by Jarrod’s talent in sports and martial arts that she began competing in Special Olympics, and the entire family gathered around her to cheer her on at the annual meets.

  Now, staring at her soft, glowing face, Jarrod did not feel love. He did not feel sentiment, nostalgia, or sadness. He simply knew it was his job to protect her. And part of that job involved checking up on her. Scrolling through her feed, he could see everything was normal—she was happy and safe with their father.

  Before Jarrod reached the end of her shared videos and comments, the screen changed. A media file opened on its own, and a familiar voice began to speak. Jarrod turned the volume down to its lowest level, rendering it inaudible to everyone else in the cafe.

  “…took my son from me. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead…I just know I want him back. I’m begging you, please save him. I have nothing to offer in return, but I can’t do it on my own. If I could, I would give my life for his. I would do anything to keep him safe. But I can’t. I don’t have a hope without You. Only You can save him.”