“How long?” Daniels asked, unable to keep a slight whine out of his voice.
“As long as I can,” she told him. “As long as you’ll let me.”
“As long as necessary,” Lancaster informed him with no uncertainty. Daniels nodded with equal certainty, and not even a hint of pouting.
“What should we be looking for?” Nichols asked, unable to keep a slight fear and doubt out of her voice.
“To paraphrase you,” Key responded, “you’ll know it when you see it. Or, in this case, feel it. Anything out of the ordinary, but especially visions, hallucinations, even unusual dreams. Nothing is too small to mention. Do not, whatever you do, try to slough it off, downplay it, or tough it out.”
“Who, me?” Daniels challenged with a grin.
“Especially you,” Key replied.
Lancaster sat up, realized what he was about to blurt, then slowly leaned back. “Elaborate,” he suggested carefully.
“As soon as I got near the child,” Key informed him, “it was as if the cement wall I had made to cover my emotions started to crack.” He looked over at Rahal, who was taking Gonzales’s vitals. “I’m thinking you felt it too, didn’t you?”
Rahal stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“The way I was acting.”
“Oh,” she said, seemingly distracted by trying to read Gonzales’s blood pressure. “Yes.” She sought the right words before continuing. “You were uncharacteristically intense, even repetitive. You usually choose your words more carefully and only make your point once.”
Key nodded. “I was agitated, unfocused, even confused. For absolutely no reason that I could see, the child’s proximity had”—now he searched for the right word—“it had unnerved me.”
“Could it have been the situation?” Lancaster asked. “Just that, nothing more?” It was clear that he didn’t want his team leader to be vulnerable.
“Joe has spent a lifetime separating what goes on inside his head from what’s going on outside his head,” Daniels contended flatly. “This guy could win a chess game in a carpet bombing.”
Key nodded in appreciation of the compliment. “I’ve told you,” he said to Lancaster, then glanced at the rest. “I’ve told you all, the mental is not separate from the physical. If the body can be attacked, so can the mind.”
Daniels smiled grimly at Nichols. “Like I told you, it’s all a muscle, baby, the whole human shootin’ match.”
“So that’s what we’re dealing with here?” Gonzales asked.
“That’s what we may be dealing with here,” Key countered. “But it’s more important than ever to keep reading your own mind, and keep it wide open until we’re more certain.” He sat up on the diagnostic bed. “You got the accessories I asked for now?” he asked Gonzales.
Gonzales sucked in his breath. “Just in time,” he answered. “I was preparing to bring them over when the alarm sounded.” He nodded at Safar, who brought a case over to the center bed, laid it on the padding, and opened it.
Inside were fourteen fingerless gloves, seven dickies, and seven bike shorts. The gloves reached up to mid-forearm, the dickey down to below the sternum, the bike short to the knee, and all were made of a lighter gray, nearly copper material. They were obviously designed to cover the human body’s major arteries.
“Under armor?” Daniels suggested.
“Righter than you may know,” Key commented, stepping over to the other side of the bed.
“Glad you added the ‘may,’” Daniels muttered while twisting over for a closer look.
“Batal hazar,” Rahal said under her breath as she joined the others.
Key purposely didn’t look at her with narrowed eyes, but his self-control had no effect on Safar, who did. He knew she had said the Arabic phrase that could be translated as “stop joking, you have got to be kidding me.”
“It’s the truth. Not a single photo of the man in Sujanpur was in focus,” he said quietly, and directly, to her. “Not one.” She did not react to, or look at, him, but her expression shifted as if she were thinking they had all lost their reason.
Lancaster picked up on the undercurrent. “You will all wear these from now on, twenty-four-seven. No exceptions, no excuses.”
“They’re made from a special material,” Gonzales assured them. “Slim, pliant, and comfortable as silk but hard as steel.”
“Made by the same company who created Cali-brake,” Lancaster informed them, referring to the revolutionary bulletproof material their uniforms were made of—which was one of the many patents Lancaster had rescued from repression by corporations more interested in status quo than progress.
“Even in the shower?” Daniels inquired disingenuously.
“Even in the shower,” Gonzales said proudly. “Wash and wear. They dry even faster than skin. And, believe it or not, they make Cali-brake’s wicking capabilities even more effective.”
Daniels grinned. “Better living through science,” he commented while reaching for the biggest size—the ones obviously made for him.
“I only wish that were true,” Rahal said worriedly, stepping back.
Key looked over to her, but said nothing. Lancaster knew that was his responsibility. “Elaborate,” he said knowingly.
“That girl in there is the victim,” Rahal announced with certainty. “She may be infected with whatever the man who stole her was infected with. There are cases on record of sleeping sicknesses that were mistaken for death, and of infections that cause extra strength and speed.” She stabbed a finger at Nichols, who looked on with concern. “But these are all natural. These are all real. They are not the result of some fairy tale ekimmu or blood-sucking vampire!”
“And no one said they are, Professor Rahal,” Lancaster replied in a voice that was as calm as still water and as hard as graphene. “But until we know what happened to that child, and that man, we live with the motto ‘better safe than sorry.’” He pointed directly as her, but not unkindly. “It is your job to find out what has happened, and what is happening, to that poor girl.” He motioned to the others. “It is their job to stop it from happening to anyone else.”
The seven core members of Cerberus stood silently, looking at each other. Then Eshe Rahal fell to one knee and, in a long-delayed release, started to sob.
Chapter 6
“Is she okay?” Nichols asked as Key entered the sleek, ergonomic cabin of Lancaster’s latest acquisition to his air fleet—a gray and white HondaJet.
“Define ‘okay,’” Key replied with a combination of resignation and irritation as he took one of the four plush seats bracketing the compact cabin. He was facing the cockpit, where Gonzales and Safar sat. Nichols sat opposite Key, who was to the right of Daniels—giving the big guy the most leg room. They were all wearing their Cali-brake outfits, complete with the new “Chain-silk” accessories.
“She’s resting comfortably,” Daniels advised, adding, “If that’s any consolation.”
“I’m not sure it is to her,” Nichols answered.
“Agreed.”
As soon as he was belted in, Key pulled out, and held up, an iPad Pro so all three in the hunter team, and the two pilots, if they turned around, could see it. It seemed perfectly at home in the HondaJet’s clean, smooth interior. With the press of a forefinger, Lancaster’s face appeared on the high-definition screen.
“Professor Rahal is under the care and observation of Dr. Helen,” he immediately announced. Nichols wanted to ask if that was enough, but had too much respect for Lancaster to verbalize it. The retired general seemed to read her mind, however, and not for the first time. “That will have to do for now,” he continued, “since I’m still vetting the security clearance of any specialists who could be of service. But I can assure you, from personal experience, that Dr. Helen is probably the best possible person for this unique set of circumstances.”
Before
any of them could inquire, Lancaster immediately went on to other pressing matters. “The child is being treated as if she is radioactive. All tests will be performed from as far distant, and as far protected, as possible, with redundant safeguards and security.”
He paused to allow for any comments, but none were forthcoming. Key had too much faith in the retired general’s intelligence, Nichols had too much respect, and Daniels couldn’t care less. Any cock-up would just give him more opportunities to go ballistic on someone—or something.
“Faisal?” Lancaster finally asked.
They heard Safar’s voice from the copilot’s seat. “As I mentioned to Professor Rahal,” he said, “not a single photo of the body snatcher—”
“Just call him the ‘nude dude,’” Daniels piped up, “so we all know who you’re talking about.”
“Let’s not,” Lancaster said to the accompaniment of a general “Grow up, Morty” sigh.
“By any name,” Safar said with gracious patience, “not a single image was in focus. In fact, it was almost as if someone had used a digital distortion device on the images—rendering the face indistinguishable. There was no way we could use facial recognition software to track him.”
“The same could not be said of the girl, however,” Gonzales chimed in. “You’d think a child that pretty who disappeared would be the source of an intense investigation, but we could find no evidence of it.”
“Fingerprints?” Nichols asked, both hopefully and doubtfully.
“Nothing on record,” Safar replied.
“I’ll keep looking on this end,” Lancaster assured them, “but, for now, you may not have positive identifications, but you have a definite trail of bodies. Time to retrace them, and find the source of this abomination. Best of luck and skill, team. Good hunting.”
Lancaster’s face disappeared from the screen, and, as the pilots readied for takeoff and Key stowed the iPad Pro, Daniels stretched like a bear waking from hibernation.
“So,” he commented casually to Key as the jet prepared for liftoff, “we’re on India serial killer watch while Logan is on Afghan terrorist trail, huh? Something sound screwy about that to you, Joe?”
Key looked sardonically over at his friend as if he were a forgetful grandpa. “So, you’d rather blunder into an Afghan bear-trap buzz-saw than get a rematch with our India phenomenon? You know, the child-snatcher who looks twice your age, doesn’t show up on camera, and can run rings around you? Something sound screwy about that to you, Morty?”
Gonzales and Safar made a quick taxi down the Cerberus runway and took off toward Punjab—the HondaJet doing it all in less than three thousand feet. Once they were at their cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet, Nichols finally said what was on her mind.
“Joe, I’m sure the body snatcher stole the child from the morgue, but I’m not sure he killed her.”
Daniels snorted. “Hell, I’m not even sure she’s dead!”
“I’m not sure any of them were,” Key informed them. “Before or after their alleged cremations.”
Daniels shifted in his seat so he could look directly at Key with cynical skepticism. “So, you’re definitely using the ‘V’ word?”
Nichols sat up, a variety of “V” words running through her mind. “Vagrant? Vagabond?” she finally guessed.
Daniels barked a laugh. “No,” he told her with appreciation. “Vampire.”
The redhead looked from the former sergeant to the former corporal, her own expression incredulous. “Really?”
Key was unabashed. “Not ruling it out,” he said flatly. “Not ruling anything out. But one thing I’m fairly certain of, Morty. Your precious Afghan bear trap and our ghoul may be on a collision course.” Key let them consider that, before he stood to start checking the on-board equipment they had loaded. “And already too close for comfort.”
* * * *
Aarif Zaman looked out over his “kingdom.” The kingdom that stretched from Urgon—a craggy, mountainous range of devastated villages—to the thick forests of Waziristan. He smiled upon his mostly unseen subjects; the chameleon-like Pashtun tribes who appeared when they were called and disappeared back into the countryside when their violence was finished.
He breathed deeply of the air of the Paktika Province, fragrant with the subtle scents of coal, sulfur, gas, and gunpowder that drifted on the wind from mines and bombings. He had his system of cave dwellings, his subjects, his soldiers, his concubines, and his slaves. He could want for nothing more. But he did.
“I want my identity,” he told his visitor—the one who had silently taken in this grand tour, listening to all the terrorist’s tales of conquest and destruction. The one who had, once it had come time to declare respect and allegiance to his plans and goals had, instead, asked one simple question.
“What do you want?”
The visitor had asked it before, on his very first visit, appearing unbidden and undetected months ago, bringing Zaman the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen. Although Zaman was ready to order the visitor destroyed, simply because he appeared by surprise, the order went unspoken. Now Zaman was certain his mercy had been his decision. But then, if he were truthful, he was not so sure.
It hardly mattered, since, when Zaman had told the visitor then what he wanted, the visitor had arranged for it to be so.
“I want to be singled out by the most powerful country in the world,” he had answered that first time. “I want to be seen, acknowledged, and feared.”
But now, that having happened, he wanted something different, something no less ambitious but somewhat more refined. “I want the respect and adoration stolen from me by all the many other warlords,” Zaman told his guest. “Am I not also a child of wealth? Did I not renounce my family and that wealth for my people? Did I not leave university to fight with my people against the forces that seek to destroy them? Did I not supply my people with the weapons they needed in this fight? Is not all this true?”
“You have said it is so, Effendi,” said his visitor, “therefore it is so.”
Zaman felt a rush of pride, but also insult, which was an emotion he often felt in his visitor’s presence. “So why am I not given the same respect and notoriety of those who have done the same before me? Why is not my name on the lips of every person?”
“If that is what you want, Effendi,” his visitor said, “that is what will be.”
“So let it be written, so let it be done,” he wistfully repeated the phrase of the ancient pharaohs.
“Yes, Effendi. Yes.”
Aafir Zaman looked down upon the bowing visitor, yet, somehow, also found himself looking up at him. The Afghan did not know how this could be, so he took a step back, and then another, so he could better observe his visitor as he straightened from his bow.
As always, Zaman thought he was seeing his visitor’s face from within his hooded robe, but he was concerned that this time, as had happened before, all he would remember would be the red hands painted on his visitor’s own hands, and the red eyes painted above his visitor’s own eyes. He would, strain as he might, not be able to describe his visitor to anyone—except for those painted reflections, and the uncomfortable memory of black pits flecked with fire.
“Good,” Zaman said with a sharp nod. Normally he would state his intentions and willingness to cooperate in any way, but he never had with his visitor. He just turned and looked back over his kingdom, praying that if he turned back, the visitor would be gone.
The visitor turned to his extraordinarily beautiful, dark-haired companion—the one he had brought for Zaman, and, as always, moved away with her. Zaman always remembered her coming to him, but always forgot that she never remained with him. And he never remembered to be insulted or upset by that.
When he turned back, his visitor and his companion—the one that Zaman had not been aware of this time—were, indeed, gone
, and he couldn’t quite comprehend how long it had been since his visitor had been there.
But they had not gone for everyone. Mahasona and Tajabana appeared before Craven, as they alerted him they would. The always pathetic, but now powerful, corpse collector crouched in his Veranesi hovel, awaiting their arrival, and bowed before them upon their appearance.
A moment later he was writhing on the ground, something having clamped upon every cell and pore in his body. It was a pain beyond pain—an indescribable, personality-eradicating sensation that he had felt often, but yet could never get accustomed to. It invaded and occupied his entire mind and body, but only for a second. Any longer and he would not be able to appreciate his release from it.
He did not beg, plead, or question. He already knew why it had happened. In fact, he was expecting, even welcoming, it. No one could keep secrets from his master long.
“The question I must answer,” his master said, “is why you have kept this from me. I know why you have done it. I know your appetite better than you know it. But shame? Why hoard shame from the lord of shame?”
“Obvious,” said Tajabana calmly. “He knows your plan, and his place in it, so he was afraid.” She enunciated the last word as if it was the most distasteful thing she could say.
Mahasona saw the truth in her estimation, just as Craven thrashed on the ground again. “Shall I keep this grip on you for eternity?” he asked. “Is it, or your fear and appetite, more powerful?”
“Master, master, please!” Craven managed to sputter. But then the clamp was gone and Tajabana was kneeling down to him, his chin in her cold, warm hand.
“Yes,” she cooed at him, “please. How could he, your master, of all things, deny you your feeding? But all he asks, all we both ask, is that you organize it in such a way that it does not jeopardize his plan for you, me, and this world. Do you think you can do that? We—I could help you. Can you do that?”
Craven scrambled over to his master’s feet, slamming his forehead to the floor and babbling. “Yes, master, yes, I can do that, I swear I can do that. I will, you’ll see, I will!”
Blood Demons Page 6