The Cain Prophecy (Lilitu Trilogy Book 3)

by Toby Tate

  He looked over at her as the Predator exploded into pieces on the screen.

  “I think we have a fifty-fifty chance.” He stared at her for a moment, and then said, “Actually, more like eighty-twenty, his favor. But we have a couple of aces in the hole that I think gives us an edge—we have Abel, and we have the element of surprise. We should be able to gather a lot of intel at Cain’s hacienda. Then, if Abel can get us close enough, I can track him to the square meter with the GPS receiver.”

  They sat in silence for a while as the TV blasted from the wall.

  “Gabe, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m sorry for being a jerk. It’s my fault we’re in this mess. Sometimes my ego just gets in the way and I’m afraid to admit I might be wrong. It’s a man thing.”

  “Believe me, Gordon, men don’t have a monopoly on egotism. But I think admitting you have a problem is a step in the right direction.”

  “Yeah, well, it took this to make me realize a few things. I’ve never been much for relationships, at least not meaningful ones. But having you around makes me feel…I don’t know…like being a better person. I know I like to toot my own horn and everything, but that’s just me making noise. I guess what I’m trying to say is…”

  Gabe sat up straight. “Yes?”

  “Well, do you think a woman like you could ever go for a guy like me?”

  She smiled. “Yeah Gordon, I think a woman like me could. But I just need to take things slowly. It’s only been a year since...” A picture of John MacIntyre’s smiling face flashed into her mind, followed by an image of his bloody, broken body lying in the rubble of what had been a two-hundred-foot granite obelisk.

  Gordon nodded. “I know. But that’s okay, there’s no rush. I can wait. I just need to know that there’s some kind of light at the end of the tunnel. So, what do you say I make some popcorn and we finish the movie?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  As he trailed off into the kitchen, Gabe felt a warmth rise up inside of her, and knew that in spite of the bleakness of the days ahead, she was glad she would be spending them with Gordon.

  PART II

  WELCOME TO THE MACHINE

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Caracas, Venezuela

  Cain felt right at home in the neon-lit streets of Caracas. This was his kind of place, these were his kind of people, even if they were merely human.

  A sprawling city of over five million, Caracas sat in the valley of the Venezuelan Central Mountain Range and boasted some of the most breathtaking views in South America. From the green paradise in the city’s center known as Caracas East Park to a wealth of restaurants, theaters, museums, and shopping centers, there was no shortage of culture and entertainment. Founded in 1567 by a Spanish conquistador named Diego de Losada, Caracas fought for Venezuelan independence in the nineteenth century by way of a bloody revolutionary war, and was promptly destroyed by an earthquake in 1812. The war raged on for another nine years, but the city was eventually rebuilt to its former glory. Venezuela gained full independence in 1830.

  But like most big cities, Caracas had its dark side, possessing one of the highest per capita murder rates in the world. Crime permeated the city like a shrouded specter reaching out and preying on its inhabitants with the crushing grip of death.

  Cain cruised the late-night streets of the trendy Las Mercedes district, studying the sea of humanity that flowed down the sidewalks and in and out of the night clubs, wondering where they were all going and what they would do once they arrived. Not that he cared about them personally, but his curiosity was insatiable. He was still learning, and the sights, sounds and smells of this vibrant city served to pique the curiosity to its maximum. The sub bass of a Latino rap song emanated like bomb blasts from a pimped out Corvette as it passed on the other side of the street and caused Cain to swivel his head. He glanced at the couple inside, who were talking and laughing as if the migraine-inducing rhythm was merely a quiet concerto.

  Why do humans act the way they do? What motivates their behavior?

  Unfortunately, he would have to put his curiosity aside—right now, he had a job to do. It would be by far his most challenging yet.

  * * *

  Since Hugo Chavez had gained power in 1998, Ramon Suarez had watched his country fall into chaos under the United Socialist Party. Hugo’s hand-picked successor, Vice President Nicolas Maduro, was a continuation of that chaos. Following Maduro’s election, Venezuela’s Forum for Life reported that security forces had arbitrarily detained at least sixty-two individuals and injured thirty-eight others in demonstrations in the state of Lara. The detainees reported that they were severely beaten, threatened with sexual violence, and deprived of food for more than twenty-four hours. But those were only the violations that had been reported—Suarez knew there was much, much more that would not be reported, because those who did so would be dragged from their homes and never seen by their families again.

  Suarez was what many would consider an idealist—he loved his country and believed in the greatness of its people, and he hated to see it slowly deteriorating into a cesspool of corruption and deceit under the guise of social justice. People, no matter how much you wanted to make it so, were not, and never would be equal. Some had abilities in one area, some had abilities in another, and some would be rich while others remained poor. It was called life. You would never eradicate the poor, and taking from the rich was certainly not going to help. All that served to do was make them poor, as well. How was that helping, exactly? It was asinine, yet people fell for it in droves because it looked good on paper. But, all throughout history, it had never worked. It was dangerous, and the many misguided social programs had wrecked their once-prosperous economy. Ramon hoped and prayed that with God’s help, he and his party would change that. His poll numbers were beginning to show a definite increase in popularity.

  But unfortunately, politics ran on money, and lots of it. The wheels had to be greased, as it were. In fact, Ramon was on his way to meet some people with a lot of grease that could make a huge contribution to his campaign. One of Ramon’s gifts was his ability to look great on TV. He was handsome and charming and he knew how to talk to people, to convince them that his way was the right way. His eight years as a defense attorney probably had a lot to do with that, he was sure. If he could raise enough funds, he could buy more airtime and get his message out to the people and then it would spread by word of mouth. Soon, it would become a juggernaut and they would take their country back at the next election.

  He turned the corner and headed inside the Cool Café & Pub where his prospective backers waited at a table. He greeted the pair and took a seat. They talked and laughed and then ordered drinks and perused the menu.

  Across the aisle at another table, Cain pretended to look over his own menu as he watched Ramon out of the corner of his eye.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ramon was feeling warm and toasty, maybe even a little drunk, as he left the Cool Café and headed toward his car. Everything had gone well and he now had the financial backing of a couple of wealthy businessmen. Things were starting to take shape.

  He decided to take a short cut and headed between the two buildings. He knew he probably shouldn’t be walking alone at night, but there were a lot of people around, so he felt reasonably safe.

  And then he saw the blonde-haired young man, tall, thin, and wiry, coming toward him from the other end of the alleyway. He was dressed all in black and walked with the confident swagger of a man who was sure of himself. Ramon thought he had seen him in the restaurant, at the table across from them. He had learned to notice things around him, a habit gained from years of looking at crime scenes. As they drew closer, a warning bell was going off in the back of his brain. Something was not right. Or was it just the alcohol talking?

  A voice was telling him to make a hard right into the building next to him, and Ramon’s intuition had nev
er steered him wrong in the past. He made the right, and pushed through the glass double doors. A chain fell from the handle—someone had cut the lock. Vandals, he figured. He continued through and stood in what looked to be a grocery store, or at least had been at one time. Now it was completely abandoned. He quickly glanced around—a wooden counter sat before him, the outline of what had probably been a cash register gracing its glass top. There were rows of empty shelves, pieces of paper scattered about on the floors. The only light filtered in from a streetlamp on the corner, but it was enough for him to see all the way to the back, where there was another set of double doors. He felt a bead of sweat run down his cheek and he loosened his tie as he took off toward the other end of the store, crunching broken glass beneath his feet. As he ran, he caught site of something on the floor in one of the aisles and skidded to a stop. It was an old white-haired man, dressed in shabby clothes and shoes with holes worn in the bottoms. At first, Ramon thought he was dead, but then heard the ragged breathing and realized he had passed out. An empty rum bottle lay next to him.

  Ramon turned toward the door and continued on until he reached it, then tried to push it open. Locked. He turned back the way he had come and his blood froze—the blonde-haired man was standing twenty feet away, staring at him. His outline in contrast to the dim light gave him an ethereal, spectral look.

  Ramon glanced around, frantically searching for some sort of safe haven, and then he saw it—another door by the far wall, an office. There was probably a window inside. He could lock the door and then crawl through the window to the street. He bolted toward the door and opened it, got inside and slammed it shut. As he had hoped, there was a dead bolt on the door. He slid it in place and turned to look around. The office was completely empty, except for some old wires hanging from the ceiling. Light streamed in through the window, but his heart sank when he saw steel bars from top to bottom, going all the way across. He ran over to it and grabbed hold of the first one, tried to twist it loose. No good. He tried the rest and got the same result. He was trapped. His only option was to make a stand. He had never run from danger and wasn’t about to start now. If this hijo de puta wanted a fight, he was going to get one. He slowly turned and watched the door.

  The knob suddenly began to turn first one way and then the other and stopped. There was silence. Had the man given up that easily?

  The next thing Ramon saw made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and his breathing quickened almost to the point of asphyxiation. He stared, transfixed, as the blonde-haired man’s face appeared within the wood of the door, and in seconds his entire body was through until he stood before Ramon, who looked into his blue eyes, primal fear freezing his feet to the concrete floor.

  As his brain began to lose its grip on reality, Ramon managed to breath out his last words.

  “Que…que estas?” What are you?

  Cain cocked his head to one side, as if this had been an odd question.

  “Muerte,” he said. Death.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Cain sat on the bed of his suite at the JW Marriott and looked over the contents of Ramon Suarez’s wallet. Driver’s license, credit cards, family photos, about five hundred bolivares in currency. He would probably use a couple of the credit cards just for the hell of it. The assassination was supposed to look like a mugging, so might as well make it as realistic as possible. He had definitely beat the hell out of the man. Not that Suarez hadn’t landed a few punches of his own. Cain had to admit, for a politician, the guy was quite the fighter. He punched Suarez’s face into the floor until he thought the man’s jaw would come unhinged, and then finally stopped when there was no more movement. His knuckles were covered with blood and imbedded with teeth. He made sure Suarez wasn’t breathing before emptying his pockets and heading for the exit.

  As he was leaving, an old drunk who had been awakened by the noise was standing in one of the aisles staring at him, swaying back and forth on his feet, saying nothing. At first, Cain made a move to kill him, but then thought better of it. Instead, he made a suggestion, just as he had done when he told Suarez to go into the abandoned building.

  A short man with dark hair just mugged someone and is fleeing the building. Now it’s time to go back to sleep.

  Cain watched as the old man took his place back on the floor and once again fell into a drunken slumber. He found his rented Mitsubishi a few blocks away and drove, ignoring his urge to bed one of the hookers that seemed to walk every street on the way to his hotel. He would make time for that later.

  Sitting on the bed now, he stuffed everything back into the wallet and grabbed his pre-paid cell phone, called his agent Nick Clayborn.

  “What’s up?” a voice said.

  “Tell the client the job is done.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “Good. That was fast work. You’re like fucking David Blaine or something. The money should come through in a day or two, and then I’ll have another project for you.”

  The line went dead. As always, Cain would ditch the phone when he left the hotel.

  He flipped it shut and sat on the bed thinking. It was a lucky break to catch Ramon going to that club. The politician usually had an entourage with him wherever he went, but this particular night he had been alone. Thanks to the high-profile target, this job had been worth ten million dollars US, his biggest payday yet. Between the assassinations and his investment stocks, he had become quite a wealthy man in a very short time.

  It was two o’clock in the morning and he wasn’t even tired. He could watch TV or read, but both of those things usually bored him. Fiction was not believable to him, because he found it impossible to suspend disbelief long enough to get into a story. He did enjoy reading true crime and books about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. He also watched some reality TV. The First 48 on A&E was one of his favorites. Watching detectives solve crimes was always good for a laugh.

  But once again, his damned libido was humming like a diesel truck engine. He was finding it harder and harder to get under control. If he wasn’t having sex with some woman, he was masturbating, often three or four times a day. He didn’t know what to do about this yet, but for now he would just have to make the best of it.

  He stood and checked himself in the bedroom mirror, made sure his blue contacts were firmly in place, and then headed out the front door and into the sin-ridden streets of Caracas.

  * * *

  Cain finally fell asleep after having sex for the third time that night with a gorgeous young woman named Stephanie; at least that was the name she gave. But her thoughts told a different story—her real name was Maria and she was working the streets to support a child with no father. After the third go-round, she had practically begged him to stop, but he was insatiable. Eventually, he became bored and decided to get some sleep.

  At four-thirty, he awoke with a start and glanced at the girl, who was still fast asleep. He turned and stared up at the ceiling, reaching out with his mind, probing like a radio trying to latch onto a frequency. There was nothing. Everyone around him in the hotel was asleep. But there had been something…or someone. He had felt it before. Every once in a while, he got the impression that someone else was inside his head, like a burglar rummaging through the attic while the household slumbered. But of course that was impossible. As far as he knew, there was no one else in the world with the mind-reading abilities of the type he possessed. Then again, the Saudis had managed to hide many things from him, hadn’t they? Had they hidden something else? Was there another out there with his power that he wasn’t aware of? Perhaps they were watching him, waiting for him to make his next move.

  But he didn’t think so. If anyone knew what he was really up to, there would be panic on a worldwide scale and nations would be sending their special forces out after him. That was the main reason he kept such a low profile. He would have to play this just right so that when he was ready, he would act so quickly that t
here would be no time for anyone to stop him.

  With that thought, Cain closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Al Dhafra Air Base—United Arab Emirates

  Gabe and Gordon decided to ride with everyone else in Scooter’s monster C-5B, which was actually quite a smooth ride, although the jets were loud. Gabe thought she might be deaf by the time they landed. The morning sun felt like it was already blistering her skin as they exited the huge plane. They were greeted by base security and the officer in charge of operations for the US Air Force, Colonel Talbot, a tall, thin man with a booming voice. He led them to an office buried in a sea of Quonset huts and gave them a rundown on base operations. Everyone had passports from previous ops except for Gordon and Abel. Lydia and al-Shamari and his family wouldn’t need passports since they were staying on base.

  With the creation of biometric passports—which linked a person’s physical characteristic such as facial recognition, fingerprint, or iris scan—with a name, it was becoming increasingly difficult for the clandestine services, like the CIA, to operate freely in places like Jordan, India, or Dubai. In most cases, they could simply alter the database. In the Middle East, however, this was a bit more difficult.

  “Gordon, I know a guy in Abu Dhabi who does great quality IDs and passports. He can make passports for you and Abel, no problem, as long as we don’t get stopped on the way there. It’s going to cost us, though.”

  Gordon smirked. “You mean it’s going to cost me. But that’s what the First National Bank of Gordon is for, right?”