Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
The Darkling Hunters
Fox Company Alpha
By Rhiannon Ayers
©2018 Rhiannon Ayers. All Rights Reserved.
The Darkling Hunters
Fox Company Alpha
Book 1
By Rhiannon Ayers
Copyright 2018 Rhiannon Ayers
ASIN: B0793ZGQSJ
Publication Date: 02-12-2018
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
PIRACY IS NOT A VICTIMLESS CRIME.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Connect with Rhiannon Ayers
Prologue
The Darkling Infiltration
Darkling Eradication Agency (DEA) Exam Prep
** Required Reading for All Hunters **
The first confirmed instance of a darkling in modern American history was Herman Webster Mudgett, a.k.a. H. H. Holmes, the serial killer best known for his “Murder Castle” located in Chicago, Illinois. Though not understood at the time, authorities in 1891 suspected there was more to Mr. Holmes than met the eye. He appeared to be a mild-mannered, hard-working gentleman to those who only knew him in passing. Those who had the misfortune to meet him up close soon learned the truth, however, and his legacy lives on as a modern horror story about a man so depraved, he killed more than two hundred people without a single sign of regret.
When later researchers began studying Mr. Holmes’ legacy, they spoke with those who had managed to survive their encounters with him. Though their descriptions of his character varied wildly, each interviewee did make one statement in common: Mr. Holmes had no light behind his eyes. His first ex-wife put it best when she said, “It was like looking into an abyss of darkness that had never known the light of day.” In her private letters to her family, she referred to her ex-husband as “that darkling creature I had the misfortune to marry.”
Government agents took note of that description and began using the term “darkling” when describing suspects whom they feared were like Mr. Holmes. Though it began as a nickname, the term made its way into common investigative vernacular, and soon researchers began studying these “darkling men” with the intent of discovering how their minds worked. It wasn’t until eighty years later, when the words “serial killer” became common in newspaper headlines, that the government began to suspect that darklings weren’t just men with depraved urgings—they were something far, far worse.
In 1970, while the FBI was still perfecting its system for profiling serial killers, America was facing another problem: the proliferation of dangerous narcotics. Multiple agencies were responsible for corralling this new threat, but the problem intensified. The corruption of the American way of life had begun, and there seemed no end in sight.
During a raid on a suspected drug kingpin, an agent named Marc Connors of the DNDD, the DEA’s predecessor agency, came across a young man named Sylace Jones. Sylace was among the others being arrested for possession and intent to distribute, but something about him stood out. Agent Connors had him separated from the other detainees and brought in for questioning. When asked why, Agent Connors said, quote, “He has no light behind his eyes.”
When the first interview commenced, Agent Connors expected Mr. Jones to deny any wrong-doing. Instead, Sylace immediately confessed to a string of hideous murders, all of which had been unsolved until then. His gleeful recounting of the killings convinced Agent Connors that Mr. Jones was insane at the very least. Agent Connors informed his superiors at the DNDD and received permission to transport his prisoner back to Virginia for further questioning.
Sylace Jones was taken into protective custody at Quantico, where he was questioned extensively by the FBI’s behavioral science unit. Upon conclusion of that interview, the FBI made a startling conclusion: Mr. Jones was not human. He was, in fact, a darkling, just like H.H. Holmes. All records of Mr. Jones’ existence were sealed, and he was imprisoned in a secret lab in Fort Stockton, Texas, where he was studied and experimented upon until he died, two years later.
The results of those studies were shocking. Mr. Jones appeared to be human from the outside, but there were distinctive anomalies in his brain and nervous system. He looked and functioned like a human, but there was no evidence whatsoever that he could feel emotions, and he seemed to possess some peculiar abilities. Over time, the researchers began to believe Mr. Jones was influencing them with his mind, making them want to do terrible things. In a fit of terrified rage, one of the researchers declared that Mr. Jones was a demon in human flesh—then tore his own eyes out with his bare hands. Another researcher claimed Mr. Jones was human but had no soul—then slit his own throat with a penknife. According to the report from that incident, Mr. Jones laughed and declared both researchers were right. Mr. Jones died two days later after tearing his own chest open with his fingernails. As he bled out, he told the horrified researchers he wanted to prove that he also had no heart.
The FBI brought its findings, sealed in an official letter, to the President of the United States, Mr. Richard Nixon. The letter begged the president to approve funding for a new agency that would hunt down and eradicate all darklings, with the hope of preventing more bloodshed. Unfortunately, Mr. Nixon did not believe the researchers’ conclusions and asked for more proof.
Agent Connors recruited more agents to his cause and set about capturing and questioning more suspected darklings. Many were captured, dissected, and experimented upon, all in great secret, but also with great success. In its final research paper, the FBI characterized darklings as “soulless, depraved creatures with no evidence of morality, no ability
to feel emotion, and no sign of conscience.” The paper concluded that these darklings could no longer be considered human, and therefore must be classified as a new species, a deadly plague upon humankind.
When asked what to do about this newly identified threat, Agent Connors became grim. “These creatures cannot be redeemed,” he said in his private interview with Congressional leaders. “There is no hope for them. The only recourse of the American government is to kill them as soon as they are identified. We have no choice.”
Eventually, Agent Connors proved his theory well enough that Mr. Nixon decided to approve the formation of a new agency to help hunt down and destroy these darklings. However, the president did not want the general public to know that darklings existed. He feared the panic that would result from such a declaration. He searched for a solution that would satisfy the needs of the nation and national security without risking public panic.
When the DEA was created in 1973, the American public lauded the decision. What they did not know was that the agency was a front for a much darker, much more important branch of the U.S. government. While the general public still believes “DEA” stands for “Drug Enforcement Agency,” those who work behind the scenes know its true moniker: Darkling Eradication Agency. For more than forty years, the shadow arm of the DEA has been hunting down and destroying darklings wherever they can be found.
Unfortunately for America and the rest of the world, darklings are becoming stronger and more prevalent than at any other time in human history. The brave agents who devote their lives to destroying these soulless monsters are owed a debt of gratitude that can never, ever be repaid.
The motto of the DEA is simple: kill them before they kill us. And while we’re hunting down these depraved monstrosities, it is our duty to discover, identify, and eradicate any other threats that may still be hidden in the darkest shadows of the world. The general public knows all about serial killers, mass shooters, drug lords, and deranged psycho kidnappers. What they don’t know is that those people aren’t really people at all—they’re darklings, hell-bent on destroying the last bit of good left in the world.
Kill them before they kill us. That is our only hope.
Chapter 1
“Kind of an obvious name, don’t you think?” Dex Peterson mused as he contemplated the run-down biker bar on the other side of the wide, unkempt gravel parking lot. Harleys and pickup trucks vied for dominance in the narrow space before the entranceway. “I mean, come on. The Evil Eye Bar?”
His partner, Sam Spencer, shrugged one broad shoulder. “Makes it easier on us, I suppose. Probably would have been going too far to call the place ‘Darkling Central.’”
Dex snorted as he wrapped both of his large, battle-scarred hands around the oversized steering wheel. Sam sat in the passenger seat of Dex’s beat-up Ford Galaxy, staring through the blocky windshield. As they watched, hard-ass biker dudes escorted scantily-clad hookers through the large, double-wide wooden doors. Murky orange light spilled through the doorway every time the doors swung open, making it look like someone kept throwing day-glow orange paint all over the cars in the parking lot.
Dex snorted as he wrapped both of his large, battle-scarred hands around the oversized steering wheel. He shook his head, grimacing as a waft of stale beer, old piss, and rancid sweat drifted through the open driver-side window. The place looked—and smelled—exactly like what it was: a hotbed for crime, prostitution, and drug trafficking. Here in the backwoods of rural Montana, it should have seemed out of place. But the Evil Eye Bar was well-known to the residents of the nearby town of Boulder as a place where anyone could get anything—for the right price, of course.
All of which meant the Evil Eye Bar had to be owned and operated by at least one darkling, if not more. Just the kind of place he and Sam were supposed to sniff out—and destroy. I just wish the “sniff” part wasn’t quite so literal.
Sam gestured with his chin. “Look there, in the window above the door. There’s a sign that says ‘evil drinks free.’”
Dex snorted again. “Does that mean the drinks are free because they’re evil, or evil people drink for free?”
“Does it matter?” Sam asked, giving Dex a sideways look. He pushed the shaggy brown hair out of his silvery-gray eyes and reached for his door handle. “You ready to do this, or what?”
Dex sat back, cracked his neck, and then cracked his knuckles. He shook the tingles out of his fingers before taking a deep breath. He regretted it when another cloud of stink invaded his nostrils. “Yeah. Let’s go. Boss wants this place cased by tomorrow.”
“After eight years of this shit, you’d think Boss would trust us to know what we’re talking about when we report a darkling infestation,” Sam grumbled before shoving his door open. As he planted one steel-toed boot on the pocked gravel parking lot, he scowled with annoyance. “Why does he still make us case the place beforehand?”
“Because we’re only supposed to kill the darkling,” Dex said as he pushed his bulk out of the car. “The rest of them are supposed to rot in prison.” He wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t a small guy. His six-foot-two frame carried two-hundred pounds of pure muscle. At just over thirty, he was a male in his prime, and damn proud of his physical prowess. But that didn’t stop him from feeling like a bloated balloon every time he had to squeeze himself in and out of a vehicle. At least the Galaxy had wide doors and deep seats, unlike the I’m-a-Fed-kill-me-now black sedan the Agency wanted him to drive.
Sam grunted as he slammed his door shut and shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Whatever, man. So what if not all evil people are darklings? They still deserve to be taken out on general principle.”
“No argument from me,” Dex said easily. He straightened his own jacket—a black leather bomber with lots of conveniently hidden pockets—and tried to loosen up his shoulders. “Take it up with Boss next time we see him.” A joke, since they’d never actually met the man in person. “For now, let’s go get a drink.”
Sam grumbled as they crossed the pathetic excuse for a parking lot, their boots crunching on the thick gravel. Dex ignored him, instead focusing on their surroundings. The bar crouched in the shadows between a pair of dim yellow street lights, looking like nothing so much as a monster trying to hide in plain sight. The building was old, worn down by sun and weather, with peeling brown paint and frayed plastic siding. Beer lights advertised Coors and Miller, Budweiser and Captain Morgan, the colors clashing together in an obnoxious free-for-all. It should have looked bright and cheerful. Instead, it looked desperate and depressing.
To the west, across another parking lot meant to hold maybe forty cars, an old, dilapidated motel hunkered in the darkness. According to their case briefing, the place was supposed to be called The Basin Motel, named after the tiny two-stoplight town just four miles down the freeway. But the motel’s sign had been hit by lightning some time ago, the blackened scar extending from the top of the pole to the cracked pavement below it. The B and the A lay in a pile of weeds off to the side, and the lights didn’t work on most of the other letters. The letters that did light up only spelled “SIN.” Between the shoddy bar, the run-down crack-whore-looking motel, and the jacked-up parking lot, the whole place looked like it belonged on a post-apocalyptic movie set.
And we’re stuck here until we find the evil bastard responsible for this atrocity. Where are the zombies when you need a good apocalypse?
Dex gritted his teeth and put one foot in front of the other, trying to convince himself this would all be worth it. But it was getting harder and harder to think that way. After eight years of chasing down soulless bad guys that would give Freddie Krueger nightmares, he was starting to think he needed a break. A cold brew, a chance of some good scenery, maybe a relaxing game of darts. Just what he needed to calm down and re-center himself ahead of the coming fight. And there would be a fight if their intel—and their instincts—were correct. This darkling, whoever he was, had been allowed to operate unencumbered for
far too long. All they had to do was figure out who he was, figure out if he had any darkling minions, and then take down the whole crime ring in one fell swoop.
No pressure.
He had to shove his shoulder against the door to force it open; the doors were reinforced steel, much stronger than they looked from a distance, and heavier than they appeared. Interesting choice. Obviously, the bar’s owner expected trouble. Could he be one of the rare darklings who had escaped DEA custody? Food for thought. The ones who got away were always harder to catch a second time, especially since they knew what waited for them if they were captured again.
In some ways, the ones who were killed outright were the lucky ones. Dex would be happy to put this bastard in his grave out of sheer fucking courtesy.
The inside of the bar was surprisingly spacious; it reminded him of the cowboy bars back home in Houston. There seemed to be a generalized Western theme to the décor, featuring raw wooden planks, simple pine tables, and empty box pallets for decoration. Christmas lights had been strung along the ceiling beams to help the dying fluorescent lights make the room more cheerful. A long, continuous bar wrapped two sides of the room, and the center was filled with numerous four-top table sets. Bikers, hookers, cowboys, and oil workers mingled throughout the room, laughing and talking, while the crack of pool cues kept up a steady cadence in the background. Looks like a Village People reunion, Dex thought sourly. If it weren’t for the lingering scent of stale sweat, it might have even felt homey.
Several people looked up as Dex and Sam moved toward an empty table, but no one accosted them. Despite the remote location, this place was used to strangers popping up out of nowhere. The lonely highway that passed nearby served as the main thoroughfare between Basin and Boulder, the two largest towns in the area, and the dingy little motel provided one of the few resting spots along the route. It looked like one of those places where nothing ever happened because no one could ever find the damn thing. In short, it was a perfect spot for predators to hunt for unsuspecting prey—or at least for people who were too stupid to realize the backwoods of Montana could be just as dangerous as the streets of New York City.
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