The Diamond Dragon (Kip Keene Book 4)

by Erik, Nicholas

  Her voice quivered.

  “And she’s funny. Yes, I think she’ll make a grand addition to our little town.” Murmurs came from the direction of the candles. Strike lifted her chin to her sternum, coaxing every bit of flexibility she could out of her neck.

  Her gaze fell upon a window. The breath left her chest like she’d suffered a roundhouse kick straight to the stomach.

  A group of people, their bodies clad entirely in black cloaks, held flickering tallow candles inside a viewing room. Only their eyes, hollow and empty, were visible beneath the fabric. And they all stared at her with expectant reverence.

  Strike felt a sharp pinch in her thigh. “Hey.” She tried to wriggle away, but found her body paralyzed, refusing to accept commands. Even her eyelids were frozen open. But her senses still worked, taking everything in.

  And the terror remained, her heart stammering and thumping loudly in her chest.

  “A complete paralytic, Agent Strike, but non-fatal, I assure you. A necessary precaution for what is to come next. The visions can be quite intense.”

  Strike couldn’t see Sheriff Hendricks, only hear him, her eyes locked on the swaying lantern. He was mashing an unknown substance to bits with what sounded like a mortar and pestle. With her body frozen, her mind raced between thoughts, most of them desperate pleas to her noncompliant limbs.

  Come on. You’ve survived worse. Get up. He’s going to kill you.

  But all this did was make her already stuttering heart pick up speed to an even more uncomfortable pace.

  A whirring filled the still air. Strike tried to scream but could not, her vocal cords silenced by Hendricks’ injection. The buzzing came closer, like an inescapable swarm of killer hornets. It passed by her ear, clicking and chugging. She smelled gasoline fumes coming from its small vents.

  “The tool must be strong enough to cut bone,” Sheriff Hendricks said. He once again appeared over her, staring deep into her eyes. His moustache moved and quivered whenever he spoke.

  Strike wanted to gag. Her eyes watered.

  The chainsaw-esque buzz stopped.

  Humming filled the air, ethereal and wordless. It undulated from a low baritone to a trebly pitch and back again in a plaintive melody. The stainless steel table shook. Strike couldn’t feel it, but she could hear the sturdy legs creak and grind against the tile floor. Rhythmic foot stomps formed the backbone of the song.

  She heard Sheriff Hendricks utter a phrase in a low voice, and the singing stopped, like someone had unplugged a radio. A rapt silence followed, punctuated only by Strike’s shallow breathing. Her vision blurred from the tears that her eyelids couldn’t shutter away.

  “It has been nearly twenty-five years since we last gathered like this,” he announced, like a preacher addressing his Sunday morning flock. “A tragedy has befallen our quiet town today. But our friend’s sacrifice will not be forgotten. Before we begin the initiation, let us bow our heads in a moment of silence.”

  What Hendricks called a moment felt like an eternity to Strike. Although she loathed the sound of his voice, it was preferable to the ear-splitting quiet that filled the gaps between his messianic nonsense.

  “But we are fortunate that Ms. Samantha Strike of the Federal Bureau of Investigation has seen fit to visit our town on this fateful day.”

  Murmurs of approval.

  “And so, in this initiation, we shall share our gifts with her, and she shall share our burden of defense. She will steadfastly guard the portal to Shambhala until Cladius can use the power within to cleanse this world of suffering. And, in payment for her sacrifice, she will be rewarded with the root of life.”

  Silence.

  Was that it? Was it over? Strike wanted to yell at him to continue, keep going for as long as he wanted, anything instead of whatever came next. But there was nothing but faint footsteps.

  One.

  Two.

  Grinding. Coming from below. The footsteps stopped. She heard Sheriff Hendricks take out his pistol, its metal edges scratching against the burrs in the leather holster.

  A screw, deep underground, rattled and fell. The candles outside the window wavered.

  Hendricks’ shoes slid against the tile, squeaking with each measured step.

  A flash of light erupted, followed by another.

  Strike’s ears rang.

  13 | Interruption

  Whatever this initiation was about, Keene didn’t like the sound of it. He’d considered blasting his way through the drainage vent mid-sermon, but a guns blazing approach didn’t seem prudent. Strike could be anywhere in the room, and by the sound of it—or lack thereof—she wasn’t doing all that great.

  After all, if she’d been awake, then she’d be hurling insults.

  Threatening to gut Hendricks, at least.

  Keene’s fingertips bled, and he dropped the screw. Through the rungs in the grate, he saw flickers of orange light, a single shadow occasionally cutting through.

  The screw dropped to the sewer’s concrete walkway running alongside the stream of waste. In the tight, quiet space, the sound might as well have been a gunshot. Keene gritted his teeth.

  One screw left.

  Blood dripped from his fingers, staining the steel red. He gripped and turned as hard as he could, the metal resisting his fingers. Luckily whoever had installed the grate hadn’t bothered to tighten the screws all the way.

  Soles squeaked above. Whoever was lurking above was apparently aware of a disturbance.

  Mice didn’t have the tendency to remove screws.

  Keene finished with the final screw, palming it. No need to confirm that there was someone down here by making another foolish mistake. The owner of the shadow could still think it was an anomaly. Maybe someone flushed a bunch of thimbles down the toilet, and they were banging around in the pipes on their way to the treatment plant.

  Somehow, however, Keene reckoned that disturbances didn’t happen in Tillus. The town’s vibe made it seem like everyone had read the same self-improvement books—and actually used the advice within. Robotic, lifeless, just following a script.

  Hell, maybe the big secret about the initiation was that it turned them into robots.

  Although Keene could do without seeing any automatons ever again.

  The footsteps stopped, and Keene saw the shadow come closer to the grate. A pair of eyes, their whites staring down through the metal slits, searched for the source of the sound.

  Keene drew his pistol and fired two shots, the bangs erupting in the tight sewer like he’d detonated a C4 charge. The gunpowder ignited and flashed, illuminating the dim space with a brilliant light. Then it dissipated.

  Keene punched the grate away and dragged himself off the concrete platform and into the morgue.

  Sheriff Hendricks was dead, a thin trail of blood trickling onto the green tile from two gunshot wounds in the middle of his head. His eyes were empty, his own firearm clutched between lifeless fingers.

  Two tragedies in one day. Quite the death toll for Tillus, after not losing anyone for almost twenty-five years. Keene doubted the veracity of that claim—if he had to spend another day here, he’d seriously consider eating a bullet—but then, he’d seen strange enough things not to disregard it entirely. The world was never exactly as it seemed, his own perceptions imperfect.

  He glanced through the morgue’s window, where a cadre of hooded figures stood inside a cramped room, cloaked in all black. They stared back at him, but no one made a move to stop him.

  Keene didn’t wait. There were at least fifty of them present, all holding candles like they were waiting for the goddamn rapture. He grabbed an aluminum chair from the corner and jammed it beneath the doorknob to the only exit.

  That barrier wouldn’t keep forever—and the cult outside could just break the glass—but it would slow down the mob if they happened to notice their beloved leader had received two unscheduled holes in his skull during their precious initiation.

  The room itself was unremarkable
for such a hallowed ritual. Two stainless steel slabs stood in the middle of the room, Strike’s rigid body lying on one of them. Swaying kerosene lanterns hung above each. One wall was taken up by the window, another with a row of cabinets stocked with medical implements and surgical tools.

  From the sewer blueprint, Keene had determined that this was the best way into the precinct undetected. He hadn’t actually expected Strike to be located down here.

  In fact, he’d chosen this area specifically because it was the least likely to be occupied. But apparently the people of Tillus had different customs than the typical American town, and as such, considered the morgue to be an appropriate clandestine meeting place.

  “I guess I interrupted the book club,” Keene said, finally attending to Strike, who hadn’t moved or made any noise since his appearance. He craned over the table to examine her in the murky light. Unharmed and fully clothed, other than the fact that she wasn’t moving.

  Her eyes stared straight at the light, not moving when he hovered over her.

  “Strike?” He nudged her and got no response from her stiff limbs. A dreadful foreboding filled his churning stomach. “Come on, say something.”

  He shook her, as a small child would to awake a sleeping parent. But there was no response from the stiff body, no acknowledgement that she was alive. The eyes, unblinking and seemingly unseeing, just stared into nothingness.

  Keene flung a tray of scalpels against the gallery window, sending a web of cracks through the glass. The rapt onlookers didn’t move or acknowledge the disturbance. They kept their half-burned candles steady, their eyes focused.

  Towards him, but not at him.

  Keene returned to the table. Strike’s haunting gaze still stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t take it any longer. With shaking fingers, he reached over and shut the lids.

  Wet.

  His bloodied fingertips brushed against her skin, leaving streaks on her pale cheeks like war paint. In his absent-minded daze, his hand passed her dry lips.

  The faintest wisp of air rushed against his skin, bringing a light, brief chill to his wet fingertips.

  A rush, this time of joy, surged through his throat.

  He hugged his partner, which was something like putting his arms around a bundle of 2 x 4s, but it didn’t matter.

  Strike was alive.

  “St…”

  “What?” Keene said.

  “Stop. Hug.”

  Keene released his grip and stepped back. A semblance of life began returning to Strike’s body. Tiny quivers and movements—usually unnoticed—seemed like overt and ostentatious gestures after she’d lain still for minutes.

  “I’m glad you’re not dead, you know.”

  Strike didn’t reply, but her now audible breathing was all the response Keene required.

  Keene glanced up to check his witnesses. In the sea of black veils and cloaks, there was one unlike the others. Shining eyes, one emerald and one red, flickered beneath the fabric. A small red plume was sewn atop the cloak, like something that belonged to a Roman soldier. One of the standard black cloaked figures followed behind, trailing this mysterious person like a loyal dog.

  The irises caught the glow of the candlelight, holding Keene’s gaze for a moment.

  Then the person disappeared into the sea of black.

  14 | Treatment

  “Lemme go.” Strike shook free from Keene’s steadying hand, only to wobble along the walkway like a drunk after last call. Before she took a face-first dip into the sewage, Keene grabbed the back of her jacket, pulling her towards the wall.

  He kept his hand on her back and took the inside track. The further Strike stayed away from the burbling muck, the better.

  “Any idea where we’re going?”

  “Didn’t get that far,” Keene said. They reached a junction with a slightly raised platform large enough for Strike to sit down. He helped her up the two steps. “Sit.”

  “What am I, a dog?”

  “Alive,” Keene said. “I need both hands.”

  “I can help.”

  “If you really want to go swimming that bad, be my guest.”

  Strike gave a small groan, but then sat down cross-legged on the square concrete platform.

  It sat in the center of a four-way intersection, the sewage channeled beneath its gray, utilitarian surface. When Keene stood on top, the ceiling was only about a half foot from his forehead. Keene looked back the way they’d come. No sign that a lynch mob was trailing behind with pitchforks and torches. But then, there was no telling what the fine citizens of Tillus were planning.

  “Hold my phone so I can see,” Keene said. The almost non-existent light, coupled with the bloodstains, made the blueprint almost impossible to read.

  “Oh, so I can help.”

  “Steady now. Jesus.”

  “I was almost eaten alive three minutes ago, so cut me a little slack.”

  “I don’t think that’s what was going on.”

  “But we’ll never know for sure,” Strike said with a grim smirk.

  The light bobbed all over the dimly lit tunnels. It periodically passed over sections of the blueprint.

  “Wait,” Keene said. “Right there.”

  “You’re asking a lot.”

  “All right, all right…there. You saw that?”

  “Yeah, I can still see.”

  Keene jabbed at the top left corner of the blueprint, which outlined the tunnels beneath the wastewater treatment facility. It would have been of zero interest—except he’d gotten to thinking about the strangeness of that particular amenity for such a tiny town. And he’d finally figured out why Mitchell had a map of the sewage system.

  That gleaming monolith had to be a front. There was just no other explanation.

  “Mitchell was headed to the plant with the box,” Keene said, rolling up the schematic and putting it back in the tube. He glanced down the eastern corridor, tracing the strobing light coming from the phone’s flash. It didn’t look any different than the other sewer terrain, but it held the key to Mitchell’s mission.

  And unlocking the mysterious prism’s power.

  Keene offered his hand to the tired Strike. She accepted with a begrudging sigh.

  “Maybe he just really loved clean water,” Strike said as she struggled to her feet.

  “Someone’s out in that plant, spying on Tillus,” Keene said. “And this sewer’s our only way in.”

  “What do you think is inside?”

  “Answers.”

  The pair continued east, fending off the offensive odors in pursuit of the truth.

  15 | Resistance

  “They really need to address the security around here,” Keene said. “Color me unimpressed.”

  Keene put his hand through the hole in the floor tiles. With no easily accessible grates, access to the waterworks had been a little trickier than breaking into the morgue. But a few taps on the crumbling ceiling had yielded some spots that sounded weak.

  Weak enough to bust through with a pistol grip.

  He brushed the cracked material away until the hole was large enough to squeeze through. Then he pushed through first, leaving Strike below.

  “Grab my arm.”

  “Yeah, like you can lift me.”

  “Just do it.”

  Keene felt Strike’s weight pull down on his arm. He strained and lifted her through the makeshift entryway. She collapsed, slumping against a sagging desk chair.

  “That was a lot of effort,” Strike said.

  “I’m the one who did the lifting.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She glanced around the small room. “Where are we?”

  Keene searched the room for clues. Plain, cream colored tiles covered with cheap rugs, tan walls and a nearby slightly rusting desk suggested an administrative office.

  “It didn’t say, but—”

  “Shh.” Strike brought a finger to her lips and gave Keene a stern look. Voices filtered towards them from a nearby hallway, indis
cernible but uncomfortably close.

  Keene’s nails dug into the rubber stock. He began to raise the gun towards the nearby window. Three bullets left. Time to make them count. Strike slapped his arm down.

  “Great plan.”

  “I wasn’t going to kill them,” Keene said. Although upon further consideration, he wasn’t a deadeye shot, so even aiming for the legs could destroy an artery. “Just in case.”

  Strike pointed towards the corner of the room. A security camera tilted and zoomed, clearly aimed directly at them.

  “Their entire security team is probably converging on us right now,” Strike said.

  Keene looked back at the busted tile. Maybe heading back to the sewers was a good idea. He sat up to look out the room’s sole window, then dove back to the floor.

  “Lots of guns,” he said. “Too many.”

  “See what I was saying? I don’t want to get shot. Again.”

  “They might have medical care on site,” Keene said.

  “I had the staples in for a month. My stomach hurt until our innkeeper friend gave me that tea. You know what that feels like, walking around like you just got the wind knocked out of you all the time?” Strike said.

  “Just saying.”

  “Never again. And I didn’t mention the scar.”

  “I’ve been shot, too. Stabbed.” Boots echoed in the hall, marching in rhythm. “It wasn’t so bad.”

  “All right, Rambo, you head out and see what happens. I’m happy where I am.”

  “Thought you had my back, partner.”

  “Not when it comes to suicide,” Strike said.

  “Duly noted.” Keene held the gun up in front of his face, staring at the camera with arched eyebrows. He hoped that his expression accurately conveyed that he had little interest in a gunfight. Then he tossed the pistol to the side. The errant throw took down a wall calendar. But the firearm skittered harmlessly down the wall. “We surrender.”