Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

  Enrique clasped his hands and nodded. His eyes narrowed. "You have my undivided attention."

  Lehane told the story. "It was early 2003. The war hadn't started yet. Charlie Spinks was approached through some Saudi contacts to send a team into Iraq. There were six of us. We left from Germany and flew to Kuwait City. There we were briefed by Charlie and a former D-Boy named Jake, who'd already been in and out of Saddam's playground five or six times. Charlie told us we were going in to protect and extract the family of a defecting Iraqi scientist."

  "Was this done through your government?"

  "Not officially, but of course. We arranged it so nothing could be traced back to the administration. Anyway, this man was more of a budget guy than a laboratory scientist. He wanted to defect and talk to the US about some of Saddam's stash. His name was Mohammed. He was a Sunni Muslim, not a Shia, but somehow he knew a lot about where the regime's cash was parked."

  "You get Mohammed and his family safely out of Iraq without leaving American fingerprints, and he tells the US where some of Saddam's money is buried."

  "Exactly."

  Lehane tore the napkin into a shape similar to Iraq's and moved the knife and fork to either side. "Here's Saudi Arabia, here's Iran, right? Kuwait City is right on the Persian Gulf, and close to the border. We took off in a chopper at around one in the morning, just a short squad and me."

  "A short squad?"

  "Four grunts and a team lead. I hand picked my crew. I took Heather, Guri because he speaks Farsi, Pops and a young kid who had just mustered out of the British SAS six months before. His name was Jack Willocks. The client's family had a beach property not far from the town of Karbala, near a lake called Razzaza. We flew down low, okay? I mean low enough to stroke your nut sack on the treetops."

  "What about the Iraqis?"

  "Charlie Spinks had pulled a few strings and the Special Ops boys jammed their radar whenever we were in the air, just to be on the safe side. Our client and his family were to meet us at this beach house. We planned for maybe five minutes on the ground, tops. Load them up and fly them out. Piece of cake."

  Lehane fell silent. He crumpled up the napkin and looked down and away. After a long moment, Enrique cleared his throat. "What happened?"

  Lehane looked up again. "It went south, that's what happened. It felt wrong the second our boots hit the dirt. We came in from the desert, low and fast. We found the house with no problem, and the red signal light was out in the back yard just like the family had been told. My crew roped down in seconds. Pops went first, because he's a sharpshooter. He took high ground near the back of the property, in case any bad guys decided to pay us a visit.

  "Heather went second and took the side gate. That was the only way into the back yard, other than from the house. It was a pretty fancy home, actually. Lots of beautiful pots filled with plants and some patio furniture. The Brit, Willocks, he rapped on the back door and stood to one side while I covered him. Guri covered our rear. Nobody answered the knock. That's when I started getting spooked. I even thought of aborting, but I knew the customer would never buy us having at least searched the house.

  "Now the chopper is going away, as if headed north, just to throw anybody off our trail. He'll circle back around in five minutes flat to pick us up. But right at that second, he was still kind of loud. And we have silencers anyway, right? So I motion for Willocks to blow the door. He does, and I kick it in. Willocks, he went into the living room and split to the right; I followed him, covering high and low, and went left. Guri waited until we were inside, and then took the doorway."

  Lehane stopped again. He took a sip of iced tea. "They were there, in the living room, this guy and his whole family." He set the glass down. "It's one thing to kill somebody, Enrique. It's a lot harder than most people think it is, blowing a man up. But to do what these people did...is just unspeakable."

  Enrique prodded. "Charlie said you lost a man."

  "I'll get to that," Lehane said. "I started snapping digital pictures for command and control." He swallowed. "You remember Saddam's two sons, a couple of sociopaths named Uday and Qusay? Those two were real sweethearts. Well, Guri told me later that one of the markings on the wall was the signature of the man closest to them, a guard captain known only as Ali Basra."

  "Isn't Basra a city?"

  "Yeah, and I'm sure it wasn't his real name. Ali Basra was a torturer, a real animal. He'd used battery acid, flaying the skin, every horror imaginable to keep Saddam's enemies in line. Uday and Qusay turned to him for the things they couldn't bring themselves to handle, okay? That has to tell you something.

  "This Ali Basra must have been into some super twisted stuff, because there were body parts everywhere and Arabic characters written in blood, guts and human shit. My digital photos were instantly sent via satellite to computers in Kuwait and analyzed. Half of the symbols didn't even make sense. The desk boys said that some were even in Hindu, which is really weird."

  "What were they?"

  "Nonsense. Stuff like the names of vampire spirits and creatures of lore. Ali Basra was into some kind of dark magic, I guess. He had tortured and slaughtered this entire family, gutted them like fish, and used what was left to write a psychotic treatise on an ancient superstition. He also drew some kind of weird face on the wall."

  "What kind of face?"

  "It was a really horrific, bug-eyed man with the strangest expression, a whole bunch of emotions at once. And then as if to make a final statement, he scattered a bunch of money around. Thousands of US dollars, all rubbed in shit and offal from the bodies.

  "Willocks made a big mistake. He lowered his gun just long enough to wipe his forehead. I started to say something, but that's when this maniac came screeching out of the bedroom. He was red and blue and green because of blood and guts all over him and he was screaming…screaming so loud…"

  Lehane trailed off. "We pieced together later that this was probably Ali Basra, but it could have been some guy he left behind to finish up. Who knows? Anyway, he managed to bite this kid on the cheek, even tore some flesh away. My boy screamed and shoved him back. Then the guy brought up a sword and used it. It took a small chunk of Willock's head off with one swipe. By then I'd stopped taking pictures and brought my gun up and around. Ali Basra was moving like some kind of rabid animal, and he was closing on me fast. My Israeli guy Guri came inside right then. The maniac saw two targets and froze. I shot first, then Guri, and between us we turned the clown into hamburger, but a couple of seconds too late."

  "What did you do?"

  "We dragged Willock's outside and got him on the stripped-down Blackhawk. He was still breathing, and besides we never leave anything behind to say we'd ever been there. Hell, we were even using weapons common to the Iraqi army that night, just to be on the safe side. The damn shell casings looked home grown."

  "And this boy Willocks, he expired on the helicopter?"

  Lehane shook his head. "He died in the hospital in Kuwait City." He sipped more water. "That's the long and the short of it. Does it tell you anything you needed to know?"

  "I suspect it does," Enrique said, quietly. "I have been told that the threats I've received are probably coming from somewhere on the Iranian border with Iraq. There was no mention of Hindu symbols."

  "One thing I need to ask you," Lehane said. "You spoke to Charlie. You could have just read the report and seen the photographs. Why come all the way out here to talk to me in person?"

  "I had an ulterior motive." Enrique hesitated. "Can I persuade you to come out of retirement to run security on my world tour?"

  "Not a chance in hell."

  "Well, that was the first reason. The second was just in case you'd say something that was not in the report. Something I might need to know for my own safety."

  "But I didn't."

  "No," Enrique said. He got to his feet and extended his hand. "You didn't. And frankly, I'm glad. Thank you for your time."

  "My pleasure," Lehane lied. "Thanks for the
cash."

  SIX

  Bert's weather-beaten grocery and hardware store was less than one mile down the dirt road, near the bottom of the dusty basin. The little establishment had cold beer, reasonably fresh produce and all kinds of tools and ammunition. Lehane watched Enrique drive away. He didn't want to go home, at least not yet. For the first time in years he wished he had a dog. He didn't really want to be alone today. Lehane left his car parked by Connie's, with the fanny pack tucked under the passenger seat. He set out to walk around for a bit.

  The sun beat down in brittle waves, like an ocean of molten glass. The cruel surface of the high desert was motionless this close to noon; everything that could grab a sliver of shade was fast asleep. His boots scuffed the pavement and scattered pebbles and his breathing seemed loud. Something about Enrique's visit continued to nag him. He supposed the stated reason made sense that the singer had wanted to hear the story personally, not just from Charlie. Still, he made a mental note to call Spinks once he got back to the cabin. There had to be more. To his left some grasshoppers clicked like maracas and a lone chicken clucked from behind a barbed wire fence.

  Lehane watched his boots for a while. A drop of sweat left his forehead and splashed onto the hard, white sand. He was vaguely aware of movement up ahead and the slamming of a screen door. He raised his head just as the Harley's engine roared. Lehane shaded his eyes. The rider was a squat, wide man with a shaved head and a flowing brown beard. He wore reflecting sunglasses and the requisite black leather clothing. He gunned the massive engine and pulled away from the grocery.

  At first, Lehane was not concerned, but soon felt ice-cold anxiety ripple through his stomach. The biker had the business end of a baseball bat sticking out of the carrying pouch. It looked stained, perhaps with blood.

  Lehane never changed his stride. His peripheral vision kicked into overdrive. To his right lay a tall wall of loose rocks, almost like a pile in a quarry. The footing would be poor and he'd need to turn his back to climb. The biker would reach him in a matter of seconds. He had no time to run back to the truck and secure his weapon. He waited until the Harley was committed to low gear, coming up the hill, and took three long steps to his left; up the low, grassy slope that led to the barnyard.

  The long, thick chain missed his head by less than a foot.

  Grunting with effort, the biker planted his left foot and wheeled around. Lehane figured that if the man had a gun, he'd have already used it. The biker anticipated a move further up the grass, a run for the barn. He made to cut Lehane off, run him down. Lehane surprised the attacker by staying where he was. The man tried to shift the length of chain to his other hand. When the Harley was close enough, higher up the slope on his right, Lehane fell to his elbows. The chain whistled over his skull. He kicked out with his booted foot and knocked the man off balance.

  The bike kept going. The rider didn't.

  The Harley gunned itself into the fence and got tangled up, then fell on one side. The engine complained shrilly. The biker rolled down the hill and smacked into Lehane before he could get out of the way. The chain came down hard on his kidneys, and Lehane howled with pain. He smelled rancid body odor, and something worse. He drove his elbow into the biker's chin and twisted free.

  Up on his feet, Lehane stood with his palms open and his knees slightly bent. He kept his eyes on the length of chain. The biker stumbled slightly when he got to his feet, as if stoned or drunk.

  Lehane feinted to his left, back up the grassy slope. The biker reacted a fraction later than one would expect. Lehane thought: Good, I can use this…He was far closer to the grocery than his car, but he spun as if to run back up the hill. The biker dug his feet into the gravel and started up. Then Lehane changed direction, raced around him and sprinted for the grocery. Bert kept a loaded Remington pump shotgun stashed behind the counter, under a mop and some rags.

  Lehane ran smooth and easy, elbows pumping, boots crunching the gravel. He wasn't moving very fast, but he didn't think the drugged biker would be greased lightning, either.

  He was wrong.

  To his utter shock, he heard the man closing the gap like an NFL defensive back. His feet were now moving faster than Lehane would have dreamed possible. Lehane shifted into a couple of swivel moves, as if about to pivot and head for the barn again. The biker wasn't fooled.

  Lehane reached the foot of the steps and heard the chain whistling toward his neck. He dropped and rolled under the wooden porch. The chain came down hard enough to shatter boards. The biker raised and lowered the weapon, emitting several frustrated grunts. Lehane lay in the filth and spider webs, trembling from adrenaline. He looked around for any sort of weapon.

  The biker knelt down and grabbed at his foot. He latched on to Lehane by the ankle and began to pull. He was muttering something, but Lehane couldn't make out what it was. He was strong enough to haul his quarry out of the shadows and into the sunshine.

  Lehane saw a two-foot length of two by four with a couple of rusty nails in one end. He clutched the weapon and kicked with his other leg. He kicked again. The third time he struck something soft. The biker let go and fell backwards. Lehane pushed the weapon ahead and scrambled free.

  The man was holding his bloody nose with one hand and the chain with the other. He seemed a little stunned, but after his burst of speed coming down the driveway Lehane was not about to take any chances. He watched and waited, the board gripped with both hands. He noticed that the biker's filthy knuckles had rows of what appeared to be jailhouse tattoos in the shape of little blue teardrops.

  Lehane gathered air into his burning lungs. "This doesn't have to go down, man," he managed.

  The biker dropped the chain into the dirt. For a second, Lehane thought it was over, but then the man reached around to the back of his belt and produced a long, saw-toothed hunting knife. He grinned in an almost friendly manner, but with blood matting his beard and his eyes bulging wide. He held it like a professional, low and pointing up, and kept changing hands as he moved closer.

  Lehane swung the board at the man's head, the wicked nails pointing inward. The biker tried to block with his arm and got stabbed. He hissed like a snake and his pupils grew large.

  He charged.

  Lehane dodged to the right, threw the board at him and then ran straight for the entrance to the grocery store. He stumbled on the wooden steps and bruised his knee. Realizing he'd lost the separation he needed, Lehane rolled onto his back and kicked with both legs. He caught the biker in the chest and threw him backwards into the dirt. The man landed on his tailbone with a loud explosion of air. The pain slowed him a bit, giving Lehane precious time.

  He ran up the steps, ripped the screen door nearly of its hinges and moved into the cool, shadowy interior. The store was a mess. Displays had been vandalized and knocked over. The drink cooler doors were shattered and bottles of beer broken on the sawdust floor. Lehane moved rapidly through the gloom, aiming for the shotgun stashed behind the counter. He turned the corner.

  Bert Lewis was lying on his side, right leg cocked at an odd angle. There was blood on the front of his apron. His eyes were wide and staring, but the lids were fluttering a bit and he was still breathing. He was holding his telephone in one hand, the land line. It was off the hook, as if he'd managed to dial 911. Lehane certainly hoped so. He stepped over the wounded man.

  The biker emerged out of the dusty dark with a shrill, primal scream. He launched himself along the surface of the grocery counter, scattering condiments, packaged sandwiches and signs proclaiming the specials of the day. He slammed into Lehane, who caught that fetid, decaying odor yet again, and drove him backwards into the hardware department. The two men careened into a tall shelf stacked with hammers, screwdrivers and other tools.

  The biker forced his head closer. He began snapping his jaws, trying to bite Lehane on the face.

  Lehane clawed at the man's fevered eyes with his left hand. With his right, he groped along the wooden shelf until he found a long, fla
t-bladed electrician's screwdriver. His sweaty fingers slipped on the plastic handle. The biker bit down again and barely missed gnawing a piece from his cheek. Lehane brought the screwdriver up and around and drove it into the man's side. The blade slipped on the leather jacket. Lehane pushed it under the jacket and stabbed again, all the while fending off the oral assault. It ripped deeply into flesh.

  The biker screamed and reared backwards, clawing at his side. Lehane kicked again, and caught him under the chin. His eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the bloody floor, perhaps two feet from the prone Bert.

  Lehane fought his way back to his feet. He groped under the counter for the Remington shotgun. It wasn't there.

  The biker stirred again.

  Desperate, Lehane began throwing things around, searching for the weapon. He was vaguely aware of the sound of sirens in the distance. Bert had probably managed to summon the Highway Patrol.

  The biker sat up abruptly. Blood was streaming down his face. For the first time Lehane realized that he'd managed to destroy the man's left eye. The eyeball was a gooey mess, running down his cheek, and some grotesque tissue was bulging from the socket. The biker struggled up yet again, his one good eye fixed on Lehane.

  The sirens closed the gap.

  Lehane realized that Bert had managed to get to the shotgun, but perhaps lost control of it during a struggle. He cast about with his eyes as the gigantic man lumbered closer, one eye missing and the long screwdriver sticking out of his side like a bent car antenna. He saw the Remington half-buried in some cleaning products and threw himself in that direction.

  The biker caught his boot with both hands and pulled. Lehane felt his hands scramble for purchase on the wood flooring. The sawdust tickled his nose. He caught the trigger guard and yanked the shotgun loose.

  The biker, grunting like a sow, began to claw his way up Lehane's body.

  Lehane brought the gun around. The biker saw it and tried to back away. Lehane thought of Bert, lying there near death. He aimed for the man's face, but at the last second brought the gun down and pulled the trigger. The blast hit the biker in the abdomen and drove him back across the room. He slid down to a sitting position, his mashed, multi-colored innards flung up the white wall like a macabre piece of art.