INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1)

by Bradley Ernst

  Well done, Runes. You’ve picked a very discreet spot to die.

  Henna glanced at her watch. She had her work cut out for her. She’d have to hurry.

  ~Sympathetic Tone

  On her way to Ingliston for the second time that day, a surge of adrenaline hit Henna. Her heart raced. A sheen of cold sweat coated her forehead. The top of her head felt hot, but the rest of her was freezing. She glanced in the rearview mirror. The cardboard box she’d carried out of the lab sat in the middle of the back seat. Her blood pressure surged until she heard buzzing in her ears.

  What if she couldn’t do it?

  Henna slowed the car. She had to think.

  She had a good life here. She adored her flat. She’d miss her gargoyle. There’d be no coming back. She was on Abernathy’s radar. She’d all but threatened the drunk’s personal safety.

  “Second most important cop in Edinburgh,” Henna murmured. “Well done, Maxwell.”

  They’d know who did it. She had the motive and the means.

  Henna squeezed the steering wheel until her hands ached. She tried to focus on her breathing, but other thoughts swarmed her.

  She’d paid for her ticket to New York with a credit card in her own name.

  Her bowels went cold.

  No doubt they’d catch her, but she wouldn’t make it easy.

  Henna narrowed her eyes. She curled her lip into a sneer and nodded. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. It wasn’t her blood.

  It was Marcus’s. Abernathy’s. It was the putrid clam-eyed giant’s blood.

  The earth shivered beneath the car. She drank molten rock from the deep well of resolve.

  I’m doing it.

  Henna pulled over to make a phone call. The phone rang twice and she hung up. Then, as he’d promised, her own phone rang. “Hi—how are you doing?”

  Bonn sounded so calm. So smooth.

  “Good,” she lied. “The device you gave me worked like a charm. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “Oh. Good. I’m glad it came in useful.”

  “It did.” Henna sucked at her lip. “Are you settled in enough at your new place to take on a visitor?” Bonn seemed to sense the urgency in Henna’s voice. He didn’t answer immediately. “Sort of an—indefinite visit?” Henna added. A familiar car sped by.

  Marcus.

  The brimstone settled in Henna’s ears. She eased back onto the road and forced herself to keep her distance. “Of course—” Bonn answered. “Bring as much or as little as you’d like. There is some passable shopping nearby. Should I expect you soon?”

  “Tomorrow night. Can I call you from the airport?”

  “I’ll wait for you there,” Bonn promised. “Call me sooner if you need a hand? I’m happy to help.”

  “Thank you.” Henna glanced at the cardboard box. “I’ve got everything I need.”

  Henna pulled past the low block-clad building. Marcus’s car wasn’t there. Either she was early or the big skinhead lied. He hadn’t seemed smart enough to lie—especially under that much physiologic stress. She drove past and pulled into the parking lot of a transmission repair shop. It looked closed for the weekend. Henna pulled in next to a beat-up Fiat.

  She doubted a new transmission would fix it.

  She sat in the car and counted to a hundred.

  Nothing stirred in the shop. She had to hurry.

  Henna grabbed her satchel and slid into the backseat. She dumped the contents of the bag onto the floor and opened the flaps on the box. She pulled out a spool of thick cordage and two squat glass jars of oily fluid, then considered the pile of stuff on the floor.

  What do I need?

  The cold sweat was back. Henna preferred fury to terror. She felt limp and damp. Her joints and bowels felt loose. Henna rolled a scarf around a jar and placed it in her satchel. A pair of wool leggings padded the second jar. She placed it carefully next to the first, then pulled it out again. Her tongue felt big and Henna swallowed hard against it. She was so nervous she could feel her heartbeat in her throat.

  I’m going to do this—for Stephan.

  Henna sat the second jar on the seat beside her and bent down to paw through the toiletries she always carried.

  Dental floss.

  She held the roll at an angle and read the label in the diminishing light; it was a travel-sized roll.

  Fifty yards, but she’d used it daily for months.

  Henna tried to remember when she’d bought the floss but couldn’t.

  The success of this plan hinged on a few meters of dental floss?

  Henna laughed nervously and shook her head. She retrieved a pair of nail clippers and used the file to pry off the top of the floss container. She squinted at the small spool.

  It seemed like enough.

  She tied the end of the spool beneath the lid of the second jar and padded it with the leggings then slid the nail file in her pocket. She lifted the roll of cordage. Alvar spent many winter evenings practicing knots with her by the fire.

  Hopefully, she remembered them.

  She tied a lineman’s loop on one end and left the rest on the tube. Henna breathed through her mouth. Her tongue felt dry and rubbery.

  How long can I function under this level of sympathetic tone? Did Bonn get nervous? Did he get angry? She doubted it. He looked built for this. He seemed immune to this.

  Henna tugged at the knot with slow, heavy fingers. It held. She willed her saliva glands to make something to swallow.

  She hoped the cord would hold. Nothing she could do about it now, though. It was time to go.

  Henna slung the satchel over her head and rounded the transmission shop.

  Still no cars in front of the block building.

  She felt emboldened. She found she could now breathe through her nose. The movement seemed to help.

  She’d do the hardest part first. The roof.

  Henna ran to the rear of the block building and listened. A car slowed in front. Henna froze. Her heart drummed a frantic tattoo inside her chest. She dropped to the ground and concentrated on breathing. She crawled to the corner.

  The car was gone. Just someone headed to the track. Get up. There’s no time to waste.

  As Henna climbed the ladder, the jars clinked together. She winced but kept moving.

  Please God, don’t let them break—not yet.

  She was on the roof. The gravel crunched under her feet.

  At the pipe. Open the satchel. Unwrap the leggings.

  Henna pulled some floss from the spool and carefully fed the jar up the cane-shaped pipe. She was mouth breathing again. Small extra hisses of breath escaped with each heartbeat. She nudged the jar past the bend in the pipe and paid out more floss until she felt the weight of the jar. She felt her eyeballs jolt in their sockets with each heartbeat. She was short of breath. She pursed her lips with each exhalation as though she’d just been sprinting. She paid out more floss and estimated the jar’s position in the pipe.

  Just above the ceiling now.

  Henna backed toward the edge of the roof. The spool dwindled quickly, but she was almost to the edge.

  Another car.

  Henna dropped to prone. She clenched the spool tightly and wrapped a length of floss around her fingers, pulling the rest of the floss off the small plastic spool.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Henna sucked at her lip, her mouth felt chalky. To be able to swallow anything would be a luxury. Her lip was as barren as her tongue. She couldn’t even taste the blood from earlier. Henna panted to catch her breath. Sounds were amplified—a dog barked somewhere close. She held her head steady and opened her mouth. She needed to concentrate on the front of the building.

  The flick of a lighter. The smell of cigarette smoke. Someone jerked the handle on the front door. Must be locked—someone early for the meeting.

  Henna looked at her watch.

  The rest would be here shortly. She craved water. This plan lacked water. It was essential. All future attacks o
n murderous demons would take place near large bodies of clear, cold water.

  Henna focused on the taut line of dental floss tied to the jar of mustard gas suspended in the pipe. She’d hoped the floss would stretch to the ground. She could’ve wedged it in a crack in the wood that had hid the ladder from view.

  A voice—the early bird was on his phone. Do it. What? Anything. Move. Remember what Alvar said—when you’re at war, it’s important to fight. Commit.

  Henna tied a loop in the floss and held it in her teeth. She rolled a little and retrieved the nail file from her pocket then brushed at the gravel until she reached the layer of tar that sealed the roof. She held the loop flat on the tar and pushed the nail file through it. It held. Henna shivered. The buzz of doubt and fear was back in her ears.

  How did Bonn function under this amount of stress? Maybe he didn’t feel stress like this. He probably brought water.

  Another car pulled up. Doors opened and closed. Henna rolled some more and removed her sweater. When she did something, the buzzing stopped.

  If the floss were long enough, she’d be down there now. It was better up here. Please don’t let anyone see the ladder.

  Henna held the loop and pulled the nail file back out of the tar. She held it in her chattering teeth and pushed the file through the sweater near the wrist then stuck the file back through the loop into the roof. With the scratch and jangle of keys, she heard the front door scrape open. Voices came up the pipe. Someone dragged a metal chair. “Put that out. Marcus will freak if he smells it in here.” The scuff of a boot extinguished a cigarette. “The big one in yellow. He’s the one that got Alec.”

  “How’s Sorcha?”

  “How do you think she is? Alec’s dead.” Henna got to her knees. The argument was loud. She hoped it’d mask the gravel sounds. She held the nail file steady in the tar and bunched up the remainder of the sweater. She tossed it over the side of the building. It dangled below the top of the ladder. The top of her head was hot again. Her teeth stopped clacking. Henna felt her head with her hand. She expected it to come away wet with blood, but it didn’t.

  Focus. Stop thinking about how you feel and finish it. This wasn’t about her—this was about Stephan. A nail file, a sweater, some dental floss? It was a terrible plan, but it’d have to do.

  A car at the track revved its engine. Henna took advantage of the noise. She swung her legs over the edge of the roof and felt for the top of the ladder. She crept down quickly. It felt good to move. She folded the ladder and rested it beside the scrap pile. The sweater was a different shade of gray than the building. It stood out like a sore thumb.

  Hopefully, none of these idiots scout the perimeter.

  Henna tiptoed to the rear of the building and ran the end of the cord around the base of a flowering dogwood, then passed the spool through the loop. The back door was, at most, three meters away. Henna held on to the cord and backed toward it. She needed another loop in the cord about a meter from the door. Her hands shook. She had a hard time focusing her eyes on the task. She felt tired and cold—and stiff. She shook her head and willed her frozen hands to move. She managed to get the second loop in the cord just as someone turned the latch inside the door.

  Run.

  Henna dropped the spool and sprinted for the transmission shop. She slid around the corner of the building and dropped.

  They must hear my breath.

  Henna took choppy, open-mouthed breaths. She swallowed hard against her dry tongue. She listened for footsteps but didn’t hear any. After a couple of minutes she peeked around the corner. Cigarette smoke wafted from the open door. Someone either stood inside the door waiting for others to arrive or they’d propped a chair. Either way, the spool of cord in the grass hadn’t sent up an alarm. She heard more cars and glanced at her watch. The high-pitched sounds of the car at the track drowned out the sounds from the road. Henna felt disoriented. Now she was too far away.

  What if there were so many cars they’d park at the transmission shop too?

  She was too exposed.

  What would they do if they caught her? Movement—

  A skinhead with a cigarette dangling from his mouth stood by the dogwood and urinated on the cord. The car at the track made another wheel-shrieking lap. It was pushing the corners. The skinhead seemed distracted enough by the car not to take notice of the spool of cord on the ground tied to his pee-tree. The man heard something inside and hurriedly zipped his pants. He flicked the cigarette at the dogwood and went inside. Something metal scraped on concrete and the door closed with a whunk.

  Marcus must be inside. Make sure.

  Henna forced herself to stand. Her knees didn’t feel like they’d support her. She wasn’t just stiff—it felt like her bones were fused. She braced her hands on her knees and slowly crept alongside the building to the road. At least two dozen cars were outside.

  Marcus’s car, too.

  She craned her neck past the corner of the transmission shop. The front door of the block building was closed. A surge of fresh adrenaline cured her legs. She ran along the side of the building and behind the dogwood. It was dark, but enough light from the track let her see the cord. She checked the loop and pulled the cord to feel the tension on the bush—she grimaced as she picked up the spool.

  Not long now.

  Henna ignored the urine and ran the spool through the door’s heavy handle, then doubled it back to the second loop, fashioning a trucker’s hitch. She used the loop like a pulley and cinched it tight before she tied it off. When they tried to pull the door open, they’d have to uproot the bush to get out, or the cord would break and they would catch her. Henna ran for the stepladder. She unfolded it on the run. She rested the ladder on one side, legs braced against the rock planter. The top of the ladder was still centimeters from the front door.

  It wouldn’t work. They’d get out.

  She ran for the scrap pile and grabbed all she could carry. A short piece of plywood was wet and warped. She was able to fold it. She wedged it into the space between the ladder and the door, but the voices inside became quiet—

  They’d heard her.

  Someone inside pushed on the door until the ladder and the spongy plywood stopped it. Breathless, Henna shoved wood scraps between the ladder and the door. They kicked the door from inside, so she jammed her makeshift shims in between kicks. Although she saw her hands doing what they needed to, she felt like she fumbled with the materials. She couldn’t feel her hands.

  Were they still hers? No time to contemplate it. They’d be struggling against the cord now too.

  Henna rammed a last piece of wood in the gap and ran for the sweater. She jumped to grab the dangling arm, but couldn’t reach it. In desperation, she took a few steps back and ran at the wall. She pushed the ball of her foot against the blocks and leaped to jerk the arm of the sweater.

  Got it.

  The sweater came free, so the nail file must have pulled free too. Henna grabbed a piece of scrap wood from the stack and ran for the back door. The cord danced violently as at least one skinhead hauled on the inside handle. Then all at once the line went slack—Henna saw fingers wrap around the edge of the door. “One—two—THREE!” The door bounced open several centimeters. The remaining tension in the cord stopped its progress. It sounded like someone tried to wedge a chair into the temporary gap, but it wasn’t wide enough. “Again. One—”

  The gas should be working. The skinheads should be screaming—they should be dying! Didn’t the jar break?

  Henna heard screaming. It was her. Overcome with rage, she smashed at the sets of fingers with the wood. A small, curious part of her brain took over. It spoke to her in a pragmatic voice. It was a man’s voice. It sounded like a British naturalist dryly narrating why her silly plan was doomed from the start.

  Unfortunately for Henna, the jar didn’t break. What Henna didn’t know as she struggled to contain the villains was this—the skinheads didn’t even know about the mustard gas. Why should they? T
he pea gravel she’d tossed down the pipe into the room went through another grate, one just above the false ceiling—the deadly agent she’d worked feverishly to concoct would rest safely nestled above the second grate—for years.

  “—two—” The bloodied fingers were gone. They pulled on the handle again, where their fingers were safe.

  “No!” Henna roared. New fingers popped through the door crack. So many fingers. Her throat raw, Henna raged as she swung the wood again and again. For each set of fingers she crushed, more shot into the crack.

  Too many—they were going to get out.

  She unwound the scarf from the second jar and held it aloft—

  When they jerked on the door, she’d throw it in.

  Henna heard a new voice inside. One with more authority. “Again! On three. One—” The gap pulsed open as the men inside revved like bobsledders. “—two—” Henna tossed the jar through the gap. She heard breaking glass. She backed from the door and gripped the lineman’s hitch with both hands. Henna pushed the cord to the ground and stood on it.

  Finally. The screaming.

  The fingers trapped in the door danced like spittle on iron. Thirty seconds passed. The screams stopped. The fingers trapped in the doorjamb were still. The car at the track whined by. Henna eased one, then the other foot off of the cord and cautiously let it droop. Sets of dead fingers fell from the doorjamb to join the dead arms inside. The naturalist was back. With an even bigger lilt in his voice. He’d fooled the audience. Of course he’d known the outcome already—but he’d narrated well—he was a showman after all.