by Rita Herron
“We’ll get on it,” Chief Tarrington said. “I’ll try to pinpoint possible locations where the bomber might attack.”
“Anything on the terrorist-cell side?” Quinton asked.
“Nothing so far. But all our operatives are working with the CIA and FBI trying to locate the source. Meanwhile, meet with the locals and let them know you’re on the job.”
“Copy that.” Quinton hung up, worry gnawing at him. So far, they’d found no connection to a terrorist group. And they might not.
Not if they were dealing with a demon.
Annabelle sighed and rested her head back against the seat. The bruise on her forehead made the thirst for revenge tap at the brink of his control.
He imagined finding the man responsible for putting Annabelle in the hospital and for cruelly taking so many lives. He’d tie him down and beat him until blood poured from his nose and mouth. Then he’d torture him as he himself had been tortured before. He’d strip him naked, make him lie in his blood, make him taste it, make him beg to be released.
The corner of his mouth tilted upward. He could hear the man’s screams and curses, the screech of his voice begging for mercy. A mercy that wouldn’t come, not at Quinton’s hands.
Nightmares haunted Annabelle. Her car exploding. A faceless madman chasing her.
A man clothed in black about to kill her. A demon… Quinton.
No, she didn’t believe in demons…
She struggled through the bleak memories to a time when she was safe, when nothing could harm her and her future was anything she wanted it to be.
She was five years old, sitting by a blazing fire, happily playing with the new train set Santa had brought her, the twinkling white Christmas lights dancing along the caboose. Her father rose from his chair, then knelt on the floor beside her and grinned. “That train will take you any place you want to go, Annabelle. All you have to do is dream.”
Her mother, who’d been relaxing in the big overstuffed chair sipping tea, joined them. “Where do you want to go, sweetie?”
“All over the world.” She’d jumped up and grabbed the camera her parents had given her and snapped a picture of them. “And I want you to go with me.”
Her father had clasped her mother’s hand and kissed it. “We’ll always be a family,” her mother said.
“Sandwich!” Annabelle said with a laugh. It was her favorite game. She squeezed between her parents while they hugged, pretending they were two slices of bread and she was the bologna, and they all laughed.
She jerked awake, a well of sadness engulfing her as reality crashed back. It wasn’t real. Her parents were gone. She’d been dreaming.
Then she inhaled a masculine scent, the raw primal one that had been driving her crazy the last few days, and she glanced at Quinton.
God, the man was mysterious. Still, he intrigued her and stirred wicked fantasies in her mind.
At the same time, he terrified her.
His steely gaze met hers, and she swiped at the tears, embarrassed at her display of emotion.
“Nightmares?” he asked.
She nodded. “I was thinking about my father.”
“Where is he?” Quinton asked.
“I don’t know.” Annabelle sighed. “My mother died about six months ago. The night of the funeral, he disappeared. I haven’t heard from him since.”
“He hasn’t contacted you at all?”
She twisted her hands in her lap. “No.”
Quinton lapsed into a sullen silence as she turned to look out the window.
“What about your family?” she asked.
He gave her a sharp look. “I don’t have family.”
“What about your brother, Vincent?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Get some rest, Annabelle. We’ll be in Charleston soon, and it’s going to be a long day.”
She twisted her hands together, disturbed at the way he’d cut her off. Quinton was one person she couldn’t trust.
So why did she feel drawn to him?
It didn’t matter. She had to guard her emotions and protect herself against him. His avoidance told her more than he realized. And she would find the story behind him before this was over.
But he was right. Her head was throbbing and when they got to Charleston, they had work to do. It was already early morning.
Midnight was only hours away. They had to stop this bomber before more lives were lost.
Quinton momentarily tapped into Annabelle’s thoughts. She didn’t trust him. And she’d vowed to guard herself against him.
Smart thinking. She shouldn’t trust him.
But she wanted him, found him desirable.
Hmm… interesting. He could use that attraction to his advantage.
Wind whipped the trees into a frenzy, scattering dead leaves across the grass and sidewalk in a flurry of red, orange, yellow, and brown as they neared Charleston.
He swiped a hand over his neck, then turned to study her. Her blonde hair lay in waves against the seat, her bruises more pronounced in the early morning sunlight. Everything about her was light to his darkness, her blonde hair to his black, her ivory skin to his bronzed.
Her soul to his lack of one.
For once in his life, he wanted to soothe someone’s pain, not inflict it.
He had to stop this bomber today. The sooner they discovered who’d orchestrated the attacks, the sooner he’d be free from Annabelle’s spell.
Because he would never be free from the darkness that ate at his soul.
And when he killed again, he didn’t want her around to interfere, or to endanger her because of it.
Or to make him question his actions.
He pulled into a hotel on the northern side, went inside and reserved adjoining rooms, and quickly installed cameras in the room where Annabelle would stay so he could watch her every move.
He didn’t trust that she wouldn’t pass on her story or suspicions. Besides, he needed to see if anyone approached or tried to attack her.
When he returned to the car, he nudged her awake. “I got us a room. Let’s go inside, rest a bit, and clean up before we talk to the police.”
She nodded sleepily, her mouth pinching as she climbed out. But again, she didn’t complain. She tried to grab her suitcase, but he yanked it from her and carried their bags inside. As soon as she crawled into the bed, Quinton called his chief to let him know he was in town.
“I’ll meet you at the local police station,” Chief Tarrington said. “Then we’ll try to narrow down target areas.”
Quinton agreed then hung up. He only hoped they found the location in time.
Although Annabelle could have slept for days, the short nap and shower revived her. She and Quinton grabbed coffee and doughnuts on the way to the police station, where a burly bald man named Detective Barbaris met them.
An FBI agent named McLaughlin joined the team in the conference room, along with a man whom Quinton introduced as Chief Tarrington, his boss from HS.
“What do we have to go on?” Detective Barbaris asked.
Quinton spoke up. “Miss Armstrong received a text warning of an impending attack tonight at midnight.”
The detective frowned. “And you know this is for real?”
Quinton exchanged a look with Annabelle, then nodded.
“Why do you think it will occur here?” Detective Barbaris asked.
“It’s really a hunch,” Quinton said, earning him an odd look from the chief, “The vultures gathered in Savannah before the attack. We have to follow every possible lead and take precautions. You don’t want a repeat of Savannah, do you?” Quinton’s steely voice drove home the point. “To be accused of negligence or the press to reveal that you were warned but did nothing?”
The detective shifted and rubbed at the top of his shiny head. “Of course not.”
“Let’s take a look at a map of the city,” the chief said.
The detective nodded, then rolled down a wall map that they all began
to scrutinize.
“Charleston is one of the most historic cities in the States,” Barbaris said. “Although it’s a fairly small city, a walking one, the Battery could be a target. There’s also over a hundred restaurants, carriage tours, the shopping district, Market Hall, the churches, the famous houses…”
Frustration lined Barbaris’s face. “Without knowing where this person is going to attack, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Since the bomber chose the waterfront area in Savannah, perhaps that’s where he’ll attack here,” Agent McLaughlin suggested.
“It’s possible,” the chief said. “But maybe too predictable.”
“Any special activities planned tonight in the town?” Quinton asked. “A parade? Political function? Celebration?”
“It is Saturday night,” Detective Barbaris said. “The downtown will be alive with activity. That is, if those damn vultures don’t scare people away.”
Annabelle booted up her computer and googled a list of the city’s events.
“Maybe you should consider shutting down the town,” one of the local officers suggested.
“We can’t ask business owners to do that,” Detective Barbaris said. “We’re talking about their livelihood.”
“Paralyzing the town, its businesses, and creating fear and panic are other forms of terrorist attack—more subtle, but something the perpetrator may be aiming for,” Annabelle pointed out.
“I’ll call neighboring counties for backup,” Detective Barbaris said. “Have local and plainclothes officers stationed all over the city. Maybe someone will see something suspicious.”
“Let’s look at major events again,” Quinton said. “Something that would draw hundreds of people together at once.”
Detective Barbaris snapped his fingers. “Two things I can think of. That preacher, Reverend Narius, is in town. He’ll be at the First Baptist Church tonight. I’ll put men there.”
“And there’s a football game at the Citadel,” Annabelle added.
Quinton glanced at her with a nod. “The stadium could be a viable target. It definitely has to be covered.”
“I’ll get some agents to search the stadium,” Chief Tarrington said. “And extra security will be posted tonight.”
Barbaris scraped his hand over his jaw. “This is a nightmare.”
“That’s what we’re trying to prevent,” Quinton said.
Annabelle cleared her throat. “There’s also a concert at the North Charleston Coliseum tonight. The venue is sold out. Thousands of teenagers and young adults will be flooding it to party.”
“Let’s get to it,” Quinton ordered. “Midnight is only a few hours away.”
Quinton cornered Annabelle while Barbaris debriefed the local officers and coordinated with other precincts for extra security.
“Thanks for the help in there,” Quinton said.
“You really think we can stop this attack?” Annabelle asked.
Quinton clenched his jaw at the daunting task. It was difficult to safeguard and predict a crime like this, especially when they hadn’t ID’d the unsub yet, but if a demon was involved… “We’ll do our best.”
Then his mother’s words echoed in his head: The Death Angel has the power to possess the body of a human. Find him in that form, and you can kill him more easily. You must use your power to destroy him.
But what if he shape-shifted into another form? And if he was a vulture—hell, there were vultures everywhere.
“I keep thinking about that homeless man, that he was suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome,” Annabelle said. “I’m wondering if whoever is behind this convinced him to do the bombing. Maybe he paid him. Or what if the man was mentally ill and was convinced he was going into battle?”
Quinton considered her theory. “I agree that there is a mastermind, and that it’s possible our perpetrator brainwashed the homeless man.”
Annabelle rolled her shoulders. “Maybe he’s going to find someone else like Ames to use. Another homeless man?”
“Or one suffering from PTS.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll check military records, contact the VA hospital and see if I can get a list.”
“And I’ll check out the homeless shelters in the area,” Annabelle said. “See if the social workers know of anyone preying on them. I’ve heard of cases where people fear the homeless and attack them.”
Protective instincts kicked in as Quinton glanced at her. The bruise on her cheek looked stark against her pale skin, and she had dark smudges beneath her eyes. She needed rest, to be in bed recovering from the explosion, not out chasing leads.
But she was strong and gutsy, here working alongside him, trying to find this killer.
Admiration tightened his chest, and he reached up and stroked her arm. “Are you sure you’re up to it? We have officers and agents working on the investigation.”
“No, I want to do this,” she said. “I have to. We can’t let this guy win.”
“We won’t,” he said. “But we go together.”
No way he’d allow Annabelle to go up against a possible demon on her own.
You have powers, the Angel of Light had said.
But would his powers be strong enough to fight this evil?
Disturbed by the overwhelming scent of evil in the air, Father Robard called a meeting of the monks. They gathered in the monastery churchyard, the news of the recent unleashing of demons on the world weighing heavily on all their minds.
His fellow monks strolled in, wearing their doboks, culottes, or earth and wind garbs, depending on their level of training.
He greeted them accordingly. “Duno (brother), Duna (sister),” he murmured. “Ra-duno,” denoting an older monk or big brother. His comrades were referred to as Fe duno or Fe duna.
Yet, Father Robard was the oldest and most revered.
After the Angel had brought the Valtrez boys to him, had told him of the prophecy of the Dark Lords and the danger to them, they had separated them for their own safety.
He had personally watched over Quinton and guided him to be a great fighter. Had shown him how to use the power of body and mind for survival and to prepare for the demon rising. Had taught him to survive off the land, to respect and love nature, to use herbal plants for healing and food, and also to mix the herbs with wine for potions.
“The demons have gotten past the Twilight Guards,” he said as the monks bowed to listen.
Concern rippled through the group.
He cleared his throat. “We have trained the demonborn Valtrez to use nature’s nochd—life energy—to call upon all the elements: light and darkness, fire, water, air, and earth.
“He has been trained to sense the energy of all living things by opening his mind and channeling nature to make himself stronger. But we must pray, for his soul is torn in two from the bad blood in his veins.”
He paused and the monks nodded solemnly, obedience being key to their inner balance.
“He must use that energy as a weapon.”
“Is he prepared?” Duno Florence asked.
“I believe so. He was put through a series of grueling physical tests to prepare his mind for the journey early on. And when he left here, he received more rigorous training.
“Now let us pray and meditate in silence for the remainder of the day. We must channel our faith into him. He will need it.”
He held up his hands in a wide arc, his robe billowing around him as he silenced any more doubts, and led them in prayer using the ancient language.
It was important that the Dark Lord survive and defeat the demon after him. If he failed, they would all be in danger.
Chapter Twelve
An odd look twisted Quinton’s face as they approached the Safe Haven homeless shelter. If the situation weren’t so dire, Annabelle would have laughed at the irony of a hired gun visiting the needy.
The shelter was in an older cement building attached to one of the local churches, with one central room for meals
and sharing, and two rooms in the back for overnight stays. A social worker ran the shelter, utilizing volunteers from the community and local churches for donations and assistance.
The lunch line was already forming as they arrived, and Annabelle spoke to several of the men and women as she approached, shaking their hands and offering a kind word.
Quinton remained silent behind her, looking uncomfortable, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Hi, I’m Emily Nelson,” a vibrant young blonde said as she approached them. “I’m the social worker on staff.”
“Quinton Valtrez, Homeland Security,” Quinton said.
Annabelle extended her hand. “And I’m Annabelle Armstrong, CNN. Can we talk?” Annabelle asked.
“Sure. Step into my office.” Emily gestured to a tiny room that looked as if it had once been a closet.
Quinton gestured that he’d wait outside. She nodded, watching him move through the crowd as if he was searching for the bomber. His look bordered on belligerence and made Annabelle wonder at his thoughts, wonder what it was like to suspect everyone you met. Had his entire life been built on violence and distrust?
“What can I do for you?” Emily asked.
Annabelle explained about witnessing the Savannah bombing, and the young woman’s eyes grew sad. “That was horrible.”
“Yes, and we have reason to suspect that an attack is planned for Charleston tonight.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Emily murmured. “Do you know where?”
“We’re working with locals and the FBI to pinpoint a possible target.”
“I don’t understand how I can help,” Emily said with a frown.
Annabelle had to guard her words. “The Savannah bomber was identified as a former war veteran who suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome. He was also homeless.”
Emily’s blue eyes widened. “What are you implying? That someone here may be a bomber?”
“No, not exactly,” Annabelle hedged. “Actually, I think that someone else was behind the first attack, and somehow they drugged, hypnotized, or brainwashed Mr. Ames into setting off that bomb.”
“You mean someone is preying on the homeless?”