The Nephilim Imperatives: Dark Sentences (The Second Coming Chronicles Book 2)

by Terry James

  The C-130 Hercules dipped its right wing and began a sharp turn in preparation for lining up on the short landing strip that began not 50 yards from the trees that forested the high-mountains wilderness to the west. George Jenkins stood outside the Humvee, his elbows on its top, the large field glasses trained on the rapidly descending, camouflaged aircraft.

  A man in a black jumpsuit got out of the driver’s side and put his binoculars to his eyes, watching the tires of the bird contact the concrete, sending puffs of blue-white smoke behind.

  “Right on time,” the man said, continuing to follow the 1-30 while it made its brief roll-out, then turned from the runway onto a narrow taxi ramp.

  “Yeah. Let’s go,” Jenkins said, opening the passenger side door and ducking inside the Humvee.

  A large truck painted in camouflage moved toward the plane, which had ceased its forward movement, its four propellers having whirled to a stop. Several black-jump suited men leaped from the truck’s canvas-covered cargo area, their M-16 weapons pointed skyward.

  The driver pulled the Humvee to within 100 feet of the aircraft and the troop transport vehicle. Jenkins glared hard at the Hercules, while its rear portion swung downward. He watched while eight of the weapon-wielding men ran up the loading ramp. They disappeared for several minutes, then again appeared at the top of the ramp. They closely herded several shackled people dressed in bright red clothing. The entourage was on the ground within seconds, and moments later the prisoners and the troops were out of sight inside the back of the canvas covering of the truck.

  George Jenkins spoke into the small phone device he had just unfolded.

  “Our Guantanimo guests have arrived,” he said matter-of-factly into the phone, then snapped it shut.

  Crestone Needle stood bathed in blood-red relief against the Colorado skyline, jutting in 14,197-foot, vertical spike-like peaks. It was considered, Clark Lansing learned on the ride to Alamosa, the most difficult climb of the 14,000-foot-high mountains in the state. The creeping afternoon shadows of the many other peaks within the Sangre de Cristo range painted stark contrasts of reds and purples along the entire range of slopes that spanned 70 miles into vanishing perspective.

  Clark wondered what could possibly induce anyone to want to scale such a devilish, dagger-like slope. For that matter, why would anyone want to climb any mountain, anywhere?

  “These mountains are good preparation for attempting the Alps, the Himalayas around Everest, and the rest,” the young man sitting next to Clark Lansing said with a tone of authority, in upper-crust British accent.

  “Are you a climber?” Clark asked.

  “Yes, I’ve some experience,” the man of about 30 said, clearing his throat. He continued, “Actually, I’ve come to prepare for a climb in the Swiss Alps for late next spring.”

  Clark grunted amazement with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing, looking again out the SUV’s large window at the towering spires of Crestone Needle.

  “What, if I may ask, is your purpose in coming to the area?” the man inquired.

  “Oh, just a reporter looking for a little color to serve as background for a story.”

  “Fascinating. You writing about climbing?”

  “No. About something of a more fictional nature.” Clark said no more, and he could sense the Englishman’s restlessness for more information. He felt compelled to add to the explanation. “It’s more of a science-fiction type project.”

  “I see.” The man again cleared his throat, before asking his next question. “May I ask about the nature of your project? I mean, may I know a bit more about what you are doing?”

  “When I tell people, they usually move away from me. There’s no place for you to get away. You sure you want to know?”

  Clark’s deadpan tone made the man’s own eyebrows rise in curiosity. He said through a clenched-teeth smile, “Well, I shall try to remain calm.”

  “I’m looking for Bigfoot. At least for evidence or lack thereof.”

  “I see. Yeti, that’s what the Cherpahs call them, you know?”

  “You believe they exist?” Clark asked.

  “I don’t know, really. I supposed one should keep an open mind in these matters,” the man said, a curious lilt in his tone.

  “Yeah, well, most don’t keep an open mind, I’m afraid. Glad to meet somebody who does for a change.”

  “Name’s Nigel Saxton,” the young Brit said, offering a large, callused hand to Clark.

  “Clark Lansing. Nice to meet you.”

  The SUV slowed, and Clark’s attention went to a group of buildings of Tyrolean architecture, toward which the vehicle moved. He recognized one of the structures as the one he had looked at on the Internet. It was to be his home for the next several days.

  “Welcome to Alamosa, gentlemen,” the driver said after pulling the Suburban to a stop at the curb of the wide walkway in front of Clark’s hotel. He sucked in the thin but pristine air of the high Colorado terrain after stepping from the vehicle. Winter was already asserting its leading edge in this high-mountain place, he surmised, feeling a brisk breeze chill in his upper body beneath the light jacket.

  Before he could retrieve his battered suitcase and garment bag, he saw them disappearing through the entrance to the hotel lobby, carried by a short, thin man. He lifted his laptop from the floorboard where he had sat for the trip into Alamosa and followed the bellboy.

  “Thanks,” Clark said once inside, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and taking from it a $5 bill. He offered it to the teenager, who had placed the bags just inside the lobby.

  “No, thanks, Mr. Lansing,” the boy said, shaking his head, and waving Clark off with both hands, indicating that he wouldn’t take the gratuity. “It’s already been taken care of.”

  “You know my name?” Clark asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been expecting you. I was told to have you wait here in the lobby. She should be here any minute.”

  “She?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said, looking around the lobby. “She was just here. Oh! There she comes!”

  Clark’s eyes followed the direction the teenager’s index finger pointed.

  “Mr. Lansing?” The tall beauty smiled through the question. “Are you Clark Lansing?”

  “Yes,” he said, taking in the vision of the long-legged female with stunning green eyes set within the loveliest face he had seen in some time. Her coal black hair swept back to a piled swirl gave further sleekness to her statuesque perfection. She was even more pleasant to the senses than her soft voice had been on the phone.

  “I’m April Warmath,” she said, offering her hand.

  Clark took it, noting the long, lovely fingers, tipped with equally beautiful manicured nails laminated in red polish.

  If she was a leaker, she surely wasn’t one who feared for her job. If she was the girl who had the secrets to divulge, all eyes of whatever department she worked for must be drawn to her, no matter where she appeared. How could she possibly feel confident in greeting him so openly?

  The thoughts ran through his mind, then dissipated when he again looked into the stunning green eyes.

  “There’s a lot I want to tell you, Clark. May I call you Clark?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Please do,” he stammered, still dazzled by April’s arresting features.

  “Brett, will you please see to it that Mr. Lansing’s bags are put in the Humvee?”

  The teenager dutifully trundled off with the bags, minus the laptop, which Clark refused to give him.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Clark, but, I believe you will be pleased with accommodations a bit closer to the … the matters involved.”

  “Sure. Fine with me,” he said, following her while she moved toward a side door. They stepped through it, putting them near the vehicle in which his bags were being loaded.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Over there,” she said, pointing toward the tallest and sharpest of the jagged peaks. “You will find this trip
interesting,” she said before ducking into the driver’s side of the Humvee.

  “What’s this all about?” Clark asked after several minutes on the rough-surfaced road leading away from Alamosa. “You said you had things to tell me, to show me, about Guantanimo prisoners?”

  April Warmath looked at her passenger, then again at the steadily ascending roadway.

  “We’ve checked you out, Mr. Lansing…Clark.” She looked again at him, her tone matter-of-fact when she spoke.

  “You are the one we want to use to get the news of the atrocities to the public.”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  “Amnesty Universal,” she said, glancing at the road, then again at him.

  “What are they doing to the prisoners?”

  “Textbook reporter, huh?” April said without changing her solemn expression. “Who, what, why, when, where, et cetera.”

  “Well, you chose a reporter. What did you expect?” His tone and expression matched hers.

  “Touché.”

  “So, is this what it’s to be, a verbal fencing match? Miss Warmath--April--I didn’t fly out here to engage in semantic jousting. Your time is valuable; so’s mine. Can’t we just get down to it?”

  “Mmmm. A man who likes to get right to it. I really like that.” She turned to look at him, a beautiful eyebrow raised sexily, her voice playful.

  “How much progress have you made on these Bigfoot things?”

  “Not enough. It’s slow going,” he said, his curiosity piqued about where she was going with the line of questioning.

  “Why do you ask?”

  April glanced briefly at him, then back to the twisting road upon which she steered the oversized vehicle. “I think maybe you will begin to make progress, once you see with your own eyes the things you’ve come to observe,” she said.

  Friday, 4:40 p.m., New York City

  The air-conditioner wasn’t doing its job, Morgan considered while standing over the copy machine fanning her face with a file folder, waiting on the machine to reproduce the document. She was unsure about her ideas on the K-9 dog food account. The 10-page document would either convince the agency’s powers that be of her ability to handle the account –or show them how amateurish and unprepared, thus unfit she was to be a part of the $55 million account. Winning the account would mean more than $7 million in media commission for Guroix, Tuppler, & Macy. What did she think she was doing, thinking she belonged in any position other than that of a budding copywriter?

  But, she reminded herself, it was Alan Cranston who wanted her to do the creative thinking on acquiring the account. He insisted he thought she had what it took to serve as account executive…

  “Morgan!” The whispered, but excited greeting startled her out of her thoughts about Cranston.

  “You won’t believe who just walked in?” Kristi Flannigan’s eyes were wide, while she gripped Morgan’s arm and squeezed.

  “Who?”

  “That guy--Blake Robbins!”

  “What?! How do you know? You’ve never seen him,” Morgan responded.

  “Paul Guroix introduced him to Cranston. I heard the name. He’s just like you said, tall, dark, and handsome. You weren’t lying about him being studly, kiddo!”

  Morgan’s senses heightened, the cold flush of emotion racing through her. Coincidence that the guy would show up at her place of work? Or…

  “Oh! There you are.”

  The agency’s president walked into the copying room with Robbins flanking him.

  Guroix said with a broad smile, “They said you were likely in here. Good! Good!”

  Kristi glanced at her stunned friend, then left the room.

  Morgan made quick eye contact with Blake Robbins, then glanced to Paul Guroix.

  “I believe you two have met,” the agency’s CEO said, continuing to smile. Morgan said nothing, trying to make sense of the situation.

  “Hi, again, Morgan,” Blake Robbins said, his tone one of contrition. “I’m so sorry about last night. A critical matter had to be attended to, and there was no way of getting in touch. I tried your cell several times but kept getting your voice mail.”

  She said nothing, but thought, “Liar. I checked. No messages from you.”

  “Please forgive me?” He held out his right hand. “Friends?”

  She took it, but with reluctance, feeling the large hand’s cool flesh, the long, strong fingers nonetheless gentle while they held hers.

  “Mr. Robbins has just signed with GTM on behalf of his corporation. Transportec is quite a wonderful client to have join us.”

  Morgan didn’t at first hear Guroix, her gaze transfixed upon the man who continued to hold her hand. When she realized the executive was speaking to her, she removed her hand from Robbins’ and looked at Guroix.

  “Sir? I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I said Mr. Robbins has just signed with us on behalf of Transportec. GTM will be representing his corporation in matters of public relations, advertising and marketing, the whole thing. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Oh. Yes, sir, that is exciting,” she said smiling subdued, first at Guroix, then at Blake Robbins.

  “I’ll tell her the rest,” Robbins said, his intense gaze seeming to penetrate her core senses. “I signed, with the understanding that you would be the primary liaison between this agency and Transportec.”

  She said nothing for several seconds, then said, “Why me?”

  “I feel like we know each other already, you work with the agency, and you are the one I want to do the work.”

  His matter-of-factness rendered her unable to respond.

  “Please agree to help me--to help Transportec.”

  His soft manner and the sincerity of his plea disarmed her growing apprehension.

  She looked to Guroix, who continued to smile, and beam with pride over having acquired the account. He nodded approval to his new account executive for Transportec, Inc.

  “I’ve got a few things to do, so I’ll leave you two to discuss business,” the executive said before exiting the copying room.

  Morgan felt her emotions begin the climb toward panic. Left alone with him… She glanced her alarm at the agency president’s back when he left.

  Robbins’ look of sincerity made her glance side to side in her nervousness. “Morgan, I know my apology is weak, but last-second exigencies demanded I break our date.”

  “Exigencies?” Her raised brow and inflection made him laugh.

  “Please excuse me. I’ve been bogged down in all these meetings with diplomats and corporate heads. My language hasn’t adjusted back to the real world.”

  Morgan didn’t smile much, but she did smile. The momentary expression encouraged him.

  “The…matters…that caused me to have to break the date involved some of the things I want you to explore with us--that is, with Transportec.”

  When she said nothing, her expression remaining noncommittal, Robbins spoke again.

  “If you agree to take us on for your agency, you will learn, I think, that I had a good excuse for standing you up last evening. And, I did try to let you know as far in advance as I could.”

  “Okay.”

  Morgan knew she sounded disinterested in his excuses. She responded exactly the way she intended.

  He laughed, seeing she wasn’t to be easily swayed. “Okay. I agree my standing you up is inexcusable. Will you please forgive me, and let me make it up to you?”

  “I--I’m not sure,” her stammered words surprised her.

  “Look, let me buy dinner tonight. I’ll take you home when you finish work this afternoon, and pick you up at, say, 7?”

  The discomfort of the intervening silence forced her decision. “Uh, okay.”

  “Great! Cipriani, the Rainbow Room? Will that be okay?”

  “What did you tell him about the guests from Guantanimo?”

  George Jenkins’ words came between chews of the tuna sandwich he held between his fingertips. He glanced at the
young woman, then to the tabletop for a napkin.

  “Just what you told me to tell him,” April Warmath said with surprised irritation, “that Amnesty Universal is concerned about things going on, the treatment of the Guantanimo prisoners.”

  “What was his reaction?” Jenkins wiped his mouth while putting the question.

  “Quite skeptical, I think. He probably thinks we--that is, thinks Amnesty Universal--is trying to use him for their own purposes. He’s a purist. Doesn’t intend to be made a reporter lackey for anyone’s cause. That’s how I read him so far.”

  A knock on the heavy, metal door interrupted Jenkins’ thoughts as he was about to pose his next question to the girl.

  “Yes! Come in!”

  His shouted words caused a uniformed man to open the door.

  “Yes?” Jenkins said gruffly.

  “Sir, one of the newest of the prisoners has gotten free,” the soldier said.

  “Free? Is he out of the compound?” Jenkins scowled the question at the military man.

  “No, sir. There’s no way he can get out of the compound.”

  “Is he chipped?”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve all been profiled and chipped.”

  “We have plenty of ‘em to waste. Let’s get him with the RAPTURE.”

  Jenkins issued the order in an excited tone, then manipulated several switches and buttons inset in a panel within the table top. A row of monitors on the wall several feet in front of the DOD deputy director lit up. He spoke into a small microphone he pulled from the console.

  “Don’t waste time bringing this guy back. Let’s zap him.”

  April winced inwardly at what her boss’ words likely meant to the prisoner. She wasn’t sure. But, she had heard stories, terrible stories.

  Kristi Flannigan examined her friend carefully, reaching to flick a strand of Morgan’s light blonde hair to its proper position. Jeddy watched the ritual with his huge black and brown head cocked to one side, his ears forward and brow wrinkled, unsure of what the fuss was all about.

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. If he stands you up this time, it’s his loss. You are ravishing!” Kristi emphasized her compliment by standing back, hands on her hips, and giving Morgan one more visual inspection.