False Prophet: The gripping breakthrough thriller (A Saul Marshall Thriller 1)

by Richard Davis

  But the promptness of their entry told me more than this: it told me they’d probably been informed there was an extremely high-powered target inside the house. Because although these operatives were highly trained, they still would’ve needed a very good reason to have entered so quickly. And finally, their speedy entry also told me something of their mentality. When operatives are sent in without a proper plan, they’re encouraged not to take any chances and to shoot-to-kill at the first sign of resistance.

  So a group of operatives had just entered the house, and I had a good idea what was likely to happen. First, in a single-file formation known as “the snake,” they would survey the first floor for threats, before one or two would briefly splinter off to check the basement. Then, after regrouping on the first floor, they would head up to the second, and when they encountered the eight cultists presumably still there, they would immediately deploy stun grenades. Then, once they had the cultists prone on the floor, two or three operatives would splinter off and head upstairs to survey the rest of the building. This was how I reckoned things would go down. And on that basis, I had about thirty seconds before the splinter group was upon me…

  I had a choice, then. Either give myself up peacefully, which meant incarceration by the FBI, and the end of any hopes of saving Vann and Samuel by March 4. Or attempt an escape through Number Ten, which was still very much a feasible option. Because not only was there a distinct possibility that the SWAT team hadn’t yet realized the properties were connected, there was also a distinct possibility Number Ten had been evacuated – meaning I was unlikely to encounter anyone within.

  And then, if I could escape through Number Ten’s rear entrance, I reckoned I had a realistic chance of getting away since it was unlikely the authorities had done much more than cordon off a few hundred yards of road out front, and evacuate the houses immediately neighboring Number Nine.

  Of course, there were also snipers to consider. One was probably positioned with the front of the house in his sights, and one with the back. But I could worry about them later. Right now, I had to act. Trouble was closing in fast.

  I dived out the door, pelted down the corridor, and burst into the room to the back of the house. Sure enough, to my right, completely unobstructed, was a large wooden door. But when I took a closer look, my heart sank. It was secured in place by five heavy-duty bolts. I knew it was unlikely that the SIG and my boot alone could break down this door quickly enough but I had to give it a try.

  So I aimed at the top bolt and waited for the stun grenade I felt sure the operatives would use on the cultists downstairs, since this would mask the sound of my bullets and thus deprive the operatives of further encouragement to hurry in my direction. Then when the blast came about five seconds later, I instantly unloaded two bullets, one at the top bolt, one at the bottom, and kicked the door twice with savage force.

  But it didn’t budge. In fact, the bullets seemed to have done very little damage. The top bolt looked only partially dislodged, the bottom almost completely unscathed.

  I could hear muffled voices from downstairs. The first sounded like the authoritative voice of an operative demanding surrender; the second like a cultist complying.

  I knew the arrival of the splinter group on the fourth floor was now imminent. And it was painfully clear: even if I went at the door with everything I had, I didn’t have a hope of breaking it down before they got here.

  What I needed was a shotgun that could blow it in one.

  What I needed was a plan to deal with the operatives who’d be with me any moment…

  I pivoted around, looking for inspiration. Then I spotted a wardrobe to the left of the door to the room, and a plan flashed into my head.

  Without a moment’s pause, I closed the door to the bedroom, before opening the wardrobe and getting in. Then, after unleashing another bullet at the connecting door, I closed the wardrobe and listened intently. Sure enough, I could already hear two sets of footsteps hurtling up the stairs, undoubtedly honing in on the sound of my gunfire and my first thought was relief that it was two men, not three. Then, as they got nearer, I found myself picturing them in my mind’s eye: wearing bullet-proof body armor, reinforced goggles, Kevlar helmets; cradling Heckler and Koch MP5s, fitted with flashlights and laser-pointers; and carrying Springfield .45 pistols in holsters on their thighs, and Remington Model 870 pump-action shotguns on their hips…

  Their steps thundered closer, then stopped abruptly. I knew they were now outside the room, conferring about their entrance strategy. And as they did so, I contemplated the difficulty of the task at hand. I knew these operatives, at the first sign of resistance, would respond with lethal force. Yet despite this, I knew that in incapacitating them, I couldn’t respond with lethal force of my own. After all, these were the good guys. Their only crime was unwittingly becoming pawns in Drexler’s designs.

  All of a sudden, I heard the bedroom door open and in came the stun grenade I’d been expecting. And this time, unlike in Mineral, I was ready for it: my head was turned away, my eyes were tight-shut, and my fingers were stuffed in my ears. Of course, in spite of both this and the wardrobe, I still felt it – the noise shook me, and the light slammed against my eyelids – but just as I’d hoped, its disorientating effect was neutralized by my defensive measures. And so, a second later, I was watching through the crack in the wardrobe door, feeling completely alert, as the two operatives came careering in. Then, suddenly, they both came to a stop, one with his back to the wardrobe, the other on the far side of the room. And I knew this was the moment in which their confusion at my absence would be at its height. In which they’d be most susceptible to attack.

  With this thought, I launched myself at the guy directly before me and pistol-whipped him across the back of the neck while reaching round with my other hand to direct the muzzle of his MP5 away from the operative opposite. The guy squeezed his trigger as he lost consciousness sending a stutter of bullets into the wall, then finally dropped the weapon.

  But I didn’t let him fall to the floor, I strapped my right arm around his chest, and held up his body as a shield. And then I ground the muzzle of the SIG into the underside of his chin in a warning that said to the second operative: shoot me, and run the risk of my post-death spasms finishing your friend.

  Only then did I finally look the second operative in the face and our eyes met with a flash of recognition. This man was Milton Coleson, one of the agents I’d met at HRT’s New Operator Training School. He’d passed the training with flying colors, but had pulled out at the last minute and had clearly joined the Boston SWAT instead. But though he was plainly flustered at the sight of me, I knew that an agent of Coleson’s quality wasn’t going to stay that way for long. So I had to act now.

  The next moment, I began charging him down at full-pelt. Then, when I was about a yard away, I released the unconscious operative from my arm, catapulting him at Coleson who finally reacted, meeting the body side-on with his shoulder – since he no longer had time to dodge it – and sending it across the room. But by the time he’d corrected his stance, I’d gotten right up to him, too close for him to use his MP5 on me.

  But before I could draw breath, Coleson took a half-step back and delivered a vicious elbow to my jaw, turning my whole head numb. And this told me Coleson was ready to fight. Only I didn’t fancy my chances: he could hit me anywhere whereas my options were vastly limited by his armor. So I had to do something drastic, fast. And even as I thought this, Coleson swung a second elbow that had enough force behind it to knock me cold. Quickly, I dodged back, just in time to avoid the brunt of the blow, his elbow glancing off my chin instead. And then, as he was following through, slightly off-balance, I decided to take a chance.

  With a burst of speed, I lunged forward, slid my left arm underneath his MP5, and pressed it up against his body. Then, after crouching down, threading my right arm between his legs from behind, and grasping his belt, I lifted him off the ground so that his legs were above hi
s torso and drove him chest-first into the floorboard. There was a brutal crack of ribs, followed by a heave as the air was forced from his lungs.

  A risky maneuver, beautifully executed.

  But there was no time to savor it. Coleson was still lethal, even with a couple of broken ribs. So immediately I landed my weight on top of him, looking to press my advantage. Yet Coleson had expected that, and thrashed his head back, smashing my nose with his helmet. Blood began pouring from my face, and my head started to swim. But I forced myself to focus – knowing that this was life or death – and in the next instant, my hand was on the back of his head, forcing his face to the floor, and exposing the nape of his neck. Then, with my free hand, I struck out…

  Coleson was out cold.

  I took a deep breath, before staggering to my feet, ears ringing. Then, still in a daze, I removed the Remington from Coleson’s waist, chambered a shell, and squeezed the trigger at the connecting door. The job was done. There was now no connecting door – only splinters.

  But then I realized I couldn’t simply start making my exit with the situation as it stood. If I tried, there was a distinct possibility that the operatives downstairs would come up, discover my strategy, and tell their colleagues outside – all before I managed to exit Number Ten. So I needed a tactic that would get the operatives to stay put… And I knew just the thing.

  I moved back over to Coleson, removed the earpiece from his ear, and placed it in my own. Then in a Connecticut twang, in my best impression of Milton Coleson, I said: ‘One target, barricaded behind furniture. Shotgun round deployed. Await further update.’

  I knew I was talking to the assault net, the name given to the team of people who wear the earpieces in a SWAT operation; a team that would, in this instance, most likely consist of the operatives currently in the house, the agent in charge of the operation (who was probably in a temporary command post outside the house), and the snipers I felt sure had been deployed. And I delivered these words with confidence: I knew precisely how to address an assault net and I knew that my impersonation was convincing.

  ‘Holding positions,’ came the response. ‘Awaiting update.’

  The moment I heard this, I pounced through to Number Ten, and began hurtling down the stairs at top speed. And as I went – stepping lightly to ensure no noise filtered through to Number Nine – I was relieved to discover I’d been right: the house was empty. Fifty seconds later, I arrived at the rear door, in the basement of Number Ten, my mind hazy. But once again, I forced myself to concentrate…

  If there was a sniper, he’d probably be positioned up and to my right on the roof of one of the houses on the road adjacent to Columbus Square, since this was the spot that’d afford him the best view of Number Nine’s garden. But, for now, it was immaterial whether he was up to my right, or left – my objective was getting to the safety of the tall trees beyond the back fence, and a sniper in either position would be equally dangerous as I crossed the garden. So what I needed was a way of disrupting the sniper’s concentration. Because while I knew that my exiting from the neighboring property would surprise him, I knew this wasn’t enough to throw off a seasoned professional.

  But then it occurred to me that I could simply tell the assault net that the target had been secured. Of course, this wouldn’t break the sniper’s concentration completely but there was a chance it’d do enough to see me across the garden.

  There were no guarantees. But I had no other options.

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘The target is secured,’ I said. And with that, I burst through the door, and began sprinting across the short stretch of tarmac. Before I knew it, I was a quarter way across… then half… then three-quarters – and suddenly I was wondering whether a bullet would come at all. But then, when I was a half-step away from the back fence, it came: fizzing over my head from the direction of the rooftops to my right, and pounding the tarmac behind me. Close, but not close enough. And in the next second, I was through the gate, and cutting towards the service road, under the safety of the tall trees.

  ‘Target has just exited Number Ten’s rear. I missed the shot. He has access to the assault net. Shut it down, now.’

  I’d known the sniper would alert the rest of the assault net. But although they were now aware I’d exited the building, I knew I still had a more than fighting chance of escaping the vicinity. For starters, the members of the assault net were going to struggle to coordinate a response, seeing that they’d just had to shut down their primary means of communication. And secondly, I knew there’d be a good minute or two delay before the news of my escape had been conveyed to police officers at the scene.

  Yet despite all this working to my advantage, I knew I had to be completely on guard as I made my way.

  A moment later, I hit the service road – which was, to my relief, empty – and without hesitation turned left, for the simple reason that I had no choice: if I turned right, I’d wind up back in the sniper’s line of fire. Then, after hurrying to the end of the service road, I was cautious: I stopped and poked my head round the corner. But, just as I’d hoped, the road itself was un-cordoned. And while there was a small police presence about sixty yards to my left – six officers in all – I could tell by their easy demeanor that they’d not yet gotten wind of my escape… None of them were even looking in my direction.

  Aware this was the best chance I was going to get to cross this road, I started bolting across at top speed and, sure enough, five seconds later, I’d ducked into a second service road on the opposite side, certain I hadn’t been spotted. Then, knowing that the hardest part was now behind me, but time was still of the essence, I continued east as quickly as I could, ducking in and out of service roads. And as I went, I took the opportunity to divest myself of my blood-soaked jacket, and to shift the blood caked on my face using saliva and my hand.

  It wasn’t until I’d gotten a good four blocks east that I began heading north up a main road at a fast walk rather than a run so as not to arouse suspicions. And I knew already my next destination had to be The Eliot. I’d left Lilly there, entirely at the mercy of The Order. And though there were a thousand things that could’ve happened that would’ve resulted in Lilly not making the call, my instincts told me to expect the worst.

  I had to see if she was okay.

  When I neared the hotel, just under ten minutes later, I slowed my pace, so I could survey the surrounding area for threats. But, as far as I could see, there were no longer any Order watchers on the scene. So, without hesitation, I strode into the hotel, and into one of the waiting elevators.

  *

  Once again, I exited the elevator, at the ready to deal with unknown dangers, and found the corridor empty. And once again, as I approached the room, I found the door not closed, but ajar. Yet this time, there were no staff filing out. Instead, from within came the sound of the room’s telephone ringing. I lingered outside a moment, seeing if I could hear anything else that’d give me a clue. But I could hear nothing but ringing. So I pushed open the door…

  The first thing I did when I laid eyes on the scene was gag and I had to fight hard to hold back the urge to heave. Once the initial physical impact of the scene passed, it was replaced by profound disquiet.

  Inside the room was a body. Lilly’s.

  It was strewn, naked, on the sofa we’d sat on not thirty minutes ago, with a sticky-tape gag secured across the mouth. However, it bore little resemblance to the Lilly I’d left behind. A knife had been taken to her face and neck, and had mangled her features almost beyond the point of recognition. Her breasts had been completely severed from her body. A complex series of patterns had been painstakingly cut into her remaining flesh, down her arms and legs; across her navel. And there was a small entrance wound on her left temple, along with a far larger exit wound on her right – the work of a soft-nosed slug.

  Lilly had been butchered.

  On the floor, by the sofa, were two objects. The first was the Ruger I’d lost du
ring the ambush in Mineral. The second was the blade I’d lost at the same time. There was no doubt they’d been used to perpetrate the scene before me.

  There was a unique sadism behind this murder, an unbridled monstrosity, that made me think this wasn’t just The Order’s doing. It was the handiwork of Drexler himself.

  I had a feeling this same person was on the other end of the landline that was still ringing and ringing.

  And then, all of a sudden, I found myself struck by an overwhelming sense of guilt. Not because I felt responsible for this atrocity – I’d done everything I could to try and prevent disaster – but because it was a chilling reminder of just what I’d done to Samuel. From the moment I’d discovered that Samuel had been converted to The Order, I’d understood that I was to blame; because by abandoning my son, I’d created a vacuum which had driven Samuel into Drexler’s arms. But this atrocity was a reminder that the man I’d driven him to wasn’t just a manipulative ringleader – he was an unspeakable monster.

  Taking a deep breath, I closed the door to the bedroom and moved over to the dresser where the phone was sitting. Then, without yet picking up the receiver, I picked up the entire phone unit, and carried it to the window where I had a view of the main road. Finally, after another glance at the carnage, and another shiver of disgust, I lifted the receiver.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ came the chilling voice of Ivan Drexler. ‘That’s sixty-two rings before you answered. How coy of you, Saul. Treating me mean to keep me keen?’

  His voice, just as it’d been during our last conversation, was jokey and playful. I could hear in the background the hum of an engine. He was in a car.