Behold Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 1) Page 2
“I know you’re in here, bitch,” a man called. His breathing was heavy, like he’d just watched the climax in a porno.
A young woman in a Remède Spa polo shirt dashed past. She made it to the sauna door before a gunshot exploded three yards from Nathan’s position. Crimson sprayed as she sprawled across the floor. Blood pooled around her thigh while, gasping and pale, she clutched the wound.
Goddamn fucking cock-sucker bastard! Nathan fought back the urge to jump out at him now.
The boot steps approached, then their owner appeared, wielding an AK: a Caucasian male wearing a hoodie and a predator’s grin. “Well, well. Here I thought I’d be grabbing execs today,” the bastard commented, “but I can take a break to fuck a little rich-bitch slave.” As he stepped past the Jacuzzi door, he shifted the rifle to his back to free his hands.
On the floor, the woman scooted back with her good leg, hissing in pain. She met his leer with bared teeth and a glare, but tears shone in her eyes.
Chapter 3
Save the Cat
Monster – Imagine Dragons
Nathan toed the door open and stepped out behind the thug, ten pounds of iron raised over his shoulder.
The woman’s eyes flicked from her attacker to Nathan, her breath catching. “I—I—”
Noticing the shift in her attention, the gunman turned just as Nathan swung the dumbbell. Reflex saved the terrorist’s skull as he twisted aside.
His rifle butt snapped out, catching Nathan in the ribs hard. Bastard! Righteous rage surged with the pain. Stepping in, Nathan brought the dumbbell back up to catch the motherfucker’s jaw.
The crunch of bone under his blow, the snap of teeth colliding with teeth frenzied the beast of rage in Nathan like blood frenzied a shark. He could rip the bastard apart with his bare hands!
He dropped the dumbbell, grabbed his prey by the back of the neck and slammed his elbow into the shit’s windpipe. Cartilage collapsed under the force. Gurgling, eyes bulging, the dogmeat scrabbled at his throat.
Teeth bared in a grin, Nathan caught him by the collar and drove him backward through the door into the Jacuzzi room until the railing stopped him.
A flash of metal from under the hoodie—Nathan leapt back, his stomach pulled out of blade range.
The thug stumbled left, away from the railing. His breath rasped through his crushed trachea. In the E lighting his skin already looked dead, as if the rest of his body just hadn’t caught up.
Eyes on the enemy, Nathan crouched and reached back for the dumbbell. He lunged.
The foe, weak from lack of oxygen, attempted a stab and slash. Nathan knocked the knife aside and bashed the ten-pounder into the dead man’s face. The blow sent the bastard toppling between the handrails. Splash!
The sensation of iron meeting skull and the triumph of seeing the murderer fall, dying, into the pool deluged Nathan. “Fuuuaaaar!” he roared as he sprang after his foe. Shin-deep in water, he snagged the twitching enemy by the hoodie, dragged him to the pool edge.
Then he grabbed the back of the meat’s head. Up, slam! Up, slam! Up, slam! Bones cracked. Teeth shattered. Blood gushed and splattered over the tiles. Retribution!
“H-hey. Hey! Are you okay?” A Danish voice.
Sanity snapped back like a broken bungee cord. Nathan looked up toward the female voice, the mangled cranium poised for another bash. Drip, drip, drip . . . Blood pattered on the floor. It drowned out all other sound, even Nathan’s panting. What the hell just happened?
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he grunted as he hauled the corpse half out of the pool.
The wounded woman had dragged herself across the hall outside to discover her rescuer’s fate. Now she sat with her back against the door jamb. She was holding the door open with her good leg. She looked about twenty-five, Janine’s age. European, pretty but not beautiful. She looked familiar. Pain glazed her wide-set blue eyes, but behind it shone determination. Very good. Shock would come soon, though.
He came to crouch at her side, attention on her torn left thigh. “Hold on, all right? You need a tourniquet.” Blood oozed between her fingers as she held pressure. The bullet had ripped through the outside of her thigh but left the femur intact. Lucky girl.
“What’s going on?” she whispered, wincing. “What do they want?”
Nathan shook his head as he ripped her pant leg into two strips. “I’d hoped you would tell me. Hold still. Don’t let go.” He slid the towel under her leg and triple knotted it. The wolves wouldn’t take another life on his watch. Why had they chosen her, anyway?
“They’ll come back.” Her head thunked back against the door. Veins pulsed in her temples.
“Then they’ll join their friend.” Nathan moved back to the meat sack and pulled the rifle off its back. His hands shook. One, two, three, four. They steadied. Ten rounds in the magazine. The weight of the assault rifle in his hands made him feel a modicum of control.
He pulled the hoodie up. The thug wore an armor-plate-carrier vest. Bulletproof. Did the bastard carry a trauma kit? Nathan hunted through the armor’s cummerbund pouches: zip ties, mini crowbar, QuickClot. Aha!
Returning to the victim, he knelt beside her and ripped open the package. “Let go.” He leaned across her line of sight as she removed her hands from the ragged hole. “What’s your name?” Distraction worked wonders when his son skinned a knee and hovered on the verge of tears.
“Katerina,” she grunted through clenched teeth.
He glanced up, throat tightening. “Katerina?” That was why the wolves chose her.
“Kate.”
“Kate what?” He pushed the bandage into the wound, then replaced her hands over it.
“Aah!” Kate breathed, eyes squeezed shut. “God, that hurts!”
“All right, Kate Godthathurts.” He pushed the mini crowbar between the tourniquet knots. “You have two options.” A few turns of the windlass tightened the ligature.
She hissed, stiffening and grimacing. “What?” The E lighting exaggerated her pallor. Damnit, what was keeping the ERTs? His mariner first-aid skills only went so far.
“I help you walk or I carry you.”
She looked exhausted—and terrified. “I—I don’t think—”
“Hold the tourniquet.”
He slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back. He hefted her with ease and started toward the locker room. She hissed her pain with every breath.
“You refilled the towels in the gym, that’s where I saw you.” More distraction.
“Ja.”
“Here we are.” He eased her onto the padded bench. Blood seeped into the white upholstery.
“Thanks. What . . . what’s your . . . name?”
“Nathan.”
With Kate stabilized, he jogged back to the Jacuzzi and corpse. Locating the knife, he flipped the gunman over and sliced through the hoodie. A black, low-profile vest with a generic security patch on the chest. He wrestled the plate carrier from the corpse, blood and dead weight complicating matters.
He pushed to his feet, then ducked into the armor and secured the Velcro. “It seems I’ll have armor after all.” If this kept up, he might even get the tomahawk from his fantasy. The vest came with free gifts: a .40 Glock 22 pistol with an extra magazine, and four full mags for the AK. He swapped one for the rifle’s current magazine.
The plate carrier even included a radio. The mic clipped to the left shoulder. Its wire snaked to a side pocket to join a Retevis H-777, an HT like the kind families bought to keep in touch across the wilds of Disney World. Apparently the attackers spent their money on weapons, not communications.
He grabbed the carcass by the back of its T-shirt and pulled it back into the pool. Blood wafted through the water. The room no longer smelled of chlorine.
In the hall, he tied the cord and dumbbells around his waist: you never knew when you might need them. He retrieved his water bottle, then slung the AK across his chest.
Kate grunted. “Nathan . . . what?” Her voice grew soft and her eyes unfocused. Shit.
He stepped to her side. “Nathan who saved your life and who needs you to stay with me,” he urged, hand supporting her cheek. “Got that, Kate?”
She nodded once.
“Good.” He spread two towels over her for blankets.
“You . . . are military?”
“Military Channel viewer with military friends.” He smiled as he draped a towel around his neck. “Don’t panic. Never leave home without your towel.”
“I . . . shouldn’t have left home . . . at all,” she murmured
“Kate, I have to go. I’ll try to get help. In the meantime,”—Velcro ripped as he produced the Glock—“use this if they come back.” Click. The mag dropped from the pistol. Brass glinted through the view holes. He slapped it back in and set the semi-auto on the bench. “One in the chamber and fourteen in the magazine. You know how to—”
“Point and click,” Kate mumbled with a half smile, her chin resting on her chest.
“Atta girl. Now I need a favor. I need your keycard.”
Silence reigned for a moment, and Nathan’s hand itched to grab the ID off her shirt so he could get the hell up to Albin. But people called him a bastard, not a beast.
“Take it. Keys . . . pocket.” The towel moved at her side.
He didn’t need a second invitation. “Thanks. Take care.”
Chapter 4
Search and Rescue
Safe and Sound – Capital Cities
At the spa double doors, Nathan peeked outside. Rifle at the ready, he slipped out.
He made the stairs without incident. After easing the door closed, he charged up the stairs two at a time. Be safe, Albin.
Seventh floor.
The E lights gave just enough illumination to make things look worse. Dim industrial stairs screamed horror movie, the kind with ax murderers or slavering monsters, where buxom blonds died of acute lack-of-common-sense-itis.
Eighth floor.
If that little side quest made him miss Albin or arrive a second after the gunmen invaded his room, he’d . . . he’d what? He’d make the bastards pay most dearly.
Ninth floor, the Overlook Terrace. Ten to go.
Playing hero got people killed, but he couldn’t have left the girl to bleed out.
Tenth floor.
The wolves. Blood roared in his ears as resentment and frustration surged. The wolves had finally returned. They wanted her as compensation for the years of sacrifices he had denied them. Why today? Why here?
Eleventh floor.
Where the hell had the rest of the hotel guests gone?
Thirteenth floor.
What to do now? He’d just bludgeoned a rapist’s skull into pulp, for fuck’s sake! Could they be terrorists? A working theory, anyway.
Fourteenth floor.
How well had the terrorists planned the attack? The shitbag said he came to kidnap business executives. Who, and why? They must have the guest roster.
Fifteenth floor.
Almost there. He paused to check his phone. Seventeen minutes since he’d called Albin. If Albin had started down the stairs, Nathan should’ve met him by now. Perhaps he’d detoured to find the bodyguards like a sane person. A second possibility did not exist; Nathan wouldn’t let it.
The remaining floors ticked past with his mind locked on the goal. No more worst-case scenario speculating.
Chest heaving, he finally saw the 19 on the wall ahead. He swallowed hard. One, two, three, four. Hold. AK raised, he cracked the door open. And froze.
Ten yards ahead, two bodies lay contorted in pools of blood. Neither resembled Albin. Guests? Employees? Nathan’s breath returned, but his teeth clenched as his heart thudded with rage. The next terrorist he saw better pray to Allah, or whoever he worshiped, that Nathan’s AK misfired. If it didn’t, he’d see firsthand what a chunk of lead traveling at over twenty-five hundred feet per second did to a body.
Silence dominated the dim halls. Red sprays glinted across the minimalist decor in the E lighting, accents from Hell.
1909, 1910, there! 1911. He swiped Albin’s card in the reader. Green light, turn, shove.
The room slid by beyond the AK’s barrel.
“Albin! You here?” Heart hammering, Nathan stepped into the room.
Slice the pie around the corner, lean. Bathroom clear. Living room clear too. That left the bedroom.
He swung around the corner, ready to double-tap the enemy. But only the made bed, empty desk, and blank TV greeted him.
An art piece, or possibly a chunk of flattened scrap metal, hung between the windows. Red lines curved and slashed across it, looking too much like the bullets’ painting in the hall.
Nathan moved to the window. Sirens wafted from the street. Confusion reigned below, with people scrambling for safety. What a herd of sheep for the predators to pick off. Shouldn’t more emergency vehicles be surrounding the St. Regis? It looked like most just screamed by the hotel.
At least he didn’t need to worry about Badal and Mikhail, the other members of his team. Several of Silicon Valley’s moguls hosted the heads of Arete Tech’s software and hardware teams tonight. If he’d gone with the two to their schmooze-fest rather than opting for the hotel . . . Fuck. Yes and no—one-syllable words that turned the course of lives.
As if mocking him, the building swayed. A quake. He ducked under the nearby desk—just as a ceiling tile crashed to the floor. The shaking stilled after a few heartbeats. “That was a strong one,” he muttered, emerging from the shelter. Earlier he’d felt a tremor.
A last scan of the room showed Albin had gathered the essentials . . . or the terrorists had stolen them.
Nathan stepped to the door to his half of the suite. A quick check found it empty. A painting occupied the back wall, the mirror image of the piece in the adjoining room. Art came cheap in bulk; luxury hotels, for all their opulence, knew how to make wise use of finances. This painting, however, spread beyond its canvas, across the wall and windows.
One, two, three, four . . . Arterial spray lanced over art and wall, with cast-off drops and back spatter as accents.
The control and security the AK imparted turned to ash. All the firepower in the world couldn’t undo the work of one damned bullet. Avenge, yes. Amend, no.
Across the carpet and into the corridor he followed the bloody footsteps, which thanks to the shadows, he hadn’t seen earlier. The trail merged with the chaos of the hall.
Several doors down, a cleaning cart lay on its side. A body sprawled beyond it in a pool of blood.
Chapter 5
Semper Paratus
Ghosts That We Know – Mumford & Sons
Legs acting on their own, Nathan moved closer. Not Albin. Nathan let out his breath in relief. “Thank you!” No time for pity for the fallen.
Back in his room, he collected his thoughts as he collected essentials, or at least tried to collect them. Pulling back the dresser he found his cache empty. “No wallet.”
And no Albin. Perhaps the bastards wounded him and dragged him off as a hostage. Images of Albin on his knees with a masked terrorist holding a scimitar to his neck flooded Nathan’s mind. His knuckles turned white on the AK.
If they demanded ransom, he would pay. He would pay every mercenary on the market to take the heads of the fuckers who dared touch his people.
Shoving the thoughts aside, he continued his task. His clothes lay in a stack on the bed linens that housekeeping had half stripped before catching lead. “No backpack and . . . no pants.”
With each missing item, circumstantial evidence mounted, pointing to Albin gathering critical gear and escaping.
Next stop, the bodyguards’ room. Under the bedside clock lay their room key, right where he’d left it.
He ducked across the ha
ll, slid the card, and shoved the door open. In a moment he cleared it.
Blankets lay strewn across the floor, the closet door stood open, drawers hung from the dresser.
In a waste basket, he found a bottle. A fucking Crown Royal bottle! He hurled it against the wall, and the glass shattered. A kick to the garbage can sent it ricocheting off the wall.
“Drinking on the fucking job?” He gritted his teeth. “Incompetent bastards. That’s the last time I hire former congressional lackeys.” If the bodyguards had stayed alert, maybe they and their charges could’ve reunited and escaped by now.
He stormed out into the hall, heading for the stairs. Maybe Albin made it out. Or maybe the terrorists forced him to take cover somewhere. The phone came out, but when its screen lit, all connectivity icons showed gray. “Perfect. Damn perfect.”
Wheezing hissed behind him. What the—he turned to find a man at the end of the corridor, leaning against the wall. E Lighting drained his acne-ridden face of color. A rivulet of red-black tricked down the corner of his mouth and onto his shirt. His breath rattled as he took a twitching step closer. Raising his head, he stared at Nathan with blood-shot eyes.
“Get to cover!” Nathan stage whispered.
Wheezing answered.
Then gunshots thudded, distant. Above? Below? The walls dampened the sound. Since the wheezing fellow could walk, albeit with the wall’s help, he could find his own way out. Albin took precedence.
Nathan slipped back into the stairwell and started down.
The St. Regis San Francisco towered forty-two stories above the SoMa Arts District, with the top half consisting of residential flats. Multi-function floors totaled seven: ground through sixth, and ninth. If Albin detoured for cover, logically he’d head for one of these. The main guest-room floors—with their locked doors and lack of cover—would be his last resort.