Ways of Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 2) Read online

  He motioned for Behrmann and Kuznetsov to follow as he trotted, stance low, along the outside of the hedge. Adrenaline burned in his veins, raising his pulse and causing a sweat to break. Keep your head. The vault doors closed, shutting down all thought save the objective’s requirements.

  Grenades detonated near the Oshiro while small-arms fire crackled at the compound’s fore. Helicopter rotors whirred from the west. The cannibals, mercenaries, and military would occupy each other.

  Moving from concealment to concealment, Albin guided his wards toward the woods. A one-car detached garage offered refuge before the sprint across open ground into the trees. The rose bushes to the right offered concealment but not cover.

  “Freeze! Drop your weapons and get on the ground!” Two men with AR-type rifles burst from the tree line. Black plate carriers and face-shield bandanas marked them as mercenaries.

  “Down!” Albin barked as he dropped prone.

  As his finger tightened on the trigger, his body went rigid. Pain crackled over his right thigh. Ahead, the mercenaries advanced. Three more millimeters of trigger pull to kill them. Why did his body not obey? His muscles burned, but his right thigh burned more. Still his body refused to move.

  The gunmen reached him. The pain ceased. In that moment, the lead terrorist jerked the AR from Albin’s grip.

  Then the charge fired again, locking every muscle in his body. A . . . Taser? The terrorists were speaking, but the words made no sense. It didn’t matter. Only the Taser stopping mattered. Years passed, stretching into lifetimes.

  After millennia, the charge ceased. A round, hard object slammed into his thoracic spine. One of the mercenaries grabbed Albin’s arms and pulled them back. Despite the fury that had blazed in him, he could only lay in a boneless heap.

  It didn’t matter.

  The world went dark as his captors whipped a hood over his head.

  It didn’t matter.

  Nothing mattered.

  Chapter 60

  In the Dark

  Dark - Breaking Benjamin

  Sarge and Red Chief half dragged, half carried Nathan, their arms under his. Unpleasant under normal circumstances, it turned to torture with handcuffs.

  Squinting against the fire—of pain, rage, frustration—he staggered on. Shrubs hid them, scratched him. Trees, now.

  Chopper blades buzzed. A brrrrrt meant a lead storm rained death on something.

  Talons of pain grabbed his ribs as he missed a step and lurched forward. Steel bit into his wrists.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Fuck working with these bastards. Fuck the files. Fuck it all.

  “Good, boy. Real good.” Red Chief gave Nathan a pat on the back with the hand that supported him. “Almost there.”

  Teeth bared, Nathan snarled. Don’t let them see you sweat. Too late. They’d seen him puke.

  Trees vanished. Sun blazed. An . . . ambulance waited, doors open. Chief and Sarge marched him to the rear.

  “Get up or I throw you,” Sarge snapped.

  Pressure on his back, truck floor rushing to meet his face—“Erg!” His right side jerked back thanks to Red Chief. Darkness and pain swallowed everything for a heartbeat. Light returned with the bile that surged up his throat.

  “Sarge.” Red Chief’s voice filtered through the roaring in Nathan’s ears. “Give him a fair shot to hit ya back at least.”

  Unconsciousness beckoning, Nathan struggled into the rig. Sarge shoved him onto a bench that ran along the ambulance’s wall. The merc clicked a seatbelt around his captive.

  One, two, three . . . Too shallow. No good. Wincing, Nathan forced his head up to look them in the eye.

  Red Chief hunched in the cramped quarters. Tinted wraparound shades and a face-shield mask like those SWAT officers wore hid his features. The fangs of a red skull grinned from the mask. He wore combat gear: high-cut spec-ops helmet, plate carrier chest rig, leg holster. A carbine hung across his chest.

  Red reached out to pat Nathan’s cheek with a gloved hand. Don’t react. The cold leather made his face tingle. “Sit there like a gentleman and we’ll treat you like one.” Red’s grin came through. “But just so’s you stay chill, I gotta hood ya.”

  Red pulled a black bag from a hook on the wall. Then day turned to night. Damp, stifling air replaced the desert’s breeze. Can’t breathe! Trapped. Hands behind his back, seatbelt around his waist. Terrorists all around. They would kill or disappear him; Janine and Davie would never know what happened. He’d become another name on a list of victims.

  One, two—Fuck, they’d broken at least one rib completely now. His lung better not have collapsed again. Nausea wrapped him in its swampy embrace at the thought.

  At least they didn’t have Albin and the others. Perhaps Albin could mobilize the Guard to track down these motherfuckers. The DHS could track Nathan’s phone—or the ankle monitor in his pocket.

  Voices approached. “Get in. Grab his arms.” Thuds, scuffling on the steel floor. A mercenary must’ve caught a bullet.

  Something flopped down to Nathan’s left. Fabric brushed his arm, then a shoulder pressed against his. Body heat radiated into Nathan’s flesh, making his skin crawl even more than the cold of his wet clothes did. Panting from the other person filtered through the hood. Click went the seat belt.

  “All of you sit down and shut up,” Sarge ordered.

  Slam.

  A behemoth growled—the ambulance engine. Then the world lurched into motion, rocking Nathan into his benchmate.

  “If you shitheads want to make it to tomorrow, you better cooperate,” Sarge advised. That didn’t sound like a command for fellow mercs.

  Unless . . . Nathan’s core went numb. His hands and feet followed. Reality disengaged as thoughts turned slippery and the pounding in his ears grew to a buzz.

  “You promise?” Nathan grated.

  The person pressing against his shoulder stiffened.

  “Want to test me?” Sarge responded, low and calm.

  “No, sir.” From—Albin. Beside him.

  Darkness grew deeper, more oppressive with every breath. His ribs ached. Static replaced thought as his consciousness floated beyond rage, hatred, despair.

  What now?

  Even with all the advantages Ken had held, he still fell. With him and his Oshiro went many of Nathan’s advantages, vanished like water in the desert sun, no better than mirages.

  Albin’s knee found Nathan’s. Hati howled, low and long. No more static. Gold eyes flashed, setting alight Nathan’s blood. Feeling returned to his extremities—and to his soul.

  His pack needed leadership and security. Advantage didn’t offer safety any more than did protection by those in power. As usual, Albin had it right: control was key. He meant self-control, but control of others and situations ranked just below. How else could he keep his people safe and achieve his goals?

  His knee and shoulder pushed back against Albin’s, while his spine straightened. Red Chief would end as red meat for the wolves, sharing the fate of any who came against God’s chosen one.

  Brakes gripped, slowing the ambulance and rocking the occupants forward. The sirens died. A quick trip, hardly worth the effort.

  Male voices filtered through the rig’s walls and over its rumble: “National Guard! Where are you going?”

  National Guard? Everything stopped. Go Guard and go . . . back to the DHS, Washington, and the threat of a cell next to Birk. At the least, back to dependence on the protection of the government. No.

  A chance still existed to gain control of the cannibals. To that end, mercs represented a more useful option than the government if he could convince them that developing the files would profit them more than selling them. The gunmen offered the promise of decrypting all of Birk’s data, courtesy of the sports cards they’d taken from his collection. If they’d collected other information, such as from the people they targeted at St. Regis, pretending to side with them might offer a
ccess to this data as well.

  A gasp from across the truck. Josephine? Fucking damn hell! All the more reason to get control ASAP.

  “Shhh,” Nathan hissed.

  “We’re going to the hospital, where the hell do you think?” the driver snapped.

  “I’m going to need you to—”

  “Let us by. We’re trying to save lives here.”

  As if from Heaven, a chance to begin negotiation with the mercenaries appeared. “What’s the hold up?” Nathan called. “This guy isn’t gonna make it if we fuck around!”

  The driver added, “If he dies, it’s your fault.”

  “All right. Go.”

  Hati howled with the siren, growled with the engine.

  The hood’s darkness held no power now. On the contrary, its oblivion provided comfort: it concealed his wolf grin.

  Chapter 61

  Seeing Red

  Still Breathing - Dig the Kid

  Albin stared into the hood’s darkness. After receiving 50,000 volts, one’s brain functioned at a sub-par level. Apathy flooded the terrain of his existence, buoying him like the water of the Dead Sea. It didn’t matter that he sat handcuffed in a vehicle belonging to terrorists.

  Had Mr. Serebus really just sided with the gunmen by furthering their masquerade? Perhaps the electric charge had warped Albin’s perception. Or perhaps the enemies had threatened Mr. Serebus into cooperation.

  Lassitude enfolded Albin as his ears hummed from the Taser assault. The sirens resumed their soprano song as the engine provided bass accompaniment.

  ++++++++++++

  At first, Nathan counted turns and guesstimated the distance between each. After six, reality set in: the bastards would drive out of their way to throw off the captives. The driver cut the sirens, leaving only the engine and road to fill the silence.

  The mercenaries maintained excellent noise discipline. They hadn’t even commented on his outburst at the checkpoint.

  After decades of rumbling up and down unknown streets, the vehicle slowed, stopped.

  Click. Fresh air washed in. With it came more mercenaries, their boots thudding on the rig’s floor. Seatbelts unlatched.

  Beside him, Albin rose with a grunt. Shuffling, more stomping.

  Slam! The rig rocked. With the engine off, the back transformed into an echo chamber—or a tomb. Every breath sounded louder than the last. The darkness grew viscous.

  One, two—“Ssss.” No CrossFit or falling off buildings, Jim had said. Getting kicked by an angry linebacker fell along that spectrum, just below a three-story drop.

  Boots on steel. A hand gripped his elbow, while cold worse than the wet clothes’ gripped his heart.

  “On your knees,” Sarge ordered.

  Nathan’s elbow went forward, forcing him to kneel.

  “On your stomach.”

  Hands on his shoulders—“Erf!” The floor and Sarge’s knee sandwiched him. Blinding pain overwhelmed thought.

  “Up.”

  Pressure on his trachea, choking him. What the fuck? The bastards put a collar on him! Another jerk, harder. He gagged. On his knees again, then Sarge hauled him the rest of the way up. Stars exploded across the hood’s void, constellations of agony.

  Hands patted him down, bringing more mini suns as they slapped injuries. The mercs emptied his pockets.

  “Bleeding,” a male reported.

  Where? Everything felt wet and almost body temperature.

  “Good,” per Sarge. “Move.”

  A yank on the collar forced Nathan to stagger forward. At least the pressure hit the back of his neck. More pain and manhandling saw him out of the ambulance. The men took him by the elbows and marched him . . . where?

  Click. Another latch. A building, by the change in air pressure and temperature. Inside, they led him through a door and down a hall, or so it seemed, since they continued straight. A pause, then the surroundings . . . opened. Rather, they felt less oppressive. The kidnappers halted. The rancor of dog piss and wet fur like in a kennel polluted the air.

  Hands at his neck, loosening the hood. Light blazed. Squinting against the glare, he frowned at his captors.

  Before him stood a ginger with blue eyes. He wore a woodsman’s beard. The red-skull face shield hung around his neck, giving him a double grin. Red Chief.

  “Howdy, Nate. You’re a tough fucker to get a hold of.”

  Behind Red stretched a row of dog kennels. Why did every lunatic now have cages? A collar at the end of a chain hung from each door, padlocked to the chain-link. A set of handcuffs accompanied each leash. It didn’t take Sherlock to deduce that the mercs had a more lucrative use for the cages than holding dogs. Perhaps they had held the hostages from Vitale and the St. Regis.

  Red ambled to the left. Sarge and his minion turned Nathan to follow as if operating a camera. The collar chafed his neck. They panned to Albin, Behrmann, and Mikhail, still hooded and cuffed. They sat detainee-style: backs against the kennels, legs straight out and spread before them. Each wore a dog collar around their neck. A chain tethered collars to cages, while padlocks secured the restraints. At least no blood or signs of abuse marked the captives.

  No Marvin, Badal, or Judge. Alive? Dead? Like Schrödinger’s cat, they occupied both states in the box of Nathan’s mind.

  “I reckon,” Red continued in an exaggerated Southern accent, “what with all y’all bein’ celebrities on the TV, ya ain’t got no time for us lil’ folk.” He paused for a lopsided, bucktoothed grin, continuing the stereotype.

  He reached behind to his belt to deploy . . . a tactical tomahawk. The steel glinted in the halogen floods lights as he tapped the flat of the blade against his thigh.

  “Lemme introduce myself. Some of you”—one hand pointed to Albin, while the tomahawk aimed at Nathan—“knew me as Red Chief during that clusterfuck at the Regis. But my name is Esau Seir.”

  He sauntered toward Josephine, who occupied the far end of the line. “Thanks to your fancy reporter, y’all scored some fine publicity.” Tap, tap, tap went the ax. “Got yerselves fans, too.” Wheeling to face Nathan, he announced, “Count me on the bandwagon! I’m such a good fan, I put on a BBQ with a little fireworks and RC truck show at the Amory just so’s I could meet ya.

  “I even know y’all without being introduced. Josephine Behrmann.” He pointed the tomahawk at her. “ABC Action News.” The weapon swung to Albin, middle position. “Albin Conrad, adviser and attorney at Arete Technologies.”

  Like a pressure gauge needle with a full boiler, the tomahawk continued right. “Mikhail Kuznetsov.” Grin gone, Red leaned his head on his left shoulder. “I fibbed. I don’t know him, but I got his ID. If he’s in y’all’s little club, he must be important. Don’t you lie, now.” The tomahawk snapped about to point its scratched head at Nathan. A weapon like that could take the joy out of life with one strike. “You ain’t gonna protect his Commie hide. If he’s not important to you, he’s probably not important to me.” Blue eyes burned behind the blade. With the lights’ angle, his hair glowed fiery red, demonic.

  The mercenaries who stood guard kept quiet, but they shared smirks with each other.

  The ax resumed tapping as cold permeated Nathan. “But maybe I’m wrong. Nothin’ grinds my gears more than people underestimating other folks. As I see it,” he continued as he began pacing before the prisoners, “y’all are special individuals with unique purposes. It’s up to y’all to help me . . . place you, sorta. If that don’t trip yer trigger, you’re welcome to join the high-and-mighty rich fucks as plain ol’ hostages for the Hajis and their buddies.”

  Hostages or slaves. What a lovely choice. A hostage might receive better treatment, but a slave had more freedom. Rather, more opportunities for escape, Spartacus aside.

  “Aw, but that’s not right either. Y’all work for him.” Tomahawk back at Nathan. “The high-powered CEO! Though I don’t reckon you’re all that high-powered. Hell, you got play-kicked a couple time
s, and tossed yer cookies like a frat boy after chuggin’ a keg.”

  Play-kicked? Nathan’s ribs ached in protest. Red spoke the truth, though: Sarge could’ve crashed his right ribs into his left, with the heart and lungs as nothing more than speed bumps.

  “I’m fixin’ to interview y’all. Your legendary leader is gonna go first. He’ll be your representative. If shit happens to you, blame him. Y’all pull shit, it happens to him. Then again, if you play yer cards right, you might be able to pull out of this clusterfuck nosedive he got you in.”

  Chapter 62

  Pulp Friction

  Warrior Inside - Leader

  Darkness dropped over Nathan’s head again and tightened around his neck. No flight options. No sense fighting, either.

  Sarge and his accomplice marched him out a door, down a hall, and into a room. Probably a room, anyway.

  “Kneel.”

  Sarge shoved his boot into the back of Nathan’s knee. Stifling a grunt, bracing for the pain, Nathan hit the floor. Fuckers!

  “Sit back on your ass, legs out straight in the front. Like your friends, remember?”

  Chin tucked, shoulders up—The collar yank still gagged him, but not as severely. He sat back hard. Now what? A beating?

  One of the sadistic fuckers undid the fastenings around Nathan’s neck. Halogen light blazed as the hood whipped off. Slack in the leash, too.

  “Don’t move till the door closes.”

  Boots thudded away. Click. The door.

  What sick game were they playing now? He rocked to his feet. As his eyes adjusted, the room’s details came into focus. They had put him in a dog grooming salon. An adjustable grooming table stood at waist height nearby. Sinks lined the back wall. The side wall held a steel shelf table. Beside it, a bath area glinted in the floodlights.