Behold Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 1) Page 5

  Six feet of former employee and future dog meat hit the table with a splut as Nathan flung him down. Red saturated the bastard’s white shirt. He grabbed at his abdomen, where intestines shimmered like giant night crawlers. Two bullet holes in the right shoulder leaked more gore across the mess. Vulnerability and pain clung to the fucker like his own blood and stench.

  “Weak. Lethally incompetent.” Nathan’s teeth shone in a shark’s grin. Judgment belonged to him. His shoulders rolled back like a stalking predator’s.

  He turned and kicked at the female’s corpse. It wore what she in life probably called a dress but what resembled a bathing suit with a fringe. Fucking whore, show respect for the female sex.

  “Is that your bitch?” Rounding on the dying gut bag, Nathan advanced to loom over him.

  The failure before him snarled.

  “You drank on my time.”

  “Erf!” Entrails slid between their owner’s fingers and across his lap as Nathan grabbed him by the shirtfront.

  “You fucked on my time.” Up and thud. A groan escaped the man as his back slammed against the table.

  “The only thing you didn’t do on my time was your job. Because of you and your equally incompetent colleague, people died.

  “I was shot.”

  Up and thud.

  “Twice.”

  “Aaug!” A kick to the groin doubled the bastard over his guts.

  “I was almost blown up.”

  Nathan grabbed his former employee by the collar and dragged him upright to stare into fevered eyes. Blood bubbled from the doomed man’s mouth.

  “Now my friend is either dead or about to be.” Nathan cocked his right elbow. “I do not tolerate incompetence.” Arm aching for the attack, chills of anticipation rippling down his back and through his teeth—“If the wolves want a sacrifice, they can have you.” Not Albin.

  In a last spasm of survival, the condemned fumbled at his belly with one hand while flailing at his judge with the other. Slick, sticky, cold, the hand found Nathan’s face. Fingers gripped.

  “Get off!” Nathan launched the near-corpse back into the table, offal streaming after.

  Lunging after, he caught the convicted criminal’s lapel.

  Then, through the thunder in his ears: “Sir! Mr. Serebus! Sir!”

  Chapter 12

  Red Hand

  Been to Hell – Hollywood Undead

  With the slow, deliberate movement of a priest at the completion of a sacrifice, Nathan straightened, half-turning toward Albin. The red haze evaporated from Nathan’s vision.

  Surprise flashed over Albin’s features but vanished so quickly it might have been a trick of the light. He wore no glasses. He lowered the handgun he’d half raised, but intensity strong enough to cut steel arced in his ice-blue eyes.

  “I terminated his contract.” Nathan stepped away from the road kill. Tension slipped from his chest and back. “Albin, you—”

  “Yes, sir.” For escaping terrorist captivity, the attorney appeared only a notch less composed than usual. He even retained the VTAC pack. His eyes, though . . .

  “Are you all right? No injuries?” Nathan reached for Albin’s jacket lapel to check for wounds that might have gone unnoticed in the escape’s adrenaline rush.

  The blond waved him off. “I am uninjured. And yourself?” As Albin spoke, his gaze flicked over the scene’s key elements: bodies, overturned table, half-deranged employer.

  “It’s not my blood.” Nathan wiped his hands on the nearest tablecloth. As for the bloody hand print on his face, he would bear the Uruk-hai White Hand in red, war paint for a victor who lived by his own hand and served no lord but himself.

  “We need to go, sir.”

  No comment on the disaster area? Odd. “We can avoid the terrorists if—”

  “No, sir.”

  “Excuse me?” Nathan looked up, pulling the rifle across his chest.

  “Not the terrorists.”

  The mic crackled before Albin could answer. “Red Chief, come in!” Red One’s New York accent. “We’re on two. We were attacked by—by I don’t fucking know what!”

  “Attacked by who? How the fuck can you not know what attacked you?”

  “Monsters—I don’t know! No time!”

  “The fuckers aren’t supposed to be there! Hold ’em off. We’re coming.”

  “Is this what you were going to say?”

  “Mr. Serebus,” Albin began, squaring his shoulders. To the casual listener his voice sounded calm, but to Nathan’s ear the electricity of urgency sparked. “I escaped neither by my own efforts nor by the gunmen’s mercy.”

  A knot of cold formed in the back of Nathan’s mind. It began to freeze its way down his spinal cord, out along the nerves. Wolves emerged at the margins of his vision. Howls—no, sirens—wailed outside.

  “The gunmen disarmed me and moved to the third floor.” Albin paused to swallow. His knuckles went white on the handgun.

  Nathan took him by both shoulders—to steady both of them. “What happened?”

  Brown eyes locked with blue. “I truly cannot say for certain, sir. I apologize.” The blank mask Albin wore when relating bad news clicked into place. Report Mode active. “They were attacked from the rear.”

  Report Mode used passive voice in painful amounts. Nathan gritted his teeth.

  Albin continued, “Confusion was caused when the rear guard began shouting. Shots were fired. The forward gunmen turned to assist. A clear view was unavailable to me. The attackers were fast and lethal; three to four men were felled before their comrades regrouped.”

  “You recovered your weapon and escaped in the confusion?”

  “In summary. My guards were dragged off. The weapon was dropped.”

  “Albin, what did you see?” Nathan coaxed, mouth going dry as chills scuttled down his spine. Whatever Albin witnessed had traumatized him on a primal level. Nothing traumatized Albin Conrad. Albin Conrad traumatized others with his inhumanly high efficiency, perfectionism, and razor-blade tongue.

  “They were . . .” Albin at a loss for words boded as ill as green skies and train-whistle wind.

  “What?”

  “Sir, I was under stress; thus, I do not entirely trust my perceptions.”

  “I trust them, Albin. The gunmen saw them too.”

  Albin’s eyes strayed from Nathan’s, slid over the red handprint, then drifted to the carnage on the floor.

  “Albin, come on.” Nathan patted him on the shoulder before resuming his hold.

  The attorney tensed. “Attackers. Cannibals.”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps bath salts or other illicit substances were involved. They appeared human, yet . . . inhuman. The guards were killed with bites to the neck or were torn apart by groups of the . . . the things.”

  The cold worked its way to Nathan’s fingertips, made them tingle. “Bath salt cannibals?” Several years ago, scattered reports had surfaced of addicts in Florida and other equally warped states stripping off their clothes, then attacking and eating people. The media called them cannibals. They acted under the influence of the new “bath salt” or “Spice” mixture. “Perhaps.” He released his friend and stepped back. “Their behavior doesn’t sound like drug users’ on a bad trip, though.”

  “No, sir. And their eyes . . .” Albin tapped the 1911 against the drop holster as he stared into middle distance. No doubt the HD screen of his inner eye was replaying the scene.

  “Even if they were, don’t they usually crawl around bridges and the projects? Not exactly something you’d see in one of the most upscale hotels in San Francisco. The chance of them being here en masse is even less likely.”

  “I know.”

  Cannibals. Albin Conrad, who had shot a terrorist in the back of the head with the skill and detachment of an assassin, swore cannibals or something had attacked his captors. Albin did not watch horror movies. He did not have flights of fancy.
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  Albin seemed unable to analyze or rationalize the event to his satisfaction; his mind lacked a reference point—a precedent—for the occurrence, so it bogged down in the impossible situation. No wonder the incident had traumatized him.

  Though the cannibals had surprised Red One, Red Chief knew about the “monsters.” Aren’t supposed to be there, he had said. “Did the terrorists kill any of them?”

  Albin shook his head. “Shots were fired. I don’t know if any struck vital points. None of the . . . attackers were stopped while I was present.”

  “It’s not the best of information to go on, but it’s better than nothing. You did very well. Time to go.” Nathan’s lip curled in a defiant smile.

  Chapter 13

  Handyman’s Secret Weapon

  The Devil Within – Digital Daggers

  Nathan pushed through the kitchen doors. “Kate?”

  “Ja.” She turned her head an inch to see him. “Was that . . . noise from the terrorists?”

  “Yes and no.” He crouched in front of her, hand on her arm. “It’s too dangerous to leave you here.” Unfortunately. If he truly wanted to keep her from the wolves, he needed to see her to the medics. Shit.

  Albin’s presence loomed at his elbow. “Ms. Katerina, I presume.” An edge of hostility glinted under the civility.

  “This”—Nathan turned to shoot a brow-raised lighten up look at his adviser—“is Albin.”

  “Your kidnapped friend.” She smiled, wan. “You’re all right.”

  “Clearly.” Then he turned to the nearest counter and began opening drawers and cabinets.

  Nathan nodded in approval. “Find anything that’s forty proof or higher.”

  Static hissed from the H-777, then Deep South drawled: “Reds, this is Red Chief. Get your asses to level two. Shoot whatever moves so long as it ain’t your man. Vlad’s bastards will give us a hand. Watch your backs; there’s some crazy shit out there.”

  “The radio,” Nathan began as he joined Albin’s quest for supplies. “That’s how you knew where to find me.”

  Albin leaned back from a cabinet. “Madhouse.”

  “You never miss a cue.”

  “Reds, did anybody get the remote? That’s high-ass priority.”

  A litany of negatives followed from the cronies.

  “Git yer shit together so we can get to the airport! Green’s gonna hit Vitale soon.”

  “Remote?” Albin echoed as he bent to look in another cabinet.

  “They didn’t mention it when they . . . took—”

  “No.” Sharp as a gunshot.

  Nathan bit his lip. Abduction, not an easy topic. Wait, Vitale? “I assume they mean Hotel Vitale.”

  “It seems it may suffer St. Regis’s fate.” Resignation in the tone.

  “If the authorities don’t intervene in time.” Nathan would warn them ASAP.

  Between them they turned up a bottle of Bacardi 151, two Grand Marniers, and an Absolut. One could never have too much accelerant. A stack of dish towels found places in both scavengers’ pockets, while a grill lighter went to Nathan. Two bottles of Vittel water and a bag of pecans accompanied them.

  When Albin dropped two rolls of duct tape on the counter, Nathan compromised with the urge to hug him, settling for a congratulatory, “Excellent work!” Loops of tape attached the vodka, 151, and duct tape to MOLLE loops on Nathan’s vest. The Grand Marnier and the second roll of tape went into the VTAC.

  While Albin kept his Fenix PD22 flashlight in hand, Nathan taped his Surefire P2X to the AK’s fore grip.

  Last but not least, they divvied up a handful of paring knives.

  Thus supplied, they returned to Kate. “Albin, get her other arm.” Nathan ducked under her right.

  The attorney hesitated long enough to frown his disapproval before relenting. “You are fortunate, Ms. Katerina.” By his tone and expression, one would think Nathan had asked him to shoulder a dead tuna.

  “She brought towels. And these.” Nathan pulled out Kate’s keys as the trio headed toward the employee stairs. “Transport out is her tip.”

  “Thanks, Nathan. And . . . Albin.”

  “May it not cost more than anticipated.”

  “It hasn’t yet.” Yet.

  After unlocking the stair door, they started down. They slowed to creep past the third level.

  At the second floor landing, thuds echoed behind the fire door. Terrorists versus . . . what? If he knew what floor housed the CCTV monitoring station, he would give serious thought to visiting it.

  Ground level.

  Nathan stopped at the fire door, then angled his back so that Kate was leaning against the door. “Shh.” Finger to his lips, then hands on the AK.

  A look over at Albin’s poker face. Nod. Ready.

  Chapter 14

  Lost and Found

  Not Gonna Die – Skillet

  It’s always darkest before it goes pitch black. One of Arete’s lead software designers proudly displayed a poster with the aphorism above his monitor. With any luck, they could exit before the blackout.

  Turn the handle, pull. Again the world panned before the AK, the LED beam licking over an Employees Only hall. Gray walls and steel doors stared back, sick in the E lights that barely functioned here. Stealth eliminated the need to clear the rooms.

  Nathan turned back to the door, but Albin caught his arm. “Sir,” he whispered, “it would be acceptable to leave her here. Taking her will impair our mobility. The official government advice in active shooter situations is to leave the injured and indecisive. She is not your concern.”

  “She is now.” Even as he said it, his skin crawled from ignoring Albin’s advice. The attorney wouldn’t understand; he didn’t have a blood feud with the wolves.

  “Why?”

  They locked gazes. “I finish what I start. You’re not obligated to help.”

  Half sighing, half growling, Albin pushed past to open the door for his employer. “You have my support.” But not Kate. The unsaid limit hung in the air like fogged breath in winter.

  “Thank you.” Better than no support.

  In the stairwell, Albin flashed his PD22 over Kate’s wound. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage. “The blood loss is significant.”

  With Kate between them, they trudged down the hall.

  Time to think beyond the St. Regis. “Kate, we need a vehicle. Do you have a car?”

  “Walk,” she murmured.

  So much for the easy way. “Where are the Bentley keys? The valet room?” Fueled up and reliable, the house Bentley offered the best option.

  Kate winced. “Yeah.”

  “And the Bentley?” Albin queried.

  “Back garage. Private. Get keys.” Her eyes rolled back with the effort of speaking.

  She missed a step, falling against Albin, who shifted his grip on her back as he glared at Nathan. The observation regarding her blood loss proved accurate.

  She couldn’t pass out yet; they needed her to play GPS. “Kate, stay with me. Which way to the valet room?”

  She raised a finger to point to a door on the left. Lobby, read the placard. The E lights raised the ambient illumination from nil to horror-movie twilight. The LEDs sliced through the murk but couldn’t replace overheads.

  Keeping their backs to the wall, Nathan opened the door a crack. A storage room with tables and chairs greeted him.

  On to the outside, the Ame Grill. All clear. Across the hall, the restaurant seating area had succumbed to the same carnage as the Yerba Terrace and Vitrine. Nausea churned its way up Nathan’s throat.

  Wait, the exit! To the right, the Ame’s hall opened on Mission Street. Or not. A Hummer rested with its driver’s side against the door. The driver was sprawled half through the windshield like a dummy in a seatbelt campaign ad. Arterial blood covered the glass, tracking from the corpse’s neck. It took real fuck-up skill to kill yourself in a one-vehicle wreck in town.

 
; They would have to reach the Bentleys through the hotel as planned. The garage lay to the . . . right of the lobby. He’d seen its entry when the Bentley pulled into the drop-off area.

  “Left,” Kate breathed.

  Obviously. Ahead glinted the side of the marble stair and its accompanying silver jugs, more oddities of hotel decor. Beyond it ran a path to the elevators, registration, concierge, and luggage check area. Memory supplied that past the elevator banks lay the valet desk.

  Nathan dragged Albin and their passenger to peer past the stairs. He sidestepped just in time to avoid stepping in a rivulet of blood. It originated beneath a male corpse that wore a St. Regis suit. Hello. Glassy eyes stared at Nathan as he flicked the light on the name tag. Jorge.

  “Jorge . . .” Kate groaned.

  “The butler who escorted us to the rooms,” Albin observed as if noting a familiar landmark.

  Nathan swallowed, took a breath, turned to the sight beyond the glass walls and sliding doors. A three-car pileup clogged the awning-covered drive. Smoke, debris, and shrubbery prevented a clear view of Minna Street beyond. Oil and gas fires lit the night. Flames licked through the adjacent building’s ground-floor windows. Sirens screamed in the distance. The view stopped his breath and turned his mouth to ash.

  “There are no emergency vehicles.” Albin stared at the chaos.

  After eliminating the impossible—which grew more and more difficult today—the improbable explanations made Nathan’s hackles bristle. “Either they don’t know what’s happening here, or . . .”

  “They are occupied with more important issues.”

  BOOM! The men ducked as dust filtered from the ceiling. Cracks snapped across several windows, while car alarms screamed from the left. Only a detonated explosive device or gas tanker could cause so large a blast. At least it didn’t seem to have come from the St. Regis.

  “This way.” Nathan nodded toward the honking and sirens. Keep moving. Keep shooting. Keep reloading. Do at least one of the above if you want to keep living.