Ways of Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 2) Page 5

  She was yelling into her shoulder mic. From the Armory proper burst four DHS officers. She waved them over.

  “Where’s Josephine?” Nathan demanded as he strode toward Marvin and Rodriguez. Fractured ribs hated jogging.

  Screeeeeee! BANG! A series of explosions followed. Metal walls rattled.

  “Move!” Rodriguez bawled, waving them into a huddle amid the armed and armored DHS grunts.

  Pop-pop-pop—Gunfire outside.

  “What’s going on?” Marvin yelled as the officers herded them toward the exit. “I thought Jo was with you!”

  “Fuck’s sake! Can’t you people stay put?” Rodriguez glared around in search of the reporter.

  “You are in charge of us,” Albin reminded her.

  She growled. “Get these people to cover.” Then she jogged off.

  “Marvin.” Nathan grabbed Bridges’s shoulder as the economist’s face paled and his eyes unfocused. “Where are the keys to Birk’s car? Do you still have them?”

  “Keys?”

  “Focus, Bridges. The keys you found at Doorway.”

  “I have them.” He dug in his pocket, then dropped them in Nathan’s hand.

  Albin continued to scan the room and its inhabitants, who scrambled like ants after a kid kicked their nest. “Where is the car?”

  “In—” Marvin took a deep breath as they reached the door. “In the Armory lot. It’s red.”

  Should they stay or should they go? “If I go, there will be trouble,” Nathan breathed. “And if I stay . . .”

  Washington’s “better judgment” about not leveling criminal charges might sour at any moment. The longer he mucked around here, the lower sank his chances of leveraging Doorway’s compromised position. If government installations attracted the interest of the terrorists—or whoever the hell attacked them now—a temporary excursion from the DHS’s custody might prove safer than remaining here.

  “What the hell is going on around here?” Jo!

  Nathan swung around to find Rodriguez and the reporter.

  “Let’s go, Serebus.” Roddy clapped a hand on his shoulder. The DHS squad and their charges trotted across the street / parking lot and into the school.

  “I can take them from here,” she declared to her comrades once the door closed behind the group.

  “You weren't outside, I take it?” Nathan asked Josephine.

  “The TV news report looked interesting, so I wandered that way.”

  They approached the civilians’ quarters. “In your rooms.” Roddy gave Nathan a push in the door’s direction. “All of you,” she added as she turned to Josephine and Marvin.

  “Not before I know what’s going on,” she returned, standing her ground.

  At the last second, Nathan turned his tongue from how are the goats to, “How are the guards?”

  Rodriguez raised a hand in Halt form. “Shut up, everybody. How the fuck should I know? I’ve been herding your flighty asses, haven’t I. Now, don’t make me repeat myself.” Rigid arm toward the pseudo-cell’s door.

  Turning to obey, Nathan called over his shoulder, “Keep us informed, Officer.”

  The DHS guard closed the door behind Nathan and Albin. Darkness enveloped them as Albin located the camp lantern.

  Images of the goats filled Nathan’s mind. The stink of charred flesh hung in the air again. Smoke made his eyes water and his throat burn. He shook his head. “No sane person uses goats as a delivery system for explosives.”

  Albin dropped onto the edge of his cot and removed his glasses. The lantern cast his face in shadow. “The use of animals, children, women, and other low-threat subjects to carry explosives has been practiced in warfare for decades.”

  “Is it Istiqaamah again?” Nathan settled onto his own cot, splinting his chest. “Cheel, perhaps? It doesn’t seem like his MO, though.” Cheel used manipulation, not cheap tricks.

  Albin shook his head, then began massaging his temples.

  Growling, Nathan rolled his shoulders. Punching something would feel good—until it didn’t. What did God want him to do now? No Doorway data, no Doorway researchers. Veritable prisoners of the DHS . . .

  Then to add fire to the oil spill: “We’re a target for everyone who has anything from a spud gun to an RPG.” To an exploding goat.

  Something jabbed him in the leg. “What the—”

  Chapter 10

  Game of Drones

  Reapers - Muse

  Nathan pulled Birk’s keys from his pocket. A Kia key fob. Wonderful. Hopefully the name wouldn’t turn into the acronym KIA.

  He held them up to examine their accessories. A coin with mirrored sides and an embossed MIT dangled beside the car clicker.

  “MIT. His alma mater?” Albin theorized, leaning forward.

  “Or he wishes it was.”

  Next, a metal disc with a trout jumping over bacon—no, the wavy lines represented water. “Fish.” Another reason to dislike the twit. The words Family, Duty, Honor stood out in relief. Three things Birk gave not a single shit about.

  Last but not least, an assortment of keys. One bore a custom zebra-stripe paint scheme, while Birk had selected a black-and-white skull design for another. House keys? “Classy.”

  Albin reached down to tighten the laces on his Adidas. “What do you intend to do now, sir?”

  “I don’t want to wait around for a terrorist in a tank to roll up, or for the government to do us a worse turn. We need to take a field trip. And I believe I know the most educational location.” Grinning, Nathan jangled the answer to prayer before his friend. God had spoken; his conqueror would obey.

  “Permission slips are not required, I take it.” Albin smiled, though his eyes looked hollow. “I suggest we leave as soon as possible to improve our chances of reaching his residence before the authorities strip it of useful information.”

  “Albin, how are you holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  Nathan pushed to his feet. “Let’s get the others.”

  He opened the door—and almost collided with Rodriguez. How much did she hear? The DHS probably bugged the room, but intel from electronic eavesdropping would need to filter through the command-structure’s sieve before action occurred.

  “Officer Rodriguez. Any news?”

  She sighed. “Serebus, back up.” He didn’t, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Director Washington’s decided troublemakers such as yourselves need to be placed in a more secure environment, considering what happened with the . . . goats.” She looked like she’d force-swallowed gum.

  “What sort of environment does the Beloved Director consider secure enough?”

  “Are we to be Dr. Birk’s cellmates?” Albin raised a brow.

  “That’s classified.”

  “Classified, but not out of the question.” Frustration blew on the coals of Nathan’s anger. “Are Josephine and Marvin joining us?”

  “Your friends are as deep in this shit storm as you two.”

  “Let’s be off, then.” Nathan stepped into the hall. No sense fighting city hall when it already wanted to cuff you.

  Roddy took point. Albin came behind with the VTAC pack on his back and wearing the black armor-plate carrier Nathan had received from Cheel.

  “Are we going by chopper? We’d better not be stopping for any more rescue missions.” The diversion their chopper had taken to “rescue” Birk from the terrorists at Doorway Pharma’s facility had almost cost them their lives.

  “Be glad you have transport at all.”

  They exited the building and headed toward the parking lot between the Armory and the school. A DHS officer met them with an armload of concealable soft body armor. Though not comparable to Nathan’s titanium plate model, it was in better shape; his armor had seen more action than he cared to think about.

  Albin tucked his under his arm, while Nathan eased into the armor, wincing as he secured the Velcro around his flanks. The
front and back bore DHS in four-inch-tall text.

  The group continued into the parking lot. Around the corner, he halted. A Stryker armored personnel carrier crouched across three parking spaces, nineteen tons of battlefield superiority. Its wedge nose and banked hull shed small arms fire like drizzle. Eight feet tall, eight wheeled, and wearing a .50 cal machine gun and grenade launcher for a crown, the Stryker ruled the road.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he remarked to Albin.

  “It is far superior to a prisoner transport van, sir.”

  Josephine strode around the admin building, Marvin on her tail. Two black-clad DHS grunts escorted them. Both civilians wore the bullet-resistant vests. At the sight of the Stryker APC, Jo whipped out her phone to film.

  The DHS troopers continued toward the Stryker, while their charges joined Nathan and Albin.

  “At least they can’t shoot this out of the air like the last one,” Josephine observed.

  Marvin grunted, bored or perhaps suffering combat fatigue.

  The roar of a diesel engine in the distance cut off Nathan’s reply.

  CRASH!

  The shockwave reverberated in Nathan’s chest. Then the front of the Armory birthed a dump truck. The vehicle blasted through the glass doors from inside the garage. Time slowed as the truck barreled toward them, debris streaming off it.

  A flash of red steel—

  BOOM!

  Superdump met Stryker. The carrier rolled onto its side at the collision. Contrary to logic, dump trucks could perform front flips. The earth shuddered under forty-plus tons of metal, sand, and death. The admin building beyond never stood a chance. Wheels still spun in defiance even though the truck lay on its back in a pile of rubble.

  Survival instinct hit Nathan like ice water. “Go!” Grabbing Albin by the arm, he waved toward the Armory parking lot. Pain submerged in the ice flow.

  “Jo, Marvin.” Nathan caught Bridges’s shoulder, while Albin took charge of Josephine. Reporter and economist sprinted toward the lot and away from the wreckage.

  “Albin.” Keys flashed as Nathan tossed them. After snagging them, the blond dashed toward the Kia.

  Nathan got four steps toward the lot before skidding to a halt. “Rodriguez!” She was trotting toward the wreckage. “We’re leaving. You’re coming.”

  She stopped mid radio call, mouth open. Then she charged toward him.

  His hands came up to calm the Taz devil. “I’m not—”

  “Get down!”

  BOOM! Pop-pop-pop!

  Nathan ducked by instinct. Red sparks blossomed overhead, while bottle-rocket fireworks peppered the sky.

  Automatic-weapon fire rattled from the north, amid suburbia. MP-5 up, Rodriguez pivoted toward the sound. “Get to cover, Serebus!”

  “Come with us!”

  “Get back!” She waved him off as her sights swept over the houses nearby. Military personnel and law enforcement officers emerged from the Armory and various Belle Air buildings.

  “Damn it, Rodriguez,” he growled as he turned and half trotted, half stumbled toward the lot. They needed her.

  Car doors slammed. A red Kia Optima shot into the cul-de-sac of 3rd Avenue. Brake lights flashed, then reverse. The vehicle sped backward, coming abreast of him. The right rear door swung open and he leapt inside—then hunched as pain washed from his ribs to engulf his torso.

  “Mr. Serebus?” Albin asked from the driver’s seat.

  “Go!”

  Gravity pulled passengers into seats as the Optima launched forward. Albin and Jo ducked. A shame Kias didn’t include five-point harnesses.

  Crash!

  Chain-link didn’t stand a chance against two tons of Kia. Nathan grinned as the vehicle plowed free. Leashes on wolves didn’t last.

  “Josephine, check the registration. Get Birk’s address. Marvin”—Nathan turned to the anemic economist—“what streets are clear?”

  “Uh.” He blinked. “Third was navigable yesterday. Now, though, you might have to detour on one of the cross streets—”

  “Pine or Angus,” Josephine supplied, holding up her phone. “Birk lives in Avalon. Keep going straight, Albin.”

  The blond smirked. “Avalon. Perhaps we will be able to awaken the once and future king after we finish investigating Dr. Birk’s residence.”

  “It is by a national cemetery,” she responded, attention on the map.

  Movement flashed on the right. Screee! A black Suburban ground to a halt across 3rd, a government-issue roadblock.

  Seatbelts locked as Albin slammed the brakes—and slammed Nathan’s chest against the restraint. He clutched his ribs. Breathe. It came in a snarl.

  “Exit the vehicle and come forward.” The bullhorn announcement meant business.

  “Look,” Marvin drawled, “they’re from the government, and they’re here to help us.”

  “Mr. Serebus?” Albin asked, looking in the rearview at his employer.

  Blast it all to bloody Hell. If Albin evaded the roadblock, the DHS would charge him with at least half a dozen infractions. Ordering Albin to flaunt the law? Unacceptable. Damn the attorney’s preference for the driver’s seat.

  With a grunt, Nathan pressed his seatbelt release and pushed his door open. “We mustn’t be rude.”

  The four escapees exited. Behind them, gunfire still popped. Even the threat of hot lead couldn’t make Nathan’s legs go faster than an amble. So close yet so far from the promise of Doorway data Birk’s house offered.

  Bzzzzz. Bees? No, it sounded like—A four-rotor drone hovered twenty feet above the Suburban. More government surveillance?

  Albin halted at the Kia’s front bumper to study the aircraft. Jo and Marvin followed suit.

  “Walk forward,” the bullhorn ordered.

  Bzzzz. Orders faded beneath the buzz, which turned to static in Nathan’s mind.

  Bzzzzsssaaaahhh

  Cannibal hiss?

  A black object the size and shape of a George RR Martin paperback dropped from the drone. It landed on the Suburban roof over the driver’s side. It did not bounce.

  Sirens howled in the distance. The amarok joined them in the dark of Nathan’s mind.

  “Back in the car!” He grabbed Josephine, a yard ahead of him.

  Albin pushed Marvin toward the backseat.

  Swinging around his door despite his ribs’ protests, Nathan threw himself into the car. Four doors slammed.

  “Back up!” he grunted as he reached for the seat belt.

  BOOM!

  Chapter 11

  Gridlock

  Skyline Divided - Seven

  Everyone ducked. The Optima rocked on its shocks. Cracks spiderwebbed around a chunk of shrapnel that lodged in the windshield.

  One, two, three, ouch, four. One breath longer and they would have joined the BBQ.

  Still hunched behind the dashboard, Albin turned the ignition. He shot the stick into reverse as flames licked the Suburban’s cab. Dragonfire might have struck the vehicle, given the damage.

  The Kia cut through a yard on the left, then rolled down Pine.

  “What the fuck was that?” Marvin hissed through clenched teeth as he twisted in his seat to see the holocaust.

  “That?” Josephine glanced back, eyes wide. “That was encouragement to get out of Dodge.”

  Right, on 2nd Ave.

  “That could’ve been us . . .”

  Nathan closed his eyes. The shock of witnessing the explosion seemed distant, as if it occurred in a dream or to another person. Numbness made everything feel better.

  “How far?” he asked.

  “About three miles.” Josephine snapped into Action News mode. “We can make it in under a half an hour.”

  “Oh no we can’t!” Any color that had returned to Marvin’s face fled. “The roads are worse than rush hour.”

  Albin glanced into the rearview mirror at him. “An average New York City commute, then.” The attorney pre
ferred to drive, more from an interest in self-preservation than power. Intensity in motor vehicle operation, and Nathan’s fondness for it, had never appealed to Albin.

  “We’re going to Vic’s house?” Marvin looked up from rummaging through the top layer of floor strata. “Shouldn’t we be trying to get off this godforsaken spit of concrete like, I don’t know, everyone else?”

  Albin shook his head. “Unless you are prepared to escape on foot, Mr. Bridges, there is little to no chance of leaving via ground travel. Shelters beyond the city proper will already be at maximum capacity.”

  “Beyond those,” Jo added, “I’m sure the desert is open and welcoming.”

  They rolled past a family loading their minivan. A boy and girl waited. They clutched their security items: the boy, an Iron Man action figure, the girl, a stuffed white unicorn. Would they end as refugees, no different from the Libyans. Before 2011, Libya was among the United Nations’ best countries to live. But when civil war engulfed the country, it became no better than its Third-World neighbors.

  “Birk’s house is an investigation scene.” When did Jo start talking?

  Nathan snorted a laugh. “Yes, I’m sure the DHS dashed right out and began investigating. It’s not as if there’s a national emergency to monitor or a city-wide hemorrhage to staunch.”

  The Optima traded asphalt for sidewalk to skirt a line of vehicles. They bleated and honked, livestock for the slaughter.

  “Left on San Bruno Ave.” Josephine pointed west. “Parking lot, ten o’clock.”

  Already Albin angled the vehicle toward the shortcut.

  Josephine looked around. “Go left down San Mateo, then right up Huntington.”

  Behind, two other cars also decided to try for Huntington. The railroad overpass swallowed the Kia in shadow for a moment. Albin banked north, while the vehicles on their tail turned left, south. They wanted out of the mess, not deeper into it.

  To the right, thirty feet up, an Amtrak passenger train hunkered on the tracks, a wyrm awaiting revival. See where the train can take you, encouraged the Amtrak website. Today it took you into the middle of lovely cannibal- and terrorist-infested South Industrial San Francisco.