Rings of the Inconquo Trilogy

by A. L. Knorr

“Marcus!”

  The porter turned, eyes wide with urgent terror. He rushed to take Jackie from me.

  “I got her,” he said, checking his grip as Jackie cried out in pain.

  “Careful,” I wheezed, stumbling drunkenly towards the gate. “Her back.”

  “Got it,” he grunted, but I didn’t have the energy to check.

  I squared off with the gate, my sweat-blurred vision reluctantly focusing on the lock. With a growl, I punched out, weak and sloppy, but enough to snap the battered latch off.

  A sweep of my hand dragged the mesh away to reveal a stretch of stairs leading up, and up, to a distant shadowed doorway lined in daylight. The sight of that crisp, clean glow made me want to cry.

  I turned back to Marcus and Jackie, rallying my strength.

  “I’ll take her,” I said as I resumed my post at Jackie’s side. “Get Uncle Iry. Up the stairs and we’re home free.” Stairs that look like Mount Everest.

  I didn’t know where we would emerge, but at this point, even if we came out in front of Scotland Yard, I would call it a win. They might arrest us and throw away the key, but even prisoners get medical treatment.

  “Come on, luv,” I whispered in Jackie’s ear as I took her full weight from Marcus. “Just a few more steps, then you can rest.”

  Jackie dragged her face upward, now ghastly white––which made the smears of bright blood look even worse––and gave me a pink-toothed grin.

  “What … are … we … waiting … for,” she wheezed in a thick, wet voice.

  I forced another smile, but I couldn’t keep the tears from beading at my eyes.

  “That’s my girl,” I declared around the lump in my throat. “Marcus, we’re ready.”

  His affirming grunt was followed by baleful howling from far behind us. Despite the hot sweat drenching me stem to stern, a shiver of cold ran up my spine, and I broke out in goosebumps.

  “Let’s move.”

  ---

  With a final burst of energy against the service door, we plunged into sunlight.

  The air was cold, clammy, and utterly glorious after the smothering stale air of the tunnel. My eyes stung and watered from the sudden brightness, but I forged ahead, practically dragging Jackie. Marcus puffed behind me, even his great strength taxed to the limits by the steep climb carrying my uncle.

  Once I was sure he was clear, I commanded the door to close and twist on its hinges. The memory of that howling gnawed at my nerves, and I wanted as much space between me and our pursuers as I could manage.

  My eyes adjusted; we were between tall buildings in a sidestreet barely big enough for a Mini-Cooper to roll down. To the right was a bustling street across which I spied a blue banner.

  “Kaplan,” I gasped, recognizing the sign even as I read the letters emblazoned on it. “Marcus, I know where we are!”

  The Kaplan Language School was near Bloomsbury Square Gardens just east of the British Museum. A well-trafficked and well-policed area, we’d quickly draw attention and get emergency services called. It would mean answering some awkward questions, but I wasn’t sure Jackie could hold on much longer. I couldn’t believe she’d made it this far.

  Without another word, we moved towards Southampton Place.

  We’re going to make it! The joy of that realization lifted the crushing oppression that had reduced my world to putting one foot in front of the other. I heard the rumble of the street beyond, felt a slight breeze slide across my face and smelled the pungent aroma that was beautiful, enduring London. I savoured the moment.

  A strange buzzing sound intruded on my joy, and I looked up to find a small drone hovering above us.

  The dizzying euphoria slipped away, replaced by needles of icy dread that slid into my belly from every angle. It could have been some tech-geek who stumbled across us as he took his newest toy for a spin, but deep down, I knew we would never be that lucky.

  Ducking my head, I quickened my pace and took some small relief that I heard Marcus moving in time with me.

  We had to reach the street.

  We were so close.

  Behind us, a series of heavy impacts on metal echoed in the small street. Daria’s hunters had reached the door. Their impromptu weapons were ill-suited to tackle the locked and twisted security door, but I was under no illusion that they would be frustrated for long.

  Just a few more steps.

  Our escape route disappeared as the back of a large dark van swung into the street. There wasn’t room for a person to squeeze by, let alone allow me or Marcus to carry our wounded.

  Desperation flared, but before I could bring my will into focus, the doors of the van swung open on a curious sight. I stopped dead in my tracks, and time slowed.

  Four people in dark blue uniforms leapt out, manhandling a pair of stretchers. Protective plastic bags similar to what I’d seen emergency medical personal touting hung from their shoulders. Boots pounded on the pavement as a pair stopped by me while the others skirted by at a quick trot. The pair worked with quiet confidence, laying the stretcher out.

  “W-What?”

  Gloved hands of one helped me support Jackie while the second looked her over.

  “W-who?” I stammered stupidly.

  “Severe laceration,” the partner, a grave-looking woman with freckles and a crooked nose, announced. “Possible puncture into her right lung.”

  The man helping me––lean, salt-and-pepper beard, cigarette stale breath––nodded, then looked at me and spoke in a slow, calm tone.

  “Alright, ma’m, let’s lower her onto the stretcher, face first, nice and easy.”

  I tried to force my brain to work, to follow the instructions, but an incredible crash sounded behind us. I looked past Marcus and the pair of medics securing Uncle Iry to another stretcher. The security door swung listless and useless. Our stiff limbed pursuers emerged, blinking in the light, weapons in hand. Their eyes were inhuman pits of darkness and locked on us.

  “I suggest we load them quickly,” came a smooth, unhurried female voice.

  I whipped my head back and spotted a tall, striking woman with hair the colour of steel. Her knowing eyes told me she couldn’t be a day under fifty, but her complexion would have shamed a woman half her age. She wore a cream-coloured suit and had one pearly high-heeled shoe propped on the bumper of the van.

  The howl rose behind us, but with the medic’s help, I lowered Jackie onto the stretcher.

  She was secured in seconds, then moved into the van. The medics chattered in clipped, professional tones and to someone on the other end of a radio. Apparently, Jackie needed emergency surgery.

  Uncle Iry was carried into the van by his team. He was limp on the board, but his fever bright eyes followed me as they carried him into the van.

  The tall woman in the suit, gracefully slid into the back of the van and held out a hand.

  “Please, come with us,” she said in a tone that was surprisingly cool and confident considering the maimed behind her and the pack of demon-driven hunters coming towards her. “We can help them and keep you safe.”

  I felt Marcus at my back, felt his expectant presence asking an unspoken question. Do we risk it and go, or stay, fight, and almost certainly die? The trust implicit in his waiting touched my heart but also left me incredibly weary.

  I heard the jerky footfalls of Daria’s minions.

  Uncle Iry was still watching me from inside the van.

  With a heavy sigh, I took the woman’s offered hand and hopped in.

  “I’ve got questions,” I said flatly as I shifted to let Marcus squeeze in behind me.

  The van was moving before the doors closed, and I had one last look at our pursuers.

  “I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” the tall woman replied as she drew the doors shut with a dull thump. We were in the street, and I had to hold the grab-bar as we zoomed between cars at reckless speeds.

  The interior of the van was lit by bright LEDs set into the roof, and I could see the med
ics were attending to Uncle Iry and Jackie.

  “Let’s start with an easy one then,” I said, doing my best to act like I wasn’t about to collapse. “Who are you, and who do you work for?”

  The woman’s eyes flashed with amusement, and a small smile played at the corners of her lips.

  “Not nearly as easy as you might think,” she said, “but since partnerships are based on trust ...”

  She held out her hand again.

  “My name is Jody Marks, and I represent The Nakesh Corporation, otherwise known as TNC.”

  Something in the way she said it made my skin prickle, and when my hand rose to shake hers, it almost felt compulsory.

  “Partners?” I asked, our hands still interlocked.

  Marks nodded.

  “I certainly hope so. After all, you are not the only one who wants to stop Ninurta’s return.”

  I stared at her, torn between skepticism and a desperate hope that this wasn’t all some cruel joke.

  “I’d always hoped,” I managed with a rough swallow.

  Marks nodded and settled back into a small seat built into the wall of the van.

  “Hope no more, Miss Bashir. You’re not fighting this war alone. Not anymore.”

  Epilogue

  “Vhere did zhey go?”

  The small man nervously clutching a tablet nearly jumped out of his skin at the growled question.

  “Umm, uh,” he stammered as his fingers performed a jittery tap-dance across the tablet’s screen. “We don’t know for certain, but we do know the owner of the uh, uh, the vehicle they escaped in. It took some backtracking through dummy corporations and false titles, but eventually, our forensic financials team found the real owner.”

  A single heavy brow arched over a watery blue eye, waiting.

  When no further information was forthcoming, a portly frame rolled forward, pressing against the desk as his malevolent glare penetrated the trembling young man.

  “Who. Owns. Ze vehicle?” he snarled, a wet, guttural sound.

  “Sorry, s-sorry,” the small man stammered. Seeing his superior’s growing ire, he practically squeaked. “Nakesh! The Nakesh Corporation owns the vehicle!”

  The swollen bulk sank back, settling like some dormant volcano in the sullen light that filled the room. Thick, calloused fingers stroked an oily beard.

  “Vhat iz Marks up to now?” he rumbled the question deep in his barrel chest.

  “Perhaps, she—” The little man fell silent when the watery eyes impaled him with a single sharp look.

  “No matter.” The corpulent creature swivelled his high back chair at a glacial pace to view the source of the throbbing light filling the room. “Very zoon it von’t make a bit of difference.”

  The blue eyes squinted through a vast tinted window at the molten metal running along channels towards a pit in the floor. There was tin for Marduk, lead for Nergal, copper for Inanna, mercury for Nabu, silver for Zuen, gold for Utu. A vast sarcophagus of pure lead had been placed over a huge but withered body at the outset. The sarcophagus had melted as the six other metals had poured in

  The pit was nearly full, and even the heat shielded, air-conditioned viewing box had grown warm and stuffy.

  “Very zoon,” he said again, as the metal pool reached the brim of the pit.

  The small man swallowed, squeezing his tablet to his chest with white knuckles, before clearing his throat.

  “Eh, excuse me, sir, but how soon?”

  Before the ponderous mass in the chair could angrily call for silence, the light of the hellish pool throbbed seven times and a dull bass note that shook the bones reverberated through the room and seemed to echo across infinity.

  Both watchers held their breath, for once equals in terrified awe, as a vast skeletal hand rose from the centre of the seething pit.

  Metal Angel

  Rings of the Inconquo, Book 3

  Prologue

  The percussive crackle of gunfire reverberated through the stony halls.

  There was a momentary silence, the distant sound of a wild laugh, then a thunderous boom. Confused screams of pain came next, each falling silent in a morbidly slow sequence. Feet pounded, echoing without direction. It sounded like a rainstorm.

  Beneath his superior’s abandoned desk, a small man clutched his precious tablet and frantically swiped at the screen with trembling fingers. Closed circuit video cameras featured a facility in chaos, people scrambling for exits and clogging tunnels in panic. Others showed armed security rushing forward, outmatched wolves rushing to the slaughter. He flicked past screens of raw static before coming upon a single figure standing in front of a sealed security door.

  The small man whimpered, biting his lip as he waited and watched.

  The figure, his silhouette wavering as though radiating incredible heat, reached his hand toward the door then through it. The door twisted and crumpled, folding in on itself like paper on fire. There was a terrific flash and the video on the screen blinked then turned to static. An instant later came the roar of a detonation, then more panicked gunfire. Screams came seconds later.

  He stared at the static-filled screen, listening to the meticulous and malicious silencing of the screams, willing his mind to think of something, anything, to do.

  His superior’s rotund mass had emerged from behind the desk and waddled off to a waiting helicopter nearly 48 hours ago, effectively leaving him in charge. It should have been routine, closing up shop now that the asset had been awakened. It should have been simple. He feared displeasing his superior, perhaps more than death, but nothing had prepared him for this: his utter inability to manage the catastrophe ripping through the facility had driven him beneath the desk.

  There were fewer screams now, and the realisation of what that meant filled him with a desperate energy. The facility was lost, that was plain. Now recovering as many personnel as possible became the priority.

  Springing out from under the desk so quickly he scraped his back, he flicked through the displays with a rush of giddy hope. The evacuation team had forced their way through and cleared out the clogs in the escape tunnels. The trickle of remaining personnel stepped over limp bodies as they left the facility.

  He depressed the mic application on his tablet and fought to keep his high voice from trembling.

  “Redeploy to the central corridor.”

  The evacuation team, a small but veteran crew of security professionals, looked up at the camera.

  “Evacuation’s not complete,” their leader growled into his headset.

  “Redeploy, immediately!”

  His voice sounded shrill but he didn’t care. He didn’t dare cross to the escape tunnels without cover. That man-shaped thing needed slowing down. Silently, he cursed himself for not coming to this decision earlier.

  “Redeploy! That is an order!”

  Training kicked in. The evacuation team, slowly, began to shoulder past the last few stragglers.

  Hugging his device to his chest, he left the office overlooking the pit full of cooled slag, wincing as his shoes clanged on the grated walkways. He reached the security door at the rear of the central corridor and paused to swipe through the video feeds. He watched the evacuation team filing in, weapons at their shoulders, securing the long tubular room. Their point of ingress was his target, the quickest way to the escape tunnels.

  He swiped twice more and saw the same silhouette now striding toward the vault-like portal to the central corridor. He had moments, maybe only seconds.

  Steeling himself to bolt across the room, he opened the door and began to run.

  Three steps through the door, something clubbed him hard across the side of the head. He went tumbling to the floor.

  “Get down, you idiot,” a rough voice snarled.

  One of the evacuation team crouched over him, a hand pressing his chest down. His vision wobbled, but between tremulous angles, he could see the door he needed. He tried to rise, but his body wouldn’t. The man pinning him had him be
at by twenty or thirty kilos.

  “Almost got in our line of fire,” the security brute hissed. “Could’ve gotten yoursel—”

  The chamber witnessed its first dawn as the main corridor’s entryway erupted into a miniature sun. Stabbing light preceded a wave of heat and shrapnel that had every man in the room screaming in pain and terror.

  Blinded, his skin blistered under the caress of such intense heat. The torrent of destruction rolled over him in a series of waves, but by luck or fate he was spared the worst of it as the evacuation team member crumpled on top of him.

  A few seconds after the searing heat passed, he wriggled and squirmed out from under the dead weight, struggling for breath as his sense of hearing came back by degrees. His vision was obscured by multicoloured spots, but he heard the now familiar sounds of firearms discharging and men screaming.

  Crawling on hands and knees, he guessed the direction in which the door most likely lay. Despite being out from under the corpse’s weight, he still struggled to breathe. In a distant, quieter portion of his mind he wondered if superheated air had compromised his lungs, or raw terror was just making him hyperventilate. Regardless, he was winded and gasping by the time his fingers struck the far wall.

  His hands pawed across the walls in every direction, but there was no door.

  Searching frantically, willing the shimmering distortions to disappear, he heard himself begin to gibber and mewl. His hearing, having returned quicker than his sight, told him the gunshots had ceased, and only a few men were still screaming. As his vision returned reluctantly, he could just make out the details of the wall before him. He gave a sob of relief as he spied the door. Scrabbling, he flung himself forward and shoved it open.

  He lunged forward but gave a cry as he was wrenched backwards, one hand still wrapped tightly around the latch bar. He pulled and twisted, but his hand remained stuck fast and the door refused to close. Confusion bubbled through blind fear, and he looked down to see the metal of the bar had warped around his hand, while the door’s hinges had become snarled chunks of steel. He screamed, hammering and pulling until his knuckles split and his bones popped, but he remained trapped.