The Nightmare Unleashed

by J. J. Carlson

  Ashton swallowed. “No. You’re just trying to scare me.”

  Jarrod wagged a finger in the air. “You see, that’s what the voice wants me to do—frighten and threaten you, then give you a way out. Years of interrogation research show that prisoners are much more stubborn when they believe they are going to die. But I don’t actually care if you give me anything. The fact is, I want to hurt you. Badly. If you tell me something useful—like where Empress is located—then you might save someone else from sharing your pain. Who knows? I might have pity on you and kill you in a few minutes, rather than torture you until the sun rises.”

  Ashton closed his eyes. Against his irreligious nature, he prayed that someone would come to his rescue. When he looked up, Jarrod’s black, featureless face was staring back at him.

  “No one is coming to save you,” Jarrod said. “They’re all dead.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Jarrod adjusted the armor around his hands, sharpening his fingers into claws. “I only had to kill a few of them, then someone hit the kill-switch and dropped the rest like scorched flies. In fact, you would be dead right now if I hadn’t removed your implant.”

  Ashton gingerly touched the back of his head, and Jarrod added, “No need to thank me. You’ll soon learn that life can be a curse.”

  Losing shades of color in his face by the second, Ashton said, “I’ll die before I tell you anything.”

  Jarrod nodded, then gripped the wheel at the top of the press. He spun it one way, then the other, watching the metal cylinder descend and retract. “I sincerely hope so. You see, if you tell me something useful, I’ll be forced to kill you so I can continue my mission. If not…” He shrugged. “Well, then I don’t have anything better to do.”

  Ashton’s mind raced. He wished he could will himself to forget the secrets he had learned over the years. Then, he came to a welcome realization. “I don’t know where she is.”

  Jarrod took a deep breath, then let it out with a sigh. “Very well.” With a flash of movement, he grabbed Ashton’s forearm and forced it through the center of the coin press.

  “What are you doing?” Ashton demanded. “I’m telling you the truth!”

  “So was I.” Jarrod held Ashton in place with one hand and spun the wheel with the other. The iron screw rotated, forcing the coin stamp downward. When the cylinder held Ashton’s arm securely on its own, he stopped the wheel.

  “This is senseless,” Ashton protested. “What could you possibly gain from torturing me?”

  “Satisfaction. Retribution. It doesn’t matter.” He inched the wheel forward. “What do you think, should we rotate a quarter turn every minute, or every hour?”

  Ashton placed his free hand against the press and tried to pull his arm loose. “Either way, this is pointless.”

  Jarrod spun the wheel halfway around, eliciting a cry from his captive. “Every minute, then. Once we’re halfway through the arm, we’ll slow it down.”

  “You’re sick…” Ashton said, wincing at the sight of his purpling hand.

  Ignoring the barb, Jarrod said, “Did you know that Kremnica is home to the oldest continuously running mint in the world? It was established in the year 1328.” Jarrod bobbed his head as if counting the seconds, then cranked the wheel.

  A bone cracked in Ashton’s arm, and he uttered a string of curses.

  “Such language,” Jarrod said, still bobbing his head. “Hardly the vocabulary of a true professional. He looked at his wrist as if to check the time, then spun the wheel again.

  Ashton screamed until his throat was raw, then pinched his eyes shut and began to whimper.

  “Music to my ears,” Jarrod said. “Ready for another?”

  “No—please, no!”

  The wheel spun again. The stamp popped the bones in Ashton’s arm apart and fell into the gap between. Ashton shrieked in agony, then swayed on his feet as if ready to faint.

  “How many Ashton coins do you think we can make before you die of blood loss?” Jarrod asked as he grabbed Ashton’s arm and shook it.

  “Please,” Ashton begged. “I’ll tell you anything. Just let me out.”

  “Not an option.” Jarrod cranked the wheel a quarter-turn.

  Ashton shrieked again. His knees buckled, then gave out, and the skin in his arm tore under his weight.

  “You’re going to mess up the image,” Jarrod said. “Hold still or the coin won’t come out right.”

  “Krasnoyarsk,” Ashton mumbled.

  Jarrod turned his head and leaned closer. “What about it?”

  “Helicopters—resupply.”

  “You aren’t making any sense.” Jarrod spun the wheel a full turn.

  “The helicopters that resupply the palace!” Ashton shrieked. “They land in Krasnoyarsk every week!”

  “Good to know.” Jarrod turned the wheel until it locked into place, then spun it the opposite direction.

  Ashton’s arm came free, and he fell to the ground.

  “Can’t buy much with a single coin,” Jarrod said. “We should probably make a few more.”

  Ashton held up one arm, and his legs scrambled against the ground. “No, please! I’ll tell you anything.”

  “Five minutes. Then I’ll either put you back in the press or slit your throat. Make it good.”

  Ashton rambled through a description of the Palace, based on his singular visit. He described the perimeter defenses, the concealed elevator, and the underground structure. When he had finished, he said, “That’s all I know, I swear!”

  Jarrod knelt over the cowering Katharos agent and said, “I believe you.” Using his forefinger and thumb, he pierced both of Ashton’s carotid arteries.

  “Th—thank you,” Ashton said. He leaned back, and an expression of blissful relief spread across his face. As the blood misted the air around him, he laid his head down to wait for death’s embrace.

  19

  The Palace, Central Siberia

  Eugene lifted a clay pot above his head and threw it against the wall. It shattered, dumping soil and a red orchid on the floor.

  “That’s better,” Eugene said, dusting his hands off. He surveyed the room, taking pride in his attempts at redecoration. The remains of an LED light lay sprinkled atop a demolished desk and office chair, and strips of carpet spelled out the letters “F” and “U” directly beneath a security camera.

  He stood with his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels, pondering what to do next. His eyes alighted on a water cooler in the corner. “Bingo.”

  He lifted the ten-liter jug out of its cradle and began emptying its contents on the pile of rubble. The cooler was half-empty when the door to his makeshift prison swung open and a seven-foot-tall monstrosity walked in.

  Eugene stared straight into the cyborg’s eyes and said, “I’m not sorry.” When the jug was empty, he pitched it across the room. It gave a bass-drum “thoom” as it bounced off the cyborg’s head and landed on the floor.

  The bio-automaton remained motionless, its arms at its sides.

  Eugene raised his eyebrows expectantly, then tapped his foot. “Did you need something? Because I’m nesting.”

  “Clearly,” a familiar voice said.

  Emily Roberts stepped into the room, careful to avoid the puddle on the floor.

  Without uttering a single syllable, Eugene leapt over the pile of debris, his hands stretching toward Emily’s throat. The cyborg caught him in mid-air, gripped him by the belt, then lowered him to the ground.

  “A man with a purpose,” Emily said. “I like that. But don’t try anything stupid. My bodyguard is more than a match for you.”

  “You think you’re safe down here,” Eugene spat, “but you’re not. It’s only a matter of time before some very dangerous people show up to crash your party.”

  “I sincerely doubt that. Although, I do hope someone attempts a rescue. The sight of them being torn to pieces by our machine guns or scorched to death on our electric fence should be very
entertaining.”

  Eugene shrugged. “Or maybe you’ll slip up, give me too much space, and I’ll choke you to death with my bare hands.”

  The cyborg shifted forward, but Emily held up a hand to stop it. “Don’t worry,” she said, “Eugene is a friend and ally. Or, at least, he will be. Mr. Ross, would you please escort him to the Throne Room?”

  The automaton gave a sharp nod, grabbed Eugene around his waist, and slung him over its shoulder.

  “Not this again,” Eugene moaned. “I have legs, you know.”

  “Yes, you do,” Emily said, jogging to keep up. “And if you try to use them to escape, my friend will be forced to hurt you.”

  Eugene propped his elbows against the cyborg’s back and rested his chin in his hands. “Friend, huh? Did you meet online? Be honest.”

  Emily took a deep breath as if to reply, then exhaled through her nose.

  “I knew it,” Eugene said. He fingered a cable on the side of the cyborg’s head, then tried to pull it loose. The wire didn’t budge, and the cyborg jolted him with its shoulder. Eugene winced. “Easy on the goods, Frankenstein.”

  Emily hurried by and opened the wide doors to the Throne Room. “Set him down, Ross. Dmitri will make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish. You can station the automaton outside the door.”

  The cyborg dumped Eugene on the stone floor, then placed its back against the wall.

  Eugene rose up on one knee and surveyed the room in front of him. With the plush carpet, royal decor, and high ceilings, it was hard to believe the Throne Room was actually buried deep underground. He shot a glance at Emily, who was standing well out of reach, and the heavyset man at her side, who was aiming a Beretta 92FS pistol at him.

  “The eighties called,” Eugene mumbled as he stood, “they want their gun back.” Pain shot through his knees, a symptom of the micro-fractures he had incurred at London, but he managed to keep his face placid. He glanced at the rows of tan figures at the edges of the room and frowned. “Are those real?”

  Emily smiled and turned toward the Terracotta soldiers. “Yes. They’re magnificent, aren’t they?”

  Eugene took a few cautious steps forward, following the red carpet.

  “They were sculpted for the first Emperor of China,” Emily explained, “where they served as symbolic guardians of his tomb for millennia.” She stood a few feet from the nearest statue and clasped her hands behind her back. “We thought it fitting that they should be brought here. The world’s first emperor spent his life searching for the source of immortality, and its last has found it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Eugene asked.

  “Eternal life,” a voice at the far end of the room called out. A red silk curtain rose and gathered along a cable fifteen feet off the ground, revealing a man seated in a wide, gold throne that was inlaid with emeralds and sapphires.

  “Eugene Carver,” Emily said, sweeping her hand in a theatrical gesture, “it is my honor to introduce Borya Tabanov.”

  Eugene shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

  A look of fury passed across Emily’s face, but it faded as Dmitri began to chuckle.

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” Emily said, composing herself. “He comes from…academia. And a world of visionary savants you aren’t suited for.”

  Eugene stood silent for a long moment. He bowed his head and stared at the red carpet between his feet. “You…really found a way to stay alive forever?”

  Borya gave a confident nod. “We have. It is a tragic irony that our predecessors scoured the earth in search of immortality, and the answer was inside their own bodies. Coiled within the telomeres of human DNA, there are structures—”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it, even a few minutes ago,” Eugene cut in. “But then I saw you. Seriously, you look like you’re about a thousand years old.” He kept his eyes on the floor, and a grin turned up the corners of his lips.

  “Emily, don’t!” Dmitri shouted.

  Emily had crossed the room, gripping a short blade in her left hand. She swung the weapon, intending to open a cut on Eugene’s arm, but he pivoted on his heel and grabbed her wrist. He twisted hard, and the knife fell to the floor. Continuing through the motion, he spun her around and hooked his elbow around her neck.

  The doors crashed open, and the cyborg sprinted along the red carpet. Eugene tightened his grip and adjusted his hips. He held Emily under her chin with his free hand and lifted upward. Her body rose an inch off the ground, and Eugene shifted his body to redirect her fall, driving the back of her skull toward the floor.

  The cyborg lunged. Eugene’s vision exploded into sparkling white, then faded into a black abyss.

  20

  Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Janson crammed grenade after grenade into a green duffle bag, then shoved in a low-profile grenade launcher. The bag tore at the seams, and the grenade launcher poked through the opposite side.

  “It’s alright,” Eli said, taking the bag from her. “We have spares. Why don’t you pull weapons from the armory while I swap these over?”

  Janson nodded and strode out of the room. She rounded a corner at a T-intersection in the hallway and banged a knuckle against a titanium sliding door.

  The door opened, and Trent Jefferson poked his head out. “I’m almost finished,” he said, handing her a pair of long-rifles and a submachine gun. “I’ll bring the weapons to the team room in a few minutes, then you can come back for ammunition.”

  “Thanks, Trent.” Janson tucked the submachine gun under her arm, took a rifle in each hand, and walked back to the team room.

  “Are we sticking with short-range comms for this mission?” Eli asked as she walked in.

  Janson set the weapons on a workbench and nodded. “That’s right. Katharos will be able to intercept any communication and hack any crypto. If we have to use radios, make sure they have a range of one mile or less.”

  “Got it.” He held up a map. “I’m assuming we’re going low-tech on navigation, too.”

  “Good assumption. And make sure you grab the laser rangefinders without the built-in GPS.”

  Janson crossed the room and grabbed a set of camouflaged coveralls. She dropped them on the workbench and began stuffing ceramic armor plates into pouches on the limbs and torso. When she was finished, she stripped down to her underwear and stepped into the coveralls. As she shrugged her arms into the plate-laden sleeves, Trent arrived with a bundle of weapons.

  “There’s a pallet of ammunition in the armory. Feel free to grab what you need.”

  Eli started to the door, but Janson held up a hand.

  “I’ll get it,” she said, zipping up her coveralls. She jogged down the hallway and entered the armory, then frowned at the assorted small boxes of ammunition. Taking a deep breath, she hooked her arms inside the pallet and lifted it up. Carrying it at chest-height, she stumped down the hall to the team room.

  While she was gone, Daron had entered the room. He watched her carry the pallet to an open space on the floor and set it down.

  “Oh, hell, Janson,” Trent said, cocking an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you just bring the whole armory?”

  She shrugged. “It wouldn’t fit through the door.” Turning to Daron, she said, “What do you want?”

  Daron chewed his tongue for a moment before answering. “I have the target description from our asset.”

  “You mean prisoner,” Janson corrected him.

  “In this case, she’s both.” Daron laid a diagram on a table at the center of the room.

  Eli leaned over it, tracing the penciled-in lines with his finger. “What are these boxes around the perimeter?”

  Daron faced Janson and crossed his arms. “With your permission, Agent Janson, I’ll give my suggestions for the operation.”

  Before Janson could answer, Eli took her by the arm and led her away from the group.

  “Are you sure we can trust him?” he whispered.


  Janson glanced at the black-ops commander. “Yes and no.”

  Eli shook his head. “We’re traveling halfway around the world and attacking the heart of the most dangerous terrorist organization in history. I’m not okay with half-trust.”

  “I don’t mean it that way.” She sighed. “I don’t like the idea of working with him, either. He’s crossed the line more times than I can count. But this mission is different. This is the killing blow, and he’ll do everything in his power to make sure we come out on top. Besides, he’s a strategist, and he has connections that we couldn’t access without him.”

  “Alright. If you’re good, I’m good.” He raised his hand toward the table and said, “After you, Alpha.”

  Janson and Eli took their places within the circle, and Daron cleared his throat.

  “Before we get started, I want to be clear about something.” He paused long enough to make eye contact with every operative in the room. “This mission is personal.”

  A few of the team members exchanged glances. Others nodded their heads.

  “For some of us,” Daron continued, “this entire war has been personal.” He lowered his eyes. “Namely, me. I’ve made mistakes, put my people in unnecessary danger, and lied to everyone in this room. I know my apology means jack-shit right now, so I’ll save it for later.”

  Looking up, he said, “We all have reasons to want Roberts dead. But each of you should know, if you go on this mission, you might not make it back. If you want to back out, this is your chance.”

  The room fell quiet. After several long moments, Trent said, “That bitch is going to pay for what she did to Marcus.”

  “And Stark,” a wiry man with tattoo sleeves added.

  “And we’re getting Eugene out of there,” Janson said. “Cut the crap and give us the mission, Daron.”

  A hint of a smile spread across Daron’s face. He lifted his chin and pulled his shoulders back. “We’ll start with team assignments. Janson, you’re point-woman.” He nodded toward a blond-haired man with cold blue eyes. “If you haven’t met him, Yuri Sokolov is the lead medic here at Hillcrest. He’ll be the team’s Bravo. Eli Graham will be lead sniper, callsign Charlie. Trent will be Delta and primary demolitions pack mule.”