by L C Champlin
“Mr. Conrad . . . we can’t count completely on him regaining consciousness. You’ve considered that, I’m sure.”
A chill rolled down Albin’s spine. Never say die, but consider it from every angle. “If he is dead, then I have no more reason to remain here.”
Chapter 62
Amarok
Wilder Mind – Mumford and Sons
Cold! Nathan gasped, jerked back. Why was he wet and why did he hurt everywhere? Copper in his mouth, pain on the right side of his face and the back of his skull. Blinking, shaking his head, straining to hear over the ringing in his ears, he tried to raise his right hand to wipe the water out of his eyes, but his wrist seemed stuck. Same with the left. His surroundings swam into focus as he squinted against the sun-bright light: table, walls, shadows, two figures.
Adrenaline kicked the last of the cobwebs from his mind. Captured. Bound to a . . . chair, apparently. Alone with terrorists in a confined space. Wolf silhouettes loped at the edges of the avalanche of rage and anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him.
Breathe. His throat closed. Captured. His heart missed every other beat. Bound. The ringing grew deafening. Alone. Lone wolves couldn’t bring down the prey a pack could.
Alone. Like an amarok. They hunted alone, taking the life of any foolish enough to challenge the dark. They transcended the power of a wolf.
Cold sparked in the back of his brain. His answer towered before him in the oblivion of closed eyes. I will be the amarok.
Nathan Serebus opened his eyes, straightened his spine, squared his shoulders.
The light shifted to point at the table. The alteration illuminated his host: the bearded terrorist who had interrogated Rodriguez now sat across from him. Expression impassive, Nathan met the man’s abyss-dark eyes. Damn, those eyes, like a raptor’s but with ruthlessness and intelligence to rival the most dedicated serial killer’s. Then the smile. Warmth and sincerity, but those lips hid a tongue set on fire by hell: he could give a death order with a word.
He wore black fatigues sans insignia. Calm radiated from him, but it only increased Nathan’s distrust. Angry, rash, insane people made stupid decisions, and thus made good tools. This man embodied the opposite of those characteristics.
“Good morning, Mr. Serebus.” Slight British accent over an Indian inflection. The terrorist chief laced his fingers together on the table before him as he continued to smile. The Proper Name technique, coupled with Good Cop, Bad Cop, though the Bad Cop remained elusive.
Nathan cleared his throat. “Good morning . . .” he grated, leaving the pause generally accepted as a substitute for “who the fuck are you?” Two could play the manners game. As a bonus, it might keep the Bad Cop and his pliers at bay. Nathan might not have the best fingernails in the world, but he’d grown rather attached to them.
“How rude of me. I am Sri Cheel, though my men know me as Ustath Bassam.”
Nathan inclined his head while behind he tested the slack in the zip ties. The correct angle and force would snap them. “I would say, ‘pleased to meet you,’ but we both know that would be a lie.”
“Quite right.” Cheel smiled. “I trust my men did not mistreat you too severely.”
Licking his split lip and flexing his left thigh against the Taser burns, Nathan shrugged. “Objectively speaking, the mistreatment could have been much more severe.” I could be dead, or missing limbs, or burning in a cage.
“I appreciate your magnanimity. It is indeed a shame that we must meet under these . . .”—Cheel gestured as if requesting the word from thin air—“barbaric circumstances. I believe we would have much in common.”
A drop of water slid from Nathan’s hair to run down his face. Cheel watched its course, then turned to the Arab behind him, who wore tactical equipment worthy of a SWAT member and held an AK across his chest. “Captain Ali, let us not be poor hosts. Fetch this gentleman water to drink and a towel.”
The man nodded and stepped out.
Turning back to Nathan, Cheel resumed his build-up: “Where were we?”
“You were saying we’d have much in common if not for the fact that we’re striving to kill each other.” Nathan lifted his chin.
A thin smile from Cheel this time. “Even so, we have common interests.”
“Really?” How predictable. Thus far it boded well. “I assume the others you captured today are still unharmed because they’re sharing in those interests?”
“Those people are important to you?”
Committing too much to an answer now could jeopardize their, and more importantly his, health. “A certain level of confidence is needed for me to negotiate.” Nathan kept a flat expression.
Cheel raised his hands in acquiescence. “Of course. Now, you have information that rightfully belongs to me. It is of no use to you as it stands. Give it to me, and you will receive appropriate, even generous, compensation.”
Nathan raised a brow. “I’m listening.” The back of his neck prickled. Cheel wanted Birk’s data. Unless . . . Did Cheel somehow know about the bonus features of Arete Tech servers? No, the terrorists came for Doorway’s files, not those the algorithms had selected and shipped to Nathan’s collection.
“I am willing to overlook the killing of three loyal soldiers.” Cheel’s smile remained like a mannequin’s. “My men surprised you and did not offer terms of surrender, contrary to my orders, correct?”
“Correct.”
The door opened to admit Captain Ali, who carried a Dixie cup and paper towel in his left hand, but kept the AK ready in the right. At this range he should switch to a handgun or Taser, given that an opponent could bind up the rifle in close-quarters combat.
The gunman set the towel and cup before Nathan. Water rocked in the container, which sported a purple and yellow floral pattern. Bile rose in his throat at the dissonance of the cup and its surroundings.
“Well?” Cheel asked, attention on the captain, who stepped away after the delivery. “How is the man supposed to do anything? Release his hands, Captain.” Ali looked unsure, his gaze flicking from Nathan to Cheel. “Need I repeat myself?” The fury of a tidal wave underlay the chief’s words.
The False Trust move and the Law of Reciprocity. Impressive. Mohammed’s bitch moved behind Nathan. Cold steel against his right wrist, then—snap. Nathan slowly placed his hand palm-down on the table. A pink line half an inch wide decorated his wrist. He gave his left arm a tug, eyes locked with Cheel’s.
“Both hands, Captain,” Cheel admonished. “I sit down today to discuss mutual interests with Mr. Serebus, not bind and humiliate him like a beast.”
Cold against the left wrist, hesitation, then release of the band. Nathan brought his left hand to join the other on the table. Other men’s blood stood out dark red on his knuckles and in the creases of his fingers. Cheel’s raptor stare followed every move as Nathan picked up the towel and wiped his face. Spying a trash can in the corner, Nathan tossed the crumpled towel into it, then raised the Dixie cup and took a sip. Though it disgusted him, he left the blood on his hands. Sri Cheel should have a reminder of the threat across from him.
Cheel leaned back, his hands also flat on the table. “Hands are fascinating, do you not agree?”
Chapter 63
A Fortiori
Cough Syrup – Young the Giant
“Excuse me?” Behrmann bristled at Albin’s declaration of independence.
He straightened from before a box of ten-milliliter syringes to glare at her. “You heard correctly. If he is lost, I will take the weapons and depart for the Armory.”
She opened her mouth, shut it again, before responding: “But the others—”
“Would be freed by the cavalry, no doubt, after I reached the Armory.”
For once she fell silent.
Taking advantage of the reprieve, Albin stated, “I will contact the terrorist leader via the radio, ascertain the status of Mr. Serebus, and demand to speak with him. I will then act acco
rding to his plans.”
“And if he doesn’t have a plan? If he’s relying on you to have one?”
Only the rarest of comments reached the pinnacle of stupidity. Albin observed a moment of silence for the death of common sense.
He reached into his pocket, withdrew the data device, and held it up to the torch’s light. Rectangular, matte black, unadorned save for the company logo, a stylized open door.
“Can we hook it up to something and see the files?” the newshound suggested. “Maybe they can help us negotiate with the kidnappers—”
“Terrorists.” The connector spanned the width of two USB connectors. “Dr. Birk would be able to do so, but whatever this device’s IEEE standard is, it does not fit any ports on Mr. Serebus’s laptop.” He nodded to the rucksack where the laptop resided.
“And the servers’ are password protected, meaning our chance of reading the files from them is nil.” Shaking her head, she began to pace, steps quick but quiet. “We need an edge. We can’t just rely on hitting them when they’re leaving and are spread out. They have us outmanned and outgunned. Other than the element of surprise, they have all the advantages.”
Albin closed his eyes to center his thoughts. Another thud against the service door made him jump. One moment . . . Strengths, weaknesses, and double edged swords came together to point the way. Chin up, he opened his eyes. The plan would prove risky—Serebus level risky—but at the moment, it might be foolish enough to get the correct people killed.
Albin returned to the box of syringes and slid two into his pocket. Next he opened the containers of needles and gloves.
“What on earth are you doing?” Behrmann whispered as he screwed a needle onto a syringe.
“I am turning our enemies’ advantages against them.”
Now for a polearm.
“Care to illuminate a mere mortal on how?” She smirked.
He moved to a wood-handled broom that leaned against the wall and began unscrewing the brush. “I presume you recall the effect the infected passenger had on the van’s occupants last night.” She nodded as he continued, “The cannibal illness is highly contagious. If one of the terrorists becomes infected, this will sow distrust and fear among them. There are enough gunmen here to make luring one into range simple. I have their radio.” He tapped the walkie talkie at his belt. “He will of course realize he’s been infected, which will prompt him to do one of three things: kill himself, seek death from his comrades, or deny his infected state. This assumes the terrorists do not possess a treatment for the illness.”
Behrmann stared at him with a newscaster’s poker face. “I assume this plan has more specifics.”
“Obviously.”
“And they are?” She spread her hands in expectancy.
He retrieved a screwdriver from a nearby table, then duct taped it to the broom. “I create a fomite by applying the infected fluids”—he patted the ten-milliliter syringe in his pocket—“then encourage the terrorist to pick it up. Direct contact with the infected fluids should be enough to transmit the . . . condition.” I hope.
“That might actually work!” Grinning, she moved to clap him on the shoulder. A pivot left and back preserved his personal space. “It’s a good plan,” she continued.
“If your next word is going to be but—”
“No, no! You need a headline and a little extra meat in the story, that’s all.”
Fishing two pairs of latex gloves from his back pocket and donning them, he snorted. “This is not a newscast.”
“Slow down.” An order?
He grasped the service door’s knob, but before he could turn it, Behrmann interposed herself between him and the barrier. He stepped back to avoid the awkward hand/body position with her. “Step aside, Ms. Behrmann.” The timer in Albin’s mind ticked away, louder than the beat of Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart.
“Why would there be a weapon just lying in the hall? Because”—finger up like she had solved a mystery worthy of Hercule Poirot . . . or Velma Dinkley—“it fell out of a dead man’s hand while he was fighting a zombie.”
“Cannibal.” Albin’s jaw tensed. “You refer to staging a confrontation’s aftermath, using the guard’s corpse and a deceased cannibal. Yes, I’m certain the terrorists will never suspect that the guard died from multiple gunshot wounds instead of a cannibal attack. The causes of death are practically indistinguishable.”
“There has to be a good reason for them to pick up the . . . whatever it is you’re using. There’s your reason. We can use the jacket there.” She pointed to a Carhartt hanging over a handtruck. “And some packing material to make the wounds less noticeable. To make it really convincing”—she pressed, ignoring his Heavenward look—“the cannibal should be alive. Or functional. Whatever. It’ll be hard to look too closely at the body when there’s a monster charging them.”
“Functional. Of course.” Albin cocked his head. The duct tape option grew more appealing by the millisecond.
“There are two out there, right?” Her confident smile remained. “Just gaff one and we’ll . . . trap the other.”
Feigning agreement, Albin smiled. “We will, certainly. However, as you seem to be an expert in this field, you should capture the cannibal. You are also free to extract the saliva.”
This gave her pause, but only for a moment. “Okay.”
Albin stared at the reporter-turned-lunatic. “Excuse me?”
“Give me the spear.” She grasped the haft, her hand abutting his.
“No.” A twist and tug freed it from her grip.
“It’s my idea. What, do you think I won’t do it right?”
“Yes. But more importantly, you already have a responsibility: collect as many extension cords . . .” He trailed off. She actually preempted him, moving for the nearest power cord coil. What strange forces aligned for this? “Fetch a trash bag as well and tape a cord to the bottom.”
“Because we don’t want to get puked on, right?” she grunted as she tossed a coil of cord to the room’s center.
“Go to the second floor and tie off the cord.” Pausing, he pulled the extension cable from a fan. “When the cannibal enters the cage, drop a noose around its neck.”
“What about you?” She actually looked concerned. An act, no doubt, to manipulate him further.
He strode toward the garage door. “I have a Beretta if the situation degrades.” At one of the door’s struts, he fastened the cord and tied a loop in the other end.
Behrmann headed toward the lift shaft. “It would be easier to tie its feet.”
“I want the snake’s head.” Albin upended a rubbish bin and kicked through the debris. There, a water bottle. “Also, glove up.”
“It’ll go fine,” she asserted, likely more for her reassurance than his.
At the door, he paused to collect himself. The cannibals outside . . . The blood drained from his face at the thought, while his pulse ticked past one hundred.
Chapter 64
The Game’s Afoot
Fix Me – 10 Years
“The hands”—Cheel held up both of his—“reveal much about their owner. Take yours, for example.”
“Are you going to read my palms? I thought Islam forbade divination.”
Cheel waved away the comment. “I use deduction.”
“And what do you deduce about my hands, my good Sherlock Holmes?” If Cheel wanted to drag this affair into next week, fine. All the more chance to learn what the terrorists had come for and if it involved the cannibals.
Cheel chuckled. “You compliment me, Mr. Serebus. I must confess I am not yet at Mr. Holmes’s level of excellence, however.”
“So?” Nathan held his hands up.
Cheel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I will start with the obvious: the restraint marks on your wrists. The lines’ shade indicates that pressure has been applied to the skin, but not enough to damage the flesh or break the ties. Thus, I know you are
rational but prepared, opportunistic but not a gambler, preferring negotiation to violence. How do I know this?” he asked in response to Nathan’s narrowed eyes. “You have tested the restraints but not struggled against them. Others attempt to escape, but you possess the good sense to know that even if you broke the bonds, you would only reach the door’s threshold.”
Deduction: Cheel would kill him without hesitation. Now, for the less obvious: He grew up in India, or at least his father hailed from the region and named him accordingly. He received his education in the UK, judging by the accent, and seemed to assimilate into the Western culture. He valued the Western preference for flattery before force. He seemed to scorn his comrades’ love of violence, but when push came to beheading, he held no qualms about responding in kind: with a gun to his prisoner’s head.
“You’re correct so far.” Keep him talking. The longer they bantered, the more time Albin had to recognize the situation and respond accordingly. The Air Force might even realize it had lost a chopper and send out a team.
Fifteen years earlier, in Intro to Psych at U of AA, Nathan had suffered through a similar experience. Professor . . . S something: short, round, with a mind that spent more time in the gutter than a drunk rat. Only his power to levy Fs on those who displeased him made him intimidating. His favorite pastime involved psychological demonstrations, using students as unwilling participants. The demonstrations rated as annoying, but his deductions about the students rose to torture level. An unwary student could find himself suddenly called out in front of the class because he had looked in what the professor considered the wrong direction, which clearly indicated he slacked on work, would amount to nothing, and never received his father’s love. The tactic drove some students to the brink of mental breakdown from constantly analyzing their own behavior and guessing what the professor could deduce from it. They would change their behavior, only to second guess themselves, wondering if the overlord would notice and analyze that in front of the class. Wheels within wheels. As for Nathan, he either laughed when his turn came, or responded with deductions of his own. Two episodes of this left Professor S red-faced and Nathan in peace for the rest of the semester.
