by Sean Deville
“Let me go, please,” Veronica pleaded. She remembered now, remembered it all. She’d been here before, had suffered at the hands of these fiends.
“You will never be free,” the two nurses said in unison. “You will return here endlessly, witness to the skill with which we perform our art.” This was Veronica’s fate. On Earth she had been an expert at torture, but compared to the denizens of Hell she was an amateur.
Here she would scream and suffer, her skin a million times more sensitive, her injuries always self-healing to allow fresh atrocities to be performed. She would come here again and again, to pay the price for her earthly wickedness.
Except this time, it was different. Veronica missed the nervousness the two demons displayed, their manner hampered by the great demon king watching the proceedings.
Baal was here, for she figured she might have some use for this pathetic human soul. For now, Baal would watch, enjoying the exquisite agony inflicted upon Veronica. When the gates were flung wide, however, Baal knew she could find a suitable role for this pitiful mind.
30.
Silicon Valley, USA
Entranced in his research, Stone nearly didn’t hear the person enter his expansive prison cell. Turning in apprehension, his heart calmed when he saw the placid figure of Professor Peterson standing in the doorway.
“Nothing to worry about. Only me,” Peterson said absently. Peterson walked into the room, moving along its periphery. He ran a bony finger along the gathered books as if checking them for dust.
“What can I do for you Professor?” How did he get in? It suddenly occurred to Stone that he had never once tried the door to his glorified prison. Had the door been unlocked all this time?
“So many books.” Peterson seemed mesmerised by the vast array of reading material.
“Mr Horn has an impressive library for sure.” So, it was Mr Horn now was it? Peterson pulled one of the volumes free and opened it.
“This isn’t in English? So pointless.” Peterson let the book fall to the floor. In another life, Stone would have been outraged. All he had left today was meek acceptance of the act.
“No. But all the books here have been digitised and translated.” Had they been translated correctly though? Many of the volumes here weren’t first editions, some being translations of languages that people no longer spoke.
“And you read all these?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Stone replied wearily. My ability to comprehend the message in these books is both my curse and my blessing.
“A prisoner like me.” So that answered Stones question. The Professor was here involuntarily.
“If you are a prisoner how are you able to walk about so freely?”
“Free? None of us are free. I can come and go as I like, but only between certain floors.”
“Do you know where we are?” Stone asked. This room could be anywhere for all he knew.
“No,” Peterson answered, looking up at the ceiling. “Your room is very ornate and bigger than mine.” Was it a competition now?
“What do you want Professor?” For the first time, Peterson turned his gaze to meet Stone’s. The eyes were furtive and anxious.
“I’m very busy,” Peterson mumbled.
“Then why are you here?”
“You need to understand. I’ve been told to make you understand.” Stone expected his guest to continue, but Peterson left him hanging.
“What do I need to understand?” Peterson brought his hands together, the fingers interlocking so hard that the knuckles turned white.
“I’m not a bad man,” Peterson insisted.
“I never said you were.”
“But your book will. Your book will make me look bad to the world.” Peterson took a step forward, a single tear suddenly leaking from his left eye. “It’s not fair that I should be viewed in such a manner.”
“I can keep you out of it. I’m sure Mr Horn won’t mind.”
“I never wanted to do this. You must believe me.”
“I do,” Stone admitted. “You are a prisoner here just as I am. I know you are doing what you need to survive.”
“The things Kane did…” A shudder rocked through Peterson’s spine.
“You don’t need to tell me about Kane,” Stone said calmly. The demon was perhaps the most vicious being he had ever encountered. “He took my tooth.”
“A single tooth? You got off lightly.”
“Why don’t you sit down,” Stone insisted. Instead of following the advice, Peterson retreated a step.
“Too busy. Please don’t make me look bad. I didn’t want to kill the world.”
“It won’t be your doing. You aren’t responsible for the way your virus is used.” Is that the case though, Stone thought? Had Peterson tried to end his own life as Stone had? Somehow, Stone figured he hadn’t.
“Viruses. Plural. You don’t know what I’ve done though, what I created.”
“You told me. About the plant killing virus.” What could be worse than that? Peterson moved back towards the door.
“There’s more, so much more. They made me help with other things.” What aren’t you telling me, thought Stone? Stone realised he didn’t want to know.
“You can tell me anything. It’s not like I’m going to be talking to anyone any time soon.”
“I’d like that,” Peterson said. He was looking at the books again. “I should read more, but I don’t have time.” With that, Peterson walked out of the room, half closing the door behind him.
Stone had no idea what the hell that encounter had been all about. Outside there was the sound of muted conversation. Peterson had evidently met someone in the corridor outside.
“He’s a strange one isn’t he,” Horn said, suddenly standing in the doorway.
“He seems damaged.”
“Oh, he is.” Horn leant on the door frame of the open door. “He was very reluctant to perfect what I asked of him. Nowhere near as compliant as you.” Stone felt the shame grow in his heart.
“What did you do to him?”
“I don’t think you want to know that,” Horn said with a wicked smile. “My but it smells ripe in here,” Horn said sniffing the air. “Smells like fear.”
“Is there something I can do for you Mr Horn?” He didn’t want to have this conversation. All Stone wanted to do was to get on with writing the book.
“I have some more research for you,” Horn said. It was then that Stone noticed his owner was holding something. Another USB stick. “Catch.”
Stone managed to catch the stick as it was thrown. He wondered what would have happened if he’d dropped it. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he could have been punished for such a minor transgression.
“What’s on it?”
“Everything we know about a group who call themselves Inquisitors,” Horn answered. “It’s not much, but it needs to be adding to your book.”
“Inquisitors?” Stone had already witnessed the excessive control Horn was displaying with regards the content of the book. Every time Stone thought he had an angle on how to develop the work he was writing, Horn would randomly add more information that hadn’t been available.
“Religious fanatics who spend their lives chasing demons. They are the one true threat to my reign. Although that threat won’t be an issue much longer.
“Am I to assume they are to be cast in an unfavourable light.”
“They are scum. Killers of women and children. And I’m not exaggerating in that regard. They may hunt demons but they kill indiscriminately.”
“So, like the Inquisition of old,” Stone noted.
“Exactly. Yes, I like that. When I wipe them off the face of the planet, I want their legacy to be tainted. They need to be reviled by the world, exposed for the sadists they are.”
“I can do that,” Stone conceded. “I have to say, Professor Peterson seemed genuinely agitated.”
“I will have to have a little word with him about that.” A da
rkness spread across Horns features. “Or more correctly, Kane will have to have words with him.”
“He didn’t mean any harm.” Stone felt sorry for the man. How could you not when you understood the predicament he was in?
“I think that’s for me to judge, don’t you?” Stone could only nod in agreement. He wished everyone would leave him alone. “It is a shame. The poor Professor hasn’t got much left for us to take.”
31.
New York City, USA
“You’re going to enjoy your new life,” Special Agent Ibrahim said. “We’ll keep you locked away, safe from all those people who want to harm you.” She had insisted on travelling in the back of the transport truck with Mohammed, her partner in one of the escort cars. Mohammed had seen the way others had looked at him, had felt the hate pouring off them. Whatever Ibrahim’s opinion of him, she clearly wasn’t alone.
So, this was what it felt like to be universally despised.
Mohammed was now an important man and was being shipped to FBI headquarters in Washington DC where the interrogation would continue. If Ibrahim and the other armed agents weren’t in the back of the truck with him, the ride would have been a lot more unpleasant. The seats were metal, and even with the restraints, Mohammed could have been taken for a ride by the judicious application of harsh braking manoeuvres.
It seemed that those in charge wanted him in one piece and uninjured. That meant his face was going to be plastered all over the country’s news media.
“I’m not the monster you think I am,” Mohammed insisted. He had no idea where Farrokh was. The FBI had told him that Farrokh had bared his soul, but Mohammed knew he couldn’t trust anything he was being told. The FBI would lie, they would play games and abuse him as much as they could, all to break his spirit. And whilst he didn’t know for sure why he was being driven to the airport, he had a strong suspicion that the Americans were about to make him famous.
He had already confessed everything. What more did they want from him?
Mohammed, not being able to see anything except out of the reinforced glass of the transport van’s back window, didn’t think anything when the van he was in slowed to a stop. The two tail cars also stopped, the visible road behind them empty.
That was when the van was rocked by the first explosion.
“Fuck,” Ibrahim shouted. Behind them, the car at the rear of their convoy erupted off the ground, a second shock wave hitting them, rocking the van. Mohammed watched in disbelief as FBI agents bundled out of the remaining car, only for bullets to rip through them.
Whoever was attacking them had considerable firepower, the metal of the car offering no protection as it was riddled. Special Agent Khaled was the last agent to fall to the ground, the impact rocking him off his feet.
“Shit,” Ibrahim said. She already had her weapon drawn, not that she could hope to combat the kind of firepower being brought to this gunfight. There was further gunfire, and the sound of the van being hit, but limited to the driver’s section. The pounding of the armour piercing rounds was terrifying.
“What have you done?” Ibrahim demanded. She exploded from her seat and grabbed Mohammed by his lapels, the gun pushed painfully into his neck. “What the fuck have you done?”
“I don’t know what this is,” Mohammed begged. From the corner of his eye he saw faces appear at the back window, their features hidden by the balaclavas they wore.
“If they come in here, you’re dead,” Ibrahim insisted. She released her captive and ripped her cell phone from an inside pocket. When she threw it in despair to the floor, it was evident to Mohammed that she had no signal. She was about to say something more, only for the menacing faces to disappear. A second later, the back doors blew off. Mohammed shrank back, the impact ringing through his head as nausea threatened to take him. Before Ibrahim could follow through on her promise, she was felled by three shots, one hitting her square in the forehead.
Then men were clamouring in. Bolt cutters appeared to separate his hands from the bench, hands pulling him roughly from the van. There was a man there with a phone, recording video of this. Everyone around him was wearing balaclavas.
“Watch people of America,” one of the rescuers shouted in exaggerated fashion. “Watch as we rescue the hero of the Islamic Republic of Iran.” The man embraced Mohammed.
Was this going out live?
For the briefest of moments, Mohammed thought he was being given a chance of salvation, but then the phone was put away and a chemical-smelling rag was forced against his face and the chloroform took his consciousness from him.
***
Kane did not need to be on site for such an operation, so he watched it through the body-worn cameras of the mercenaries who cared more for money than country. Seated in his office five floors below ground, he watched the rescue unfold with grim satisfaction. He didn’t understand why Horn wanted Mohammed rescued, but then Kane didn’t need such knowledge to get the job done.
“Is the risk worth it?” Kane had asked. Whereas a human subordinate might have been subject to Horn’s volatile wrath, Kane’s master had simply smiled.
“Everything I ask you to do is for the greater good,” Horn had said. “Please get it done.” How many times had Horn said the word please since becoming one of the richest men on the planet? In a way, that was a mark of respect which Kane had been surprised about.
Kane did what was asked of him. Mohammed would be rescued and ferried away to a remote location. There the mercenaries had orders to put a bullet in the terrorist’s head and dispose of the body so that it would never be found. In this instance, the mercenaries had no idea who had employed them, the contract done through intermediaries and paid for with bitcoin into accounts that the agents of law enforcement would never find.
Kane didn’t realise why this was done. Despite Mohammed being a weak and terrified man, he was also a symbol of terror. His reputation was already growing in the minds of the American public. His brutal rescue would solidify his position as a dangerous man with infinite resources. To the people of America, Horn intended to make Mohammed into a modern-day Goldstein, a figure of fear and hate who could be used to terrify and justify countless acts of violence.
Mohammed the man would be replaced by Mohammed the super-villain. Children would fear him, and mothers would whisper his name under their breath. Before Mohammed’s life was ended, the mercenaries were instructed to get a series of video and audio recordings from him. With this baseline information, a whole host of video messages could be concocted with the wonders od deep fake technology.
Horn had great plans for Mohammed, allowing the Iranian to become the bogeyman the world desired. And the hapless terrorist didn’t need to be alive for any of that.
32.
August 13th
Las Vegas
After performing on stage, Jonah had not returned to his penthouse suite. Instead he had felt compelled to accept an invitation that only a select few had been allowed to attend. The event had supposedly been exclusive, an opportunity for the preachers of God to share ideas and cement business relationships.
In reality it had been a very exclusive orgy of all manner of depravities, fuelled by alcohol and enough drugs to fill an emergency ward. With his performance on stage a resounding success, he felt he deserved the reward. Secrecy had been assured.
The fun was over now.
Stepping alone out of the elevator, Jonah expected the corridor to be a quiet and desolate affair. Instead he was met by the sound of someone cleaning the carpet outside his room. He had hoped to have some alone time with Kacey, who by now was likely insane with what had been done to her. In all honesty, with the monumental binge he had spiralled into, Jonah had all but forgotten he had left the woman tied up to his bed.
It was then that he saw that his bedroom door was open. There was a brief flash of concern that the evidence of his torture had been discovered, but surely he was protected. Kane had promised as much. Indeed, the horrors he had un
leashed upon Kacey had been partly on Kane’s explicit instruction.
The man with the industrial carpet cleaner briefly looked at Jonah, before returning to his duties. To Jonah, the man did not look like one of the hotel personnel. His clothes weren’t standard issue, and the cleaner’s demeanour told Jonah this was not a man to trifle with. Jonah was tempted to step back in the elevator and flee, but the decision was made for him.
Firstly, the elevator doors closed behind him, and secondly a second, even more formidable looking man, stepped out of the bedroom.
“Jonah, please come here,” the second man said. It wasn’t a request. Jonah reluctantly made his way down the corridor, the second man waiting with arms crossed to indicate his obvious impatience.
“What’s going on?” Jonah asked as he made his way past the first man.
“Inside please,” came the response. Jonah suddenly didn’t want to go in that room. Despite the pure luxury of his accommodation, he had the urgent feeling that he wouldn’t be safe there. Stopping, he again contemplated turning tail, but then the carpet cleaner was silenced. Tentatively he looked back to find the first man staring at him.
“Please don’t be difficult,” the first man said. Jonah nodded, resigned to the fact that either one of these men could squash him like a bug. Jonah walked into the bedroom, the second man closing the door behind them.
The first thing that struck him was the stench of bleach. It permeated the air, assaulting the lining of his nostrils and itching the back of his throat. A gentle hand suddenly rested in his back, and Jonah found himself guided further into the room. A third man made a brief appearance from the master bedroom, one of his hands carrying a formidable bucket. Without even indicating Jonah’s presence, the third man walked into the bathroom.
“Please sit down” the second man said. All three of the men were dressed the same, dark grey jump suits and gloves. Jonah sat as instructed, for the first time noticing that two things were missing. Firstly, there had once been an ornate rug next to the room’s fireplace. That was now absent.
More importantly, the glass topped table was clear and spotlessly clean.
