The Belial Library (The Belial Series)

by R. D. Brady

  The

  Belial

  Library

  by

  R.D. Brady

  Copyright © 2013 by R.D. Brady

  The Belial Library

  ISBN for E-Books: 978-0-9895179-2-8

  ISBN for Print: 978-0-9895179-3-5

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  “There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that,

  when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men,

  and they bare children to them,

  the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.”

  (Genesis 6:4)

  PROLOGUE

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Twenty-Nine Years Ago

  Six-year old Henry Chandler jarred awake, clutching his frayed bear. His breath came out in jagged bursts. He pulled his legs to his chest. Small for his age, he was dwarfed by the twin bed.

  His violet eyes darted around the room, straining to hear anything that told him why he'd awoken. He knew his room looked the same as it had when he went to sleep: pale blue paint on top, red on bottom. His stuffed animals, soldiers, board games, and books crammed the shelves on both sides of the door. The ceiling fan turned gently, its air pushing the toy airplane that hung from the ceiling.

  But moonlight shined through his window, casting long shadows across the floor. The shadows, misshapen, looked like monsters reaching for his bed. He clutched Huggles tighter. His mom had assured him there were no monsters under the bed, but late at night like this, it was hard to remember that.

  Noises – shouts and crashes – echoed from downstairs.

  “Mom?” Trembling, he called out quietly. If she was next door, she’d hear him. She always did.

  More loud bangs echoed up the stairs. He knew those sounds. Gunshots. He’d heard them on TV.

  A second barrage of gunfire echoed from the first floor, throwing him into panicked motion. He struggled to free himself from his blankets. Gripping Huggles, he sprinted across the room, jumping over the toys scattered on the floor.

  He peeked through the crack in the door. The lights in the foyer downstairs were on, casting the circular stairwell in a soft glow. More thumps came from downstairs, and his father screamed.

  Feeling like his heart was going to gallop out of his chest, Henry ran from his room to his parent’s room next door. He flung open the door. The giant bed was still made. His mom’s lace pillows were perfectly positioned on the lavender quilt.

  Where was his Mom? He searched the hall wildly, his heart pounding. Where was everybody?

  As if on cue, footsteps pounded up the stairs behind him. He whirled around. But he knew his parents’ footfalls. It wasn’t them charging up the stairs. His mother's words floated through his brain. Trust your instincts, Henry. If they tell you to run, you run.

  Without another glance, he sprinted down the hall. He rushed past door after door – the bathroom, music room, study, office, sewing room, another bathroom.

  His little legs struggled to move faster. Why was this hall so long?

  He kept his eyes focused on the little door two feet off the ground at the end of the hall. He jerked to a stop at the dumbwaiter, sliding the door open with a bang. Throwing Huggles on the tray inside, Henry clambered in after him.

  "Hey!" A man in black charged down the hall towards Henry.

  Henry slammed the door shut, locking it. His small hands curled around the thick ropes, pulling on them, lowering himself to the kitchen below. Above him, the wood splintered as bullets crashed through it. The man started kicking at the door.

  "Come on, come on." Tears streaming down his cheeks, Henry’s words came out in a hiccupped burst as he pleaded with the ancient pulley system to move faster. The lock above him gave way just as he reached the bottom.

  Henry struggled to open the latch in front of him with his trembling hands. He yanked and yanked on the small metal handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “No, no, no,” he screamed.

  A man's head appeared though the opening above him, two floors up. He took aim. "Gotcha, kid."

  Henry covered his head with his hands just as the door next to him shot open. Two arms reached through the opening, yanking him into the dark kitchen. Henry screamed. He fell on someone as bullets slammed into the tray behind them.

  Soft arms curled around him. "I've got you, baby."

  Henry flung his arms around his savior. "Mom," he sobbed out.

  She hugged him to her and then stood him up, firmly grasping his hand. "It’ll be okay, honey."

  He nodded, trying to hold back his tears. For the first time, he noticed the body stretched across the back doorway, the gun his Mom held in her other hand. "Mom?" his voice cracked.

  She squeezed his hand, turning her violet eyes to him. "I won’t let anyone hurt you."

  He stared into her eyes, knowing she was telling the truth. "Where's Dad?"

  She went still. Fear slashed across her face. "Protecting us."

  Gunfire came from the front of the house and footsteps once again pounded down the stairs.

  "Stay behind me," his mother ordered, releasing his hand. She gestured for him to get low behind the counter as she aimed the gun for the kitchen door. More gunfire rang out just beyond the door and a man yelled. Henry couldn’t tell who it was. A body fell against the wall from the other room. Hard. Henry jumped at the sound.

  Slowly, the door opened. A tall man stood silhouetted in the dim light. "Vicki?"

  With a cry, Henry’s mother ran across the room, catching his father as he fell. Henry ran to help. Stumbling under his father's weight, the three of them crumpled to the floor. His father gave a small cry of pain.

  Henry helped his mother roll his father onto his back. Even in the dim light, Henry could make out the trauma that ravaged his father's body. Bullet wounds dotted him, blood from his chest still pumped out. His mother tried to staunch the blood with her robe.

  Her father took her hands. "It's too late for that now."

  "No," she argued. "I don't believe that. You can-"

  He cut her off, his voice gentle. "Vic, I'm going."

  Henry stared at his Dad, trying to understand what he meant.

  Tears streamed down his mother’s cheeks. She ran her hand along his father’s face. "I love you."

  His Dad held her hand to his cheek. "I owe everything good in my life to you."

  “Did you take care of all of them?” his mother asked.

  His Dad nodded and then grimaced. “But you’ll need to find out who sent them.”

  “I will,” she promised, clutching his hand.

  His father turned his eyes to Henry. "I'm sorry for leaving you, son. I wish I could stay." He held out his other arm.

  Henry felt the air leave his lungs. His father was dying. He threw himself to his father's side, sobs wracking his body. He felt his father fight to breathe. Even now, as his Dad struggled to stay with them, he felt his father’s strength. How could he be dying? Who’d done this to him? Why?

  As his father's heartbeat slowed, Henry gripped him tighter, as if somehow he could keep him here. As if he could give his Dad his own strength. He looked into his father's face. "No, Dad. Don't go. Don’t die."

  His father ran a hand through Henry's hair with a smile. "You'll be okay. Always remember how much I love you.”

  With his last breath, his father turned to his mother. "You must
keep him safe, Victoria. Don’t let anyone know who he is."

  CHAPTER 1

  Seven Months Ago

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Sebastian Flourent tossed the handful of pills into his mouth, his shaking, liver-spotted hand reaching for the glass of water. He hated taking the things, but his doctors insisted. Putting down the glass with a thud, he stood, reaching for his cane. Another indication of how far he’d fallen.

  He used to be a man feared, both physically and mentally. Now only one of those was true.

  He walked out of the kitchen and down the hall. A wall of windows lined the entire left side of the house. He glanced out with a grimace. Red desert rock stared back at him. He longed for the lush green fields of his family’s Georgia plantation. But his doctors warned against the humidity. He’d been medically banished to this desert wasteland.

  Instead of the home his family had lived in for generations, he was living his final days in a newly polished house. The architecture firm had almost swooned over the prospect of building this home into the side of Red Canyon.

  At least he was able to surround himself with his things. Rembrandt, Monet, and a Picasso he’d picked up in Paris decades ago were the only souls to bear witness to his passage. He paid his staff well to keep his home immaculate and themselves out of sight.

  He opened the door to his office, nodding in approval. The report he’d requested was already on his desk. The desk itself shined in the early morning rays from the windows. Crafted out of the timbers of an ancient Viking ship, he had it polished every morning. Vikings were his ancestors. He could trace his lineage back to Erik the Red and his famous offspring, Leif Ericson. Both were men of vision like him.

  He took his seat behind the desk, pulling his glasses from the top drawer. Leaning back, he pulled the report closer. A grant had recently been approved to allow two archaeologists to catalogue the Crespi collection down in Ecuador.

  Hmmm. This could be an opportunity. He reached over and hit a button on his phone.

  A minute later, his assistant Gerard Thompson, who’d been with him for four years, appeared in the doorway. "Yes, sir?"

  Jealousy flared as it always did when he saw Gerard. Only thirty years old, he was the picture of vitality. Blonde hair with brown eyes, a strong build, and military posture, he was everything Sebastian had once been.

  At seventy-two, Sebastian's back had begun to curve and his once-blond hair was now perfectly white. But his blue eyes and, most important, his mind were as sharp as ever.

  He gestured for Gerard to enter. "Tell me about the two archaeologists attached to this grant."

  Gerard nodded, obviously prepared for the question. "The lead archaeologist is Jennifer Witt. Age 28, single. Biological parents unknown. Adopted by the Witt family at age ten."

  "Her research?"

  "Interesting. Pre-diluvian civilizations. She received quite a bit of attention with a recent article on ice dams and their relationship to catastrophic flooding at the end of the last ice age."

  Sebastian nodded. Smart girl. He remembered the article.

  Gerard continued. "This is the second time she's worked with the Shuar people. By all accounts, she has quite a bond with them, particularly with their leader, Lucia Nunink."

  Sebastian sat back, his hand on his chin. "And the other archaeologist? Is she the same woman from the Montana incident?”

  "Yes. Dr. Delaney McPhearson. She has a Ph.D. in criminology and is finishing up her work for a second doctorate in archaeology. She has been identified as being critical in the uncovering of the Montana site."

  Sebastian had to admit that the woman had shown incredible fortitude and intelligence. He’d always thought there was more to that story than had been publicly revealed, more, in fact, in line with his own quest.

  And now she was in Ecuador. That couldn't be a coincidence.

  Sebastian flipped through the report. The grant would begin three months from now. Maybe these archaeologists were the key to finally fulfilling his family’s legacy.

  "There’s one other development you should be aware of, sir."

  Sebastian glanced over his glasses, gesturing for Gerard to continue.

  "Grevigan, the oil company, is renewing its campaign to get the Ecuadorian government to sell parts of the Amazon rain forest for oil refining. One of the areas they’re interested in incorporates the Shuar land."

  Sebastian sat back in his chair, stroking his chin. This development wasn’t entirely unexpected. Oil companies had been trying to move into the rain forest for the last decade, but the indigenous people of the region had managed to block them at every turn. "Is there any reason to believe Grevigan will have any more luck this time?"

  Gerard nodded. "They've retained new counsel, who are known for accomplishing the impossible. They’re not above bribing judges to do so."

  Sebastian nodded. He approved of the mindset: focused on achieving the goal no matter who or what got in the way. But in this case, it ran counter to his own plans. He couldn't have the oil companies destroying what he sought. He knew their methods would do just that. Or worse, they could stumble over the find and keep it for themselves. Neither option was acceptable.

  He let out a breath. "Put the contingency plan into play. As soon as it becomes necessary, initiate it."

  "Yes, sir."

  Sebastian placed the report aside. “How’s our guest behaving today?”

  “Still unhelpful.”

  Sebastian nodded. It had been a week, and still nothing. “That will be all.”

  Gerard gave a respectful bow before backing out of the room. Sebastian pushed away from the desk, reaching for his cane. Slowly, he made his way out of the office and down the hall.

  He reached the stairs to the basement and paused to take a breath. He should have installed an elevator, but vanity had kept him from doing so. He shook his head, steeling himself for the descent.

  He grasped the rail and slowly made his way down. Reaching the bottom, he paused again, his legs beginning to shake. He waited, knowing from experience that, shortly, the trembling would cease.

  A minute later, pushing himself from the wall, he walked around the corner, heading for the lone door on the right-hand side of the hall. One man stood guard at its entrance. The guard opened the door for Sebastian as he drew near.

  Screams assaulted Sebastian’s ears: proof once again of the wisdom of adding the soundproofing.

  Two guards nodded at him as he entered, but quickly returned their eyes to the captive across the room. Sebastian approved. With this enemy, no matter what state he might be in, vigilance was life and death.

  He waved his hand in front of his face, trying to push away the smell of burnt flesh and rank body odor. But the repugnant smells crawled through his nose, stinging his throat. He struggled not to gag.

  Across the room, a man was strapped to a metal cross, his frame gaunt, his body held up only by the binds that lashed him. An unkempt beard covered his face and he wore only shredded jeans. But he had no noticeable injuries. His skin was unmarked.

  Sebastian took in the state of the prisoner with a mere flick of his eyes, his attention directed instead on the man standing in front of the captive. At six-foot-five, with overly-developed muscles, the man was a testament to pharmaceutical companies abilities to develop a better body. Not that Sebastian cared. What the man did with his own body was his business, so long as it never got in the way of his missions.

  The behemoth’s hair was cut tight to his head. A jagged scar wound its way from the corner of his left eye to the edge of his mouth. His grey t-shirt was stained with sweat and blood.

  "Hugo, how's it going?" Sebastian asked.

  Hugo Barton turned with a smile, his wide face looking even wider. "He's not cooperating."

  Sebastian sighed with a nod. The prisoner stared insolently back at him.

  Sebastian wasn’t sure if it was stubbornness or a compete lack of knowledge that made the man unforthcoming. It was time
to find out. He waved Hugo back and walked up to the prisoner. "Look at me."

  The man met his gaze with hostility, but didn’t speak. Sebastian gestured to Hugo, who took a machete and jammed it into the man’s stomach. A scream tore out of the man’s chest.

  Hugo yanked the knife out, leaving a gaping hole.

  “Can you all read the books?” Sebastian asked.

  The man’s eyes were wild with pain.

  Sebastian nodded at Hugo.

  Hugo stepped forward. “You were asked a question. Can you all read the books?”

  Hugo took a serrated knife off the table next to him, plunging it into the man’s side and dragging it towards the front, leaving a gaping trail.

  The man screamed again. “No.”

  Sebastian put a hand on Hugo, who immediately stepped back. Sebastian stepped closer. “No? You can’t read the books?”

  The man shook his head. “No. We can’t.”

  Sebastian turned his back to the man, his shoulders dropping. Damn. This had all been a waste of time. He needed to find another avenue.

  “Sir,” Hugo called after him, “what should I do with this one?”

  Sebastian glanced back over his shoulder. The bound man’s wounds were already beginning to heal. "He’s of no use to us. Get rid of him."

  CHAPTER 2

  Present Day

  Cuenca, Ecuador

  Delaney McPhearson sank down to the cool, concrete floor of hallway outside the vaults of the Central Bank of Ecuador. She rubbed the crick in her neck that had appeared hours ago and only gotten worse.

  Her feet were no better. Days of standing had left them aching. She shook them out, trying to work out the kinks. In spite of the discomfort, she felt a sense of contentment as she stared at the wonders of the Crespi Collection front of her.

  Through the doorway of the bank vault, a three-foot statue of a golden man with four arms and four toes on each leg grinned at her from a metal shelf. Next to him lay half of a golden sphere that was two feet wide and had a three-inch lip covered in unknown symbols. On the shelf below sat a sheet of gold depicting a pyramid with snakes writhing in the sky and elephants on the ground.