Omega: A Jack Sigler Thriller cta-5

by Jeremy Robinson

  The room was ten foot square, and as with the tunnel, King found no sign of cameras. The floor was rough, unfinished concrete. The room had no furniture, only seven large black file cabinets. At a quick glance, King could tell they were all unlocked.

  “Why is there no security?” Asya asked.

  “Uh-huh,” King said, moving toward the cabinet in the middle of the room.

  “Why that one?”

  “Gotta start somewhere. M. Roughly in the middle of the alphabet.” King smiled at her. “Figured I’d see what he had on Manifold. Be ready for shit to go haywire.”

  King grasped the handle of the top drawer and gently pulled, just a half an inch. He checked for tripwires inside the drawer, but he found only hanging green folders. He pulled the drawer out further and saw that the files were all for names starting with the letter L. He didn’t recognize most of the names. The few he did recognize seemed innocuous: Labor Smart, Inc., Labwire, Lepenica, Lico. He slid the drawer closed and repeated the safety check on the next drawer. It was the M drawer. Close to the front, he found what he was looking for. Manifold Genetics.

  He pulled the thick folder out and laid it gently on top of the cabinet. He soon saw the documents weren’t going to be much use to him. Most of the text was in Greek. What little was in English, was mostly what he knew already. Manifold Genetics was a biotech and genetic engineering firm, owned by the madman Richard Ridley. King and Chess Team had gone against the company and stopped them when they had discovered the head of the Lernaean Hydra buried in the sands of Nazca, Peru. Ridley had been cooking up designer soldiers, and Chess Team had put an end to it, appropriating one of Ridley’s labs in New Hampshire, and destroying two more in South America and on an island in the Atlantic. The file had US news clippings from the attack on Fort Bragg, when Ridley had reared his head again. But with Alexander’s help that time, Ridley had been shut down.

  There were what appeared to be telephone transcripts — but in Greek — and photocopies of ownership documents, scientific formulas and all manner of material that King suspected would have been incredibly useful for the team when they had needed to stop Ridley. The intelligence would be invaluable, once they got it all translated. He was about to close the file and slip it into his shirt when the corner of a map slid out from under the stack of documents. King pinched the tip of it with his fingers and slid it out. The map showed the world, with five locations marked in black Greek letters. Although King wasn’t fluent in Greek, he and the rest of Chess Team had all spent the last few years studying up on ancient mythology, archeology, history and ancient languages. He was familiar with the Greek alphabet, even though he couldn’t read full words. And in this case, the meaning of these letters was obvious. In New Hampshire, the Greek letter Alpha denoted the former Manifold installation that Endgame now called their headquarters. In South America, King saw the letter Beta was crossed out with a circle and a slash mark in red permanent pen. Gamma, on Tristan da Cunha in the Atlantic Ocean was likewise marked as finished. In the Ukraine, King saw the letter for Delta was also crossed out.

  King tapped it with his finger and said, “Queen dealt with this facility when she was looking for Rook.”

  “And this one?” Asya asked, pointing to the fifth black Greek letter.

  It was the symbol for Omega, and over the top of it, the person with the red pen had drawn the Herculean Society symbol. Under that, the word Carthage had been written in a smooth cursive script.

  King heard a low guttural growl coming from the corridor behind them, in the dark.

  “That’s where we’re going if we get out of here alive.”

  A second growl came out of the dark at the end of the tunnel, and then the fluorescent bulbs at the far end went out. Then the next set went dark. King and Asya moved to either side of the open doorway, their weapons trained on the end of the tunnel as the darkness advanced toward them.

  NINE

  Endgame Headquarters, New Hampshire

  “Clones,” Queen said with disgust.

  She stood in the room, with three perfectly identical copies of Richard Ridley seated before her. The original Ridley was a robustly tall man, with a gleaming bald head and a menacing smile. She recalled the man’s likeness. As she looked at the three seated men, she could detect nothing to indicate she wasn’t looking at three of him. They were perfect replicas of Ridley in every way.

  The three men sat in metal chairs that had been hastily bolted to the floor. Their hands were cuffed to the backs of the chairs with industrial-strength plastic zip ties and metal handcuffs. Bishop, Knight and Rook stood behind Queen, each armed and suited up for battle, their weapons trained on the triplets. To the side of the room, another five armed Endgame soldiers, wearing battle armor, held M-16s trained on the seated duplicates.

  “We prefer ‘divinely created persons,’ actually,” said the Ridley seated in the middle. “My name is Seth.”

  “I’d prefer to put my boot up your—” Rook spoke up.

  “Rook,” an electronically modulated voice came over the black speakers tucked up into the corners of the interrogation room. “That’s no way to treat our guests.”

  Seth smiled. “Ah, the mysterious Deep Blue, at last. Or maybe I should be calling you the Man of the — well, no, you’re not the Man of the Hour anymore. What do they call former presidents, Mr. Duncan?”

  “Not sure what you’re talking about. You can call me Deep Blue for now,” came the electronic response.

  Queen was stunned. Blue’s identity as former President of the United States, Tom Duncan, was a closely guarded secret, and on the few times the man had appeared in public as Deep Blue, he had worn a tactical battle suit with a helmet and a tinted faceplate. He had been out of sight in the hallway when they had discovered the Ridleys in Ops, and Blue’s own checks of the computer system had revealed that although they had entered the room, they had not accessed any of the cameras in the base. There was no way they could have seen Deep Blue’s face. The fact that Ridley — Seth — had Deep Blue’s operational callsign, and that he even knew of Deep Blue’s existence, was bad enough. That they knew his true identity meant that somewhere, someone else knew it too, and the original Richard Ridley had gotten his hands on the information somehow. Queen imagined Blue’s mind was reeling right now, but the electronically altered voice remained flat.

  “You haven’t introduced your companions, Seth.”

  “Quite right. My brothers Enos and Jared were not created quite as well as I was. Jared cannot speak, and Enos is mostly deaf.”

  Queen tried to discern some distinguishing mark so she could keep the three clones straight, but they were all even wearing the same white linen suit.

  Deep Blue’s voice came over the speakers again. “So we are to understand that the three of you were created by Richard Ridley — the original — when he briefly had access to the mother tongue? When he was trying to enslave the world? Why would he do that?”

  Seth smiled again. “Which? Why would our Creator make us or why would He try to enslave humanity?”

  “Can I shoot him now? Dumb and Dumber can answer the questions. This one is raising my hackles.” Rook stepped forward, leveling a.50 caliber Magnum Desert Eagle at Seth’s face.

  “Stand down, Rook,” Deep Blue said. “We might need all three of them alive.”

  “These guys aren’t even really alive,” Rook said. “They’re just animated heaps of clay. Shooting them in the head would be like shooting a rock, only more fun.”

  “Agreed,” Deep Blue replied. “But let’s see what they have to say for themselves.”

  Rook stepped back.

  Seth smiled at the reprieve.

  “But if I don’t like what I hear in response to my next question, you can start cutting off his fingers.”

  Rook smiled. “Then I’m going to make a Kmart run. Pick up a Play-Doh Sweet Shoppe. Make me some Ridley-clone ice cream cones.”

  The smile vanished from Seth’s face. Queen smiled
softly, looking at Rook. Then she turned back to Seth. She knew the question Deep Blue would ask, and she wanted the answer just as badly as everyone else.

  “Is Richard Ridley alive?” Deep Blue asked.

  “We wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Seth said.

  “Where is he?”

  When the voice came through the speakers, even though Queen knew the modulator both disguised Deep Blue’s voice and removed any traces of emotion, she still thought the question sounded stern.

  Seth’s face darkened as he looked at the floor. “He is being held prisoner.”

  “Where?” The volume of Deep Blue’s voice increased with his urgency. It was clear that he thought he’d have to fight for the answer to this question. The truth was less dramatic and deprived Rook of the pleasure of knocking out a few teeth.

  “A former Manifold facility in North Africa.”

  “Bullshit,” Queen spoke up. “He’s dead and buried.”

  Seth looked up at her and sneered. “He is immortal. He could live forever with the mother tongue, even without His genetic enhancements.” Seth looked hard at her. “I know our Creator lives because we three are still alive.”

  “Explain,” came Deep Blue’s voice over the speakers.

  “If He were to die, the command He gave in the mother tongue, the command that granted my brothers and me life, would end. We would return to the inert elemental materials from which we were formed. As all things do in time. But we yet live. So you see, Richard Ridley lives, too.”

  “Assuming we believe you, that Ridley is alive and being held prisoner, why are you here?” Deep Blue’s voice buzzed.

  “That should be obvious,” Seth said. “We want you to liberate Him.”

  Enos nodded vigorously on Seth’s right. Jared sat stone still, unsmiling.

  “You have gotta be kidding me,” Rook said.

  “I’d sooner put Willie Nelson’s greasy hair between my legs and light it on fire,” Queen joined in.

  Seth grinned, finding humor in the visual. “Nevertheless, I suspect you will all aid us in this endeavor.”

  Queen leaned forward, hands on her knees, all trace of humor gone. “Richard Ridley is a megalomaniac who raised and loosed an ancient horror on the world. He extinguished countless endangered languages by murdering their last remaining speakers. He brought chaos and hellfire to the world in the form of giant golems, and he personally attempted on more than one occasion to kill members of this team and our loved ones. Sometimes in very painful ways. If there is such a thing as the Devil, your creator is the closest I’ve ever seen to him. Why would we possibly want him free?”

  Seth turned to face his two brothers, then turned back to face the members of Chess Team. All three brothers smiled. This time, the smile was wicked.

  “I haven’t told you who holds Him prisoner, or why. As dangerous as you might believe our Creator to be, there is a man who is even more troubling. That man holds Ridley Prime prisoner. That man… He is a threat to every man, woman and child on this planet. That man’s megalomaniacal schemes for world domination make Ridley Prime’s ambitions appear miniscule by comparison.

  “Why would we come here and ask Chess Team to help us liberate our Master? Because our Creator, Richard Ridley, is the only man alive who can save the world.”

  TEN

  Valletta, Malta

  King held his fire until the darkness moved. He fired two shots, then waited. Asya held her fire beside him. The booming of the gun inside the tight confines was excruciating, and they needed to conserve their limited ammunition. Plus, he didn’t know if bullets would even affect the things.

  And they were things. He’d had enough experience with the unexplainable to recognize it when he saw it, or in this case, didn’t see it.

  Only two fluorescent bulbs were still lit at King’s end of the connecting cross-tunnel. He briefly considered making a rush into the dark for the side tunnel, but dismissed the idea. He knew what waited for them in the dark.

  “The Forgotten,” he said.

  “What?” Asya shouted. They were both suffering from the hearing loss associated with him firing his weapon in these tight confines.

  “The Forgotten,” he said louder.

  “The wraith-like things that serve Hercules?” Asya asked. She’d been briefed on the team’s previous missions, their enemies, allies and all the strangeness they’d encountered over the years.

  From the shadows in the hall in front of them, they heard a guttural growl, as if in affirmation.

  “They don’t like light,” King said, his Yarygin still aimed down the hallway at the blackness. Of the two bulbs still lit along the ceiling, the second one was flickering. He hadn’t noticed it with all the others on before, but now with just the two, its erratic behavior was obvious. It flickered and strobed, tossing its light around the confined space of the white-washed hall. Then it extinguished. Only the lights in their room and the one tubular bulb just outside the doorway remained. The light extended to about ten feet past King’s outstretched arm and pistol, then met an unnatural wall of blackness, where it was absorbed.

  As King watched, the dark wall shuffled forward, like a lumbering elephant. When it stopped moving, the wall of dark was only five feet past his extended arm. King pulled his arm back, but kept the pistol trained on the inky barrier, ready for what might emerge.

  “Here,” Asya had reached into her purse and procured a small but powerful LED flashlight. King took it and shined the light into the blackness ahead of them. The darkness grunted back at them, in reply.

  “Get the file,” King said.

  Asya stepped back from the doorway, where King remained, and turned toward the still open file cabinet.

  The darkness shrieked at them. Asya clapped her hands against her ears. As bad as the gunfire had been, this sound was immensely worse. When the noise abated, dying down to a clicking sound, King called to her.

  “Leave it. We’re getting out of here.”

  “How?” Asya asked as she joined him again at the door, her Yarygin pointed at the dark.

  “Quickly,” then he raced into the darkness, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. As he moved, the last bulb in the hall extinguished, and the light behind them in the room blinked out. King’s flashlight was now the only source of light in the tunnel.

  But the wall of darkness retreated from the powerful flashlight. Asya was at his heels. Just before the wall of black reached the point that would allow them to slip into the side tunnel, it stopped. And then snarled.

  King understood. This was as far as the wraiths were prepared to back down. He had encountered the creatures before — in Rome, when he was looking for Alexander. Then the creatures had reacted similarly. They would flee in pain from bright light, but ultimately they would not shirk their duty. King hadn’t needed to actually kill one though. Alexander had called them off, the last time. King wasn’t even sure it was possible to kill them. Alexander had implied the creatures were early experiments of his, when he was looking for ways to use the Hydra’s blood for longevity. The man had said the wraiths were the inspiration for vampire legends. King could understand why after seeing them up close in Rome. They had hideous wrinkled gray skin. Some were missing facial features like noses and mouths entirely. Still, despite being scientific mishaps, they were each fiercely loyal to Alexander and his mysterious goals.

  King took one single step forward and thrust the flashlight out. He needed to send a message to the Forgotten. He would not be dissuaded in his mission either. The tip of the flashlight touched the wall of shadow and a fine film of smoke rose up from the end of the light, filling the tunnel with a charred smell.

  King heard Asya fire her weapon once behind him, but he couldn’t turn away from the wall. He knew if he did, the thing would be on him in a second.

  “Pawn?” he asked.

  “There is another behind us, but it stays back.”

  “We’re in a standoff. Again.”

  “What
will we do?” she asked. King admired the lack of fear in his sister’s voice. She wasn’t worried at all in her abilities or in his. She was merely asking him about the plan.

  “Be pushy,” King told her. Then he stepped into the field of blackness. The light sizzled harder. Then he felt a hand grasp his left wrist inside the wall of dark, pushing the flashlight up. With his right hand, King fired the Yarygin point blank into the blackness.

  The hand still held his wrist and pushed his arm back. Then it moved forward and the field of supernatural darkness dissipated like smoke clearing in a strong wind. Only instead of being blown off to the side, the smoke retreated back down the length of the hallway. The hallway was suddenly revealed in the flashlight’s beam — the hallway, and the creature inside it.

  A wraith stood before King.

  The creature looked like a man in a tattered gray cloak. The skin not covered by the hood over its head was a dark charcoal. The eyes were sunken hollows. This one had a single vertical slit where its nose should have been. It had a lower jaw, but it looked fused to the skull, the flesh melted and scarred where the mouth should have been. Its taut skin clung to the muscles and skeletal structure, like the thing was malnourished.

  The creature shoved his wrist hard and let out a clicking growl. King saw the bullet wounds in its chest, but the injuries did not lessen the creature’s strength or resolve. He struggled to force his left arm down, pointing the light at the creature again. It began to shake in his grasp. He fired two more shots at its chest, then moved to swing the arm up and point the gun at its head, but the Forgotten, with an amazing reserve of strength, forced the flashlight all the way up and back in one swift move.

  When the beam of light hit King’s face, the wraith made a loud sharp bark noise. Then it let go of King’s arm.

  King pulled his arm back to his chest and pointed the light at the wraith again, but it had leapt to the side of the wall and was retreating down the tunnel, following another looming by the door to the darkened room. Then a third wraith passed over his head, skittering along the ceiling of the tunnel, following the first two.