by Roger Weston
He hid in the gardens to avoid a death team on the hunt. He crawled behind hedges, he squirmed between rocks, he laid sign to throw them off his trail.
Knowing the weaknesses of the video surveillance system, he followed a route to avoid detection as he stormed the gate, but then he found it locked. Using his little tools, he started to pick the lock, but was impatient and fumbling. He kicked the gate open. It slammed against the stone wall.
He found his way back to the security room but this time when he knocked, a CERBERUS operative opened it up. Chuck stepped in fast and delivered a devastating chin jab. The thug fell back against his desk. Any normal human being would have been down, but this animal grabbed his coffee cup and threw it at close range. Chuck dodged the projectile, which flew out the door and shattered on the far side of the hall.
Because Chuck had to duck, it gave the killer a chance to get into a fighting position. He held his fists up. The look in his eye said he wanted to tenderize Chuck’s brain like a piece of steak. With a wicked fast movement, the dirt-bag threw a right hook, but Chuck blocked the inside of the wrist. Then his right hand snapped outward. The V between the thumb and pointer finger tagged the brute’s neck—hurting his neck and shaking his brain. Now, the fiend collapsed to the floor. Chuck grit his teeth. The fast movements had sent hurt through his back ribs and spine. From his knapsack he removed duck tape and other goodies. After taping the puncher’s arms and legs, Chuck said, “Where’s Maroz? Tell me or you’re done.”
“Room 307.”
“Why there?”
“Hackworth plans to kill him. He’ll be reported as a casualty of the storm. His body will be found in his sunken yacht.”
Chuck slapped a piece of duck tape over the killer’s mouth and popped down into one of the bucket seats to watch television. He noticed a waterproof smart phone on the desk, but something else caught his eye—a button console on the sidewall. One button was labeled Second Floor Master Key.
He focused on the activities in the cafeteria, and he played with the sound mixer until he got audio.
Adorned in his black robe, Judge Hackworth was reading off pronouncements related to the new Venezuelan constitution. He read out committee assignments for the Immortals. It was clear that they would be the true rulers in Venezuela despite the dog-and-pony show that the official government would put on. Hackworth made pronouncements about education, universal healthcare, rationing, population control, security, CERBERUS’s aggressive role in that country, and their control of the Venezuelan military, which would act as a secret police force. He made declarations about show elections, universal welfare and poverty, and a plan to build more soup kitchens in every town and village. The list went on and on. His audience sat obediently and occasionally clapped.
Chuck kept an eye on the video monitor of the hall outside the cafeteria. Five CERBERUS agents with assault rifles guarded the door. Kielce walked past them.
On the cafeteria television monitor, Kielce arrived and Hackworth asked him to approach the bench.
Kielce walked to the front of the room and stood before the judge.
Hackworth said, “Lean forward and whisper your message.”
Kielce did so, and then Hackworth stood up with a big smile on his face. “Excellent, Kielce.” Hackworth gestured to the Immortals in attendance. “Tell them what you told me.”
Kielce turned around. “Gentlemen, Chuck Brandt’s body has been spotted floating in the storm surge. It’s not been positively verified, but there is a high probability that his demise has been verified by one of my operatives.”
All of the immortals rose to their feet and clapped vigorously. They turned and shook each others’ hands.
Raising his mallet, Hackworth pounded the slab on his desk. “Gentlemen, sit down.” He waited then said, “The court accepts the probable death of one of freedom’s great warriors. Other deaths will follow, and with them freedom will descend into the ash heap of a scorched earth. The Immortals will rise and live the destiny they were born for—to rule over the ignorant hoards and those of the inferior bloodlines. We will rule!”
A virtual thunder of applause followed, which surprised Chuck given that he was alive and there were only a dozen or so immortals on hand. They were certainly passionate about their evil goals. In a way he almost admired them. It was amazing that a handful of men with passion could rule over hundreds of millions of the ignorant and uninitiated masses. He also pitied the elite players because they fooled themselves if they thought they would win long term.
Hackworth interrupted the applause: “Kielce, we thank you and CERBERUS for what you have done. Please sit down over there.” Hackworth pointed.
Kielce looked surprised.
“Yes, go ahead, Kielce. We reward loyalty. Now, gentlemen, court is adjourned for recess until tomorrow. I have made preparations for this moment. The help has been put on standby. Kielce, if you will notify the kitchen staff to bring champagne. Gentlemen, let us celebrate!”
The Immortals stood, clapped, and shook hands. As one of them patted another on the back, Chuck saw light glimmer off his ring finger. Chuck leaned forward for a better look at the monitor. He worked the joystick and zoomed in the camera. He was looking at their hands. Now what he hadn’t noticed before became clear. They all wore a big ring on their finger. He doubted that it was the same as the CERBERUS ring he’d taken off the assassin back on his boat in Washington, but it got him curious.
The thug on the floor started struggling but his hands and feet were bound with duck tape. He was trying to talk but his mouth was taped shut.
Chuck said, “You like the speech? Sounds like you and your CERBERUS enforcers are planning to oppress the people of Venezuela. You like that? Oh, you like that, don’t you?”
The tough guy struggled. It sounded like he was cursing Chuck under his gag.
“You’ve got a bad attitude, pal. If you’re going to complain, I’ll give you something to complain about.” Chuck put a knee on his back and twisted his arm viciously. Now the man was trying to scream. Tears were rolling down his face.
“Oh, you poor baby. I guess you thought it was the Venezuelans who would feel the pain. Didn’t work out like you were hoping, huh? Too bad. Just keep quiet and I’ll leave you to your own misery.”
Chuck sat down again and watched the festivities taking place in the cafeteria. He saw Kielce walk out. There was no sign of Erica. Servants entered with Champaign in silver bowls on big silver platters. A table was carried on and silver plates of shrimp were carried around and offered to the Immortals. One of them seemed to scarf down a shrimp without even chewing it. Another, a man who wore shorts and a flower shirt, chewed vigorously. When he smiled a bit of chewed meat was hanging off his lip. He snatched a glass of champaign off a plate and held it in the air.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I propose a toast to Justice Hackworth, a great man, a man of destiny, a man of the bloodlines, a man of the Book of Deeds, a man of the bench. May we all prosper under his guidance and counsel. May we accept his arbitration in all disputes as we divide the spoils of victory. May his reign be long. May he live long. May he command all presidents from behind the scenes. May we rule over the hoards in a fashion that our ancestors only dreamed about. Here’s to Judge Hackworth. Long live Hackworth!”
“Long live Hackworth!” they chanted in unison.
The Immortals cheered. Glasses tinged. Toasts were made. Alcohol was consumed.
The storm continued to pound the asylum, and wind howled. The lights flickered.
Then Kielce returned with what appeared to be an old-fashioned reel-to-reel tape recorder that he placed on Hackworth’s bench.
“Gentlemen,” Hackworth said, “silence!”
They quieted down and turned toward the judge. He said, “Tradition, gentlemen, tradition! Let us never forget the traditions that link us with our hallowed ancestors. Let us not forget the ceremonies of our lusty youth. Let us never forget our lofty purpose. Let us always remember th
at the birds of prey are the overlords of nature.”
Hackworth pushed a button on the antique recording device. The tape reels began to turn. Bird cries and trilling was heard. It sounded like the bird house had sounded when Chuck had entered it. All kinds of bird song was heard, but it was unnatural. The birds were not so much singing as lamenting off-tune. They were screeching and crying. Then came the clear cry of an eagle. The screech of an eagle. It was loud and clear.
The immortals clapped with approval.
“Yes,” Hackworth said, “the cry of the eagle is the horn of the immortals. Destiny is upon us. It is time for the birds of prey to hunt. It is time for our hunting grounds to overspread Venezuela. But very soon, the citizens of America will learn that the eagle is their master.”
Cheers followed. Hackworth turned down the volume of the recording. He said, “The immortal bird has preyed upon the weak for all time. That is the way of the world. The strong rule. The bloodlines rise. The bird flies and hunts. Gentlemen, lift the claw!”
All of the Immortals raised their left hand and bent their fingers into claws. They formed a circle. Holding their clawed left fists above the center of the circle, they all pushed their fists into one big ball so that their rings touched as their flesh came together.
“The way of the eagle!” Hackworth shouted.
A bellowing cheer rose. The speakers in the security video room vibrated. For a moment the sound was scratchy from excess vibration. Chuck watched with fascination. He’d never seen anything like this.
On the video screen, Kielce left the room and returned with Erica Rivera. Holding her arm, he forced her to the front of the cafeteria.
“Well,” Hackworth said. “How appropriate. Her old boss failed us. His bloodline failed us. The Maroz name shall be stricken from the Book of Deeds. They once rode high, but now they will ride low into the troughs of darkness and death.” Hackworth looked right at Erica and said, “Dance for us!”
Whistles rose on the crowd. Ringed fists shook on the air. Hackworth ripped her jacket off and said, “Dance or die!”
Erica did not dance. She was in trouble, but Chuck could not approach the cafeteria, which was a beehive of CERBERUS henchmen. He glanced at the monitor of the third-floor control room.
He ran out of the video room and ran down the corridor to the nearest fire alarm, which he activated. He ran up stairs and kicked open the door to the third-floor control room. There he pushed the master key button on the wall console, unlocking the doors to all the patients’ rooms.
Running down the hallway like a madman, Chuck yelled, “You’re free again. The doors are unlocked. You’re free!”
As patients began to look out into the hall, Chuck entered 307 and found Maroz handcuffed to a bed, bleeding from his face after a well-deserved beating.
Chuck said, “I’m your only hope, Maroz, but I need proof of my innocence.”
“It’s in the Lancastria Club.”
“Where is that?”
“It’s too late. The village is flooded.”
“Where’s the proof? Tell me if you want to live!”
“What about Erica?”
“Tell me where the proof is, and I’ll get you both out of here alive if I can.”
“Immortal Hall is by the bell-tower. That’s the only proof.”
“Where by the bell-tower?...Louder, I can’t hear you with the alarm.”
“Vault of Secrets in Immortal Hall, third floor of the old Sugar Exchange Building.”
“What’s the combination to the vault?”
Maroz rattled off a set of numbers. Then he said, “Save us now, Brandt. You’ll never survive if you try to go to the village now.”
“Life is full of risks, Maroz. You should have known that when you framed me.”
Sirens blared through the halls. Just as Chuck came to a corner at the end of the building, CERBERUS enforcers stepped out of a doorway thirty yards down the corridor.
CHAPTER 16
The enforcers thrust themselves out into the hall. Seeing Chuck they went for their guns. Chuck broke around a corner. He sprinted down the stairwell. He raced down the first-floor corridor. With alarms hurting his ears, he kicked in the door to the first-floor control room. Just then a gunman down the hall took a shot at him.
Chuck ducked into the room and cut the power to the first floor. Plunged into darkness, he stepped back out into the hall.
Gunmen were yelling, “He’s down there! He cut the power!”
“Is he armed?”
“I thought he was dead.”
Gunshots lit up the corridor like fireworks. Running in the darkness, Chuck dove and rolled. He came up firing, using their barrel flashes as targets.
“I’m hit,” someone screamed. “I’m hit!”
Chuck kicked open a door and rushed outside. He pushed open the gate and stepped onto the garden path. The wind hit him hard, but he was able to jog through it. He guessed it was maybe it was seventy knot winds now. The storm had shifted and moved. The island was probably at the edge of the storm now as the beast took aim at another island. Still, seventy knot winds were powerful. Rain still came down in sheets.
Gunshots roared in the darkness as Chuck ran a weaving path through the gardens. He didn’t know how many CERBERUS killers were after him, but being a target gave wings to his knees. He ran and dodged bushes like a flitting swallow.
Gunshots diverted his path and kept him moving fast. He found himself running down Magnus road. He was going to have to swim for it again. That was the one place they wouldn’t chase him—and the one place from which he was least likely to return. But as his night vision adapted to the darkness he saw something at the water’s edge he’d forgotten about. The three motorboats he’d seen earlier were tied to trees with long ropes. Chuck untied one. He grabbed the carrying handle on the bow of one and dragged it twenty feet to where the storm surge licked the rich soil of Iguantola Island. When he was waist deep, he got into the boat and started the outboard motor. As the shapes of running men appeared in the distance, he twisted the handle and the motorboat launched itself over waves.
Buffeted by wind and rain, holding the steering arm of the outboard motor, he guided his open boat toward the flooded village at Cava Flats. His boat launched over an unrelenting procession of wind-blown waves. Every time the bow launched over a rolling swell and then slapped down, an extra puff of spray splashed up and blew at him, soaking him. He estimated that the water was ten feet deep in the village. Waves were splashing onto the roofs of one-story buildings. The multi-story buildings rose out of the water in defiance of natural forces of nature. A residential home was floating away. Several palm trees were sticking up out of the water like bare telephone poles; all the fronds had been torn away by the storm.
Chuck tied up his boat to a second floor balcony which was now at water level. It was the old Sugar Exchange Building, home to the Lancastria Conference Center, which took up the first floor and was underwater. The Lancastria Bank occupied the second floor and was just above water. The third floor was the home of the Lancastria Club and Immortal Hall, the secretive clubhouse of the Immortals. A few trees had been blown over and were leaning against the building just down from the balcony. The upper branches had smashed out windows.
Chuck looked over at the clock tower. The clock loomed high over the flood surge although the lower reaches of the tower were submerged. The clock showed that it was past midnight. Chuck figured the storm would largely pass on after a couple more hours, but the rain might continue for another day or two.
Tying his boat to a dripping balcony railing, he pulled a waterproof tactical flashlight from his knapsack, entered the dark building, and found his way up the stairs to the Lancastria Club. He gained entrance by throwing a planter through the glass door. He was surprised when no alarm sounded. Evidently the flood had caused problems with the electrical system. He paused a moment. He was about to enter the Immortal’s inner sanctum. This was too easy—even in a hurricane
.
CHAPTER 17
Standing under wind-thrashed trees, Kevlar pointed and yelled at his CERBERUS agents. “Get that boat untied now!” He slashed his finger through sheets of rain. “Hurry up!”
Three predators leapt into action even as waves washed their feet. One untied the rope attached to the tree. Two others picked up the boat and set it in the water.
Three other killers watched them. One of them, a stiff-necked henchman, stepped toward Kevlar. “Are you insane? It’s too dangerous in this storm! I’m not going out there.”
Kevlar raised his shotgun and blasted a shot over his head. Fire leapt from the barrel.
The outlaw screamed and dropped to the ground. “You’re insane!” he yelled. “Alright, I’ll go. I’ll do what you say.”
“Get that boat in the water now or the next shot is coming right at you!”
The three heavies snapped into action. The rope was untied, the boat carried out into knee-deep waters and rushing waves.
Kevlar followed them and got in the boat first. He started the outboard motor as the boat rose and fell on waves.
“Okay, get in!” They climbed in at the front so as not to tip over the twelve-foot boat.
Kevlar cranked the handle. The two boats motored over waves and against blasting wind.
Kevlar felt fear. Going after Brandt was a mistake, but it was too late to turn back.
CHAPTER 18
Chuck walked back into the club room and shined his flashlight around. He passed through a short hallway that was lined with offices and entered a large ballroom. Between two office doors was a sofa with Beauvais tapestry, the kind of furniture piece you’d only expect to find in the Lourve museum. Further down he passed matching chairs. A little gold plaque on the wall behind the chairs said that they were from the reign of Louis XV in eighteenth century France. Otherwise, the hall was lined with the sculpted plaster busts of famous men, including a couple he’d seen in the court proceedings.
