The Doomsday Prophecy

by Scott Mariani

  ‘To hell with that cowardly bastard. He wants to play leader, he should stick around more.’

  They stepped over the dead men and ran on up the corridor. Jones reached the lift first and hammered the button for first floor. They said nothing, faces downcast, as the lift whooshed upwards. Then the doors glided open and Jones was dashing towards his office door.

  It was open, lying an inch or so ajar.

  He fought to remember. No. He hadn’t left it open. He’d locked it.

  He drew his gun. Cold fear began to knot his intestines, and the gun shook in his hand. Control yourself. He held the weapon out in front of him and prodded the door tentatively open with his left hand. It creaked. He pushed it open a little further. He stepped inside the room, heart thumping.

  The office was empty.

  So was the desk. And the canvas bag had gone.

  ‘Hope,’ he breathed. ‘Hope was here.’

  Simmons was behind him, staring with big eyes.

  ‘He took it,’ Jones gasped. ‘He fucking took the bottle.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  There was a cry from outside the office. Simmons and Jones locked eyes for half a second, then Jones grabbed the door handle and they burst out into the corridor. Night was falling outside, and the shadows in the building were deepening. Jones flipped a light switch. Nothing happened. Cursing, he peered into the darkness. ‘Bender?’ he called out softly.

  There was no reply.

  The whites of Simmons’ eyes glistened in the murk. ‘Where’d he –’

  He never finished the sentence. Jones felt the wet spray of blood hit his face almost before he’d registered the muffled cough of the gunshot. Simmons fell against him, making a terrible gurgling sound from his throat, clawing at his arm, and then slumped to the floor. He kicked a few times, then the gurgle became a deathly rattle and he stopped moving.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ Jones screamed. He punched his gun out to arm’s length and kept firing wildly until the magazine was empty. He ejected it, slammed in a fresh one and let another fifteen shots loose down the corridor, as fast as he could work the trigger.

  Then the hot gun was empty again. He stood there, gasping, panting. The corridor was darkening fast. Other than a shaft of dull grey light coming from one of the cobwebbed windows, he was in blackness. He turned, groping his way in the dark. He desperately reached for the light switch again. Nothing.

  That was when he felt the cold blade of the knife against his throat. He froze, hand still on the switch.

  ‘I knew you’d come back here,’ said a voice close behind him. ‘That’s why I took out all the bulbs from this corridor.’

  Jones wanted to gulp but he could feel the edge of the steel pressing lightly against his trachea. ‘Hope?’ he whispered.

  ‘Tip for you,’ Ben said. ‘If you’re going to keep a man locked in a kitchen, don’t leave sharp knives lying around. Someone might get cut.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Jones quavered.

  ‘I’m going to slice your head off.’

  Jones rocked dizzily on his feet with terror.

  ‘Unless you take me to Zoë,’ Ben said.

  ‘She’s guarded,’ Jones said in a strangled voice.

  ‘Maybe I can convince you to have your people stand down,’ Ben said. ‘Then I’m going to take her out of here, and you’re going to come with us so you can tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘I just follow orders. Slater’s the guy you want.’

  ‘I’ll get to him in good time,’ Ben said. ‘But I think you know plenty. Maybe we’ll get to try out that truth serum on you.’

  ‘You are so fucking dead, Hope.’

  ‘Not before you. Now move.’ Ben shoved him down the corridor.

  In the lift, Jones pressed the button for the second floor. Ben slipped the kitchen knife into his bag and kept one of the Berettas aimed steadily at the agent’s head.

  The doors whirred open. Ben grabbed Jones’s wrist and bent it up sharply behind his back. He shoved him out of the gap, keeping the gun on him. They stepped out into the white corridor. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air. The whole upper floor had been redecorated, but in a hurry.

  ‘What’s up here?’

  ‘Just the girl,’ Jones said. ‘And twenty agents. You haven’t a chance in hell.’

  ‘I’ve been taking chances in hell most of my life,’ Ben said. ‘Shut up and walk.’

  Jones walked slowly, breathing hard and sweating from the pain in his arm as Ben kept it within half an inch of breaking. Up ahead, the corridor bent round to the left. Ben quietly thumbed off the safety on his pistol, every muscle tight, watching everything. He felt Jones tense, and he knew they were close. He let go of Jones and drew the second Beretta.

  They rounded the corner. Ten yards away the corridor came to a dead end at room thirty-six. Between them and the door stood three agents, two men, one woman. They saw him standing there with Jones and pulled their guns. Suddenly the corridor was filled with yelling.

  Ben remembered them from before, especially the woman. Her auburn hair was tied back under a baseball cap. The 9mm she was holding looked oversized in her small hands, but she knew what she was doing with it. Her blue eyes were locked hard on to his. He tried to read the look on her face.

  He moved towards them, using Jones’s body as a shield, his left pistol hard up against the base of the man’s skull and his right aimed down the corridor at the three guns pointing back at him.

  ‘I just want Zoë,’ he yelled. ‘Then it’s over.’

  He moved closer. Five yards. He felt the blood pulsing through his temples. The agents’ faces were tense, nerves frazzling. Fingers on triggers, muzzles steady. One slip, one shot, and nobody would escape the frenetic exchange of bullets at such close range.

  ‘Step away from him and lay down the weapon!’ one of the men shouted.

  Ben saw the flicker in his eyes at the same instant he sensed the sudden movement behind him. He reacted a fraction too late. It all happened at once. A powerful hand grabbed his left arm and jerked his gun away from Jones’s head. At the same time a fist slammed sideways into his ear, and his vision exploded in a flash of white light. Jones scrabbled out of his grasp. A volley of silenced gunfire, bullets tearing down the corridor all around him. A searing impact to his left shoulder as he felt a 9mm round punch deep into the deltoid muscle.

  Something to worry about later. He fired point-blank at the agent who’d attacked from the rear. The guy crumpled. Ben caught him as he fell, spun him around and felt the impact as bullets thwacked into the man’s body. But he was caught off balance and the dead agent crashed to the floor on top of him, knocking the pistol out of his left hand. As he struggled to kick the corpse off him he glimpsed Jones running away back down the corridor, heading for the lift.

  The three agents were moving forward, guns extended, aiming right at him. The woman’s face was steely.

  Impossible odds. Three guns against one. There was no way he could bring them all down before they got him. Lying on his back he punched out the Beretta one-handed and fired, taking down the man on the left. Swivelled his sights across in a blur.

  Too late. He could see the other man’s finger already taking up the slack on the trigger. Their bullets would cross in the air. He was dead.

  Then everything changed.

  The woman stepped back, twisted to one side and put a bullet between the shoulder blades of the agent next to her. His mouth burst open. The gun dropped from his hands. He went down on his face.

  Then silence. Just the two of them left alive in the corridor.

  Ben got to his feet, eyeing her warily. His shoulder was on fire, his heart racing. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and raised his weapon one-handed at the same instant she trained hers back on him.

  They circled each other for a few moments in a silent standoff, pistol muzzles almost kissing. He was aware of the blood running freely down his left arm and dripping fast from hi
s fingertips, the soft plop of the drops splashing onto the floor the only sound in the smoky corridor.

  ‘Put it down,’ he said.

  ‘You put yours down,’ she replied in a tight voice.

  ‘Everyone’s dead. It’s just you and Jones.’

  ‘Who the hell are you, Ben Hope?’

  ‘Just someone looking for Zoë Bradbury.’

  ‘You want to get her out of here? So do I.’

  ‘Show me.’

  She bent down, very slowly, and laid the gun on the floor. Then stepped back and watched him. ‘See? I’m on your side,’ she said. ‘Trust me.’

  He kept the gun on her, frowning and confused. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I’m Alex Fiorante, CIA. I’m not one of them.’

  ‘Could have fooled me, Alex.’

  ‘These people aren’t regular Agency. They’re some kind of rogue unit.’

  He was quiet for a moment, breathing hard, still aiming the gun at her. ‘Where’s Zoë?’

  She pointed. ‘Right behind that door. You want to get her out? Then let’s do it. We don’t have a lot of time.’

  ‘I want to know what’s going on,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll tell you everything I know. After.’

  He squatted down and scooped up her fallen pistol. Every movement of his left arm was agonising.

  She watched him tuck her pistol in his belt. ‘You can trust me, I swear.’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think we’re there yet. Open the door.’

  Alex kneeled down next to one of the dead agents and rolled the heavy corpse over with a grunt. She reached into his inside pocket and came out with a key, her fingers stained with the man’s blood. She wiped the blood on his clothes, walked the two steps to the door and unlocked it.

  ‘You first,’ he said. She stepped inside and he followed her, holding the gun to her back and looking around him at Zoë’s prison.

  It was empty.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Then he heard the whimper from under the bed. He pushed Alex against the wall. ‘Don’t move.’ He squatted down and peered under the bed.

  For the first time in nearly twenty years he was finally face to face with Zoë Bradbury. Unlike the happy, smiling young woman in her photo, her face was pale and thin from nearly two weeks of incarceration. She shrank away from him with a look of terror.

  ‘Zoë, I’m a friend.’ With the rising agony in his shoulder it was a struggle to keep his tone soft and reassuring. ‘My name’s Ben Hope. I’ve come to rescue you. Your parents sent me.’

  She shrank further away, back against the wall.

  ‘Come on out,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home. It’s over.’

  She wouldn’t come out. He had no time to mess about like this. Jones was still in the building. Ben grabbed the steel bed-frame and slid it away from the wall on its castors. He reached down and grasped her arm. She squealed with fright.

  ‘Look, I know you’ve been through a lot,’ he said. ‘I know how you’re feeling. But you need to co-operate with me.’ He jerked her to her feet, and she stared at him in bewilderment. Then she caught sight of Alex Fiorante across the room and started wriggling to get free of his grip. ‘She’s one of them!’

  ‘Zoë, it’s all right,’ Alex said gently. ‘Ben and I are going to get you out.’

  ‘No! No! She’s one of them!’ Zoë struggled harder, her voice rising into a scream.

  Ben hit her with a straight jab to the jaw.

  She went down without a sound. He gathered her up and slung her over his right shoulder. The pain was excruciating.

  ‘That’s one way of doing it,’ Alex said.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Ben pushed open the door and surveyed the corridor. No sign of Jones. They paced cautiously down the corridor, stepping over the dead bodies. Blood was dripping fast from his left arm, leaving a trail as he walked down the corridor. His shirt was soaked with it.

  The lift had gone. Ben pressed the wall button and heard it lurch into motion down below. ‘Stand back.’ He aimed his gun at the doors, bracing himself.

  The lift was empty. They rode it down to the ground floor and crept out into the deserted lobby. Zoë’s limp body was becoming a dead weight. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes, fighting to stay alert.

  Alex pointed. ‘The entrance is this way.’ They hurried outside. He suddenly felt chilled to the bone as the cool night air hit the sweat on his body. He glanced all around him, taking in his surroundings for the first time since they’d caught him and brought him here.

  The derelict hotel was perched high up on a rocky mound, with a narrow road snaking down through the trees and disappearing into the distance. The dying sunset was an explosive panorama of red and gold behind the rugged line of mountains. On the other side of the sky the moon was rising. Vast plains and forests stretched out for miles all around them.

  He turned to Alex. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘About fifty miles south of Chinook, Montana. One road in, one road out. A million acres of nothing all around us.’

  ‘What the hell are we doing in Montana?’

  ‘Getting out of it, if we have any sense.’

  There were a few vehicles parked outside the hotel. ‘We’ll take that one,’ Ben said, pointing to a GMC four-wheel-drive parked opposite. Alex trotted over to it and reached inside the driver’s door to flip down the sun visor. A key dropped into her palm. ‘I’ll drive.’

  Ben opened up the rear and laid Zoë gently down on the back seat. She stirred and groaned. He was sorry for what he’d had to do to her, but there was no time to worry about it now. He climbed in beside Alex as she gunned the engine into life. ‘There’s a first-aid kit under the seat,’ she told him. He opened the box and sifted through. Bandages. Surgical tape and scissors. A tube of codeine tablets. He swallowed two of them and leaned back in the seat, pressing hard against the wound to stem the bleeding.

  Alex accelerated hard away from the hotel. The road was narrow and twisty, forest on either side.

  ‘We can’t stay on the road,’ he said faintly. ‘I don’t want to come face to face with forty of your Agency friends, FBI and whoever else. If you see any kind of track, take us down it.’

  ‘You’re crazy. You’ll lose us in the wilderness.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  Alex was a good driver, and the big GMC felt solid and planted on the loose surface as she kept her foot hard on the floor. After a couple of miles there was a gap in the trees, and Ben saw a dirt track snaking away to the right. ‘There.’

  She threw the car into it, skidding into the turn. The car juddered and hammered over the uneven track. Branches and bushes skimmed past in the lights, raking the windscreen. Ben pulled the bloody material of his shirt aside and felt the wound. The bullet-hole was in the fleshy part of the shoulder. He didn’t think it had hit bone. The whisky flask was still about half full and he sluiced the wound with it as she drove, grimacing at the sting. He peeled off his shirt, unravelled a length of bandage and started binding himself up.

  ‘How bad is it?’ she said, glancing across, raising her voice over the engine roar.

  ‘Fine,’ he muttered. The pain was dulling as the codeine hit his bloodstream.

  ‘It’s not fine. We’re going to have to get that bullet out of you fast.’

  ‘Just keep moving,’ he said.

  The track carved deep into country. After about six miles it was so overgrown that they were driving blind, crashing through dense undergrowth. On the back seat, Zoë was groggily propping herself up, rubbing her face where Ben had hit her and holding onto the door for support as the GMC lurched wildly from side to side.

  Alex’s eyes were concentrated fiercely on the screen, hands tight on the wheel. After a few more miles she was forced to slow to a crawl, and the track had petered out to nothing. The GMC battered its way through a giant thorn bush, broke free and suddenly they were in open countryside with an ocean of dark prairie
stretching out in front of them. The stars were out and twinkling, and the mountains were a black jagged silhouette against the sky.

  ‘The Montana hi-line,’ Alex said. ‘Where the great plains meet the Rocky Mountains. Nothing but wilderness.’

  After a dozen more brutal miles, the terrain was becoming increasingly rough and the rocks and ruts were forcing them to take a wild path. Alex was getting exhausted, shaking her head to stay focused. Then the GMC lurched violently sideways and pitched to the left, almost going over. Ben felt himself sliding across the seat and braced himself with his legs. In the back, Zoë cried out. The car ground to a halt, something clanking from the front end. Alex swore and pumped the accelerator, but the wheels had lost traction and were spinning in the dirt. She swore again.

  Ben opened his door and jumped down, clutching his shoulder. The bleeding had stopped, but his shirt and jeans were black with blood. He staggered in the dark, light-headed with pain, cold sweat on his brow. The GMC was tightly bedded into a rocky rut that had been hidden by bushes, impossible to spot in the dark. ‘We’d need a tractor to tow us out,’ he said. ‘We walk from here.’

  Zoë’s jaw dropped open. ‘My God, this is your idea of a rescue? I’m not walking out there.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You stay here to fend for yourself, among the rattlesnakes and grizzlies.’ He turned to Alex. ‘We’ll need to conceal the car. It’s easy to spot from the air.’

  ‘You think they’ll come out in helicopters?’

  He smiled weakly. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  They salvaged what they could from the car – there were a couple of blankets in the back, bottled water, a Maglite, some matches, binoculars. Ben packed all the stuff into his bag together with the first-aid kit. Then he and Alex explored the wooded valley around them, gathering branches and bits of shrub by torchlight and building them up in a mound around the car. There were a hundred questions he badly wanted to ask her, but right now there were more important priorities. He felt he could trust her, though he didn’t know why.

  After a few minutes the vehicle just looked like a big clump of vegetation under the moonlight. Ben nodded to himself, and hefted the heavy bag onto his good shoulder. They set out in single file across the rocky terrain, the moon lighting their path. Ben kept Zoë close by him, grabbing her arm to keep her moving when she fell back. She was sullen and unwilling, and complained loudly whenever she stumbled over a rock or a tree root.