“To discourage further investigation. Her sense of guilt for bringing attention to a pitiable condition will keep her from looking in my direction again.”
Adam shook his head. “I understand why you had to speak up, but you didn’t have to lie. If you told her your skin just looks that way sometimes, it would have had the same effect, don’t you think?”
“Probably.”
“If it doesn’t hurt anything, you should tell the truth, got it?”
Jarrod glanced over his shoulder and watched a teenager in the distance who was pacing while talking on his phone. “Understood.”
Adam followed his gaze, then interlaced his fingers. “Why has that young man caught your attention?”
“He is exhibiting signs of high stress, and he is talking to an angry man about a party that happened last night.”
“And what decision are you trying to make, based on what you can hear?”
“Whether or not the man on the other end of the call should die.”
Adam inhaled so sharply, he choked on his saliva and began to cough. He pounded his chest with his fist for a moment, cleared his throat, and said, “Excuse me?”
Jarrod turned away from the teenager and leaned his head back as if to sniff the air. “Don’t worry. The man is innocent; he seems to be the boy’s father, and his anger is justified. Apparently, the boy left his home in disarray after throwing a party he did not have permission for.”
“That’s—that’s not okay, Jarrod. You can’t decide whether or not someone deserves to die based on an overheard phone call.”
“You are correct. I was simply gathering intelligence. If the intelligence warranted action, I would transition into a reconnaissance role before deciding whether or not to eliminate the target.”
Adam blinked. “Thank you for explaining that to me.” He leaned heavily against the bench and stared into the distance. “This might not be as easy as I thought.”
Jarrod sat straighter and inhaled deeply as a young couple walked by. “Would you like me to describe my other observations?”
“Yes, please.”
Taking a deep breath and gripping the bench with both hands, Jarrod began rattling off his report. “There are approximately two hundred and ninety people present—one hundred and ten of whom are adolescents or younger. There are twenty-one men and women confirmed to be carrying weapons, and another ten to twenty probable. In the immediate vicinity, the most common emotions are avarice, boredom, moderate joy, and uncertainty. The female holding the black handbag is sexually active with the male beside her. They are both between sixteen and eighteen years of age. The woman pushing the stroller is wearing excess makeup on a portion of her face, consistent with attempts to hide domestic abuse. The male sitting alone at the table is closely watching passing females who are between the ages of thirteen and twenty-five. He is sexually aroused. The infant in the blue dress—” The bench creaked in Jarrod’s grip. He shot to his feet, threw back his hood, and glared at the well-dressed woman with the infant in her arms. “The infant has been shaken. Repeatedly.”
As if his vision was suddenly failing, Adam pawed at the air before grasping Jarrod’s hand. “Please…sit down.”
Jarrod complied, though his hawk-eyed gaze still followed the woman and the baby.
Adam tried to speak but found he suddenly couldn’t. His mouth had gone dry, and his stomach threatened to disgorge his breakfast. He stared at the baby girl, the sight of whom would have filled him with joy on any other day. But today, all he could notice was the glazed look in her eyes and the way her hands didn’t move quite right. His shoulders trembled with anger, and he wanted to chase the woman down so he could take the baby away—take her somewhere safe. Tears welled in his eyes, and he choked out the words, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Under my previous parameters, I would investigate the woman with the bruise and the man at the table. I would remove the arms of the woman with the infant. Under my new parameters, I intend to use psychological warfare on her instead. But I will take your advice into consideration.”
“I—I…”
Jarrod cocked his head and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Your blood pressure is elevated, and your heart rhythm is irregular. You need rest.”
Adam swayed and blinked away the colored pinpricks in his vision. “I…”
“Will you permit me to carry you? I can take you home, or to a hospital if your condition worsens.”
“I…” Adam gripped Jarrod’s shirt to steady himself then nodded. An instant later, he heard the sound of rushing air. Jarrod was cradling him in his arms and sprinting toward the exit, but he somehow made no jarring impact with each footfall. It was as if Adam was riding a cloud, pushed by the wind. He told himself that he would be alright as soon as he was at home with his children, but the tingling sensation in his fingers and toes continued to spread. The face of the shaken baby was etched onto his eyes, and he could do nothing to rid himself of the tragic vision.
Spittle leaked onto his lips, and he began to dry-heave. Darkness closed in, and soon, he could see nothing but the poor, innocent child.
“Dad, stay with me. You can get through this.”
Acid forced its way into his esophagus, and he retched onto his own chest.
“Keep your eyes open as long as you can.”
This can’t be real, Adam thought. This can’t be the world I live in. There can’t be this much evil in my own town.
The words in his mind began to jumble together, and his limbs went numb.
A car door opened, and Jarrod said. “Dad, you’re having a stroke. I can help you, but it’s going to hurt. A lot.”
Adam blinked and realized Jarrod’s forehead was resting on his own. He worked his jaw, but it felt heavy, and he struggled to make sense of Jarrod’s words. He imagined ten thousand creatures with leathery wings swirling in the darkness at the edge of his vision, their teeth wet with blood. All he could think to say was, “Deedee. Protect Deedee.”
The winged creatures rushed in, igniting a blaze in his skull. His jaw sagged, and he felt the scream tearing through his throat, but he heard nothing. The darkness covered him like a blanket, and soon there was nothing but pain.
12
Three Miles East of Holy Mountain
Moffat County, Colorado
Kayla swatted at a biting fly that seemed obsessed with the scent of her shampoo. She peered through a pair of binoculars at the deserted hillside. Eric wasn’t at the primary, secondary, contingency, or emergency rendezvous points. And he hadn’t made contact either by phone or with the beacon embedded in his helmet. From her vantage point, Kayla could spot anything taller than a jackrabbit for at least three miles in every direction, but she’d seen no movement since she arrived.
It was almost noon—time to leave. Eric had told her to report his absence to Sheriff Renner if he didn’t arrive by now. But Kayla doubted Renner could save Eric any more than he could save Cameron or anyone else inside the walls of Holy Mountain. If Eric couldn’t rescue himself from whatever trap he had walked into, there was a good chance she would never see him again.
No, she told herself, there has to be a way. There has to be someone—
A memory she’d often tried to forget suddenly came rushing back. Her mind carried her back to Kinshasa, where a flitting shadow was tearing men apart, even as they begged for mercy. There was blood—so much blood that it colored the air pink—and screams like she’d never heard before. He could save Eric. He could save them all.
She shuddered at the thought and felt disgusted at herself for even considering it. Reaching out to him would be a death sentence for dozens of people, maybe more. But she didn’t know what else to do. And if she did nothing, Eric might not make it out alive…if he wasn’t dead already.
Her hands began to tremble, and she set the binoculars aside. She pinched her eyelids shut, sending a pair of fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She’d been through so much, trying to bring
Eric back into her life. So damned much. Deep down, she knew she would do anything to save him, sacrifice anyone.
She didn’t recognize the person behind her own thoughts. She’d been fiercely opposed to Jarrod’s methods in the past. He was too violent, too brutal, too reckless. Even criminals had the right to a fair trial, didn’t they? She’d thought so, right up until someone she loved ended up in danger.
Her shame at her hypocrisy didn’t stop her hand from sliding into her cargo pocket for the satellite phone stowed there. Numbly, mechanically, she dialed a ten-digit number and held the phone against her ear.
“Kayla? How did it go?”
She licked her lips and steeled herself for the difficult conversation ahead. “I have bad news. Eric is MIA.”
There was a long pause, then, “When did you lose contact?”
“This morning. Around five-thirty. He went inside a building and I haven’t heard from him since. I’m worried about him, Thomas.”
“Are you at the rendezvous point?”
“Yes.”
“Give him some time. If he kicked a hornet’s nest—which, I imagine he did—he might be lying low and waiting for the cover of darkness before trying to exfil.”
“But he has a phone. Why wouldn’t he use it?”
“I don’t know, and conjecture is useless. So is worrying. Your husband is one of the best, Kayla. He’ll get through this. Have you contacted the Sheriff’s department?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s okay; I’ll handle it from this end. If I can get the right person on the phone, I may be able to clear this up from here. The Holy Mountain municipal police might be detaining him for trespassing.”
Kayla rubbed at her eyes for a moment. “I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about this. He went into the cathedral and didn’t come back out. If he did, his phone would have automatically uploaded the surveillance data, and his emergency beacon was set to go off if he didn’t check in. But I haven’t received anything. And when I try to ping the beacon, it doesn’t respond.”
“Kayla—”
“And Renner had to beg for permission to have Cameron evaluated. You think they’ll let him walk inside and have a look around, just because Eric has gone missing?”
Ward sighed. “Let me talk to some people, alright? I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.”
Kayla ended the call and set the phone aside. Ward’s voice always had a calming effect on her. He had been working in private security since before she was born, and it seemed like there wasn’t a problem in the world he couldn’t handle. Her hands had stopped shaking, so she picked up the binoculars and resumed scanning the desert.
She stopped to check her watch twice a minute, every minute, until Ward called back.
“Did you find him?”
“I’m sorry, but no. I contacted an old friend in Denver who managed to patch me through to the man himself, Byron Doyl.”
“And?”
Ward exhaled. “He claims his law enforcement officers found Eric wandering around the city last night, so they let him rest in the cathedral for a few hours. Supposedly, Eric left the city a few hours ago, traveling on foot.”
Kayla’s eyes widened. “He’s lying. If Eric had come down the mountain, I would have seen him. And he would have made contact, one way or another.”
“I agree with you. But unfortunately, the District Attorney doesn’t want to pick a fight. He promised to get in touch with BLM, to search the territory around the mountain, but he’s leaving the search within the walls to the Holy Mountain police force.”
“But they’re corrupt.” Kayla shook her head. “That’s exactly what we were trying to prove last night. The DA doesn’t find it suspicious that Eric just…vanished?”
“I’m sure he finds it more than suspicious, but he’s not willing to dedicate time and assets until we have more proof. Budgets are tighter than ever, and every agency in the country is understaffed. The nation’s focus is on terrorism, not domestic cults or missing persons. It’s a tragedy, but it’s the world we live in right now.”
“What do you propose I do? Sit on my ass until the sun goes down?”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do. I’ll work with the authorities from here and let you know if I gain any traction.”
Kayla glanced at the geometric lines of the city walls in the distance and gripped the phone tighter. “Ward, what are we going to do if no one will help us?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we—”
“I’m serious. I need to know we have a backup plan.”
He hesitated. “I have a few ideas. Most of them aren’t exactly legal and involve a team of shooters taking Eric back if Doyl won’t give him up peacefully.”
Kayla ran through a list of names in her head, then frowned. “Isn’t everyone on protective details already?”
“Yes…but I’ll re-task them. Getting Eric back is top priority.”
“But you’ll have to send replacements before reassigning anyone, right? And half the shooters are overseas. And if we get caught conducting paramilitary operations on American soil, we could all end up in prison.”
“Kayla, I don’t know what else you want me to say—we don’t have very many options.”
“There is someone who could handle this operation. Someone with no ties to the firm, and he could pull it off with zero support. And he would volunteer in a heartbeat if he knew Eric is in trouble.”
“Absolutely not.”
She scratched the back of her neck and took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Trust me, he’s the last person on earth I’d suggest. But it’ll take two weeks to assemble a team, and another week to train them. If Eric’s alive, he’s going to try to escape, and it won’t be long before they start seeing him as a liability. With Jarrod, we only need to move one man into place, and he doesn’t need any preparation.”
The line went silent for so long, Kayla checked the phone to make sure it hadn’t dropped the call. When Ward finally spoke again, his voice carried undertones of defeat. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you.”
Guilt bloomed anew in Kayla’s chest. “I know it’s selfish, but I can’t bear the thought of losing him. Not again.”
“This has nothing to do with Agatha’s account? You’re not trying to bring the hammer down on these people?”
She tried not to think about it—she was afraid of what the answer might be if she truly searched her heart.
“Because you don’t want to go down that road. Trust me.”
Kayla swallowed the lump in her throat. She had heard the stories of how Ward would look the other way while Jarrod slaughtered gunmen who dared to threaten his protectees. Until recently, she didn’t fully understand the depths of his wrath, even before he was transformed into the world’s most lethal killing machine. And now, even knowing from first-hand experience what he was capable of, she was still willing to send him into the city if it meant saving Eric’s life.
“Thomas, I…”
Ward’s voice returned, more authoritative than ever, “Don’t say another word. If there are no alternatives, I will be the one to contact Jarrod. And don’t you dare try to take credit for the idea. I’ve thought about bringing him onboard more than once since Kinshasa. If he suddenly shows up in Holy Mountain, it has nothing to do with you or anything you’ve said. Got it?”
Kayla felt a burden drop from her shoulders. She knew it was an act—Thomas was trying to take the guilt that was rightfully hers—but she was grateful nonetheless. “I understand.”
“Good. Sit tight, and I’ll call you in a few hours with my decision.”
“Roger that. And…thank you.”
Ward didn’t reply. After several moments, he whispered, “God, forgive me,” and the line went dead.
13
Charlotte, North Carolina
Spiders beneath her skin. She had to get them out—had to tear them out. The nails dug in, biting the flesh and coming back covered in
crimson pitch, but no spiders.
A tingle ran up her spine, and she began slapping her neck. She shrieked, “Get out, get out, get out!”
The sensation didn’t stop; it climbed her scalp and buzzed beneath her follicles. She ran to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. She shut the door, closing out the sound of the baby’s crying.
Always crying. So needy. So selfish. Everything was perfect until she came along.
She turned on the light above the mirror and leaned in, parting her hair and examining the pale flesh beneath. Nothing moved, but she could feel them moving. They’re trapped inside, she reasoned. They need a way out.
Wrapping her golden locks around her hand, she pulled downward with all her might. Her head jerked downward and didn’t come back up.
Too much. Too many.
She took a smaller clump of hair and yanked while simultaneously throwing her head in the opposite direction. A searing pain pressed against her scalp like a hot brand, but her hand held a trophy of flaxen locks. Smiling, she tossed the hair aside and started again, this time with both hands. She screamed as she ripped out handful after handful, stopping intermittently to check for spiders. There was nothing but blood—thousands of tiny red dots where her luxurious hair had once been.
And still, the spiders crept deep inside.
A soft voice in the air implored her to keep trying. Carve them out, burn them out, poison them out. Just get them out.
Dropping to her knees, she opened a cupboard and unscrewed a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She closed her eyes and poured it on then collapsed beneath the fiery pain. She sucked air in through her teeth and groaned while rocking herself on the bathroom floor. Slowly, the pain began to fade, but the tingling persisted.
Fire. You have to use fire.
She wasn’t sure if the thought was her own, or if it was the voice again, but she didn’t care. She ripped open a drawer, searching for the matchbook she normally used to light candles before her Friday evening bath, but it wasn’t in its usual place. Letting out a desperate wail, she ripped the drawer out and turned it over, emptying its contents on the floor. Nothing.
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