His eyes bounced from line to line, devouring details about brutal murders and supernatural feats enacted by a shadowy vigilante. Initially, there was very little evidence supporting the myths, but the savagery of the attacks and the colossal death toll could not be ignored. He wondered how the urban legends related to Larson, but he didn’t skip ahead; the gruesome tales had pulled him in.
There was an image embedded in the file, and he clicked it open. His mind didn’t register what he was seeing at first, as if his very soul rejected the possibility of such violence. He scrolled down to read the caption, then squinted and reread it.
Case Number 0902A. Submitted to evidence by NP, Badge no. 516872. Subject: Mitchel Weber.
Notes: Mitchel Weber was alive and lucid when the photo was taken, though unable to communicate verbally. Officer NP provided pen and paper to Weber, and Weber claimed the injuries were inflicted by a “Shadow Monster.” Weber further claimed that the monster was punishing him for his crimes; Weber admitted to raping at least sixty women in their sleep. The interview was concluded when Weber became combative, screaming and kicking until the physician sedated him.
Byron scrolled up and studied the face that was not a face. There were no eyes, no nose, no lips, and no teeth. There wasn’t even a discernible mouth or jaw—the flesh and bone had been pulverized until they resembled the extrusions of a meat grinder.
Though hesitant, Byron continued through the file. The evidence had been presented in reverse-chronological order and tagged with locations from Russia to Slovakia to England. He opened a video and watched a man—if it truly was a man—crush the skulls of two people with his bare hands.
Sickened, he scrolled past the next several images; he only stopped when he saw a face he recognized. It was Eric Larson, pictured talking to a policeman in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The final image showed a concert hall littered with rotting corpses. Beneath it were the remarks of the technician who had compiled the report.
My Lord, you are mighty and wise beyond my understanding. But I fear the man you asked me about, Eric Larson, might be connected to this creature in some way. Its few victims that survive call it “The Nightmare.” I know it is sinful to fear, but I am afraid. Please, grant me peace regarding this matter.
Except for the trembling in his hands and arms, Byron was motionless for nearly a minute. He lifted the phone from its cradle and had to dial the number five times before he got it right.
“My King?”
Byron’s voice cracked. “Where are you right now?”
The hitman didn’t respond for several seconds. “Specifically?”
“Yes, specifically.”
“Fifteen miles south of the mountain, but we’re traveling off-road.”
“How soon can you be back?”
“Well, we haven’t really…disposed of the garbage yet.”
“Dump it where you are and get back here. What I have for you is more important.”
“But, my Lord, we haven’t—”
“Now, dammit!” Byron roared, banging his fist against the table.
The background noise of the truck’s engine died down, and the hitman said, “It will be so.”
Byron closed his eyes and took a calming breath, then spoke in a level voice. “Kane will be waiting for you at the rear gate. Do not delay.”
Eric stirred, awakened by a noise somewhere behind him. He rolled away from the door and struggled to his feet, then backed into the corner adjacent to the door. Overcoming the guard or guards was his only chance for escape, and if he was lucky, they would expect him to be weak and docile when they arrived.
He’d been scourged to the brink of death, drugged, and imprisoned, but he was far from weak. And they’d have to kill him if they wanted him docile. Though the movement pulled at his stitches, he crouched and raised his hands. There were footsteps in the hallway, then the jangling of keys. The door swung outward, but no one entered. Eric remained tense, ready, holding his breath and trying to visualize the fight ahead. The seconds passed with agonizing sluggishness until an arm and a watchful eye came into view.
Eric jerked forward an inch, then stopped. Kane was ready for him, standing back from the door with his revolver level.
“Move to the back of the cell, Eric. I’d rather not make a mess, but I will if I have to.”
Chewing his lip, Eric complied. His chance would come if he was patient and vigilant; attacking right now would be suicide.
“Face the wall and put your hands on the back of your head.” Kane’s tone left no room for argument.
“I told you what I know,” Eric grunted. “What the hell do you want from me?”
“This is not about you.” Byron Doyl stepped into the cell but stayed at a distance. “I’d like to talk about one of your old acquaintances.”
A cell phone slid across the floor and bumped into the wall next to Eric’s right foot. He glanced at it, and his breath caught in his chest.
“You’ve met the beast and lived to tell about it. Why is that?”
Eric studied the hooded figure on the screen and wondered why Jarrod had allowed himself to be photographed. “From what I’ve heard, he only hurts psychos and perverts—like you.”
“The creature is a he? Interesting. Do you know his name?”
Eric cursed himself under his breath. His injuries were affecting him more than he realized. It took him too long to come up with a response, and Byron zeroed in on the hesitation.
“My word, you know this horrible man. Is he aware you are here?”
“Why? Is your butthole puckering?”
The bravado didn’t fool the cult leader. He rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment, then returned to the hallway. “I do not fear mortal man or beast. I just needed to reassure my men on the walls, which your blustering has done for me. Kane, bring him to the surface—his punishment has been served, and he will be set free before dawn.”
“As you command, my Lord.”
Eric didn’t believe for one second that Byron was going to let him walk away. And if he was going to die, he would die fighting.
“You heard him, Larson,” Kane said. “You’re free to go. If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to the gate.”
Turning around slowly, Eric studied the enforcer. He noted the man’s body position—the way his hips were turned slightly and his weight was evenly distributed between his feet. The revolver was pointed at the floor, but his arms were positioned to snap the weapon up in an instant if needed. Thankfully, the man’s bullwhip was securely fastened at his side. “And what if I’d rather stay here?”
Kane chuckled. “That’s not an option, sir. You’re leaving Holy Mountain, either on your feet or tied to a wheelchair. It would be easier for both of us if you just walked.”
“I think you know by now that I’m not interested in making things easy for you.”
Kane sighed and gave a single nod. “Yes, but you can’t fault an old man for trying.” He backed away, clearing the cell entrance and placing his hand on the door.
Eric held his breath as he watched his captor’s eyes. Time ticked by in microsecond increments, and he coiled every muscle fiber in his body. The moment came when the door was halfway shut and Kane turned his face away, lowering his guard as he waited for the steel door to click into place. Before the door could seat itself in the frame, Eric slammed his shoulder into it, knocking Kane off balance.
With strength and speed that belied his age, Kane jumped back and perched his toes against the base of the door while simultaneously snaking his arm around. But Eric was ready for that, too. He wrapped his fingers around the edge and yanked inward, pinning Kane’s arm between door and frame. Kane cried out in pain and the revolver dropped into the room. Eric didn’t move to retrieve the weapon, for doing so would give Kane a chance to retrieve his whip. Instead, he grabbed Kane’s wrist with one hand and held it in place while he repeatedly slammed the door.
Kane’s arm cracked over and over u
ntil his forearm freely bent at unnatural angles. Then, Eric gave a powerful shove, knocking his opponent to the floor. He bent down and scooped up the revolver, ignoring the fiery pain as the lacerations all over his body pulled against their seams. When he stepped into the hallway, the whip came crashing down. But this time, Kane didn’t have enough range of motion to build hypersonic momentum at the whip’s frayed tip. The cord struck Eric’s shoulder and lashed his back, but the pain was bearable. Eric struck out with his left hand, grasped the whip, and yanked it free. At the same time, he swung the heel of his right foot forward, crashing it into Kane’s face.
The bearded man fell limp, and his eyes rolled back into his head.
Eric’s training prompted him to dead-check the man, either by putting a bullet in the brain or stomping on his throat, but he held back—not for Kane’s sake, but for his own. The memory of killing an old man, he knew, would haunt him for the rest of his life.
A dark thought entered his mind. Which is probably going to end in the next few minutes.
19
Fifteen Miles South of Holy Mountain
The studded tires rolled over rock and sand, crushing the intermittent sage and yucca in their path. Each bump in the path pitched Kayla into the walls of her wooden prison—a casket-sized box in the back of a rugged pickup truck. The drugs had been wearing off for at least thirty minutes, which had been a blessing and a curse. She could think straight, but her body was severely bruised, and she now felt every painful jolt.
The truck ground to a halt, and though she knew nothing good would come from the sudden stop, she breathed a sigh of relief. She shifted into a comfortable position and strained to listen to the world outside her coffin. A pair of doors slammed shut, and the tailgate squeaked as it was lowered. Her feet sank slightly—someone had stepped into the bed of the truck. It was time.
She let her mouth hang open slightly and controlled her breathing, playing possum. A lock fell away, and a pair of latches turned. The heavy lid rocked back on its hinges, flooding the box with white light. One of her assailants shined a high-powered headlamp on her, spotlighting her body from head to toe and back again as if the man was admiring the contents of a treasure chest. He reached inside and squeezed her shoulder. When she didn’t react, he pinched her butt cheek.
The light vanished as the man directed the headlamp elsewhere and said, “She’s out cold. Help me get her out of here.”
The truck bounced on its suspension again, and Kayla felt three pairs of hands grasping her. As they lifted her out, the cold desert air washed over her sweat-soaked clothes like ice water. She had to force herself to remain limp and unresponsive, even when one of the men clumsily bumped his knee against her ear. One man released her and jumped to the ground, then the other two men lowered her into his arms. He carried her for several paces, supporting her weight with his elbows so he could use his hands to caress her thighs and squeeze her breasts. Revulsion tied her stomach into knots, but she remained placid.
Only when he eased her into the dirt did she risk cracking one eyelid to watch him. He was standing over her, dimly lit by the outer reaches of the truck’s headlights. He bent over her and tugged her shirt upward, exposing her black sports bra. She could hear his breathing, feel his hand sliding down her stomach to unbuckle her jeans.
“Barakas, what are you doing? We don’t have time for this.”
The man stood and jabbed his finger at his compatriot. “I decide what we have time for. Get in the truck and mind your own business; this will only take a minute.”
The man’s belt clinked as he pulled the leather strap free of his buckle, and a silvery object splashed into the sand. Kayla counted the seconds—waiting for the other two men to enter the truck and trying to ignore Barakas, who was standing above her, priming himself for hellish depravity. When the second door slammed shut, she made her move.
The burly man had no time to react. Her sudden movement took him by surprise, and he was still wearing a puzzled expression when Kayla snatched up the Ruger, buried it in his crotch, and pulled the trigger.
Barakas fell away, clutching his groin and howling in pain. Kayla turned away and wiped the blood from her eyes, then got to one knee. She raised the pistol and sent two .38 caliber rounds through the rear window. Uncertain if she had found her marks, she jumped up and raced forward, pulling open the truck door and putting a bullet in the closest man’s skull. The second man was wheezing loudly and struggling with the handle of his door. She ignored him for the moment, but only because her revolver was empty. She searched the back seat, and a flood of relief washed over her as her hand settled on a pair of speedloaders. After reloading the pistol, she pocketed the spare speedloader and swept around the rear of the truck. The fleeing man had stumbled and was writhing on the ground, trying to reach the gaping wound on his back. She aimed the Ruger but didn’t fire. She had no desire to take on the role of the executioner—but she also didn’t have to save them. After a long moment, she returned to the driver’s side of the truck.
The corpse in the driver’s seat was heavy, but she managed to drag it free and climb inside the cab. A plastic cradle on the dashboard held a phone, which was set to navigate to Holy Mountain. She put the truck in gear and hit the accelerator.
Keeping one eye on the rugged terrain, she dialed Renner’s number from memory. It rang seven times, then went to voicemail. She redialed, and this time, he answered.
“Hello?” His voice was even gruffer than usual.
“Ryan, this is Kayla.”
“Kayla? We’ve been looking all over for you. Are you alright?”
“I will be. I’m in the wilderness, but I have a truck and I’m heading toward Holy Mountain.”
After a brief hesitation, Renner said, “I know you’re angry—you have every right to be—but you need to come into town and tell me what happened.”
“There’s no time. Eric is in danger, and I’m not going to spend the rest of the night filling out paperwork.”
“But going in there on your own is suicide.” He paused again, then sighed. “With your statement, we can justify sending in SWAT—and maybe even the FBI hostage rescue team. Come back to Craig, and we’ll do this the right way.”
A fat drop of rain impacted the windshield, followed by three more. Kayla turned on the windshield wipers and shook her head. “No, Ryan. That’s why I dialed you instead of 9-1-1. You need to stay out of this. Keep away from the mountain, and don’t send anyone else up there, either.”
“Kayla, you’re not making any sense. A few hours ago, you and your boss were practically demanding that I send a team. Now I have enough probable cause to get the backup I need, and you’re planning on going up there alone. Why?”
She stared out at the darkening sky. Her stomach churned in anticipation of the horror that lay ahead, but her resolve didn’t break. “Make sure there are ambulances ready to head this way, but don’t move until you get my signal. Got it?”
“I can’t do that. Not in good conscience. You aren’t yourself, Kayla. You need to come in and rest. I’ll put a call in to Denver and sort this out.”
“And how long do you think it’ll take to organize a rescue? Days? Weeks?”
“If we can convince the Bureau to send HRT…”
“There are a thousand people inside that mountain, and you know damn well the Feds won’t risk civilian casualties without a clear and imminent threat.”
“But Doyl has guns, Kayla, lots of them. And he isn’t afraid to use them. If you go up there, you’re dead, it’s as simple as that.”
A bolt of lightning connected cloud to ground—darkness to darkness—in the distance. The flash of light illuminated the edge of Holy Mountain, and Kayla turned the wheel to correct her course. “I’m not going up there to pick a fight; I won’t need to. But when the walls come tumbling down, I want to be there for my husband. Keep your men away, Ryan, if you value their lives.”
20
The concrete wall next to Eric�
��s head cracked and sent splinters into his ear. He ducked back into the Punishment Room, waited for a pause in the frantic gunfire, then leaned into the hallway and returned fire. His first shot went wide, but the second caught the gunman in the elbow, and the MP5 submachine gun dropped to the floor.
Eric threw his mass into the hallway, limping as fast as he could. The gunman reached for a sidearm on his belt, but the barrel never made it past its holster. Eric fired the last round in Kane’s revolver, sending the cultist into the afterlife.
There were shouts at the end of the next hallway, so Eric scooped up the sidearm—a Sig Sauer P227—and the MP5 then retreated to the Punishment Room.
“What’s happening out there?” Cameron shouted.
“I’m getting us out of here,” Eric said in a hoarse whisper. “Just hold tight.”
“You’ll never make it. Byron has an army of Adherents willing to die for him. Please, kill me before they catch you again.”
Eric took a step closer to Cameron’s cell. “They aren’t going to catch me, and I’m not going to kill you. Byron may have an army, but he made the mistake of putting me in a bunker with choke points in both directions.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll explain when—”
A man with a shotgun turned the corner, exposing the full width of his body in the doorway. Before he could bring his sights to bear, Eric hit him with three 9mm rounds from the MP5. The man toppled backward with two holes in his throat and one in his forehead.
Eric returned to the doorway, putting his shoulder against the wall while he checked one direction, then the other. It was clear for the moment, so he glanced at the polycarbonate window on his magazine and counted his rounds. Eighteen left, plus another ten rounds in the Sig. And if these idiots kept charging the door, he’d likely never run out of weapons and ammunition.
Summon the Nightmare Page 12
