Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  “Great idea, but not particularly original. Why don’t you call Daron Keeler so you can swap notes?”

  San winced. Daron Keeler, the man previously in charge of the Hillcrest black operatives, had been demoted and sent to Russia for fieldwork. Buchanan and Keeler had known each other for decades, and it caused Buchanan immense pain to reassign his old friend.

  The Director of National Intelligence nodded thoughtfully, exhibiting his legendary self-restraint. “Daron made mistakes, and he is paying for them. But I am not him. I do not intend to manipulate or trick Four-Seven-Charlie. If, after he is brought in, he does not wish to undergo further procedures to make him more cooperative—and useful, I might add—then we will incarcerate him until he can be rehabilitated.”

  Buchanan placed his age-spotted hands flat on the table. “Don’t mistake my intentions. As a former operative myself, I can see his potential and would love to see him put to use. But my duty is to the United States, and Four-Seven-Charlie is a direct threat to our citizens.”

  Eugene shook his head. “When did the actions of a vigilante become the concern of U.S. intelligence agencies?”

  “When he started killing American citizens on American soil.”

  “Really? Because I didn’t hear any complaints when he was killing Katharos agents here in Maryland.”

  Buchanan let out a sigh. “We were willing to overlook those particular crimes because they were easily hidden from the general public.”

  “Then why don’t you just admit it? You only care about stopping Jarrod now because he’s making you look bad.”

  “Eugene, that’s enough,” San said.

  Buchanan held up a hand. “It’s alright, Doctor Torres.” Turning to Eugene, he continued, “There is some truth to that, but it’s only part of the problem. Four-Seven-Charlie has been programmed to use psychological warfare whenever possible. At the moment, he is using it to frighten criminals into hiding. But now that his exploits have gone from urban legend to evening news, the entire country has been affected. People are sleeping with their lights on, afraid to go outside, and our already-crippled economy is suffering because of it. Three hundred and twenty-eight million Americans want answers, and we have none to give. If we can’t give them answers, we will give them results. We will get Four-Seven-Charlie off the streets.”

  Tapping a button on a small remote, Buchanan lit up a screen on the far wall of the conference room. “I appreciate your input, Eugene, but the time for discussion is over. While you were returning to Baltimore, our analysts intercepted a conversation between Four-Seven-Charlie and a man named Thomas Ward. By now you’ve probably heard of the attacks in Colorado, and you might have guessed that Four-Seven-Charlie was involved.”

  Eugene folded his arms across his chest and nodded for Buchanan to continue.

  “Thomas Ward was instrumental in transporting Four-Seven-Charlie to Colorado. Late this morning, Ward made contact with Four-Seven-Charlie and discussed opportunities for…cooperation in the future. Thomas Ward has an extensive network of security contractors around the world and the means to transport them. He offered to assist Four-Seven-Charlie with logistics as long as he approved the ‘targets’ ahead of time.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  Buchanan tapped the remote, bringing up an image of a middle-aged man on a yacht. “This is Sheldon Ackerton, an entrepreneur and film director. He comes from old money and owns a home near Los Angeles. He is also a follower of Byron Doyl—the cult leader who was attacked in Colorado. He is the first target Thomas Ward is helping Four-Seven-Charlie bring down. We’ve tracked down flight plans meant to transport Four-Seven-Charlie from his current position in…” Byron advanced to the next slide. “Salt Lake City. Apparently, Four-Seven-Charlie had issues with a black-market brothel there. He’ll be flown to LAX, and a limousine will drive him into the hills for his assault on Ackerton’s mansion. I want you and your team to intercept him at Ackerton’s estate.”

  “Do we know for a fact that Ackerton is dirty?”

  “Yes. A hacked inquiry into his offshore bank accounts showed that he is involved with the drug trade and human trafficking, mostly to supply entertainment for lavish parties at his home and on his yacht.”

  “Then why are we going out of our way to stop Jarrod?”

  Buchanan shook his head. “I don’t care if you stop him or not. But he is normally very difficult to track. This is a unique opportunity to take him by surprise. We’ll have ISR assets—drones, mostly—watching his movements, and I will personally coordinate the intercept.”

  Eugene made a show of massaging his lower back. “I don’t know…I’ve been pretty sore lately. Might have slipped a disk or something. What if I can’t go?”

  “Then I will send LA SWAT to the mansion and hope for the best.”

  Sinking into his chair, Eugene shook his head. “You’re a crafty old bastard, sir. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “My ex-wife. It’s all she calls me anymore. Can you have your team ready in thirty minutes?”

  “We’re ready now. Some genius decided to pull us out in the middle of an op. How did it go, by the way, having law enforcement pick up Stokes and Woodfall?”

  Buchanan avoided eye contact, choosing instead to tap on his tablet. “We’ll discuss that later. For now, focus on your mission.”

  “Your mission,” Eugene said as he turned on his heel and strode toward the door. “I’m not taking credit for this goat rope.”

  San watched him go, then faced the DNI and gave an apologetic smile.

  31

  September 6th

  Ackerton Estate

  Pacific Palisades, California

  A cool breeze descended the mountain, riding the gullies and drainages on its way to the Pacific. In the distance, moonlit waves splashed against a rocky shore. Beyond that, an endless sea of blackness sprawled toward the horizon.

  Sheldon Ackerton leaned against the stainless-steel railing, staring out at the shadowy vista as he had hundreds of times before. But tonight, the quiet serenity failed to bring him comfort. He threw his head back, pulling Schrader Cabernet straight from the bottle until it was empty. He turned the bottle around in his hand, studying the label for a long moment, then pitched it over the edge.

  Byron Doyl, the self-proclaimed second Son of God, was dead. According to the rumors, he had been dragged through the desert for hours, then dumped on a porch in Denver. The leader of the Adherents was violently insane when the police found him. He’d been taken to a hospital and sedated, but when the medication wore off, he broke free from his restraints, fashioned a noose from his bedsheet, and hung himself from his bed frame.

  Sheldon gripped the silvery railing and stared down at the rocky hillside. Tumbling to his death would be far better than the torment the creature might visit upon him, but he wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

  He glanced back at the massive windows of his twenty-million-dollar palace. Inside, men and women danced to a thudding bassline. His wife and two mistresses were taking shots of tequila at the bar, and topless dancers straddled the laps of stockbrokers, trust fund brats, and Hollywood celebrities. Aside from the hired entertainment, everyone in the house was an Adherent. They were handling their leader’s passing surprisingly well.

  Sheldon let out a deep breath. He’d probably be in there with them—taking bumps of ketamine and enjoying the youngest and prettiest merchandise—if Byron had died of natural causes. But the inside reports from Holy Mountain confirmed his worst fear: The Nightmare was coming after Adherents.

  Of all Doyl’s followers, Sheldon was perhaps the most familiar with the beast’s reputation. Sheldon was famous for his hilltop parties, and he dabbled in drug smuggling and human trafficking to make sure he provided the best possible experience. But over the past few months, the price of African, European, and American girls had skyrocketed. When he met with his broker to find out why, the man explained that a vigilante known as The Nightmare had been br
eaking up prostitution rings—and leaving a trail of dead pimps and smugglers behind.

  Sheldon assumed the stories were simply legends concocted by superstitions criminals. He shifted his business to Eastern Asia and the Pacific island nations, and couldn’t have been happier with the results. Asian women were half the price of European women, and the islands were far more accessible than the interior of Africa. He could still find boys, girls, men, and women to fit every taste, and once they arrived at his home in the Palisades, they never left. Unless, of course, he decided to give one of his toys away to a guest. It was easy to keep the operation hidden because he never forced his slaves to work on the streets. He was smarter than that. As long as he catered to the needs of wealthy Adherents, his business would continue to thrive.

  He wrinkled his nose. His only real risk of exposure had been his relationship with Byron Doyl. And against all odds, the creature discovered that relationship. Now, the very people who ensured his financial and social success were his greatest liability.

  Maybe, he thought as he watched a man carry a teenage prostitute into one of the bedrooms, it’s time for a change. He could cancel his upcoming parties, sell his supply of drugs, and give away his harem. He’d keep a few for himself, and when they were too old to fit his preferences, he would give them away, too. There would be no more dealings with international traffickers, no more contact with famous Adherents. But that didn’t mean his life would become dull—there were plenty of beautiful young girls wandering the streets of L.A. who he could entice and enslave.

  He grinned. Shopping local was better for the environment, anyway. Feeling a surge of confidence, he turned on his heel and joined the revelry of his final party.

  Thomas had been true to his word—he had provided Jarrod with everything he needed to attend the party. And in style, too. After a short flight in a nearly empty Learjet, Jarrod had arrived at Los Angeles International Airport. A black limousine had been waiting for him, and the driver tossed him a neatly pressed tuxedo.

  The finer points of undercover operations had been downloaded into Jarrod’s brain during his time in Hillcrest, but he rarely needed them. He found the direct approach—eavesdropping and, if necessary, torture—was the easiest way to pry information from an unwilling criminal. But for this particular operation, rubbing elbows with the party guests might prove invaluable, and he exchanged his worn hoodie and blue jeans for the silk attire.

  The tuxedo was a size too small, but that worked to his advantage in a place like this, where guests were judged by either their status or their looks. And since he was an unknown in the world of movers and shakers, his chiseled physique was the best weapon he had. Carefully maintaining the pigments in his skin to give his face a deep bronze hue, he placed his hand in the small of a software tycoon’s back and leaned in to join the conversation. The man looked irritated at first—Jarrod was much younger than he was, and instantly drew the attention of the two women he’d been speaking to—but Jarrod handed out shot glasses of expensive brandy, and all was forgiven.

  “To Ackerton,” Jarrod said, raising his glass. “The guy throws a helluva party.” He tossed his head back and drained the glass, knowing the nanomachines in his mouth and stomach would eradicate the alcohol before it reached his liver.

  For the next ninety minutes, Jarrod worked the crowd. He listened to every conversation in the room simultaneously, then dispensed tidbits of information to make himself seem well-connected. He drank everything he could get his hands on and took on the demeanor of a sloppy but charming drunk. Men and women followed him around the house, laughing at his jokes and competing for his attention. He gave out hugs like party favors and stuffed napkins adorned with phone numbers into his pockets. When the music started, he loosened his tie and leaned against the bar—apparently too intoxicated to dance.

  To the casual observer, he was just another jock that didn’t know how to pace himself. But every movement he made had been calculated to bring him to this exact spot. He had identified Sheldon’s wife within minutes of sneaking into the mansion, but he knew approaching her directly would arouse suspicion. He needed to play the lovable fool, and he had done so masterfully.

  One of the women next to Mrs. Ackerton watched him out of the corner of her eye. In a low voice, she suggested taking off his clothes and taking pictures of him when he passed out, then blackmailing him later. The other women laughed.

  “A guy like that isn’t afraid of being seen naked,” Mrs. Ackerton noted. “But we could take him downstairs and nestle him between two little boys. That would do it.”

  “Want me to slip something in his drink?”

  “Not until we know how much he’s worth.”

  One of the women smiled and tugged at her dress, exposing a deep line of cleavage. She nodded at Jarrod and said, “What’s your story, handsome?”

  Jarrod glanced over his shoulder, then raised an eyebrow and pointed at his chest.

  “Yes, you.”

  Jarrod grinned and slid his drink toward the trio of women. Speaking loud enough to be heard over the music, he said, “Does it matter?”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Because I’ve been known to lie to beautiful women when I want to impress them.”

  Mrs. Ackerton leaned in. “Alright then, let’s hear it. Might be good for a laugh.”

  He sipped from his drink, then set it aside. “I own a mining company.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

  “Yes. Oh, and we drill on the moon.”

  Her lips widened into a smile. “Alright, that’s a new one. You get bonus points for creativity.” She extended her hand. “I’m Olivia.”

  He shook it gently. “Armstrong. Neil Armstrong.” He held up his left hand and added, “No relation.”

  The women giggled for several moments, then everyone paused to sip their drinks.

  A man with a tennis player’s build and ruddy skin stepped into the circle. He smiled and nodded at Jarrod. “I haven’t seen my wife laugh like that in ages. You have to tell me your secret.”

  Jarrod grinned and held up his drink. “I’ll do anything to make a gorgeous woman smile. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Ackerton.”

  Sheldon glanced at Olivia, and his eyes probed her soft curves. “I certainly am.” Turning back to Jarrod, he said, “Is this your first time up the hill, mister…”

  “Hawkins. Jarrod Hawkins. And yes, it’s my first time. Though, after seeing everything you have to offer, I wish I’d come sooner.”

  A drink hit the floor, scattering shards of crystal.

  Sheldon glanced back, then frowned. “Nishad, are you alright?”

  The software tycoon steadied himself with the back of a chair and locked eyes with Sheldon. “I—I don’t know. Something’s wrong…”

  As the man hit the floor, the music stopped, and gasps spread through the room.

  “Nishad!” Sheldon rushed forward and knelt beside his guest. He shot a look at his wife and said, “Fetch the Narcan.”

  “Narcan won’t help,” Jarrod interjected. “It’s not an overdose. He’s bleeding to death. Internally.”

  Sheldon’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Are…are you a doctor? Can you help him?”

  Jarrod stepped forward and took Nishad’s hand. He rolled the software designer onto his stomach and lifted the back of his shirt. “See this?”

  Sheldon squinted, then nodded. There was a tiny red dot, no larger than the head of a pin, on the right side of Nishad’s back. “What is it?”

  “A puncture wound. Very small and very precise. His kidney is slowly spilling blood into his abdominal cavity.”

  Sheldon paled, got to his feet, and took a step back. “How could you possibly know that?”

  Another glass hit the floor, and a woman dropped to her knees. A man bent over to help her up and collapsed beside her. Then another guest swooned, and when his friends tried to catch him, they went do
wn as well.

  “What the hell is going on?” Sheldon demanded.

  “It’s as I said.” Jarrod held up a hand, and a hair-thin barb grew from the end of his index finger. “They’re bleeding internally. And they’re all going to die.”

  32

  Eugene’s feet crushed clods of desiccated soil as he hiked toward the Ackerton Estate. The vast, brightly lit home sat perched upon the hilltop like a lighthouse. The straight lines of its modern architecture contrasted with the rugged hillside, giving it a welcoming ambiance. The massive deck, with its pool, cushioned chairs, sauna, and gazebos promised luxury and relaxation to weary guests. But the sounds coming from within the Pacific Coast palace were far from inviting. Even at the edge of the property, Eugene could hear the screams.

  “Sounds like this is the place,” he said, grimacing.

  Janson and Ford nodded in agreement, then hurried forward. They both wore form-fitting backpacks on top of skin-tight armor, and they moved through the darkness with the quiet confidence of panthers. Panthers on steroids.

  Eugene tugged at the seat of his own armor and hurried after them. The armor was a carbon-polymer metamaterial, similar to the liquid-metal substance Jarrod wore. It wasn’t malleable like his, but it was supposedly just as durable. And it clung to every inch of Eugene’s body without offering a trace of modesty.

  His enhanced teammates dropped to the ground behind a wall of shrubs and low-crawled forward. When Eugene caught up, he casually nestled in beside them. “You think they could put some padding in this armor? Just around the important areas, you know. So it’s not so…revealing?”