Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  Janson lifted her metamaterial mask and cowl so Eugene could see the fierceness in her eyes. “What happened to your strict code of silence, Mr. Recon?”

  Eugene scoffed and jerked his head towards the house. “Think about who we’re dealing with. He probably knew we were coming before we did. Besides, this isn’t an ambush, it’s a friendly meeting.”

  Janson tucked the metamaterial fabric beneath her chin. “If you say so.”

  Eugene looked through the scope on his rifle, trying to see what was happening inside the home. A few people were visible through the west side windows, and they didn’t look comfortable. Some were vomiting on themselves; others were rolling around on the floor, clutching their chests and stomachs.

  “What the hell is going on in there?” Ford muttered.

  “Don’t know.” Eugene clicked the push-to-talk on his radio, opening a Satcom link with Baltimore. “Raven Base, this is Raven One. We’re in position.”

  “Copy that, Raven One.”

  He paused for a moment and glanced up at the night sky. Though he couldn’t see the MQ-47 UAV—a stealth, wedge-shaped drone—he knew it was there, floating high above. He hit the button to key up his radio again. “This is probably a waste of time, but can you confirm our target is inside the house?”

  “Stand by.” After three seconds of silence, the drone operator’s clipped voice came through. “He’s in there, lit up like a Christmas tree. There are a few warm bodies in there with him, and a whole bunch of cold ones. There are also a few warm signatures in the upper rooms of the house, but they aren’t moving.”

  “Roger that—possible friendlies in the upper rooms.”

  Buchanan’s voice cut in before the drone operator could go on. “Raven One, this mission is vital to national security. As far as we’re concerned, there are no friendlies inside that structure.”

  “But sir, they’re civilians. American civilians.”

  “You said it yourself—if they’re members of a sex-cult, they aren’t worth saving. Don’t worry about collateral damage, just make sure you meet your objective.”

  Eugene chewed his tongue, trying to remain respectful—for San’s sake. “Are we positive there aren’t any kids in there, sir?”

  “You are out of line, Raven One. We’ve been monitoring Sat imagery and SIGINT, and you are cleared to open fire as needed. Just don’t kill the target.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  There was no response. Eugene bobbed his head as he waited, then keyed up his radio. “Raven Base, did you copy my last?”

  He waited ten more seconds, then said, “Bueller?”

  “They’re not talking to you, dumbass,” Ford grumbled.

  Eugene shrugged. “Who needs clear lines of communication during a life-or-death mission to capture the most dangerous man on earth?” He nodded at the house. “Be ready, but do yourself a favor and keep your finger off the trigger.”

  Jarrod carried the severed heads of Sheldon’s two mistresses in one hand and dragged Olivia by the hair with the other.

  “Please, not her,” Sheldon begged, raising his bloodied hands above his head. “I’ll do anything, just let her go!”

  Bodies squirmed around Sheldon—guests clutching their stomachs as blood filled their body cavities. Jarrod dropped the pair of heads, grabbed Sheldon by the arm, then tossed him across the room. The billionaire tumbled across a cherry wood table and collided with the marble centerpiece, which toppled to the floor.

  In Jarrod’s right hand, Olivia sobbed and clawed at her hair, trying to free herself. Cuts covered her body—the result of being dragged through broken glass while Jarrod rampaged the villa. He lifted her higher so her feet dangled beneath a few inches above the floor. “Names. Give me names, and I will let her go.”

  Sheldon sucked air in through his teeth and clutched at his ribs. He blinked at the ceiling as if sorting through files in his head, then began listing the names of every Adherent he knew.

  Finally, Jarrod lowered Olivia to the floor, though he maintained his grip. “Heath Harrington? The Senator from Oklahoma?”

  “Yes.” Sheldon coughed up a gob of blood and spit it out. “He’s been here a dozen times.”

  Jarrod tilted his head. Far above the estate, the whistle of turbines shifted in frequency—the MQ-47 circling overhead was tightening its orbit. Jarrod tasted familiar scents on the air; they had come for him.

  He let go of Olivia, and she crawled toward her husband. She joined him on the table, clinging to his chest and weeping on his blood-stained shirt.

  “It’s okay,” Sheldon breathed. “Things are going to be different, but we’re going to be okay.”

  Jarrod turned away and unbuttoned his shirt, then removed his shoes and trousers. The metamaterial spread across his naked body, then flickered in the light. In a moment, he was nothing but a vapor.

  Sheldon glanced around for a moment, then let out a sigh of relief. He hugged his wife tighter and mumbled words of hope and consolation.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, then exhaled, finally at peace.

  Jarrod removed the glassy barb from the back of her skull, then forced it into Sheldon’s ear.

  It was over. The “Hill” had been cleansed. There were at least a dozen girls and boys still locked inside secret rooms—their hearts beating like a captive bird’s. But he had no intention of freeing them. He didn’t want them to see what he had done. When the police arrived, they could shelter the children and young women from the visceral scene.

  And before he called the police, he needed to deal with the predators lurking outside. He crossed the wide room, passed through a hallway and foyer, then stepped outside. The lights above the driveway were on, illuminating rows of four-wheel-drive status symbols. Beyond the concrete and glossy vehicles, three figures stared back at him through Forward Looking Infrared goggles.

  “There is no reason to hide,” he called out. “Show yourselves.”

  The trio exchanged hushed words, then slowly rose to their feet.

  Eugene Carver stepped into the light. His rifle hung from its sling and his hands were out in front of him. “We don’t want to fight, Jarrod. We’re here to talk.”

  Jarrod eyed the silhouettes to Eugene’s right and left. “Tell them to lower their weapons.”

  Eugene nodded at his teammates. The barrels lowered six inches, then snapped back up.

  Conflicting orders, Jarrod thought.

  As if in confirmation, Eugene whispered into his headset. “Sir, I strongly advise we listen to him.” A pause, then, “That’s easy for you to say; your ass is parked on a cozy chair three thousand miles away.” He raised his voice, “Hold on, Jarrod, I have nine levels of bureaucracy to run through.”

  Jarrod took a deep breath. “You need to lower your weapons, there are—”

  A shot rang out. The bullet struck Jarrod in the abdomen, three inches above his belly button. It always hurt to get shot—no amount of armor would change that—but this was different. Jarrod glanced down and noticed a small entry wound. He reached around his back, and to his surprise, found an exit wound just below his ribs. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw where the round had punched through the outer wall of the house. Facing the gunman, he said, “Ford, this is your last warning. Put it down.”

  The burly operative squeezed the trigger once more. But this time, the high-tech round never found its mark. Jarrod launched himself to the right, bounding down the hill and back up again in a zig-zag pattern. Ford pulled some of the slack out of the trigger but didn’t commit. His target was moving too fast.

  “Where is he?” Janson shouted. “I don’t see him.”

  Eugene grunted in frustration. He clenched his fists tight, fighting the urge to raise his rifle. “Ford, you see him?”

  He didn’t respond. Or move. His shoulders were tense, and he held his rifle with one hand. His other hand was stretched out in front of him as if groping at an invisible wall.

  “Ford, you alr
ight?”

  Eugene and Janson couldn’t see the infrared signature directly in front of their teammate.

  Jarrod’s face was inches away from Ford’s, and he spoke to the operative in a barely audible voice. “Know what’s behind your target before you even think about pulling the trigger. There are children inside that house.”

  “I…I didn’t know. I swear.” Ford whispered.

  “Someone did. That isn’t a civilian drone circling up there. Tell your boss, if he ever pulls something like this again, I will kill all of you, and then I will come after him. Got it?”

  Ford’s face was expressionless, but he gave a nod and said, “Got it.”

  “Ford? What’s going on?” It was Janson this time, and she took three steps toward him. Ford tried to tell her to stay back, but it was too late. Her FLIR goggles picked out the tell-tale heat, and she raised her weapon.

  The rifle roared twice in quick succession. Before she could pull the trigger a third time, Jarrod struck her in the chest, knocking her back. He ripped the rifle from her grasp, snapping the nylon sling like a worn thread. There was the sound of bending steel, then the rifle thudding in the dirt.

  As soon as Janson regained her footing, she drew her sidearm and squeezed off three more rounds. The first went wide; the second and third struck Jarrod in the chest. He ignored the pain and lashed out, striking her in the forearm.

  The blow sent a lightning bolt of pain into her hand, and the pistol fell to the ground. Another strike rocked her head back, crushing her night optical device. She ripped off the goggles, brought her hands up, and launched a powerful kick. Her leg whistled through the air, failing to make contact.

  She shook her head, clearing the stars from her vision. Jarrod was nowhere in sight, and both Ford and Eugene were flat on their backs.

  “Clint!” She shouted, rushing forward and skidding into the rocks beside him.

  “Took a knock to the head, that’s all,” Ford said. He felt around for a moment, then added, “My primary’s gone. So is my secondary. And my NOD’s—”

  “You’re bleeding.” Janson placed her hand on a nickel-sized hole, three inches above his belly button.

  “I’ll live.”

  Gritting her teeth, Janson searched the grounds one more time. When her gaze swept across the brightly-lit driveway, Jarrod materialized in the air. Blood dripped from his fingertips, and he dropped two metallic objects on the concrete.

  “So, you’re not indestructible after all,” Janson said as she rose to her feet. “How do you like our new ammunition?”

  Eugene rolled into a sitting position and rested his palm on his forehead. “Janson, stand down.”

  She paused at the edge of the driveway, contemplating. Keying up her radio, she said, “Sir, what are your orders?”

  The response echoed in their earpieces. “Bring him in by any means necessary.”

  “Janson, just wait. We can talk through this,” Eugene barked.

  She glanced at Ford, at the blood oozing from his stomach, then shook her head. “I’m done talking.”

  Ford sucked in a deep breath. “Elizabeth, don’t!”

  The sound of her real name made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but she didn’t relent. “He’s wounded. I can take him.”

  Jarrod’s posture remained indifferent, even as she lunged forward. She led with a left jab, which he dodged by tilting his head back. Hoping to knock him off balance, she followed through with a right hook, aimed at his ribs. He dodged that, too, shuffling his feet six inches and tilting his hips.

  Janson was a proficient martial artist, and her ground-fighting skills were unrivaled in Hillcrest. If she couldn’t land a punch, she’d take him down and snap his arms, one after the other.

  Tucking her chin, she threw herself into Jarrod, wrapping her arms and legs around him like a deranged octopus. There was a flurry of movement, and Janson felt a cool breeze on her face. Somehow, Jarrod had managed to peel her mask off. She felt exposed, but she didn’t let go. She gripped his left forearm between her elbows and threw her hips back. Something popped.

  A smile crept across her face. She’d dislocated an elbow, maybe a shoulder, too. The fight was hers. She shot her right leg forward, curling it around Jarrod’s right arm. She whirled around, tucking the appendage between her thighs and squeezing tight. His elbow locked into joint, and his shoulder was pulled at an extreme angle. She twisted farther back, wrenching with all of her might. The bones didn’t break, but the shoulder came out of its socket. Shoving the limp arm away, she did a reverse somersault and jumped to her feet. She was about to drive her heel into his throat when Eugene shouted from behind her, “Janson, that’s enough.”

  She hesitated, then settled her weight evenly on both feet. She shot a quick glance at Ford, who was pouring a clotting agent on his wound, and when she looked back, Jarrod was gone.

  Muttering a string of curses, she sidestepped, then slowly turned in a circle. “Did you see which way he went?” She hit the button on her radio. “Ops, are you tracking the target?”

  “Negative, Raven Two. We can’t see him.”

  She swore again, then glanced at her teammates. “Maybe we should spread out and—”

  “Absolutely not.” Eugene crossed his arms and glared at her. His entire body shook with anger. “Just what the hell were you trying to prove? You could’ve been killed. You could’ve gotten us all killed.”

  The muscles in her jaw pulsed in and out. “I knew what I was doing. He’d be in cuffs right now if you hadn’t interrupted me.”

  Eugene marched forward and stopped inches away from her. Though he had no biological enhancements and weighed ten pounds less than her, she had to fight the urge to step back.

  “I don’t know what’s going through your head, but it ends now.”

  She blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “When we get back to Baltimore, I want you talking to the shrinks every day until they figure out what’s screwed up in your brain.”

  “Are you kidding me? It wasn’t even a mistake. I had him—we were this close.” She held her thumb and index finger an inch apart.

  When Eugene didn’t change his stony expression, she looked to Ford for support. “Tell him, Ford.”

  The big man wore a sympathetic expression, but he didn’t speak. After several seconds, he glanced down at his shoes.

  “Take a look,” Eugene said, tossing his phone to her.

  She glanced at the screen and scowled. The self-portrait camera was on, and the screen revealed her bloodied face. “I took a few scrapes. So what?”

  “Look closer,” Eugene growled.

  She did, and her scowl melted into a frown. There were tiny cuts on her face and neck—bright red x’s on her temples, beneath her jaw, and on the soft tissue of her neck. If any of the cuts had been a few millimeters deeper, she would have bled to death in seconds. Jarrod had let her win the fight, and he wanted her to know it.

  33

  Baltimore, Maryland

  There were two security guards posted in front of the Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center. They held the door open for San as he approached.

  “Guarding the main floor? That’s not a good sign,” San said.

  “No sir, it isn’t.”

  “Can I get you anything before I jump into the fire?”

  The guards shook their heads.

  “Well, enjoy the fresh air while you can.” San raised his mug of coffee in a partial salute, then went inside. As he passed through the lobby, he waved at an amputee using her new prosthetic hand in a game of chess against a mental health patient. “Good morning, Loretta, Silas.”

  They smiled and said in unison, “Good morning, Doc.”

  He backed toward the reception desk. “I’ve got some things to take care of, but I’m playing the winner, got it?”

  “That’ll be me,” Loretta said, tapping her sternum with the prosthetic.

  Silas shook his head. “Dream on.”
He moved his queen’s bishop to e6 and said, “Check.”

  San chuckled and turned away. A tall, squarely built man sat at the front desk. “Hey, Reggie, how are you doing today?”

  “I’m doing well, Doctor Torres. Yourself?”

  “Better than I will be in a few minutes, I’m sure. Anything serious happen in the clinics last night?”

  Reggie glanced over both shoulders, then pointed at the floor and whispered, “Sounds like there was a real mess in the East Wing.”

  San winked at him. The above-ground portion of the Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center was divided into North, South, and West Wings. The South Wing provided world-class mental health care, and the North Wing specialized in physical therapy. The West Wing was made up of offices and storage rooms, along with a secret elevator that led to the basement. The center exclusively treated federal employees with high-level security clearances and employed some of the most brilliant doctors in the world. But the talent and equipment above ground-level paled in comparison to the facility beneath, which the staff jokingly referred to as the East Wing.

  “I guess I won’t delay the inevitable,” San said. “If you find any excuse to call me back up, please, don’t hesitate.”

  Reggie grinned. “Will do, Doc.”

  San hurried into the adjacent hallway, and an RFID in his pocket triggered a sensor on an oak door to his left. It clicked and swung open on its own. He continued forward, making his way toward the center of the building. Another security guard lounged at a small desk, reading a paperback novel.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said as San approached. “Sorry you had to come in early.” She had a discernible accent, but she spoke with obvious self-assurance.

  “It’s alright, Nicole.” He paused at an innocuous steel door that could have led to a storage room. “It’s good to see you’re back on duty. How are you feeling today?”

  She extended her legs at the knees and shrugged. “Better than I expected, that is for certain.”

  He typed nine digits into a keypad. “I’m glad the treatment is working. Keep me posted, and we can make modifications if necessary.”