The Luke Titan Chronicles: Books 1-4: The Luke Titan Chronicles Boxset

by David Beers

  These were the two men Titan wanted so desperately? He was willing to give up his life—not to mention all of his wealth—for these two? They looked … well, one was barely living and the other was a thin piece of nothing. All of Titan’s intelligence and he just might be a fucking retard.

  No matter. Charles had seen enough.

  He looked to one of the men standing against the wall.

  Charles nodded. The man wasted no time; his eyes simply moved away from his boss’s, and he stepped out of the waiting room.

  More men were waiting outside, and it was time to place them inside.

  “I’VE GOT TO PEE,” Christian said.

  “Well, you don’t need permission,” Tommy responded.

  He pushed his chair back from the small table in front of him and looked at Tommy. It’d been a bit of trouble getting the table in here, but they had to keep working. They weren’t physically out there looking anymore, but reports were coming in constantly, and there was no one else to monitor them.

  Both had spoken briefly about not waiting here, that it might be better to stay in the field, but in the end decided against it. Tommy wasn’t worth much in the field anymore; besides, Waverly had waited in the hospital with the two of them. They could do as much here, maybe more as they were able to cast a wider net.

  Christian stood and pushed his chair underneath the table.

  “You need me to empty you?” he asked, indicating the catheter’s bag.

  “No, we just did it an hour or so ago. Should be good.”

  Christian nodded and then turned to the hallway. He walked down it, his eyes focusing on his feet. He stopped just as he exited the room, something bothering him, although he wasn’t sure what.

  He hated when this happened, his mind shooting a flare up but doing it when he was too exhausted to focus. Christian trusted the flares, though. He hadn’t—not when they’d been warning him about Luke—but now he never doubted them. His mind wanted him to know something.

  Christian closed his eyes tightly, trying to force the rest of the world away.

  He’d seen something in the room, though it was hidden from him. He’d been only concerned with leaving and had missed whatever was there. He started to turn around—

  No. Keep moving. Down the hallway. Quickly.

  Christian opened his eyes and did as his mind told him. He trusted it implicitly—the only thing in this world that he could count on regardless of what else happened. Christian went forward, rounding a corner, and then found himself in front of the restroom.

  He paused, hoping that his mind was ready to push something up to the top. Nothing.

  Christian opened the bathroom door and walked inside. The door closed behind him …

  … and then the lights went off.

  He would never have Luke’s reaction time—would never be able to fend off an attacker as Luke had him back in the hotel room. Yet, for once, his mind and body were in unison.

  Christian heard someone moving on his left; he didn’t think, but simply moved, his feet working perfectly. He backed up just in time, hearing something swing where his face had been, feeling the air rush past him.

  Christian fell backwards, purposefully. His ass hit the floor and he slid further away from whoever was attacking. His right hand struggled briefly for the pistol on his hip, the Emergency Exit sign on the wall outlining the man as he moved forward. He was wasting no time, coming directly for Christian.

  Christian freed his weapon, swinging it upward, and then he pulled the trigger. The resulting boom was deafening, his ears ringing from the gun’s echo in the enclosed area.

  The man stood for a second and Christian fired again, not thinking. There was no time to think, and if there were consequences for this, he’d have to deal with them later.

  The man collapsed to the floor. Christian didn’t move. He breathed in and out in large gulps, but kept the gun pointed at the man. He couldn’t hear anything besides the ringing in his ears.

  Finally, after a few seconds he stood up and shuffled to the door. His hands were shaking, nearly so bad that he barely kept hold of his weapon. He pulled on the door handle, expecting light to flood the restroom, but the hallway was just as dark.

  Finally, he heard what he hadn’t been able to inside.

  The sound of bullets. More of them and not coming from his own gun.

  There were screams, too, blazing down the hallway.

  A woman turned the corner, Christian able to see her from another Emergency Exit illumination. She was screaming, her mouth open in a wide O. A bullet caught the side of her head, ripping through her skull. She flew against the opposite wall, her mouth still open. Blood that looked more like oil splashed against the wall while she slid down it.

  Christian’s chest began to heave and he felt his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He fell back against the bathroom door, it opening beneath his weight; he slid inside, letting it close in front of him.

  Tears welled in his eyes.

  Is this a panic attack? some piece of him said, though nothing was in control enough to answer.

  The gun dropped to the ground, clattering into a corner.

  He couldn’t tell whether his vision was darkening or it was only the blackness of the room. Sweat dripped from his face and he felt himself growing lightheaded. Christian hit the ground, his hands smacking on the tiles.

  He didn’t know if what he heard next was real, or simply his mind, but a voice boomed over the hospital’s intercom system.

  “Christian Windsor, you’re needed in the waiting room.” A shrill giggle came next, sounding like both a small girl and a grown man. A few seconds passed as the giggler got his laughter under control. “Seriously, Christian. Come to the waiting room. We don’t have much time.”

  “It won’t end,” Christian said. “None of this will end.”

  It wouldn’t, and he knew that now with a certainty that God himself might as well have spoken. Luke would not stop. Whoever was giggling over the intercom was simply one of his minions, another creature put on Christian’s path. Luke would never quit; all the pain and terror he created, it would continue on forever. It didn’t matter if Christian left the restroom and went to where the intercom commanded. It didn’t matter if he hid here, waiting it out. Luke would still come, an unstoppable force. He would always be there and what could Christian do?

  He glanced over to the corner where the gun had tumbled.

  “You could kill yourself,” the other said, having appeared just behind the weapon. The Emergency Exit’s red glow shone down on his dripping eyes. Long, black rivers ran from them, falling to the floor like dark rain. “That would end it all. That would make sure nothing else he ever does will matter in the slightest. Let him have his party here, but why don’t you just check out from it?”

  Christian looked up with blurry eyes at the negative version of himself.

  It sounded so good. So easy. So …

  “Painless. Because once you do it, there will be no more. None.”

  “Tommy,” his mother said from behind him. “Tommy is still out there and —”

  “CHRRIIISSTTIIIAANNN,” the voice sang through the intercom.

  His mother waited until the voice finished. “Tommy is out there, Christian, and he could have killed himself any time. But he kept going. And it might be hate that drives him, but he’s still in the car. So don’t you get out now. You joined the FBI to help people, to make a difference. So do it. You get up and start defending those innocent people. Get up and go get your friend.”

  “Pain waits out there,” the other said. “In here, you can find peace.”

  “Go get your friend.”

  Christian closed his eyes and swallowed. He felt the cold tile beneath his fingertips and knew the gun’s metal would feel similar.

  There wasn’t time to go into his mansion. And still, in his moment of pain, Christian remembered Luke.

  MONTHS PASS and Luke does nothing. He and his brother move
into the local orphanage, supported by the Catholic Church of course. Father Marquez actually sits on the orphanage’s board.

  Luke says nothing about what he saw and his brother, Mark, doesn’t ask about it. They each remain silent and go to work every day helping rebuild the cathedral.

  Luke learns the construction trade over those three months. He dreams each night during this period, seeing his mother every time. His brother slips deeper and deeper into a depression that Luke cannot pull him from. Those three months are some of the darkest of Luke’s life (there will be similar times in the future—only then, he will be more capable of handling them) and he considers suicide. It’s an odd thought for him, one that carries very little emotion with it.

  He simply thinks, Maybe this isn’t worth it.

  And maybe he’s right.

  There is his brother to consider, though. What would Mark do without Luke? Especially with Marquez in charge of the orphanage. And then, there is Marquez himself. Luke sees him from time to time, though the priest never looks nor speaks to him. The preacher man goes on about his business as if nothing that happened, actually happened.

  Luke keeps from committing suicide, but only out of a strange fascination. He begins to think that killing the priest should occur first. Then, once that is accomplished, he will be free to go.

  It’s 3:00 in the morning when Luke arrives at the preacher man’s new house. It’s a simple structure, about a mile from the church, though Luke knows he could have afforded any home he wanted. This one is for appearances. The preacher man will live here until his cathedral is finished, and then he’ll move back inside the church.

  Luke walks from the orphanage to Marquez’s temporary house; the walk takes a little over two hours, and he has a light sheen of sweat across his forehead. He doesn’t pause as he reaches the lawn, nor try to hide at all. He simply walks across the grass at the same pace with which he walked here. His head is raised and while he knows someone might be watching him, he doesn’t care.

  The priest must die, and then Luke can die as well.

  He reaches the small porch and pulls on the screen door; it opens with a squeak. The sound doesn’t bother Luke. He is, for all intents and purposes, unbotherable.

  He tries twisting the doorknob but it doesn’t turn. The preacher man apparently doesn’t feel safe enough to leave his door open, not even in a neighborhood that loves him so. Perhaps he isn’t as beloved as he’s led people to believe, and perhaps he knows it.

  The locked door is simply another obstacle in Luke’s path; he does not personalize it any more than he would a strong wind blowing down the road. He moves to the right of the porch, hopping off it and coming to a window on the side of the house. He briefly looks over the glass, realizing it’s locked as well.

  Luke scans the ground around him and sees a few rocks lying further in the grass. He goes to them, finding one that fits nicely in his hand, then turns back to the window. It is low to the ground, so he doesn’t need to pull himself up to it. He nods, takes a few steps back, and then throws the rock.

  It breaks the window with a crash that echoes through the night.

  Luke steps forward to the shattered window and kicks at stray pieces, creating an opening he can maneuver through without being cut.

  “WHO’S THERE?” the preacher man shouts from inside.

  Luke says nothing but steps through the window. He’s inside the house now and still feels calm, as if all of this was preordained.

  As if God wanted him here to stop this false prophet.

  “WHO’S OUT THERE? I’M A PRIEST! I’M THIS TOWN’S PRIEST!”

  Luke hears the man’s voice and walks across the house to it.

  “I know,” he says as he enters the preacher man’s bedroom.

  A small light burns on the night stand, casting Marquez in a yellow glow. Even so, he looks pallid, like a waxy ghost.

  “You …,” he says. The word isn’t laced with hate, but made from it. “You … GET OUT!”

  Luke only shakes his head. He pulls a small pocket knife from his pants.

  “Hey! Hey! No!” Marquez shouts.

  Luke walks forward toward the bed and the priest scoots backward, pushing himself against the wall behind him.

  “What are you doing, son? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Luke stares at him for a second. Another moment is here. One of those that will shape the young man’s life, shaping him into a man, and then perhaps an old man. Luke has had a lot of these moments in a short time, though he doesn’t understand that now. He only knows that he is going to kill someone.

  He steps forward, the speed with which he slashes reveals the underlying athleticism that will assist so often as he grows older. He slices the priest’s face open, his skin splitting like an overripe avocado. The meat inside spills out across his pale skin and he screams.

  The preacher man screams a lot.

  Luke hears him, but only as a wolf may hear a rabbit’s squeal—or perhaps even as a clockmaker hears the internal mechanisms of a piece he is working on.

  The knife moves across the priest’s chest, and though the blade isn’t long, Luke works almost preternaturally. It cuts perfectly from the right nipple down to just below the left of his ribcage. From there, Luke drags the knife across his stomach, back to the right side, and the priest’s intestines spill out on his legs.

  He’s not screaming now. He is in shock, staring down at his guts burning hot on his legs, no longer inside as they’re supposed to be.

  Luke takes a step back, the red life from the preacher staining him as well.

  He doesn’t stare at the man’s guts, but his face instead. Marquez is growing even paler as the blood exits his body in pulsing rivers. His heart’s still pumping, trying to do its job, but growing weaker by the second. Luke doesn’t pull away, doesn’t shy from his act, but stares at it the way the criminals he will one day chase stare at their victims. Taking it all in.

  The priest gives out a death rattle, as if an actual rattlesnake rests in his throat, and then he is no more. Only his body is left, a disgusting slab of meat.

  Luke stares a second longer.

  He leaves the house.

  He goes to the orphanage and gets his brother. Then, at the age of eleven, he and his brother leave Mexico. Luke has decided not to kill himself. Partly because of his brother, but that is not everything.

  Not by a long way.

  CHRISTIAN OPENED HIS EYES, only seconds having passed since he closed them.

  “Mr. Windsor, please report to the principal’s office!” A squeal of laughter screeched from the overhead intercom.

  Christian didn’t see his mom or the other—only the dead body remained in the room with him. His eyes flicked to the gun in the corner, and he quickly moved toward it. There was blood on the handle, and he wipes it away with his shirt before fully standing up.

  It won’t end.

  He knew that now.

  Luke wouldn’t stop coming for him, didn’t even know the meaning of the word. He hadn’t stopped when his mother was raped, and he certainly wasn’t going to do so now. The man might have been more machine than human.

  Christian raised his weapon.

  He would continue as well, then. He would go get his friend; he’d keep putting one foot in front of the other until they stopped working.

  He pulled on the restroom door and stepped out into the hallway.

  CHARLES WAS HAVING fun on the intercom system. More than he had thought possible, for sure. The invalid was next to him, though neither were in the waiting room any longer. Charles was now at the security station. There was a small stack of televisions against the wall, each showing high viewpoints of different rooms. Charles focused on the TV which showed the waiting room.

  He had six men waiting on Christian Windsor.

  The invalid was quiet. Charles had thought about knocking him out, but then wondered what would be the point? It’s not like he could get up from his chair an
d do anything.

  “There he is!” Charles shouted, his eyes catching Windsor on a different television. He was stepping out of a restroom, his gun raised. “Oh this is good.” Charles looked over to the invalid, wanting to see his facial expression. But of course, the creep wore no expression. Fucking invalid couldn’t, and where was the fun in that? “I don’t know why you want to continue living. I would have ended it the first chance I got.”

  The invalid didn’t so much as glance at Charles, but kept his eyes focused on the stack of televisions.

  He might not have much in the way of facial expressions, but at least he was interested.

  Charles watched as Windsor moved down the hallway, and from Charles’s vantage point, he could see the hall’s cross section as well.

  He picked up his two way radio.

  “I’ve got eyes on him. He’s three hallways up and to the right. One of you go get him.”

  Windsor crept slowly, not rushing, though Charles didn’t think he was trying to be careful. He was scared. Terrified, even.

  “Your friend isn’t the bravest, is he?”

  Without moving anything but his mouth, the invalid said, “He’s coming, isn’t he?”

  “Hah!”

  But, the invalid was right. Windsor was heading toward the waiting room, which was exactly where Charles wanted him.

  Time was short and Charles knew it. SWAT would arrive within the next twenty minutes. He’d taken some precautions, this wing’s entire power system going down being one of them. Even so, he couldn’t hide here forever. The sound of gun blasts had probably already been heard, though not by anyone working here. His men had systematically moved through the wing and killed anyone they saw—security guard, nurse, or visitor. They’d left the patients alone, but not out of mercy; no one wanted to be around possible sarin contamination.

  Two of the men from the waiting room were moving down the hall now, their own weapons raised. They would reach Windsor in the next few seconds.