False Prophet

by Richard Davis

  I turned to Vann and whispered:

  ‘There’s two of them – one on a sofa, one standing, but both near the stairs. Would be a mistake to try shooting both from here. Too slow with the Ruger to guarantee one doesn’t make the stairs. Too much racket with the Glock.’

  He nodded.

  ‘So I’ll shoot standing guy from here; then you run in and take down sofa guy.’

  He nodded again.

  I edged round the corner and drew a bead on standing guy’s head.

  ‘Ready?’ I whispered.

  ‘Ready,’ said Vann.

  ‘On three,’ I said. ‘One, two, three.’

  I worked the trigger and hit the bull’s-eye and by the time my guy had hit the floor, Vann was already bolting across the foyer. Sofa guy managed to get no further than hobbling to his feet before Vann arrived at his side, and snapped his neck with awful ferocity. The whole thing made a little noise, but nothing that wasn’t masked by the rain.

  Quickly, I checked the two rooms on the far side of the foyer. Both were empty. I then returned to find that Vann had extracted a pair of Berettas from the bodies – which he pointedly displayed to me before pocketing – and a purple hood. I remembered what Lamphere said about the purple hood: it was a sign of status, worn by the Inner Sanctum – those who’d been allowed to see The Zahir’s face. So we’d taken out a high-ranker, making it six dead in all. But while this was progress, there was still a mountain to climb. We were still outnumbered – with at least five more to deal with – and my son was in a bomb vest.

  With a sense that it may come in handy, I pocketed the hood, before stealthily leading the way up the stairs. The stairs opened onto a wide corridor. At the end was a second flight of stairs to the third floor. On the left-hand side were two doors, both shut, and both concealing rooms with their lights out. Whereas on the right-hand side, about halfway down, was an open set of double doors and I could hear from within what sounded like three people shifting equipment and quietly talking. The echo told me it was a spacious room.

  ‘Cover me,’ I whispered to Vann. ‘I’ve got a plan.’

  Vann laid himself across the top seven steps – with his head peeking over the top step – and leveled his Glock at the empty hallway. Neither of us wanted to see it fired; but it was there as a last resort. I then put on the purple mask and made for the double doors. Again, I didn’t intend to fool anyone long term. I just wanted to induce a moment’s hesitation…

  I stepped into the room. Just as I’d expected, it was a large space. On the right was an enormous pile of replica Springfield Model 1861s – the preferred musket of the American Civil War – and several large canvas bags of gunpowder and Minié ball rifle bullets. On the left, there were piles of blue and yellow uniforms, with the words “True Shape” on their breast. And standing amid all this were three cultists – two men, one woman – in the process of preparing the muskets.

  The first man had his back to me, and went down before he realized I was there – a bullet to the head. The woman froze – paralyzed by the suddenness of the attack and the purple hood – and similarly went down without a fuss. But though the third guy didn’t draw a Beretta, he made it clear he wasn’t going down so easy, taking a run at me, and body-checking me hard. My Ruger flew from my grasp, and landed among the rifles. The clangor wasn’t enough to blow our cover. But I was worried about this guy raising the alarm himself. More so than I was of the threat he presented to me personally.

  I acted fast, delivering a savage blow to his solar plexus and knocking the wind from his lungs. He keeled over. I then grabbed his head, and forced it against my knee before seizing a fistful of his hair, tugging his head back, and exposing his throat. I then snatched the blade from my pocket, thrust it behind his windpipe, and ripped forward. He died before he’d hit the ground. And then, after removing the hood, I allowed myself a second to catch my breath. Because I could see in my peripheral vision that the towering frame of Vannevar had just entered the room, which meant I could relax.

  But then I turned around and suddenly I wasn’t so relaxed.

  The man standing in the door wasn’t Vannevar. It was a Goliath of a man – two inches taller than Vann, and at least a stone heavier – dressed in grey. He was soaked through; his eye swollen to the size of a baseball; his nose pouring blood; and he was aiming Vann’s Glock at my head. Immediately I understood. This guy had been having a cigarette outside when we’d entered the house which was why he was wet, and why the second man I killed had asked the first if he was also going out for a smoke. Then, when Goliath had re-entered the house, he’d discovered Vann on the stairs and staged an ambush. The black eye and broken nose told me that a struggle had then ensued – a struggle Goliath had won.

  My first thought was: is Vannevar dead, or merely incapacitated? But I didn’t have the luxury of worrying about this too long. Judging by the way Goliath was carefully lining up his aim with my forehead, he was moments away from pulling the trigger.

  But then he threw me a lifeline. He bellowed: ‘False prophet. Now is The Deluge of Euphrates, the end of your reign.’ And as he did so, I took a gamble that he’d chosen his aim before he’d started speaking, and was intending to stick with it. So when he finished, I dived out the way of where I predicted the bullet was headed. Sure enough, he failed to alter his aim, and the bullet screeched past me as I landed among the muskets.

  But the danger hadn’t passed. Goliath was lining up a second shot. And not only could I not spot my Ruger, but I was also lying on the pocket containing the Beretta. There was no other choice: it’d have to be a musket. I hoisted one into my arms and began raising it, hoping to get a head-shot. But as I was still in the process of raising it, I saw Goliath was about to shoot again. I had to take my shot now. So I did, unleashing hell right into his stomach. He bellowed, shuffled back, threw up his arms, and took an involuntary shot at the ceiling. He then dropped the gun.

  I scrambled to my feet and pulled out the Beretta as Goliath retreated from the room. I went after him. And this time, I wasn’t to be denied my headshot: I blew a gaping hole right in the middle of the bastard’s face. And yet with this came not even a second of respite, for almost in the same moment, a man burst out of the room at the end of the corridor, took a split-second glance, then belted up the stairs – all before I could line up another shot.

  None of this was a shock. I knew that Goliath had blown my cover, and that the time it’d taken to eliminate him had thrown me off the pace. So it was no surprise that cultist number eleven had reacted first, and was now a crucial step ahead in the race to secure Samuel. My only option was to give chase, in a last desperate bid to salvage the situation.

  Five seconds later, I was up the stairs and on the landing of the third floor. But there was a bend in the corridor which the guy had already gotten beyond, meaning I couldn’t take a shot. So immediately I began chasing him with every fiber of my being – and yet, in what felt like slow motion – following the sound of him repeatedly calling the name “Resh” at the top of his voice. As I did so, I desperately attempted to comprehend what was happening. It seemed almost certain this guy knew who I was, or at the very least why I was there. But who Resh was, I wasn’t sure. The gas station man had estimated there to be ten members of True Shape but I was chasing number eleven. So while Resh might’ve been Lofkin’s cult handle, it was possible that the estimate had been even further off, and that Resh was another cultist altogether. But at the same time, it seemed unlikely the estimate would be wildly out. At the upper limit, I reckoned I was dealing with maybe three or four cultists, including Lofkin.

  And then as I turned the corner, and glimpsed the guy disappearing up the stairs to the fourth floor, my mind turned to what was waiting for me there. Perhaps they’d still be fumbling to unlock a door to get to Samuel, giving me chance to stop them in their tracks. Or perhaps they already had a gun to Samuel’s head in the hope of stopping me in my tracks. Or perhaps they had a gun to his head, and were
planning to slaughter him as soon as he entered my field of vision, forcing me to watch. Or perhaps they’d set off the bomb, and send us all up in flames… And as still more eventualities occurred to me, I continued to worry about Vann. Was he alive? If so, in what state?

  The next thing I knew, I was mounting the stairs. I cleared my head, tightened my grip on the Beretta, and prepared to deal with whatever they threw my way. But when I arrived on the landing – before I could take in even an inch of my surroundings – something happened. There was an ungodly bang, and a flash of light that made the lightning look like a fire-cracker, and all at once I was blind and deaf. This wasn’t a bomb blast, it was a stun grenade. And barely had I thought this when I was set on by what felt like at least six powerful bodies. Too scared to shoot lest my bullet accidentally found Samuel, I thrashed wildly against these invisible assailants, hitting someone’s jaw, and glancing off a collar bone. But that’s where my dance ended. Because then I took a dizzying blow to my carotid sinus, followed by another to the back of my head, and my world turned to black.

  Chapter 20

  When I came round, the only thing I knew was the thumping inside my head. I sat for a long while, breathing deeply, then finally I opened my eyes. I was confronted by a powerful wave of nausea, and had no choice but to close them again. A minute or so later, I tried to move, but I couldn’t. I was tightly bound.

  I continued breathing deeply, unable to hear anything but the thumping. Eventually I tried opening my eyes again. This time I did better and through the haze I could just about make out where I was: the foyer on the first floor. The next thing I registered was the limp body of Vannevar, bound to a chair two feet to my right. My first thought was relief: you don’t restrain a dead man.

  I tried taking in the rest of the room. I could see somebody standing a few feet away. And though I couldn’t quite bring him into focus, the blur of blue and yellow told me he was wearing one of the uniforms I’d seen on the second floor. A moment later, he left the room; and when he returned five minutes down the line, I could see his face clearly – as well as the faces of the five others he’d brought with him. I didn’t recognize the newcomers, but the original guy was the runner who’d led me into the trap. They were all wearing the blue-yellow uniforms emblazoned with the words True Shape.

  Though the thumping continued, my brain was kicking into gear. A number of signs told me it’d been a few hours since the stun grenade: the fact that these men were now in uniforms; that the mess Vann and I had made in the foyer had been cleaned; that both Vann and I had been moved and bound. However, the windows by the front door told me the sun was yet to come up. My guess was that I’d been out for about two to three hours, which put the time at 4 or 5 a.m. – and meant the re-enactment was yet to begin.

  But for all this on-the-spot deduction, there was one thing that’d been painfully clear even before I’d gone down for the count. Namely, that my gas station guy had been way off with his estimate of ten True Shape members. We’d killed ten, and at least six still remained. More than enough to pull off the atrocity.

  But where was Lofkin? And where, more importantly, was Samuel?

  Runner came over, and brought his face up to mine. He had black hair, bushy eyebrows, and crooked teeth. He was maybe twenty-five-years-old, and pig-ugly.

  ‘False Prophet, we are at war. But you shall not win. The Deluge of Euphrates is upon you. The old system must make way for the just and righteous order; the will of The Zahir.’

  I looked him in the eye: ‘Where’s my son?’

  ‘Today, people will die by their own hands,’ he continued, ignoring my question. ‘It’s symbolic of how society’s own transgressions have caused its downfall. Only through self-punishment can society truly be redeemed; can society reach salvation. And we, The Order of Babylon, must be stage-managers, silently shaping events, to prepare the people for the time when we shall shape all events, in our just, moral society.’

  The guy was nuts – brainwashed to oblivion.

  ‘Where’s my son?’ I repeated. Again, I was ignored.

  ‘But you are a steward of the old, sinful order,’ he said accusingly. ‘You are responsible for maintaining this morally bankrupt society through your silent manipulation of events. So now it’s time for you to taste your own medicine – for you to be placed in a position of powerlessness.’

  Runner paused, then added:

  ‘Now, False Prophet, you will have the great honor of talking to The Zahir himself.’

  I was confused. Was Drexler here? About to walk into the room? But these speculations were quickly dispelled by the sound of a cell-phone ringing. Runner answered.

  ‘Yes, My Zahir… we have him here… ten minutes ago… thank you, My Zahir.’

  Then Runner held the phone to my ear.

  There were many things I wanted to say to Drexler. But to say them as I sat completely at his mercy would be to undermine their seriousness. Instead, I opted for an uncooperative silence. Eventually he spoke:

  ‘Hello, Saul. It sounds like you’ve been having fun. I certainly have.’

  His voice was smooth, nuanced, precise. I could tell by the air of ceremony this was a big moment for him: the first one-on-one with the man he’d obsessed over. He continued: ‘I understand you’ve killed ten of my men. I hope you enjoyed it. Killing another human is a rare pleasure – one that most never get to enjoy.’

  I was listening carefully, hoping he might let something slip that could, at some point, give me an advantage. Drexler remained silent, patiently waiting for my response.

  ‘Where’s my son, Drexler?’ I said.

  He chuckled. ‘Really, Saul, I’m impressed. I don’t know how you managed to track him to Mineral. And I won’t ask you how you managed it, either. After all, I can’t have you revealing all your secrets – that’d ruin the fun of our little game.’

  ‘Game?’ I replied incredulously.

  ‘Oh, don’t play coy. You’ve surely read the note I left at your apartment. And I admit you did well to find your way to Mineral, better than I thought you’d do. But once you’d gotten there, you had a fighting chance of retrieving Samuel, and you fell short. That’s nobody’s fault but your own.’

  I remained silent. I wasn’t going to disclose anything I didn’t have to. After some time, Drexler said:

  ‘But of course you had more than a fighting chance, because you had Mr Yeung along for the ride – an ex-HRT boy, no less. But last I checked, Mr Yeung was with the FBI. We both know you read the note, Saul, and you’ve broken the rules. I’d be well within my rights to kill Samuel right now.’ Drexler paused. ‘But seeing as Mr Yeung seems to’ve kept his knowledge of The Order to himself, I’m going to let you off. The game will continue. But Vannevar, I’m afraid, is mine. Think of it like losing a piece in a game of chess.’

  I could tell by the playfulness and drama in Drexler’s tone that he perceived what he was doing as glamorous. That he had envisaged between us a rivalry worthy of Hollywood: the pair of us wise-cracking and joking, and in the process discovering that we’re just alike, as happens so often in the movies. And this was all precisely because he was a psychopath and psychopaths suffer from delusions of grandeur.

  But the truth was far removed from Drexler’s worldview. What he was doing wasn’t glamorous – he was a sick freak hurting innocent people. And what’s more, we were nothing alike. Even when I’d lived outside the law, I’d never murdered, maimed, and tortured. And so I was unwilling to engage him; unwilling to become the other half of his fantasy double-act.

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ I replied in deliberate monotone.

  He chuckled again but with a note of impatience.

  ‘It’s not so fun when something you value is taken from you, is it, Saul?’ he replied with sudden malice. ‘I should know: I lost my freedom, and was left to rot in a god-forsaken hole where I was tormented by jailers, and forced to fraternize with the scum of the earth. And I owe that privilege all to you. Yet, st
rangely, you don’t seem to be enjoying things quite so much now that you’re the one up against it.’

  This, I knew, was the crux of his seething animosity towards me. But it was bullshit. My actions may have led to his arrest; but I sure as hell wasn’t responsible for the dark, sadistic crimes. And I wasn’t going to bite – which was still what he wanted.

  ‘It was nobody’s fault but your own,’ I said flatly, using his own phrase against him. He hissed with exasperation.

  ‘Come now,’ he said slowly. ‘You sound so melancholy. If you’re going to be such a spoil-sport, maybe there’s no point bothering? That’d be a shame, wouldn’t it? To blow little Samuel’s brains all over the fucking wall because of daddy’s poor sportsmanship. Huh?’

  Again, I was silent. I wasn’t keeping to the script and my refusal to engage was riling him. But then, abruptly, there came a new noise from his end. A loud, grinding screech – the sound of heavy machinery. Then Drexler said:

  ‘Like I said, because I’m a good sport, the game will continue, and that means I’m going to set you free. But the stakes are higher now. Not only because you cheated, but because this is chance number two. So it’s double or nothing.’

  But suddenly Drexler was talking with urgency. This noise hadn’t been something I was supposed to hear, and it’d thrown his rhythm off. He continued without his usual pause:

  ‘Should you fail, both Vannevar and Samuel shall die at midnight March 4, EST. If you compete nobly, their deaths shall be noble. But should you fail to treat the game with respect, they’ll suffer. Death by castration. And tell anyone else at the FBI about The Order, then it’s game over. Understood?’