The Darkening
Page 1
Also by PAUL ANTONY JONES
Published by 47North
THE EXTINCTION POINT SERIES
Extinction Point
Extinction Point: Exodus
Extinction Point: Revelations
Extinction Point: Genesis
Toward Yesterday
Published by Good Dog Publishing
Ancient Enemies (Dachau Sunset - short story)
THE
DARKENING
PAUL ANTONY JONES
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, dialog, and incidents are works of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead or undead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2016 by Paul Antony Jones. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Lance MacCarty (www.LanceMaccarty.com)
Published by Good Dog Publishing
ISBN 978-0-692-77449-6
ISBN-10: 0692774491
For Scully and Raz
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
- LOS ANGELES - Nine days later
FRIDAY
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
SATURDAY
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
SUNDAY
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
MONDAY
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
TUESDAY
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
And when night Darkens the streets,
then wander forth the sons of Belial
Paradise Lost
~ John Milton ~
CHAPTER ONE
- Hindu Kush Mountains ~ Afghanistan -
Darkness comes early to the Hindu Kush mountains. On this evening, it brought with it a hot, rough wind that buffeted Abasin Niazi, sending the scarf of his turban fluttering behind him as he negotiated the ancient rampart wall, an AK47 resting in the crook of his arm.
An uneven indentation ran along the center of the sand-dusted stone rampart, the worn result of thousands of pairs of similarly sandaled feet that had walked this same path night after night for the last two thousand years or more. Tonight, Abasin could sense the spirits of those men walking beside him more than ever before. A shiver ran down his spine, part pride, part fear, because some of those men, the unlucky ones, were not ghosts. They waited just meters away behind heavy wooden doors with rusty iron hasps and hinges.
He dismissed the thought, forcing his attention away from the cobblestones of the courtyard, and out over the parapet, down past thirty meters of layer upon layer of ancient wind-beaten sandstone bricks, to where the mountain slope dropped steeply into a narrow valley slowly being devoured by the approaching darkness. Beyond the valley, the natural camouflage of the mountain range that surrounded him kept the fortress hidden. A single pathway, the only route through the valley, was known only to the very few entrusted with the secrets Abasin guarded.
After more years of similar nightfalls than he cared to remember, Abasin's eyes had grown accustomed to this strange twilight period; the dying sunlight glinting off the scree covering the bouldered approach created waves of shimmering light that waved and undulated. To Abasin, it looked like a mighty lake, revealed only once a day as the boundary between the day world and the world that accompanied night met, merged and melted into each other. Apart from the occasional whirl of twisting dust caught by a random eddy of wind, all was still beyond the battlements. All was silent, save for the scuff of his sandals against the stone of the walkway.
His job was a lonely one, but one he knew he had been called to. Called to just as his father, his father's father and his ancestors beyond them had been summoned. It was an honor beyond explanation to perform this duty, to keep safe the secrets locked away behind the heavy wooden doors that bordered the edges of the courtyard below, to be a part of the ancient order tasked with protecting them.
There were other men walking the walls and battlements, more still within tending to their duties, ensuring that that which was hidden, remained locked away. All were Abasin's brothers. Some quite literally, others from the same remote village of the Hindu Kush where, as a child, his parents had surrendered him to the cabal where he had remained for the past thirty years. Never stepping farther away from this place than the occasional time he found himself greeting a new arrival or helping the monthly supply delivery to unload their mules and horses.
Carved out of the very mountainside itself, the fortress had been built by Alexander the Great as he swept through what would become Afghanistan on his way to conquering India, and achieving immortal glory. The fortress had had a name once, but that name, along with its location had been lost in the mists of time. Now, its existence was known only to a chosen few, who referred to it simply as the Citadel. Protected on all but one side by the mountains that birthed it, and hidden from above by an outcrop of rock that bulged out over the fortress ramparts, it was an invisible prison to the secrets held deep within its stone heart.
As darkness finally swallowed the battlements, Abasin's mind began to wander to thoughts of his village, of his parents, and his sisters. It had been almost twenty years since he had last seen them, and sometimes he would spend his nights wondering how they had changed, imagining how their lives might have unfurled. Perhaps one day he might be reunited with them, if Allah was—
His thoughts dissipated as ahead of him, illuminated by the lambent light of a covered lantern fixed to the parapet wall, he saw a vague shadowy outline lying across his path on the cold stone battlement.
"Who is there?" Abasin called out. When no reply came, he raised the AK47, pulled back the charging handle, then stepped forward, squinting as his eyes tried to adjust to the constant flickering light thrown across the dusty path by the guttering lantern. He approached cautiously, and let out a gasp of surprise as the shape resolved itself into the outline of a body.
Abasin recognized the man instantly as Fahim, one of two other sentries patrolling the walls this night. Abasin slipped his rifle back over his shoulder and rushed forward to help his comrade. His foot stepped in something wet and slippery.
Abasin knelt and touched his fingers to the pool of liquid. Blood! Still warm. He rolled Fahim's body over and saw the unmistakable entry wound of a bullet in the dead man's forehead.
Abasin cursed loudly, pulled the AK47 back up to his shoulder then started to run toward the iron alarm bell at the opposite end of the parapet.
He was still five meters away from the bell when the .300 Winchester Magnum round entered his skull just below his right eye and exploded out the back of his head, taking most of his brain with it.
Abasin, dead already, spun almost a full three hundred and sixty degrees by the bullet's impact, let out a short sigh and collapsed to his knees, what was left of his head coming to rest against the rampart wall. If his eyes had still been capable of sight, he would have
seen another crumpled body hanging precariously over the lip of the rampart, hands drooping limply toward the courtyard as a thick stream of blood seeped down his arm to pool on the cooling rock below.
•••
From a carefully dug hide halfway up the slope of the boulder-strewn mountainside a quarter-mile southeast of the Citadel's main gate, a shadow watched Abasin's body collapse out of sight behind the crenellations of the battlement's outer wall. When the shadow spoke, his words were low, barely even a whisper; just loud enough for the sniper's throat mic to pick up the sound and relay it to the two CIA Special Activities Division teams waiting in the darkness: "Gatecrasher, this is Scarecrow. Bandit three is down. You are clear to proceed."
Instantly, five shadows broke from the darkness around the shooter and began to sprint toward the gates of the fortress. Scarecrow grabbed his sniper rifle and took off after them.
Scarecrow's night vision goggles allowed him to see not only the rough terrain and craggy outcrops he and his team maneuvered through but also the silhouettes of Omega team as they rappelled over the edge of the cliff above the fortress, fast-roping swiftly and silently toward the battlements.
Although he couldn't see it, Scarecrow knew from numerous similar operations that as soon as Omega team's boots touched the rampart's walkway, two more rounds would be fired into each of the bodies he'd already dispatched, just to make sure. Omega team had a good five minute head start on Scarecrow's team. Right now, he knew they would be quickly making their way down the sandstone steps from the battlement, double-tapping any remaining guards before they even knew they were under attack.
Scarecrow's heart thumped in his ears as he pounded across the open ground, his night vision silhouetting his teammates as they sprinted ahead of him toward the iron gates of the fortress where they would rendezvous with Omega team. If the operational planners had miscalculated anything, if their intelligence was off or compromised, or there were other sentries he and his team had missed, now would be the moment when they would be most exposed. But there was no incoming gunfire. In fact, the only sound was the huffing of his team's breaths and the rattle of their gear as they pounded the quarter mile toward their rendezvous point, using the natural outcroppings of the mountain for cover.
Breathing hard, Scarecrow lay the flat of his gloved hand against the metal of the fortress gate and pushed... It squeaked open.
With a nod from the team leader, the six men slipped through the space into the entryway of the courtyard, the green lasers attached to their suppressed automatic weapons slicing through the darkness.
"Shit!" The team leader's voice hissed in Scarecrow's ear speaker. "Where the fuck is Omega?"
Omega team was supposed to rendezvous with Alpha in the courtyard, but the second group of operators was nowhere to be seen.
"Gatecrasher, this is Scarecrow. Report your position," Scarecrow whispered into his microphone.
No answer.
He repeated the question but again received only silence in return. Scarecrow had seen Omega team hit the battlements when they'd dropped from the cliff above the Citadel. They were here somewhere.
There had been no call for assistance over the radio, so the only logical conclusion Scarecrow could come up with was that Omega team had somehow become disoriented and moved on to their secondary point of contact.
But if that was the reason for their absence, why were his radio calls not being answered? There could be some kind of problem with the radio—it wasn't unheard of; equipment failure was an expected part of the plan and contingencies had been made. But they had backup equipment, which meant that had failed too? Unlikely, Scarecrow thought.
"Let's move," the team leader's voice whispered in his ear. "Hustle it."
Instantly, the six operatives began to advance quickly and silently toward their initial positions, navigating the dusty sandstone wall of the courtyard, concealed by shadows and the rapidly deepening darkness. Through the night vision goggles, the sandy courtyard and sandstone doorways were cast in a weak sickly green. Scarecrow counted off: one, two, three of the wooden doors recessed into the shadows of the stone wall. At the fourth door he stopped, waited for his teammates to catch up, then pushed the door open and watched as the other members disappeared inside. He would stay and cover the doorway, ensuring no one made it in or out alive if they weren't wearing a US patch on their tunic.
He stepped back into the darkened recess of the doorway, crouched down on one knee, and shouldered his weapon while his eyes scanned all approaches, picking out defensible positions he could move to if things went south. He could see the black outline of the body of one of the guards draped over the upper parapet's ledge, its rapidly cooling form a dull black against the darker shadows of full night that lay beyond the walls of the Citadel.
Over his radio link, the voices of Alpha team whispered softly in his ear, narrating each move as they progressed systematically through the rooms below, searching for their quarry. The occasional "Clear!" indicated when they had worked through some room and found nothing.
What, or rather whom, they were looking for was Alil Al Abba, the notorious leader of al-Qaeda in northern Afghanistan. Most regular Americans only learned the name of an al-Qaeda leader when he was captured or killed by a drone. But Al Abba had become instant news two years ago when he kidnapped three US Army reservists, two of them women, who had become separated from their unit, and filmed their public beheading. After that, he had become the US government's number one target. And he was wanted alive.
Intelligence assets embedded deep within local Afghan networks had finally learned his whereabouts. He had been hiding here, in this ancient unknown crumbling shit-hole in the middle of fucking nowhere.
That was when Scarecrow and his team had been given the go-order for an extraction. The team knew little about the layout of the Citadel. In fact, up until the local assets had revealed its whereabouts, no one within any of the coalition intelligence services even knew it existed. There was next to nothing known about the layout of the place, just what a single intel-unit had been able to relay back to the US, and that amounted to little more than a few grainy images taken with a telephoto lens of the walls and the courtyard. The rough details of the layout had been fed to the intelligence asset from an unknown source who claimed to have visited the fortress to deliver supplies. Beyond that, Scarecrow and his team were working this one as they went along.
"Floor two's clear. Moving to—" The broadcast stopped suddenly.
Scarecrow felt the tension in his muscles grow as he waited for his team leader's voice to pick back up. Instead, a blood-curdling scream filled his ears, freezing him in place with its bone-melting ferocity.
The scream abruptly cut off.
Scarecrow's breath froze somewhere deep in his chest. His mind began assessing the possibility that the scream had not been from one of his team, but he quickly dismissed the thought as improbable. He fought the urge to leave his position and rush to aid his comrades, but his training dictated that he wait. His guys were more than capable of dealing with anything that was thrown at them. If they needed him for backup, they would let him know. The last thing they needed was for him to leave their six exposed.
Scarecrow waited for the radio conversation to pick back up, using those few seconds to force his tense muscles to unlock and his ratcheting heartbeat to slow. He swallowed, his throat suddenly as dry as the surrounding desert.
"Alpha-one, do you copy?" he said at the five-minute mark.
No reply.
"Alpha-two, do you copy?"
Still no response.
"Three, do you hear me?"
The only sound was the gentle susurration of sand blown over the warm stone pathway.
"Shit!" Scarecrow hissed. Slowly, the sniper rose to his feet. Every instinct was telling him to evac... right now! Get out of there and head back to the rendezvous point for extraction. But there was no way he was going to leave his team behind. No goddamned way.
•••
A narrow stone stairway, barely wide enough for Scarecrow's shoulders not to scrape against its walls, spiraled down into the bowels of the fortress. Motes of dust floated in front of his eyes, glowing white in the lens of his night vision goggles. Scarecrow took each step slowly, his weapon pushed hard into his shoulder as he carefully maneuvered down the stairwell. Outside he had been sweating, the mountain fortress quickly giving up its stored heat, but with each step Scarecrow took down the winding stairs, the air grew colder. By the time he moved off the last stone step and edged into the shadows of the wider room he now found himself standing in, Scarecrow felt as though he had wandered into an ice locker.
He crouched down in the shadows, his back against the freezing rock wall. The corridor in front of him was lined with six stout-looking wooden doors, each fitted with a large iron handle, an ancient rusted lock plate, and huge iron hinges. All the doors stood open, and when Scarecrow dipped his head into them one by one he found identical stark prison cells. No windows, no cot, nothing; just an empty room hewn from the rock, the walls rough and uneven where the mason's chisels had cut away the stone one chip at a time.
At the far end of the corridor was a larger door. Scarecrow moved quickly to it, took a moment to listen for any movement beyond—nothing. Quiet as a grave, he thought. "Alpha, this is Scarecrow. Do you copy?" he whispered into his throat microphone. When no answer came, he pressed his thumb against the metal door latch and slowly eased the door open.
An invisible wall of freezing air flowed out of the room and Scarecrow shivered despite himself. Beyond the doorway was another room, this one larger again than the one he had just left, lined with more doors and another corridor, tangential to the first which he presumed led even deeper into the mountainside. The doors in this room were all closed except for the first two, one on the left and one on the right. Scarecrow scanned the corridor ahead of him for any movement or signs of his missing team, then with a deep inhalation of air, he stepped over the door's threshold.