Young had gone pale, but he nodded.
“Good. I’m going to pull the biggest string I can find to get you access to more information. I want you to stay tight-lipped about it, though. For all we know, there may be Katharos agents working in the cubicle next to yours. Make sure you check your six as often as you can. If anybody around you is acting suspicious, I want to know about it.”
Young’s mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips and said, “How will I contact you?”
Daron shrugged. “Just leave me a voicemail. I’ll check it as often as I can. If you think somebody’s on your tail, leave me a message inviting me over for beer. Then Gene and I will make contact.”
This wasn’t what Daniel was expecting when he reached out to the black-ops men. He wanted to see the big picture, but he had no desire to become an impromptu field agent. Taking a deep breath, he said, “If I find something big, how will I let you know about it?”
“Same way,” said Daron. “Say something about a poker game and we’ll know you have intel to pass along.”
“Got it,” Young said, massaging his temples. “I’ll invite you over for beer if I think someone’s following me, and invite you over for poker if I have information for you.”
“See, your tradecraft’s improving already,” Eugene said. “Next thing you know, the CIA will be recruiting you for wet work.”
Young wasn’t amused. His face had taken on a permanent grimace. With an air of annoyance, he asked, “Can I go now?”
Eugene smiled and executed a smooth U-turn. They reached the lot where Young’s car was parked, and Daniel extracted himself from the back seat.
“Always a pleasure,” Daron said as he waved goodbye, an exaggerated smile on his face.
Young didn’t even turn around; he made his way to his car without another word.
Eugene watched him go. “You think Daniel will be able to dig anything up?”
“No,” Daron replied, his voice icy. “But I can guarantee he’s going to root around like a truffle-pig. If Katharos really has breached our most secure networks, he’ll become a massive target overnight.”
Eugene stared at his partner. “You’re using him as bait?”
“Bait implies a trap,” said Daron. “If someone makes a move on Young, I doubt we’ll make it in time to save his ass and catch whoever’s after him. The way I see it, we’re in a mine, and the pressure is building. Now we at least have a canary to warn us before the damn thing blows.”
Eugene blinked, but didn’t say a word. Inside, he prayed Young would find Katharos before Katharos found him.
14
Jarrod was running desperately low on fuel. His body had burned every microjoule of energy from his stores of fats, proteins and carbohydrates. Now, his system was forced to convert muscle mass to energy in order to maintain his grueling pace. The convoy was averaging twenty miles-per-hour on the forest roads, and Jarrod easily kept up, but the trip’s duration was taking its toll. The vehicles hadn’t stopped in nearly four hours. Morning had given way to afternoon, and he hadn’t even paused for water. In a few minutes, he would be forced to stop. It would be simple to follow the trail of the oversized trucks—their enormous, knobby tires left unmistakable impressions in the soil—but he preferred to keep them in sight.
After three more miles of hurtling shrubs and ducking trees, Jarrod slowed to a walk. Turning, he cut through the forest and stepped onto the road. The trucks gained ground and were at the edge of earshot within minutes.
A ditch just ahead of him held remnants of the previous evening’s rain. Stooping, he plunged his face into the murky water and gulped it down. The water undoubtedly contained scores of bacteria and parasites, but it didn’t matter. The microscopic robots in Jarrod’s digestive tract would make quick work of any pathogens that came with the life-giving water. After several minutes, he wiped his mouth and continued down the road, his stomach bulging.
Brakes squeaked in the distance. Jarrod guessed they were at least five miles away, but he made no attempt to close the gap. Covered in black armor, he stretched his arms out to take in the sun. Steam rose from every inch of his body, cooling him down as chemical reactions manufactured food.
An AK-47 barked from somewhere over the horizon. Jarrod ignored it, knowing militant groups often fired their weapons in the air as a way to show their machismo. His muscles grew supple as they were cleared of damage and replenished with sugar. He strolled for five more minutes, then stopped at another puddle to retrieve more water. After a few short gulps, a sound reached his ears that could not be ignored. It was the choral, terrorized shriek of dozens of children.
The water exploded beneath Jarrod’s feet as he abandoned the puddle and sprinted down the road.
Hasan Sarr looked into the baking-sheet sized mirror on the side of the M35 and adjusted his red beret. He smiled, checking his ivory teeth for food. Satisfied with his appearance, he settled into the military surplus truck’s ragged seat cushion. His eyes scanned the forest for landmarks, and he said, “It is three kilometers to the edge of the forest. Ready yourself.”
The driver nodded and patted a compact submachine gun resting in his lap.
Grinning, Sarr repeated the message over his radio. Being in charge of the ragged troops had its perks. He got to call the shots—decide which schools or homes to raid, and who would live or die. There wasn’t a military unit anywhere in the world as disciplined as his. If he wanted one of the new-bloods to execute his own family, the boy would do it. If he wanted the teenagers to rape their sisters, they would follow his orders without question. It was why they were still alive. The less obedient…the weaker soldiers were culled like leprous cattle. All that remained were hardened warriors, and they were his crown, his reward for a life of dedication.
Sarr had once been like the children that served under him now. When he was ten years old, he was taken from his family in the middle of the night. Soldiers came into his village, pulled the women and children from their homes, and killed the men. The women and girls were used as entertainment. The boys became mighty warriors.
Hasan shook his head, correcting himself. The strongest boys became warriors. The weak ones, even some of the boys that were his friends and neighbors, refused to follow orders. They were all killed on the spot. Sarr was not stupid, and he was not weak. Over time, he learned that brutality earned credibility. When the men told them to kill with a gun, he would use a knife. If he was ordered to cut someone’s throat, he would beat the victim to death with a rock.
Sarr was the only boy from his village that survived to adulthood. Now, nearly thirty, he was an old man in his profession. The men above him, the men with money, had rewarded his servitude with an army of his own. They also gave him permission to raid towns and recruit more soldiers. With twenty men and as many children under his command, he already controlled a formidable force, but it was only the beginning. His predecessors had boasted armies of hundreds, and he wouldn’t rest until he surpassed them all. His success was all but guaranteed, because he was willing to do anything to achieve it. He learned valuable lessons from a childhood spent at war: weakness means death, and cruelty demands respect.
The forest thinned as the convoy passed homesteads with colorful gardens. A moment later, the forest opened around a modest town. The streets were unpaved, but some of the buildings were made of actual concrete, not mud or tin. It didn’t take long for Sarr to direct his driver to the village school, the largest structure in sight.
Hasan barked orders over the radio, and the troops dismounted before the trucks had even squeaked to a stop. His chest swelled with pride as he watched his soldiers working as diligently as ants. They sprinted into the school with their weapons raised and ordered everyone outside. They cut the throats of any men that might offer resistance and rounded up the rest like a herd of goats, forcing them to their knees on the street.
Sarr’s polished boots dropped into the gravel, sending red dust into the air. He held an AK-47 on his
right shoulder, his finger on the trigger. The prisoners fell silent at his approach, which brought a smile to his face. Three women were intermingled with the crowd of children. He inspected them first, gaging their suitability for his harem. The first was old with stringy hair. He passed her by, shaking his head. She was too old for his taste, but he wouldn’t kill her; she would service his subordinates. The second woman looked sickly and thin, so he passed her as well. His boots scuffed the rocks as he stopped in front of the last teacher. She was looking up at him with fire in her brown eyes. Her hair was thick and wavy, dropping well past her shoulders, and her modest clothing didn’t hide her ample breasts or trim waist. He nodded at a man in an orange beret, his lieutenant. The man nodded back in silent understanding—make sure the other troops don’t try to take her for themselves.
Wheeling around on his heel, Hasan marched back to the front and stood over the frightened school children. He fired his AK-47 once into the air, just to see their reactions. All but a few flinched. It wasn’t a perfect test of fortitude, but it was a good start.
The boys in front of him would either be recruited or culled, which was his personal privilege. The girls would serve as a test for the soldiers-to-be. Some would be killed, others would be raped and killed. Any boy that refused to follow orders would share the girls’ fate.
His eyes bounced from child to child, then rested on a boy with broad shoulders. Sarr’s stomach roiled with disgust. The boy’s face was flat, and he had tiny ears. Skin hung loosely from his neck, and his eyes slanted upwards. The boy was patting one of his friends on the arm, and Sarr heard him whisper that everything would be alright.
“You!” Hasan bellowed, pointing at the boy, “come up here.”
The stoop-shouldered boy gave his friend one more reassuring pat, stood up, and picked his way through the crowd.
“No!” a voice protested. It was the beautiful woman Sarr had chosen as a concubine. Hasan flicked his eyes, and one of his men grabbed her wrists.
“Don’t look back,” Hasan said to the boy. “Come up here. You’re going to help me teach the class a lesson.”
When the boy moved into place, Hasan gripped him by the shoulders. The boy winced in pain, but didn’t protest.
“This,” Hasan said in a sweeping voice, “is what weakness looks like. The world is a big and dangerous place. There is no room for…this.” He hissed the last word and jabbed the boy in the chest.
The boy rubbed at the spot on his sternum and stared down at the ground.
Sarr’s eyes scanned the crowd. He pointed at another boy, a straight-backed, muscular child that was perhaps nine-years-old. “You,” he said. “Come up here.”
The boy stood, but before he could move forward, the fiery teacher broke free and ran toward Hasan. She lashed out at the militia commander, and he caught her by the throat.
She clawed at his hand for only a second, then swung a kick at his genitals. Sarr moved his hips back just in time to avoid the painful blow, lowering his chest and head. The woman took advantage of his body position and scratched his eyes.
Hassan roared with laughter, spun her around, and hooked an elbow under her throat. “I guess we have time for another lesson,” he said, dabbing at the cuts on his face. “Women were put on earth to bring pleasure to men and to give birth. They are too weak for anything else. If a woman is disobedient, and doesn’t want to fulfill the tasks she was made for…”
Sarr pulled a knife from his belt. With one swift motion, he released the choke hold and brought the blade across her neck. Blood shot from her arteries in thick streams. In one voice, the children cried out in horror.
The forest moved past in a blur, and the air whistled in Jarrod’s ears. He had never pushed himself this hard before, but he had never heard so many children screaming. His subconscious told him to cut loose, to sacrifice his own life if it meant resolving whatever crisis lay ahead.
The sugars he stored during his brief pause were completely gone. His legs were burning and his chest was heaving. Steam rose from his shoulders in a thick fog as his system tried desperately to lower his body temperature. He ignored the instinctual warning signs and pushed on; the damage could be repaired later. There was too much distance to cover and too little time to slow down.
“Now,” Hasan said, “get up here, boy.”
The muscular boy obeyed, his eyes wide at the sight of his teacher bleeding out on the ground.
Hasan yanked up the stoop-shouldered child, who was whimpering and cradling the teacher’s face.
“Everyone gather around!” Sarr shouted. “Now!”
Reluctantly, the children got to their feet and formed a circle, Hasan, the dying teacher, and the two boys in the center.
Sarr moved behind the muscular boy and massaged his shoulders as if he was a boxer in between rounds. Crouching, he whispered, “What is your name?”
“Omari,” the boy answered through clenched teeth.
“You have the opportunity to be one of my special warriors, Omari. All you have to do is kill the diseased weakling.”
The boy’s face twisted in horror. “Zolo is my friend. He is everyone’s friend.”
“Kill him,” Hasan growled, “or I will kill you both. Go on, show me that you will fight for your life.”
Omari swallowed, raised his fists, and took a step toward his friend. The innocent face looked back at him with curiosity, unable to comprehend what was about to happen.
Omari stopped and let his fists fall to his side. “I can’t do it,” he said, turning around. “I won’t do it.”
Hasan wasn’t surprised, but he wasn’t willing to give up on such a fine specimen. He looked at the circle of students, then grabbed a girl and pulled her in. “Kill him,” he said, “or I’ll kill her and every other girl here. Don’t be stupid. This monster you call Zolo is going to die today by your hand or mine. You have the chance to save lives.”
Tears streamed down Omari’s face. He looked around in a panic, as if he could find the answer to his dilemma floating on the breeze. No answers materialized, so he clenched a trembling fist. With no other options, he justified his actions with simple math. He could save many lives for the price of one—his dear friend.
Zolo could see the concern on his friend’s face. He was wearing his own expression of pity when Omari’s fist came crashing down.
The force of the blow knocked Zolo off balance, and he fell onto his back. Blood trickled from his lip. He looked around wildly for the source of the punch, expecting it to have come from anywhere but one of his classmates.
“That’s it,” Sarr said, letting the girl go and circling around. “Finish the job, boy.” He grinned. “And I will reward you if you kill him slowly.”
Omari bent down and grabbed Zolo’s shirt collar. He raised a fist above his head and readied another strike.
Zolo’s jaw dropped as the betrayal sank in. “Omari,” he gasped “what are you doing?”
Omari’s entire body was coiled, ready to attack, but the only thing that fell on his friend was a pair of salty tears.
Letting go of Zolo, Omari stood and said, “I won’t fight him. I will fight you!”
Hasan bellowed with laughter. He was pleased with the boy’s determination, and saw an opportunity to test the limits of the recruit’s resolve. “Alright then,” he said, “show me what you can do.”
Omari didn’t hesitate. He charged forward and threw a wild haymaker at Hasan’s stomach. The big man stepped aside and swatted the boy on the back of the head.
“You can do better than that,” Sarr said. “Come on, if you can beat me, I’ll let your friend go.” It was a lie. Sarr had never failed to cull diseased livestock, he just wanted to fuel the boy’s desperation.
Omari set his teeth and charged again. Before he could come close, Hasan landed a right cross on his cheek. Omari spun around and fell face-first in the dirt.
“Get up,” Hasan barked. “Get up and fight like a man.”
Omari booste
d himself off the ground. Blood poured from his mouth and nose. He looked at the red drops in horror—he had never been in a fight before, much less with an adult. He wondered if it was even possible to win. The thought of killing Zolo crossed his mind, and he immediately pushed it aside. His parents taught him never to hurt someone like Zolo, and Zolo was his friend. He had taken a step down the cowardly path already; he would die before taking another.
Shaking, Omari got to his feet. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, then held a clenched fist at his side.
Hasan put his hands on his hips, nodding approvingly. “I’ll give you one free shot. But you better make it count.”
Omari took a deep breath. He twisted his feet into the ground and tightened every muscle in his body. As he brought his arm back, something landed behind him.
A shimmering fog appeared, outlining the indistinct figure of a man. The children in the circle gasped at the ghostly apparition, but Omari took no notice—his entire focus was on hitting the man in front of him. His arm shot toward Hasan, who was waving his fingers in a “bring it on” gesture.
Just before Omari’s punch could hit its mark, Hasan pitched backward. The big man’s body flew up and over the crowd of children.
Everything moved too fast for Sarr to process. One second he was in front of Omari, and the next he was flying backward across the school yard with a pain in his chest. Stars erupted in his vision as his back slammed into the school’s rough, concrete walls. Something clawed at his head, pinning his cheek against the knobby surface. He screamed as the unseen foe pushed him along the wall. His flesh peeled away, then the fatty tissue beneath. He was driven onwards, and the muscles on his jaw tore away from their tendons. His bare teeth collided with rock-like protrusions, snapping at the roots. Then the world went black.
The Path Of The Nightmare Page 10
