by Toby Tate
The Cain Prophecy
Lilitu Trilogy Book Three
Toby Tate
A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK
Published at Smashwords
ISBN: 978-1-68261-015-2
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-016-9
THE CAIN PROPHECY
Lilitu Trilogy Book 3
© 2015 by Toby Tate
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Christian Bentulan
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Permuted Press
109 International Drive, Suite 300
Franklin, TN 37067
http://permutedpress.com
To my mom, the Late Donna Conway, who has given me treasure beyond counting.
Acknowledgements
Immeasurable thanks and love to God, my wife, Laura, and daughter, Zoe, the lights of my life and my inspiration.
Special thanks to authors William F. Nolan, Douglas Preston and Sherrilyn Kenyon; author Paul Mannering and his brother, Dr. Stu Mannering; author Clarissa Johal and Dr. Malcolm Johal; and former Chief Petty Officer and current author James Jackson, who runs The Ward Room, one of the best sites on the Internet for those of us who write military-related thrillers.
A million thanks to my first readers: Tina Beck, Shelley Milligan, Eric Escalera, Andi Hunt and Kimberly Waddell.
As always, I want to thank my amazing literary agent, MacKenzie Fraser-Bub at Trident Media Group, for her guidance and encouragement; Michael L. Wilson, President of Permuted Press, for giving this unknown author a chance at superstardom; and Hannah Yancey, managing editor at Permuted Press and a fabulous human being, for putting it all together.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PART 1
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
PART II
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART 1
MY BROTHER’S KEEPER
Chapter One
Cain was a shadow, a killer trained in the ancient art of assassination by men who lived only to hunt humans. He was extremely intelligent, highly methodical, and extraordinarily ruthless.
And although he stood well over six feet, and was more cunning and dangerous than any man, he had yet to reach his second birthday.
Today he walked the streets of Paris, taking in every sight and every sound, committing it all to memory like a tourist with a movie camera. If you were to ask him a week or even a year later about the color of clothing worn by the mother pushing her baby down the sidewalk in a stroller, the expression on the face of the Asian woman sunning herself on a massage table outside her parlor, or what the young woman dressed all in black talking in English to someone, obviously a lover, was saying on her cell phone, he would be able to describe it all in vivid detail, leaving out nothing.
In most people’s minds, that alone would make him extraordinary. But to Cain, it was simply part of who he was. Under the watchful eye of the General Intelligence Presidency, the Saudi version of the CIA, he had been taught the fine arts of espionage, intelligence gathering, and assassination. But after months of bringing retribution to the enemies of the king, he was now a free agent, working for himself and looking after his own self-interests. Just the way he liked it.
Though supremely confident in his abilities, he was under no misconception—that had all been driven out of him by his teachers. He knew he was not beyond making a mistake. Every breath, every action, every step had to be carefully planned and calculated and all possible contingencies considered, but the unexpected always had a way of shattering plans. That’s where improvisation came in. Cain had learned it well in the simulations. He was a master of it.
The sounds of traffic, both motorized and pedestrian, assaulted his ears like a cacophony. At one time he would have found it overwhelming, but he had been taught to control the input, to single out one thing at a time and focus on it, commit it to memory, then move on to the next thing. Smells were the same—he could recall which street he was on and the time of day, even what was going on around him when, say, he smelled bread in a nearby bakery, or coffee from a coffee shop.
Cain remembered reading an article on the Internet lamenting the loss of Paris the way it had been, the Paris of Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo and Gustave Moreau. Before the hipsters had taken over, it had said. Places like South Pigalle, home to many a seedy hostess bar, dry cleaners, and drug store had now been rechristened “SoPi” and become a homogenous regiment of organic grocers, bistros, and cocktail bars. It was as if the zombie hordes were slowly pushing the real humans out, and assimilating those who stayed.
Because of his utter lack of sympathetic emotion, Cain understood none of that, yet he still considered it. Nothing escaped his scrutiny. He was as knowledgeable as a well-educated fifty-year-old man and his capacity for learning was nearly immeasurable, but his curiosity was like that of a child. He understood that knowledge was power, so he remembered everything he heard, felt, saw or smelled, no matter how seemingly irrelevant. Nothing could be taken for granted, especially in his particular line of work.
There were many other ways in which Cain would have been considered gifted, or blessed, or even superhuman. When he had decided to strike out on his own, his teachers had ca
lled him a devil. Had they parted ways amicably instead of threatening him, he wouldn’t have been forced to kill them.
And since he wasn’t human, there were no pangs of guilt, no regrets—just pure, cold logic.
So maybe they had been right. Perhaps he was a devil.
In a few hours time, the man he was going to meet would certainly think so.
* * *
Ahmed Najjar loved three things in this world—power, riches, and women. Tonight, he had them all. He had just managed one of the biggest mergers of his career, retaining his place as CEO of the new company. After all, the Najjar family did own fifty-one percent of the shares, so it was only fitting. Regardless, he was ready to spend the night in celebration with plenty of drink and plenty of sex. Tomorrow, of course, he would pray for God to absolve him of his sins. But for now, he would revel in debauchery. He had earned it, had he not?
He washed his rotund face in the bathroom sink and then gazed at himself in the mirror as he would a painting in the Louvre. No improvements necessary as far as he was concerned. But then, how could one improve on perfection? He smiled at his bearded reflection, cinched up the drawstring on his robe and shuffled his slippers on his way into the next room. This sixth-floor suite of the five-star Le Bristol Paris was decorated with Louis XV and Louis XVI-style furniture, the sitting room and dining room draped in embroidered yellow, turquoise, and red silks by the well-known designer Colefax, while the bedroom was hung with gold moiré by Thorp of London. The hotel, located on the rue du Faubourg St-Honore, also boasted the amazing Epicure restaurant overlooking a beautiful French garden. Later, he would take Michelle, his mistress, to dine there. And then, a little “dessert.”
He walked through the immense living room to the couch, grabbed the phone off the end table and called the front desk.
“Please send up a bottle of Petrus, and charge it to my room,” he said in French. At six-hundred Euros a bottle, Petrus was not cheap, but Ahmed didn’t care. The wine was worth every penny and would simply be written off as another business expense.
As he placed the phone back in its cradle, Ahmed thought he heard a noise from the balcony. He wandered to the double doors and opened them, taking in the panoramic view of the City of Lights and the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. Although he loved Saudi Arabia, he still marveled at the awe-inspiring beauty of Paris.
He had even visited the infamous catacombs on occasion, a huge underground cemetery that was once a stone mine, and as horrifying as they were, they too had a certain morbid grandeur.
He closed the doors and turned to go back inside when he heard yet another sound from the balcony, like creaking metal. Could someone be out there? A man of his wealth and prominence couldn’t be too careful, but his bodyguard was in the next room, and hotel security was tight. Still, he needed to be cautious.
He turned back toward the doors and his heart nearly jumped into his throat—a tall, blonde man stood there, dressed in black and holding a black ski mask in one hand. With the other he pointed a silenced pistol directly at Ahmed. Both hands were covered with latex gloves.
But his eyes were the most striking thing—his irises were as silver as two pools of mercury.
“Cry out and it will be your last breath,” the man said in perfect urban Najdi Arabic.
Chapter Two
“Who are you? What do you want?” Ahmed said, cold sweat breaking out on his brow.
“You and I are going to have a talk, Ahmed, and you are going to do exactly as I say. Understood?”
The Saudi businessman gulped down a pocket of air as his stomach knotted with fear. He nodded his head slowly.
“Good. Have a seat at the desk. I want you to take some dictation.”
Ahmed, knowing he could not call his bodyguard without being shot, did as he was told and walked to the small desk, pulled out the chair, and sat. The blonde man reached into his pocket and produced a paper, then placed it in front of Ahmed. It was letterhead from Ahmed’s construction company, Najjar Ltd., now Najjar Enterprises. He pulled out a pen, clicked it on, and held it out.
“I want you to sign over your share of Najjar Enterprises to my client, Loucheur Construction.”
Ahmed turned and stared blankly at his captor. “You’re joking. This is some kind of prank that someone has put you up to, yes?”
The man didn’t move. His silver eyes seemed as if they were drilling holes into Ahmed’s skull. He needed a drink.
“I don’t joke,” the man said.
Ahmed reached up hesitantly and took the pen, but made no move to write.
“Why am I doing this? I at least deserve to know the reason.”
“Because I said so. That is all the reason you will get.”
Ahmed suddenly flushed with anger, overriding the fear that had made him cautious. He slammed the pen down on the table.
“That is not good enough! If I am to give away the company I have worked my life to build, I want to know why!”
The man suddenly stepped around behind the chair, grabbed Ahmed’s left arm and bent it behind him.
“If you cry out, I will shoot you.”
The man was immensely strong—the first finger he broke was the pinky, popping it like a dry twig. The Saudi whimpered and sobbed in pain, biting his lip until it bled to keep himself from screaming.
“Now here is what I want you to write. ‘I, Ahmed Najjar, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath all of my holdings in Najjar Enterprises to the president of Loucheur Construction.’ Then sign your name.”
“No one will believe I did this. It will all be for nothing!”
“That doesn’t concern me.”
Ahmed heard, and then felt, his ring finger break as the man pushed him arm further up behind his back. He bit his bloody lip again, breathing in ragged gasps. He knew he could not take another broken finger without screaming.
“I suggest you begin writing, Ahmed. There are three unbroken fingers on your left hand. I realize I can’t break the ones on your right hand, but there are plenty of other small bones in the human body.”
Slowly, as tears stained the paper in front of him, Ahmed picked up the pen and began writing.
* * *
The assassin watched with cold detachment as Ahmed wrote what he had been told. Afterward, Cain produced an envelope and had the man address it to the president of Loucheur Construction and then seal the note inside.
“Alright, stand up,” Cain said, releasing his grip on Ahmed’s arm. The man stood slowly, cradling his broken fingers with his free hand.
He was about to tell him to walk to the balcony when he heard the hotel door open, then a female voice.
“Vous etes ici, Ahmed?” Are you here, Ahmed?
Cain glanced at his captive and held a finger to his lips, the gun aimed directly at his head.
“Dans la piece suivante.” In the next room, he said, copying Ahmed’s voice exactly.
A brunette woman in a short, tight red dress and pumps appeared in the doorway. The smile dropped from her face when she saw Cain. He could tell she was about to scream and he said in French, “I wouldn’t if I were you. Please come over here.”
Her eyes wide with fear, the woman did as she was told.
“Please, don’t hurt her. She has nothing to do with this,” Ahmed said, still cradling his injured hand.
“Both of you into the bedroom,” Cain said.
They paraded into the bedroom as he followed behind, the gun pointed at the woman’s head. Once inside the room he began rummaging through Ahmed’s luggage, keeping the pistol trained on his captives. He found what he was looking for—a forty caliber Beretta, with ten rounds in the magazine. He picked it up and looked it over, saw that a round had already been chambered. He slid it into the waistband of his pants.
“Alright, back into the living room, both of you,” he said in French.
Once they filed into the next room, he told Ahmed to open the balcony door.
“Now step outside, there’s so
mething I want you to see,” he said, his pistol now leveled at the woman who stood with arms crossed, quietly sobbing.
Ahmed, whimpering and holding his broken fingers close to his body, did as he was told. He shuffled to the balcony, pulled the doors open and stepped out into the darkness.
“Turn around,” Cain said. Ahmed turned, tears streaming down his face, just as Cain pulled the Saudi’s pistol from his waistband and shot the woman between the eyes. She crumpled to the floor, dead. Cain dropped the gun at his feet.
“Why did you do that?” Ahmed cried out, his sobs now coming in great, heaving gasps.
“Shut up and turn around.”
Ahmed, his eyes red-rimmed with grief and fear, slowly turned to face the city lights.
“Now, look down at the street,” Cain said. When the Saudi did so, he quickly stepped up behind him and with his right leg, swept Ahmed’s feet out from under him, sending him toppling over the short railing of the balcony and to his death six stories below. Cain could hear the man’s screams cut off by the sickening sound of his thick body smacking the sidewalk, then the distraught voices of horrified pedestrians below.
Cain grabbed the letter off the table and stuffed it in his pocket, put his Sig Sauer P226 back into its holster, and moved toward the balcony at the far end of the room. Since the suite was on the corner, the window faced a different street. He heard yelling from the hallway as hotel security and probably Ahmed’s own security guard made their way toward the room.
Cain opened the window and looked out. No one below. They were all at the front of the building, staring at the splattered remains of Ahmed. He really hadn’t planned on killing the woman, but he couldn’t leave a witness. The opportunity to create a murder-suicide had presented itself and he had acted. It was as simple as that.
