The Pressure of Darkness

by Harry Shannon

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  The distant sound invades his consciousness, a metallic noise he cannot quite place. One second later Pal's eyes open wide as he registers the sound as silenced gunfire. Perhaps one of Buey's men has survived and removed Mr. Miyori for him? But that also means the man must be descending into the laboratory. Pal curses himself for being without a weapon. He pushes the suitcase out of sight, behind the lab table, and looks around rapidly. He settles on a closet, steps inside with the lab coats and jackets. He shrinks into the clothing and closes the door behind him, leaving just a narrow slat open for viewing the laboratory.

  The man who enters is dressed in black and his face has been painted garishly. He has a pair of night vision goggles dangling around his neck and holds a silenced weapon at the ready. Pal barely contains a gasp of astonishment. Someone has invaded the sanctuary. Although he wears no formal uniform or identifying insignia, the man is Caucasian, perhaps American or English. Pal curses silently and his fists curl in frustration.

  Pal observes as Bowden slips his pack off and starts removing small containers filled with enormously powerful explosives. He works rapidly, smoothly, like someone quite familiar with the task. He has nearly emptied the pack. The entire laboratory has already been wired to blow. In the closet, Pal twists and turns, wondering what to do.

  Another sound, a ping from down the hall as the elevator arrives.

  Startled, the man in black raises his weapon and steps back out of the way. Pal knows the visitor is likely to be either Mr. Nandi bringing Indira, or perhaps—far worse—his heir apparent, Gorman. The man seems unfazed and more than ready to use his silenced rifle.

  Without thinking Pal starts to open the door.

  The intruder whirls at the sound, his eyes searching the room, but only sees the wall and a closet. Before he can turn around again a knife penetrates his right arm. It seems to go numb, fall straight, and the man reaches for the rifle with his left arm, but by then Mr. Nandi is upon him. A second knife slices into his neck, right at the shoulder. Mr. Nandi holds it there; the threat presented by the blade near the artery speaks for itself.

  The man lowers his hand and allows Mr. Nandi to disarm him. Mr. Nandi kicks the side of his knee, full force. The man grunts and falls to the ground in pain. Pal opens the closet and steps into the room.

  "Tell me who you are," he orders. "Who sent you?"

  The man's eyes roll up, exposing white. Mr. Nandi kneels by him, yanks his hair back and places the tip of the knife in his right nostril. "You will answer the guru, or be mutilated," he says in his soft, respectful voice.

  The man says: "My name is Scott."

  Mohandas Hasari Pal stumbles to the table and pulls the suitcase into plain sight. "You have not even slowed us down, Mr. Scott. The virus will span the globe within a matter of days. Your life will have been sacrificed for nothing."

  "I doubt that," Scott says in a whispery voice. He is in pain and barely able to remain conscious.

  "Oh, believe it," Pal replies. He removes one vial from the suitcase. It is different from the others. It is tied to a tightly bound package of plastic and a second, smaller bottle.

  Pal cannot resist gloating. He holds up the package. "And this one is my gift to the corrupt populace of Mexico." Pal mockingly pronounces it properly, Me-he-co. "When I activate this brilliantly designed little balloon, it will float up to a height of several hundred feet. The internal guidance system will take it fourteen miles to the nearest highway rest stop, where it will explode into a mist. Every traveler who passes through that area tonight and tomorrow will be infected. Within ten hours their first symptoms will appear, but by then they will be lost in crowds all over the southwestern United States and down into South America."

  Bowden is losing it, but he wants to know and still manages to ask: "Why?"

  Pal chuckles, mockingly. "Because I am the physical incarnation of Shiva, consort to Kali-Ma, and the destroyer of worlds. You should feel honored to be in my presence. You do, don't you?"

  Bowden snorts in disgust. In a flash, Mr. Nandi has sliced open his nostril. A thin tendril of bloods spurts. It hurts. Bowden squeals, but the pain helps him recover his senses.

  Pal clucks with his tongue. "Such needless suffering. Please, refrain from being macho, Mr. Scott. Now, I will ask you a question. You will answer immediately and honestly, or Mr. Nandi will do you harm. Do you understand?"

  "I understand."

  "Who came here with you?"

  "I am alone."

  Mr. Nandi clasps the wounded hand. He raises the knife and severs his two smallest fingers. Bowden shrieks and then grunts in agony. "God damn you! You bastard, that's the truth. I came alone!"

  "And why did you come, Mr. Scott? Remember, you have many more fingers. Mr. Nandi and I are very patient men."

  "To rescue your wife, asshole."

  Nandi removes his thumb. Bowden passes out. Annoyed, Pal looks around, locates a pitcher of water. Moving gingerly, he picks it up and hands it to Mr. Nandi, who tosses it in Bowden's face. Bowden does not seem to regain consciousness. Pal sighs. "We must assume we have been compromised, Mr. Nandi. Regrettably, I must dispatch you with the suitcase to locate Mr. Gorman. Send him on his way immediately. I will proceed to the burial ground alone. Once Mr. Gorman is en route, bring Indira to me. You shall assist in the rite of Sati."

  Mr. Nandi bows, takes the suitcase. He stops by Bowden and leans down to cut his throat. The goggles are in the way. Irritated, Mr. Nandi begins to saw at the strap holding them in place. Pal waves him off. "I will shoot him. Go." Mr. Nandi leaves and the heavy case seems as light as a shoebox in his grasp.

  But when Pal tries to operate the rifle, he is puzzled by the safety lock. He fumbles with it for a moment, but another icy sheet of agony overwhelms his bowels. He drops the rifle and bends over the table, losing precious seconds, but the captive is bleeding to death regardless. Pal kicks the rifle away, out into the hallway, and stumbles toward the elevator.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Indira backed rapidly out of the master bedroom, one hand to her mouth. The sight of so many bodies in a pile tore a ragged scream from her throat. The fact that so many are men in ritual women's clothing had also stunned her. Mo is killing his own people. She realized immediately that she had given her location away. She raced down the hall, head swiveling, looking for a place to hide. She ran barefoot, her passage virtually silent.

  She could hear the steady footsteps of the man who was now pursuing her, even over the thudding cadence of her terrified heart. This man was large and unbelievably fast, especially now that the scream revealed her position. Her only advantage is that she has been here before, in the drug dealer's hacienda.

  Move. Keep moving . . .

  A locked door, another door, a room that contained video equipment; Indira barely noticed the nude body on the bed. There was a second door at the back of the room and she pushed herself that way, even though it was probably just a bathroom and she might be trapped, but that door was locked. Indira thought and stripped away the paper gown. She flung herself face-down on the round bed, beneath the mirrored ceiling.

  Her bare skin broke out in bumps at the uneasy proximity of the woman's cold, dead flesh. Her nostrils caught the vague stink of urine. Her gorge rose and soured. She forces herself to breathe, stay loose, and allows one arm and one leg to dangle over the edge of the bed. The man's footsteps pounded down the hall and paused at the bedroom doorway. The door opened, whispered across the shag carpet like the hissing of a large snake. Indira, face pressed against the stained bedspread, held her breath.

  The man entered the room. He was moving swiftly, someone familiar with his surroundings. He passed the round bed and went straight for the locked door. Indira, eyes closed, knew when he tried the handle. She heard an eerie, throaty chuckle and the jangling of some keys. The door being yanked open. The man searching the other room and emerging back into the bedroom. Her chest was beginning to tighten now and she desperately need
ed to breath, but somehow held herself motionless, praying, hoping to remain undiscovered.

  The man moved away. Her mind sang of freedom.

  Then Indira she smelled an awful odor, a body that reeked of excrement and charcoal, and felt humid breath stroking her neck. Gorman?

  "Don't move, pretty," he whispered and fingered her back. "You are so lovely this way." It was Gorman. His odor was terrible, as usual. He spread his body on top of hers and his hardness pressed against her bare buttocks. Indira struggled but froze when something thin and sharp entered her right ear.

  "Oh, yes," he sighed, almost erotically. "If I push in here, even just a little, you will go deaf. A bit further and you die . . ."

  Make him do it, make him kill you, it will be merciful and quick this way. Indira knew that to be true. He was accidentally offering her a way out. She gathered herself to shove against the needle, but he withdrew it before she could act. A rustle of clothing and the sound of a zipper. Indira shuddered and tried to buck him off, but he was holding her down and her left side was pressed against the dead weight of the corpse.

  "I will fuck you both, as a tribute to Kali," the man whispered in her trembling ear, "first the one who is still alive and then the one who is dead, then back and forth again."

  "Get off me!"

  "In due time, my pretty."

  His freed penis presses against her clenched buttocks. Indira decides she would rather die than have this happen, but she cannot move. He pushes hard, looking to penetrate her; Indira screams in rage and frustration. The man strikes her once, expertly on the right temple, and her limbs collapse into mush. But before he could enter her there came another, somewhat distant sound, footsteps moving rapidly down the hall, almost as rapidly as the killer's had just moments before.

  The rapist pauses for a split second, zips himself and backs away from the subdued captive. Indira still cannot move, but she watches her attacker via the mirrored walls and ceiling, that stocky body, those strong, tattooed arms. Gorman moves to the side of the open door, clearly preparing an ambush. Indira, lying helpless beside a corpse, can see the doorway. She wants to warn whoever is coming. Anyone Gorman was afraid of offered hope. Her voice began to come back to her. She blinked rapidly and gathered breath. But when the other man stepped into the room she hesitated, convinced she was dreaming, for it was Jack Burke.

  Gorman landed on Burke's shoulders, his strong right hand already trying to strip away the heavy CAR-15 rifle. The men struggled. One powerful, deafening shotgun blast demolished the side of the bed and removed the left arm of the dead girl. Mattress stuffing, gore and smoke soared through the moist red air. The rifle slipped to the carpet. Burke kicked it away before Gorman could grab it. Indira screamed and rolled onto the floor, then to the other side of the bed. She watched Burke and Gorman struggle. For a long moment the two men, evenly matched and rigid, strained against one another. Then Gorman stomped down on Burke's instep. Burke managed to avoid the worst of the blow, but lost his balance.

  The two men crashed into a clothing rack and disappeared into a pile of ritual dresses and nightgowns.

  The gun!

  The rifle was within reach, so Indira, eyes riveted to the spectacle of the two men, crawled toward it, one foot at a time.

  Burke and Gorman alternated between rapid bursts of feverish physical activity—myriad attempted blows and effective blocks—and brief periods of intense, silent struggle. Gorman managed to produce a knife and sliced at the front of Burke's shirt. The blade was stopped by the ultra-thin Kevlar vest. Burke's hands moved in a blur to trap Gorman's forearm and wrist, turned and twisted and disarmed him. Burke caught the knife in mid-air and opened a long gash in Gorman's shoulder. Gorman kicked with blinding speed and sent the knife flying. The hand-to-hand battle smashed the two men into the mirrored wall, spider-webbing the tiles and raining down fragments of broken glass. Some of the fine dust got in their eyes. Burke, blinking and shaking his head, lost a fraction of a second. Gorman brought his palm up, aiming to drive Burke's nose into the brain and kill him with one strike. The blow slid off but managed to crack Burke's cheekbone. He grunted from the pain and grabbed at Gorman's testicles. Burke twisted. Gorman screamed.

  Burke lowered him to the carpet, still tightening and twisting. Gorman rained blows on his head and shoulders but the pain had weakened him. Burke turned Gorman's back toward Indira. His face was grim with concentration.

  Indira had the gun, raised it. She could see herself in the mirror, wild-eyed and naked, cradling a huge shotgun in thin, shaking arms. She tried to aim it, but before she could, Gorman managed to flip Burke in a tangle of arms and legs, removing what had been an easy target. Uncertain, Indira lowered the weapon and watched helplessly as they fought to the death. Burke lay pinned on his side, but did something with his legs and quickly rolled free. He slammed Gorman into the mirrored tile once, twice, and yet again. Blood from a scalp wound splattered upwards like a fine, Zen painting of the rising sun. Burke clapped his palms over Gorman's ears with precision, breaking the eardrums, and Gorman howled with pain.

  Burke rolled away, tried to retrieve his weapon, but somehow the nightmarishly indefatigable opponent grabbed his ankle to keep him from reaching the gun. Burke rolled over onto his back and kicked with both feet. Gorman slammed backward into the mirrored wall. His bloody head smashed into the glass with a dull thwaaack.

  Stunned, the deafened Gorman slid down the wall and sat still. His nose and forehead were bleeding, eyes red-veined and dazed. Burke again turned for the gun, but unbelievably Gorman was already moving again. Burke turned to face him with a snarl and the two men collided right over the naked girl. Their hands and arms moved rapidly again. Gorman seized Burke's right arm and tried to break it.

  "Let him go!" Indira bravely brought the gun up and around, forcing Gorman to release Burke and react. Gorman turned sideways and kicked Indira in the stomach. She dropped the shotgun and rolled over onto her side.

  Burke saw the world turn red and black, welcomed the rage. He slammed into Gorman from behind and grabbed the killer by the skull. He stomped into the back of Gorman's legs and dropped him to his knees. Burke clutched Gorman's head in his powerful arms and hands and began to twist it around, as slowly as possible; wanting the deaf man to know what was coming, to suffer right to the end.

  Gorman struggled and the inhuman, screeching sounds he made were horrific. Burke kept turning. Gorman kicked and wet himself as he fought back, but Burke had the correct angle and would not be denied. Indira shocked herself, for at the first small craaaacking sound, she felt only an overwhelming sense of joy. Gorman's bloodshot eyes went wide with surprise and pain. His expression was now one of unimaginable terror.

  "No," Gorman croaked. His gravelly voice was loud now, like a man wearing headphones. "Don't! Not me!" In his agonized deafness, he was already hearing the onrushing sound of eternity. His expression announced he'd seen the truth—that God would show him no mercy.

  "Yeah, you." Burke yanked hard and snapped Gorman's neck at the spinal cord. He released the body and fell backward, chest heaving.

  Indira rushed to be near him, and for a moment all they could do is hold on tight. Burke broke away, grabbed a plain evening dress and some flat shoes from the pile of women's clothing. "Hurry. Put these on."

  "Jack, what are you doing here?"

  "Later. Let's move."

  Indira, nakedness covered, felt stronger immediately. Burke found the shotgun and took her hand. They hurried into the corridor. "Stay behind me," Burke whispered, urgently. "I have to go check on my partner." He spoke into the mouthpiece. "Scotty?" But Burke couldn't be sure it was working any longer, after all the chaos. He moved down the corridor, the rifle up. Indira held on to his belt and followed close behind. She kept her eyes fixed on his back, and deliberately avoided looking at the carnage in other rooms. The hacienda had become a tomb, a monument to her husband's insanity.

  "Who else is here?" Burke asked, without turning his head.
"Who else would Pal have brought with him?"

  "He never goes anywhere without Mr. Nandi."

  They came out into the night and Burke paused, chest heaving, to allow his eyes to adjust. "That's the laboratory over there. I'm afraid Scotty's been hurt."

  He moved rapidly away from her. Indira lost her grip. Unnerved by being separated, even for a moment, she hurried to catch up. Burke paused at the door to the lab. He motioned for her to stand behind him. He pried the door open with the barrel of his gun and went inside. The two moved smoothly across the room to the waiting elevator. Burke made sure it was clear. He took her downstairs, into the bowels of the building. When the doors opened he swept the room with his eyes and dragged her into the hall. "Scotty?"

  No answer.

  Burke flattened against the wall. He kept his gun up and motioned for Indira to wait a few steps behind. He moved to the doorway and spun around the corner in a crouch, weapon raised.

  Blood everywhere. "Where the fuck you been, cowboy?"

  Scotty sat propped against the wall, with Mr. Nandi laying half across him. Burke took a knee just in time to watch a last bit of pinkish air bubble from the smaller man's open mouth. Bowden was white with shock, but managed a macabre grin. His trembling hand held one severed ear. "Hey, look. I took this for old time's sake."

  "Scotty, hang in there, man. Indira is with me."

  "That's good."

  "We're going to boogie to the chopper in a few, okay? We're going home."

  "You're going home." Bowden moaned and flinched. When the pain passed he could barely speak and there was an odd, hoarse rattle deep in his chest. "I'm not."

  Burke blinked away tears. He pawed at his medical kit. "That's bullshit."

  "Save it, no time," Bowden whispered. "I'll patch myself. You've got orders."

  Burke looked down and away. "You're right."

  "Do something for me."

  "Name it."

  "Brother, you take this motherfucker Pal all the way out, okay? Me, I think I'll just rest here for a while. And when the pain gets real bad, I'll make sure to get my sinful ass blown all the way to heaven. Only way I'll ever get to see the place."