The King of Plagues

by Jonathan Maberry

“No need for threats,” the Spaniard said. “All communications are being jammed by a system even I cannot disable.”

  “What’s the syringe for?”

  “It’s epinephrine. I have allergies.”

  “Right,” I said, pocketing the syringe.

  Above deck I heard the reverb of the Prince’s speech.

  “Sound’s back on, Boss,” said DeeDee.

  “No. The public-address systems are fine,” said Santoro. “We want that noise. But nothing that is happening here is getting out.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I growled. “I thought this whole thing was to broadcast the Kings’ big bonanza event.”

  He smiled like a crocodile. “What makes you think this is the event?”

  “C’mon, Boss,” growled DeeDee. “Let’s drag this shitbag back to the suite. I guarantee you I’ll find—”

  And Santoro moved. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone move that fast. He pivoted and struck DeeDee in the throat with his left hand and then flicked his right so that a sliver of bright metal dropped into his palm. His hand was a blur and then DeeDee was falling against me, blood exploding from her face, a scream tearing itself from her throat.

  Ghost and I lunged for Santoro at the same time, no more than a half second after his cut, but his hand was already moving. I felt heat in my chest and then I was falling. I landed hard on Ghost’s back and heard him yelp in pain as we both crashed down together.

  I heard people in the hallway scream—first in shock and then in pain as Santoro leaped into the crowd, cutting left and right, and then burst through on the other side, running at full speed down the hall.

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  The Sea of Hope

  December 21, 8:03 P.M. EST

  The video feeds went dead all at once.

  “What the hell?” Circe yelled.

  Church was right there. “What is it?”

  “We lost video and audio—”

  Outside the cabin they heard shouts. And then gunfire.

  Chapter Eighty

  The Sea of Hope

  December 21, 8:04 P.M. EST

  I had two choices: see to DeeDee or chase Santoro. I cut a quick look down and saw that she was still alive. Her face was a bloody ruin and she had one hand clamped over her left eye. Blood welled from between her fingers.

  “Go! Go!” she screamed.

  I hauled myself to my feet. Ghost squirmed out from under, whining and trembling. I couldn’t check him out, either.

  I ran.

  “Clear the way!” I bellowed, and pulled my gun. People slammed themselves against the walls. Some fools turned and ran away from me, obscuring my view of Santoro. I pelted down the hallway. I collided with people. I punched one poor bastard just to get him out of my way. Santoro vanished around the far turn and I ran harder. Behind me I could hear Ghost barking, but the sound was fading. He wasn’t following me. How badly was he hurt?

  No time to worry about that, either.

  I skidded around the corner, going wide in case Santoro was lying in wait. He wasn’t, but there was a cabin steward on his knees with his hands clutching a throat that sprayed blood. I had a glimpse of a single wild despairing eye as I ran past.

  I had to take two short side corridors. One was empty, and in the other a woman huddled on the ground, hands over her head. I saw no blood as I ran past.

  There was a scream ahead. I put on another burst of speed, but as I neared the corner a teenage girl came flying around the bend, propelled by a savage kick from Santoro. I slammed into the girl; her forehead hit me on the mouth, bursting my lips against my teeth.

  I twisted as I rolled, pushing the girl away from me, but Santoro darted in and kicked my gun out of my hand, then pivoted and dove for it. He came out of his roll with the gun in his hand just as I hopped to a crouch. I had no choice, so I grabbed the teenager by the collar and the belt and flung her at Santoro’s legs. It was a wicked and vile thing for me to do, but the alternative would have been much worse, even for the girl.

  Santoro went flying forward and the gun passed me and bounced down a set of stairs. The girl curled into a fetal ball of pain and screamed.

  I lunged for Santoro, but he rolled onto his back and kicked up with both feet. Suddenly I was flying backward into the wall. My head struck hard enough to shake loose the moorings of reality, and my sight flickered on and off. Last thing I saw was Santoro coming at me with the short knife in his hand.

  Chapter Eighty-one

  The Sea of Hope

  December 21, 8:06 P.M. EST

  On the stage a pair of burly SAS men tackled the Prince just as heavy-caliber bullets ripped through the flowers. But the shots were aimed low and they missed the trio as the agents dragged the Prince to safety.

  One of the burly bodyguards saw a shooter taking aim at Jay-Z and launched his 340 pounds from the edge of the stage in a diving tackle that crushed the shooter and snapped his spine. The Chosen next to him put his barrel against the bodyguard’s head but he never made the shot. A big red hole appeared in the center of his chest and his body was flung backward against the rail. Two other Chosen turned to see where the shot had come from. The sounds of the gunshots that killed them were lost beneath the din.

  High above the melee, John Smith worked the bolt and fired. Again and again. Each shot hit the target. Problem was that he didn’t have nearly enough bullets.

  “Shit,” he murmured to himself.

  He worked the bolt and fired, worked the bolt and fired.

  Then he jerked his head up as a fresh wave of gunfire erupted from above him. He rolled over and looked into the sky. John Smith smiled.

  The sky was filled with TradeWinds Motor Kites. He did a quick count. Forty. No … fifty of them. From each harness a DMS agent hung suspended, one hand on the controls, the other clutching a handgun. They rained fire down on the Chosen.

  “’Bout time,” said John Smith. He rolled back onto his stomach, worked the bolt, and fired.

  Chapter Eighty-two

  The Sea of Hope

  December 21, 8:07 P.M. EST

  Santoro came at me with a flurry of vicious cuts, and I backpedaled as fast as I could. Even so, I could feel the tip of that little knife ripping away my shirt. Hot lines of agony crisscrossed my chest as he lunged deeper.

  He was so goddamn fast.

  My back hit the wall at the turning and Santoro smiled and threw himself at me, but his own expression of triumph gave it away. I hit and dropped into a crouch and punched him in the thigh. I wanted to hit him in the nuts, but he brought his leg up. Even so, the blow knocked him back and I dove low and long and caught him around the knees and bore him down. His back hit hard and flat and it drove a whuuuh! out of him.

  I curled my knees under me to propel my body forward for a downward body slam. I wanted to knock the rest of the air out of him, make him choke, and slowly beat the shit out of him.

  But as I lunged, he slammed his elbow down on the crown of my head, then slammed his fist between my shoulder blades. It was the fist that held the knife, and the blade tore through my vest and skin and muscle like a dagger of pure fire.

  I screamed.

  Santoro released the knife and punched me across the face, once, twice, three times, and then pivoted to kick my deadweight off his legs.

  I flopped over. Lines of fire radiated out from the puncture. I knew the blade was short, but it was jammed in next to my spine. My whole body twitched.

  Then Santoro was on his knees, his fingers tearing at my pockets.

  “Where is it?” he snarled, first in English and then, as he became more desperate, growling it in Spanish. In my daze I couldn’t quite understand what he was doing. He had me; I was completely vulnerable. All he had to do was pull out the knife and cut my throat.

  Then he dug his scrabbling fingers into my left front pant pocket and I knew what he was after. The syringe.

  He closed his hands around it.

  And then Ghost hit hi
m like a white thunderbolt.

  Chapter Eighty-three

  The Sea of Hope

  December 21, 8:08 P.M. EST

  Top Sims came out of the companionway with his pistol in a two-handed grip. There were scores of men in black masks. The deck was littered with the dead, but there were over a thousand civilians. Top opened fire at every balaclava he saw, going for body shots. Head shots were too risky with so many civilians. The ceramic frag bullets lived up to their reputation. The first one struck a Chosen in the back and the man seemed to explode. It was disgusting, but damn if Top didn’t like the effect, because the man next to him stopped to gape at the sudden horror. Top took him in the chest.

  Then a shadow passed him and Khalid was there, firing and firing.

  “Heads below!” came a yell, followed by, “Broadway! Broadway!” and “Liberty! Liberty!” as DMS agents dropped from their kites into the thick of the fight.

  “Welcome to hell!” yelled Top.

  THE CHOSEN FALTERED for a moment. This was not part of the plan Santoro had described. Ship’s security, some Secret Service, and a scattering of Special Forces from both sides of the Atlantic. Not this. Not men appearing out of the sky, flying on batwings.

  One of the Chosen opened up with an M4, cutting three of the agents virtually in half. Then he staggered as a slender steel rod punched through his breastbone and stood out from between his shoulders. He took one staggering turning step and saw more men swarming over the rail. Men who dripped with seawater and who held weapons that looked like clip-fed crossbows.

  “Goddess!” the man said, and then vomited blood as he pitched forward.

  TWO DECKS DOWN, the second wave of the Goddess’s troops erupted from their cabins. These were the Kingsmen. These were the elite of the armies of the Seven Kings. They swarmed into the halls, splitting to head right and left, running with weapons at port arms. Every one of them had been in combat before. All of them were stone killers, and this was the event they had dreamed of.

  They pounded up the stairs toward the main deck, ready to join the fight, knowing that they could sweep away any resistance.

  Chapter Eighty-four

  The Sea of Hope

  December 21, 8:08 P.M. EST

  Ghost and Santoro tumbled backward in a tangle of snarls and shouts and grunts. I struggled to raise my head, fighting to regain control over my arms and legs.

  Santoro howled in pain as Ghost slashed him with his teeth; then he punched Ghost hard in the ribs and even from fifteen feet away I could hear bones break. A terrible sharp yelp broke from the dog’s throat.

  But even that didn’t stop him. Ghost bit and tore at Santoro, ripping his left arm, drawing long lines of red down his leg.

  I reached over my shoulder and grabbed the knife. It was really a small thing. Not much bigger than a nail file and probably twice as thick. I knew all the rules about not pulling a knife out of a wound. It can make the bleeding worse; it can do more damage.

  Fuck it. The thing was pressing on something that was killing my legs.

  I tightened my fingers around the handle and pulled. My scream was just as loud as Ghost’s as Santoro kicked him in his broken ribs.

  Ghost staggered sideways. Blood soaked the fur of his side and there was blood on his muzzle. I prayed it wasn’t his. He snarled bravely at Santoro and then flopped down.

  Santoro stood hunched over, his chest heaving, sweat and blood running down his face. He stared at me as I struggled to my feet, and spit on the floor between us.

  “You will drown in a river of blood,” he said, his voice still filled with menace and power.

  And then I knew.

  He knew that I knew.

  I looked at the syringe, which lay on the floor by the wall. His eyes followed mine; then he looked at me and smiled.

  “Yes,” he said, confirming my worst fears. “And there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

  We both dove for the syringe at the same time.

  Chapter Eighty-five

  The Sea of Hope

  December 21, 8:09 P.M. EST

  The Kingsmen fought their way up onto the deck, killing everything in their way, even some of the Chosen. They also wore balaclavas, but theirs were white and had a small golden circle on the forehead. The symbol of the Goddess.

  Bunny stood with his back to the wall beside the hatchway where he had ducked out of the firefight to reload. He was on his last magazine and would have to scavenge an M4 from one of the Chosen. Suddenly gunfire tore through the hatchway, killing one DMS agent and the two civilians he was trying to protect. A swarm of men erupted from the stairway, firing wildly. They flooded past him, and he was nearly invisible to them, partially blocked by the heavy storm hatch.

  Bunny swung his gun around and emptied his magazine into the whole line of them. The dying tripped over the dead, clogging the hatch. They had no angle for return fire. The slide locked back on his pistol and Bunny dropped it without a thought and snatched up an M4. He leaned around the hatch and shoved his arm in, firing as he did so. Holding the weapon one-handed while firing required immense strength. Bunny emptied the whole magazine.

  He was grinning.

  “Little help!” he yelled as he fished for a fresh magazine. A SEAL ran over to him, assessed the problem, and plucked a fragmentation grenade from his belt.

  “Fire in the hole!”

  He threw it into the hatch.

  The Kingsmen had nowhere to run.

  Those who survived the blast were dazed and deafened and bleeding, and they could do nothing when Bunny and the SEAL stood shoulder to shoulder and fired down into the tangled mass of the Goddess’s elite.

  Chapter Eighty-six

  The Sea of Hope

  December 21, 8:09 P.M. EST

  Santoro’s hands reached for the syringe. I reached for Santoro. He grabbed the instrument and I closed one hand around his wrist and knotted the other in his hair. The pain in my back was a howling thing, but I took everything it had to give me and bellowed like a fiend as I slammed Santoro face forward onto the deck. His nose exploded. I slammed him again and again.

  He stopped trying for the syringe and rolled sideways. I held on with all my strength and tore away a handful of hair and a patch of bloody scalp. Santoro screamed. He lay on his side and tried to kick me, but I blocked the kicks with my bent knees.

  I threw the hank of bloody hair in his face and followed it with a punch that shattered bone.

  Santoro reeled back, bleeding and dazed, his eyes rolling up in his head. Something abruptly shifted in his eyes and his hands came up defensively to protect his face. I thought it was a ploy … but when he spoke the change was there in his voice.

  “No!” he shreiked, the single word drenched with terror. “Please!”

  No.

  God Almighty.

  This monster … this thing dared to beg for mercy.

  The very concept of it made me insane with fury. I rolled to my knees and hammered punches down on him. He screamed and screamed, flailing in panic now. Somewhere in his dark mind he had crossed the threshold of combat and entered the territory of defeat. For most people—for warriors—there is a lot of no-man’s-land between those two poles. For most people there is a gradual slide from courage to cowardice.

  But not for Santoro.

  Something in him snapped and that fast he lost the belief that he could win this fight. Maybe it was the fact that he knew he could not get that syringe, that even if he could somehow escape the moment then he was still as doomed as the rest of us.

  Maybe that was it.

  I don’t know, and at that moment I didn’t care. I didn’t even see him as I pounded on him. I saw the faces of Zoë and Laura Plympton. Of Charles Grey. Of Mikey, bleeding out on a cold laboratory floor, murdered by his father because the alternative was the possibility that this man, this fucking creature, would find him. And make him into an angel.

  My fists were a blur. My arms were red to the elbows. I could taste Sa
ntoro’s blood in my mouth as it flew with each impact.

  He kept screaming those two words.

  “No.”

  “Please!”

  How many times had he heard them? From his angels. From the people like Plympton and Grey and Amber Taylor, who had been forced by Santoro to look at the photographs and then compare them with the pictures of their own loved ones.

  How many times had he heard those two words and gotten an erotic thrill from them?

  God.

  This man had tortured good people, he had turned innocent people, into weapons of mass destruction. The London Hospital. Area 51. Fair Isle.

  This man had ordered the hits on Amber Taylor’s family. And on Starbucks.

  I battered his face into red impossibility and then worked on his body. My hands were lumps of pain at the ends of my arms, but I didn’t care. I staggered to my feet and kicked him, breaking whatever I could break.

  “Stop!”

  The voice hit me harder than I was hitting Santoro. I wheeled around and saw two figures through a red haze.

  Circe.

  Mr. Church.

  And then I staggered backward, my balance failing, my legs buckling. I fell against the wall and slid down. A few feet away Santoro whimpered like a piglet and tried to crawl away, his hand still reaching for the syringe. Far above us the sounds of gunfire seemed to be thinning, becoming more sporadic.

  Mr. Church stepped over my outstretched legs and picked up the syringe. He examined it, frowned, and handed it to Circe.

  I flapped a hand toward Santoro. “He … he had it. They … the Kings …”

  Circe knelt in front of me, her fingers probing my wounds, her face cut with lines of concern. “Joe … oh my God!”