THE VEINGEL

download other formats A detailed explanation of the win-BLOWS Audacity crash, which blew 10+ hours of work, and over 2-gigs of audio, is included in today s substitute episode. I m very sorry for the delay.Next week, what would have been Episode 027 will drop, and will feature promos, Previously on The Veingel, and a more emotional read from the female voice talent than what was lost in the crash. I ve got another mic on order as well, which will improve the quality of the recording, and reduce the time it takes me to edit those episodes in which several characters appear in the same scene.Again, I m sorry for the delay. Thanks so much for your continued support! Other Formats: download .mp3 audio version right click link & choose 'save as' download Palm & Mobipocket version right click link & choose 'save as' download Adobe PDF version right click link & choose 'save as'

download other formats CHAPTER 25 The President picked up on the fifth ring. Sounding to the Senator not the least bit amused. Less so, after he earnestly stated the case for a mere smidgen of military intervention-an op which could easily be made to resemble an already in-progress training exercise. Senator, do you have some kinda learnin disability? What the hell did I tell you yesterday? Good night, and don t ever wake me up this late again, short of revealing Obama Sin Laden s whereabouts. The call went dead and the Senator threw the phone against wall. The rugged device was sheathed in so much hard rubber it bounced back undamaged and struck him in the shin. He yelped in pain, feeling as impotent as a neutered Yorki. Learning disability? The pot calling the kettle black after smoking some. He didn t bother phoning Unit Three s commander. Instead, he waited for the inevitable update informing him the one called Jequon had eluded them, at which point, the Senator would lie, and complain of having to abort the impending Navy SEAL attack, rather than admit to his own pitiful lack of sway. With so few of them left, this Jequon, the so-called Protector of his wretched race, would be among their last (if not the last) kills. Only this darkness at the end of his enemies tunnel prevented the Senator from going out and murdering a prostitute, or an overly chipper intern, in order to vent his rage. CHAPTER 27 How they were extricated from Mexico and returned to the yacht without arousing the suspicion of U.S. Border agents was a mystery. As before, the Escort Thugs had blindfolded him and maneuvered chaotically over land and sea making it impossible for Henry to keep track of their route. He doubted Cindy s bearings fared any better. He watched her through the one-way glass room divider, unblinking in the artificial darkness of her cell, chained once more to the hard metal floor next to the camp toilet. She sat slumped forward, hugging her knees to her chest, rocking slightly, fore and aft, fore and aft, perhaps in synch with waves jostling the vessel too softly for Henry to register; flotsam and jetsam in a private sea of her own suffering. In shock ever since Detective Hansen s ill-fated rescue attempt in Tijuana. He, too, felt something like shock. It wasn t until he d witnessed their would-be rescuer lying in the grimy street clutching his ruined leg--until after he d watched the Escort thugs holster their weapons and approach their wounded prey with a large syringe while Hansen begged them, unsuccessfully, to blow his brains out instead--that Henry questioned, for the very first time in his life, where his obsession with apocalyptic prophecy had been leading him. His earlier humiliation when the Brotherhood had deemed him unworthy of induction, Cindy s kidnapping and torture, lying to the police...unpleasant, yes-but in anticipation of further personal revelation? Justified. But murder? A murder he couldn t help but feel like an accomplice to While it didn t instill anything so drastic in him as doubt in God (his faith would never crack), it did prompt him to wonder if even He had an editor, if the apparently harsh means to the End Times fast approaching had been crossed-out in a subsequent draft. Sins of omission? Necessary evils? These were blasphemous questions he dared not ask himself. And yet, absent their consideration, Henry was filled with an unease just this side of dread. Put into words: What in God s name have I gotten myself into? Upgrades to his accommodations, made in their absence, suggested something substantial. For starters: his entire personal library. Hundreds of reference volumes carefully arranged in the bookshelves lining the far wall; thick tomes on linguistics, eschatology, religious philosophy, anthropology, the occult, apologetics, and decipherment, among many other topics he d assembled over the years. The fact that so many books could be transported from his apartment in the few short hours they d been away was telling. Either there were far more goons under SOJ employ than the three he d met so far in San Diego, or this yacht was a fairly short drive from his apartment in the southeast corner of downtown. The most compelling addition, however, beckoned to him from the Cocobolo wood conference table. Its presence so captivating, Henry failed to notice Rocky standing in the shadowed corner beneath the metal stairwell for the second time that day. Welcome home Henry. As you can see, job well done is rewarded. Our mutual employer suggested I provide you with certain titles from your personal collection, to help you in your work. But as you ve probably realized by now, I m an all or nothing kind of guy. I instructed my men to retrieve all your reading material. Even the Polaroids of fourteen-year-old Thai girls you keep hidden behind the plumbing access panel in your bedroom closet. I placed them in a shoe box for you and sat it on the nightstand in your sleeping cabin, which is through the door here and on your right, by the way. Henry flinched at the unexpected intrusion of Rocky s voice, and flushed red at the mention of his no-longer-secret (not to mention illegal) collection of naked teens. But he did not-could not-tear his gaze from the beautiful document partially unfurled in the center of the room. Please don t even bother to acknowledge my presence, Henry. I m sorry, he managed, meeting Rocky s eyes with deliberate effort, and then only for an instant-just long enough to note a form-fitting black ski mask in place of the SOJ-style white silken hood. Sorry for exploiting these girls? or sorry for being such an uncultured, classless prick? Both. You don t sound very sorry You know, Henry, I get the feeling your father wasn t around much growing up. You were raised by your mother, weren t you? Wait. No. Not your mother your grandmother-or a widowed aunt. She must ve given you sponge baths until you were ten or eleven years old; fed you homemade oatmeal raisin cookies every night before bed; made you memorize bible verses-that kind of thing I m close, aren t I? Henry shook his head no in that half-assed, underwater way men do when a game s on and their wife asks if they need anything from the mall while she s out shopping. He hadn t the slightest clue what Rocky was asking him; his attention was fixed on the sweet holy crack of script-covered parchment awaiting his blessed expertise. My dad beat the bejeezus out of me, Rocky said, and suddenly he was face-to-face with Henry, blocking the scroll from view as he continued, and when my job brings me into contact with people like you--people without the common decency to look at someone who s speaking to them--I m glad he did. If Rocky was a website, Henry thought, his link to sanity came up Error 404: File Not Found every time you clicked on it. He d be wise to appease him. I didn t mean to be rude. It s just I don t understand what my, my... Childhood. -Yes, or any of my personal life for that matter, has to do with the work the Brotherhood needs me to complete. Brotherhood? Is that the codeword they re using with you? Interesting. Codeword? Never mind. Not important. But to answer your question-you know, like civilized adults do when having a conversation-your personal life has absolutely nothing to do with your mission here. I m just boning up on my psychological profiling skills. You might think this job is all fun and games-and don t get me wrong, I love what I do-but for every Cindy, there are a hundred lice-covered towel-heads to interrogate, and they don t look nearly as good naked. Self improvement helps me stay plugged in all the down time. Last year, I taught myself a little Mandarin so I could feel comfortable eating in authentic Chinese restaurants. I don t eat those people s food anymore, and nor should you. And I could write a book on a persuasion: HOW TO BREAK LIMBS AND INTERROGATE PEOPLE--just need an agent. So, in the spirit of my continued personal growth, would you mind confirming my suspicions? Were you raised by your grandmother? An inappropriately affectionate aunt? I was an orphan. No shit. Well, just goes to show you can t believe everything you read. Henry gestured toward the conference table, May I? Rocky had remained within head-butting distance ever since beginning his critique of his social skills, and Henry was eager to regain some personal space before the man decided that smashing his nose might help to pass the time. Alright, Henry. I can take a hint. And I respect your work ethic. I do Right, right, right-so, ground rules: Most important, you are not to leave this room, except to use the head, which is across from your cabin down the hall. All other portions of the yacht are off limits. Closed doors are locked doors and you re not to attempt to open them. That includes Cindy s cell. She is there for inspiration, not companionship. Do your job, stay cooperative, and that s as bad as things will get for her--oh, and stay off the intercom. You ll be tempted of course, but this is the only warning I ll give you. Talk to her and my men will make her earlier suffering seem like a spa treatment. When you re hungry, say so, and we ll bring you a meal. Anything else you need-reference material, coffee, an aspirin-just ask, we ll hear you. With me so far? Henry nodded. Good, good, good Right. OK. Your orders are to provide a translation, in English, of the text you seem to be so infatuated with on the table. You have one week to complete the translation. If at the end of one week, your work is not complete, there will be penalties assessed. Naturally, Cindy will be the one penalized, as your continued productivity is my top priority. What kind of penalty? you might be wondering...well Henry, I m glad you asked. As before, you ll get to choose between two equally painful...oh, let s just call them treatments, which Cindy will believe you control in terms of their duration, and you will be required to watch. Each missed deadline will result in successively more agonizing treatment options. Nothing to worry about, Henry, given your obvious genius, just a friendly FYI. Right, right, right--so: You will use a digital camera to photograph fragments you translate, and you will attach each image to an email comprised of the corresponding translated text. Capture and send the portions you complete ASAP; in other words, our employer wants to know everything you know the moment you know it. The computer we ve provided you for this purpose can also be used for research, but be advised, all outgoing communication is restricted to the email address you ll be using to send your translations. No chat, no Skype, no Twitter, etcetera. Search engine queries are fine, but they ll be monitored and filtered if necessary. Expect a lag while one of our techs approves each query. I am told this document is an original and there are no copies. If you attempt to damage it in any way, I m instructed to kill both you and Cindy in the slowest, most creatively agonizing way imaginable. Questions? Comments? Concerns? I don t think so, Henry answered. Good, good, good You ll find further instructions, to which I m not privy, inside the sealed manila envelope beside the scroll. Alright then. I ll leave you to it. Finally. He waited for Rocky to walk up the metal stairway and exit out the door leading to the upper deck. Then Henry approached his destiny. Slowly. Savoring the moment as serious climbers must their first steps onto the base of Everest. Other Formats: download .mp3 audio version right click link & choose 'save as' download Palm & Mobipocket version right click link & choose 'save as' download Adobe PDF version right click link & choose 'save as'

download other formats CHAPTER 23 The Senator from Boston was reviewing status reports sent in by two of the three Nephilim Eradication Units, when the middle satphone chimed amid the lineup on his nightstand. The sound startled him, restoring the distinctive grim symmetry to his lips which an amused smirk had begun to tamper with. Given the delightful kill tallies reported by Units One and Two, and the absence of a report from Unit Three so far today, he suspected this was Three s commander calling with an excuse. He slid the warm laptop across the duvet to the perpetually unoccupied side of the queen bed and answered on the second ring. Yes? Sorry for disturbing you at this hour, sir, but we have a developing situation here in San Diego you ll want to know about. He felt a small thud in the vicinity of his colon. San Diego? a petrified piece of cauliflower perhaps. Affirmative. San Diego. San Diego was the last place he needed another situation. Go on. This is urgent, so I ll get right to the point: we have a target in the water, directly below the Coronado bridge, dead center. Bottom line: he s vulnerable and quite possibly injured, but we don t have any boats in the water, or the manpower to sufficiently cover the shoreline for an intercept. Plus we re losing daylight. And I can fix this how? Sir, as much as this pains a former Delta Force squad leader to say, I recommend calling in a SEAL strike on this bastard. The Naval Amphibious Base is only a mile away, and rumor has it Team 3 is home for a two-week training operation. The Senator bit at his bottom lip and pictured Mister I-didn t-call-you-to-negotiate being sodomized with a knotty oak shillelagh. A SEAL strike; brilliant! Why didn t I think of that? What about your snipers? He has to breathe. Of course. I ve got one setting up right now on a cargo crane. But line of sight is a big problem, low light another, and as you ve made emphatically clear, we re doing our best to avoid a spectacle, so we can t stay on the bridge. You re engaging a target on a major landmark? Sounds like a spectacle already. Don t worry sir, we ve already dispersed. We were long gone before the first police arrived...probably a 911 call--they jumped off--I ll brief you later--but right now we need to take advantage of this opportunity before they make it to land. They? The target was assisted in his escape by a woman. She left behind her purse in their ditched rental vehicle. I didn t want to tell you this until after, but...she s Mercy Anne, the woman who-- I know who she is. Of course, he said, clearing his throat. Then added, he s nowhere near your yacht, sir. Which one is he? The car was rented to a Patrick Daly. Bogus, obviously, but I think he s the same one who killed two of my men in Sarajevo. He s spooked, so I doubt we ll get another shot like this. Bastards are hard enough to kill when they don t we re coming for them. Please sir, if you have the authority, call in the SEALs, and let them do what they do. Authority? He d pay for that remark when this was over, but the Senator s voice betrayed no sign of offense. How long have we got? he asked. Ten, twenty minutes, max. I ll see what I can do. The Senator ended the call and placed satphone number two back on the nightstand between number one and number three. Then he picked up satphone number one and dialed the President. CHAPTER 24 After Mercy kisses me--after I kiss her back...let s just say it s good to be neck-deep in cold water. The warm and fuzzy feeling won t last long. Coastal California in late October makes hypothermia a real possibility. So I have to get us to shore sooner rather than later. While staying submerged long enough between breaths to make it difficult for the shooters, and then evading capture after we beach. All without alerting Mercy (anymore than I have already) that I can t be possibly be human. By out-swimming a dolphin, say. Overtaking a boat. For instance. Daylight s on our side. The sun well below the horizon, Coronado Island s shadow greyscaling across the bay toward the half-lit downtown skyline. As long we stay beneath the bridge, they don t have an angle to shoot us from the roadway. They can, however, station men at both ends beneath the bridge and simply wait for us to come to them. We ll have to head for a landmark less obvious and more distant. Which makes for a much longer swim. Already my hands and feet are going numb. Not knowing the total manpower we re up against isn t helping me formulate an evasion strategy. And who we re up against, for that matter. SOJ hired help, sure. But private? or government? Paramilitary? or law enforcement? American only? or International? If they have hundreds of men at their disposal-for instance, the entire San Diego Police Department--then we don t come ashore anywhere near a road. But if they re just a handful of contractors, we d want to swim to an inlet where roads are plentiful, because they won t be able to cover all the streets we could take. Mercy says, I m not getting any warmer. We ready? I read somewhere that women hold all the endurance records for cold water swimming. Supposedly, their higher percentage of body fat provides better insulation. Pretty sure that theory doesn t apply to Mercy, though. I ve made my decision. I point in the direction of the Convention Center east of our position. Plenty of roads there. And it s reasonably close: three-quarters-of-a-mile from our position as the crab swims. Remember: quick breaths, no bubbles. And tap my leg when you need more air. We submerge and start swimming. Based on their long past of maintaining secrecy, and Whitmore s bogus statement the press was all too eager to run, I figure the SOJ don t want the police involved. Or press conferences. Which means that whomever they ve contracted to hunt me down, it s an off-the-books operation. No paper trails. Mobilizing a large force to cover miles and miles of shoreline isn t an option they re likely to have. Plus, men with guns who aren t the police can road block a major artery into the city for only so long before badges and cameras show up. Unless they want to make the evening news, along with grainy camera phone clips of our X-Games-esque escape, our pursuers will need to get off the bridge and regroup. I d like to kick and stroke as hard and as fast as I possibly can. For warmth and expediency. But being raised in the land of ten thousand lakes, Mercy will know the difference between impressive and downright inhuman lung capacity. A good minute-and-a-half passes before she finally taps for air. A little higher than my leg, and a little lower than my back, actually. More of a squeeze than a tap. In truth. Time to find out our odds of making it to shore alive. We ll never surface any closer to the bridge--to the shooters if they re still there--than now. We break the surface. Gulp down another lung-full of air. Make like sea beavers paddling for the safety of our lodge. Still wet. Still freezing my balls off. Still alive and kickin . Either the hit men have already retreated from the bridge, or distance plus growing darkness made it too hard to get a shot off. We repeat the kick-suck-duck style of synchronized swimming several hundred yards before I risk a look back: more flashing lights than Paris Hilton arriving fashionably late to a laser show. In Vegas. Nude. If our pursuers aren t already long gone, then they re in handcuffs. So, short of colliding with a speedboat, or ingesting who-knows-what the Navy leaks out of their docked aircraft carriers and nuclear submarines, it looks like we ll make it to dry land alive. Or not. Mercy s kicking begins to slow. Not gradually; not from fatigue--all at once. And she s shivering in brief but violent bursts. She loses her grip on my shirttail and I stop so she can reattach herself. Her once nimble hands paw and grope for a handhold--which she loses again as soon as I start kicking. I help her to the surface. She s shaking; convulsing really, to the point she can barely draw a breath. She s going hypothermic. Mercy, you OK? Talk to me. She doesn t answer right away. She looks behind us, then back at me, then toward the skyline. W-w-where are w-w-we g-g-going again? I c-c-can t remember. It s t-t-too c-c-cold where w-w-we re at r-r-right n-n-n-now. She s disoriented. Pupils dilated, skin pale, lips blue. Her arms and legs have gone numb to the point of useless as her body shunts blood away from her extremities and to her core to keep her organs alive. She could die if I don t get her someplace warm in a hurry. I wrap my arms around her; ease her chin up on my shoulder and start rubbing every inch of her body I can reach as I scissor-kick us far too slowly toward the downtown shoreline. At this pace, she ll be gone before I even halve the distance. The alternative-which I ve been steadfastly avoiding-is to stop with this human frailty fa ade, and freestyle us to dry land like a carbon-fiber go-fast boat running cocaine from the Coast Guard. I d have some explaining to do-explaining The Codes explicitly forbids--but I can t just let Mercy die. Why not? My conscience parroting the voice of my father; challenging me anytime I imposed limits on what s possible. She s the only one who can help me find Whitmore. Whatever helps you sleep at night; because: I could bite her. Let the curse in my blood course through hers, enhancing all that s human, damning her--saving her--with hell-bound double-helixes. I d be over my quota thanks to the girl in Sarajevo, but that s a far less severe infraction than revealing our nature to a woman we don t plan to-- A bright red dot of light appears on the back of Mercy s head. I shove her hard under the water; grab her wrist and use her downward momentum to pull myself below the surface, too. I have no idea how much air she has, if any. Lack of oxygen we can deal with later. Unlike, say, lack of brain. One thing s become clear: neither Plan A: swim fast, or Plan B: bite her gives us much hope of ever enjoying a heat lamp again. The bastards have laser sights. Since they ll be expecting us to surface again closer to shore, I propel us as far as I dare tax Mercy s lungs in the direction we came from, away from downtown. And I swim as fast as my Naphil biology will allow in such a hydro-dynamically awkward position: the two of us basically spooning our way through the water so I can warm her with my arms and torso as I kick. I use my hand to seal off her mouth and nostrils so she can t inhale a lungful of saltwater. Three-hundred yards and I take us to the surface for what could be our last breath if the shooter anticipates the feint. He doesn t. I gulp down the sweetest air my burning lungs have ever tasted; watch as the amber beam from his rifle scope lances through the sea mist, tracing dark water where we should have surfaced. Yippee! I ve prolonged Mercy s life just long enough for her to die more slowly from exposure. Her shivering has ceased. Her limbs are stiff and inert. I check for a pulse...three seconds pass before her heart beats. One time, and weak. Don t you even think about dying! Strange. Even though I can feel the raw pressure in my throat from screaming these words, they sound muffled. I must ve busted my eardrums when we splashed down off the bridge. Which explains why I m not hearing the engine noise of the double-decker dinner-cruiser bearing down on us. Five seconds, tops, to get out of the way, or to--shit, more like three I am a frothing, foaming blur of rescue swimming. Two seconds. I am-- One second. --so not gonna make it. The steel bow of the Magnolia rams into my left shoulder as I pivot Mercy away from the collision. A glancing blow, but still untold-tons worth of boat mashing into me. Instead of crushing my skull, the angled prow deflects us off to the starboard side of the vessel, leaving my head intact to grind against the hull as it lumbers past, while barnacles tear at my clothes and gouge into my ribcage. I still cling to Mercy, thought, and for what I m about to attempt, I m glad she s lost consciousness. The Magnolia is a paddleboat. I hug Mercy tight against me, burying her face into my chest. One shot. Gotta time this right...here it comes... I use my free hand to grab hold of a wooden paddle just as it breaks the surface and begins its arc upward and onward. Immediately, we re jerked out of the water, and I turn face up, shielding Mercy from the mallet-like blow of the next paddle which catches me in the small of my back-ouch-hyper-extending my spine-fuck that hurts-which will be the least of our worries if I can t maneuver us off these spinning planks and onto the rear observation deck before our makeshift Ferris Wheel grinds us into chum between it and the-crack-the sound of a chiropractor s worst nightmare, but it s not my spinal column exploding, it s the board we re riding, splintering loose from the hub, never designed to support a load concentrated at the midpoint of its span. What goes up... Someone shrieks, and there s the icicle-hitting-asphalt sound of a dropped martini glass (they ll tell stories to their grandchildren about the mermaids they saw in San Diego bay), and now I shriek as a splinter jousts into my left ass cheek, and--splash--we re back in the drink. I haven t liked to swim since Noah created the world s first floating zoo. Tonight I like it even less. Completely spent, all I can do is hold Mercy in my arms and tread water in the wake of her last hope. Mercy, wave goodbye to the tourists. To my astonishment, she mumbles the words see you later. opens her eyes, says, I prayed for us, remember? We ll be fine. She nods at something behind me; whispers in my ear: See. She s hallucinating. Has to be. But I play along And I ll be un-damned if it s not a sailboat. A sleek, custom catamaran. Sluicing silently through the water in our direction. Must be a thirty-five or forty-footer. Two long, window-lined hulls spanned by a center cabin hovering several feet over the water in between them. Looks vaguely like a scaled-down Starship Enterprise from this angle; with a mast and sails. Later, if someone asks me the name of this cozy looking boat, I ll feign ignorance, but stenciled in pearlescent gold and script are the words Answered Prayer. Other Formats: download .mp3 audio version right click link & choose 'save as' download Palm & Mobipocket version right click link & choose 'save as' download Adobe PDF version right click link & choose 'save as'

download other formats CHAPTER 23 (continued) She stomps on the gas pedal and ratchets the wheel all the way to the left. Perfect doughnut, like she d raced in NASCAR. Nice. My dad was a stunt driver. Which way? Left. I was afraid you d say that. She s worried about the bridge. I m worried about the guys in suits and shades and slicked-back hair streaming from the front entrance, some running our way, others to their car. Now s not the time to fret over traffic signals or stop signs, I say. The tenor growl of eight fuel-injected cylinders in beautiful haul-ass harmony tells me Mercy can take a hint. Unfortunately, Orange Avenue dinner-date traffic pulls the reigns on all 300 of the Mustang s horses. We re stuck dead last in a long line at the first light we come to. Shit! I m sorry! There s nowhere to go! I know, it s not your fault. Jequon, master of the obvious. Mercy, now s not the time to- and I see her wink at me. You having fun? Better believe it. Life s short. Yeah it is. In the rearview, three vanilla Chryslers with red flashers on the dash fishtail our of the Del driveway. Now I bet you re wishing we would have took the Strand, she says, referring to the traffic. Get out. What? Get. Out. I wait until she looks worried before I wink and say I m right behind her. Gotcha. Not funny, she says, buy her smile s on my side. Splitting lanes at the front the line, a guy with a braided beard and more embroidered patches than denim on his denim vest straddles a beautiful Harley Electra Glide. I take Mercy s hand and jog up to our new ride, (hopefully before the light changes). Hey! Big guy on the bike! Of course he can t hear me over they Harley s brain liquefying exhaust, but we beat the green and I tap him on the shoulder and now I have his attention. Yeah? Sorry to bother you, but you see those suits with guns running toward us? He glances over his shoulder in the direction I m pointing. Yeah. Well, if they catch up, they re going to shoot us. Me, I probably deserve it, but I think you ll agree, letting this angel die in the crossfire would be tragic. Bet your ass it would. Hop on sweet mama. Now there s a response I didn t expect. And poor Mercy, she s rubbernecking back and forth between us like it s Sophie s fucking choice. I d laugh if this shit wasn t so funny. Uh I was hoping you might loan me the bike? Yeah man. Of course. I was just fuckin with ya. You definitely need it more than I do right now. We trade places and he gives Mercy his skull-cap style helmet to wear after she climbs up behind me on the saddle. I owe you big--what s your name bro? Friends call me Deany Hopper. Ask around in OB, you ll find me. My shit s way insured but I gotta report it stolen case you dump it, dig? Understood. Hold on, Mercy. No hesitation. Just the warm union of her cheek against my shoulder. The form-fit of her breasts against my back; arms encircling my waist, holding on for dear, infinitely more tenuous life. With standstill traffic and narrow streets no longer a problem, we put some serious distance between us and the bad guys. In a matter of minutes we re approaching the bridge, doing ninety. I have no idea how far back our pursuers are, but with two miles of arcing blue steel and concrete between us and the relative safety of downtown, I m game to widen the gap by at least half that. It s no crotch-rocket, but 120 shouldn t be a problem for the Harley. We accelerate past the decommissioned toll plaza like demonic doves cast out of heaven. Speed limit 50. Doubling that easy. We dodge, we weave, we split lanes. The centrifugal force molds the tires into narrow discs of rubber that barely make contact with the asphalt, and it feels almost like we re soaring high above the waiting city. Well that was too good to last. After we crest the midpoint of the bridge it s clear a bad day is about to get worse. They ve set up a roadblock. Out run by radio. I lock my elbows and brace for rapid deceleration. Hang on tight! I say and brake hard, front and rear, just shy of a skid. Now what s wrong? With her face buried between my shoulder blades Mercy couldn t see the three black sedans lined up at a right-angle to the guardrail and the center divide; nor the Mr. Smith-from-Matrix-looking-motherfuckers plugging the gaps. Oh. Climb off and try not to get run over. She does but I can tell she s not happy about it. She hates heights. I motor on a guess-timated distance toward the roadblock and then slide sideways to a stop in the slow lane. There was a big rig we passed right after the toll bridge and it should be topping the hill any time now, massive spools of steel cable in tow. Hopefully I ve given the driver enough space to stop. I don t want to so much as scratch Deany Hopper s bike if I can help it. I motion for Mercy to join me. She looks almost paralyzed with fear leaning against the center divider where I left her. There s no pedestrian traffic allowed on the bridge, so of course the lookey-loo s are slowing down to stare at her; pulling out their cell phones to 911 another jumper. Damn. She s not going to move is she. But as the semi rumbles into view, Mercy shuffles a step in my direction. Two steps. And before I can say road kill she s jogging down the slope towards me, picking up speed as the driver of the Volvo Diesel locks em up and downshifts and no doubt swears profusely. Mercy s sprinting now--the tractor trailer--threatening to jackknife. If that trucker hasn t already crapped himself, he ll be shitting diamonds at the next rest stop. Mercy doesn t have a cab door to contend with so I hear her first. Have you lost your mind? You tell me. You re the therapist. And now the truck driver: What in God s name are you doing! He s stomping towards me, brandishing one of those wooden mini-bats they sell in truck stops. This one has Fuck Carjackers engraved into the side. I think: nothing in God s name for damn sure, but I only tell him I m sorry for the close call. Pointing out the roadblock at the east end of the bridge I add, You ll have to stop anyway. Relax. Enjoy the view. And put that bat away. The trucker slows but doesn t stop. Adjusts his grip a little lower on the bat handle. I don t want to hurt you. And I really didn t until he clocks me right under the ear with his redneck stun gun. Lucky me, the mouth-full-of-Doritos sound is the bat-barrel shattering and not my skull. Ouch, I say on his behalf, foreshadowing the left-hook I land to the point of his chin. Mercy s flabbergasted. Are you alright? Nothing an aspirin won t fix. But he just broke a stick across your face-are you sure? Let me see. I turn my head so she can get see I m no worse for wear, glad to distract her for a moment from the impending two-hundred-foot drop. Wow. A red mark. That s it. You should be concussed or worse after a blow like that. Lucky I guess. Come on. Stay close. I walk to the end of the semi trailer and loosen the rigging which secures the rearmost spool to the flatbed. Hop up on the deck and shove as hard as I can it until it starts to tip toward the middle lane. Fortunately, all the cars behind us decided to sit tight and watch the two crazy people blocking the road. If this spool were to fall on a passing motorist, it would kill them. It s about the size of a Mini Cooper. Stay back, I call out to Mercy, and give the spool a final push onto the roadway. The massive cylinder of braided iron and wood thuds home, wobbles for an instant, settles, and starts to roll down the ___-degree incline like a medieval weapon of war. I jump down after it, grab the free end of cable and give the giant wheel another push to get it moving even faster. As it builds momentum in the passing lane, I tie off this end around the nearest light post. Mercy s already back at the concrete lane divider, arms crossed, trembling. I run over and try to comfort her while the spool deposits the rest of its cable on the roadway, rolling ever faster down the grade like a gigantic runaway yo-yo. It s never as bad as you think it s going to be. You promise you ll help me find Cindy? I gave you my word. I don t waste time making the same decisions twice. Then I m cool with ignoring every voice of reason in my head telling me to stay put right here until the cops come. I know you re scared. You have no idea. I hold out my hand and she just looks at it. Wait a sec . I want to say a quick prayer. She bows her head and folds her hands together. We so don t have time for this. Mercy... She ignores me. Mercy! Come on. We can t stay here. Her lips mouth: in Jesus name, amen, and then she finally relents. OK, I feel better. God will watch over us. You, maybe. We trot downhill after the now completely unraveled spool. The cable only stretches to within a yard of the next lamppost down from the one I secured the opposite end. Best guess: a-hundred, a-hundred twenty feet between each lamppost. Not two-hundred feet, that s for sure, so we ll be high and dry at the end of our rope. Death by clich . There s worse ways to die. So what s with the cable? Mercy asks. I thought you d have it figured out by now. Uh, no. We have to get off the bridge. Both ends are blocked off... I tilt my head in the direction of the waiting abyss. Me Tarzan, you Jane. I ll be going over the edge when hell freezes over and Winston Churchill builds an icehouse to fish for Nazis. Why don t we just turn ourselves in? Explain to them you re an undercover agent and that there s been a misunderstanding? I pick up the cable, don t say anything. It s as thick as a beer can which explains why the spool held such a short segment. Sometimes girth is better than length-especially for what adrenaline junkies call a pendulum swing. You re not a secret agent are you? I put my arm around her waist, don t say anything. Turn her around so her back is to me. Coil the steel around my forearm for a better grip. Her hair smells perfect. I back us up to the edge. Jequon, I don t know if I can do this. You can. For Cindy. Yeah. For Cindy. Ready? She nods, then shakes her head no . Her body quivers against mine, rigid, vibrating like a tuning fork. I press my lips into her hair and whisper warm, soothing, reassurances. Hug her a little tighter. We both flinch as a bullet strikes the barrier, punching loose a fist-sized chunk of concrete. I peer over my shoulder and watch it fall until it makes a tiny splash. I figured a traffic jam wouldn t keep them at bay forever, but who knew they d have three five-minute milers among their ranks. Already the lead gunner is sprinting past the big rig. Another ten seconds he won t need a lucky shot. It s now or- Just jump already! Mercy yells. We don t fall straight down. After the first twenty-five feet or so, enough of the cable laid out on the roadbed above us has changed course to allow the friction between it and the rough lip of the guardrail to as a fulcrum of sorts; a fulcrum which not only adds a horizontal component to our descent, but also a substantial braking force as the contact point between the bridge and braided steel grinds its way uphill toward the lamppost I tied one end to-the exact opposite of the effect experienced by water skiers when their fulcrum (the boat) motors in a direction counter to their angular momentum in a turn. That s the good news. The bad news is, gravity has over a hundred-feet to overwhelm these otherwise favorable laws of physics. I m holding Mercy with one arm while the other arm strains to keep our combined weight attached to the cable. Except that, at the bottom of our arc, it s not just our combined scale weight I m fighting against, but a three-or-four G multiple of it. A thousand pounds or more linked to our lifeline by four fingers and an opposable thumb. I thought I could manage. I was wrong. I let go (of the cable, not Mercy) just before we start swinging back up-still a good seventy feet or so above the water, a fatal height for most humans unless they go in the water perfectly: toes pointed, legs and torso locked and straight, arms overhead with hands clasped-which we re not going to do given our angled trajectory. We re going to bounce like a ground-rule double. Water doesn t compress, it can only displace, which it doesn t readily do when struck by objects moving in excess of 85 miles-per-hour. Fortunately for Mercy though, ribcages, pectoral muscles, and other parts of me do compress. I twist our bodies so we face skyward, press down on her forehead with my free hand to stabilize her neck. Impact: like getting bitch-slapped by the Statue of Liberty. Twice, because we skip. I let her go and swim to the surface, still alive enough to breathe. Mercy? You alright? She manages a yes between coughs to clear the salt water from her lunges. Are you a good swimmer? I grew up in Minnesota. Land of ten-thousand lakes. Good. They might have rifles, so we need to stay submerged as long as possible. I want you to hold onto my shirttail while I get us to shore. Take deep but quick breaths and tap my leg when you need another. Don t blow bubbles. Aye-aye, Jequon Cousteau, she quips, and before I finish thinking, damn I love this-she slaps woman clean out of the monologue. That s for almost getting us killed. She scissor-kicks her way closer. I deserve whatever abuse she wants to dole out so I don t move away. She stops kicking. Wraps her legs around my waist. Kisses me. Kisses me hard and violent. Softer now-a feint-punishes my lips, parts them with her torpedoing tongue. We re ten feet under water before I remember I m kicking for the both of us. It s like this when you cheat death. You want to damage things. To laugh. To scream and cry, to fondle and fuck But more so with Mercy. I could drown inside her right now. We come up for air and she finally pushes me away. That s for almost. Other Formats: download .mp3 audio version right click link & choose 'save as' download Palm & Mobipocket version right click link & choose 'save as' download Adobe PDF version right click link & choose 'save as'

download other formats Chapter 22 A half-mile up the curving incline of the San Diego-Coronado Bay Bridge, Mercy asks me to change lanes. Sure. But I thought you might enjoy the view from up here. The concrete guardrails are low-less than three feet high--but so is the Mustang, and she won t be able to see the downtown skyline or all the sailboats in the water below if another vehicle pulls abreast of us on the passenger side. Thanks, but I m a little scared of heights. Traffic s light so I sneak a peek over at her: one hand gripping the shoulder restraint, the other white-knuckling the side of her seat, eyes riveted to the center divider-shallow breaths; no color in her face. More than a little scared.Restore Text As a therapist, she must know the best way to get over a phobia is through repeated exposure to that which you fear (easy for me to say; in 9,000-plus years, the odds are you ll confront a bunch of frightening situations more than once). But I m not the kind of asshole who gets a kick out of scaring people, and I need her to trust me. I cruise into the passing lane. Is that better? Much. Thank-you. She doesn t say anything the rest of the way across, and I pass the time counting the number of suicide-hotline signs mounted to light posts every couple hundred yards or so. Thirty-six of them on this side unless I missed one. At its highest point, an empty aircraft carrier can pass through underneath, between two of the thirty mission-style concrete arches reaching some two-hundred feet up to the road bed. It s not a straight-shot to get across the bridge. It arcs ninety-degrees to the North as we head to the namesake island it connects with the rest of the city. In fact, as we make our way off the bridge on Southbound Highway 75, we re actually traveling due North for a time, before taking a left onto Orange Avenue which leads west into the exclusive shops and eateries of downtown Coronado. So where are we headed? she asks. I need to take care of some business at the Hotel Del. I love the Del. It s beautiful. I go there for the Sunday brunch buffet in the Crown room whenever I have friends visiting. It s really something. I m surprised you re willing to suffer the bridge so frequently. I don t. I take highway-75 up from Imperial Beach through the Strand. It s a little out of the way, but it s still a pretty drive. And I don t have to worry about having a panic attack. I nod. Yeah, that s probably for the best. I don t suppose you re going to tell me what sort of business you have at the hotel? Nope. But it s related to Cindy s kidnapping, right? Yes. So why can t you tell me? Like I said, it s classified. This time it s even harder not to laugh. Well then how am I supposed to help you if you keep me in the dark about what s going on? By staying in the car with the engine running. I might need to leave in a hurry, so valet parking isn t going to cut it. I ll need you to circle, preferably with the top down. Look, I don t want to be involved with anything illegal. Really? So what would you call the lie you told to police about Cindy s age? Law abiding? I can t do that one-eyebrow-up thing she does, but my sideways smile is pretty good at amplifying the sarcasm. OK. Guess you have a point. But if I m in so much danger I had to ride with you over here, then isn t it too dangerous to weev-da-widdle-woman-alone-awe-by-hur-self? She did the eyebrow thing and a perfect impression of my naughty boy grin-with simultaneous air quotes around danger, followed by that sick baby-voice beat down. Behold: the new smartass champion, ending my centuries-long reign. It s liable to be much more dangerous in the hotel. Please, can you just trust me on this? Sure, she says. I ll trust you. Wow. That was- But before I can think easy, she whistles a few bars of Tammy Wynette s Stand By Your Man. Mercy! Please! I will give you no Mercy! For I am invincible! The deflator of men! Despite the circumstances, it s hard not to laugh. Guess I m a sucker for a girl with a good sense of humor. I just hope she can keep smiling if people start shooting at us. With a mile or so to go before we get to the Del, I pull the Mustang into a bank parking lot so she can take over behind the wheel. When we get there, drive right up to the main entrance and drop me off. Then pull a U-ey and hang a right out of the driveway. Your first chance to turn around will be at the second light down, across from a condominium complex. Just keep turning around there and circling back in front of the hotel. If anyone hassles you, give them the finger and say something to let them know you re a spoiled, entitled trophy wife waiting on her wealthy, powerful husband to emerge from the inside the bar. If they keep hassling you, lay on the horn two long blasts. I ll hear it, and I ll try to wrap up my business as quickly as possible and come back to the car. If I m not back here in fifteen minutes you can stop circling, at which point your next stop should be the airport, followed by a medium-sized city in the Midwest you ve never visited, that no one but the ticket agent knows you re going to-though I know full well you d stay here to look for Cindy. At least you ve been warned. So, any questions? Only about a thousand I know you re not going to answer. Thanks for trusting me. Do I have a choice? For the time being. But not if I want to see Cindy alive? You d be betting the long shot. And my odds if I keep betting on you? Higher. How much higher? Well I don t want to frighten you, you re scared of heights. That good? Everything s relative. Not everything, she said. As two of the hotels distinctive red-shingled turrets come into view I m content to let her have the last word as I start scanning the grounds for SOJ lookouts. No easy task. Completed in 1888, the Hotel Del Coronado is a massive white-painted all-wood beach resort-one of the few remaining-and it still stands as the largest beach hotel on the North American Pacific Coast. Of the six-hundred-plus rooms, a hundred or more have windows facing our approach. Too many to peer into in search of binoculars as we cruise past. Nor is the Del s size my only obstacle. Its sprawling asymmetrical architecture offers endless opportunities for surveillance on the sly: Dormers circumnavigating cupolas, pediment protected porticos...archways, bay windows, balconies...architecture buffs call the style Queen Anne Victorian. I call it ornate chaos. New beachfront construction adds to the sensory overload. As do the sidewalks brimming with sightseers and fat-cat hotel guests waddling back from the shops and restaurants we passed on our way in. Any of one of them could be an undercover sentry scouting for a thirsty Naphil. My only consolation is that we stopped for disguises before we left PB and our appearance is so different now, that if there are lookouts, they probably won t recognize us. For Mercy, a platinum blonde wig, hot-pink lipstick, and wraparound sunglasses did the trick-and hell--she looks like she could turn one (but in a good way); likewise, a dozen rolled-up beach towels, three rolls of athletic tape to hold them in place, and a triple-XL nylon track suit combine to turn me into a lard ass. Add to that a curly black wig, fake mustache and goatee, mirrored lens aviators, and a fake gold chain, and bada-bing, bada-boom: fat guido and his gold digging goomah. We turn into the driveway and join the line of vehicles slowly idling their way to the ill-designed port-cochere. For all the Del s elegance and style, this car-clogged threshold disappoints, running contrary to the air of leisure one would expect from a four-star resort. Another casualty of paved roads and the automobile.# Mercy wishes me luck and I get out, waving off the valet and the bellhops before they can add to the congestion. As she pulls away I stride into the narrow vestibule which leads inside to the lobby, dodging piles of luggage as if this were an airport instead of a historic landmark. A cautious approach isn t an option. If I stop, so does everyone behind me. Once inside the lobby, however, the foot-traffic situation improves. As does the vibe. The torchiere sconce and chandelier-lit space is all that and a cup of Earl Grey tea. Framed by hand-carved railings of a second floor mezzanine, and paneled in rich, dark mahogany (not unlike the library of a Basque castle I once owned), it instills a craving for single-malt scotch and pipes filled with the finest Stoved Virginia tobacco. I ll miss it. The draw of establishing a safe house in a world renown property like the Del, the Algonquin, or the George V in Paris, owes as much to common sense and convenience as it does to our centuries-refined good taste: We seduce those from whom we feed. Ecstasy in exchange for life everlasting. Although the proportion of O-neg visitors to the hotel is no greater than the general population s immune base, the relative number of delicious young women in search of no-strings romance is much higher than you d find at, say, a Holiday Inn Express. And since we integrated our donor databases with the computerized hotel registration systems, it freed us from wasting so much time merely identifying the O-neg guests. Not that licking sweat from nubile flesh, and tasting for A or B antigens isn t appealing-it is-but with Veingel quotas to adhere to, entertaining so many pretty young things before finding a donor got to be work. Now (before we got hacked, that is) we simply check in to the perpetually reserved (and purportedly haunted) room 3327, and read over the special addendum to the room service menu--replete with age, height, and headshots--updated daily by a Veingel cleaning lady. Nice while is lasted, but I don t have time to keep indulging my nostalgia. I let the eager beavers behind me peel off for the front desk or the courtyard beyond. Pretend to admire the flower arrangement establishing the geometric center of the room as I scan for SOJ operatives posing as hotel employees or guests. No one looks suspicious. I m burning up underneath all this physique-blurring bulk. I wipe away the sweat from my brow before it beads up and drips into my eyes. The fact my people can no longer savor the pleasures of this place infuriates me. The fact I look like a Thanksgiving turkey dressed in a parachute infuriates me. And the fact I can t even take a deep breath with this tape cinched so tight around my waist also infuriates me. My pulse pounds a cannibal s drumbeat. I m here to warn my people and their Veingels and all I can think about suddenly is killing--killing every oblivious smiling face in the building just to make sure at least one among the dead is SOJ. A fire would do it: Disable the retrofit sprinkler system. Barricade the doors...all this wood? Oh how it would burn. Like my waiting hell. But that s just the vengeance talking and I am not my vengeance. Not yet. Killing innocents isn t an option I m willing to consider outside of a dark fantasy. The usual procedure would be to request an extra key for room 3327 from the front desk, but that s out because I haven t checked the bulletin boards for the name the reservation is under this week. Wouldn t matter if I had, since the SOJ probably has control of the hotel computers, same as they do our databases. Still, there are other protocols I can rely on. I make my way up the stairs leading from the lobby, ignoring a sign that announces only hotel guests are allowed beyond this point. I meet no one in the halls. I see no cameras. Undetected and un-harassed, I arrive in front of 3327, the infamous room where Kate Morgan spent her final night among the living, and where, according to superstition, her spirit still haunts. It s no accident this is the room we selected to keep reserved for our exclusive use. The legend of Kate s haunting provides a convenient explanation for why the room is booked years in advance: Why, we re ghost hunters, or, we re mediums trying to make contact with Kate, is what we say if anyone asks. The shit people believe. As for the strange noises which hundreds of guests have reported emanating from the room? Well, the giddy women responsible might not classify their sighs and moans as natural, but they aren t super -natural, either. Strange. The door handle is bare. The door is locked. No self-respecting Naphil would occupy a safe house room without hanging the Do Not Disturb placard on the outside door handle as a courtesy to other Nephilim and Veingels who might be visiting the hotel. Whether or not the SOJ operatives know of this custom I have no idea, but my guess is they don t. Our databases are just that: places to store data. Essential, useful data. They re not an encyclopedia of Nephilim etiquette and culture-most of which, thank our fathers in darkness, is still an oral tradition. So the room is either empty, or occupied by SOJ assassins. I flatten myself against the wall adjacent to the door just in case someone inside heard footsteps and gets curious. The hallway s clear, but I could still be spotted through the peephole. I ease in to the edge of the door jamb where the hinges and the door butt up against the frame. Inhale deep and slow and quiet, sampling the air for traces of human scent seeping out through the joints. A lot of good a heightened sense of smell does me when a dirty room service tray sitting in front of the adjacent room overpowers any telltale whiffs of cologne, or halitosis, or hard-to-hide foot odor. Likewise on the sound front, as their blaring TV masks the meat-moist thud of a hidden heartbeat, or an eye-blink s precious percussion. Decision time. I usually gage intervals of time by my pulse. A second per. But now it feels like I m counting down instead of keeping track. The longer I stand here thinking about it, the longer nothing useful gets done. This isn t like me. It s a simple choice: bust in like a badass, break in like a burglar, or walk the fuck away. And yet here I stand, sweating it out like a prize fighter worried about making weight. What is wrong with you, Jequon? Have you forgotten your father? The pep talk s not working. Any second now, hotel staff could appear in the hallway and demand to see a key. Any second now SOJ hit men could appear in the hallway and shoot me. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three heartbeats. I m still glued to the wall. I wipe the sweat from my forehead a second time. I can feel the towels taped around my upper arms begin to sag as they grow heavy with wicked-up perspiration. Fifteen heartbeats. Damn t Jequon. Kick it, pick it, or the hell with it. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. I wasn t even nervous on the way over here. All I could think about was saving someone--anyone. Like a hitter trying to end a slump, I just wanted to make contact with the ball...I didn t need a homerun...prevent just one Naphil from walking into an ambush, have him start warning the others while I stay on the attack. I felt like I knew the next pitch, like I could sit on it, assured of a base hit. It s not ambush if you know it s coming, I told myself. And I knew I d blend in with this disguise; knew they d have to do any killing in private to avoid a media frenzy and homicide investigation, which meant quick-and-dirty in one of the rooms, and plenty of time to clean up. Otherwise why go through the trouble of clearing Whitmore and discrediting Mercy? Best case: the SOJ didn t have the necessary manpower to setup at all our safe houses, and the Del wasn t yet a deathtrap; even if no Naphil happened to be feeding, I could leave a note in the room service menu and alert them of the danger when they did arrive. Worst case: I ambush the ambush. Vent a little. Yeah, I had it all figured out Except I didn t. Still don t. Because if I get all Dark Ages on an (un)welcoming party stationed in the room, I give up the only true advantage I have: my location (and easily inferred from that) and my presumed ignorance of their translator s identity. They ll know I m on to Whitmore. Just as bad, they d know I m in San Diego, and since I m the only Naphil alive even aware of their new threat, the SOJ would be able to concentrate their forces here to hunt me down. Hell, I already identified these risks before boarding the plane in St. Louis on the way here. It s not Alzheimer s, so I must be suffering from selective memory loss. It s like my brain and my gut are doing battle. Instincts vs. intellect. Reason vs. rage. One of them has to win out or I m not going anywhere. And if I go? It s not that I m afraid of dying-I m afraid of all of us dying. I m afraid of a world free from reminders that God s not perfect after all. We were His first mistake. I don t want us to be his last. So that s what has me immobile. The enormity of what s at stake here. The question is, am I going to choke now that the pressure s on? What if? my way out of an opportunity for retribution? A chance to save someone? All these centuries I ignored the Council and killed the enemy whenever they killed one of us, Codes be damned. What? now that they re all dead I m suddenly going to abide by their don t-make-waves approach? No way. If I was right then, then I m right now, and right now is always the most important time in life. I need to work with that. Stop thinking, start doing. I retrieve a fork from the discarded room service tray. I break of three of the four curved tines, and bend the remaining tine until it s no longer curved, straight with respect to the handle like a dagger or prison yard shank. Using my molars as a vice, I bite down near the tip of the pointy end and bend only the last sixteenth of an inch to form a right angle. Now I have a crude torque wrench, one-half the toolset needed to pick a lock. The narrow, flexible wire-frame of my aviators completes the package. I break off the left earpiece at the hinge and remove the plastic cover from the curved end. A couple adjustments and I m good to go. This isn t a completely silent operation like in the movies, but it beats knocking. I ll just have to go slow and hope no one has their ear up to the door. For most locks, the tumblers are on top of the barrel, and raking the up out of the way into their chambers isn t much different than gesturing come-hither on a lover s G-spot. By dexterity, or experience, I can t say, but the process goes more quickly that I expected. I slowly rotate all the slack out of the knob. The moment of truth. I throw the door wide open and dive into the room headfirst, tucking and rolling into a somersault so the door clears my legs as it slams shut behind me on the rebound, finish in a low crouch. Ready to spring, to strike, to slide under the bed. Nobody s in here. I check the closet. Clear. The bathroom. Clear. Balcony? Empty. All the things we worry about that never happen The emptiness gnawing at my stomach could be the sushi I resisted in PB, or it could be the paradoxical regret I sometimes feel when impending violence calls in sick. I made good use of the room last time I visited San Diego. Since then the interior s been upgraded. The bedspread used to be a practical red. Now it s an aqua-hued floral pattern. But other than the decorative touches, the room s how I remember it. A king bed. An easy chair. A media center hiding a TV made to look like a wardrobe. A writing desk I suppose I should make use of before Mercy gets impatient. Realistically though, it could be weeks before a Naphil or Veingel checks into the Del. We have almost a thousand safe houses around the world. Nor is there any law in the Codes which requires we feed at one of them. They are (were) merely a convenience. The only way a written warning will do any good is if the SOJ don t set up shop in the hotel before the next Naphil checks in And now it hits me, like a crate of Elvis records: The SOJ kill squad doesn t need to be waiting in the room before one of us arrives. With our database telling them where to look, they can simply monitor the individual reservation systems for each safe house remotely, wait til a reservation goes through for one of our special rooms, and then, at their leisure, send a team to take us out when we re suitably distracted and at our most vulnerable. Bottom line, they don t need to be everywhere all at once as I previously imagined. With a limited number of known (and unsuspecting) targets, anywhere on short notice is good enough. They could cover the globe with as few as three or four, four-to-five-man units standing ready near major international airports. Bottom line, I m an idiot. The only shot I had at warning anyone here is if they happened to have checked in already-and if they had, then the SOJ would have most likely beaten me to the punch. At least I don t need to keep looking like an idiot. No sentries, so no need to keep wearing this disguise. The wig is my first casualty. I throw it and everything else except the track suit into a plastic laundry bag I find in the closet. Tie it off and set it against the door so I don t forget it on my way out. I suppose leaving a note-just in case-is better than doing nothing. But dammit I wish there was something else I could do. The enemy perpetrates genocide against us, and so far my response is to write a letter. Fucking pen to a gunfight It s the memories that keep me from going pyro on this wooden wedding cake of a building, not the architecture. The good times. And for the record, yeah, I m the one who shot Kate Morgan. My Veingel, my responsibility. I don t care how depressed you are, or how good looking, poaching sailors when you ve already reached your quota, then killing them-but only halfway, so the bodies don t pile up and give you away--fuhgidabowdit. Took me three weeks to finish off all the vampires she created. As for the legend of her haunting this room after she died? It was a good cover story to explain why it s always reserved. Speaking of cover stories, Mercy s probably getting anxious for her secret agent to wrap this up. If turning on my cell phone was at all prudent, I d call hers and tell her to park. I haven t slept much save for the tranquilizer induced coma on Air France and this mattress is first-rate. Maybe she d like to cuddle. Am I still a dirty old man if I don t look a day over thirty? I take a seat at the desk and use the complimentary pen and hotel stationary to write the letter. Very similar to the warning that got intercepted in New York, a little less wordy. I stash it in front of the room service wine list. As I m browsing the Del s selection of Napa Valley cabs, I hear footsteps out in the hallway. Big, heavy steps. Confident, sober strides. Either a sumo wrestler, or three men walking in lockstep. Getting closer. I get up and shuffle over to the door leading to the balcony, never taking my eyes off the front door. Reach behind my back and undo the deadbolt in case I have to leave in a hurry. The footsteps in the hallway are very close now. They stop. Knock-knock-knockety-knock-knock. Add: never underestimate the enemy to the list of sound advice I ve ignored lately. Room service. As in service revolver barrel-to-glass on the peephole. Still facing the front door, I slowly turn the knob on the door behind me. Pull it towards me, slowly, carefully, aiming for total silence. But the hinges could use some oil and they screech exactly like door hinges inevitably do when a little stealth might save your ass or your marriage. Real subtle. About as subtle as the explosion of wood splinters ushering in the red polyester clad bellhops packing suppressed pistols. Thanks, Dad, for my blinding speed, and I m hurdling the balcony rail. The guy on point must ve tripped over my guido-bag just as he was squeezing the trigger; his first three shots miss. I land hard on the red shingled roof, so steep it makes all comparisons to vertical academic. My feet shoot out from underneath me as two more bullets pfft past overhead. I start sliding toward the gutters, fast enough to melt a hole in the nylon of my ADIDAS pants. Yes All Day, I Dream About--surviving three-story falls--and just before I run out of roof (which my sandpapered ass definitely thinks is on fire) I pull my knees into my chest for leverage and spring into the air superman style toward a palm tree, avoiding three more slugs which tap dance harmlessly in my wake. I slam into the trunk with all the grace of a one-eyed flying squirrel with no depth perception. Maneuver to the opposite side to put wood between me and the shooters; eventually these assholes might get lucky. Note to self: where a cup next time you decide to shimmy down a Royal Palm. Half way down now. A bullet grazes my forearm. Too close. Fuck it. Sliding down poles is for strippers. I back-flip away from the tree. Bust a half-twist midflight because I m cool like that and hit the ground running. Mercy is just pulling into the driveway for another pass as I round the corner and streak past the recently completed day spa. She waves and I signal for her to pull a U-ey. I remind myself no one runs this fast and deliberately slow down to a jog the rest of the way to the Mustang. Hopefully the inhuman blur of pumping arms and piston-like strides didn t just blow my cover. Go! Go! Go! U-turn it! What s going on? Later. Just drive. Restore Text Other Formats: download .mp3 audio version right click link & choose 'save as' download Palm & Mobipocket version right click link & choose 'save as' download Adobe PDF version right click link & choose 'save as'

download other formats The text version of this episode will be forthcoming.But this seems like as good a time as any to pose the question: How many of you actually read the episodes? I assume most people listen.Let me know in the comments. Other Formats: download .mp3 audio version right click link & choose 'save as' download Palm & Mobipocket version right click link & choose 'save as' download Adobe PDF version right click link & choose 'save as'

download other formats CHAPTER 20 cont. She scans the room from behind oversized dark sunglasses, all business in her grey slacks, brown sweater vest and oddly mismatched running shoes. She fixes her gaze directly on me; walks over to my table as if I was holding up a sign with her name on it. Am I that obvious? I m a liar if I say her casual assessment didn t bump up my paranoia level a notch. How did you know it was me? I ask. She says, I m a therapist. I listen to people all day. You re the only guy in here with an Adam s apple big enough to produce the voice in the message you left. That, and you raised your eyebrows just a hair when I looked over at you, a sign of recognition. Impressive. You re much prettier in person, I say, but then, you already know that because you watched my pupils dilate a sign of approval. And attraction. Would you like some tea? I ask, deflecting her accusation before I can acknowledge it with a grin. She declines. Under different circumstances, I d remove her sunglasses and gaze intently into her eyes and say something like, I guess it s mutual. But now it would come off as disrespectful. Plus, her apparent flirtation is really just a tactic. If I take the bait, she ll lose all respect for me, having spotted yet another beta too eager to put pleasure before business. And by the way, she says, you can stop with the mirroring, the induced obligation through reciprocation, and all the other rapport-building techniques, because I see right through them. Just tell me how you can help me find Cindy and you ll have my trust. Playing poker with this one would cost you. I consider her question. Indeed, how can I help find her friend? Would you mind taking off your glasses? She hesitates just long enough to let me know, that she knows, that this is another technique on my part, but she takes them off all the same. Her eyes are bloodshot-framed-blue, as if she s been crying. I look into them a very long time, until the corners of her mouth tease upward, no more than a millimeter, while her lips remain pursed, as if she were holding back a smile that comes naturally every day but today. I don t look away until her pupils dilate a pleasing amount and she blushes, knowing that I know she likes what she sees. You have good reason to worry about Cindy. I pause, not so much for effect, but to choose my words carefully. A good reason because Whitmore himself is dangerous? or, more accurately, because Whitmore s associates are ruthless men? If I bring up outside involvement in Cindy s kidnapping I m opening the door to an array of questions I m not ready to answer. But Mercy s intelligent. Because of how easily the police and the media were led astray, she has to know there s more behind Cindy s disappearance than a washed-up academic turned scripture-geek. She ll suspect some kind of conspiracy at work. If I contradict her suspicions, she ll become more suspicious of me. Still, it s not like I can give her specifics of who else is involved, or even why they d want to kidnap her friend You see, Mercy, The Sons of Jared are using Cindy to lure in Nephilim, whom they will then ambush, murder, and brand in order to please God. Yeah, I ll get baptized and start preaching the gospel before she d swallow that. She raises an eyebrow just one. My delay is looking more like calculation than drama. As I m sure you ve surmised, Whitmore didn t act alone. The coercion of the authorities and the press both point to an organization of considerable influence and power. Whitmore has become involved with this organization in some way, and unfortunately, Cindy s relationship with him put her on their radar. I believe they re holding Cindy to ensure Whitmore s cooperation in some matter of importance to their leaders. Extorting him. Come to think of it, this scenario makes as much sense as my initial assumption that the Sons of Jared were using Cindy as a lure. More sense, in fact. I mean, If I m a guy with the meager means of a second-rate evangelist, twenty years her senior, I d consider myself very lucky to have a girl as attractive as Cindy Hernandez on my arm. What wouldn t Whitmore do to keep her safe? Satisfied with the way my story s coming together, I continue: Bottom line, Mercy, I need to find these men, and Henry Whitmore is my only lead. As for Cindy s disappearance, my reasons to help you find her are purely selfish. She leans in close and whispers passionately in my ear, Well you re shit out of luck then. Don t you think I d be on my way to get Cindy if I knew where he d taken her? Her breath is an incense of lager spiced with dry, pungent cannabis. Not a bad combo for dulling the grief and anxiety she s dealing with. I m sure you would. You re resourceful. Getting Cindy on the Amber Alert system proves that. And you re not a quitter. Which is why you need to let me help you. These men Whitmore is involved with, they re not going to make any more mistakes. You saw how easily they manipulated the police. And now they know how tenacious you are. If they think you re a threat to their operation Oh I get it. This is the part where you tell me I m in danger and that you re the only one who can protect me from the bad men. But in return, you ll need my help. Something like that? Her spot-on assessments have gone from impressive to antagonizing. She s right of course, but being right isn t going to help her find her friend any faster. Frankly, I m growing impatient playing the role of reasonable, well-intentioned stranger. Every minute I spend persuading her to help me is another minute for the SOJ to bleed out another cousin. Look. Maybe it sounds a little Hollywood, but yes, you are in danger, and yes, I m the person most qualified to protect you, and yes, I would like your help. We re on the same side here. Maybe we are, but you still haven t answered my question: how can you help me find Cindy? She s starting to perspire and she strips off her sweater vest to cool down. The tight, low-cut cotton shirt she s left wearing creates such a distraction that it takes me a moment to notice the small crucifix she wears on a necklace. OK, maybe we re not on the same side, I think, but say, All I can tell you is that if we find Whitmore, we ll find Cindy. And I will find him eventually, you can bet on that. The question is, will I find him in time to save your friend? With your help, I m sure the answer will be Yes. Without it... OK, so what makes you so qualified to find them? What are you? Some kind of Secret Agent? CIA? FBI? ATF? Something like that, I say, keeping it vague. Secret Agent is actually a decent cover. But only because Mercy arrived at the idea herself. If I suggested it, she d be skeptical. Great. So you can t tell me anything. Can t elaborate on who these bad men are that Henry s supposedly involved with. That about right? I m sorry, it s classified. It s all I can do not to laugh. OK Mr. Secret Agent. Show me some ID. She s good. But not quite good enough to rattle me. I hand her my wallet. Patrick Daly. From New York, huh. So where s your credentials? There s nothing here that proves you re an agent. That s not my real name. Everything s fake. I can t carry legit ID. Too risky. If I were captured, and the enemy realized my agency was on to them, it could compromise the operation. Without specifics, everything I m telling her is the honest truth, and I think she s buying it. Mercy doesn t say anything, just stares at the indigo surface of my tea as if she could see the future there without need of the leaves. She grasps the crucifix and rubs it like a kernel of wheat plucked from the stalk; a nervous habit, what she must do in place of twirling her hair, or biting her nails, or chewing on the inside of cheek all of which I d find more appealing. I sigh again, a little louder this time. Half impatience, half disgust. Another slip, one that ll cost me. What? Nothing, I say, and start to ask if she s going to help me or not anything to change the subject but she cuts me off. Nothing my ass. What was that little sigh about? Are you getting impatient with me? What? I m not thinking fast enough for the total-fucking-stranger asking for help? Her voice is starting to carry more than I m comfortable with. Exactly what I don t need: people remembering my face because we re making a scene. I need to calm her down. I m sorry. There s just a lot at stake here. You think I don t know that? she asks, her voice back down to an intense whisper. Of course you do. I m sorry. It s not fair of me to rush you. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slow and her shoulders ease down an inch, softening the muscles in her neck; supple levers replacing taut cords. I forgive you. She didn t have to say that, and her peace offering emboldens me to go where I probably shouldn t. Can I ask you a personal question? I guess. Are you religious? Oh! That s why you were staring at my breasts a minute ago. It was my necklace. You sound disappointed, I say, grinning, happy to take the edge off the conversation. She blushes. Uh, yeah, well...I don t like the term religious, but I have faith in God and I pray. I m a Christian, if that s what you re asking Why? is that a problem? There s no way I can lie convincingly on this topic, so I tell her the part of the truth I able to. This group Whitmore is involved with has certain religious aspects to it. Which explains in part why he has dealings with them. I just want to make sure you won t have a problem opposing a group that might share your beliefs. Anyone that would kidnap Cindy doesn t share my belief in God. Don t be so sure, I think, but tell her, Fair enough. She s laser-focused on what tea remains in my large to-go cup. I can tell she s close to a decision now close to realizing I m her best option to find Cindy. I gulp down most of my lukewarm tea and lean back into the bench, in effect, giving her space. I ll let her draw her own conclusions. Keep quiet. It s not easy. I m very tempted to throw her over my shoulder and forcibly remove her from the caf . A closer look at her body distracts me from this urge, and fortunately, she s too lost in her thoughts to catch my appraisal. I like what I see: Legs like a soccer player s, or a runner who favors the hills. Curves enough, and in all the right places. A sufficiently narrow waist, but without the overly masculine six-pack look favored by too many women these days. Lean arms, toned shoulders, and a lithe neck just dying to show off a strapless evening gown. And her breasts, having already proven a formidable distraction...what more can I say? Other than I m staring past a crucifix to admire them-- And just a nanosecond too long because I m busted. Still staring at my necklace, eh? I m relieved to see her admonishment delivered with a wry smile. More so as she subjects me to a once-over of her own and now a twice-over with absolutely no attempt at subtlety, either. Well, I deserve it. Apparently satisfied she says, Yeah you look like you could do some protecting. Steroids? Private trainer? Genetics, I say. She does the eyebrow thing again. Before, with pursed lips, it said incredulous. This time, while licking her lips, the gesture translates closer to yummy. OK. I ll help you find Henry. But you have to promise me, that no matter what happens, you ll help me find Cindy even if you find Henry first and he leads you to this...organization you re after promise me you ll still find Cindy. I promise. Do you? Yes. I want you to swear it to me. Swear to God that you ll help me find Cindy no matter what. I can t do that. What do you mean you can t do that? You can t swear? What? you don t believe in God? It s not that. It s just...look, it s complicated. Knowing God exists and believing in Him are two entirely different things, but I can t go into all that right now. Nor will I compromise the honor of my father, banished to darkness, by going along with social convention in order to make my life easier, or to make someone else feel comfortable around me. She ll just have to accept a promise from me far more binding than some empty ritual mocked by criminals in courtrooms on a daily basis. I give you my word, Mercy, I will help you find your friend, no matter what. Let thy word be known This is no different. A pact until my last breath. I can see in her eyes that she feels my sincerity. So what now? You want to follow me over to Henry s apartment? Help you search for clues? How do we do this? Not so fast. First I need to take care of some business in Coronado. You ll need to ride with me, I say, and before she can complain on Cindy s behalf, add, It s related. OK, but I need to move my car. I m on a meter and I don t want it getting towed. Leave it. Getting towed is the best thing that could happen to it. It might be bugged. We ll go in my rental. Here, take my hand and snuggle close to me as we walk out. Do what? Why? I m tired of hearing people call you bitch. They won t say it if you re with me. Later we ll get you a better disguise. The sunglasses aren t enough. You re too striking. For now, snuggle. We walk out together and Mercy snuggles enthusiastically; arms around my waist, cheek to my chest, swaying and giggling like she d had too much to drink. I get the distinct impression she s enjoying herself. She d make a great actress. She understands how a masterful performance is all in the minutia, beneath the surface detail lesser performers never get past like exhaling her hot breath on my nipple and squeezing my pec just now. These tiny essences of couplehood that make her all the more convincing even though, ahem, the street s empty and we re already to the car. How was I Agent Daly? she asked with air quotes. Very convincing. I hold the door for her as she ducks down into the passenger seat. Call me Jequon. I m not sure why I tell Mercy my real name. The last woman to know it was murdered over fifteen-hundred years ago; the last woman I loved. Other Formats: download .mp3 audio version right click link & choose 'save as' download Palm & Mobipocket version right click link & choose 'save as' download Adobe PDF version right click link & choose 'save as'

download other formats CHAPTER 20 The jungle mazes of the world famous zoo streak past below the right wingtip; the postmodern skyline of downtown at eyelevel on the left, like some future Atlantis, standing sentry over an ocean biding its time. San Diego s beauty makes me feel even more alone. Incongruous. A yellow bow of sandy coastal splendor dressing up my gift-wrapped misery. I will spill blood in America s Finest City and the sunshine will bleach out the stains. Inside the terminal I find a TV in a little bar just past the arrival and departure monitors. You have got to be fuckin kidding me. Cindy--the Penelope Cruz look-alike-plans to marry that possum-eyed lecher? And the therapist who reported her missing was supposedly stalking the couple? I don t know which is more ridiculous: that the press bought such an obvious fabrication engineered to take the heat off Whitmore, or the bleating murmurs of bitch and cunt I m hearing from the sheep around me. The only crime Mercy Anne s guilty of is trusting her gut. I like her already. Well, since the love-birds are honeymooning at an undisclosed location, she just became my new best lead. At a minimum, she knows Whitmore. Maybe where he lives-or even known associates of the religious zealot variety. I need to get in touch with her ASAP, before she s had enough of the negative press and leaves town. But I m torn. The Hotel Del across the bay in Coronado is-was-the largest safe house on the West Coast. Now it s a trap just like every other feeding destination in our hacked and deciphered database. I want to go there and warn others of the danger. Problem is, I d be walking into the same trap, and sacrificing the biggest advantage I have right now: They don t know where I m at. If the SOJ found out I m onto Whitmore, they might relocate him, and they d definitely concentrate their search for me here in the city in an effort to eliminate the only Naphil who s even aware of their renewed threat. Shit, for all I know, there might not be any Nephilim in San Diego still alive to warn. I never read the fifty-three names sent to my cell phone before the connecting flight in St. Louis. Didn t risk checking for more murders in the four hours since. Can t risk a peek now, either. The only thing I m dead certain of, is that there are more enemy left to kill. Which means staying on task and finding Whitmore to lead me to them. Which means finding Mercy Anne to lead me to Whitmore. So, first track down Mercy, then see if it still makes sense to go to Coronado. It s a cold mental calculus I ve been forced into: keeping myself in the dark about the possible futility of my actions, so I can stay alive long enough to carry them out. I rent a black Ford Mustang GT from Hertz under the name Patrick Daly and drive until I see a payphone with an attached yellow pages. Mercy Anne s office number is listed and I dial it. She doesn t pick up, but the greeting gives me her cell number to call if this is an urgent, but non-life-threatening message. If my message is life-threatening in nature, the recording informs me, I should hang up and dial 911 immediately. I ignore the advice and dial her mobile anyway. Get her voicemail. She s screening her calls. No surprise there. After the most recent news report aired, she s probably been getting harassed. I leave the one message I know she ll respond to: Hi. I m not a cop, and I m not a reporter. I m the one guy who can help you find Cindy. You were right about Whitmore. Your friend s in danger. Meet me at Cafe 976 in PB as soon as you get this. # The mustang doesn t stand out in the least in Pacific Beach. And the excess horsepower is nice should I need it. With the far more affluent community of La Jolla peering down from Mount Soledad to the north, even a Lamborghini wouldn t draw too much attention. I don t stand out either. Unlike my conspicuousness in Sarajevo, here in PB I m just another buff surfer or muscle-head on my way to the gym. Blending in is a good thing when you ve become a walking bulls-eye, and that s one of the reasons I m having Mercy meet me in this touristy, Gen-Y dominated beach community. Another reason is, I know the area. It s just a few minutes up the I-5 from downtown and I vacationed in one of the cottages on Crystal Pier a few years back. Two weeks of drunken debauchery I ll never forget, and a welcome changeup to the upscale resorts I usually favor for R should also engender in her a sense of calm and trust. Coffee shops are safe and cozy places; public without being so crowded you can t monitor everyone who comes and goes. I park in a residential area off the main drag, get out and start walking the four blocks still to go before the caf . My stomach gurgles with bile and butterflies. I haven t eaten all day. The sushi and fish tacos here are phenomenal, but I ll have to wait in spite of the tempting wasabi and soy. Mercy should be on her way, and I want to scope out the approach to 976 before she arrives. She s not a threat, but the SOJ might have someone following her. Come to think of it, they could have her cell phone bugged. The one I just left a message on. Damn. Another slip. As paranoid as I ve been forced to become lately, it s still not paranoid enough. Cafe 976 resides in an updated craftsmen on the corner of Feldspar and Cass, a block north of Garnet where most of the liquor licenses and nightlife resides. It sports an indoor / outdoor feel, with a covered wood porch on two sides, and additional open-air seating in the surrounding garden. Sparrows scavenge for bagel crumbs beneath the tables. Smokers foul the taste of their blood and sip French roast in between puffs, a fortunately rare opportunity in health conscious California. Too on edge for coffee, I go inside and order a berry tea instead. Take a bench seat in the back corner of the dining area facing the door, and catalog the other customers: Several college kids highlighting text books; two tech-startup types with laptops sharing an electrical outlet; a pair of nip-and-tucked trophy wives sitting on the porch just outside the rear entrance debating who has the hottest pool guy--no one that doesn t look like they belong. I close my eyes, pretend to yawn, and take a deep, slow breath, sampling the air for the aroma of dangers unseen. But it s just grilled Panini bread and disappointingly low-grade coffee beans from the kitchen. A hint of rotting kelp when the breeze snakes through the window screens. Remnants of a cucumber facial and acetone evaporating from the cuticles of the manicured trophy wives. As innocuous as the soCal soundtrack: The hardened resin clack of the cue ball against a solid or a stripe on the pool table in the bar next door; the frothy locomotive wheeze of the espresso machine; detuned rumbles from passing choppers out in the street. The epitome of normalcy. Until Mercy Anne walks in. Nothing normal about her kind of beauty. Other Formats: download .mp3 audio version right click link & choose 'save as' download Palm & Mobipocket version right click link & choose 'save as' download Adobe PDF version right click link & choose 'save as'

download other formats Chapter 19 Despite her oncologist s repeated admonitions to never skip a chemo treatment, the bathroom in an outpatient cancer clinic didn t exactly put Mercy in a prayerful mood. Torrey Pines State beach did. She could always reschedule in a day or two. Since it was a chilly Monday in October, she actually found a free parking space facing the water. The view wasn t any better down on the beach, just sandier, so Mercy was content to watch the ocean from the warmth and relative privacy of her car. She needed the privacy nearly as much as she needed the mantra-like rhythm of the waves. She liked to close her eyes when she prayed, but preferred to keep them open whenever she was in public. Even here, there were just enough potential wackos like Henry walking around for her to lose sight of her surroundings. She cracked the window to let in the breeze and the sound of the surf, but made sure the doors were locked. This should be easier. The swells first rising then cresting the crashing into a rushing white foam; a soothing timelessness; the epitome of God s patient work. But Mercy felt more distant from Him than she had in a long time. She got as far as Dear Lord three times, but further words stuck on her tongue like salt water taffy. This wasn t, she knew, a sign of an immature faith. Too many believers confused a good night s sleep with grace, and caffeine withdrawal with heaven s indifference. Mercy wasn t among them. Rather the distance she felt-the separation It was really confusion. Cindy being taken from her like that after all the answered prayers it took to see her past the abuse, the drugs, the damaged self esteem. It didn t make sense. She wasn t the kind to believe that God was behind every good parking spot, every green light, or every good table at a restaurant. Like He didn t have better things to do with ethnic cleansings in Darfur, or Chinese immigrants suffocating in container ships. But when evidence of His will leaked around the edges of bleak lives, like it had for Cindy, when only His grace could explain a new hope where before none existed, those times, Mercy believed, gratitude was the only sane response. And it was hard to say thank-you for something, and then to have it stolen. It made her angry. At God. Which made her feel guilty. But there it was. I m sorry Lord. You didn t take her and I m sure You ll bring her back. I should have more faith. Please forgive me. Please... but she trailed off again, knowing her words were just something she ought to say, when in reality, she was pissed, and God knew it, and that was that. The beach wasn t cutting it. Instead of the surf eroding her anger and her anxiety like it had the sandstone cliffs which stood sentry over this unique stretch of ocean, every crash of waves seemed to fuel her angst. Her doctor had prescribed medical marijuana to treat the nausea which accompanied her chemo treatments. Mercy knew it would work better than a Xanax for her mood. Three tokes later, and eight miles south in Ocean beach, she d finally calmed down enough to do something constructive to find Cindy. There was a tiny sports bar across the street from Cindy s apartment on Voltaire called the Tilted Stick. A pool table, a couple TVs, a surfboard suspended from the ceiling. Local microbrews on tap. That kind of place. Cindy used to come here to watch the Chargers play since she didn t own a TV. Mercy figured the bartender would remember her, and that maybe Cindy popped in the night she disappeared. She ordered a Ballast Point lager and sat at the bar. In her business-casual attire she didn t exactly fit in. But she was at least half as stoned as the handful of regulars, so that was a start. If you re looking for Cindy, I haven t seen her, the bartender said and put the bottle down in front of her. He stood there for a second, as if he were expecting her to launch into a litany of question for which he d have a similar curt response. But when she didn t say anything back, he went on as Mercy took a long swig of beer. I recognize you from the news. I m sorry. Thanks, Mercy said, and took another sip of the lager. The pot made it taste like a used coffee filter, but it would get better the more she drank. A cop came by earlier asking about her. He paused, then, Just so you know they re still trying. But like I told him, she hasn t come in the bar for quite awhile. Well, thanks for that, anyway. She took another sip. Sure enough, the Ballast Point began to taste better. No more bitter than it always tasted. For what it s worth, I woulda lied about her age, too. That was smart. Mercy nodded in that almost imperceptible way that suggests contemplation rather than outright agreement. We ll see. I ll feel smart after they find her. She tipped back the bottle and quenched her cotton mouth. Need another? Sure. It s on the house. He fetched another beer and then changed the channel on the TV to FOX 6 on his way back. In case there s another update, he said, and gave her the beer. Mercy left a five on the bar and thanked him and moved over to an empty booth opposite the TV. She drank the second Ballast just as quickly as the first one, adding to her buzz considerably. She started to sag in the booth, suddenly exhausted, but Eileen Sepe s super-model-ish mug interrupted what might have been a rare catnap. This just in: The beautiful Cindy Hernandez is alive and well! And as she told police just minutes ago...engaged! to Henry Whitmore, the man previously wanted for questioning regarding her falsely reported disappearance. Viewers will recall that La Jolla based therapist, Mercy Anne, lied about Hernandez s age and also claimed, falsely, that she was her daughter when Ms. Anne reported Hernandez missing to police yesterday. Authorities have now learned that Ms. Anne harbored a quote, unhealthy obsession, with Hernandez s personal life, and had been interfering and harassing Hernandez ever she started dating Mr. Whitmore. The two have filed a restraining order against Ms. Anne, and told police they will elope and honeymoon at an undisclosed location in Mexico for the next several weeks. Both Whitmore and Hernandez have declined to press charges. No word yet from Distric Attorney Wiman on whether the city will pursue charges against Ms. Anne for misleading authorities. In other news... Mercy didn t hear the rest. She felt herself mouth the words uncomfortably numb and she stood, more than a little wobbly. The door seemed eternally distant, a portal to heaven made to taunt the damned. She couldn t feel her footsteps, but the disgusted glares of the other patrons pushed her away from them, toward the exit. She made it outside. Then she heard it: Don t come back you psycho bitch! She about-faced. Before she knew what was happening, she was back inside, gripping a pool cue two-fisted from the skinny end, marching toward the bar keep. Did you just call me a psycho bitch? The bartender took a step back and froze. Eyes the size of dartboards. Uhhh...look. I m sorry. Shouldn t a said that to you. Mercy cocked back the stick, beat-off-a-mugger-style, then dropped it. It popped like the shot from a .22 against the painted black concrete floor. Someone sprayed beer trying to hold back a laugh. Who s the bitch now? Rhetorical. She left the bar. Yeah. Jesus would do that. 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download other formats Chapter 18 (continuted) The door he d been led through moments before opened and blinding light hit them from the adjacent room. He squeezed his lids shut against it as he was sure Cindy would be doing, too. Holding up a hand for shade, he blinked against the light, willing his eyes to adjust. Keep em closed or lose em. Henry recognized Passenger Seat Thug s voice. He didn t know if he meant his eyes or Cindy s, but kept them closed just in case. Cindy began screaming almost at once, hoping the rest of the vessel s hold wasn t soundproofed like their cell, Henry guessed; hoping she could draw attention. He found himself worrying she might succeed. He cared about her-deeply-but he mustn t let his feelings interfere with God s purpose. Passenger Seat Thug hoisted him to his feet and lead him back through the door. Cindy either risked a peek, or felt their footsteps retreating away from her. Please Henry! Tell them! If you love me, tell them to- And the rest of her guilt trip was cut off behind the closed door. You can open your eyes now. Then Passenger Seat Thug walked up the metal stairs and outside to the deck, leaving Henry standing just outside the door to Cindy s cell. He never believed for a second they would make him spend the night in that dungeon. And for the second time that day, the story of Daniel in the lion s den comforted him. The first thing he noticed after his eyes adjusted was the stark contrast between her cell (now fully visible through a floor-to-ceiling glass wall separating the two compartments) and the luxuriant space he found himself in presently. His accommodations: Plush Berber carpeting; a round conference table fashioned from exotic cocobolo wood and surrounded by the latest Aeron desk chairs; varnished cherry bookshelves lining two of the walls, each filled with leather-bound volumes of scholarly merit. Cindy s cell: Bare metal floor. Bare metal walls. A porta-potty. The only furniture, a homemade-looking craft table constructed from unfinished four-by-four posts and hastily sawn particle board; a couple cheap plastic stools off to one side. But the lighting was perhaps the biggest contrast. On Henry s side, the lush appointments reflected warm, cozy light cast by halogen sconces and track lighting. The light in Cindy s cell was harder to classify. It seemed somehow devoid of illumination. The light didn t so much reflect off the objects in the room, as the objects themselves seemed to emit light-very feint light-all of it a greenish hue, like the dying glow of squashed lighting bugs on a windshield. As he bent closer to examine the glass wall dividing them, Henry realized it was actually electronic in nature. Infrared refraction polymer. Until he spoke, Henry hadn t noticed the man standing in the shadowed corner beneath the stairwell. Her room is lit with infrared light, which the human eye cannot detect. As it passes through the one-way glass, it s phase-shifted down to a visible frequency we can see on this side. There s some distortion. But not much. Henry could have given a church mouse s derriere about the technology involved. What s this all about? Why do you find it necessary to prod me by threatening Cindy? I am eager to do the work. It is my...my destiny-God has chosen me for this. Because those were my orders. Orders, Henry. That s what this is all about. You have your orders, and I have mine. My orders are to get you to carry out your orders. Much like you ve proven yourself effective at whatever-the-hell-it-is you do, I have proven myself effective at...uh...well, let s just call it: motivational psychology. We are professionals, you and I. So don t take anything that happens under my watch personally. And don t force me to explain myself, or so much as repeat a word of my forthcoming instructions, or I will become irritated with you. Understood? Henry nodded. Noticed the very large handgun the man carried in a hip holster. Good, good, good. Right-so...here, is our first, task: Background: Mercy Anne, whom I understand you are familiar with, has decided to report Cindy missing to the police. Unfortunately, Cindy is extraordinarily beautiful and looks young enough to be a teenager. Hello Amber Alert. Hello nationwide media coverage. Our mutual employer doesn t appreciate the potential scrutiny. Objective: We are to make the story go away, discrediting Mercy Anne in the process. Here is what I came up with: In a moment, two of my subordinates will enter Cindy s room. They will either be carrying a water hose and a wet towel, or, a modified deep-cycle marine battery wired into what looks like a small briefcase from which two thick wires protrude, each wire terminated by alligator clips. Here s where you come in: You get to choose which method of torture they use on her, water boarding, or painful electric shocks. You ll also be the one to decide when she s had enough. We ll turn on the room-to-room intercom so you two can communicate. With me so far? No! This is crazy! You don t need to punish her like that. I told you, I m going to be completely cooperative. Look Henry, let me finish, and this will make more sense. See, we ll need you and Cindy to turn yourselves into the police and discredit Ms. Anne s story. You will need to tell them-and Cindy will have to convincingly agree-that the two of you have eloped to Mexico, and that you ve decided to extend the honeymoon indefinitely in order to escape Ms. Anne s obsessive intrusions into your lives. But there s just no way we could realistically expect you to comply with this scheme without first spelling out the consequences of noncompliance. Cindy is simply too strong-willed at this point in her life. And you are absolutely whipped-so much so you don t even realize it-and hell-look at her-who wouldn t be? So first, we must break her spirit. And, we must also make her hate you-to see you as both the source, and the inexplicably withheld cessation of her torment-so that whatever warped hope you ve held onto, that she might someday reciprocate your pathetic, skewed love-is crushed, and along with it, any motive for disobedience such misguided affection oft provides. Cindy! Henry yelled out, hoping to warn her. Cindy! She didn t respond. Just stared into her artificial dark with pupils showing almost no white behind. I haven t turned on the intercom yet, Henry. But when I do, you will speak only when prompted. Kapeesh? Henry didn t answer. He understood the man s instruction just fine, but as to reconciling the treatment of Cindy with the larger unfolding of God s plan for him, he was suddenly at a loss. Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth, Henry? When I ask you a question, you are to respond in a timely manner. Do? You? Understand? Me? Yes. I understand, Henry said. Yes I understand, sir, Henry. Say it. Yes, I understand, sir, Henry said. The man laughed. Ah, I m just messing with you, Henry. Call me Rocky. Because I just freakin love squirrels. Especially flying squirrels. Happens to be my favorite movie, too. Rocky was looking at him expectantly so Henry nodded, acknowledging (he guessed) that he would refer to him as Rocky in the future. Good, good, good. Right-well in that case, let s get this party started. What will it be for your girlfriend? A realistic simulation of drowning? Or painful electric shocks? If it helps you decide, my men would really appreciate the opportunity to see her breasts in order to attach the electrodes. You are a sick fuck, whoever you are, Henry protested. Rocky strode across the room like a butler answering a doorbell, and then leveled him with a backhand. Calling me a sick fuck wasn t one of your options. Now, let me try again: Will it be the water-boarding, or the painful electric shocks? Henry wiped at the blood leaking out of his nose and mouth with his shirt sleeve and whimpered, The electric shocks, please. Most people would have chosen water boarding, Henry knew, but that was because they didn t know any better. After a certain U.S. president s administration had been called to task for their stance on torture during terrorist interrogations, Henry, like so many others who d heard the term, went straight to YouTube in search of video demonstrating this torture method. In essence, water boarding simulates the experience of drowning. Because the victim has no idea how long it will last, or if their tormentors even intend to stop the procedure before they drown, it turns out to be one of the worst possible things you can do to someone. electric shock, on the other hand, doesn t make the victim fear they re going to die. It just hurts like holy hell. Such logical rationalizations would come in handy when and if it came time to defend his choice. The real reason Henry chose the electric shocks for Cindy was less noble: He wanted to see her breasts exposed even more than her torturers did. In fact, the idea of strange men tweaking her nipples in order to attach the alligator clips, of holding her down as she shrieked and gyrated against the current...it aroused him. What an opportunity to witness something so erotic-something he d never have the balls to try. Rocky walked over to a control box mounted into the glass wall, and pressed the two-way transmit button. OK Cindy. We re ready to start with the festivities. Got that portrait of tranquil calm framed in your mind? Fuck you asshole! Maybe later. But for the time being, your boyfriend Henry will be assisting us while we break your spirit. Henry got off the floor and watched the contortions of her facial muscles as she tried to process what was happening. From fear, to hatred, to confusion to outrage-each mask of emotion was exaggerated because of her prolonged exposure to the darkness. Henry! Henry! She screamed his name over and over. He started to stay something to comfort her, but Rocky held up a shushing finger in the air. Henry, why don t you share with Cindy the specific manner in which she ll be mercilessly tortured today until you tell us to stop, he said, and took his finger down, signaling Henry to speak. El-l-l-lectric Sh-sh-shock, he managed to stutter out. Repeat that. A little louder this time. I don t think she heard you. electric shock. They re going to shock you with electrodes, Cindy. But I won t let them go on for too long. They just want to- The man pressed the talk button and cut the transmission before Henry could finish the rest of his sentence. Let s keep it curt, eh Henry? Your antics are growing tiresome. Answer my questions, speak when prompted, and when in doubt, less is more. He depressed the transmission button, this time in the middle of Cindy hurling largely unintelligible insults Henry s way. You see? We need to break her. You ll thank me later. A woman like that, you marry her, and all you ll get is TV dinners and a dildo in the dresser. OK guys, we re ready for you. Henry wants you to use the electrodes on her. The two thugs appeared from a door on the far side of Cindy s holding cell. One carried what looked like a car battery wired to into a suitcase-like box with wires protruding from the bottom. He set the contraption on the craft table, scooted everything closer to where Cindy was chained to the floor, and adjusted his goggles. Both men wore what looked a lot like welding goggles, allowing them to see the infrared light that remained invisible to Cindy. They forced her flat on the floor, one on each side of her, pinning her arms spread-eagled to the floor with their knees. Then they cut her shirt open with some medical scissors. Removed her bra. Massaged her breasts. Stroked and licked and blew on her nipples until they were nice and erect. Attached the alligator clamps. Ready when you are sir, one of them said. See? you re special, Henry. They don t get to call me Rocky. He continued, Give her a series of five, five-second shocks, level eight, with five seconds in between each shock. We ll let Henry decide how many times to repeat the sequence. Cindy tried to writhe free from the men, but at five-foot-nothing, and maybe a hundred and ten pounds, her efforts were futile. The first shock jolted her, and at first she didn t even cry out, attempting to be stoic about it, Henry supposed. But her tough girl routine didn t last. In the final two seconds of her very first jolt, Cindy let out a scream so inhumanly intense that the sound scared her once her brain figured out she was the source. Henry d seen enough. To hell with letting them give her four more just like it. Stop! That s enough! You re going to kill her! She can t hear you. Henry turned toward Rocky and the intercom box. Only the receive button was depressed. Don t worry, Henry. She won t die. She ll want to die, of course, but there aren t enough amps to oblige her. Just a freaking painful high number of volts. Very faintly, between exhausted sobs, Henry thought he heard her moan two words: kill...me. How can you do this to her? She s done nothing! I ve already answered your question, Henry. I have my orders, and carrying those out involves breaking her spirit. Well I can t watch, Henry said, and he turned away from the nightmare of Cindy s anguish, ashamed he ever imagined this could be titillating. Henry, you turn around and you watch her suffer-or I ll have them do the same to your testicles only ten times as long. He did as he was told. The Lord works in mysterious ways, he repeated to himself like a mantra. A hellish half hour later, Rocky set the intercom back to two-way mode, and Henry begged the men to stop shocking her. She d taken a soul-crushing one-hundred-eighty hits of the pain juice. It s about time, Henry. You sick bastard, Driver s Seat Thug called out. Henry wept. But Cindy couldn t hear that. Rocky the flying squirrel fanatic had already turned the intercom back to receive-only. He admonished Henry. You need to grow a pair! Look what she went through. Do you hear her bawling like a little bitch? Indeed, Cindy wasn t crying. Henry did his best to suck it up. Rocky put the intercom back in two-way mode. OK. Listen carefully lovebirds. I m not going to repeat myself, and it s only by following these instructions exactly that you will prevent future sessions of pain and humiliation far in excess of the one you just endured. The Lord works in mysterious ways. The Lord works in mysterious ways. The Lord works in mysterious ways. After awhile it rang true. 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download other formats Chapter 18 Henry s escorts eased back on the throttle and the boat idled into an unknown port. He listened for any ambient noise that might clue him in to their location, but it was useless over the smooth growl of the outboards. Passenger Seat Thug opened the door to the hold. We re ready for you to come up. But first you ll need to put these headphones on over your hood. Hope you like metal. Henry did as he was told, not bothering to mention, that no, he didn t like heavy metal, that he found it utterly lacking in musical artistry. Effectively deaf and b