Colm jerked upright. The motion yanked the knife from the puncture it had made, and blood sprayed out over John. The creature toppled over backward.
Panting, shaking, John wished he could lie still and collect himself, but he didn’t dare. For all he knew, Cybele was already unleashing some new horror. His imagination suggested her huge statue rising from its throne and the stone lion at her feet turning its head in his direction.
But when he scrambled to his feet, nothing like that was happening. Instead, the piping and clashing died away.
Perhaps Cybele was only the ghost of a goddess, starved to death when her worship ceased, and she’d now exhausted her limited strength. If so, he intended to be gone before she recovered it.
Pascal drew himself to his feet. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help. When I fell, it knocked the wind out of me.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Amadour would have killed me if not for you. Let’s get him out of here.”
With their minds clear, the tunnels proved less labyrinthine than they’d seemed before. Once they were far enough from the shrine that John was reasonably sure no malevolent power was pursuing them, his thoughts strayed as they always did, countless times every day and night, to Elizabeth.
Remembering was painful, but for the first time since her death, not purely so. He’d always miss her, but perhaps a day would come when grief would no longer overshadow everything else in life. Hitherto, such an idea would have felt disloyal and contemptible, but truly, it was only what she would have wished for him herself.
After a time, to the relief of his weary back and limbs and surely Pascal’s too, Amadour roused sufficiently to shuffle along on his own two feet. Eventually the big man asked, “Where’s Colm?”
“Dead,” Pascal said.
“Shit. Are we going back to the others?”
“Yes,” said John. After which they and their fellows would smear the support timbers with pitch, set them on fire, and collapse the mine. King Afonso could find another way to take the city.
BLACK TIDE
James A Moore & Charles Rutledge
In the movies, Special Forces guys always landed their black inflatable boats with precision, drawing them quickly up the beach to be hidden in handy bushes. The choppy surf around Russell Island didn't make that possible, and in fact, one big mother of a wave lifted the boat at the last minute, spilling the six-man Alpha Team into the water and sending the men scrambling to grab weapons and ruck sacks before the tide took them.
Master Sergeant Tony Brent said most of the curse words he knew as he waded onto the sand. Looking back the way they had come, he couldn't see any sign of the much larger transport boat anchored a mile off shore. It was hidden by the night, the fog and the rain. A rain no meteorologist had predicted, and had seemed to rise from nowhere. The storm was so intense it also hid the lights of the town of Golden Cove only a few miles distant.
Captain Kevin Younger waved the members of his team over and said, “The Research Lab is about a half a mile north of us. Spread out in teams of two and converge from different approaches. I've already told you that we don't know precisely what we're dealing with so take no chances. This is a 'cleaner' operation. No witnesses. No survivors.”
Brent, who had actually read the brief file on the operation said, “This island has some residential homes on it. Not on this side, but it's conceivable we could run in to some civilians.”
Younger said, “Was there some part of no witnesses and no survivors that slipped past you, Sergeant?”
“No sir.”
“Good. Now let's move out. Visibility is shit so don't shoot any of our guys.”
With that, Younger slapped Medical Sergeant Eric Patton on the shoulder and the two men jogged off.
Warrant Officer Mason Gentry said, “I'll go with Brent. That leaves Lewis with Resnick.”
“I always get stuck with Lewis,” said Resnick.
“Somebody has to, “said Gentry.
The four men vanished into the cold, drifting mist. Brent adjusted his ruck, and he and Gentry started off at a jog. According to the report, Russell Island had a population of less than a hundred civilians, and the island was only accessible by private boat or plane. No ferries. Basically a small community of fishermen who competed with the larger community of Golden Cove on the mainland.
And then there was the research facility. Brent was on a need — to-know basis and he had been told he didn't need to know. Some nameless branch of the government had been up to some sort of bio-engineering project and today something had gone wrong. The command had come down to his own nameless organization. Clean it up. Burn it down. Salt the ground so nothing would ever grow there again.
The terrain beyond the beach was rocky and uneven. Brent was glad of his tightly-laced boots, which offered his ankles some protection, but the going was still difficult. They had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile when Gentry pulled up short.
“Hold up,” Gentry said. “Thought I saw something up ahead.”
“I don't see anything,” said Brent.
“I got good eyes. Wait here for a second.” Gentry took a firmer grip on his modified M4A1 rifle and moved forward. Almost immediately he was just one shadow among other shadows, hidden by the heavy rain and drifting fog. The muted roar of the rain drowned out all sound as well.
Until the screaming started. Brent resisted the urge to hurry toward Gentry. He knew he had made the right decision a couple of seconds later when the darkness was rent by two controlled bursts from Gentry's rifle. Brent strained his eyes, staring into the rain but couldn't make out anything in the muzzle flash. The gunfire stopped and the screaming resumed only to be halted abruptly.
Now, Brent made his way through the fog, risking the use of the tactical light on the end of the A1 until he found what was left of Mason Gentry. Gentry was sprawled on his back, steam rising from the shredded entrails spilling from his freshly torn abdomen. Most of his face was missing too. It looked as if it had been bitten off.
Brent felt a wave of panic and pushed it down. Captain Younger had said they were looking for some sort of bio-engineered specimen gone wrong. Well it had sure as hell gone wrong all over Gentry. Realizing that he made a wonderful target standing in one place with the flashlight on, Brent deactivated the light and shuffled away from Gentry's body. Nothing he could do for the Warrant Officer now.
Brent had seen plenty of action in Iraq. He'd seen worse injuries, but none under such weird-ass circumstances. What the hell had done that to Gentry?
Brent realized he'd lost his bearings. He fumbled his compass out and checked the faintly glowing readings. He had just decided which way was north when something latched on to his rifle and tore it from his grasp. Brent went immediately to the .45 at his hip, but even as the pistol cleared its holster, a grip of terrifying strength closed on Brent's wrist and held his gun hand helpless. A moment later something struck Brent and sent him sprawling in the mud. His gun went spinning away.
Lightning rent the sky and Brent saw a huge man crouching over him. The man was dressed in black fatigues similar to Brent's own. Had they sent in another team? The only weapon Brent had left was his folding knife, but even as he tried to free it from his equipment vest, a rumbling voice said, “Draw that blade and I'll feed it to you.”
Brent didn't like being threatened. He grabbed the man's arm, shifted his hips, bringing one leg over the man's shoulder, and tried to cinch in a jujitsu triangle choke. He had done it in training a million times and he was good at it. Before he could get the other leg in place, the man leaned forward, jamming his elbow into Brent's thigh, breaking what little hold Brent had and sending him back into the mud. The man's hands dug into the front of Brent’s jacket and then the man stood, lifting Brent off the ground. Brent was an inch over six feet and went maybe two-fifteen. This guy had to be a giant.