Demon (33 page)

Terry nodded, his cheeks jiggling.

“Smart move.” Glenn let go, straightened his jacket and tie, and focused on the screen. Two destroyed cars and one missing rogue agent. Wonderful. “You do good work here.”

Glenn turned from the screen and walked over to a nearby empty console. He lifted a phone and punched a number.

“Special Activities Director,” the voice said. “This is a secured line.”

“Steve, it's Glenn.”

“Deputy, what can I do for you?”

Always formal. “I need a favor.”

“This have anything to do with you redirecting a UAV over Ur?”

“Word travels fast, I see.”

“When the deputy director walks into the Operations Center and diverts a UAV without any explanation, people notice.”

“Guess I should come down here more often.”

“So, does this have something to do with why you're there?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“You know I don't have any assets in Ur. Wonder why you're so interested in that area, being there's no CIA there.”

“The asset doesn't belong to you or Clandestine Service.”

“Are you going to tell me who he does belong to?”

Glenn gritted his teeth. Although Steve Ogden, as the SAD, worked for the director of the National Clandestine Service and the NCS reported to Glenn, the two came into the CIA at almost the same time and therefore were equals experience-wise. Steve was formal, but he wasn't against busting Glenn's chops from time to time. Even so, Steve was solid and damn good at keeping his mouth shut. Basically, the only guy at Langley Glenn knew he could trust right now.

But would he back a rogue player?
Glenn thought.
Time to find out because you don't have any other angle.

“He's my guy. Mike Caldwell.”

A moment or two of silence passed.

“I'll meet you in your office, Glenn.”

Click.

Glenn hung up and sighed. Shit. This wasn't going to be easy.

S
teve was already in his office and sitting in front of his desk when Glenn walked in. The man was over fifty but still had the body of a linebacker and every inch of it filled the chair. Before Glenn could say anything, Steve launched in on him.

“Mike Caldwell resigned earlier this year.”

“This needs to stay quiet, Steve.” Glenn eased into his chair. “And no, he didn't. Well, he did, sort of. I made it look that way.”

“He's working for you, huh? Doing projects outside the scope of Special Activities and the Clandestine Service?”

“You don't want to know the details. Most of it isn't legal, so you want to keep your knowledge limited. He's working projects for me, yes, which puts my nuts in an even tighter vice than they normally would be. That's all I want to say about it for your sake.”

“And DNCS has no idea?”

“Nor does the director. No one does but you and me now.”

“What happened to him?”

“Got snatched. Don't know by whom or where he's been taken.”

“Why not just write him off? No one knows he's there but us. Wash your hands and it all goes away. Sounds like the best play if you want to stay out of jail.”

Glenn swallowed a mouthful of spit. “Because he's my guy. And you couldn't do it, either, so don't suggest it again.”

Steve rubbed his chin. “You're putting me in a tight spot, Glenn. I can't pull resources to help someone who doesn't technically work for us anymore.”

“I know.” As special activities director, Steve oversaw all US HUMINT operations in hostile areas. His were the operations Glenn had not wanted to jeopardize. “I'm not asking you to do that.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“Mossad's doing a snatch-and-grab op in Iraq, right? In An Nasiriyah. Coordinating through you to keep the locals calm.”

“Yes, I briefed that to DNCS two weeks ago. It goes down tomorrow. Some fucking Kraut arms runner funneling shit to Hezbollah and Hamas. He should have relayed that to you—”

Glenn waved him off. “He did. I need the lead Mossad agent's contact info.”

“You're going to need to get Mossad's approval to change their operation.”

“Won't work. No, I need to talk to the lead agent in the field. I need him to redirect efforts to find Mike. And I need to keep this all between you, me, and the wall.”

“And what makes you think I'll give it?”

Glenn leaned back and fixed Steve with his gaze. “You will.”

Steve waved a finger. “Don't try that dead-eyes shit with me, Glenn. We've known each other too damn long for that to work. My reflection scares me more than you do.”

“Right.” Glenn chuckled. “What was I thinking?”

“Even if you convince the Mossad agent, he'll still inform his controllers.”

“No, he won't.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I know him. We go back a ways. He's their most senior clandestine agent and director of Metsada. I just don't have his contact info in the field. You do. So I need you to help me out.”

“What are you going to tell the director about the UAV?”

“Say I chased a hunch and found nothing.”

“You think he'll buy that shit?”

“After I saved his ass from the presidential fire over Basra? Yes, he'll buy whatever I sell him. Plus, who gives a shit? So I diverted a UAV for a few minutes. Not like I assassinated anyone.”

Steve's right eyebrow flicked up. He steepled his fingers together and rested them under his chin. Glenn watched him, knowing the thoughts racing through his counterpart's head, weighing what he should do versus what he would do.

“Come on, Steve,” Glenn said. “I need help on this one. You know it would take a lot to ask a favor like this. Besides saving my ass from a congressional inquiry and certain jail time, you'd be saving the CIA's rep and brother agent.”

“The perception is he resigned and perception is reality.”

“He's an operator. Don't hold his status against him.”

After another minute of silence, Steve said, “You're going to owe me a ton for this, Glenn.”

Glenn smiled. “I wouldn't expect anything less.”

CHAPTER THREE

M
ike felt like he floated in the calm waters of a lake on a dark starless night. Everything seemed still and peaceful and somehow right. Then something blew by him in the darkness. He searched, looking, and found only a shroud of black enveloping him.

It blew by him again. He spun and felt something surging up his legs and torso. Something moving, swirling. It constricted as it covered every inch of him. He couldn't move. Couldn't scream.

But he could hear. Flies buzzing. Locusts singing. They bit at his skin. First in random intervals. Then all at the same time. Biting and ripping while their wings beat the air louder and louder and louder . . .

M
ike fluttered his eyes and breathed deep, grateful to be awake from the nightmare. Then he realized he was lying on a metal table, staring at the framing of an old drop ceiling sans fiberglass tiles. Any feelings of gratefulness vanished.

He tried to sit up but couldn't. Lifting his head, he found his naked body strapped to the table. Leather belts wrapped his ankles and his waist and his chest, pinning his arms against his sides.

Not good.

The hole in his shoulder had a big gauze pad covering it. Surgical tape held it in place. As he wriggled, no pain emanated from the wound.

Local anesthetic,
Mike thought. They wanted him alive, that was for sure. But why?

He let the question go. The more important thing to do now was try to get the hell out of Dodge. Easier said than done, though.

Mike glanced around him. The room was fairly large, like an open work bay or schoolroom with no furniture. Only the table he lay on and another table next to him. This one was smaller, metal, and covered with—

“Oh, shit.”

Spread out on a white rag was a needle for the local anesthetic, a rubber mouth bit for biting down, and a silver amputation saw.

Maybe it's not for you,
he thought.
Why would they keep you alive only to cut your ass up? How about we get out of here before we get an answer to that question?
Some things are best left unknown.

Only he wasn't going anywhere fast. Unable to move anything but his head, Mike quickly accepted the fact he was at the mercy of his captors. Unless he could manage to become Houdini right quick. Fat chance. Maybe, when someone showed up, they might slack a strap or two. Maybe just enough to get a hand free. Then he might be able to escape. But until that happened, Mike had no choice but to play the waiting game.

Preserve your strength,
he thought.
Sharpen your mind. Relax.

Then he looked at the saw again and all motivation died.

He tried his best to focus on the ceiling. His will lasted about five seconds before his eyes were locked on the gleaming serrated blade. Christ, what did they have planned for him?

A door creaked open behind him. Mike forced himself to remain cool and collected. Footsteps grew closer and the skinny frame of an Arab with a short, well-trimmed beard appeared next to him. He wore a light khaki shirt with the collar open. Mike noticed the curve of a tattoo arcing over the top of his sternum. The two locked eyes.

“Greetings, Mr. Hosselkus,” he said in Arabic. “I hope you are comfortable.”

Hosselkus.
So they had only the alias from his wallet. Nothing else. He tried to find the positive in anything he could. Hopefully, they hadn't snagged his cell phone from the car.

“The table's a bit chilly,” Mike said. “I swear I'm a grower, not a shower.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience, but nothing can be done about that.” He leaned over and inspected the dressing on his shoulder. “I think you will find our treatment of your injury, though, more than hospitable.”

“Sure. And since you're being so kind, why don't you let me go?”

“No.”

“That's a shame.” Mike jerked his chin at the man's tattoo. “So, you guardians got a personal grudge with me, huh?”

The man smiled. His teeth were straight and perfectly white. “No grudge at all. In fact, you have become very important to us. Hence the reason we have gone to such great lengths to ensure your wound heals properly. Your health is our great concern.”

Mike wasn't digging the vibe coming off this guy. Part of him wished the stranger would just straight up say he wanted Mike dead or something. This whole concern for his comfort was creeping Mike out.

“You mind telling me why I'm so important?”

The smile faded. “Oh, I think you know.”

Mike thought about it for a moment. It took only a moment. Only one thing connected him to the guardians and the prison they'd done such a shitty job protecting.

“Your demon.” Mike shook his head. “But it's gone. I thought that was a good thing.”

“It is. But it was not the only one.”

Mike swallowed, remembering his face-to-face encounter with Semyaza. Oh, how lucky he'd been to survive—only to die naked on a metal table.
God has a sense of humor.

“So, there are more,” Mike said. “What's that got to do with me?”

“We do not know where the other prisons are.” He straightened up and walked over to the table with the saw on it. “The one outside Ur was well known to us, discovered by our ancestors by accident long ago. They ensured it remained hidden after one of them received a vision—”

“A vision?”

“Yes, an angel instructed him to never open the prison. That a monstrous demon dwelled in the darkness, bound in chains. It became his and his tribe's task to guard it, to prevent an outsider from ever freeing the beast within.”

“And you failed.”

The man picked up the saw and turned it in his hand. He touched his thumb to one of its teeth as if checking its sharpness. The light reflected off the polished blade and Mike bit his tongue.

Shut up,
he thought.
Being a smart-ass is not a wise play at this juncture.

“Yes, we failed.” The man put the saw down and Mike breathed a little easier. “But you did not. You confronted it on the navy ship and survived. Which means it let you live. Which means it found something in you worth leaving alone.”

“How do you know about the ship?”

The smile again. “We have our own sources of intelligence.”

“Pretty fancy for a bunch of tattooed tribesmen.”

“We were once a tribe. Over the years, well, we have become more of an organization.”

Mike didn't like the sound of that. They knew a lot of crap they shouldn't. How big were they?

“It wasn't what you thought it was, by the way.”
Dumb fucks.
“You seem to have access to trivial information, but when it comes to the most important, like where specifically the prison was and what was actually in it, you suck.”

“Jinn, demon, fallen angel. They have had many names throughout time. They are more accurately known as the ‘Fallen.' ”

Maybe not so dumb,
Mike thought and regretted losing his cool.
Don't play this guy's game.

“Anyway,” the man said, “the entity is gone, as is its prison. But there are still more Fallen out there. More prisons, too.”

“How do you know?”

“The vision. The man who received it so long ago was told of a war in heaven. Four angels, leaders of Satan's four great legions, were bound in these prisons under the creatures they refused to serve: Us. Humans. The vision, though, did not specify the locations. Nor would my ancestor have understood where they were, since the known world at the time was so small.”

“You think they're spread out around the world?”

“It is logical to think so. But we are not certain. We do have some theories, though.”