Chosen (The Chosen Few Trilogy #1) (7 page)

10

MIAMI, U.S.A.

Pure adrenalin surged through Marian Cleaver as he approached the building where a crazy woman was holding thirty kids hostage.

A stocky guy wi
th a buzz cut was talking
into his radio-mike behind a mini-van. Cleaver approached him

The stocky guy held out a hand. “
Whoa
there partner. Been jogging?”

Cleaver winced, remembering the state of his sweats. “Just left your wife, bud. What’s the activity here?”

“No one’s gone in or out since we got here. And by the way, do I know you,
bud?
”

“What’s the layout?” Cleaver ran a hand through his sweat-drenched ha
ir, trying to look jaded, set
for the long haul. None of these guys knew he was the man Gaines had named.

“Thirty to thirty-
five hostages, ages
eighteen to
twenty three. Mixed race. No obvious motives,” buzz-cut pointed to a room. Second floor. Left hand corner. “All in there.”

“And the perp?”

“Sat watching them.”

Cleaver frowned. “So not a single hostage has made a move? Not one? What the hell has this woman done to them?”

“We’re just kicking it here, Sir, waiting for the brass. I’m really going to need to see some kind of ID now.”

Cleaver mulled it over
. Gaines
had to be holding something
horrible over
those kids. Out of all the dross his mind picked up on one thing.

“I wonder why they’ve
been herded together.”

“Who cares,”
buzz cut winked
. “They’re only college kids, right?”

Cleaver fought hard to restrain his natural tendencies. “Start getting a team together,” he snarled. “Get a negotiator over here. And move the fucking press back,” he pointed to a circling helicopter. “I don’t want this playing out over national TV.”

The Miami PD guy looked impressed,
and then
rushed off without questioning Cleave
r’s ID again
. Cleaver took a moment to check his weapons, donned his trusty brown duster and made sure its heavy bulk
was hiding both shotguns and all
three automatics. And an array of knives. And a highly illegal cattle prod. A weapon for every occasion.

He slunk into the shadows and hugged the garden wall all the way to the house. A rattle of the front door found it locked. He pulled out a set of custom-made picks and finessed the lock.
S
econds later he was inside.

A dark corridor ran
to the far side of the house. Cleaver started down it, pausing frequently to listen. What the hell was he doing? Risking his career?
And all for a
n ancient,
secretive organization
that denied its very
existence.
He muted his cell phone and sent
a
text message to
England. His life
wasn’t as important as other things going on in the world right now.
P
eople needed help, whether they knew it or not. He wouldn’t fail them.

Cleaver found a staircase. To his
left
,
dirty windows overlooked
a neglected
garden
and beyond that a Shell station that had been evacuated. Vivid lights
bathed
the scene in stark relief. He saw a bunch of kids one block over sitting on a wall, sucking down 20oz Dews and
shoveling
fast food as if they had front row seats at the local Cineplex.

No sound came from the floor above.
Thirty-
five kids?
No sound?

His cell phone lit up. An incoming text message from Aegis. He owed them. They had saved him, h
oned his boxing skills into
fighting expertise, turned him around and given him a purpose- to watch over events here in Miami and report as they unfolded.

And Miami was about to become the mo
st important place on the
planet.

He read the message.
Do not confront Gaines. Eight still not found. Stand down.

Cleaver bowed his head and leaned against the wall.
Bullshit.
It wasn’t that simple. Ever since Josh Walkers died all those years ago, Cleaver had never left an innocent in trouble. Never. He couldn’t start now, Aegis directive or not.

He took out his gun and
proceeded up the stairs. Staying low, he reached the second floor and located the room that held the hostages. Without a sound he crept towards the door, put his head to the wood, and listened.

Suddenly the door opened, and a young girl stood there. She had shoulder-length jet black hair and a tanned face that
would have been attractive if not
for her red-rimmed eyes and trembling lower jaw. She wore nothing but a lacy bra and a tiny pair of matching panties. Her face paled at the sight of the gun.

“You have to come inside,” the girl whispered. “She will kill one of us if you don’t.”

Cleaver was at a loss. He motioned with the gun. “Stand aside.”

The girl moved. Through the gap Cleaver saw the hostages in various states of undress, huddled in a corner of the room. They looked l
ost and helpless, and
terrified.

Maybe Clanger was right for once. Maybe this had been some kind of sex party.

Cleaver stepped through the door, ignoring the voice in his head that demanded he let Miami PD handle this by the book. As he entered the room his senses were assaulted by the cloying smell of mixed fear and tension, a smell he knew intimately. It was the smell of the ring. Some fighters came crawling through the ropes, their terror-stink so thick it used to fill Cleaver’s nostrils like thousand dollar cologne. Some fighters masked it well behind a bullish
exterior;
others basked and wallowed in it like a hippo in his
favorite
mud bath. But there was no mistaking it.

Cleaver’s nostrils flared.

In contrast,
Mena Gaines,
lounged in her Lazee-Boy
, one white leg dangling over the padded arm.
Cleaver locked eyes with her.

“So you are Marian Cleaver,” Gaines rose with la
nguid ease. “
And we meet here, at New Babylon, for the first time.”

“New Babylon?”

“Site of the apocalypse. Don’t you know? This is where Gorgoroth will be born.
Do you know who I am
?”

Cleaver said nothing, but let his mind
drink it all in. Gaines was
tall, over six
feet
, and athletic beyond the point you might call obsession.
Catwalk models had more fat.
She wore an ankle
-
length black skirt with
waist-h
igh
slits on
both sides
and a loose fitting white sweater. Her black hair was straight, and framed a once-pretty face that now looked haunted in the pale light. Cleaver likened her to a chandelier stripped of its glitter, still imposing and bright but missing that quality that made it really
live.

He
leve
l
led
the gun at her.

Gaines flicked a tongue across her lips. “I am Eradicator.”

“Cool name. Put it on a T-shirt. Let the kids go.”

“They are sitting on a cleverly
-
contrived pressure plate. If their combined weight shifts even a few ounces either way it will trigger an explosion that will destroy this entire building.”

Fuck and damn. “Including you.”

Gaines shrugged.

“I thought you were a fighter.”

Gaines looked delighted. “Well, I have many talents, Marian,” she smiled lasciviously.

“You’re not even
human,”
Cleaver spat the words at her in disgust.

“Of course I am. I am imbued with the power my Master saw fit to give me, but I am as human as you, Marian.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Then don’t say I’m not human,” Gaines took a st
ep forward. Her feet were bare
and white against the oak
floor.

“We are the second of our respective powers to meet. It is a shame you are not one of the Chosen, one of the Eight.
But then maybe Loki has murdered them all by now, eh?
But we can still fight,” her eyes flicked towards the sobbing huddle of kids. “Winner takes all.”

Cleaver saw terrified
faces staring back at him. “How do I release them?”

“The disarm button,” Gaines motioned towards the arm of the Lazee-Boy. Cleaver saw a rectangular plastic object like a remote control.

“What guarantee do I have that it
won’t
just set the bomb off?”

“Ummm,” Gaines put a finger to her lips. “You got me there.”

Cleaver wondered if he should risk just sh
ooting the bitch. But the
mocking look on Gaines’ face stopped him.

At that moment a voice blared out, amplified through a bullhorn. “Mena Gaines! This is the police! Is there a way we could talk to you?”

A splash of light, most likely from a helicopter, swept the windows.

Gaines danced forward, moving easily in her slit skirt. She flexed her shoulders and settled into a
fighter’s
stance before the main window.

“Winner
takes
all,” she said again. “
In New Babylon.
Here
and now. Just think, Marian, you’re not only trying to save the kids, you’re trying to save the world too. And you get to do it on prime-time television.
Isn’t
America cool?”

Cleaver stalled for a few more seconds, hoping a sniper might take a pot shot. To take out one of the Six so soon and so easily would give Aegis and the Chosen a massive boost.

Gaines indicated the remote. “Or I could put everyone out of their misery right now.”

Cleaver dropped the gun and leapt at her.

12

SAN FRANCISCO, U.S.A.

The Porsche twitched and the engine screamed as Ken Hamilton slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

“What the fuck’s going on, man?” he shouted. “Who the he
ll are you and who’s that crazy
bitch back there?”

The man in the passenger seat, a short, balding individual who spoke in a clipped British accent said, “I do have a vague idea who that is, Ken. Though I’m not about to make any assumptions. Especially at this speed.

“Tell me, do I look like I enjoy being attacked by a mad woman?” Ken shouted angrily. “Huh? An
d
especially
one with a fucking
sword?
”

“Well, in truth, Ken, you strike me as a young, rather roguish surfer dude who hates authority and makes snap decisions, making him very unpredictable.”

Ken shrugged. “Well-”

“Eyes on the road please,” the man grimaced as the Porsche veered towards oncoming traffic.

Ken twisted the wheel in a violent motion. Bright headlights zoomed closer in the rear view.

“Damn. We lost three seconds there.”

Ken breathed out slowly, forcing himself to relax. He sent up a hand to smooth out his wild, blonde hair.

“Please listen to what I am saying to you,” the Engl
ishman enunciated clearly. “We have little
time, and I certainly do not fancy
coming
between you and that bloody sword
again
. Do I have your attention?”

“Yes,” Ken sulked. He hated being told what to do.

“Well, thank the Lord. We have a major problem, my man. First let me tell you the random atrocities you have seen on Fox and CNN recently are not random at all. The odd shadow phenomenon you have heard dismissed is
not an anomaly, rather it is a
cause
. And you, Ken Hamilton, though somewhat insubordinate and far too good looking, are rather more than you seem.”

Ken
kept his eyes on the road. “
Stop the bullshit
Jeeves.
And stop saying
Ken this
and
Ken that.
It’s
annoying.”

“Vampires,” ’Jeeves’ said. “
Werewolves
and other species do not solely belong to the fictional realm,
Ken
. I ask only your indulgence, and an hour of your time, to prove it to you.”