Demon Mind (Vector Book 2) Read online

  Demon Mind

  Vector, Book Two

  Anthony J. Melchiorri

  Contents

  -Prologue-

  -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  -6-

  -7-

  -8-

  -9-

  -10-

  -11-

  -12-

  -13-

  -14-

  -15-

  -16-

  -17-

  -18-

  -19-

  -20-

  -21-

  -22-

  -23-

  -24-

  -25-

  -26-

  -27-

  -28-

  -29-

  -30-

  -31-

  -32-

  -33-

  -34-

  -35-

  -36-

  -37-

  -38-

  -39-

  -40-

  -Epilogue-

  -Author’s Note-

  -Dear Reader-

  Demon Mind (Vector, Book Two)

  Copyright © 2021 by Anthony J. Melchiorri. All rights reserved.

  First Edition: September 2021

  http://AnthonyJMelchiorri.com

  Cover Design: © Damonza, Damonza.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  -Prologue-

  A fire blazed beneath the man’s skull. When he opened his eyes, spears of sunlight stabbed through his retinas, stoking the flames of throbbing pain, and he closed them again.

  Exhaustion weighed down every cell of his body. He just wanted to sleep. For that hot agony at the back of his head to disappear.

  Something wet pressed against his face, followed by an exhalation. Like an animal sniffing its next meal.

  A sudden rush of adrenaline cut through the man’s fatigue and the boiling headache. He let out a gasp then jolted upright. He smashed his hands against the animal’s muzzle and scrambled backward.

  The creature let out a startled bray. The man forced his eyes open against the blinding light, just enough to see a silhouette of the beast scrabble backward. It retreated beyond a square-shaped opening before his eyes could adjust enough to tell what kind of animal had been sizing him up.

  Was it preparing for another attack? Had this creature brought him back to its den to eat him?

  The man blinked again, drawing his fists up, fighting against the urge to clench his eyelids closed. Standing slowly, he looked around for a weapon. He couldn’t stand straight without his head scraping against the stone ceiling. The place was twice as wide as he was tall. Every surface was chiseled rock.

  Dry air blew into the apparently man-made cave. The earthy scent mixed with the kerosene wafting from a lamp in the corner. Scratchy red blankets covered the floor where he had been sleeping.

  He blinked, rubbing his eyes. The beast hadn’t returned.

  He patted his stomach and his limbs to check for wounds. His legs were sore; he felt like he’d been hiking for days. Bruises and scabs covered his knuckles. The results of a fight? A couple knots on the back of his head, like he had fallen on concrete. A spot along his jaw felt tender. Someone had landed a few good hits.

  His jaw was rough with stubble too. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved.

  How did I get here?

  His pulse started to accelerate again, his throat tightening. A distant memory echoed in the back of his mind. He didn’t know why he was here, but he had the vague sense someone was after him. And it wasn’t just the animal that had been sniffing him.

  He didn’t know why he knew this. But he did.

  He started toward the open doorway of the cave-like dwelling. A golden-red hue soaked the sky. He used one hand to shield his eyes against a blood-orange sun scorching its way up from the horizon. Looming rocky walls surrounded him, forming a canyon. Sand on the wind scraped over his exposed skin, and the dryness of the air sucked what little moisture he had left in his body.

  More small abodes like his were carved into the canyon wall. Between them were columns and arches, platforms and stairways. This entire town, village, whatever it was had been cut out of the Martian red rock.

  The throbbing in his head grew worse, pain and confusion threatening to bring him to his knees.

  “My friend Balagh!” a voice called in accented English.

  It was in that moment the man realized he didn’t even know his own name. Was Balagh his name? He wasn’t sure, but for some reason, he couldn’t recall, and Balagh didn’t sound right. But he had no idea what it would be if it wasn’t Balagh.

  He pressed a hand against his forehead, swiveling to see who was calling him.

  The man was tugging a donkey behind him. A long bray of protest confirmed that this was the beast that had awoken him. Its gray-and-white tail whipped behind it, casting away the circling flies. The donkey had baskets secured on either flank. A hiking backpack had been slung over the saddle made of knotted rugs.

  “Balagh, did Shakira wake you?” he asked, patting the donkey’s head. “She is very nosy. Very nosy.”

  Balagh—if he was Balagh—tensed, ready to run or fight. He wasn’t sure which yet.

  The other man strode closer. He had a red-and-white shemagh scarf tied over his head, but a few locks of long, dark hair had escaped. A neatly manicured beard lined his sharp jaw, and dark shadows clung underneath his eyes.

  “You look frightened,” the man said, slowing on his approach. “Do you not recognize me?”

  Balagh made no move, but he wanted to sprint away. But what good would that do him? Running through a desert landscape with no water, no food, and no idea where he was going didn’t seem like a shortcut to survival.

  The man took off one of the baskets hanging from the donkey’s side. “Would you like some tea? Maybe it will help clear your head.”

  Balagh wanted to say no, but the scratchiness at the back of his throat said yes. “I need… to leave… I think?”

  “Not before tea,” the man said.

  A few brays and snorts from other animals rose in the air, followed by loud voices in Arabic, all echoing against the canyon walls. He wasn’t sure how he knew the language, but it was just as clear to him as the man’s English. People were shouting at donkeys and camels, telling them to move.

  But if he and this man both knew Arabic, why were they talking instead in stilted English?

  That confusion only made the pounding in his head worse.

  “Come on, brother.” The man gestured toward the cave. “Let’s sit.”

  Maybe the tea would help. This man didn’t spark any of the foggy, fearful memories simmering at the back of Balagh’s consciousness.

  The man ushered them back into the cave-like home. “Quickly, inside.”

  “Why? Are they after me?”

  “Who?”

  “I thought…?”

  The man laughed and set the basket down on one of the red carpets. “No, the tourism police do not know I let you stay here last night. They would not let me back here if they knew, and you would be charged a very big fine.”

  “Then why
did you let me stay here last night?” Balagh asked. “And… I’m sorry… who are you?”

  The man removed a teapot and a couple metal cups from the basket then poured them each a cup. “I am Attayak. I tried to get you to leave with me when I saw you. My friend, perhaps you had too many drinks.”

  “I was drunk?”

  “Something was wrong. Praise Allah I found you before the police did. You kept wandering in circles. I asked you who you were, my friend, and you stared at me. Over and over, you just kept saying, ‘Balagh.’” He paused. “That is what I think you were saying. Maybe I am not right, but it sounded like Balagh.”

  “Balagh?” he asked, still trying to get used to this name.

  “Yes. Balagh. You wouldn’t leave, so I left you in here. It’s my old family home. Back before they made all of us leave this place. Now we must live outside.”

  Balagh sipped the warm, minty tea. The sweetness of it helped bite back the headache. “Where is here?”

  “We are in the ancient city of Petra. One of the wonders of the world. How could you forget?”

  Balagh took another sip. “I can’t remember who I am or where I was or… Maybe you’re right. I was under the influence. Or maybe someone drugged me.” That sudden bite of cold fear shot through him again. “Was anyone after me?”

  Attayak drew out some flatbread and containers filled with different sauces and vegetables. “Here. Eat.” He waited for Balagh to take a piece of bread before grabbing one himself. “You told me someone was chasing you, but the only thing after you were invisible demons. You were here after dark. That is illegal.”

  Balagh patted the rocky wall. “Then why am I here?”

  “I told you why.” Attayak grinned at this, baring a mouth full of yellowed teeth. “Because I let you stay, my friend. Allah would not be happy with me if I turned away a stranger in need, even if he does not quite know his own name. Bedouin hospitality is known across the world.”

  Balagh wasn’t sure if that was true or not, but he was in no place to question the man’s claims. “Thank you. You’re very kind. But I meant to ask why I would be in Petra in the first place.”

  “That is an answer I cannot give you. To me, you looked like nothing more than a lost tourist.”

  “I don’t think…” Balagh trailed off. He had a nagging feeling that he shouldn’t share too much. Perhaps it was better to let Attayak think he was merely an irresponsible vacationer who had made some poor decisions. “Really, thank you again for your hospitality.”

  “I do have one more thing that may help you,” Attayak said. He disappeared back outside.

  Balagh still didn’t completely trust the Bedouin. Some instinct told him to find a weapon before the man came back. He reached for the teapot, muscles tensing. The teapot was still warm, filled with hot tea, and the kettle itself would make for a decent weapon if Attayak was trying to trick Balagh.

  But when Attayak returned, he was carrying the hiking backpack that Balagh had seen on the donkey’s back.

  “One of my friends found this close to where I ran into you,” Attayak explained. “I think it might be yours.”

  Balagh took the pack and started rifling through the pockets. There was barely anything inside except for a few empty water bottles and a set of metal keys.

  “What are these for?” Balagh asked, dangling the keys. The key ring had a leather tab with two palm trees and a mountain on it.

  Attayak shrugged. “A hotel room?”

  “Can you tell which hotel?”

  Attayak shook his head. “I wish I could help, but the only thing I can say is that most tourists stay in Wadi Musa. Maybe someone in town can help you find your hotel.”

  Balagh opened his mouth to speak again, but then he heard more yells echoing against the canyon walls. These weren’t the Bedouins barking orders at their animals.

  Someone down there was searching for a tourist hiding out in Petra.

  Balagh had a feeling he knew who they were looking for.

  So did Attayak.

  “Those are the police,” Attayak said in a conspiratorial whisper. “They are demanding to know where the man is that was wandering around Petra last night. You will want to leave now.”

  “Where do I go?”

  Attayak reached into the basket again. He pulled out a handful of tourist maps.

  “Here, take this. If the police are looking for you, they will begin their search along this main path.” He drew his finger between some of the highlighted sights like the Petra Treasury and the Great Temple. “You can go around them by moving this direction.”

  The man indicated a winding pathway that took him through more old houses and tombs, many left unnamed.

  “It will be easier to escape this way,” Attayak said. “Most tourists don’t go anywhere close to this place. It should be empty of people and police. By the time you make it past the High Altar of Sacrifice—”

  “Sacrifice?” Balagh did not like the sounds of that.

  “Yes,” Attayak said. “From there, you can see everything from the top of the mountain. Then head back down to Al-Siq. The canyon will be filled with tourists by the time you get there. You can hide in the crowds.”

  “Thank you,” Balagh said, folding up the map and placing it in his backpack.

  Attayak handed him a few cold bottles of water. “You will need these, too, my friend.”

  Balagh stuffed them in his pack and stood. The voices outside were growing louder. He moved to the exit, back into the heat of the sun now climbing into the blue sky.

  “Why are you doing this for me?” Balagh asked.

  “I told you,” Attayak said. “To a good Muslim and a Bedouin, hospitality is everything. Do not forget it. Next time, you may be Attayak and I may be Balagh. When I come to you in the middle of the night, I hope you will treat me the same.”

  “I will never forget your kindness,” Balagh said.

  With that, he took off eastward, clinging to the shadows and shelter of the other structures carved into the winding canyon. He headed toward the winding paths between craggy rocks toward the High Altar of Sacrifice, gaining as much distance as he could from the voices calling out for information about a stranger in Petra.

  Balagh hoped he could find out answers for himself.

  But first he had to escape.

  -1-

  Frederick, Maryland

  Skylar Cruz ran along a forested trail straight up the side of a mountain. Trees lined either side, their leaves ablaze in shades of orange and red.

  With each step, her ribs ached.

  Okay, maybe that was an understatement.

  They felt like a gorilla had enthusiastically used them as a bongo. Then he had decided the bongo sucked, so the ape smashed the damn thing into pieces.

  Pain is meaningless. Success is priceless.

  Maybe skydiving into a gunfight with a pair of fractured ribs hadn’t been the best idea. At the time, she had thought they’d been maybe a little bit bruised. Worst-case scenario. She’d had worse.

  Besides, too many lives had depended on the mission succeeding. She hadn’t let a few banged-up ribs keep her from stopping one of the most terrifying bioterrorism attacks on the United States in history.

  Once she made it back home, she’d been told to rest and let her fractured—not bruised—ribs heal. But no way in hell was she sitting out from the action forever. Her trigger finger itched. A voice at the back of her mind constantly egged her on. Sitting around doing paperwork was not the same as being in the field. The only way out from under the grinding press of boredom was to work.

  Which meant she needed to prove she’d recovered from their last mission.

  So she ran.

  Her black ponytail bounced against the back of her neck. She kicked up a rooster tail of mulched leaves and dirt, picking up speed.

  It wasn’t just her ribs aching. Her lungs burned with each breath. She felt a slight coppery taste on her tongue. Like she’d been running harder than
she’d ever run in her life.

  She stole a glance over her shoulder.

  There he was. Alex Wolfe. Just a dozen yards behind her. Alex smiled at her encouragingly.

  She ignored him.

  You got this, Cruz.

  Her prosthetic right leg slipped slightly when the boot over the fake foot hit a rock. The shudder shook up through her thigh, and she nearly fell. She caught herself on one of the nearby tree trunks and kept running.

  She was a Marine. A warrior.

  It didn’t matter that she worked for a black ops group under USAMRIID now, not the Marines. Even an elite—and secret—bioweapons defense group couldn’t take the stubborn jarhead out of her.

  Ahead, she saw a clearing in the trees. Sunlight bled through the brown and orange leaves.

  Almost there.

  She pounded up the last couple dozen yards. Slick mud threatened every step. Her body screamed at her that she was working too hard, pressing it too far. She ignored the fiery aches and pains.

  If she had given into the pain in Algeria, if she had let the mad scientist leading that covert Russian bioweapons program win, then half the world might be dead today. Including her.

  Perseverance wasn’t just a word to post on Instagram over a pretty picture of a mountain. It was a habit, something she practiced every day.

  She broke through the tree cover into a clearing. A sprawling landscape rolled out in front of her. From the steep slopes of the mountain covered in autumnal hues, the hilly farmland and towns outside Frederick bloomed.