This Darkness Light Read online

  Not redemption, never that. Just purpose. That was all he had left, and the best he could hope for.

  He stepped forward, and sensed the guns of the three men outside the car inching forward.

  If they had been pointed at him, that wouldnʹt have stopped his motion. He would have taken his chances. He would have attacked.

  But they werenʹt pointed at him. They were pointed inside the black SUV. Into the open back door.

  And there were guns in the SUV, too. Pointed at the same place. An agent in the back seat who held onto her, and dug a gun into the hollow point between neck and chin. The gun was a mirror of the Desert Eagle Isaiah had used earlier this evening.

  A single pull of that trigger, and Katherineʹs head would be splashed all over the inside of the SUV.

  Whatʹs left of her head.

  Even in his terror, his guilt intruded.

  Isaiah stopped moving. His hands wanted to rise, to go over his head in the universal gesture of surrender. He willed them to remain at his sides. Channeled terror and despair into rage.

  ʺIʹm going to kill you. All of you,ʺ he said. He looked at Katherine. ʺYou okay, honey?ʺ

  She didnʹt answer. Of course. She was gagged.

  But even if she hadnʹt been gagged, she wouldnʹt have spoken. She hadnʹt spoken for seven years.

  She was beautiful. Even though her one eye was clouded and sightless, even though her muscles were weak and atrophied from seven years in which they had seen little use. Even though her lovely red hair had grown brittle over the long period of her disability.

  Even with the one side of her skull deeply cratered, giving her head the appearance of a lopsided ball.

  ʺGet the gag off her,ʺ demanded Isaiah.

  Dominic shook his head. ʺIʹm terribly sorry, but we really canʹt,ʺ said the elegant man. He adjusted a pair of cufflinks. In just about anyone else Isaiah would have suspected the gold to be fake, the huge rocks at their center to be cubic zirconia. Not these. They were real. Whoever this man was, he had the treasures of the world at his disposal. Beyond rich. Beyond powerful. ʺWhat if she screams?ʺ

  ʺShe wonʹt. She doesnʹt have control of her salivation. Shut her mouth like that and she could drown,ʺ said Isaiah.

  ʺThat would be tragic indeed,ʺ said Dominic. ʺPlease pay attention.ʺ Isaiah didnʹt look away from Katherine. She was looking in his direction, but her eyes did not focus on his.

  They never had. Not in the seven years. He suspected they never would.

  ʺLOOK AT ME!ʺ

  The scream was so unexpected it jerked Isaiahʹs attention to Dominic without his volition. There was no choice involved–he was commanded, he obeyed.

  Dominic grinned. ʺIf she could die, then I suggest you listen. Because the gag doesnʹt come off until we are done in this place.ʺ

  Isaiahʹs mouth curled into a snarl. ʺWhat do you want?ʺ

  ʺI want you to kill a man.ʺ

  ʺNo.ʺ

  ʺYouʹll want this job.ʺ

  ʺNo, I wonʹt.ʺ

  ʺYes. You will.ʺ Dominic gestured down the lane. There was nothing there but a black sedan. ʺThatʹs your car now,ʺ he said. ʺItʹs registered to you, insured to you. Donʹt worry about tickets or accidents, though. You drive as fast as you need, anywhere you need. No officer of law enforcement will pull you over for any reason.ʺ

  ʺHow can you–?ʺ

  ʺThere is a phone on the seat. Hold down the number one key and it will connect you to my people. They will provide you with anything–anything–you need to complete this mission.ʺ Dominic smiled. ʺAsk and ye shall receive, eh, Father?ʺ

  ʺIʹm not–ʺ

  Dominic cut him off again. Apparently the man only had time for himself. ʺUnder the phone is an envelope and a match. The envelope carries the particulars of your mission. Read it and then burn it and its contents. Do you understand?ʺ

  Isaiah nodded. He would do everything these men asked. Except the job. He was going to find them. Find Katherine. And then kill every single person involved in this nightmare.

  Dominic last. And longest.

  ʺI know you are thinking of vengeance,ʺ said Dominic. Isaiah almost started. Then reminded himself that such a thought would be fairly obvious. The man wasnʹt a mind reader, just following the natural logic of the moment. ʺKnow this: the same resources we are providing you will be given to hiding Katherine. The moment I sense–the moment I even believe–you have abandoned the mission, I will issue orders to have her hands and feet cut off, her tongue and eyes burned out of her head, and then she will be raped to death. Do you understand?ʺ

  Isaiah couldnʹt answer for a moment. The threat had been delivered so matter-of-factly it almost didnʹt compute.

  ʺSheʹs…sheʹs fourteen, for Godʹs sake.ʺ

  Dominic grinned. ʺMy men have access to all sorts of deviants. Some of them are deviants.ʺ He let that sink in, and from the look in his eyes Isaiah suspected the one of the deviants was Dominic himself. ʺDo you understand?ʺ

  Isaiah nodded. He couldnʹt speak. His tongue felt like a block of petrified wood.

  Dominic squinted. ʺI donʹt know if you believe me. If you believe I will do what I have said I will do.ʺ

  ʺI believe you.ʺ

  The squint didnʹt leave Dominicʹs face. ʺWell, suppose you donʹt. Suppose you decide alternative arrangements are in order. What then?ʺ Isaiah didnʹt respond. It didnʹt seem like the other man was talking to him at this point.

  Dominic shook his head. ʺNo, I think we need to prove our seriousness to you. Our dedication to this mission, and the importance we attach to your attainment of the assignments we provide.ʺ

  The elegant man nodded. At the motion the thin agent stepped forward and Isaiah couldnʹt stop a sharp yell from escaping. He clamped his mouth shut when the agent in the car, the one with the gun on Katherine, shoved it harder into the base of her jaw and the girl moaned under her gag.

  Isaiah also realized that the thin agent wasnʹt moving toward the side of the SUV. Not toward Katherine. Thank God, not toward Katherine at all.

  Instead, he moved to the trunk hatch of the vehicle. He popped it open and moved behind it, out of sight. The SUV rocked a bit, then the agent came back, dragging something.

  Isaiah gaped.

  It was Idella Ferrell. The woman he had just gone through so much to save.

  She was dead. Nude. Her body covered in cuts and bruises and stab wounds. And more. Worse. There was little doubt why she was nude, or that what her husband had done to her once upon a time paled in comparison to the manner of her death at the hands of these men. Probably the same man who had pulled her from the SUV, judging by his smile–as thin as the rest of him, twice as cold.

  ʺWhy…?ʺ He couldnʹt even finish the thought. His mind blanked.

  The thin agent returned to the trunk and dragged a new package to them. This one not dead. This one kicking spastically. Thrashing. And all the more awful for that fact.

  ʺNicholas?ʺ

  The old man was bound, trussed with so much rope he looked almost cartoonish. His white collar–the mirror of Isaiahʹs own, only it always seemed so much whiter, so much more earnest–was visible among the rough-woven loops that held him.

  ʺNicholas?ʺ Isaiah said again.

  The old man looked up. Tape wrapped around his face. Over his mouth, around the back of his head.

  His eyes smiled. They always smiled.

  The thin agent shot Nicholas in the back of the head. The bullet exploded through the front of his face. The old eyes no longer smiled.

  The agentʹs too-thin face crinkled as he grinned.

  Isaiah did not scream. It happened so fast that the scream was stolen by the violence, the surprise.

  The disbelief.

  Nicholas?

  The priest wasnʹt dead. He couldnʹt be dead, so he wasnʹt dead. He would live forever. He had saved countless souls–had almost saved Isaiahʹs.

  But his eyes no longer smiled.

  The thin man dr
agged the body away. The trunk slammed. Another agent mopped up the blood and brain with a towel and Isaiah knew they had planned this before they caught him; that it was an inevitability. Whether he had presented himself as groveling or defiant, Idella would have been shown to him, both she and Nicholas would have died.

  Because of me. I tried to save Idella and failed. Nicholas tried to save me and he died instead.

  Isaiah dragged his eyes away from the spot where his near-savior and only remaining friend had died.

  Dominic was smiling at him. Smiling an ample, sincere grin of simple joy.

  ʺI hope we understand each other,ʺ he said.

  Isaiah nodded. There was no more to be done.

  Though no one made any movements or signals that Isaiah could see, another black SUV suddenly pulled into the lane and stopped behind the first one.

  Dominic got back in the first vehicle. Sitting beside Katherine.

  The tall agent who had led Isaiah here began to close the door. Dominic gestured for him to stop. He looked at Isaiah with a very serious expression.

  ʺIsaiah, I know what you do. I know why you do it. And you have to believe me about two things: one is that I donʹt want to do this to Katherine. But I need you very focused on your assignment. The second thing is that the reason I need you focused is because the future of the entire world will depend on how well you do this job.ʺ He paused a moment, then continued, ʺYou have been righting wrongs for years. This is the ultimate chance to do that.ʺ

  The door closed. A moment later the remaining three agents piled into the other SUV and both vehicles pulled away and were gone in an instant.

  Isaiah stared into nothing for a long time. The lane was dark, illuminated by spots of brightness where the occasional store had a light in the rear of their business. Bright and dark. Like night and day. Like the world itself.

  Like the eyes of a little girl.

  Something flashed.

  The headlights of the car. His car.

  It pulled him out of his stasis, the near-coma induced by the sight of Katherine and the threats Dominic had brought against her.

  He turned to the car. Someone must be in it.

  Someone could give him answers. Maybe an immediate lead on Dominic.

  But when he threw open the door, there was no one inside.

  The lights must have been activated remotely. Urging him to get a move on.

  Which meant he wasnʹt alone. Dominic had people watching.

  How long before he decided Isaiah wasnʹt going to help?

  How long before he made good on his threat?

  That he would was not in doubt. Isaiah had seen a good many vicious and ruthless men in his life, both before he began killing for pay and then after. He knew the look of a man willing to destroy another, willing to see a human soul crushed underfoot.

  Dominic was such a man.

  Isaiah glanced around the lane. Scanned the tops of the businesses, looking for someone with a sniper scope, someone watching.

  No one. No one he could see, at least.

  But he had to move.

  He got in the car.

  The interior was luxurious. The seats and other surfaces were hand-tailored leather. Trim looked like handcrafted wood with aluminum accents.

  The engine was already on, but he barely heard it. The interior glowed gently, illuminated by hundreds of purple LED lights around the dash and center console and by the red dash display.

  There was a huge display in the center of the dash: a system that carried GPS, Bluetooth connectivity, and a WiFi hotspot. Everything he could possibly need to stay connected on the move.

  The phone and packet were on the passenger seat, just as Dominic had promised.

  He opened the packet.

  Inside were two pictures. One was of a woman. Information on the back. She was a nurse named Serafina Cruz. Not the primary target, though she was aiding him.

  The other picture was an illustration. Hand-drawn in exquisite detail, but Isaiah wondered why the man had no photographs available. The name given was only ʺJohn,ʺ no last name.

  Behind the illustration was a single stapled sheet.

  Isaiah read. As he did he grew shaky.

  There was a moment where he thought it wasnʹt true. That it couldnʹt be true. Things like this just didnʹt happen.

  But what if it was happening?

  The guys who grabbed me were government.

  That was true. There was no other group that had the kind of resources and professionalism these guys had. Isaiah had made enemies over the years, but always anonymously. And even if any of his victims had been survived by vengeance-minded friends or family–doubtful, given their character and temperament–those types were likely to kill or torture. Not give him a job to find a person whose only picture consisted of a skilled pencil drawing.

  So government.

  And they wouldnʹt just do this to jerk him around.

  So it was true.

  Unless they are jerking you around.

  Okay, yes, it was possible. But why?

  No, the idea that this was just a big joke or a setup was unlikely. Isaiah was very good at his job. Maybe the best. He knew that. So it made sense that someone who needed the best would reach out to him.

  And if what was in the packet was true, then the best was definitely needed.

  He reached into the packet. One more item.

  He pulled out the match. Leaned out of the car and struck it against the pavement. A moment later the photo, the illustration, the information pages, and the envelope itself were ash beside the car.

  The paper flared brightly and disappeared. The words written on it flared brightly in Isaiahʹs mind, but they remained. Particularly key ones about the threat John represented.

  …highly contagious…

  …rogue asset…

  …mortality rate exceeding 98%…

  …adaptable, transformative…

  …determination to destroy…

  Isaiah was a killer.

  And he was hunting a weapon.

  FOUND OUT AND DISCOVERED

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 3:07 AM

  Subject: New player on the field

  Donʹt worry about answering this; I know youʹre asleep and no doubt very cute all curled up with your blankie in one arm and Patricia in the other (does the missus know about you and the Press Secretary?).

  Nevertheless, be strong and take heart: I managed to acquire the asset I spoke of earlier. He is a true professional of outstanding achievement and I have no doubt that he will bring to pass outstanding results.

  Sleep tight. Remember that Viagra and nitrates donʹt mix.

  ***

  John didnʹt look down. He was too struck by Serafinaʹs face, by her reaction to whatever she saw when she removed his bandages.

  The bandages themselves pulled away with a vague tearing sensation that was not entirely unpleasant. A slight ripping accompanied it, the sound of fabric cleaving from fabric and dried blood cleaving from flesh.

  ʺWhat?ʺ he said. ʺWhat is it?ʺ

  Serafina didnʹt answer. She just said, ʺI wondered. I wondered how you could be fighting like that, running like that. How you could…,ʺ and then fell silent.

  John looked down. He didnʹt see anything wrong. And with that, he understood what had terrified the nurse.

  He looked up to see she now was peering at him. ʺYou were shot,ʺ she said. ʺI changed the bandages myself. You almost died. You should have died.ʺ

  He nodded. ʺYeah,ʺ he answered. His throat was dry.

  ʺSo where are they? Where are the wounds?ʺ

  They looked down together.

  His skin was unbroken. There were three scars over his chest and ribs. But they were gnarled and faded, nearly the same color as the surrounding skin. The color of scars long-healed, of wounds all but forgotten to time.

  John lifted a tremblin
g finger and touched one of them. The one on his chest. It was shaped like a brittle sea star, a creature closely related to a starfish that had a round central body and long arms it used to crawl across the sea floor.

  Another random fact I seem to know. Iʹd kill at Jeopardy.

  The legs of the sea star curled in on themselves as though the scar pre-dated the bullet, and the gunshot wound had caused it to pull in its legs in a final death throe.

  Serafina reached out a hand and touched the spot as well. Their fingers came together for a moment and John felt as though the air had grown electric, like the ozone snap before a lightning storm. He didnʹt look up, acutely aware how beautiful Serafina was, how capable and strong, worried that the nurse might be looking back at him, just as worried she might not.

  ʺWhat are you?ʺ she said.

  The question stung. ʺIʹm just a man,ʺ he said.

  She shook her head. ʺMen donʹt heal like this.ʺ

  ʺOkay, so Iʹm a man-plus. Like you see on a Wheaties box. Or one of those sports drinks commercials.ʺ

  She shook her head again. Pulled her hand away. John felt the loss acutely. But it brought him back to reality. He pulled his shirt back over his head.

  ʺWe should go,ʺ he said.

  It was true, but he sensed he was fleeing this room as much as the possibility of further pursuit.

  ʺWhat are you?ʺ

  He didnʹt like the question. Didnʹt like the implication that he might be something other than human.

  He was a man. He bled, he had almost died.

  But he also remembered the chart. The fact that the bullets had shattered his lung, had pulverized his heart. Mortal wounds survived.

  And now healed.

  He could not deny that there was something strange going on. But did that make him not a man?

  No. He felt like a man. His heart pumped. His body was warm.

  He had felt something when Serafina touched him; when their fingers came together.

  That more than anything reassured him. Surely something not a man would fail to feel that.