Apocalypse Cult (Gray Spear Society) (17 page)

"Fine," Victor said at last. "You're the senior member of the team, so it's your decision. And if this blows up in our faces, it will be your fault. For the record, I think Aaron's plan is dumb."

"Just do your job properly."

"I always do. I'm a professional."

* * *

Marina walked slowly towards the farmhouse where the DEA agents were hiding. She wore a pink bikini, sandals, and nothing else. A fresh breeze felt good on her skin, which was damp with sweat from walking in the hot sun.

The skimpy outfit served two purposes. First, it proved she carried no weapons. There was hardly enough room to hide a nickel under the tight spandex. The DEA agents would assume, wrongly, that she was not a significant threat.

The second purpose was that her nearly naked body would greatly distract the male agents. In her experience, men were incapable of making rational decisions when she dressed this way. Blood rushed from their brains to their genitals. She had met only one man who was immune: Victor. He had a legendary ability to suppress his emotions.

Peeling strips of red paint hung from the walls of the farmhouse. There was no sign it was inhabited by anything other than mice and spiders. She went to the front door and knocked loudly. She heard the creak of footsteps on an old wooden floor.
Somebody is home.

She tried the handle and found it was locked. She knocked again. Finally, the door opened.

Agent Hoskins stuck his head out. "Get in!" He grabbed her wrist and jerked her inside.

The door slammed behind her.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he said.

The heat inside the farmhouse was stifling. There were five men, including Hoskins. They wore white shirts, badly stained by sweat and dust, and blue slacks. All the men were well armed, but the guns were still in holsters. They stared at Marina with wide eyes. The bikini was already doing its job.

The only furniture in the large room was folding chairs and tables. A rack of television monitors stood against a wall, and it showed twenty-five different views of the campgrounds. The angles indicated the cameras were either buried in the ground or on high tree branches. Body armor and large caliber weapons were stacked in neat piles on the tables.

"I'm talking to you," Hoskins said.

She smiled at him. "I'm not here to answer questions. I just came to deliver information."

"Tell me your real name, first. There is no such person as Carol Withers."

All the other men were still staring at her body. She thrust out her breasts slightly to keep their attention from wandering and their brains from engaging.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but my name is not included in the information."

"How did you get out of jail? I never ordered your release."

"Sorry, again."

He clenched his fists, but she knew he wouldn't actually hit an unarmed and apparently defenseless woman. And if he did, she would teach him some manners. She knew a lot of very effective ways to hurt a man.

"I'm not letting you get away again," he said. "I'll put you in a federal facility this time and let you rot there. You might as well answer my questions now."

"A prison for women? Sounds exciting." She winked seductively.

His face turned red. "What did you come to tell me?"

"The Church of One Soul is receiving a large shipment of raw heroin a few hours from now. It will arrive in a white delivery truck."

"How do you know that?"

"I was just there. I overheard them talking."

He glanced at the rack of monitors. "We didn't see you."

"I was wearing a disguise, of course." She rolled her eyes. "How big is your team?"

"Just us."

"Five agents?" She shook her head. "If you want the heroin, you'll need a lot more manpower. The cult has hundreds of members. Some have rifles and shotguns. You'll need twenty or thirty guys just for crowd control."

"We could call the local sheriff..."

"Ask him to bring
all
his deputies. Simon is a certifiable nutcase, and his men will fight you with everything they have. If you let them get organized, you'll have a full-blown siege on your hands with women and children in the middle of it. Do you remember the Waco Massacre in 1993?"

"What if your information is bad?" he said. "You're asking me to take a huge risk, and I have no reason to trust you."

"I don't have to tell you this cult moves a lot of heroin. They're one of the biggest distributors in Chicago. You certainly have enough probable cause for a search warrant regardless of my information."

His eyes lit up.
Got him
, Marina thought.

"Just call the sheriff," she said, "and the state police, too. Be ready to move fast when the delivery truck gets here. If you execute the search properly, the risks will be minimal. Or you can just sit here and sweat."

"I'll think about it."

"That's all I came to say. I'll leave now."

"No, you won't!" Hoskins turned to one of his subordinates. "Take her upstairs and handcuff her to something heavy. Watch her. If she escapes, I'm holding you responsible."

"Yes, sir!" the man said.

He was relatively young, no older than twenty-five. His thick, black hair was perfectly combed despite the heat.

He put a hand on Marina's bare shoulder and gave her a gentle push towards the stairs. She made sure he had a nice, close view of her backside as she led him up to the second floor. She glanced back to confirm he was looking at her butt.
Too easy
, she thought.

On the second floor, there was a bedroom with some exposed iron pipes along the wall.

The man took out a set of handcuffs and pointed at a pipe. "Go there, please."

"Do I have to?" She pouted and dragged her feet. "I won't try to escape. I promise. I wouldn't have a chance against a big, strong man like you."

"You heard the orders," he said weakly.

"OK." She held out her hands. "If you think it's best."

He gently grabbed her left wrist. She lashed out with her right hand and stabbed her black fingernails deep into his arm. She felt a tingle in her fingers as the venom flowed. Drops of blood leaked from five small wounds.

"What the fuck..." he began to say.

She clamped her hand over his mouth before he could cry for help. He tried to hit her, so she kneed him in the groin. After a few seconds of struggle, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the floor. He would sleep for hours.

The bedroom had a window. She pushed it open, jumped down to the grass, and ran off.

Chapter Twelve

Aaron drove the white delivery truck down the county road leading to the Smilin' Fish Campgrounds. Anxiety made him grip the steering wheel tightly.

He checked his disguise in the rearview mirror. He wore temporary green tattoos: crossed swords on his cheeks and a medieval shield on his forehead. The design was reminiscent of some he had seen the cult members wear. His scalp was shaved clean, which made his head feel light and cool. It would take months to re-grow his hair, but there was no helping it. Green cotton robes covered his body from his neck to his ankles, and he wore traditional leather sandals. Underneath his robes, there was the comforting weight of three guns.

He passed the farmhouse on the right where the DEA was hiding. For a brief moment, he glimpsed several police cars packed close together in the shadows behind the farmhouse.
Sloppy
, he thought.
They should've parked farther down the road.

Aaron turned left into the campgrounds, going a little too fast on purpose. Instead of parking, he continued left towards the cabins where the cult was staying. He drove off the pavement and onto dirt and weeds. The ride grew so rough he was forced to slow down. A few cult members stared at him with startled expressions as he rumbled by them.

He continued into the forest and had to slow down even more to avoid holes. The closely spaced trees were like a maze. Rocks kept smashing into the underside of the truck, and he was sure the oil pan was wrecked by now.

"Come on," he coaxed the truck. "Just a little farther."

He finally stopped near the lean-to where the captives were bound. Two guards in green robes looked at him curiously.

Aaron stepped out of the truck. He whipped out a gun and shot both guards in the chest. The pistol had a suppressor, so the noise was no more than a loud pop. He sprinted away, abandoning the truck.

Aaron had never killed so casually before, and doubts nagged him as he ran through the woods, but eliminating the guards was unavoidable. He had to make sure Frank and Caroline Waters would be safe until they were discovered by the DEA. The guards were probably under orders to kill the captives at the first sign of trouble.

Aaron worked his way south towards the lake. After a few minutes he came to a dirt path that wound through the trees. There was nobody in sight.

"Hello?" he said quietly.

A huge man in green and brown camouflage emerged from behind a bush. It was Victor. He carried an assault rifle and a sniper rifle, both with suppressors.

"I'm here," he said. "Were you successful?"

"Two kills. No trouble."

Victor nodded. "I was afraid you would hesitate."

"I didn't," Aaron said.

"Sometimes, when you talk, you sound a little soft."

"Are you done insulting me? How do you want this ambush to go down?"

Victor pointed at a red ribbon tied to a bush about a hundred yards away. "I'll be sighting on that. Lead Simon and his gang there."

"Got it. Just don't kill me by accident, OK?"

"I never miss with this." Victor tapped the long barrel of his sniper rifle. "You'll be safe."

The popping noise of distant gunshots made them look towards the campgrounds.

"Sounds like the DEA has arrived," Victor said. "Get moving."

"I'll be back soon." Aaron ran west.

As he jogged through the forest, the volume of gunfire increased. A real battle was being fought. He had expected the cult to put up a fight but not such a fierce one.

He emerged from the forest and paused to assess the tactical situation. The cult had taken up defensive positions on rooftops and behind walls, creating a ragged but effective perimeter. The men had guns, but the women and children just carried knives and rocks. All of them seemed ready to fight to the end. Simon stood in the center of the formation surrounded by his lieutenants in their decorated robes.

The DEA agents and a large number of police had formed a line along the edge of the parking lot. They were using their cars as shields. Bullets flew back and forth, but Aaron didn't see a lot of casualties. The fight had just begun though. Both sides were still testing each other's resolve.

Aaron put his head down and assumed a humble posture. He approached one of Simon's lieutenants, a pudgy man with flushed cheeks.

"Sir," Aaron said while looking at the ground, "may I speak to you?"

The man turned. "What are you doing here? Go defend our church with the others! Simon ordered every man, woman, and child to protect him."

"Yes, sir. In just a moment, sir. But I thought you should know, there is a speedboat docked on the lake. It's big enough to carry six people, and the keys are in the ignition. I noticed it this morning."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"If Simon wished to, uh, escape..."

"Simon is not a coward!" the lieutenant said.

"Obviously," Aaron said, "but he is the heart and soul of our cause. He must survive, even if we do not. Of course, a few essential individuals like you should accompany him."

"That's an interesting point."

"Sir, our enemies are numerous and very well armed. We may lose the battle today. May I humbly suggest we consider the best interests of the church in the long term."

The gunfire was getting louder. Chunks of stucco flew as bullets struck buildings.

"Wait here."

Aaron stood quietly while the lieutenant had a conversation with Simon. It took less than a minute for Simon to reach a decision.

"Take us to this boat," he ordered Aaron.

Aaron nodded and headed back into the woods. Simon, along with five of his lieutenants, followed without even a backward glance at his "beloved flock."

* * *

Victor looked through the telescopic sight of his favorite rifle, a M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System. The weapon combined the tremendous accuracy and lethality of a bolt-action rifle with the speed of a semi-automatic pistol. With it, he could reliably make kill shots at 500 yards, taking less than a second between each shot. The .308 caliber bullets carried enough energy to penetrate light body armor. It was more than enough gun for the task at hand.

Where are you, Aaron?
Victor thought.

He still heard the sounds of gunfire to the west. The battle had raged for a solid twenty minutes, and the tenacity of the cult impressed him. Simon had done a good job of brainwashing his followers. It was a shame they were playing for the wrong team.

Victor heard crunching dry leaves and twigs, and he looked to his left. Aaron was leading a small group that included Simon towards the lake. Victor began to plan his fire pattern.

He had to kill five men while avoiding Aaron and Simon. The first shot would be free, and Victor might get a second easy hit if he were quick enough. The last three targets would be moving fast or hiding, so he would have to work for those kills. He had scouted the terrain, so he knew the most likely directions the enemy would run. In his mind he imagined how the battle would proceed.

Aaron reached the red ribbon. It was only 107 yards away, effectively point-blank range for the M110. Victor pulled the rifle against his shoulder, looked through the scope, aimed at the man walking behind Simon, and squeezed the trigger.

The target's head burst like a balloon filled with blood. The symmetric spray pattern told Victor that he had delivered the bullet to dead center.

He immediately reset his aim to the next man in line. The target froze in fear, making Victor's job easier, but despite that advantage, his second shot was not as perfect as the first. The man died but more than half the skull remained intact.