Ultimate Power (31 page)

Arno Joubert

Author of the FATAL Series

Acknowledgments

Writing a novel is lonely, challenging, intimidating, monotonous work. But also extremely self-fulfilling and gratifying, especially when a reader comments on your expert knowledge on a particular subject area.

That feels good.

When a novelist starts his career, he or she often makes mistakes and they subsequently get one star reviews for the work that they’ve poured their heart and soul into perfecting.

Why?

Because, as a writer, we are stupid, or too lazy to do some proper research. You see, we make things up for a living, so who would care that army troops cannot parachute from a B-52 bomber? But people do care. To suspend disbelief and truly submerge yourself in a story, it has to be as close to reality as possible.
 

As a writer, you need to get your facts straight.

Luckily there are some gifted readers and confidantes who gently point out our mistakes and indiscretions, reminding me that I cannot simply hit someone’s septum into his brain, and that it is disrespectful to toss bags of donated blood on the ground.

Without these specialists who have painstakingly taken their valuable time to pore over my tomes, the work would have been so much weaker, and I cannot thank them enough.
 

So here is a shoutout to all the people who have helped me during the past year:

Doctor Rob Gentz for your medical expertise, useful comments and observations and just your humorous way of pointing out my mistakes. Man, I should have paid more attention in those anatomy classes. Also, thanks for being a pal! Next beer’s on me, man.

To Colonel Kenneth Gerchman, thanks for all the advice on how to blow various things up, explaining to me which is the weapon of choice in CQB’s (Close Quarter Battles) and thank you as well for pointing out that the term “Ex-Marine” is a misnomer. I get it, the men worked hard to earn the title; they will always stay Marines. I salute you, sir.

Laura Kingsley, my Content Editor. You’re brilliant mind and sharp wit inspire me to be so much more than I can be. They day you said that, ‘there's a good book lurking in the mess’, I felt so proud that you didn’t simply say that I should stop writing this blathering rubbish. Thank you for your observations and guidance, and soon, another piece of hogwash will make its way to your inbox to be ripped open and torn apart and cajoled into some coherent tome that I will be proud to display to the world. But, all jokes aside. Honestly, thanks. I couldn’t have started this journey without your expert guidance and advice. You’re the best, and don’t stop chastising me, I’ll get there in the end.

Amy Maddox, copy editor extraordinaire, perfectionist and all-round fantastic human being. If I had a penny for every mistake you have picked up, and another for every time I asked “Now how did I miss that?” I would have been a gazillionaire by now. You put so much effort into polishing my work, whatever I pay you is not enough. Thank you so much for all your help and God Speed to a truly nice person.

Excerpt from Book 5 of the Fatal Series called
The Cult
starring Alexa Guerra.

Mika sat across the table from the man who had been abusing her for the past week. Her lips were swollen and bruised, and she stared at her lap through puffy eyes.

“Not so feisty now, are we?” the man said with a grin.

She shook her head but said nothing.

He slipped out of his chair and walked around the table, then stood behind her, massaging her shoulders with his long, manicured fingers. “So, we have reached an agreement, yes?”

She said nothing.

He pulled her chair around with a scraping noise, kneeled in front of her, his face pushed into hers. He had delicate features, almost child-like. A pale soft skin and red lips, a mop of curly black hair. “Do you want the boy to die as well, Mika?”

She bit her lower lip and shook her head slowly.

He smiled and stood up straight. He looked almost angelic when he beamed his beautiful smile, the smile that had attracted her to him the first day they had met.

He wore a black two-piece suit, the legs of the pants tapered and tight-fitting. Black shoes and a thin black tie to match his mop of black hair. “Vey well then,” he said and nodded, folding his hands into his armpits. He chewed his lip. “Get yourself cleaned up.” He checked his watch. “The Awakened Ones will arrive in half-an-hour.” He chuckled. “As a prized offering you don’t want to get caught with dirty underwear, now do you?”

He leaned over the table and slammed his palm down on it. “Do you Mika?” he screamed.

She winced and shook her head slowly.

He pulled his tie straight, then yanked open the door to the cell. “It’s almost show time,” he muttered as he slammed the door closed behind him.

_______________________

Las Vegas

Neil snapped on a pair of latex gloves and kneeled next to the body. It had oval burn marks on the legs and on both breasts. He turned her head to the side. The eyes and mouth had been stitched closed, and there was a long Y-incision from the top of her chest down to her abdomen, also closed up with neat stitches.

He glanced sideways at Alexa. “Recognize her?”

Alexa turned around and briskly strode out of the alleyway, a grim expression on her face.

“What’s her problem?” lead Investigator Bradley Ortell, a square-jawed man with a thick neck, asked. “She a greenhorn?”

Neil shook his head. He didn’t try to explain, it would have only led to more questions.
 

He sighed as he stood up, slipping off the gloves and wiping his hands on his pants. Laiveaux had notified them of the girl’s death earlier that evening. They were wrapping up a case in Hollywood and had taken the first flights available to LA on Laiveaux’s request. They had found it strange that Laiveaux would have wanted them to check out a single dead girl, but he was the boss.

“What do you think caused the burn marks?” Ortell asked, his hands shoved deep inside the pockets of a knee-length grey jacket, although it was a balmy Las Vegas night.

“A blow dryer.”

He kneeled next to Neil awkwardly, balancing with his fingertips. “You think she was tortured?”

“Yes, I think she was.” Neil stood up with a grunt and stretched his back. He walked around the body, scratching the back of his neck.
 

The dead girl looked like an older version of his adopted daughter, Yumi.

____________________

Jenna Sands rolled her eyes and twirled a finger through a lock of her curly red hair. “Yes, mom, I’m okay,” she said into the receiver. She opened a cupboard and removed a glass, stretching the coiled telephone cable to its maximum.

“Then why do you need more money, Jen?”

She sighed. “Because life ain’t free mom, you know? I’ve got responsibilities and stuff.”

“Then get a job.”

Jenna stomped the floor with a shoeless foot, trying to control her emotions. “Is dad there?”

Her mother hesitated.

“Mom, is dad there?”

“No,” the woman said softly.

Jenna Sands pretty little forehead frowned. “Where is he?”

It was the older woman’s turn to sigh, a trait the Sands woman shared. “He blames himself for losing you.”

Jenna rolled her eyes again, another Sands clan trait. “You haven’t lost me.”

“Then why can’t we come visit?”

“You’re free to come anytime you want.”

“Tell that to that janitor boyfriend of yours.”

Jenna smiled and cupped the receiver. “She thinks you’re a janitor,” she said to Ted Olson, a man in his mid-thirties with tousled bond, shoulder-length hair.
 

He stood up straight from where he was leaning against the kitchen doorway, his hands in a tattered jean pockets. “Screw her.”

Jenna walked towards him and cupped his crotch. “You wish,” she said with a giggle.

He pushed her away irritably. “Get the money, rent is due.”

She pouted her lips. “I thought I stayed for free.”

He flicked a strand of highlighted hair from his forehead to the back of his ear. “Yeah, well. Let’s just say there’s been a whole lot of takin’ and not enough givin’, sweetheart.”

“Jen, you there?” her mother asked.

She sighed again. “Yes mother. Look, are you going to give me the money or not?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Mother, please, I’m grasping at straws here,” Jenna said in an exasperated tone.

“Why don’t you come home, baby?”

“Because I like it here.”

“That place is evil, Jen. Did you hear that I said your father left me?”

Jenna spat the gum she was chewing into her hand. “Yeah, well, the wheel turns, mom. You were never really good to him.”

“Don’t you lecture me on relationships, young girl.”

“Mom, transfer the money, afterwards maybe we can talk some more,” she said and thumped the receiver back into the cradle.

“You going to get it?” Ted Olson asked.

Jenna Sands nodded. “Why does the Grand Master need so much money? We can’t be costing him that much.”

Olson shrugged. “The Grand master wants what he wants. We have no right to question him.”

She frowned. “I guess you’re right.”

Olsen turned around and headed toward the door. “Let me know as soon as you get the money,” he said over his shoulder.

Jenna Sands folded her arms over her ample bosom, pouted. “I know, I know. Rent is due.”

__________________

Jenna Sands watched in awe as smoke started forming on the Grandmaster’s fingertips. His hands smoldered. Abruptly, it burst out in flames and the Spirit of Entitlement appeared in the room, her fine feminine features outlined by a soft light on the smoke-filled stage.

Her friend, Julia, stared at the figure in rapturous awe, her hands beating the drum between her knees.

“Awakened Ones, step forward now,” Grand Master Di Mardi ordered, his arms raised in the air.

Six hooded figures stood up and took their places beside him, three on either side. They started chanting in a low guttural tone, their faces invisible beneath their hoods. They held jewel-encrusted scepters in their hands, tapping it to the ground in unison as they repeated the rhythmic phrases.

“Bring the traitors to me,” Di Mardi bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls of the stone amphitheater.

Two robed men with shaven heads dragged a man and a woman to the stage. The young woman carried a shrieking baby in her arms. The baldheaded men turned them around to face the crowd before forcing them to their knees.

“Nobis vero ad matrim,” the cloaked figures chanted, over and over, slamming the scepters down on every second word.

“Tranquillitas!” Grand Master Di Mardi shouted and the Awakened Ones stopped their chanting and snapped to attention, the scepters held in both hands in front of them.

The theater went deathly quiet.

“What do you command we do with the traitors, oh Goddess of Justice?”

Jenna heard a sharp popping sound, like someone had thrown a ping-pong ball against a wall. The pops came quicker, until it resembled a ticking clock, and even quicker still, the pitch increasing, until it reached a whirring crescendo.
 

“Annullo!” a booming, raspy voice ordered.

The Awakened Ones nodded and formed a circle around the man and the woman. One of them grabbed the screaming baby and held it up by its leg, smashing his scepter into the woman’s face when she tried to grab the child.
 

Jenna heard a click and a blade slid from the scepter. The man jabbed it into the child’s torso, ones, twice, three times, then tossed the dead body to the ground. The woman’s anguished screams echoed through the large space.

More clicks and blades appeared on all the scepters, they stabbed and jabbed at the man and woman, blood spattering their white cloaks.

Thirty seconds later they turned around in unison and slammed their scepters on the ground and stood to attention, both hands gripping the scepters in front of them. “Factum Est!”

Jenna felt nauseous. She stood up as the bile rised in her throat, looking around for a place to throw up. She stumbled up the stairs, away from the stage, puking as she ran.

“You!” a voice boomed from behind her.

She swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, turned around slowly.
 

The Grand Master held up an outstretched staff, pointing it at her. “You, stay right where you are.”

A murmur went up in the crowd, and she felt her arms being grabbed by a pair of strong hands.

“Do you have a problem with the wicked being punished for their sins?” the Grand Master asked with a booming voice.

She shook her head. “No,” she said feebly.

“I cannot hear you!” his voice thundered.

“No,” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “No, Grandmaster, they got what they deserved.”