(Wrath-09)-Spiders From The Shadows (2013) (12 page)

James Davies was hauled away, his feet dragging across the floor, leaving random specks of blood to dot the dark blue carpet from the powerful dart that had pierced his neck.

The first order of business out of the way, the real meeting was finally able to begin. It lasted for almost five hours before food was brought in; then the lunch was quickly eaten and the men went back to work.

At three in the morning, they had their final agreement. They signed it, some of them smiling, some frowning, though in truth most of them were relieved.

It had gone better than any of them could have dreamed.

The world’s spheres of influence divided and allocated, the meeting was adjourned.

* * * * * * *

The old man met the king at the back of the room and pulled him aside. “This is the last time you will come here,” the old man said. He glanced behind him after speaking, shooting a nasty look toward the president of the United States. “It makes it difficult for the others. You are far too recognizable.”

The king of the House of Saud glared with cold eyes at the old man. Their relationship was strained, accusatory and barely even civil. There was no balance any longer. The old man had delivered everything that he had promised the king: his brothers, the weapons he had used to destroy America, the kingdom with its uncounted wealth, pride and unfathomable power. Everything they’d ever talked about, the old man had delivered, leaving King al-Rahman to stand beside Nebuchadnezzar in the historic halls of power. But what the old man could build, he could destroy; what he had given, he could take back. Worse, the king had little purpose now, and the old man was through with him. The old man didn’t want to kill Al-Rahman—the king would kill himself soon enough—but the old man certainly wanted Al-Rahman dead.

Like an infected wound, the king’s heart was fully putrid now. Everything that the ling was, he owed to the old man, which made the king hateful, resentful and ripe with pride, a deadly combination for any king, but especially for a king of Saudi Arabia descended from a long line of proud and powerful men.

The king didn’t answer for a moment.

“You have everything you’ve asked for. I gave it all to you. Now I need for you to listen. You must stay away. Stay away from Fuentes. Stay out of the country. There is nothing for you to do here. No good can come from it. If you’re invited, decline politely, but do not come. It will make our work much more difficult if you are identified at this critical juncture. I know you’ll understand.”I want to be like you killedwpx; }

The king cocked his head, tempted to rebut him, but the red smolder in the old man’s eyes tamed him, turning his wrath aside. “Agreed,” he answered simply, a dog before his master, his tail between his knees.

The old man watched and smiled, laughing inside himself. None of them were equal to him. None of them. They all wore down, some of them more quickly, some of them more stubbornly, but all of them would fall. Once he started talking to them, once they looked him in the eye, they would fall. Their defense against him would have been so simple: All they had to do was walk away. But as long as they listened to him, then
all
of them would fall. He could wear them down eventually if they listened to his words.

The old man leaned toward Al-Rahman and lowered his voice to plant the seed. “The prince is still alive, you know.”

Al-Rahman stared at him.

“I’ve told you before, it is a problem. You’ve got to take care of him. He will grow, and when he does, he’ll come to kill you. Do you think he won’t come for his kingdom? Do you think the men who have him now won’t prepare him for that day? He is the only son of the oldest son. He should be king. He has been taken and hidden for a purpose. Every day you let him linger, they grow bolder, thinking you have forgotten the bloodline that survives.”

Al-Rahman turned his eyes away, looking past the old man. “I have time—”

“You will lose your kingdom then, you fool. Everything that we have worked for, everything that we have killed and died for, all of it will be gone. You risk your own good, but you risk mine as well. Mine and that of the brothers. We will not endure your foolishness. You must act or we will.”

Al-Rahman moved his shoulders slightly. His breath smelled like Arab Chi and cigarettes, his armpits like sweat.

The old man knew that the king was hesitant and he pressed the seed a little deeper, pushing into more fertile mental soil. “Think back over time,” he whispered now. “How many empires, how many kings have been brought down by a child who had claim upon a throne? I can name you at least a dozen, including the greatest kings. And whether you like it or not, King al-Rahman, this young prince has claim on you. You killed his father, his uncles and his cousins. You killed his grandfather, the
real
king,” the old man emphasized the word, digging into Al-Rahman’s soul. “You stole it from him, Abdullah. He knows it. Those around him know what happened, which is why they risk their lives to save him. But I’ve told you all this before.” The old man let his voice drift away now. He had him; he could tell that from the agitation in his eyes.

“I’ll do it,” King al-Rahman said.

The old man frowned and leaned toward him. “Do it now,” he sneered.

EIGHTEEN

Four Miles West of Chatfield, Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee

Caelyn and Bono sat talking on the porch under the light of the stars, her head resting on his shoulder. The moon was just a sliver of white against the dark sky and the countryside was completely void of any light, the horizon a long, broken line that stretched forever beneath the starry horizon. Above them, a single yellow candle flickered in Caelyn’s parents’ bedroom. The sun had been down for almost two hours and their eyes had had time to adjust to the dark. Caelyn had rarely experienced such darkness, and it amazed her how well she could see, given only the flicker of natural light from the stars. Bono was not surprised, having spent many nights out on patrol in desolate areas.

They sat on the porch swing, a cold breeze pushing dry leaves across the grass and along the lane to pile up against the picket fence. As they talked, there was a rustle of movement to their right and Bono immediately turned and listened. Caelyn seemed not to have noticed. Bono cocked his head. The sound of footsteps? Could it be? He listened again, certain he had heard it. Who? Why were they out there? Caelyn started to speak but he lifted a hand to hush her. She turned to him, sensing his growing tension.

He peered into the darkness. His pistol was hanging on his web belt upstairs in their bedroom closet, hidden away from Ellie; now he wished that it was at his side.

Caelyn didn’t move. Bono listened. Silence. The wind blew, moving leaves again. More movement with the rustle. Empty blackness as far as he could see. More motion beyond the tree line. An animal? Maybe nothing?

No, he was certain of what he’d heard.

Slowly, his footsteps light, every motion tight and under perfect control, he stood up from the porch swing, motioned to Caelyn to stay still, moved toward the steps, grabbed onto the pillar that held the slanted roof, then swung onto the grass in one movement. He crouched there, getting low enough to change the angle of his view so he could use the starlight to look up against the horizon. The existing light was weak but enough to illuminate the ground, the barns behind the fence, the trees in the backyard. Another sound. The sense of movement. Bono took a step forward, glanced back to Caelyn one more time, held his finger to his mouth, turned and started moving forward, still crouched. One step. Two steps. Stop to listen and to look. Staying low, still using the starlight to look for shadows against the horizon. Another step. An_ating the reachedother look . . . .

The sound of running footsteps erupted across the grass, light and furious. Bono sprinted after them. A squeal of fear before him. Cries. A couple of voices, very young.
Children?

“Hey there!” he called out.

“GO!” someone yelled out from the darkness. Bono ran again, but lost the sound of their footsteps when his own feet started crunching through the dry leaves under the huge oak. Without enough light to follow them, he stopped and listened, having to rely upon his ears. Darkness. Silence now. He listened, frowned in frustration, then rushed across the lawn, coming to the picket fence. Turning his head, he strained to hear again. The footsteps faded in the distance, the voices hissing and whispering as they ran.

Children! Had he heard children in the darkness?

The voices were high and childlike, the footsteps short and quick, but the cries were also different from children’s voices somehow—more conspiring, agitated, conniving and devious. He peered across the open fields behind the fence, but the retreating footsteps were gone now, faded into the distance. He stared into the darkness until Caelyn came up behind him, moving quickly to his side.

“There was someone out there,” she said. “I could hear them running.” She was fighting to keep her voice under control.

Bono remained silent, continuing to look across the fields.

“Did you see them?” she asked.

“No, not really.”

“Did you see
anything
?”

He couldn’t see the expression on her face but he sensed her fear and agitation from the aggressive shaking of her head. “No,” he answered simply.

“Who could it be?”

“I don’t know, babe.”

He glanced back toward the house. “Come on.” They moved across the dry lawn together, running toward the porch.

“They were children,” Caelyn whispered as they ran. She was speaking to herself but Bono heard her anyway. “I saw their shadows. I heard their voices.” She stopped and gripped Bono’s arm, her fingers digging into his bare skin. “Children! Do you understand that? There were children out there in the darkness.”

“I don’t think so. Not really children. They were something else.”

“Something else?”

“Kids. Teenagers maybe.”

She shook her head but didn’t answer.

Bono watched her carefully, glanced back toward the darkness, then pulled her across the lawn, onto the porch, and into the house. He shut the door behind them, locked it, and peered through the window. Feeling the kitchen table behind him, he turned and walked down the hall and up the stairs, his footsteps almost perfectly silent against the wooden floor. Thirty seconds later, he reappeared. Caelyn couldn’t see anything but his shadow, so she reached out, touching the canvas holster against his chest. “Baby, what are you thinking? You put that thing away!” Bono stood by the window, looking out intently. “You hear me, Joseph? Put that thing away. There are children out there, honey. You can’t even think about—”

He reached out and put his finger to her lips, nodded for her silence, then movedI want to be like youphwlyp down the hallway toward the front door. He checked the deadbolt, making certain it was locked, then waited, his head close to the thin pane of glass in the middle of the door, listening, his eyes looking down so he could concentrate on what he heard. Caelyn waited in the kitchen. From where she stood, all she could see was a hint of his shadow. Taking a breath, the darkness and silence all around her, she felt a sudden sense of fear, bone-deep and gut-wrenching.

There was
someone
there!

Outside the door! Out on the front porch!

She couldn’t see it. She couldn’t even hear it. But she knew. She sensed it. Her heartbeat skipped and then doubled, pounding suddenly in her throat. She moved half a step to get a better look down the hall. Bono was crouching at the doorway, his body outlined by the faintest hint of starlight that bled through the living-room windows. He crawled to his right and she sensed the motion. She waited, watching, hardly breathing, then glanced above her, thinking of the bedroom on the second floor where Ellie slept.

Bono crawled over to the front window but didn’t look out, keeping his head below the glass. He listened, hearing movement against the wooden porch. Heavy. Deliberate. More than one set of footsteps. A couple of men, opposite him now, on the other side of the wall.

He inched back toward the door, his weapon ready, put both hands across the deadbolt and slowly slid it back, moving the metal a fraction of an inch at a time to keep it silent. Listening again, he realized that the footsteps had faded away and he motioned toward Caelyn to wave her back. Instead she inched forward, her bare feet silent against the wooden floor. Bono gestured with more urgency, waving her into the safety of the kitchen. Defying him, she ran forward, turning at the bottom of the stairs and racing up. Stopping at the top of the stairs, she positioned herself at the end of the hall. There she waited, looking back. She had absolutely no idea what her plan was. She only knew that she had to get herself between whatever was out there in the darkness and her child.

Bono watched her go up the stairs, then turned back to the door. Reaching up, he grabbed the handle, holding his pistol ready. With a jerk, he threw the door open violently. It swung back on its hinges, crashed against the doorstop, and swung halfway closed again. He didn’t move, waiting and listening against the wall. Silence. The sound of his own breathing pounding in his ears. Then, with a flash of movement, he stood and ran across the threshold, falling into the night.

Caelyn almost screamed when she saw the white-hot double flash of fire. At the same instant she heard the crashing impact of two bullets against the wall beside the door. Two more flashes of light and two ear-crushing sounds, these two much closer, having come from Bono’s gun. Screams sounded from behind her—Greta crying from her bedroom at the unexpected noise. Footsteps and voices hurtled across the porch and Caelyn’s heart slammed into her chest. Her husband was gone now, having disappeared into the darkness. She cried and started running, descending the stairs two or three at a time to follow him, almost falling as she ran. Halfway down she stopped and looked back. Up? Down? Her husband? Her child?