Jason Pinter - The Darkness

Curt looked straight ahead. He was quiet, but I could sense that he was seething inside. As a cop, I could imagine it was a massive blow to your ego to be ambushed like this. But it wasn’t Curt’s fault. At least now we knew who the mole was inside the NYPD. And it was the very man who’d helped “investigate” my brother’s murder.

“How long has Makhoulian been working for you?” I asked. Up ahead we approached a gate, which opened for us.

Malloy tilted his head just slightly. “Now come on,

Henry. There’ll be plenty of time to ask questions. And please call him ‘Detective.’”

“He’s no more a detective than you are a soldier,” I spat.

Malloy squinted his eyes just slightly, and the hint of a grin became a full-blown smile.

“You know, I wasn’t sure how much Bill Hollinsworth was able to get out before we quieted that rat,”

Malloy said.

“He told us everything,” I said. “I know about Panama, about the Hard Chargers. I know that your brother was killed and you’ve decided to emulate him in some sick game, you whack job.”

“Emulate?” Malloy said. “My friend, I am a living tribute to my brother.”

“Shame you didn’t both get plugged over there,” Curt said. “Save us all a lot of time.”

“Even if I did,” Malloy said, “it wouldn’t have changed anything except my post-military career. You two just happened to be caught up in the current, and lucky enough for you, you’ll actually get to know the truth before you die. Well, at least all the truth that’s fit to print.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

“Just sit tight,” Malloy said. “We’re almost there.”

I followed Makhoulian down a long dirt road, both sides bracketed by fencing topped with razor wire. The forest was thick behind the fence, blocking our path from view. The road snaked and twisted for over a mile, before it opened into a large open field, surrounded by more fencing and still closed off from the rest of the world.

There was a large brown warehouse in the middle, some sort of facility. As we approached the facility, two men carrying machine guns came out to meet us. They stopped on either side of the car and waited.

“Get out,” Malloy said.

“Or what?” Curt replied.

“Or I’ll kill your friend Parker. And if Parker doesn’t get out, I’ll kill you. And if you both refuse to get out, I’ll kill every member of your family.”

Hatred burning through me, I opened the door and stepped out. Curt did the same.

As we stepped out, I was shoved up against the car and searched by the man with the machine gun. The man on the other side did the same to Curt.

From me they confiscated a Bic pen, and from Curt a

Swiss army knife that was attached to his key chain. Then they took the whole key chain as well.

I was sweating terribly, my mind and heart racing. As I stood back up, I was finally able to get a full glimpse of our surroundings. Parked around the side of the warehouse was the fish truck, the rear backed in to what looked like a loading dock. And if there was a loading dock here, I had no doubt that this was where they shipped the Darkness.

“Come on,” Malloy said, “she’s waiting for you.”

“Who the hell is waiting for us?” Curt said. Then he turned to Detective Makhoulian. “And you, you fucking rat. If I don’t leave here alive, I swear to God you’re coming with me.”

Makhoulian just stood there and said, “I’m sorry,

Curtis. You’re a good man, but you’re out of your league.”

“What the hell does that mean? And who is this ‘she’ you’re talking about?”

“Eve Ramos,” I said. “She was one of the survivors of the attack in Panama. She’s the Fury.” Curt looked at me, confused, then his eyes widened as the totality of our situation sank in. “She’s the one who wanted my brother killed.”

“Henry,” he said.

“I know.”

Malloy said, “Follow me.”

As if we’d had second thoughts, the two gunmen proceeded to follow us as Malloy led us up to the warehouse. He entered a code on a side door, opened it and ushered us in.

We were in a long, narrow stairwell, painted a dull gray.

Cameras were positioned at several spots at every landing.

Malloy walked in front of us, taking us up two flights of stairs before we stopped in front of a door with another keypad. I counted three cameras, red lights glowing steadily.

“You come with me,” Malloy said, looking at Curt.

“You’re staying here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Curt said.

Malloy ripped the gun from his waistband and jammed it under Curt’s jaw, hard enough to make the man wince.

“You’re going to come with me, right now. ”

Malloy signaled to the two gunmen, and they kept their muzzles trained on me as Malloy led Curt somewhere upstairs. When he was out of sight, one of the men turned to me and said, “You’re going to wait in here.”

He jabbed a code in with a calloused finger, and when the LED light turned green he pushed it open.

To my surprise, the door opened into a medium-sized conference room, complete with varnished wood table and comfortable leather chairs. There was even a speakerphone hooked up and sitting on the middle of the table, like a cadre of suits was about to walk through the door and talk shop while scarfing down bagels and coffee.

“What the hell…” I was able to say before I was pushed inside, the door slamming shut behind me.

The first thing I did when the door clicked shut was run to the table and turn on the speakerphone. I wasn’t shocked to find that there was no dial tone.

“Shit!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. It wasn’t quite a substitute for “Help” but nobody could hear me anyway.

I walked around the room, looking for anything I could use. There was nothing. I debated unscrewing one of the wheels from the chairs to brandish as a weapon, but in a warehouse filled with people armed to the gills it was more apt to get me killed quicker.

They wanted me here for a reason, or they would have killed me already. Besides, this room was too pretty to commit murder in.

At least, that’s what I thought until I saw the light red stain on the carpet by the door I’d come in through. It had clearly been scrubbed numerous times, but damned if blood wasn’t just too difficult a liquid to get out.

“His name was Jeremy Robertson,” a voice said. “And he didn’t listen.”

I whirled around to find a woman standing at the other end of the room. From the lines and age in her face I made her out to be in her early to mid-forties, but the tone and muscle definition was striking beneath her black tank top. She had long black hair that I could see spread out behind her waist and her green eyes looked at me with a strange kind of calmness that would have given me chills if I wasn’t scared to death.

“Jeremy killed himself,” she said. “We only bring in men who have something to lose. Unfortunately, as we learned later, Jeremy had nothing.”

“Eve Ramos,” I said. “You’re the Fury.”

Ramos laughed, her voice high-pitched, full of delight.

“The Fury,” she said. “I always found such enjoyment in that name. And to think how many people trembled at the very sound of a person who might not even exist. I suppose it works the same way with Satan and even Jesus.

Beholden to deities we will never know exist until the day we die.” Eve Ramos looked up at the ceiling. “I bet

Jeremy Robertson knows whether there is a devil.”

“You manufacture this poison,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that if there is a devil, that puts you on an even keel with him.”

“Oh, Mr. Parker,” Eve said as she crossed the room to where I was standing. Then, moving faster than I knew possible, she had gripped my throat in her hand and said,