Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

He snapped off the safety on the pistol and crept silently out of the barroom door, sweeping the muzzle left and right, surveying the scene through the sights as he moved cautiously down the murky corridor. He kept in the shadows, tight against the wall, senses fully alert, the gun in front of him, drawing on the ability for complete silence and stealth that had made him legendary among his old regiment. He could hear running footsteps and voices from the lobby. They’d have broken up to hunt for him. Maybe two, three men per team, and probably at least two teams with whoever was left over allocated to guard Zoë’s room.

Up ahead, the corridor was L-shaped and opened up into a wider hallway with doors either side. One was ajar, dusty light streaming out of what must once have been a TV room.

He froze. Someone was coming the other way. Three men running. He shrank back into the shadow, the light from the open door creating enough contrast to mask him. He could have reached out and touched them as they ran by. He let them pass. Quietly snicked off the safety on the pistol.

When the third man was two yards past him he stepped out into the corridor, raised the gun and shot him in the back of the head. The man collapsed, hit the floor and squeaked along the linoleum under his own momentum. Before the other two could register what had happened, Ben fired two more shots in such quick succession that the report of the silenced gun sounded more like one prolonged muted bark than two separate shots. The men’s bodies jerked and they stumbled against each other and went down. A gun slithered across the dusty floor.

Ben gathered up their weapons. More Berettas, all the same model. He ejected the mags out of the three pistols and slipped them in his pockets. Then he stepped over to the three bodies and looked down at them.

He’d never enjoyed the cautionary head-shot. It was something that had been schooled into him a long time ago. He’d never wanted to do this again. But every military tactician since ancient times said it was the right thing to do to make sure your enemy never got up once he was down. It was slaughterhouse-brutal but it made immaculate sense.

Three head-shots at point-blank range with a high-powered handgun is a lot messier than in the movies. Shielding his face against the blood splatter, he did the job fast, stepping from one inert body to the next. The 147-grain semi-jacketed hollowpoint bullets split the men’s skulls apart and blasted brains up the wall. The corridor filled with the ripe stink of blood and death.

There’d be more of it to come. He moved on.

Jones dashed along the corridor, stabbing the pistol out in front of him at every turn and doorway. Many of the lights were flickering or dead, casting long black pools of shadow everywhere. He stumbled cursing over a pile of old cardboard boxes and paint cans. Snatched up his radio. ‘Kimble. Talk to me.’

Silence.

‘Shit,’ Jones said. ‘Jorgensen. You still there?’

‘Copy. We’re still up here. No sign of him yet. You?’

‘Nothing. The fucker’s like a ghost. OK. Out.’

Jones rounded a corner. The coppery tang of fresh blood hovered in the air, mingling with the smell of damp and rot. He saw three dark shapes lying in the shadows up ahead. He signalled to Bender and Simmons behind him to halt. They stared at the three dead agents on the floor.

‘That makes five of us he’s taken out, just like that,’ said Bender. ‘He’s just playing with us.’

‘I don’t think splitting up was such a great idea,’ Simmons muttered at his shoulder.

Jones gritted his teeth and nearly screamed at the pain. He wiped sweat out of his eyes. ‘We need more people. A lot more people.’

‘We don’t have any more people,’ Bender said.

‘I can get a hundred men in here and nail that motherfucker,’ Jones spat. ‘I just need to make one call.’ He thought for a moment. It would take a few hours to get reinforcements in place. He’d have a lot of favours to call in first, and the kind of manpower he was thinking of took time to organise.

A fresh idea occurred to him. ‘All right, listen, fuck this. We’re going up to the top floor and join up with the others there. That makes seven. I don’t care how good this guy is, no way can he get past seven of us.’ He grinned. ‘Then we’re going to stick that little bitch Bradbury with the syringe. Right now. I’m tired of waiting games. Let’s find out what she knows.’

‘Slater isn’t going to like it.’

‘To hell with that cowardly bastard. He wants to play leader, he should stick around more.’

They stepped over the dead men and ran on up the corridor. Jones reached the lift first and hammered the button for first floor. They said nothing, faces downcast, as the lift whooshed upwards. Then the doors glided open and Jones was dashing towards his office door.

It was open, lying an inch or so ajar.

He fought to remember. No. He hadn’t left it open. He’d locked it.

He drew his gun. Cold fear began to knot his intestines, and the gun shook in his hand. Control yourself . He held the weapon out in front of him and prodded the door tentatively open with his left hand. It creaked. He pushed it open a little further. He stepped inside the room, heart thumping.

The office was empty.

So was the desk. And the canvas bag had gone.

‘Hope,’ he breathed. ‘Hope was here.’

Simmons was behind him, staring with big eyes.

‘He took it,’ Jones gasped. ‘ He fucking took the bottle .’

There was a cry from outside the office. Simmons and Jones locked eyes for half a second, then Jones grabbed the door handle and they burst out into the corridor. Night was falling outside, and the shadows in the building were deepening. Jones flipped a light switch. Nothing happened. Cursing, he peered into the darkness. ‘Bender?’ he called out softly.

There was no reply.

The whites of Simmons’ eyes glistened in the murk. ‘Where’d he -’

He never finished the sentence. Jones felt the wet spray of blood hit his face almost before he’d registered the muffled cough of the gunshot. Simmons fell against him, making a terrible gurgling sound from his throat, clawing at his arm, and then slumped to the floor. He kicked a few times, then the gurgle became a deathly rattle and he stopped moving.

‘I’ll kill you!’ Jones screamed. He punched his gun out to arm’s length and kept firing wildly until the magazine was empty. He ejected it, slammed in a fresh one and let another fifteen shots loose down the corridor, as fast as he could work the trigger.

Then the hot gun was empty again. He stood there, gasping, panting. The corridor was darkening fast. Other than a shaft of dull grey light coming from one of the cobwebbed windows, he was in blackness. He turned, groping his way in the dark. He desperately reached for the light switch again. Nothing.

That was when he felt the cold blade of the knife against his throat. He froze, hand still on the switch.

‘I knew you’d come back here,’ said a voice close behind him. ‘That’s why I took out all the bulbs from this corridor.’

Jones wanted to gulp but he could feel the edge of the steel pressing lightly against his trachea. ‘Hope?’ he whispered.

‘Tip for you,’ Ben said. ‘If you’re going to keep a man locked in a kitchen, don’t leave sharp knives lying around. Someone might get cut.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Jones quavered.

‘I’m going to slice your head off.’

Jones rocked dizzily on his feet with terror.

‘Unless you take me to Zoë,’ Ben said.

‘She’s guarded,’ Jones said in a strangled voice.