Daniel Suarez - Daemon

The crash scattered the cars across the courtyard, sending Larson’s body hurtling like a rag doll.

Sebeck stood motionless, in a state of shock in the middle of the courtyard. Amid all the screams and shouts, gunshots, and the roaring engine of the Hummer. He was still alive, and he didn’t know why.

Then the familiar sound of racing V8 engines came to Sebeck’s ears. Two Ventura County police cruisers hurtled down the driveway from the front gate, rack lights flashing. They screeched to a stop next to the ambulance blocking the driveway. A male deputy jumped out of one and raced to retrieve Larson’s body, while a female deputy leaned out the passenger side of the other car and opened fire on the Hummer with a shotgun.

Sebeck was dimly aware of someone pulling on his arms. “Pete!” He turned to see Deputy Gil Trevetti. “Larson’s dead! We need to pull back!” Trevetti tugged Sebeck toward a nearby patrol car. A rumble came to his ears and Sebeck turned to see the FBI’s bomb squad truck with deputies and agents hanging off its armored bomb disposal trailer accelerating across the littered courtyard. Mantz leaned out off the trailer and jabbed a finger at Sebeck, then toward the exit. The bomb truck crashed through a nearby rose garden and headed out across the estate lawn.

Sebeck snapped back to reality and turned to Trevetti. “Okay. Got it.” They jumped into the patrol car while the black Hummer raced to intercept the bomb squad truck in the distance.

From the front seat of the bomb squad truck, Ross saw the Hummer racing toward them like a torpedo—leaving twin ruts in the soft grass.

“It’s going to ram us!” the agent driving shouted. “I can’t maneuver on this grass.”

Ross faced him. “Turn toward it. Head-on!”

The driver gave him a look.

“It will avoid a head-on collision with a larger object.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“Because Sobol’s probably using his game physics engine.” On the driver’s blank look, he shouted, “Ram the Hummer, goddamnit!”

The driver looked into Ross’s intense eyes. There was no doubting his confidence. The driver spun the wheel to aim head-on at the advancing Hummer.

Agents and deputies hanging on to the bomb squad truck shouted at the driver. The Hummer accelerated straight toward their front grill—then it swerved aside at the last second, winging their front right fender with its rear quarter panel.

A cheer went up in the truck. The driver accelerated straight toward the estate fence line. He glanced toward Ross. “How the hell did you know that?”

Ross pointed and shouted. “Slow down!”

The estate fence was wrought iron with a masonry base. They crashed through it going at least thirty, nosed down onto Potrero Road, and slammed into the ditch on the far side. Ross held his hands up and smashed against the windshield with the other two deputies sitting up front. They shattered it with their weight, then slammed back against the seat as the truck came to a complete stop.

There were groans of pain from the wounded and the newly wounded. Someone shouted, “What the fuck are you trying to do, get us all killed?”

Ross shook his head clear and could now hear approaching sirens. Lots of them. He looked at his hands. They were only slightly cut. He followed the deputies out of the truck.

They raced around the overturned bomb squad trailer to the estate side of the road. They could see the Hummer still on the other side of the fence. It wasn’t following them, but was instead charging around the lawn like a raging bull, spinning and tearing up the turf.

The officers opened fire on it again, emptying shotguns, pistols, and an M-16 rifle while shouting obscenities. The Hummer raced off toward the mansion.

Ross covered his ears against the noise and looked up the road to see approaching emergency vehicles.

It had begun. He knew there was no hope of containing the Daemon now. And guns were useless against it.

Anderson’s North Beach condo had twelve-foot pressed-tin ceilings, original wood floors, full-height windows with a fabulous view of the windows across the street, and enough Victorian charm to draw grudging praise from the snottiest folks she knew. It had taken her years to decorate, and she never tired of appreciating the style it reflected upon her. Even though she could no longer afford it.

But her eyes were riveted right now to the plasma screen television hanging within a Victorian picture frame on her living room wall. There was breaking news from Thousand Oaks, California—just as The Voice had promised.

She sat numb with fear and excitement all at once, soaking up the images on the screen.

In the absence of facts, a local reporter was breathlessly transforming hearsay into news under the harsh lights of a live remote: “Thanks, Sandy. Sources describe a scene of total carnage and devastation on the estate. The area has been cordoned off, with FBI tactical units brought in. Once again, a robotic killing machine is roaming the estate grounds, unleashed by a recently deceased madman. That madman: Matthew Sobol.“

Anderson’s cell phone vibrated on the coffee table in front of her. She looked at it and recoiled in terror. The phone vibrated again, moving slightly across the tabletop.

Christiane Amanpour would answer it.

Anderson timidly picked up the phone and pressed the SEND button—not saying anything, just listening.

A man’s voice came over the line. “Do you know who I am? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

She watched the video footage of injured policemen being loaded into ambulances. “Yes.”

“Clearly speak my name.”

“Matthew…Sobol.”

There was silence for a moment. Then, “If you contact the authorities, I will know, and you will lose the exclusive on this story.”

Anderson’s hands were trembling as the voice continued.

“I am analyzing your verbal responses with voice stress analysis software—I can tell if you lie to me. Answer truthfully or our relationship is over. Remember: I have extended my will beyond physical death. I will never be gone from this earth. Do not make an enemy of me.”

Anderson dared not even breathe. She wasn’t a religious person—but she felt as if an evil force was on the other end of the line. An immortal being.

“Do you still want to be a journalist? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson swallowed hard and took a breath. She used her best broadcasting voice. “Yes.” Anderson’s heart raced.

There was a pause.

“Do you want access to exclusive information on this story? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’…”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Do you agree to keep our relationship secret from everyone—with no exceptions? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“Are you prepared to follow my instructions in exchange for success and power? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Anderson caught her breath. This was the proverbial Rubicon. If she crossed it, there was likely no turning back. Years from now she would remember this moment with either regret or relief—but she knew she would never forget it.