Dominion

By Matt Hilton

Spec-Ops soldier, First Sergeant Ellis Kirby leads a JSOC unit into the Tora Ghar cave system in Afghanistan in search of WMDs, but finds something much worse. Infected by an ancient power summoned by an evil cleric Kirby and his companions are whisked back to secret military laboratories in the US. The plague of creatures - known as rakes - that is subsequently unleashed threatens to wipe out the entire population of the United States and perhaps the world.
Kirby wakens in his room to discover that everyone in the lab has been slaughtered, and the monstrous flesh-eating creatures are loose and rampaging throughout the land, killing and propagating their species with abandon.
Through a country rapidly overwhelmed by the ravenous creatures, Kirby aims to return home to his parents' farm in Iowa, but on his return – following a perilous cross country journey through rake-infested lands - he discovers that they are dead, so chooses instead to take the fight back to the monsters and their master.
Across the same devastated landscape travel Bree and Jill Adams, sisters at odds, who must face their past to survive the future, and three misfits collectively known as the Ruby gang. Each must endure their travails before all of them are thrown together, and then with Kirby, in a race to the eastern seaboard where the final conflict between man and beast is destined to play out in a battle encompassing modern warfare and ancient magic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Hilton
• Release date: Dec 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465808745

Matt Hilton

Matt Hilton worked for twenty-three years in private security and the police force in Cumbria. He is a 4th Dan blackbelt and coach in Ju-Jitsu. He is the author of thirteen novels in the Joe Hunter series, and ten in the Grey & Villere thrillers.

Book preview

Part 1

Minus Two Days

Chapter 1

Tora Ghar, Afghanistan

The crackle of gunfire was loud in the confined space. Tracer rounds lit up the darkness like murderous fireflies, caroming off walls in showers of magnesium white sparks. The flaring images zipped and popped in First Sergeant Ellis Kirby’s sight, hanging there as ghost-lights for seconds after: the downside to wearing Gen 8 night vision goggles.

Captain Lance Coburn was shouting orders, but Kirby couldn’t make out the commands over the roar of the insurgents’ guns. Kirby threw himself down behind a boulder, sighting down the cave with his M-4 Carbine, the Army Ranger’s combat assault rifle. Rounds struck the impromptu barricade he’d just found, hot projectiles rebounding upwards at the cave roof. His Carbine was set to semi-auto and he caressed the trigger, sending a close grouping of three bullets back at the shooter. He wasn’t rewarded by a scream of agony, but a salvo of return fire and Afghan curses. The boulder withstood the barrage of bullets, but chips flew from it as equally hazardous to a human body as the bullets it stopped. Kirby experienced searing pain across his left shoulder as something drilled beneath his fatigues. He could react to the agony and fall back, seeking safety where the cave mouth overlooked the deep mountain crevasse, but that would only earn him another round or more in his spine. No, there was only one way to get out of this ambush alive: he must push forward and fulfil his mission.

‘Fire in the hole!’

Kirby heard the yell this time, and he immediately flattened down as close to the floor as possible.

In the next instant there was a dull whump, followed by a searing flash.

His ears ringing, Kirby spied over the top of the boulder, watching as rocks the size of grapefruits clattered down to the cave floor, loosened from the ceiling by the blast of the hand grenade. Through the surreal augmented vision of his goggles the chunks of flesh littering the cave didn’t look red as they should, but black and glistening. There were no more tracer rounds slashing the air.

Kirby came up to one knee, offering covering fire as others from his troop advanced.

From further within the cave the echo of the exploding grenade was a faint rumble. But there were other sounds building on the reverberations. Men were charging up the cave from hidden chambers deep within the cavern system.

A hand fell on Kirby’s shoulder, fingers probing the tear in the cloth of his battle fatigues.

‘I’m OK, Sir,’ he said. The wound was little more than a scratch, the result of a flying rock chip rather than a bullet.

‘OK, move out.’ Lance Coburn was barely three years older than Kirby, but he carried an air of one much older and wiser: something that came from having survived three consecutive tours fighting the Taliban in these rugged mountains, more than it did his rank.

‘It sounds like there are dozens of them down there.’ Kirby wasn’t complaining, certainly not afraid of the numbers arrayed against them, merely stating a point.

‘The more we get now the less we’ll have to worry about later,’ Coburn grunted.

Coburn was stating a point too, but it still brought a smile to Kirby’s lips. Coburn was the hard-ass the troop believed, and that was a good thing, because it was the very reason they’d followed him into this viper pit. Kirby rose, moving quickly through the dust cloud left by the exploding grenade. He was conscious of other figures moving alongside him, members drafted in to the Joint Special Operations Command unit tasked with the raid on the cave network. Kirby stepped over the remains of an insurgent – probably the same man who’d been shooting at him moments before – taking no notice of the way he had been torn apart. Kirby was no stranger to violence, or its terrible results. He went to a knee, sighting along his assault rifle.

The Special Activities Division were the paramilitary wing of the CIA, and Case Officers of their Special Operations Group had initiated this attack on the caves here in Tora Ghar in the tribal controlled lands straddling the Afghan and Pakistan border. Their intelligence had led to a hurried command from the National Security Council – there was some hint that the President himself had a hand in the decision – to take the caves at all cost. Insurgent fighters, supposedly under the indirect command of Al Qaeda had reputedly been stockpiling a secret weapon that would be employed against the very heart of the infidel. Kirby and the other JSOC troopers had no real comprehension of what the weapon was, but the way in which the Taliban defended it then maybe there was validity in their boasts.

Before the assault, SOG Paramilitary Operations Officers – the said case officers – had infiltrated the network of caves and had laid charges to take out the electrical conduits that powered the lighting and filtration systems, causing blackness to prevail. The Gen 8 night vision goggles were a necessity, not to mention a distinct advantage over the blinded insurgents. They rushed forward with their Kalashnikovs raised, but had no viable targets. Kirby on the other hand saw the men in the enhanced green imagery and placed expertly grouped rounds into their chests and heads. Arranged beside him, other JSOC troopers sighted their own targets and similarly dropped the men they chose. It was a slaughter. But Kirby knew that were the tables turned he could expect no less.

Coburn ordered them inward and down and Kirby found himself proceeding into a narrow corridor that sloped at a harsh angle into the mountainside. The passage was a bottleneck, so he was unsurprised to find that there was only he and one other JSOC trooper in the advance party. If they were engaged now, they’d be gunned down with impunity. The passage was narrow and stuffy now that the filtration and air conditioning had failed, and Kirby sweated freely beneath his battle fatigues and armour. He’d fought in tunnels like these before, but never had he felt the intensity of claustrophobia as he did now. Thankfully the passage opened into a wide chamber hewn from the heart of the mountain and he and his anonymous colleague fanned out and took up covering positions as the remainder of the troop came forward. Kirby could hear shouting from across the cavern, and in the enhanced images in his goggles he could make out another dark oblong that was yet another tunnel leading deeper into the bowels of the earth.

Coburn and other troopers advanced across the chamber, their boots stirring clouds of dust in their wake. In Kirby’s goggles the dust particles glittered like starlight from a distant galaxy. Momentarily blinded, he almost missed the Taliban fighter on the ledge twenty feet up the rock face. He snapped his gun up, ready to shoot, when the fighter launched himself through the air, landing ungracefully in a heap at Coburn’s feet. The Afghan was in no fit shape to get up and fight, but that had never been his intention. Kirby looked at Coburn, and saw the reality of the situation hit the captain. Coburn’s shoulders slumped in acceptance. Then the grenades the Afghan clutched in both hands exploded, obliterating him and Coburn in a searing eruption of flame and shrapnel. Two other JSOC troopers were caught in the blast, and were lifted and flung to far corners of the cave. When they landed, they were neither whole nor alive, and maybe that was some small blessing.

Unearthly silence followed the blast, but that was likely an effect of decompression of the eardrums. Kirby was stunned and horrified in equal measure. He looked at where his captain and friend had been moments before. It was as if the man had never existed. Kirby felt rage swelling in his chest, but he was a professional soldier and not one to give in to base instinct. He tamped the rage down, sealing it in his heart with an ice-cold lid. With the captain gone, it was down to him to lead the mission. He gave the order to move on.

The next passage was broader and steeper than the first, but not so open to ambush. The troop moved forward, advancing into the darkness that seemed to grow around them.

At a bend in the tunnel, Kirby moved ahead of the others, scoping the layout and saw a series of broad steps hewn from the living rock. Above him on a shelf of stone the remaining insurgents waited. The intel fed by the CIA told of a room beyond that shelf, wherein it was believed the Taliban held their secret weapon. The insurgents were a stumbling block, one that had to be shattered.

Kalashnikovs began to rattle, and tracer fire again lit up the darkness. Stone chips were knocked from the wall next to Kirby’s head and he pulled back quickly.

Turning to a couple of JSOC troopers who had their backs pressed to the wall behind him, he indicated for them to come forward. Both men carried RPG launchers. With hand signals he indicated what he needed from them. Both men took up position, readying their weapons. As they did so, Kirby leaned around the corner and fired a controlled burst of fire towards the shelf, before immediately ducking back again. His ploy had the desired result and a hail of return fire rattled across the cave mouth. The gunfire was accompanied by the yells of men driven by religious fervour. Kirby nodded at the troopers. They waited for the hail of bullets to die down, then quickly leaned out and each fired a rocket-propelled grenade in rapid succession. They ducked back as the first grenade detonated. Mixed with the echoing boom were the hellacious screams of eviscerated men. In the next instant the second grenade exploded and then there were no more screams. Neither was there any more gunfire.

Kirby went forward cautiously and stuck his gun around the corner. He loosed a few rounds indiscriminately, but this time there was no counter fire. He stepped out and looked up to where the defenders had been grouped on the shelf. The grenades had torn them to ribbons, and also brought down part of the cave roof along with the front edge of the shelf. Torn and twisted corpses littered the floor below the shelf, as well as upon it. Kirby smiled grimly: it was a terrible slaughter, but what they deserved after what had happened to Captain Coburn minutes earlier.

The JSOC moved in, Kirby leading and followed by four troopers. He mounted the stairs hewn from the rock. On the way up he had to step over the torso of a Taliban fighter, but he barely gave it a glance. In seconds he was up the stairs and standing amid the corpses taken by the RPGs. The raw stench of blood and opened carcasses was rich in the air. Kirby breathed through his mouth, paid them no heed and went towards the small brass door before him. He expected it to be locked, and charges would need to be laid to open it. Yet, when he prodded it with the barrel of his assault rifle the door swung away from him on silent hinges.

Immediately he was on high alert, expecting further ambush, but all that came from within the disclosed chamber was a low murmuring as if a single voice was lowered in prayer. Kirby listened, but couldn’t make out any distinct words. He was familiar with the local tribal tongue, but this was different: somehow older, like they were words once spoken in antiquity. There was a strange flickering light from somewhere within, but unlike anything Kirby had seen before. It was almost as if the light was fed by black flames, and the light therefore an antithesis of the word itself.

Raising his rifle, Kirby stepped into the chamber. The other four troopers came in fast, taking positions to cover all corners of the room in their arch of fire.

Kirby blinked. He reached up and pulled off his night vision goggles, because nothing he now witnessed was what he’d expected. The intel had been sketchy – a secret weapon – and Kirby had assumed he was going to find some kind of missile or perhaps canisters containing biological warfare agents. All he found was a wizened old imam sitting cross-legged on the floor at the centre of the chamber. From a small hole in the floor of the cave writhed a single black flame, which would have been invisible against the darkness but for the fact it was blacker than the darkness itself and therefore stood out in a weird anti-brightness. The imam was oblivious to their presence, or, if he was aware, he didn’t care. He continued to chant in that archaic language that Kirby suspected had died before Noah was a boy.

‘Hey, old man!’ Kirby moved towards the imam.

In response the imam began rocking back and forward, his hands clenched against his stomach. His movements grew more frantic by the second, his voice rising in pitch and volume.

‘Is he insane?’ a trooper at Kirby’s shoulder asked.

‘Fucking rag-head priests are all the same,’ another muttered.

Kirby wasn’t looking at the imam now. His gaze had settled on the flame, and as he watched he noticed that the fire seemed to be growing with the same intensity as the man.

‘What the...’

Before he could finish his thought, the fire erupted in a massive ball and in reflex Kirby flung an arm across his face. He fully expected to be scorched to a cinder, but, even though he felt the flames roll over him, there was no heat. Slowly he lowered his arm and looked around. The other four troopers were equally as perplexed and more than one of them was in the act of checking his flesh for scorch marks. Nothing he’d ever learned could give him an answer to what had just occurred, and Kirby sure as hell wasn’t going to worry about it now. He quickly reached down and grabbed at the priest’s clothing, pulling him from his seated position.

‘The weapon, old man,’ Kirby grunted. ‘Where is the goddamn weapon?’

The imam was floppy in his grip and for a second Kirby thought he’d died. He shook the old man roughly and watched as his turbaned head fell backwards. The old man stared up at him with eyes like white pebbles. He was quite obviously blind, and Kirby wasn’t sure if it was from staring into the black flame or if it was something that had afflicted the man for some time. Blind, but not deaf. The old man’s lips smacked, then he began muttering in the same ancient tongue. Kirby could make nothing of sense from the old man, except for one word repeated on a number of occasions.

Kirby scowled into the blind eyes.

Suddenly it was as if the blindness was a sham because the eyes rolled down, flicked back up and this time they were as black as the flames that had writhed their way through the chamber moments before. The old man began to laugh, his voice growing to hysterical pitch. He made no attempt at escape, but did show defiance. He spat in Kirby’s face, some of the rank saliva invading the sergeant’s mouth. Cursing, Kirby wiped at his face. When he glared next at the imam, the weird effect of his eyes had gone, now they were just the blind orbs of before. In halting English the Afghan said, ‘You will wish you never came here infidel.’

‘No, asshole. You’re the one who’ll wish I never came here.’

The imam laughed again. ‘My wish is already cast, as you shall bear witness.’

Kirby threw the man down. Turning he indicated two of the troopers. ‘Secure him,’ he said. ‘He’s coming with us. Maybe the SAD boys can get some sense from him.’

As the imam was cuffed and then carted away between two of the troopers, Kirby surveyed the room. There was no sign of the weird black flame now. There was no sign of anything in the empty chamber.

‘So where’s the secret weapon?’ a trooper asked aloud.

Kirby didn’t have an answer for him and merely shrugged.

‘You want us to keep searching, Sarge?’

Kirby shouldered his rifle. ‘No. There’s nothing here. Sounds like we were fed bad intel.’ Even as he said it though, he wondered. No one said the secret weapon was man made: what if it was simply a man?

He looked at the imam who was being manhandled down the steps to the chamber below. Kirby shook his head. There was nothing dangerous about that crazy old man, he decided, than the lies he preached. He hawked and spat, but for the life of him he couldn’t get rid of the foul taste of the man’s saliva.

Chapter 2

Harden, New Jersey

‘It ain’t exactly the Armageddon.’

‘Pardon me?’ Bree Adams squinted over the top of her computer monitor, taking in the sudden appearance of a gangling, spiky-haired girl standing over her workstation. The girl – Tina something or other, Bree recalled – had one hand on a propped hip, her other twiddling at a faux-ivory tusk piercing her left earlobe. Her low cut leopard print top and black miniskirt wasn’t exactly office de rigueur. Bree had been concentrating on inputting data into spreadsheets, her brain on automatic drive during the mundane task. The arrival of Tina in all her gaudy extravagance was like a flash of magnesium to a migraine sufferer.

‘You’d think it was the end of the world or something if you listened to Mr Pronzini. Jeez, I’ve only been here five minutes and already he’s on my case. Does he throw his weight around like this all the time? If he does, I’m not sure I’ll be around to put up with his bullying much longer. Just because I’m employed through an agency doesn’t make me any less of a human being.’

Tina spoke like the rattle of an ancient typewriter, but much faster: one hundred and eighty words a minute at least. Bree was a little dazed, her brain fizzing as it tried to make sense of the assault on her ears.

‘Well?’ Tina propped her hips to the opposite side.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bree said. ‘I didn’t catch what you were saying. What is it you want?’

‘You are the boss, yeah?’

Bree snorted. Boss? Yeah, right! ‘You’ve come to the wrong person, I’m afraid.’

‘I have? But I was told you were in charge of the office. You are Billie Adams?’ Tina tapped the glass on the office door where flaking gold lettering stated a misconception.

‘No. I’m Bree Adams. Billy – with a Y - Adams is my uncle. Well, actually, he’s not my uncle at all, he’s a second cousin on my dad’s side of the family, but…’ Bree realised she was jabbering almost as quickly as Tina had moments before. She stopped talking, used a second or two to save her work on her computer as an excuse to pull her thoughts together. Then she stood, so that she didn’t feel as inferior beneath the towering girl. ‘Sorry…uh, Tina is it?’

‘Yeah, Tina de Loo. But everyone calls me Toodles.’ Tina extended a languid hand as she bent over the workstation. Bree got a good look down her top, to where a six inches long golden Ankh was nestled between small breasts encased in red lace.

Bree took the proffered hand, an automatic response in her profession. Toodles? What kind of nickname was that? No stupider than hers was, she supposed. Bree was the shortened form of Brianne, her family’s pet name for her. According to her kid sister, Jill, it was because she smelled of French cheese as a baby. Bree didn’t bother correcting Jill’s spelling mistake. ‘What was it you were saying about the end of the world?’

‘Mr Pronzini! I was twenty minutes late delivering a report to his desk and he went nuclear. Does he always sweat like that?’

Maybe he’d got an eyeful down Tina’s top, as she had, Bree thought. She smiled faintly, but didn’t say it. Jerry Pronzini was fifty-two years old, a unit of measurement that equalled that of his girth in inches. He always dressed for work in a heavy woollen suit, waistcoat, shirt and tie: not contusive attire to keeping cool at the best of times. Jerry did sweat profusely, often it would be standing on his brow like marbles, and his thinning black hair would wear a perpetual sheen of moisture. But he rarely lost his cool when it came to his temper.

‘You were only twenty minutes late?’

‘Well, uh, more like forty I guess. But what’s his problem, anyway?’

Bree glanced at the digi-clock display on her computer screen. She knew that Jerry Pronzini was supposed to be at a very important client meeting quarter of an hour ago. The client had threatened to take his business elsewhere on a previous occasion, and Jerry had been pandering to the man ever since. The client’s business brought thousands of dollars into the small accountancy firm of Henkle, Pronzini and Adams annually and was possibly Jerry’s most important contract. No wonder he was annoyed at Tina’s tardiness.

‘You do understand that Jerry Pronzini is one of the partners, Tina? I’m not sure that complaining to my uncle will help.’

‘Fair enough.’ Tina went back to twiddling the over-large ornament dangling from her ear. ‘Do you want muffins?’

The question came out of left field. Bree blinked a couple of times, while Tina raised her eyebrows in response. They were pencilled on, Bree noticed.

‘I’m doing a Starbucks run. You want coffee and muffins?’

Bree could indeed drink a coffee – the strongest possible if it would help her frazzled brain make sense of this new addition to the office family. ‘Plain black and in the largest cup you can find please.’ As an afterthought, her hand unconsciously running over her stomach, she said: ‘No muffins though. I’m getting one of those already.’

The sedentary lifestyle of office accountancy was playing heavily on Bree’s mind and her waistline. In the past few months she’d noticed her clothing was getting a tad tighter and wasn’t sure that they were shrinking in the laundry. She must renew her health club membership soon.

‘Jeez, you’re just a tiny thing,’ Tina said, looking her up and down. ‘Nicely proportioned, though. Hell, I’d kill for a butt like yours!’

Tina flounced away: like Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oil, during a punk rock rebellion.

Bree found herself blinking again. She was sure that Tina had meant her parting comment as a compliment, but…

She twisted round so that her backside was reflected in the cold blue of her screen saver, checking herself out. Nicely proportioned was coded speak for fat! Definitely time to get back to the gym. Then again, coming from someone with all the curves of a telegraph pole, what had she to worry about? She smoothed her trousers over her hips, rearranged her blouse and sat down again. Her office chair groaned; so did Bree. She leaned forward and jabbed at the mouse, bringing up her minimised worksheet. She looked blindly at the columns of figures, then hit the mouse again and shut down the screen. Enough, she decided and got up. She couldn’t concentrate on her work now – and probably hadn’t been for the past hour or so.

She wandered from her office, waving distractedly at colleagues who looked equally bored. Lunchtime was her favourite time of the day, her only opportunity for fresh air and fresh faces. Could she catch Tina at Starbucks? Should she even bother cutting her off at the pass? She had ordered coffee as a natural response to the offer, though she rarely had it in the office. She preferred to sit out on the green, opposite the town hall, and sip her coffee while people watching. Seeing the bustle of townsfolk helped remind her that she lived in a world of real people, not the office drones, or the caricatures like Tina de Loo, but real honest to goodness flesh and blood whose days weren’t dominated by data and spread sheets, IRS demands, and ridiculous questions like the one she’d fielded this morning from a client wondering if he could off-set his wife’s Botox regime against expenses. He had reasoned that his wife was as much a public face of his business as he and that she had to look good on their promo material. Bree had wanted to say that all the Botox in the world wouldn’t help a prune-faced shrew, but kept her opinion to herself. ‘Let me look into it,’ she’d promised, ‘and I’ll get back to you with a decision from Inland Revenue.’ Jeez, she thought now, if they taxed his wife for all the silicon in her augmented breasts they’d bankrupt the client’s company. Bree smiled at the thought, but felt immediately ashamed. She wasn’t usually as snarky. It was all Tina’s fault: it had placed her in a dark mood. No, that was wrong. It wasn’t Tina’s fault. She was conscious that she’d put on a few pounds lately – maybe more than a few – and she was sure that it was one reason why her long-time boyfriend, Ross Cochran, had dumped her for skinny Bethany Garner.

Thinking of Ross always placed her in a dark place. They’d been together since high school, and even when he’d gone off to a different college, they’d stuck to their vows and not strayed, hooking up again for happy reunions during semester breaks and holidays. She knew now that Ross had perhaps not been as serious as she, and that maybe there had been other girls at college she was unaware of, and that’s what hurt her most. She had been faithful. Even since she’d caught Ross and Bethany in a compromising position, she had not turned to another boy for comfort, let alone revenge. Perhaps she should. It was months since she’d last dated. No, she’d get back to the gym first; show her unfaithful boyfriend what the hell he was missing. Tina had mentioned the end of the world, and in all honesty, it felt like a big hole had opened beneath her feet and sucked her into hell when she’d walked in Ross’s bedroom to find him writhing about on top of the human equivalent of a praying mantis. But that was then. At only twenty-two years old, Bree had many good years in her yet. It wasn’t the end of the world at all, just a new one. One she thought might prove much brighter.

She had no idea how wrong her prophecy would prove.

Chapter 3

Tora Ghar, Afghanistan

Ellis Kirby hawked and spat.

He was standing on a ledge below the wide mouth of the cave the JSOC unit had recently stormed. Grit blew on the wind. Those damned mountain passes; they were furnace hot during the day, icy cold at night, always dust bowls. But that wasn’t why he was spitting. He couldn’t get the taste of the imam’s saliva out of his mouth. Perhaps it was just a memory of his revulsion, a phantom memory, but it was there, like fish guts spoiling under the sun. He spat again, this time leaning over to inspect the discharge as it hit the rocks. He would swear the spittle was flecked with dots of oil, but knew he was making something out of nothing. It wasn’t the old priest’s saliva invading his mouth that had raised his gorge as much as it was the horrifying death of Lance Coburn. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his fatigues, trying to find a spot clean of dirt. He saw speckles of blood on the cloth and wondered if it belonged to his friend.

There was commotion below him. Soldiers had secured the area, and were setting up a perimeter to defend any possible counterattack. Military vehicles had moved in now that initial resistance had ended, including a couple of armoured trucks brought to imprison any insurgents taken alive. Only minutes earlier a helicopter had clattered over the nearby peaks and settled on the floor of the valley, well inside the cordon. The chopper was matte black, bearing no insignia and he knew the men that disgorged from it were the same CIA case officers who’d sent them into Tora Ghar on a fool’s errand. They were more correctly termed the designated jargon of Special Operations Group Paramilitary Operations Officers – SOGPOO – but to Kirby and most regular soldiers they were the SAD boys, or plain spooks when all was said and done. It was their bad intelligence that had killed Captain Coburn.

Kirby spat again, but this time for a different reason.

Three of the SAD boys were making their way up the trail towards him. Ordinarily they wore civilian clothing, but here in the hot zone they came with Kevlar vests and helmets. The pussies had disguised their armour with Red Cross symbols, in an attempt at dissuading an insurgent sniper from taking out a humanitarian worker. In Kirby’s experience the lies wouldn’t save them.

One of the CIA men was talking into a satellite phone as he walked. He halted his comrades, and as one they all glanced up at where Kirby stood above them. For effect, Kirby gripped his M-4 tight across his chest. He didn’t enjoy their scrutiny and hoped they read the scowl he cast back at them. There was little chance because his helmet and chin strap concealed much of his features. In the next instant, the one on the phone spoke to his colleagues, his words lost amid the hubbub of activity. The two then jerked their attention back on Kirby, before rushing off towards the military convoy. Kirby didn’t understand these guys, or their methods, but he didn’t like the sudden turn of events. He saw the first spook put away his phone then stride up the mountain trail. The man was in his early thirties, trim, and fresh faced. Kirby suspected that the spook’s innocent features belied a complex and calculating mind that was only revealed in the fixed gaze he set on the sergeant. Kirby wanted to walk away, but couldn’t. Since Coburn’s death it had fallen on his shoulders to brief the spook with what the JSOC unit had discovered. His report wouldn’t amount to much, he decided, considering they’d found fuck all.

Kirby didn’t join the military to be a lap dog to the CIA. In fact he wasn’t comfortable with his attachment to JSOC – he was 75th Ranger Regiment through and through – but he was still a soldier and orders were orders. The nature of the Joint Special Operations Command meant that they called on the Special Forces when mounting ops, most often the Rangers, DELTA and Night Stalkers, and for this mission the order had come all the way from Fort Bragg to secure Tora Ghar, so who was he to complain? He didn’t mind the scutwork, only the fact that it had proven pointless, and had been the death of a good man. Shit, it would have pleased him if the nameless imam’s face had matched one of those on the deck of playing cards he carried with him, but the priest wasn’t anyone recognised as a top player in terrorism. Nothing good had come of this that he could see.

He watched the man approach along the final bend of the trail. He was panting slightly from the climb, looking more rushed than before. The spook didn’t introduce himself: it wasn’t the CIA way, Kirby supposed. But Kirby stuck to protocol. He saluted, giving his name and rank.

‘I hear the officer in charge was killed,’ the spook said without preamble.

‘Captain Lance Coburn.’ Kirby enunciated each word clearly, angered that the spook was so insensitive as to refer to him simply as the officer. ‘He was a great man who died for nothing.’

The spook shrugged mildly, nonplussed by Kirby’s response. ‘You took charge of the op, First Sergeant. You have secured the designated target?’

‘If you mean the hidden chamber, then yes. If you’re talking about that old blind guy, we have him contained and awaiting collection. But that’s all we found.’

The spook looked past him, peering into the mouth of the cave. ‘How many of your men went inside?’

‘The cave system itself, or just the chamber?’

The spook nodded at the final word.

‘Five of us. The others were below in the main cavern,’ Kirby said.

‘Five. I need each of you to report to my colleagues down there in the camp. You are each to be debriefed.’

‘Debriefed, huh? Can’t see how that will take very long. What’s the purpose, to keep our mouths shut that we found nothing of importance?’

‘That isn’t for you to decide, soldier.’

‘There’s nothing in there,’ Kirby said with more force. ‘Just some ancient well, looks like it’s been there since God knows when.’ He was about to mention the surreal black flame that had burned in it, but chose to leave that out for now. Black flame wasn’t the best description for the substance now that he thought about it; it had been more like energy of some sort, suspended in the air like a boiling shadow. He wasn’t sure that anyone but those who’d witnessed it would believe his description. ‘And the imam. He was there. We’ve checked everywhere; there’re no stockpiled weapons as we were led to believe.’

He could tell the spook wasn’t listening to him. He’d lost him at mention of the well. Kirby wondered why the spook had even bothered seeking him out considering everything that had occurred inside the cavern had been relayed back to a JSOC Forward Operating Base via the cameras Kirby and the others wore on their helmets. The SAD boys had monitored the activity before flying over here once all the fighting had ended. The spook and his colleagues were already aware of what they had – or hadn’t - discovered.

‘Get the others together, Sergeant Kirby. I want them to report to my colleagues in two minutes flat.’ The spook had suddenly taken a couple of steps away from Kirby, as though he wished to be out of his radius. ‘Make sure they don’t speak to or make contact with anyone else. That also applies to you.’

‘What the hell’s going on here?’

‘I’m already counting down, Sergeant. Don’t make me remind you that you are under JSOC command. If you refuse me I’ll order your arrest and have you taken down there under guard.’

Kirby bristled at the man’s words. What the hell had brought that on? ‘Hey, take it easy, will you?’

‘Ninety seconds remaining,’ the spook said. Then he turned for the cave mouth, dismissing Kirby like he was a whipped dog.

Kirby shook his head. He was used to this kind of treatment, and it wasn’t the first time some Ivy Leaguer playing James Bond had pulled rank on him. It kind of came with the territory, he decided. He just didn’t understand the urgency, or the spook’s sudden need to get as far away from him as possible. Deciding the young punk was merely throwing his weight around but didn’t have the balls to see it through, he shrugged. He keyed his throat mike and called up the four troopers that had accompanied him inside the hidden chamber, instructing them verbatim as to the spook’s orders.

He went down the dirt trail, his fatigues and body armour chafing at his joints. In combat the unwieldy weight of his equipment was never an issue, it was after all a lifesaver, but now that his pulse had settled his kit had grown uncomfortable. It wasn’t like him to think about such mild discomfort, but now it had become irritating. The mountain grit had got everywhere, worming beneath his clothing and rubbing at his skin. Sweat that had poured off his body earlier was now drying in his clothing, making them stiff and rough, and not helping matters. He told himself to ignore the discomfort. It was allegorical for his irritation at the SAD agent. All except for the taste in his mouth…he spat again…that was real.

As he gained the valley floor, he recognised the other four troopers who’d entered the chamber with him. They had taken charge of the imam and had escorted him down here to the camp, as he’d ordered. Now they were standing around, looking slightly bewildered by the turn of events. Kirby approached them.

‘Hey, Sarge? You any idea of what’s going on?’ The speaker was a tall black guy.

‘No idea,’ he admitted, ‘but it looks like we’re about to find out. This way, men.’

Kirby led the four across the valley towards a tent that had been hastily erected. He had seen one of the SAD agents beckoning from the front before swirling dust had obscured the man from view. As they now approached, the agent had already gone back inside the tent, allowing the canvas flaps to drop closed. Kirby pushed his helmet back on his head, loosening the chinstrap. He wouldn’t take it off yet because he wouldn’t be safe from a sniper until he was under cover. He rubbed his fingers under the rim of the helmet: his skin was chafed now, goddamn if it wasn’t on fire. He suddenly had a horrible feeling that perhaps there was more in that cavern than he’d first assumed. He glanced at the other troopers, but apart from being slightly uneasy at their treatment none of them seemed physically affected the way he was. He shook thoughts of chemical weapons out of his mind, and approached the tent.

He hailed the men inside, but didn’t wait for an answer and immediately ducked under the canvas, gesturing the others after him. Straightening he was surprised at what he found. Immediately his fears were confirmed. The SAD agent who waved them inside was a good fifteen feet away across the tent, standing behind a hastily erected Plexiscreen wall, and had donned a respirator. He was standing beside a trestle table upon which had been set up a laptop computer. On this side of the plastic screen was the third SAD agent and he had dressed in a paper suit, a plastic visor and thick gloves. He was holding a contraption that reminded Kirby of an electrician’s EMF detector, with a dial and array of blinking lights, but this one came equipped with a short plastic pipe protruding from it. He swung it side to side, walking along the line of soldiers, and paused before Kirby. Breath misted his plastic visor momentarily, as he studied the readout on his machine, then he said: ‘It’s just as we feared. Gentlemen, I regret to say you’ve all been in contact with a biological agent. You’re all hereby quarantined under Executive Order Wildfire.’

Kirby opened his mouth, but before he could formulate an argument, he heard the rattle of equipment and the fast pad of feet. Armed soldiers piled into the tent behind them, guns raised. They wore breathing apparatus and goggles as well as full battle kit.

‘I must ask you to relinquish your weapons and accompany these guards,’ the suited agent said. ‘Resist and the consequences will prove fatal.’

Chapter 4

Harden, New Jersey

‘Hey, Bree, you escaped the madhouse?’

Bree had succumbed to the pull of the park opposite the town hall, and had gravitated to the bench she usually chose to sit at next to the old wishing well. It was a surprisingly warm spring day and already flowers were sprouting in the freshly turned beds at the edge of the green. She had given up on the coffee promised by Tina de Loo and had grabbed one for herself from Harper’s convenience store on the corner. She had the waxed cup in a cardboard sleeve but still it was too hot and she’d placed it on the bench beside her rather than scorch her fingers. She felt guilty as the gangling girl stood over her, two branded Starbucks cups balanced in hands also holding brown paper sacks full of muffins and other treats. She saw the girl’s doe-eyes slide from her face to the incriminating evidence, then back again.

‘I, uh, tried to catch you at the store,’ Bree began, but knew she couldn’t hide the lie. She shrugged. ‘Actually, when you offered a drink I hadn’t realised how parched I was. I couldn’t wait, so grabbed one myself. I’ll still pay you back.’

‘Hey, say nothing of it. I’m sure we’ll manage them between us. Shift along.’ Tina swung and pushed her butt in alongside Bree, causing her to hitch along to avoid being sat on, or be jabbed with a sharp elbow. Tina bent, placing the cups between her feet, then hauled up her sack of goodies. She delved inside, smiling conspiratorially at Bree. ‘Go on,’ she said offering over a blueberry muffin, ‘you know you want to.’

‘Honestly, it’s OK.’ Bree waved the offer aside, her eyes lingering on the juicy cake.

‘Don’t give me any of that I’m watching my figure crap, girly,’ Tina scolded. ‘You’re gorgeous and one ickle-bitty blueberry muffin ain’t going to change a thing.’

This from someone who’d made a sideways comment about the size of her butt so shortly before? ‘Are you trying to corrupt me, Tina?’ Bree smiled.

‘Go on, live dangerously.’ Tina jiggled the muffin under Bree’s nose, and with a show of reluctance Bree reached out for it. ‘See, I knew you were dying for one. And, hey, something else! I’m Toodles, OK? Now that we’re muffin-buddies an’ all.’

Muffin-buddies? Bree smiled at the connotation that some seedier-minded guys would make of that. But then she wondered if it was her own juvenile mind at work, or if she was picking up on some subtext from the punky girl. Her androgynous body shape, her butch appearance wasn’t exactly lost on Bree now that she thought about it. Then again would a masculine lesbian really go by the name Toodles?

Tina took a lingering look around the park. ‘Nice, huh? Beats four walls, yeah?’

‘I like coming here.’ Not that the scene hadn’t become as familiar to her as her computer screen.

‘I can see the attraction.’ Tina nodded at the old town hall building. It was the oldest surviving construction in town, and looked it. It was also a little shabby on deeper scrutiny. Bree wasn’t sure if Tina was being sarcastic or not.

‘I try to get out most lunch hours. Don’t you think it’s a shame we all sit in different offices at work? It doesn’t give us girls much opportunity to chat and get to know each other.’

‘Don’t you think that’s the idea? Otherwise there’d be no work done. I think Hinky Henkle, Sweaty Pronzini and Kissin’ Cousin Billy - with a Y -Adams have probably got it right.’

Bree found herself giggling at Tina’s snarky names for their bosses. She’d only been there a couple weeks and already she’d got their measure. Not that she’d ever kiss Uncle Billy, second cousin removed to her dad or not.

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ Bree managed the question round a mouthful of moist cake.

‘Nah, I was a cow, girl. Grew up in Texas, dragged here a month ago by my good ol’ mom and pop, kicking and screaming the whole way. But I have to admit, I love it here now.’

‘Cowgirl, eh? I wouldn’t have thought so from your, uh, dress sense.’

Tina grinned. ‘Didn’t say I was a cowgirl. I said I was a cow. I gave my mom and pop hell when they suggested coming out here. It pissed them off when I rebelled and cut off my hair and stuck this tooth through my ear.’ She flicked the fake tusk.

Bree grinned with her, liking the girl more than she’d have ever guessed. Get Bree, she thought, the ultimate co-ed hooking up with the brash rocker chick.

‘It must have been hard leaving all your friends behind,’ she said, still munching.

‘Friends come and go, Bree. Only the best ones stay.’

Ross Cochran’s face flashed into Bree’s mind. Tina had that damn right.

‘So there was no, uh, boyfriend you had to kiss goodbye to back in Texas?’

‘Plenty,’ Tina said with a wicked smile. ‘But, hey, there’s plenty boys here in Butt-End, New Jersey, to keep me busy. Actually, I’m working on the kid who delivers the mail. This time next week he’ll be eating out of the palm of my hand.’ To add validity to her promise, she snacked down on her muffin, making satisfied noises.

‘You don’t mean Rick Beaker? Eeewww! Tina, you have to set your standards much higher.’

‘He’s a sweet kid.’

‘Once you get past the squint and the humongous nose…’ Bree checked herself. She was being snarky again.

‘You know what they say,’ Tina gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘Big nose, big…Fill in the blank yoursel’, girl.’

Bree giggled again. ‘Seriously, though? Rick Beaker?’

‘Hey, what more can I expect? I’m not exactly Hollywood standard am I?’

Actually, now that Bree had taken time to look beyond the dyed hair and painted-on make up, there was something decidedly pretty about Tina de Loo. Not that she’d ever say it – Muffin-friends or not.

‘What about you, Bree? A little hottie like you’s bound to have the guys fallin’ over themselves to buy you drinks?’

Bree shook her head.

‘What? No significant other? I can’t believe that.’

Bree concentrated on picking a juicy morsel from the paper cake wrapper.

‘Oops, me an’ my rampant mouth does it again. I take it I’ve hit on a raw nerve?’

‘Ah, it’s not important. I guess it’s been over with for a long time.’

‘Just you were the last to find out, I’m guessin’?’

‘You guess right, Tina.’

‘Toodles. We’re friends right?’

‘We sure are. So are you going to tell me how you got such an odd nickname?’

‘What it isn’t obvious? Like, as in toodle-loo? Like those pompous Brits say when they bid you goodbye?’

T. de Loo. Bree got it now. Though she wasn’t sure that Brits actually said things like that these days. Maybe in Sherlock Holmes’s day they did. Maybe she was wrong, though; she didn’t know anyone from the UK, but from what she’d heard on TV they sure did say some odd things.

‘So, when did you say toodle-loo to your boyfriend? Days ago? Weeks? Or was it months?’ Tina held her with a studious gaze. ‘Hmmm. Months I’d say.’

‘You’re more perceptive than anyone I’ve ever met, Toodles.’ Bree balled up her empty cake wrapper. Then replaced it with her first cup of coffee. It had cooled enough that she didn’t fear third degree burns of her lips anymore.

‘Well, it’s time you moved on, gal. You, and me, we should go out on the town. I’m sure Ricky Beaker will have a buddy we could set you up with. Someone with a nose equally as prodigious.’ She jiggled one painted eyebrow.

‘I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet,’ Bree chuckled.

‘Drinks, then? Tonight. Go on, you know you want to.’

Yeah, it was a great idea, and a night on the town was just what Bree needed – even in Butt-End, New Jersey as Tina had so succinctly described their town.

‘I’d love to,’ Bree said. ‘But…’

‘Uh-oh. Problem?’

‘Yeah, a longstanding one. Fourteen years to be precise.’

For the first time since they’d met, Tina looked more bemused than Bree felt.

‘She’s called Jill. My bratty little sister who I have to babysit tonight.’ Even as she said it, Bree felt a twinge of guilt push through her. It wasn’t as if she didn’t love her sister, but lately there’d been a case of too much of a good thing. Her dad, Tom, supervised the nightshift at the same dispatch centre as the nasally apparent Rick Beaker worked, while her mom, Doreen, spent most evenings at Chelsea’s Diner where she waited on tables. Times were hard and money difficult to come by, and it had fallen on Bree to do her bit to help out by allowing her parents the opportunity to make a living. Jill was at that age where she demanded independence but lacked the necessary experience to handle it. The way things were looking; Bree was stuck with weeknights at home for the foreseeable future.

‘Fourteen, huh? Hell, she’s almost an adult. Bring her along, I’m sure Ricky or his buddy will have a kid brother.’

‘I’m sure my parents would just love that idea.’

More like they’d kill her first.

‘So how about we grab a movie instead? To hell with real guys – we’ll just drool over them on the big screen. Your parents shouldn’t blow a fuse over that!’

‘Depends on the type of movie you’re planning on?’ Bree turned up the corner of her mouth.

‘You get skin flicks? What here?’

‘Dream on, Toodles. I was talking about a horror movie.’

‘C’mon. All kids love scary movies.’

‘Not my baby sister. Jill doesn’t do monsters, I’m afraid.’

Chapter 5

Tora Ghar, Afghanistan

Kirby laid down his weapons even though he was loath to do so.

There was something drastically wrong with this picture, and as he’d thought earlier, nothing good would come of it. Being Spec Ops he wasn’t unfamiliar with the procedures involved following contamination by ABC – atomic, bacterial and chemical - agents, and he sure as hell knew that the SAD boys weren’t following the protocol instilled in him. Under such circumstances quarantine was necessary, but it was never conducted in this manner. He certainly didn’t expect to be arrested and treated like a fucking enemy.

For a second or two the idea of resistance did occur, but he was quick to discard the idea. The soldiers under SAD command didn’t look the type to flinch at dropping each and every one of them where they stood, and though Kirby wasn’t afraid to fight, he couldn’t make that decision for the other four troopers alongside him. They were barely old enough to shave, kids, and he felt a responsibility to them. Coburn would have died before he allowed any of his boys to die, and Kirby had just inherited that obligation when he took command of the unit.

‘Cuff and shackle them.’ The order came from the agent standing beyond the Plexiglass screen, which Kirby could now see was the oldest of the three SAD boys. Though he was wearing a respirator, his skin looked sallow and deeply grooved, where it wasn’t hidden behind the breathing apparatus. His hair was blond, thinning on top, and there was a birthmark high on his forehead like a splotch of raspberry juice. Kirby wondered if it was he and not the agent who’d approached him at the cave that was in charge. His order seemed to confirm that, as did the speed and efficiency to which his men set to the task.

There was a murmur of dissent among the younger soldiers under Kirby’s command. He hushed them, deciding it was his responsibility to get them out of this unharmed.

‘We deserve some kind of explanation.’

‘Everything will be revealed in good time,’ the older agent said. ‘But first we must ensure the threat of further contamination isn’t an issue.’ He made as though to move around the screen, but decided against it. He leaned close to the Plexiglass, so he could get a good look at Kirby’s eyes. Kirby stared back, wondering what the hell it was the man was looking for.

‘Why are we shackled like this?’ Kirby lifted his cuffed hands, jiggling the chains, dismayed at how quickly their guards had come up with the necessary equipment: almost as if they’d arrived prepared for such an eventuality.

‘You will be released once we have a better understanding of exactly what we’re up against. Not before.’

‘We haven’t been infected.’

‘Haven’t you?

‘If there was a bacterial agent present in that chamber, the old guy would also have been infected. If it were harmful to us he wouldn’t