Piercing the Darkness

By D. A. Bale

Get set for the continuation of the Deepest Darkness series with this sequel to Running into the Darkness by D. A. Bale.

Samantha Bartlett is running for her life. Haunted by her past actions and with nearly every government agency on the manhunt, Samantha lives alone and off the grid. But those who have come under her care won’t let her simply shove them aside. Surrounded by the unlikeliest of humanity, Samantha still feels the sharp sting of loneliness, but for the first time in years she also tastes the sweetness of freedom – for the moment.

For FBI Agent Joe Roberts, Washington D.C. has become too dicey since President Warner’s murder – and a constant reminder of his encounter with their primary suspect. An opportunity arises to continue investigating Oleander Enterprises and what has become known as the Hitler Survival Conspiracy. Key documents are making their way from classified vaults back to where experiments first took place. Joe stops at nothing to intercept them, even when his actions place him on the Elite’s short list – and the FBI’s.

Debrille’s plans for an Elite Empire are nearing fruition, but without the brilliant Dr. Marcus, his life’s work threatens to crumble. The Bartlett woman needs to be silenced before ruining his carefully devised schemes. Debrille is tired of games with mere jokers, but the ace is in position – and only waiting to be played.

The search for the truth brings the participants to a breaking point collision. The battle lines are redrawn as reality pierces a lifetime of lies – and freedom can only be found in truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. A. Bale
• Release date: Dec 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301402731

D. A. Bale

Sometimes life emulates fiction.Life is filled with tragedy and Ms. Bale's writing reflects this reality. However, there is always a silver lining...even if one must spend their entire life searching for it.In her previous career, Ms. Bale traveled the United States as a Government Relations Liaison, working closely with Congressional offices and various government agencies. This experience afforded her a glimpse into the sometimes "not so pretty" reality of the political sphere. Much of this reality and various locations throughout her travels make it into her writing.She dreams of the day she can return to visit Alaska.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Coming to the Surface

The steady cadence of waves slapping against the boat would put the ordinary fisherman to sleep. But Billy McCurdy considered himself a step above any ordinary fisherman. Hell, more like ten steps.

As the line of one fishing reel played out, he baited and tossed out the next until every available inch of the deck stood at attention. The Cathouse may have appeared derelict by some standards, but she was one workhorse of a fishing vessel. The old girl had it where it really counted.

Best of all, she was his. Not tied up by a partner nor a bank, but one-hundred-percent his own, and McCurdy treated her with the touch of a lover. When he’d make port and sell his catch he always brought her back something special. Each time her engines started up now, the purr threatened to give him a hard-on. In no time he’d have her rigged up right nice if the fish kept biting. Get the hydraulics for the crane and nets functioning again, maybe next season he’d be in a position to hire a real crew.

For now, he put up with his good-for-nothing son for a crew. Joey didn’t have the common sense of an onion. On the day God passed out personal gumption, Joey was likely sleeping off the drinking binge of the night before. Running a boat required a minimum second set of hands, and at least Joey had the hands, if not the brains, to fulfill that requirement.

Hey, Pops!

Speak of the devil. On deck!

Joey’s hulk blocked the sun as he leaned over the wheelhouse railing.

That radar thingy has a pretty big area showing just off this way, Joey said as he pointed to his left.

My right? That would be starboard, son. Starboard!

Yeah. Whatever.

McCurdy took the steps up the ladder two at a time and glared down his son as much as their identical six-foot-five frames allowed.

Learn the damn terms, boy. Now get down on deck while I assess the target.

As Joey slunk down the ladder, McCurdy entered the wheelhouse and reviewed the depth finder. He let out a low whistle as he surveyed the shadowed mass on the sonar. The school of fish arrayed on the screen would give him a pretty hefty payload in short order. It looked like no other fishing vessel was close enough to reach it before he secured the choicest pick.

Hot damn. Maybe there was hope for Joey after all.

Weighing anchor, McCurdy called over the loudspeaker. Pull in the lines and get ready to work your ass off, boy.

The engines rumbled up from idle into full power as he angled the Cathouse out of Pocomoke Sound and into the Chesapeake toward a nice chunk of change – hopefully. Less than fifteen minutes later they pulled up in deeper waters just southwest of where sonar showed the school. The anchor released with a rattle of chain as McCurdy set the engines back to idle.

The familiar briny scent greeted him as he stepped out of the wheelhouse and ploughed down the ladder. Down on deck, McCurdy directed, Pull out the small nets and rig the poles so we can get them in easier. I don’t want to waste this opportunity with standard fishing line.

Since they both had to work the deck manually with an inoperable crane, they’d be unable to tow nets and follow the school. After the first scramble, maybe they could move on ahead and take a second shot at the mass, but larger boats would likely be on them by then and they’d lose out. The school’s sheer size gave them a good chance to fill their tank in one go-around if they played it right.

Movement in the first nets relayed the arrival. Father and son jumped into action and started reeling in as fast as their bulging arms allowed, then heaving the wriggling catch into the tank before lowering nets back into the water. The furious pace continued.

McCurdy’s heart thundered against his chest as he strained against the nets. He couldn’t tell if it was strictly from exertion or excitement – probably both. When it appeared the school was moving on, they released the catch right onto the Cathouse’s deck to facilitate returning the nets back to the water until they came up empty.

The school had advanced toward the dark recesses of the Atlantic.

The fishermen stared at each other, arms limp at their sides, faces drenched in sweat and saltwater. McCurdy let out a whoop. The deck swam with writhing fish – the biggest single catch of his fledgling fishing career. Joey had surprised him by sticking to the task right alongside him. Yep, there was definitely hope for the kid yet.

As they set about shoveling their catch into the tank, McCurdy mentally calculated the payout. Soon as they got to port, he’d make a call to schedule the Cathouse for her crane and hydraulics repair job at season’s end. Then maybe he’d make a trip into the city to get rid of some pent-up excitement and fatten some one else’s wallet a bit. Might even take Joey along and introduce him to his first stripper-fest.

Shit!

Joey’s exclamation ended the delicious thought. It’s only fish, boy! Grow a pair. When McCurdy turned to laugh at his son, the shovel clattered to the deck. What the hell?

Near the bottom of the wriggling mass, they stared in horror at the swollen and half-eaten remains of a human body.

Chapter 2 – Cleaning House

Too many details. So many names.

President Thomas Noel Durksen stared at the papers strewn across his desk. No, not his desk – the People’s desk. The Resolute desk. Fredrick Douglas Warner’s desk.

His former Commander-in-Chief.

Some day he’d planned to occupy the Oval Office and sit in this very chair. The victory celebration sweet. The swearing-in ceremony a hallowed event followed by the triumphant walk down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House.

Instead there was a funeral, a somber swearing-in, and no walk down the avenue. The Secret Service wouldn’t allow it. Did it matter too that he couldn’t stomach the very idea of pomp after the assassination of a sitting President? The title felt as if it had been bought instead of earned, a taint on his Presidency. It didn’t sit well with him.

It was no secret in the inner circle that he and Warner rarely saw eye-to-eye. However, as a political team they were able to accomplish much when they put personal differences aside. At one time, Warner and his wife had done the same in their former days of glory. He never understood whatever had initially drawn a wedge between them. Warner’s indiscretions eventually caught up to him and became his downfall.

Weeks had passed since the funeral with no real work accomplished. The country continued to mourn. The press and public had accepted the report of Warner’s heart attack – for the most part. Rumors surfaced here and there, but the public largely rejected the majority of conspiracies as the conjuring of overwrought imaginations. Their government wouldn’t lie to them, would it?

If they only knew.

In the meantime, resignations flew into the Oval Office faster than he could read appointment recommendations. Some days his head spun wilder than a Midwestern tornado. If it hadn’t been for Benjamin Forsdale, he’d have already ground his teeth to the gums.

But today was Ben’s last day as Chief of Staff. With Gabe Portenski settling into the Chief’s role, the real test would come tomorrow with Ben’s absence. It felt like the proverbial double-edged sword.

Ben Forsdale was good at his job – invaluable even. No one could ever fault the man for anything less than a job well done. However, something about Ben made him uneasy. There were the numerous sluts he’d hired for the sheer sake of satisfying Warner’s appetites. Within context he was doing the will of the President at that time, no matter how repulsive.

Yet over the years he’d noticed something more unsettling in Ben’s brilliant mind. Something dark. Almost sinister. Moments passed when the façade fell ever so slight and a glint shimmered in his eyes before the mask snapped back into place. Durksen knew he couldn’t have Ben stay any longer. He didn’t trust him. The resignation letter offered reprieve from a difficult decision.

Ruminations were interrupted as the side staff door opened to admit Ben and Gabe to the Oval Office. Durksen stood to offer his hand of farewell.

Well, Ben, off to greener pastures?

A change of scenery, Mr. President, Ben said as he accepted the offered handshake with a smile.

So how goes our new Chief of Staff? Durksen asked. Do you think Gabe’s ready for the challenge?

Ben laughed. Very able, sir.

That I am, Mr. President, Gabe offered, adjusting his wire rimmed glasses.

Gabe Portenski had proven himself while serving as an assistant during the Vice Presidency. Durksen’s choice had been simple, though much more would now be required of the young man.

Ben continued, With your permission, Mr. President, I’ll gather the last of my things and be on my way. I’ve already sent for a car.

You are relieved then. Your efforts will be missed, Ben.

Thank you, sir.

As Ben sauntered from the Oval Office, Durksen grabbed the latest staffing recommendations from the desk and handed them off.

Have a seat, Gabe. We’ve got to make some headway on these. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

***

After clearing the painting through the final stages of security, Ben bade a farewell to the White House staff. The remainder of his office goods and gifts were boxed up and waiting for clearance to be transported to his home, but he’d never let the painting of the HMS Resolute out of his possession after all he’d gone through to purchase it.

The waiting limousine surprised him – he’d only requested a car. Perhaps the President felt his exit should be high class. That suited him just fine. He deserved it anyway, considering he’d remained on staff three whole weeks after submitting his resignation. Maybe President Durksen wasn’t quite the stuffed-shirt he always portrayed.

The driver came around and opened the door for Ben to climb into the plush vehicle. Before his eyes adjusted between the glare of the afternoon sun and the darkness of the interior, a familiar feminine voice oozed from the cushions.

Mr. Forsdale, I have a proposition for you.

Ben glanced up into the face of Abbie Warner – former First Lady of the United States.

Chapter 3 – Under Cover of Darkness

Agent Joe Roberts scanned the latest intel on the wall-mounted screens scattered across the FBI’s inner sanctum. Ever since his boss, Special Agent-in-Charge Denver Hitchens, had brought him into the investigation, Joe spent most of his time in the secret, high-tech intelligence quarters – the heartbeat between the FBI, Homeland Security, CIA, and Secret Service.

The darkness of the room remained highlighted by the enormous glaring screens reflecting activities throughout the world, pockmarked with technicians sitting at smaller consoles analyzing threat potential. Lights on the floor guided him like an airplane along the airport tarmac. They’d been at elevated threat level since the murder of President Warner two months prior. Terrorists were in their midst.

And he might just know one of them.

The possibility of Samantha Bartlett being an FBI Most Wanted suspect remained surreal. She’d been his high school sweetheart. A decade had passed. Then he’d set eyes on her again after the death of her beloved grandmother brought her home to Kansas. Two months ago, after long thinking Sam died in the house explosion, he’d set eyes on her again – but the dark hair had become red, the brown eyes green. The body, like something out of his partner Agent Eric Laturno’s wet dreams.

They’d found her blood – scads of blood – in a warehouse during her escape. By all points and purposes she had to be dead. No one could survive such catastrophic loss of blood. At least it had given him the confirmation he needed to know for certain that the stranger he’d seen was, in fact, Sam. Blood DNA didn’t lie.

But someone had gone to great lengths to get her out from under their noses. Someone with an intricate web of escape routes. Someone tied to an organization Sam had mentioned – the Elite. Someone with the power to slow or even stop the aging process, if they were indeed the ones tied to his end of the investigation. All of it appeared probable, but could that someone have saved her life?

It remained to be seen. If so, Sam had thus far cheated death twice. Was it possible the woman had nine lives? She’d better, because if she was still alive, he’d find her and wring her neck for her stupidity. That is, after he kissed her first.

Then he’d have to arrest her for the murder of President Warner. The whole escapade made his head swim. How could the girl he’d grown up with have done all of the horrible things reported? Blown up her own home. Faked her death. Joined an international terrorist organization. Infiltrated the White House. Prostituted herself. Killed a sitting President.

Yeah, he’d kiss her first and then wring her neck.

Roberts.

SAC Hitchens motioned for Joe to follow him into the inner office. After rummaging through the desk drawers, Hitchens pulled out a packet and dumped the contents on the desk before handing him a smaller packet from his jacket pocket.

So this is it then? Joe asked.

Hitchens nodded and extended a new ID. Yep, it’s time for you to go into deep cover, Roberts. We can’t keep hiding you out here when we can use your skills in the field. Here’s your new identity, a wad of cash, bank accounts, credit cards, the works. Give me your wallet and badge.

A moment of panic stilled his breathing as Joe handed over his identity, casting a glance at the new one. The ID looked strange, the glasses-wearing image staring back at him. A doctor?

Professor.

His blond hair had been digitally altered to brown in the photo. Where am I going?

You’ll find out soon enough. They know who you are – an FBI agent. They know of your ties to Samantha Bartlett. In order for this to work, Agent Joe Roberts must disappear for now.

Got it.

Cell phone is connected directly to me, but contact should be your last resort.

The glasses felt strange in his hands, the whole arrangement rather bizarre. Could he really do this? By all points and purposes, he was still a rookie agent. Sure he’d had success in connecting the dots before, but the responsibility of this task had greater consequences. Did they honestly think he’d succeed? Joe slid the packet and documents into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. No stopping the train out of the station now.

Do you really think I’m ready for this?

Hitchens’ arm weighed across Joe’s shoulders. Doesn’t matter what I think – what do you think?

Joe met his gaze. What about Samantha?

I’ve got Agent Laturno working that end. You’ve got to put her out of your mind. You can’t concern yourself with her anymore. You’ve got your own job to do. Hitchens squeezed hard on his shoulder. One way or another, she’s as good as dead anyway.

Deep breath. Right.

Get to the safe house. After a couple of days they’ll move you to the bunker for your immersion instructions and get you ready for insertion…professor. Hitchens smiled. Learn your channels and stay in contact with them. Good luck.

Thank you, sir.

***

The evening sky deepened to a rosy hue. Joe slipped on the trench coat and hat before exiting the FBI building and scuttled around the side toward an unmarked car. The scent of rain in the air reminded him of simpler days in Kansas.

A shot rang out. The hat toppled as he felt the heat of the bullet zing over his head. He leapt into the car and started it as the back side window shattered. Rubber laid down as Joe shot into the alley and tore down the street. They’d found him already?

At this rate, he’d need more than luck to make it to the safe house alive.

Chapter 4 – On the Hunt

Eric Laturno felt the presence the moment he entered his D.C. apartment. The nine-mil Glock warmed his hands as he slipped it from the holster and crouched along the dining room wall, easing around the corner and into the arch of the kitchen. The darkness deepened down the long hallway toward his bedroom.

The bedroom door lay propped open a good inch – a sure sign someone waited just on the other side. Any decent agent kept staunch personal habits like tells in a poker game. A closed bedroom door he’d developed for his. Like a stealthy cat sneaking up on his prey, Laturno inched along the shadows. The soft glimmer of street lamps peeked through the crack as he widened the doorway opening.

A familiar scent wafted in the air. The sheets cradled something in the bed – or someone. With his weapon trained on the subject, Laturno flipped on the overhead light and flooded the bedroom in brightness.

A succulent female slept among the fabric, the curves of her body outlined by the white silk, her long red hair fanned out like flames against the pillow. Shelby, his personal whore. A long and languid stretch, then a yawn as she rolled toward him and opened her blue eyes. They were as welcoming as the warmth between her thighs.

I got tired from waiting.

Laturno lowered his gun. How the hell did you get in here? That’s the second time I’ve nearly taken your head off.

Really, Eric, you’ve got to stop acting the gunslinger part. Every time you point your weapon at me, it only makes me hornier.

Shelby stretched again and threw back the sheet, her ample breasts peaked and ready for action, her hips only waiting for him to saddle up and ride her ‘til dawn. His manhood hardened as Laturno drank in every inch of her naked form. Shedding unnecessary clothing, he climbed in beside her, careful to slip the Glock into the side drawer as he hunkered down into flesh.

The warmth and want of her sent an ache through his bones. The musky scent she wore drove him to the brink of madness. No one else could satisfy like she did. Sure he could sex it up with other women as often as he wanted, but they always left him unfulfilled. Being with Shelby ate at his core, messed with his head, and heightened the physical pleasure to the point of near torture. She got him off both inside and