Rising from the Darkness

By D. A. Bale

It’s finally here – the explosive finale of the Deepest Darkness series.

Samantha Bartlett has a new mission – and this time it’s one of her own choosing. Armed with information worth killing for, Samantha pieces together secrets spanning generations and uncovers the key to Debrille’s plans, including the horror of his true identity. But will it be enough for redemption? Especially when facing the bridges she’s burned?

Life was once clearly black or white, but now Joe Roberts has a target on his back – and it’s sighted by his boss at the FBI. It’s not just from running off with their primary suspect in President Warner’s murder and then allowing her to escape. No. He’s the Elite’s latest scapegoat. That alone begs the question. Is Sam a cold-blooded killer or a mere pawn used in a global chess game?

World War III looms on the horizon as the Middle East threatens to implode, world alliances are scrapped, and a once tenuous truce with a former enemy collapses – all under President Durksen’s watch. Shadowed by the Elite’s constant and vigilant guard, Durksen must find a way out of the hole he dug for himself long ago. But can he accomplish it in time, or will the United States die like so many nations before it?

Explosions light up the night. Friend becomes foe. Sister against sister. Lives are lost. Sacrifices made. But in order to realize true freedom, evil must be defeated.

No matter the cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. A. Bale
• Release date: Jul 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310105708

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 – The End Draws Near

The constant echo of drill and hammer abated as construction in the tunnels neared completion. For the first time in over a year, the hundreds of workers crammed into the elaborate underground chambers thinned out as transports home began.

Pablo Hernandez looked forward to a solid night’s sleep without the accompanying chatter of noise from twenty-four hour rotations. Sleep offered the chance to dream of Maria’s outstretched arms waiting in Peru, to imagine the softness of her skin against his. Once he arrived home, Pablo looked forward to seeing her dark eyes widen in surprise at the fatness of his wallet.

After they paid up, that is.

Everything had been sent to Maria at the end of each month, a fraction of the promised payout. But the big windfall was coming. As one of the lucky few to have stayed until the very end, he’d receive the remainder of his salary plus a bonus. The amount would be enough to care for his family long into the foreseeable future, at least according to Peruvian standards. Now all he had to do was collect his money and return home – without getting caught by the United States government.

Maybe he was a poor, uneducated man, but Pablo knew well enough the company had transported hundreds of Peruvians to work on these tunnels at a pittance – and they were all in America without a visa. Well technically under America, Chicago from what he’d picked up in conversation. However, immigration officials wouldn’t care about technicalities if they were captured.

It had pained him to see the sleek train disappear from the station time and time again, knowing those passengers were that much closer to safety. But his chance loomed. The line of the last remnants pressed forward as the train eased into the station. The doors opened and slowly the human chain entered two-by-two like animals into Noah’s ark.

A chill swept over Pablo as he paused near one of the guards, the hard stare surveying his name badge before scratching one Pablo Hernandez off the clipboard list as if erasing him from existence. Everything about this company was eerily meticulous. If they could have understood one another, Pablo would have told the guard that no one wanted to be left behind in the dreary underground. But everyone had a job to do – and he’d finally finished his.

The tunnels were forgotten as Pablo entered the train, greeted by muted purples and yellows amid the royal luxury. Plush seating wrapped him in comfort as he sat down into the assigned chair near the front of the second car. The ache he’d carried in his joints for months eased as he sank into the warm cushion. Through the excited chatter, Maria called from his dreams as Pablo lay against the headrest and drifted to sleep before they even left the station.

***

Grogginess clouded his mind as Pablo was jarred awake. It felt like he’d only been asleep five minutes before the guards roused and commanded them to exit the train. Pablo shuffled along with the others, concern growing as to why they were getting off already. Was there a problem with the train? Had they even left the station?

Low murmurs rose as they stepped from the railcar. A faint sour stench filtered through the air. Maybe bat guano. Several men were separated from the pack and returned to the train while the remainder of the herd pressed forward. The stark white surroundings suggested a much older area than what they’d finished building, so this wasn’t the same station they’d just left. It certainly wasn’t where they’d originally embarked on their journey from South America either.

As they rounded a corner and entered a large room, a more pleasant aroma replaced the first. Long tables were lined with platters of steak, chicken, roasted potatoes and surrounded by any number of other delicious treats. Saliva filled his mouth in anticipation of this home-going feast. Murmurs of suspicion were replaced with whoops and hollers of excitement as plates filled to overflowing.

Pablo ate until sated. Then he ate some more. Pablo tossed a half-eaten corn cob onto his plate then stared as a tall redhead strut into the room. Long legs appeared to go on forever in the tight black jumpsuit and ended at rounded hips all topped off by an ample bosom – the first woman he’d seen in months. His manhood ached.

Ah, Maria, I hope you are ready for a wild homecoming ride.

The woman appeared to be in charge as the surrounding guards straightened and then congregated around her. When she leaned in to whisper to one of the tallest, Pablo imagined Maria’s lips pressed to his ear. He couldn’t get home to the wife fast enough.

All eyes were on the redhead as she finished her conversation and strode from the makeshift cafeteria, pulling the steel doors shut behind her. The clang resonated in the air like the bell before a fighting match. With effort, Pablo drew his gaze away.

Just in time.

The guards raised their weapons. The chatter of automatic gunfire peppered the room. Row after row of workers were mowed down before they even knew what hit them. Pablo saw the coming onslaught and ducked a split second ahead of the others. Searing burn razed his flesh as bullets penetrated his shoulder before he slid beneath the table. Other bodies littered the area beside him, blood streaming in rivers across the drab, white floor. Pablo closed his eyes to the horror and bit his tongue to quell the pain – and his screams.

As suddenly as it had started the carnage ended. Booted footsteps clomped among the slaughter. Doors opened then clanged shut. Pablo waited in the unnatural calm to ensure the guards had left before slowly opening his tear-filled eyes.

Growing up, he’d witnessed firsthand the aftermath of rogue militia forces. Pablo wanted to curl up in fear like the young boy he’d once been as he stared at bodies nearly cut in half by bullets, faces shattered beyond recognition, bloodied matter mingled with bits of bone.

He was swimming in all of it.

Pablo stumbled to his feet. The food he’d eaten joined the carnage, pain shooting along his arm with each retch. With an empty stomach once again and blood dripping from his fingers, Pablo crossed himself with only one thought and prayer.

Mon Dios, let me see my Maria again.

***

Lieutenant Hassan Zafir led the small contingent through the Sa’dabad Palace labyrinth. The luxury and history of the great Iranian palace complex never ceased to send a twinge of excitement through his mind. Who would have believed the son of a poor family would find his way into the palace halls as a presidential military attaché?

Excitement tempered as Zafir remembered today’s purpose. This would likely be his final march through the corridors and past the rooms of the Special Castle with the leader. As one, his unit turned the corner into the office, snapped their shoes together, then raised arms in salute.

President Mohuzari, Zafir began, the car is waiting if you are ready, sir.

Sayyed Ali Mohuzari lifted dark, angry eyes to meet Zafir’s gaze and rose from the blue settee with the grace of a military bearing. The president’s Persian ancestry was dwarfed by his height as he towered above every man in the escort unit. Mohuzari would have made an impressive leader in the IRGC. As it was, he’d made an imposing president of the Iranian people. But time in that office was short lived.

Mohuzari rested a hand upon Zafir’s shoulder as he lowered his arm. "Lieutenant Zafir, you have been a trusted ally in the fight against Western ideals invading our ways and those of our neighbors. I hope my successor finds it in his heart to keep you close at hand as well."

Thank you, sir.

The guards surrounded Mohuzari as they escorted him down the hallway with Zafir leading directly in front. Staff lined the corridor as they came to the portico. Zafir stiffened, his eyes darting from face to face to detect any malevolent purpose. Mohuzari’s urgent voice carried behind him.

The Supreme Leader will not stand for a softening of our stance against Israel’s occupation. Behazzadad must understand the only thing he will accomplish by pursuing such ends will be to bring down an assassin’s bullet on his head.

The remainder of Zafir’s regiment lined the outdoor steps leading from the palace to the waiting motorcade. As the group exited the safety of the doorway, his men saluted, their movements sharp and crisp in the morning air. Behind him, Zafir felt Mohuzari’s tight smile of satisfaction. Compliments would flow later, but for now Zafir kept his eyes and ears trained toward any unusual movement or sound.

Wind blew through the towering plane trees. Murmurs rose in the distance from crowds gathered near Zaferaniyeh Gate. Uniform swords clinked in unison as they descended. The unmistakable spit of a gun resounded.

Zafir jerked around and tackled Mohuzari amid cries of alarm. Blood clouded his vision in an instant. Concrete steps battered his face, breaking his nose and sending a rush of blood down the front of his uniform and involuntary tears into his eyes. But Zafir no longer needed to see to know the truth.

Iranian President, Sayyed Ali Mohuzari, was dead.

Chapter 2 – Vultures Gather

The steady cadence of crunching snow occupied Samantha Bartlett’s ears but did nothing to occupy her spinning mind. Frosty breath filtered through the air like smoke as she huddled into the coat, sniffed the familiar scent of aftershave among the leather, then increased her pace to traverse the icy road. The deep of the night sky gradually lightened toward the east and would soon give away her position as she trudged into the open field – deathly black attire stark against the pure white of snow.

Tears had stopped. Ducts were probably frozen shut by now anyway. Maybe she just couldn’t feel them anymore since her face had numbed from the cold. The stars that had greeted earlier gradually dissipated as pregnant, gray clouds stirred and coalesced. More snow. Good. It’d cover her tracks and keep Joe from following – if it didn’t freeze her to death first.

Why did she leave the warmth of Joe’s arms? If anyone could help her out of this predicament it’d be Joe. He’d risked his career for her – risked his life. Saved her from the ravaging hands of his own partner.

Make that former partner.

Actually Chris had fired the killing shot instead of Joe. And how had she thanked Chris? Ran off and left him for dead, a corpse upon which the vultures could feed. What a way to thank the man who’d convinced her of innocence in the murder of President Warner.

Even though she’d intended to, regardless of the fact the Elite had forced the action upon her. Shame flooded Samantha with the memories of all of the things the Elite had required her to do. The big question to ponder – why? Chris had proved his willingness to help. Joe too, or at least he would have if she’d let him. Too late now.

Abandoned Chris. Left Joe. She was so tired of running, of leaving behind everyone who’d ever cared about her. Would she never be able to stop?

Yeah, when you’re dead, girlie.

Samantha shook her head to clear the unwanted intrusion and shoved her hands deeper into Joe’s coat pockets. Fingers brushed plastic and metal. She stopped. Gripping the contents, Samantha drew them out and stared at a flash drive and a tiny memory card.

Were these important? Did Joe need them? Could she return to the little cabin and get away again before he woke? Before daylight revealed her to the world? Not likely.

Snowfall filtered through her gaze. A crumbling barn stood out among the copse ahead, its sagging roof dusted with additional powder. Indecision paralyzed until the roar of high-powered engines and whir of tires approached. Samantha raced toward the tree line and dove for cover into the snow, heart pounding in dread, then counted five black vehicles as they raced by on the road she’d crossed to reach the field. No lights. No sirens, but men definitely on a mission. She’d ridden in enough government vehicles to recognize them when they passed.

They headed in the direction from which she’d come.

***

The first cold wave nudged him from the edges of sleep, the fire having died down through the night. Expected warmth didn’t greet him as Joe Roberts rolled over, sheets chilled where Sam should’ve lay. Grogginess fled.

Sam?

The gravelly timbre of his voice echoed in the ensuing silence as he sat up and surveyed the clinging darkness of the cabin. Memories of their night together crowded his mind, sending a stab of heat through his flesh. Joe groaned and raked fingers through his tangled hair.

Of all the times to succumb to the rage of hormones. Not as if life wasn’t already complicated enough. First the radiation poisoning in Russia, and the flight home under the assumed name Viscilly had provided. Then the unexpected run-in with Sam and discovering Laturno had betrayed them all. Somewhere in the mix SAC Hitchens suspected him of being a turncoat. Then what’d he do? Slunk off into the night with their prime suspect.

Not only that, he’d had sex with her. No – made love to her, like he’d wanted to do ever since they were teenagers. Instead of questioning Sam like the good FBI agent he was supposed to be, he’d kissed her. His downfall for sure. But since Sam had already risen, maybe it wasn’t too late for that interrogation.

Joe slid into yesterday’s discarded jeans and padded across the freezing plank floor. A stir of glowing embers shot a glimmer through the darkness.

Sam?

A glance behind the bathroom door. The tub held only tendrils of the black hair Sam now sported. Shampoo was gone. The toothbrush on the lavatory last night had disappeared. Fear gripped his heart.

She couldn’t have.

She wouldn’t have.

Sam!

Terror tinged with anger colored the shout. As Joe rounded the door frame, pain reverberated through his skull as a fist connected with his jaw.

Chapter 3 – Identity Check

A longer than normal flight and achingly slow escort from the airport, but they’d arrived before sunrise. Business in D.C. had delayed escape but someone had to do the dirty work for the Bureau. The team was as close as it got to being family.

The medical examiner’s assistant provided scrubs and a Plexiglas mask before FBI Special-Agent-in-Charge Denver Hitchens strode into the cold quarters of the Chicago field office’s autopsy room. Introductions were made, pleasantries spoken before the sheet was drawn aside for visual identification confirmation of Agent Eric Laturno’s face.

What remained of it, that is.

Blood and gore were part of the job, but headshots were the worst. Losing a member of the team brought self-recrimination and doubt – something the job never prepared you for.

The air grew thick as Hitchens glanced from the familiar right side of an intact face to the left where the mirrored image should’ve been. The left side of Laturno’s head had been completely blown away from just below where the ear used to be to where the bullet exited right of center of the skull’s apex. Jagged ivory bone mingled with dried blood and brain matter. The remaining green eye stared out of a still recognizable, ashen face. The high-powered round had created a massive exposed cavity, leaving Hitchens minus another agent.

Hitchens cleared his throat. It’s Laturno.

Sorry to put you through this, sir, the medical examiner offered, but I always prefer to confirm the fingerprint and dental records with a visual when it’s one of our own.

I needed to see for myself anyway, Hitchens responded. Did they locate this particular round at the scene?

Forensics has already identified the kill shot as a .50 caliber, probably from the recovered Desert Eagle, but it’s too early yet to know for certain. This bullet’s slated to be tested before the others.

Others?

Picked up a few .40 cals. Standard enforcement issue. Must have been quite the firefight.

How many? Hitchens asked.

Several in the hotel room walls. One from the agent’s upper lateral here. The doctor moved Laturno’s left arm aside to reveal the stated wound. Then the hospital is couriering three more recovered from another victim during surgery. Should arrive by dawn.

Dr. Christopher Pierson?

The medical examiner smiled behind his Plexiglas mask. Not certain. I’m in charge of the dead, not the living.

Roberts should be so lucky. Instead of two murders, it looked like he’d only be charged with one thus far – once they found his hiding place. But a Desert Eagle? No record of Roberts possessing such a weapon, but criminals did have their underhanded ways. At least if Dr. Pierson survived, maybe they’d be able to piece the puzzle together more quickly. Unless the doctor was in on the whole thing too.

Damn. How did he completely lose control of this investigation? His agents? One rogue and one dead. Were there any other moles on his team?

Nick Vandercott’s waxy face filled the glass entryway, his glasses alternately sliding down then pushed up his nose in his excitement. The communications technician’s first assignment away from being holed up with his beloved bits and bytes and he still acted like a little boy about to pee his pants – until his gaze fell on Laturno’s laid-out form. Hitchens didn’t think the kid could look any paler. Nick proved him wrong.

Hitchens opened the sealed doors and removed the mask in time to witness Nick lose an early breakfast into a nearby trash can. The kid would never be field agent material.

You okay there, son? Hitchens asked.

Nick wiped bile across his sleeve and grimaced before adjusting his glasses. I will be.

What’s got you so worked up?

Well, sir, I’ve never seen a um…dead body before.

Nick swallowed and propped himself against the wall, avoiding any further view of the autopsy room. The waxy face took on a tinge of green.

I mean, what brought you down here? Hitchens asked.

Oh that, Nick started. Instead of a glazed look, a spark glowed in his eyes. They found him.

"Who?’

Agent Roberts. They found him in Ohio.

***

Benjamin Forsdale wrapped the wool coat tighter around his frame and stifled a yawn. The deepening cold of the underground hallway seeped into his bones as the team strode along the marbled corridor toward the station platform. He’d much rather be dragged from bed to the warmth of the greenhouse lab than endure the frozen blast of air from the train tunnel.

Small price to pay for the luxuries the Elite offered. Mere months ago he’d been relaying the Elite’s suspected movements as Chief of Staff to President Warner, then acting as a gofer for Warner’s widow and all of her charity involvements. Such alignments offered certain well-endowed perks, but they were nothing compared to having almost anything made available in this underground palace.

Almost anything, that is. Elegant surroundings, stylish clothes, gourmet food all for the taking. Plus they gave him access to some of the most incredible research he’d ever known – and considering his once high-level government clearance, he’d seen a lot. But the one thing Ben ached for, they’d yet denied him. Banging it on his own didn’t really work. What he needed was a woman – hot, wet, and ripe for the taking.

Debrille stood alone at the platform while the guards took position near the mouth of the empty tunnel. The hum of the approaching train greeted them before a rush of chilled air nearly blew the hats from the guards’ heads. Ben pulled the collar up around his ears to keep out the wind as he took his place beside their unflinching leader. The arriving guest must be someone of importance if Debrille wanted him present.

Ben didn’t even try to stifle the yawn again. Without sunlight, days and nights grew into a time-locked blur. So, who is this special guest?

Debrille smiled. A very old friend with important information. My plans are coming full-circle.

May I remind you that important people at the FBI are well aware of the Elite. Whatever plans you have, you’re on the radar.

Hmph, Debrille sniffed. They’re chasing shadows and ghosts of the past while my old friend and I force the future forward.

Ben’s chuckle was lost in the hiss and thump of the brakes as the high-speed train neared the station. If the research he’d been studying was any indication, this very old friend was only the half of it. The anti-aging concoction developed by his predecessor was truly a miracle – a veritable fountain of youth. The piles of money the wealthy would pay to have access to eternal life offered epic temptation to cut and run – if he had somewhere to run to.

So where is this very old friend coming from? Ben asked.

Argentina. He oversees our South American counterparts.

Long trip. What’s he here for?

To assist you in your upcoming reformulation trials. If all goes well then he will be able to take some to distribute through our network.

At the mention of the reformulation trials, nerves woke Ben completely. Far too many years had passed since he’d been involved in biological research. At first he’d been excited at the prospect of what he could accomplish with Dr. Marcus’ extensive research into cellular enhancement and restructuring. The ramifications of DNA rebuilding made him orgasmic. But Debrille was pushing for a complete overhaul of the oleander formula – too fast for Ben’s comfort.

Ben replied, I need more time with the research before we begin human trials.

You do well with this and I’ll see to it that you have as many fresh-faced playthings as you want in your bed, provided you don’t take things too far.

The reminder poked at his penchant for knives in the bedroom. Was it his fault he liked a little blood with his sex?

The train halted amid a flourish of activity. A robust contingent of soldiers burst onto the platform followed by one lone, tottering older man. A luxurious life had obviously made him soft.

Ah, Josef, Debrille said.

Josef draped his coat across his arm like a maître d' before he snapped to attention and raised his right arm in a stiff salute that made Ben’s blood run colder than the air rushing up the tunnel.

Heil, mein Führer.

Chapter 4 – What’s Old is New

Good morning, Mr. President, I…

Chief of Staff Gabe Portenski gripped the doorknob leading from the staff room into the Oval Office. Knuckles turned white. The communiqué almost slid from the folder in his hands as he stared into dark, beady eyes – eyes he never thought he’d have to see again after the stunt the former senator pulled.

The fleshy face was pasty from too little sun in the years since disgrace forced him from seeking another term in the U.S. Senate. Seventeen years after abandoning them all for dead in a godforsaken desert, the memory of loss continued to brew a hot cup of fury.

Gabe, you remember Senator Grubbs, President Durksen offered.

Portenski closed the door, forced a smile, then faced Grubbs. "Yes, sir. How are you, former Senator?"

The beady eyes narrowed, the verbal slam not lost on Grubbs’ countenance. Then the well-known public persona oozed across his beefy face.

Couldn’t be better, young man. Portenski, right? Former Marine?

"Once a Marine, always a Marine, sir."

Touché.

Enough with the verbal joust. What the hell was Grubbs doing sitting in the Oval Office conversing with the president? Durksen wasn’t stupid – far from it. It was political suicide to welcome the former senator to the White House, and for a one-on-one meeting nonetheless.

Portenski cleared his throat. Mr. President, I was unaware of this morning’s meeting with the former senator. Should I reschedule your nine o’clock meeting and notify the media concerning this morning’s address?

A pained expression glanced across Durksen’s face before the stoic mask replaced it. Miss Vines was in early this morning. I had her take care of rescheduling to accommodate the senator’s needs.

The buxom redhead had blended into the surroundings so well he hadn’t even noticed her until she walked across the room to stand behind the president. Sasha Vines’ stare was direct. Challenging. She rested her hand on Durksen’s chair as if she owned him. Something was off.

Portenski adjusted his glasses and reinserted the communiqué into the folder. I see, Mr. President.

The air closed in. Three sets of eyes stared as if he’d interrupted a highly important summit meeting. Grubbs had the smug expression painted on his face. Sasha acted as if she sought to replace him. Durksen appeared to be the only one with concern in his eyes. But the questions of the moment weren’t for him.

Yeah, something was definitely off.

Portenski continued. Will there be anything else then, sir?

No, Gabe. I’ll let you know when we’re done here.

Portenski excused himself. The bustling staff of the secretarial pool filtered in, wished him a good morning and got to work. As if in a daze, he turned the corner to his office, the folder sliding from his hands onto his desk. If the day started with Grubbs, he couldn’t imagine how it would end. Portenski stared out the window without seeing the beautiful D.C. morning. Instead he saw the sands of Iran.

Barely hanging onto twenty, they’d chosen him to be a part of Grubbs’ covert mission into enemy territory. At least that’s how the mission was presented. Old enough to kill but not to drink – legally, that is.

Languages always came easy to him. Superiors noticed and threw him into communications and reconnaissance training, eventually reassigning him to a select unit of Force Recon. It was good to be a bad ass.

Some bad ass. Without the lieutenant’s tenacity, he’d have died out there with the majority of the unit, left to rot while ol’ Grubbs tried his best to cover his own ass by pretending they didn’t exist. Too bad Grubbs hadn’t anticipated any of them would survive to tell the tale.

Good morning, Mr. Portenski.

Joy’s greeting broke the somber recollections and relaxed his clenched fists. Her name fit her. The lilt of her voice lit up every room she entered. However, in a pinch she was as tough as the most hardened politician – a good ally in the political arena.

Good to see you this morning, Joy.

Shall I gather the staff for the morning pow-wow?

Yes, Portenski replied. No, wait.

Joy halted in mid-turn, golden hair cascading over her shoulder. One side of her mouth kinked in a smirk. Portenski wondered for the umpteenth time what it would be like to kiss that mouth. But like Durksen, he believed the lines in the professional world should never cross. Maybe someday