The Cain Prophecy (Lilitu Trilogy Book 3)

By Toby Tate

Evil is reborn.

Far out in the desert, a superhuman assassin known only as Cain is using blood money to finance the excavation of an artifact as old as the earth itself. CIA operative Gabrielle “Gabe” Lincoln has a very short time to learn the secret of Cain’s power–or soon the earth and everyone in it will be annihilated.

Gabe manages to coerce Gordon Powers, a rogue CIA operative, to help her in her quest. They are taken deep into a world of subterfuge, genetic engineering and military black operations, until Gabe and Gordon soon find themselves up against an evil force with power far greater than they had anticipated.

There is only one man who truly understands Cain, who can get into his mind and unlock its secrets. But first they must break him out of a high-security cell in the middle of the biggest city in Saudi Arabia. And even then, they may not be able to find Cain in time to stop him from ushering in the last days of civilization itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Nov 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682610169

Toby Tate

Toby Tate has been a writer since about the age of 12, when he first began writing short stories and publishing his own movie monster magazine. He is a freelance journalist and writer with dozens of pieces published on sites like eHow.com as well as in The Pedestal Magazine, Famous Monsters of Filmland, Scary Monsters Magazine and more.An Air Force brat who never lived in one place more than two years, Toby joined the U.S. Navy soon after high school and ended up on the east coast. Toby has since worked as a cab driver, a pizza delivery man, a phone solicitor, a shipyard technician, a government contractor, a retail music salesman, a bookseller, a cell phone salesman, a recording studio engineer, a graphic designer and a newspaper reporter.Toby's first novel, DIABLERO, a supernatural thriller, was published by Nightbird Publishing in Oct. 2010. A songwriter and musician, Toby lives near the Great Dismal Swamp in northeastern North Carolina.Toby is currently at work on his next novel, a horror/techothriller.

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Acknowledgements

Immeasurable thanks and love to God, my wife, Laura, and daughter, Zoe, the lights of my life and my inspiration.

Special thanks to authors William F. Nolan, Douglas Preston and Sherrilyn Kenyon; author Paul Mannering and his brother, Dr. Stu Mannering; author Clarissa Johal and Dr. Malcolm Johal; and former Chief Petty Officer and current author James Jackson, who runs The Ward Room, one of the best sites on the Internet for those of us who write military-related thrillers.

A million thanks to my first readers: Tina Beck, Shelley Milligan, Eric Escalera, Andi Hunt and Kimberly Waddell.

As always, I want to thank my amazing literary agent, MacKenzie Fraser-Bub at Trident Media Group, for her guidance and encouragement; Michael L. Wilson, President of Permuted Press, for giving this unknown author a chance at superstardom; and Hannah Yancey, managing editor at Permuted Press and a fabulous human being, for putting it all together.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART 1

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

PART II

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PART 1

MY BROTHER’S KEEPER

Chapter One

Cain was a shadow, a killer trained in the ancient art of assassination by men who lived only to hunt humans. He was extremely intelligent, highly methodical, and extraordinarily ruthless.

And although he stood well over six feet, and was more cunning and dangerous than any man, he had yet to reach his second birthday.

Today he walked the streets of Paris, taking in every sight and every sound, committing it all to memory like a tourist with a movie camera. If you were to ask him a week or even a year later about the color of clothing worn by the mother pushing her baby down the sidewalk in a stroller, the expression on the face of the Asian woman sunning herself on a massage table outside her parlor, or what the young woman dressed all in black talking in English to someone, obviously a lover, was saying on her cell phone, he would be able to describe it all in vivid detail, leaving out nothing.

In most people’s minds, that alone would make him extraordinary. But to Cain, it was simply part of who he was. Under the watchful eye of the General Intelligence Presidency, the Saudi version of the CIA, he had been taught the fine arts of espionage, intelligence gathering, and assassination. But after months of bringing retribution to the enemies of the king, he was now a free agent, working for himself and looking after his own self-interests. Just the way he liked it.

Though supremely confident in his abilities, he was under no misconception—that had all been driven out of him by his teachers. He knew he was not beyond making a mistake. Every breath, every action, every step had to be carefully planned and calculated and all possible contingencies considered, but the unexpected always had a way of shattering plans. That’s where improvisation came in. Cain had learned it well in the simulations. He was a master of it.

The sounds of traffic, both motorized and pedestrian, assaulted his ears like a cacophony. At one time he would have found it overwhelming, but he had been taught to control the input, to single out one thing at a time and focus on it, commit it to memory, then move on to the next thing. Smells were the same—he could recall which street he was on and the time of day, even what was going on around him when, say, he smelled bread in a nearby bakery, or coffee from a coffee shop.

Cain remembered reading an article on the Internet lamenting the loss of Paris the way it had been, the Paris of Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo and Gustave Moreau. Before the hipsters had taken over, it had said. Places like South Pigalle, home to many a seedy hostess bar, dry cleaners, and drug store had now been rechristened SoPi and become a homogenous regiment of organic grocers, bistros, and cocktail bars. It was as if the zombie hordes were slowly pushing the real humans out, and assimilating those who stayed.

Because of his utter lack of sympathetic emotion, Cain understood none of that, yet he still considered it. Nothing escaped his scrutiny. He was as knowledgeable as a well-educated fifty-year-old man and his capacity for learning was nearly immeasurable, but his curiosity was like that of a child. He understood that knowledge was power, so he remembered everything he heard, felt, saw or smelled, no matter how seemingly irrelevant. Nothing could be taken for granted, especially in his particular line of work.

There were many other ways in which Cain would have been considered gifted, or blessed, or even superhuman. When he had decided to strike out on his own, his teachers had called him a devil. Had they parted ways amicably instead of threatening him, he wouldn’t have been forced to kill them.

And since he wasn’t human, there were no pangs of guilt, no regrets—just pure, cold logic.

So maybe they had been right. Perhaps he was a devil.

In a few hours time, the man he was going to meet would certainly think so.

* * *

Ahmed Najjar loved three things in this world—power, riches, and women. Tonight, he had them all. He had just managed one of the biggest mergers of his career, retaining his place as CEO of the new company. After all, the Najjar family did own fifty-one percent of the shares, so it was only fitting. Regardless, he was ready to spend the night in celebration with plenty of drink and plenty of sex. Tomorrow, of course, he would pray for God to absolve him of his sins. But for now, he would revel in debauchery. He had earned it, had he not?

He washed his rotund face in the bathroom sink and then gazed at himself in the mirror as he would a painting in the Louvre. No improvements necessary as far as he was concerned. But then, how could one improve on perfection? He smiled at his bearded reflection, cinched up the drawstring on his robe and shuffled his slippers on his way into the next room. This sixth-floor suite of the five-star Le Bristol Paris was decorated with Louis XV and Louis XVI-style furniture, the sitting room and dining room draped in embroidered yellow, turquoise, and red silks by the well-known designer Colefax, while the bedroom was hung with gold moiré by Thorp of London. The hotel, located on the rue du Faubourg St-Honore, also boasted the amazing Epicure restaurant overlooking a beautiful French garden. Later, he would take Michelle, his mistress, to dine there. And then, a little dessert.

He walked through the immense living room to the couch, grabbed the phone off the end table and called the front desk.

Please send up a bottle of Petrus, and charge it to my room, he said in French. At six-hundred Euros a bottle, Petrus was not cheap, but Ahmed didn’t care. The wine was worth every penny and would simply be written off as another business expense.

As he placed the phone back in its cradle, Ahmed thought he heard a noise from the balcony. He wandered to the double doors and opened them, taking in the panoramic view of the City of Lights and the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. Although he loved Saudi Arabia, he still marveled at the awe-inspiring beauty of Paris.

He had even visited the infamous catacombs on occasion, a huge underground cemetery that was once a stone mine, and as horrifying as they were, they too had a certain morbid grandeur.

He closed the doors and turned to go back inside when he heard yet another sound from the balcony, like creaking metal. Could someone be out there? A man of his wealth and prominence couldn’t be too careful, but his bodyguard was in the next room, and hotel security was tight. Still, he needed to be cautious.

He turned back toward the doors and his heart nearly jumped into his throat—a tall, blonde man stood there, dressed in black and holding a black ski mask in one hand. With the other he pointed a silenced pistol directly at Ahmed. Both hands were covered with latex gloves.

But his eyes were the most striking thing—his irises were as silver as two pools of mercury.

Cry out and it will be your last breath, the man said in perfect urban Najdi Arabic.

Chapter Two

Who are you? What do you want? Ahmed said, cold sweat breaking out on his brow.

You and I are going to have a talk, Ahmed, and you are going to do exactly as I say. Understood?

The Saudi businessman gulped down a pocket of air as his stomach knotted with fear. He nodded his head slowly.

Good. Have a seat at the desk. I want you to take some dictation.

Ahmed, knowing he could not call his bodyguard without being shot, did as he was told and walked to the small desk, pulled out the chair, and sat. The blonde man reached into his pocket and produced a paper, then placed it in front of Ahmed. It was letterhead from Ahmed’s construction company, Najjar Ltd., now Najjar Enterprises. He pulled out a pen, clicked it on, and held it out.

I want you to sign over your share of Najjar Enterprises to my client, Loucheur Construction.

Ahmed turned and stared blankly at his captor. You’re joking. This is some kind of prank that someone has put you up to, yes?

The man didn’t move. His silver eyes seemed as if they were drilling holes into Ahmed’s skull. He needed a drink.

I don’t joke, the man said.

Ahmed reached up hesitantly and took the pen, but made no move to write.

Why am I doing this? I at least deserve to know the reason.

Because I said so. That is all the reason you will get.

Ahmed suddenly flushed with anger, overriding the fear that had made him cautious. He slammed the pen down on the table.

That is not good enough! If I am to give away the company I have worked my life to build, I want to know why!

The man suddenly stepped around behind the chair, grabbed Ahmed’s left arm and bent it behind him.

If you cry out, I will shoot you.

The man was immensely strong—the first finger he broke was the pinky, popping it like a dry twig. The Saudi whimpered and sobbed in pain, biting his lip until it bled to keep himself from screaming.

Now here is what I want you to write. ‘I, Ahmed Najjar, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath all of my holdings in Najjar Enterprises to the president of Loucheur Construction.’ Then sign your name.

No one will believe I did this. It will all be for nothing!

That doesn’t concern me.

Ahmed heard, and then felt, his ring finger break as the man pushed him arm further up behind his back. He bit his bloody lip again, breathing in ragged gasps. He knew he could not take another broken finger without screaming.

I suggest you begin writing, Ahmed. There are three unbroken fingers on your left hand. I realize I can’t break the ones on your right hand, but there are plenty of other small bones in the human body.

Slowly, as tears stained the paper in front of him, Ahmed picked up the pen and began writing.

* * *

The assassin watched with cold detachment as Ahmed wrote what he had been told. Afterward, Cain produced an envelope and had the man address it to the president of Loucheur Construction and then seal the note inside.

Alright, stand up, Cain said, releasing his grip on Ahmed’s arm. The man stood slowly, cradling his broken fingers with his free hand.

He was about to tell him to walk to the balcony when he heard the hotel door open, then a female voice.

Vous etes ici, Ahmed? Are you here, Ahmed?

Cain glanced at his captive and held a finger to his lips, the gun aimed directly at his head.

Dans la piece suivante. In the next room, he said, copying Ahmed’s voice exactly.

A brunette woman in a short, tight red dress and pumps appeared in the doorway. The smile dropped from her face when she saw Cain. He could tell she was about to scream and he said in French, I wouldn’t if I were you. Please come over here.

Her eyes wide with fear, the woman did as she was told.

Please, don’t hurt her. She has nothing to do with this, Ahmed said, still cradling his injured hand.

Both of you into the bedroom, Cain said.

They paraded into the bedroom as he followed behind, the gun pointed at the woman’s head. Once inside the room he began rummaging through Ahmed’s luggage, keeping the pistol trained on his captives. He found what he was looking for—a forty caliber Beretta, with ten rounds in the magazine. He picked it up and looked it over, saw that a round had already been chambered. He slid it into the waistband of his pants.

Alright, back into the living room, both of you, he said in French.

Once they filed into the next room, he told Ahmed to open the balcony door.

Now step outside, there’s something I want you to see, he said, his pistol now leveled at the woman who stood with arms crossed, quietly sobbing.

Ahmed, whimpering and holding his broken fingers close to his body, did as he was told. He shuffled to the balcony, pulled the doors open and stepped out into the darkness.

Turn around, Cain said. Ahmed turned, tears streaming down his face, just as Cain pulled the Saudi’s pistol from his waistband and shot the woman between the eyes. She crumpled to the floor, dead. Cain dropped the gun at his feet.

Why did you do that? Ahmed cried out, his sobs now coming in great, heaving gasps.

Shut up and turn around.

Ahmed, his eyes red-rimmed with grief and fear, slowly turned to face the city lights.

Now, look down at the street, Cain said. When the Saudi did so, he quickly stepped up behind him and with his right leg, swept Ahmed’s feet out from under him, sending him toppling over the short railing of the balcony and to his death six stories below. Cain could hear the man’s screams cut off by the sickening sound of his thick body smacking the sidewalk, then the distraught voices of horrified pedestrians below.

Cain grabbed the letter off the table and stuffed it in his pocket, put his Sig Sauer P226 back into its holster, and moved toward the balcony at the far end of the room. Since the suite was on the corner, the window faced a different street. He heard yelling from the hallway as hotel security and probably Ahmed’s own security guard made their way toward the room.

Cain opened the window and looked out. No one below. They were all at the front of the building, staring at the splattered remains of Ahmed. He really hadn’t planned on killing the woman, but he couldn’t leave a witness. The opportunity to create a murder-suicide had presented itself and he had acted. It was as simple as that.

Improvisation, he thought as he stepped out onto the balcony, closed the doors behind him and then climbed across the wall to the balcony of his own room.

Chapter Three

Blue Lagoon Caye—Off the coast of Belize

Steve Sommers had just finished reading the Wall Street Journal financial report on his iPhone and was now grilling a lobster, which he had personally caught while scuba diving just offshore. He would have preferred some snapper or codfish, but would have to settle for what he could catch. Next week he would make another run to Placencia and buy some groceries, maybe skip the fishing for a while. Since it was Saturday, Azeem was back at the house preparing the rest of the dinner—yams, legumes, coconut bread and of course, piña coladas. Sommers had managed to start a garden and it was doing quite well. He would be able to supply most of his own veggies and cut down his trips to the mainland by half. Not that he couldn’t afford it, but Sommers was raised in a thrifty household, so cutting corners had been something that was ingrained in him from a young age. He saw no reason to stop now.

It was a perfect day—a light breeze, sunny blue sky, water lapping the shore of the lagoon—but he had found that most days were like this one. The weather didn’t change much in the Caribbean, but when it did, it was usually fast and violent.

As he took a swig of Belikin, a beer made in Belize that he had quickly developed a taste for, he heard the motor of an approaching boat, something he had not heard in the months that he had been on the island. It was especially troubling because he had been guaranteed privacy by the realtor, and no one knew he was here, not even his closest friends.

He glanced out over the horizon and saw a speedboat racing toward the lagoon.

Why the hell can’t people leave me alone? Got to make a point to mine the waters around the island.

As the boat got closer, he could see long, brown hair blowing in the wind behind the driver, obviously female and wearing a tank top and short shorts.

On second thought, maybe I could make an exception this once.

The boat slowed and passed through the shallow entrance to the lagoon, then slowly motored over to the small pier where his own boat was moored. Sommers saw that it was a forty foot Fountain boat, one of the rentals from the mainland. He set his beer down and jogged over to the piers, climbed up and caught the end of a mooring line as it was tossed to him.

We don’t get many visitors here in paradise, he said as he tied the boat to a cleat on the pier. What brings you out this way? Are you lost?

He glanced up to see the woman jump over the side of the boat and onto the pier, where he got a good look at her face for the first time. She stared back at him as his smile slowly faded.

Steve Sommers, I presume, she said. Or can I call you Gordon Powers?

* * *

Gordon couldn’t say that he was glad to see Gabrielle Lincoln, or Gabe as everyone called her, though she did look good in the shorts, and the huge, red dragon tattoo running down her left shoulder and arm was still a turn-on. Plus there was the Aussie accent. Okay, she was hot. But he hadn’t told anyone where he was going, so how the hell had she found him?

No one in the agency knows I’m here, Lincoln. Have you been spying on me? I mean, if you wanted a date, all you had to do was ask. The stalking thing is kind of sad and a little creepy.

Don’t flatter yourself, Gordon. I’m here because of what you pulled at the research center in Connecticut. You were supposed to destroy the asset. Instead, you sold him to a foreign country. Do you know the shit you’ve caused for us? For the world?

The former operative turned and began walking down the pier and back to the beach. Gabe followed close behind. "Is that what they’re calling murder, now—destroying the asset?" he said.

Don’t pretend to be so noble, Gordon. The only reason you took that kid was for the money. Why don’t you just admit it?

He stopped in mid-stride and turned to face his accuser, who nearly ran into him. Okay, so what if I did? That whole operation was off the books, anyway. That monster and her offspring weren’t even supposed to exist. So what are you going to do—arrest me? And charge me with what?

You know the agency as well as I do. If I tell them where you are, they will come pick you up, get all the information they want out of you, and then make you disappear—permanently. And it won’t be here on your nice little island, it will be in some top-security prison where you’ll live out your days making big rocks into little ones.

Gordon, wearing only swim trunks and flip flops, crossed his arms over his bare chest and stared at Gabe through his polarized sun glasses.

What exactly do you want me to do? It’s not like I can just call these people and say, ‘Uh, hey, would you guys mind bringing junior back?’

Who did you sell him to? It was the Saudis, wasn’t it?

He thought for a moment. Maybe. Does it really matter?

Gordon, the Saudis are known to harbor terrorists. They would like nothing more than to take something like this and use it against us. In fact, they are probably planning just that.

The Saudis are our allies.

Are you really this dense?

"I am not dense. A little slow, maybe a bit obstinate at times. What’s your point?"

Gabe glanced around the island. They must have paid you a shitload of money.

Well, that might be exaggerating…

How much?

Gordon grimaced. Okay, a shitload.

Well, I’m giving you a chance to make amends. You can help me track this arsehole down, or I can call Langley and the black helicopters will converge on this place like hornets on a watermelon.

Can I ask you a question?

She stared in silence.

What’s your interest in this? he continued.

My interest is that I’m trying to make this right. I’m trying to take responsibility for my actions, and for the mistake of trusting someone like you to keep his word.

"A humanitarian. That’s touching. Do you know what the CIA was doing with that beast in Connecticut? They were planning to use it―her―as a weapon."

So you think that gave you the right to walk off with her offspring and sell it to the Saudis? That’s kind of a stretch, Gordon, it really is.

How did you find out about it, anyway?

That was a CIA facility. You weren’t the only one with clearance. Besides, who do you think found that egg in the first place?

"I don’t mean that—I mean the fact that I sold the kid—or the asset, or whatever you call him."

Remember your friend who owns the hotel in DC? Well, he happens to be a friend of mine, too. He saw those men loading the kid into the back of that SUV and suspected they were foreign nationals. He was a little freaked out that you had involved him in something that could have gotten him in trouble with Homeland Security.

I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that bastard.

Don’t blame him. You’re just lucky he called me and not my superiors. You would be having a very different conversation right now.

Gordon knew she was right. He had royally fucked up, letting his greed override good judgment. If the kid was anything like his mother, Lilith, a lot of people could be hurt or killed. And Gabe could have gone to the agency with this, but she hadn’t. She had come to him instead, hoping that he would want to undo the damage. He was being given a second chance. He would be stupid not to take it. Wouldn’t he?

On the other hand, it would mean leaving the island for a while. Maybe forever. But what choice did he have?

What’s it going to be, Gordon? Gabe asked, breaking into his thoughts.

He raised a hand and rubbed his jaw. Hmmm, help out the hot chick or die in a maximum security CIA prison. Not many options. Could you maybe just give me a spanking and call it even?

Gordon, I am five seconds away from getting on my sat phone and calling Langley.

Okay, you’ve made your point—I’ll help you find junior. But I’m keeping the money, and the island.

I can’t guarantee that. But I don’t think anyone really cares as long as we have the asset in custody.

"There you go with that asset thing again. Is that all humans are to you, Lincoln—assets?"

He’s not human, Gordon. You know that.

Hmmm, that’s true. I do have one question for you, though.

What’s that?

Do you like lobster?

Chapter Four

Gordon went for another dive into the coral reefs that surrounded the island and managed to bring back another lobster, which he also grilled while Gabe waited. They carried the lobsters in a pan up to his house, about two hundred yards away at the end of a dirt trail, where Azeem was finishing up the rest of the meal.

They came to a clearing with a large beach house in the center, and Gabe could see hundreds of solar panels on the roof. Beside the house was what looked like a large shed or storage unit next to a huge water tank with PVC pipes running to the ground. The house itself appeared to be new, with stucco walls and four giant white pillars fronting a covered porch. The roof extended out over the windows by a foot and all around the house carved wooden stanchions were evenly-spaced just underneath. A two-car garage fronted the left side of the house, though Gabe couldn’t imagine why he would need one. The yard was immaculately landscaped with a freshly-mowed lawn, several yucca plants, azalea bushes, and palm trees. Indeed, Gabe thought it definitely was paradise.

Inside the house, a foyer led to an open floor plan with a dining room, kitchen and a great room filled with Caribbean-style furniture, made even more spacious by a huge vaulted ceiling. They continued walking