Deandra: Ghoulgirls, #1

By David Johanek

            "She will clothe herself in a dead girl's body to fight you. Beware the coming of the Remnant." — Aliester Crowley

            Since before the beginning of time she has traveled alone—a remnant of another universe—the last of her kind.

            Now she is living as Deandra Duke—adopted daughter of demonologist Mark Duke—living in a borrowed body. Together, they must stop the evil Roger Thornehill in his attempt to claim the blackest of black books—The Compendium Infernal—a grimoire that will give him control of the demonic hordes of hell.

            But even as Mark struggles to control his personal demons while training Deandra to be not just a weapon but a human being, Thornehill has found his own inhuman assistant—Suthuria—the queen of hell.

            Evildoers will learn the hard way that when you need to fight fire with fire, Deandra is that fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Johanek
• Release date: Jul 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393767671

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Prologue

Hastings, England. November 30, 1947

ROGER THORNEHILL CLIMBED the creaking stairs leading to the second story of the dilapidated boarding house. Being only thirteen, his youth allowed him to chuckle at the wallpaper faded to urine green, but his ancient soul was on serious business. He paused before a wooden door. NEOPHYTES, upon entering prepare to make your obeisance before Frater Perdurabo was scrawled on a piece of brown paper bag nailed underneath the room number. Snoring echoed through the door as if a slumbering bear waited inside. Roger didn’t knock; he turned the old brass doorknob and entered.

The stench from an overflowing commode greeted him. Walls had been stripped of their paper, and symbols were smeared across the dirty white plaster. Roger sniffed the symbols and laughed. How far The Great Beast had fallen to draw his wards in his own filth. The only furniture was a small writing table and wooden chair under the only window. Paper, mostly torn bags, littered the floor. Roger examined some. Poems, spells, and ravings were scribbled across them. A stained mattress covered with a filthy blanket sat in the shadowed corner next to a pile of empty Scotch bottles and a plate containing a blackened spoon, length of rubber tubing, and a well-used syringe. The blanket concealed a large lump.

My heroin, did you bring it? The lump asked.

Do I look like your delivery boy? Roger said.

A filth-stained hand lowered the blanket, revealing a grime-encrusted bald head and fat face. "How dare you come before me with such insolence? On your knees. Make your obeisance."

The wickedest man in the world, Aleister Crowley, reduced to a shit-covered, drunken, drug addict. But then you always did enjoy the baser needs of human nature.

What do you want from me? Leave me to my reflection.

Roger charged forward, gripped the blanket, and tore it away. The naked Crowley curled into a fetal position. The Segelah, Roger cried. Where is the Segelah?

Crowley reached for an open Scotch bottle and poured the liquor down in huge gulps. He wiped his mouth dry with his wrist. The Segelah shall lead me to my treasure. It will make me wealthy again.

"It will lead me to my treasure. Your time is done. Those who reside across the Abyss have lost faith in you. I am the chosen one. It is I who shall lead the world into a new age. The Segelah will lead me to The Compendium Infernal."

Crowley laughed. "Far better you should seek Lovecraft’s Necronomicon. The Compendium Infernal is a myth designed to steer weaklings away from true power. Don’t waste your time."

Roger extended his hand. The Segelah.

Never. Curse you to hell, boy. It’s mine.

You’ll be dead tomorrow. What good will it do you then?

Crowley rose to his knees. A glimmer of his former power gleamed in his eyes. Try to take it, you little shit.

Roger met his stare and accepted the challenge. He surrounded himself with a protective circle cast by his willpower. Crowley waved his arms and mumbled a conjuration. Suddenly, inky-black demon forms swam through the air like oil in water; their red eyes glowed with rage. The demons clawed at the circumference of Roger’s circle, searching for any weakness.

You can never hope to match me, boy. Such power I will gain through your death.

Roger traced a banishing pentagram in the air and extended his circle. The circle now visibly glowed from the force of Roger’s will. The demons retreated, and Crowley fell back against the wall. Speechless, he dropped to his mattress.

Pan, my man, come to me. Protect your humble servant. Crowley cried.

Pan did not come. Only silence met Crowley’s pleas.

Roger shoved his hand against Crowley’s face and smashed tightly against his mouth and nose. Crowley’s face reddened, and tears filled his eyes. He felt between the mattress and wall, pulled out a golden amulet, and dropped it into Roger’s free hand. A cloudy, crusty substance dulled the Segelah’s shine. Roger smelled the Segelah. You disgusting bastard. You soiled this with your own seed.

It gives it power.

You no longer know anything about power. What a shame. Roger headed for the door.

Pan, come to me. Pan!

Roger felt a twinge of sorrow for the pitiful man begging his favorite deity to emerge. He concentrated and helped Crowley call Pan forth. The goat-legged god with a human torso appeared in the corner. A goatee dangled from his chin, and short horns jutted from his head. He clutched the multi-tubed flute that bore his name.

Serenade him on his path to hell, Roger said.

Thank you, Crowley said. How old were you when you crossed the Abyss?

The day I was born. I am he, the one foretold.

Then heed my warning, foretold one. Another will rise, ancient beyond belief. I see her shimmering on the astral plane as bright as a star. She will clothe herself in a dead girl’s body to fight you. Beware the coming of the Remnant.

Roger left as Pan’s gentle piping followed down the stairs. From that day forward, Roger Thornehill would be known by a different name, Natas Mendes, destined to lead the world into hell. This Remnant, if she existed, would merely be one more obstacle to overcome.

On the next day, a clap of thunder from a cloudless sky signaled Crowley’s demise.

PRESENT DAY

THE WAREHOUSE TOWERED over the Port of Los Angeles dockyards. Huge cranes unloaded shipping containers from foreign cargo ships and lowered them onto awaiting flatbed trailers. The flatbeds were then driven into the bowels of the warehouse through enormous doors. A sign read THORNEHILL INDUSTRIES INC.

Mark Duke knelt outside the razor-wire-topped fence and surveyed the area through binoculars. Another black limousine sped through the crowded employee parking lot and entered a garage under the warehouse. Mark drew another line on his notepad and counted them, twenty-one limos. He checked his pocket watch, four-thirty. Although the sunlight shielded the stars from sight, at five o’clock they would be in perfect alignment, and the ritual would begin.

Mendes must have prepared himself for the ritual through months of meditation, fasting, and cleansing, charging his body and will for the rigors of both ceremony and defense. He would be ready to conduct the magickal rites while being protected from magickal attacks, but he would be vulnerable to physical attack—at least Mark hoped so. This was Mark’s chance. The forces Mendes had to control would leave him as weak as an infant by the ritual’s end. But Mark couldn’t allow it to end, because a human sacrifice was required. Mark had to rescue the sacrificial victim and kill Mendes. He flicked open the back side of the watch and stared at the photo of his dead wife. Soon this would end, one way or another, and Mark would have his revenge or be dead himself.

Hopefully, he would not have to fight alone. Earlier, he had ventured to the astral plane to seek help. Mendes was so powerful that even disembodied human souls and nonhuman beings feared him. Even though they were dead or had power beyond that of human beings, they could still be consumed for their energy or cast into oblivion. His friend on the police force should have already shown up, too.

Wondering where your allies are, Duke?

Mark turned toward the soft voice behind him. A little man, an elemental, sat atop a pile of pallets. Gnome or dwarf, Mark didn’t know, but the being's green clothing and brown cap told him it was definitely of the earth element. I’m surprised. I’ve asked elementals for help many times, and you’ve always turned a deaf ear.

The little man shrugged his shoulders and stroked his long brown beard. Perhaps if you practiced elemental magick instead of all that hermetic bullshit...and made the proper libations and offerings, of course.

I didn’t ask for your help. What makes you think I need it? You elementals pride yourselves on your neutrality. Unless you’re bought off with offerings and libations, of course.

Word travels fast. It seems you want backup to take out Mendes. I won’t do that. I don’t have a death wish. But I can shut off the security cameras. As for neutrality, the time fast approaches when we’ll all have to choose sides.

I’d rather not have the cameras shut off. Could you loop the feed?

Loop the feed? Do I look like a fucking tech geek? How ‘bout if I just make it so the camera don’t pick you up, an invisibility spell. It'll only last until you get inside. I’m not powerful enough to cast a spell beyond Mendes’ wards.

Mark nodded. That would be great. Then I won’t have to weaken myself by casting my own spell. If I survive, I’ll leave wine by the pond in my backyard.

The little man smiled. Elderberry wine and a bag of Salvia Divinorum.

Done. Mark watched as the man waved goodbye and disappeared.

Good luck, he said before completely fading. 

Mark unloaded his gun case and ammunition can from his trunk. His .45 already dangled from a shoulder holster, and his old snub-nosed .38 revolver was nestled in an ankle holster as a backup. Mark flicked open his gun case and removed his Benelli semiautomatic shotgun. The shotgun’s sling already held twenty-five rounds of .00 buckshot, but he slung a bandoleer containing another fifty rounds over his shoulder. Mark wasn’t a religious man anymore, but he wore a silver chain adorned with several protective amulets and consecrated religious symbols around his neck.

A blue Ford sedan raced toward him. About time, Mark mumbled. Detective Steve Wayne was late, but at least he had shown up. But where was the SWAT team he had promised? Mark and Steve had both served in the Marines during Operation Desert Storm. Both were forty-eight, but Mark looked ten years older because of his graying brown hair and dark bags under his eyes. Steve could have passed for thirty-five. The Ford screeched to a stop next to Mark’s black Jaguar XJ-6.

Steve sprang from his car and ran toward Mark. Jesus Christ, Mark, it looks like you’re going to war.

I am. Where’s the backup you promised?

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little out of my jurisdiction. This needs to be coordinated with the Port Police. There are some major players in there. Officials won’t make a move unless they know for certain that lives are at stake. The last thing the LAPD wants is an international incident.

Are you sure about that, Steve? Or maybe your superiors were bought off? A lot of Thornehill dollars come through this port, and some of them are bound to make their way into a few official pockets.

Steve shrugged his shoulders. I can’t argue that point. Mendes may not be using the family name anymore, but his brothers make a lot of campaign contributions.

His brothers may not share Mendes’ religious perversions, but they’re just as immoral in other ways, on the political side of the Great Work.

You’ve got to see my superiors’ point though, Steve said. How would it make the police look? Or the city? If they raided what might be an innocent religious thing. They’ve got rights, freedom of religion.

Mark started cutting the chain link fence with a pair of wire cutters. I don’t think human sacrifice is covered by the first amendment. I guess I’ll just have to do this alone.

That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it? Just storm in, guns blazing, and worry about the shit storm later. Then you have your friends cover your ass or use your get out of jail free card. You're using up your favors fast, and Mendes has supporters bigger than yours. I may not even be able to help you this time. Damn it, Mark, nothing’s changed since Iraq.

Don’t even bring that up. That squad needed our help. What was I supposed to do, let them die? And then let you die? You don’t owe me anything. Stay here and play politics if you want, but I’ve got a life to save.

And a man to kill, Steve said.

He won’t be the first, but he’ll be the most deserving. Mark crawled under the fence and sprinted behind a pile of old pallets.

It won’t bring them back. Steve’s words drifted to his ears like a disembodied whisper.

There wasn’t time for stealth, but hopefully his unknown ally had made him invisible to the cameras. At least Mark had watched the patrolling guards’ patterns long enough to avoid them. He was more worried about the possibility of disembodied watchers, low-level demons that spied for Mendes. They wouldn’t fight, but they would warn Mendes faster than any guard.

Mark weaved through the maze of employee cars, wondering how many dockworkers knew about the evil act being committed under their feet. How many, even in their wickedest nightmares, could imagine it? Mark shook the stray thoughts from his mind. With every step, he felt the metal flask in his back pocket. This was no time for a drink, but memories replaced his thoughts, memories containing tormented screams and buckets of blood.

Memories of the little Iraqi girl raced into his mind. She waved her doll as she skipped down the street. Moments later, she flew through the air, landed in a mangled heap, and screamed her last word in a language Mark didn’t understand.

Mark didn’t need the whiskey to give him courage. He needed it to wash the little girl out of his head, her and so many others. The whiskey burned in his throat and replaced the child with his wife, Natas Mendes standing over her, her blood flowing through his fingers. Mark’s rage boiled in his blood. He slipped the flask into his pocket and gripped his shotgun.

A disguised sentry sat in a lawn chair next to the garage door. He wore the same green work clothes and hardhat that the regular employees wore. The only difference was the submachine gun barrel jutting from the side of his lunch box. No other entrance, Mark would have to neutralize the guard. A recessed driveway led down to the garage door, surrounded on either side by a curved wall leading down to the door. The curvature of the walls made a wider, fluted opening to the driveway and acted as a retaining wall for two grassy areas on either side of the driveway and stretching to the side of the main building. It was a bottleneck with at least thirty feet of kill zone between the opening and the sentry, but the wall was only four feet high at the opening and at least ten feet high at the garage door end.

Mark climbed over the wall and crept through the grass along the curving edge until he could look over and see the sentry below. It was now or never. Breathing deeply, Mark dropped over the side. Falling, he smashed the shotgun’s butt into the guard’s shoulder. The sharp crack of shoulder blade and collarbone echoed throughout the bottleneck. Both man and lawn chair toppled. Before the guard could scream, Mark put his shotgun down, grabbed the man around the neck, and squeezed his windpipe in a chokehold.

You don’t have to die, Mark said. Just relax and I’ll put you to sleep.

The man answered by drawing a small knife. Mark snapped his neck, dropped the corpse, and plucked a garage door opener from the dead guard’s shirt. Shit, this would probably go down as the stupidest plan ever, but Mark pushed the button anyway. Dropping flat on his stomach, he held his breath as the door raised. His only chance was to get the first shot.

No challenge came, no shout or shot. Mark exhaled and descended into the garage. The limousines were parked in two rows, side by side, but no chauffeurs or occupants lingered nearby. An iron door beckoned to him on the far wall. The already heavy and oppressive air felt like a thunderstorm about to strike and signaled the ritual’s start. Mark shouldered his weapon and advanced.

The door squeaked open, and a chauffeur and an armed guard turned toward Mark. Their smiles curled into shocked frowns. Before they could raise or draw their weapons, a Swiss cheese pattern of buckshot erupted across their chests. A backblast of misty blood drizzled Mark with gore. The bodies toppled back into the doorway in heaps. Mark wiped the bloody pulp from his face. Buckshot makes a mess, but it gets the job done.

So much for stealth, Mark always figured he’d have to fight his way through anyway. At least this way was a helluva lot quicker than creeping around.

NATAS MENDES ASCENDED the altar-topped dais. His purple robe shimmered in the flickering lights cast by sizzling candles positioned at the head and feet of a teenage girl chained atop the altar. A ram’s horns adorned a golden helmet covering his bald head. He surveyed his followers with his piercing, dark eyes before gazing at the chained girl. His braided goatee hung to mid-chest and dangled over her. Sweet Cindy, his favorite and most prized possession. She met his gaze with defiance. Always so strong, he would miss her, but the more important the sacrifice the more power attained.

A length of creeping darkness darted between his followers’ shadows, snaked up the wall, and followed the ceiling until it formed what looked like a quivering puddle of oil directly above him. It dropped like a cloud to Mendes’ feet and formed a vaguely humanoid shape. He comes, Master. The one called Mark Duke. He bears arms.

Alert the guards. That is if they haven’t already noticed him on the security cameras.

Duke was protected by magickal beings that caused the cameras to malfunction. He has breached the building and already killed. Even as we speak, guards are racing to engage him.

I have no time to deal with the meddler now, Watcher. Call the alarm. Make certain every guard is mobilized or you’ll be cast into oblivion.

As you command, Master Mendes. The watcher flitted over the worshipers’ heads and disappeared into the wall.

Mendes raised his arms. Arise, followers of the New Order.

The flock rose in unison, arms outstretched in praise. We humbly await your command, they chanted.

Mendes dangled the Segelah over Cindy. "Behold. The blood shall strengthen the power of the Segelah. The Compendium Infernal is near. I hear the clambering of the children of the Abyss against the gates of Hell. I shall be their release. Followers, fill the sacrifice with terror. Let her hatred and shame boil and give power to her blood."

Cindy spat upon Mendes’ robe. I quit fearing you when I was a little girl. I hate you all, but I’ll never fear you.

A line of worshipers formed and ascended the dais stairs. Some had already cast off their robes and approached naked. Mendes stepped back as his flock surrounded the altar.

A hulking form stepped to the edge of the altar and dropped his robe. Little Cindy is not so little anymore, he said in a deep Russian accent. He moved to the foot of the altar, What is wrong? You do not remember Uncle Ivor? We had so much fun in your youth.

CINDY TRIED TO FORCE her eyes shut. Mendes’ laugh and booming voice assaulted her ears. You didn’t think I’d let you off that easily, did you? I cast a simple spell to force you to witness everything, but why would you want to miss anything?

Ivor Grusilov forced his bulk atop the altar, lifted Cindy’s gown, and grabbed her legs. She fought to keep them together, but other hands joined his and forced them apart. His weight crushed the breath from her lungs. Grusilov’s breath reeked like shit in Cindy’s nostrils when he forced himself inside her. Cindy focused on the ceiling and concentrated on the sky somewhere above. Long ago, she had trained herself to leave her body to escape her torment.

The pain and fear departed as her astral body ascended. She was now a spectator to her defilement. They took their turns while Mendes passed his dagger through the incense smoke and chanted in an ancient tongue. As the rapes continued, four musicians piped their flutes and pounded drums with human bones. Acrid smoke swirled around the candles and danced to the musicians’ cacophony. Others couldn’t wait to take their turns. They surrounded the altar while stroking their erections and sent their filth squirting across her white robe.

Cindy’s astral body watched the female worshipers lap at her white, semen-drenched gown like kittens fighting over a bowl of milk. The incense seemed to intoxicate them and thrust the group into orgiastic ecstasy. Some cultists descended from the altar and writhed in sexual depravity along the steps of the dais as others gyrated in a hellish dance while screaming and ululating.

Grusilov remained near her body. I want it. I want her body. A feast. I’ll slow roast it in an open pit.

MENDES SLAPPED GRUSILOV aside and raised his dagger.

Popping noises echoed in the distance and reverberated through the walls as they grew louder, some rapid, others booming. As the noises drew nearer, they became more recognizable. Gunfire! Duke was getting closer. He could not allow the meddler to succeed. What good were his guards doing? He paid them well, but they were little better than amateurs. Hopefully, Duke’s efforts to rescue Cindy would be his last.

It was too late for her anyway; the moment had come. Mendes’ body undulated like a cobra entranced by a flute. His eyes rolled back as he prepared to plunge the dagger.

CINDY COULDN’T ALLOW her death to benefit Mendes. He was obsessed with finding The Compendium Infernal, but she wouldn’t be his means to find it. Cindy focused on the silver cord that connected her astral self to her body. If she severed it, her body would die, but her soul would be free. She concentrated.

When her cord snapped, she willed her soul away with such force that she blasted through the ceiling like a rocket and soared high above the mundane world. She ascended through the lower levels of the astral plane, attracted to a shimmering tunnel of brilliant light in the distance. The tunnel called to her, telling her to follow it into the peaceful glow beckoning at the tunnel’s end. Cindy could already feel its calming warmth.

Another light drew her attention, a basketball-sized shimmering orb, glowing rays of brilliant white radiance surrounding it like numerous halos. Two dark circles embellished the orb’s face. Were they eyes? They seemed to burrow into Cindy’s soul as they darted back and forth between her and the light. Was this judgment?

AFTER FIGHTING HIS way to the warehouse basement, Mark Duke leaned against the wall and caught his breath. Some of the chauffeurs had chosen to run rather than die for their masters. The screeching tires of the retreating limousines had covered his advance. Many sentries had been caught off guard by the sudden gunfire and fleeing vehicles. Mark had heard more than one bitching about the cameras, alarms, and other security measures being down. The elemental had done his job far better than expected.

The last three guards had taken position in a locker room, blocking the way to the cult’s temple through a doorway on the far wall. He checked his shotgun, only four shells left. His enemies were armed with MP5 submachine guns. They were zealots, more than willing to die for their cause, and they were behind cover. With the element of surprise gone, Mark no longer liked the odds. Orgasmic moans echoed through the door as the ceremony neared completion. Maybe he already was too late.

You lose, asshole, one of the guards yelled.

Mark didn’t fall for the trick. They already had a good idea where he was, no need to confirm their suspicions. He noted the voice’s direction, at least one shooter somewhere to the left.

Feet shuffled to his left, beyond the sound of the voice. Sloshing, gnashing sounds, like a cow chewing its cud, drifted from the right, a nervous gum chewer. Feet shuffled again. Throw out your guns, The voice said. We won’t hurt you.

One was to the right, a gum-chewing amateur. Two were to the left, a nervous shuffler, and a moron who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Mark started liking his odds again, but time was on their side. He had to make his move.

A row of lockers stood along either wall, two center rows facing those. The path to the temple door was a straight shot between the two center rows of lockers. The guards must be positioned between the locker rows. Mark glanced around the doorframe and noted an arrow marked REST ROOMS/SHOWERS pointing toward the far left corner, probably the talker’s position. The silence continued; his adversaries played the waiting game now.

Mark nestled the shotgun’s stock snugly against his right shoulder and leveled it one-handed against the outer row of lockers on the left side. Next, he tucked his .38 into his waistband, drew his .45 with his left hand, and cocked it.

Bursting into the room, he fired his last four shells through the lockers, toward the rest rooms. He dropped his shotgun, tossed his .45 into his right hand, and drew his .38 with the left. Pointing the revolver at the shredded lockers, he watched for any movement with his peripheral vision. Deciding to take out the lone man on the right first, he whipped his .45 around the corner of the lockers and fired. The first two bullets smashed into the concrete wall. As the guard dove for the corner, a slug caught him in the right shoulder and spun him around to face Mark. The guard’s fearful, I fucked up, look was one Mark had seen dozens of times. Mark emptied his .45 into the man’s chest.

Mark pumped his revolver’s six shots through the already riddled lockers, toward the rest room corner, while he retreated to reload. A long burst of submachine gun fire punched through the left-hand row of lockers and clinked into the right-hand row, where Mark had been a couple of seconds earlier. An empty magazine clacked against the floor, and Mark made his move. With revolver pointed low and pistol leveled higher, Mark darted around the lockers. The shuffler dragged his buckshot-shredded arm in a blood trail stretching behind him. The talker fumbled with a fresh magazine, but three .45 slugs through his chest ended his labor.

Please, spare me, the shuffler said.

Mark’s bullet carved a canyon through the shuffler’s head. He had no time for mercy; this was war. An unrestrained, wounded man could still shoot you in the back.

Pausing to reload and check his back, Mark opened the shrieking steel door.

MENDES SNAPPED OUT of his trance and looked into Cindy’s glazed eyes. She was dead. A dead body could never be a sacrifice. Without the soul’s energy to satiate the hungry beings across the Abyss, they would never give him the power he required. He had offered his most valuable possession, but they would give nothing. He felt their hatred and disgust tear through him, punishing him, sucking away his already depleted energy reserves. The final insult came when the door burst wide, and his old adversary, Mark Duke, charged into the room.

Master Mendes, you are far too weak to face him, Grusilov said. But my helicopter is on the roof. With my diplomatic immunity, no one will dare stop us.

Servants of the Abyss, defeat my enemy. Mendes pointed at Mark before staggering into Grusilov’s arms. Defend me now, and you will be richly rewarded.

MARK SCANNED THE ROOM for any sign of Mendes. Ignoring the orgy, he focused on the dais. Dozens of concrete pillars supported the huge room’s ceiling. No artificial electric lights illuminated the area, only candles, candle-lit chandeliers, and huge braziers loaded with burning wood and incense. The drone of an exhaust fan rumbled on the ceiling. The reeking stench of candles made from the rendered fat of newborn babies nauseated Mark.

Mendes’ command called his flock to action. Dozens of naked cultists stopped their fornicating and rose to face Mark. Many were already exhausted from the rigorous orgy. Most were well advanced in their ages, some even elderly. They moved like zombies, eyes filled with anger. Mark could barely make out the two figures retreating from the altar or if they had completed the sacrifice, but he noticed a restrained girl.

Mark called Steve on his cell phone while sprinting past the meandering cultists. It’s real. There’s a sacrifice and a lot of pissed off perverts. Bring backup and hurry. I don’t have the ammo to handle them all. Not waiting for a response, he pocketed the phone and climbed the dais.

The musicians did not suffer from the post orgy weariness that plagued the others; they bounded up the stairs waving their instruments like weapons. The leader brandished his femur bone drumstick like a club, but Mark’s carefully aimed shot sent him tumbling. The other three soon joined their leader in a bloody pile. Mark spun around, hoping to get a shot at the two fleeing men; one of them must be Mendes. Too late, a freight elevator already climbed toward the roof.

Several SWAT team members emerged from the locker room. The cultists turned their attention to the arriving police. Get down now, The SWAT team leader commanded. Faces to the floor. The cult ignored the orders and advanced. More police surrounded the lumbering group and fired Tazers.