Infernal Cries: An Echo Team Urban Fantasy Novel Page 2

  The duty captain turned his head just in time to see something monstrous emerge from the fog on the right side of the bus. As his mind was still trying to make sense of what it was seeing, the creature slammed into the side of the bus with all the force of a runaway train. Tires popped as the bus slid sideways for several yards, stopping just inches from the edge of the embankment.

  Men were screaming, guns were firing, but the duty captain barely noticed. His gaze was locked on that of the prisoner in the back of the bus, the prisoner who couldn’t speak around the gag placed in his mouth but whose laughter was somehow ringing loudly in the duty captain's ears as the thing outside slammed into the bus for a second time, sending the vehicle careening over the edge of the embankment and tumbling, down, down, toward the ravine floor below…

  CHAPTER TWO

  Knight Captain Matthew Riley, acting commander of the Echo Team, stood at the edge of the embankment and stared down at the wreckage in the ravine several hundred feet below.

  It looked as if the driver had lost control of the bus on the icy road and, unable to stop the oversized vehicle, had careened off the embankment and into the ravine. The dents in the sides and roof of the bus showed it had rolled several times on its way down the embankment before coming to rest with its nose rammed into a large, outcropping of rock, the impact hard enough to push the engine block halfway into the cab.

  Riley knew looks could be deceiving, however.

  It had been two months since Knight Commander Cade Williams had come stumbling out of the Beyond with Riley’s near-dead body in his arms, the two of them crashing through the mirror in the surgical prep room of the Templar commandery in Arlington, Virginia. Thankfully the medical staff sprang into action immediately and as a result managed to save Riley’s life. Not only had he lived to see another day, but the faith healers who had treated him shortly thereafter had been able to cut his healing time down from several months to just a couple of weeks.

  A good thing, too, because the powers-that-be had put him to work the minute he’d gotten up out of that hospital bed.

  The battle with the Chiang Shih had been costly and many of the Order’s strike teams, including Echo, Bravo, and Delta, had been all but decimated. Riley was the only man still on active duty out of Echo’s four-man command unit. Sergeants Nick Olsen and Sean Duncan had both perished during that last op; Olsen at the hands of the Chiang Shih and Duncan while fighting the fallen angel, Asharael, known to the Templars as the Adversary. Riley’s friend and long-time commander, Cade Williams, was still alive but had been “forcibly retired” as a result of the actions he’d taken in the wake of the Chiang Shih assault.

  As a highly decorated member of the Echo Team, as well as one of the Order’s most senior surviving non-coms, Riley was tapped by the Preceptor to rebuild the strike teams to operational capacity. Over his protests, he was put in charge of Echo and elevated in rank all the way to captain.

  When word of the escape came down from Bennington, the Preceptor had immediately ordered Riley to the crash site. Riley was told that he was the logical choice; not only had he been part of the squad that had captured the Necromancer, but he was one of the few surviving Templars who had faced the Necromancer in personal combat. When Riley calmly pointed out that he’d lost that encounter, his objections were overruled and he quickly found himself aboard one of the strike team’s Blackhawks headed for the crash site.

  Staring down at the wreckage now, he was overcome with a sense of dread so strong that for a moment all he wanted to do was turn around, climb back aboard the helicopter, and leave this mess to someone else.

  He shook off the feeling, slung his HK MP5 on its sling around his back, and grabbed hold of the rope that was being offered to him by Martinez, one of the men under his command. With a nod to the others, he started down.

  Less than five minutes later Riley and his three companions stood on the floor of the ravine, staring at the wreckage of the bus. The partially caved-in roof, as well as the various dents and scrapes that bore evidence to the bus’ unexpected journey down the hillside were expected, but the massive rips in the metal, rips that looked suspiciously like giant claw marks, were not.

  The sight of them gave Riley pause.

  The advance team confirmed that the vehicle in the ravine was the long-overdue bus, but had not ventured down to the ravine floor to look for survivors. Riley’s first instinct was to rush forward and see if there was anyone left alive in the wreckage, but he quelled the notion before acting on it.

  By the book, he reminded himself.

  The men, including Riley, were dressed in standard Templar tactical gear that included dark ceramic body armor worn under black jumpsuits of flame retardant material without markings or insignia, lightweight Kevlar tactical helmets with built-in communications gear along with audio and video recording devices, and military style combat boots. Each man was armed with a Heckler & Koch MP5 SD submachine gun, a HK Mark 23 .45 caliber handgun and the holy sword they’d been given at their investiture into the Templar ranks. Not wanting to give their exact positions away by speaking, Riley ignored the tactical communications gear and used hand signals instead, sending Ortega and Simmons toward the front of the vehicle while he and Martinez headed for the rear, their weapons out and at the ready.

  The bus had landed right side up and perpendicular to the slope of the hill so that they were approaching it from the passenger side. They moved forward cautiously, their gaze jumping from the shadows around the bus to the darkened interior and back again, as they watched for movement. So far there hadn’t been any sign of the transport team or their passenger, which Riley found unsettling.

  If this bastard is loose again…

  The newly fallen snow crunched underfoot as they rounded the side of the bus and got their first look at the back of the vehicle. Beside him, Riley heard Martinez gasp aloud and he nearly did the same.

  The back end of the bus had been peeled open like a tin can, the jagged edges of the newly-torn steel shining in the darkness. Just inside the vehicle, the shattered remains of the prisoner’s enclosure reflected the lights of their flashlight beams back at them and they could see that the arcane symbols filigreed into the depths of the glass had been burned black from a surge of power strong enough to overcome their protections.

  That was all Riley needed to see to know that the Necromancer had, indeed, escaped.

  “Cover me,” Riley said and moved forward to the back of the bus. He could see Ortega and Simmons entering the vehicle from the front and felt confident enough to sling his weapon and use his hands to boost himself up into the back of the bus.

  As he climbed to his feet, he saw Ortega shine his flashlight on a seat close to the front and then stiffen in surprise.

  “What have you got?” Riley called.

  “Blood,” the other man said. “A lot of it, too.”

  Riley moved forward and added the beam of his flashlight to those of the other man.

  Ortega was right; there was a lot of blood. It had splashed across the seats and spread down the center aisle, then froze in a wide puddle that reflected the light with a ruby red glow. But there was only blood, nothing more.

  If the men were injured, where had they gone? Riley wondered. If they were dead, what happened to their bodies?

  “Spread out and search the area around the bus. Look for bloodstains, tracks, anything to indicate where the guards might have gone,” Riley ordered.

  Fifteen minutes later they had nothing to show for their efforts but a chill that went deeper than the evening’s coldness.

  The missing men had seemingly vanished into thin air.

  With a last, uneasy glance around the wreckage, Riley ordered his men back up the embankment.

  Once they had all returned to the relative safety of the road, Riley moved a few feet away from his men. He pulled his tablet from his pack, fired it up, and then placed a video call to the man who had ordered him out on the hunt, Preceptor Johannson.


  “The bus was attacked; there’s no doubt about that,” he said, when the Preceptor’s narrow face filled the video screen. Riley went on to explain what they had found while searching the wreckage and also to detail the efforts they had made to find the missing transport team.

  The Preceptor frowned when Riley finished speaking. “Any sign of the prisoner?”

  “No, sir. Not a trace.” Riley waited for the Preceptor to ask about the transport team that had been assigned to the bus, to no avail. The lack of concern for the missing men infuriated Riley, but he kept a lid on his anger. He answered several more questions the Preceptor put to him about the condition of the wreckage and then agreed to wait for the clean-up crew to arrive before returning to the commandery.

  As Riley slipped the tablet back into his pack, he shivered visibly and not just with the cold.

  Hundreds of miles away, Preceptor Johannson disconnected from the call with Captain Riley and leaned back in his chair, his mind racing at a furious pace. The next forty-eight hours were critical and he knew he needed to bring all of the Order’s resources to bear if he wanted to recapture the escaped prisoner before something serious happened.

  He turned to one side, where his aide, a man named Hennessey, stood waiting. “What’s the status on strike teams two and four?”

  “They’re up and ready, sir. Standing by on a five minute alert status.”

  “Good. Make sure the team leaders have been briefed on the prisoner’s capabilities.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want a scrying team assembled immediately. Have the prisoner’s blood and DNA samples pulled from storage in case they’re needed. That will be all for now.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Hennessy was halfway to the door when Johannson called out to him.

  “One more thing, James. Inform Commander Williams that he has been reactivated, effective immediately, and assign him to the pursuit of the prisoner.”

  “Sir?”

  Hennessey’s tone was full of the doubt that the Preceptor himself was feeling, but sometimes unusual problems called for unusual solutions. “You heard me, James. Reactivate Commander Williams. Restore his network privileges and access codes while you're at it so that he can access the mission briefing and Captain Riley’s report when it is available. No sense sending the man out half-cocked.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  As Hennessey left the room, Preceptor Johannson considered the decision he’d just made. It hadn’t been an easy one; there certainly wasn’t any love lost between himself and the former Knight Commander. One of Williams’ men had been captured in the wake of the battle with the Chiang Shih several months earlier and the Preceptor had refused to allow the Echo Team leader to attempt a rescue, instead ordering the portal to the Chiang Shih stronghold in the Beyond sealed. Enraged, Williams had tried to strangle the Preceptor. Only the swift action taken by then Sergeant Riley, the same man now in charge of the Echo Team, had saved his life, but Riley then turned around and damned himself by not arresting Williams when ordered to do so.

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave, Johannson thought with wry amusement. Williams had disobeyed direct orders, taken an armed force back through the portal to do battle with the Chiang Shih a second time. The Templars had emerged victorious but both Williams and Riley had been lost in the fray. Johannson had kept his mouth shut when the two men were honored posthumously and their empty coffins buried with honors, figuring it made no sense to impune the reputations of the dead. But when they’d miraculously turned up alive and well in the Arlington commandery he’d taken what he knew about their previous behavior to the Seneschal to see that they were punished accordingly.

  In the end, Williams had cut a deal. All charges against his executive officer, Sergeant Riley, would be dropped in exchange for Williams’ immediate retirement from the Order. He would be declared persona non grata and his name stricken from the rolls. Johannson’s revenge had been spoiled slightly by the Seneschal, who had promoted Riley to Knight Captain and put him in charge of Williams’ old unit, the Echo Team, but Johannson could live with that given Williams’ dismissal.

  And now here I am inviting the fox right back into the henhouse.

  It couldn’t be helped. He might consider Williams and his unholy gifts a threat to the Order and to all it stood for, but the reality of the situation necessitated Cade’s use. The Order had pursued the Necromancer for years before Williams had finally succeeded in bringing him to justice. With the Necromancer once more on the run, it made sense to bring back the one man who knew more about him and his motives than anyone else alive.

  Satisfied he’d made the right choice, the Preceptor picked up the phone to inform the Seneschal of his decision.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cade was in the kitchen fixing lunch when he felt the wards at the edge of his property flare briefly before settling back down to their normal state, indicating that someone had just passed through them. He stepped over to the window and pulled back the edge of the curtain. A dark, government-looking sedan was making its way up the long drive toward the house. From this distance Cade couldn’t make out who was behind the wheel, but he wasn’t particularly worried. Evil of the type he was used to dealing with rarely made a visit in a plum-colored sedan, though he recognized that there was always a first time for everything.

  The wards were designed to keep out anything from the infernal realms, which meant whoever was driving the car had to be human.

  He occasionally had some difficulty dealing with a minor demon or two on his own, but humans he could handle.

  He stepped to the end of the counter closest to the door and opened the drawer there, removing the .45 caliber handgun inside. There was no need to chamber a round; the gun was kept loaded and cocked at all times.

  Cade heard the dull thud of a car door and then the soft crunch of someone making their way up the snow-covered walk to the front door.

  He opened the door before the newcomer could knock, the gun held casually in his right hand - there if he needed it. He wasn’t taking chances, not with what he had to protect these days, and he didn’t give a damn if the other man felt slighted by the weapon’s presence.

  He’s coming to my house; here we play by my rules.

  His visitor turned out to be a young man in his late twenties, dressed in a dark coverall that was decidedly military in appearance, despite its lack of unit patches or other insignia. His closely cropped hair and erect bearing added to the illusion. A casual passerby would register these details and in all likelihood conclude that the young man was either a member of the military or local law enforcement, which was precisely what the Order wanted people to believe.

  The Order might be good at hiding, but apparently they didn’t listen very well.

  He’d told them he was done. He’d meant it, too.

  Cade didn’t say anything after opening the door, he just stood there with a calm expression on his face, waiting for whatever it was the other man had come here to tell him.

  The messenger cleared his throat. “Knight Commander Williams?”

  He was nervous, that was clear, but whether it was because he was speaking to a genuine hero of the Order or because he was standing alone on the Heretic’s front porch, Cade couldn’t tell.

  Cade remained silent.

  “There’s, ah, been an incident, sir.”

  Cade frowned. He still had a few friends among the Order’s ranks, one good one in particular, and he hadn’t heard about any “incident.” Of course, the problem could still be unfolding, which would explain why he hadn’t been forewarned about the messenger’s appearance. The messenger’s hesitancy told him that whatever he’d come to say wasn’t going to be good news.

  “The Necromancer, Simon Logan, has escaped.”

  Outwardly Cade didn’t react to the news, but inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment he’d been convinced something had happened to Riley.

  “Precept
or Johannson is recalling all formerly active duty personnel with experience in dealing with the Necromancer to assist in the hunt. I’m here to escort you to the commandery.”

  “No.”

  It was perhaps the last thing the young Templar expected to hear and for a moment he could only stand there staring blankly as he tried to process Cade’s response. Finally, he managed to get out a mumbled, “Sir?”

  Cade chuckled. “I said, 'No.' I’m not going to the commandery with you, nor am I getting involved in a hunt for the Necromancer.”

  Cade watched, privately amused, as the other man processed what he’d heard. Apparently, his devotion to duty overcame his good sense, for after a moment he tried again.

  “Perhaps I’m not being clear…” the messenger began, but Cade cut him off by stepping out onto the porch, forcing him back and away from the door in the process.

  “I understood you just fine, son,” Cade said, the gun in his hand now clearly in view to his visitor. “Now do us both a favor and get off my land before we have an ‘incident’ of our own.”

  The young man opened his mouth to say something, glanced at the gun in Cade’s hand, and apparently thought better of it. Without taking his eyes off Cade he backed over to the porch steps and then turned and hurried to his car. Cade had no doubt that the rumors would be flying fast and heavy within minutes of the messenger’s return to the commandery, but that didn’t bother Cade at all. Rumors had followed him most of his time in the Order; sometimes, they were even true.

  What’s one more story to add to the Heretic legend?

  Cade watched from the porch until the other man had driven out of sight around the bend at the far end of the road. Then, and only then, did Cade step back inside the house.

  Word of Logan’s escape gave him more than a little bit of concern and so he slipped the handgun into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back rather than returning it to its place in the kitchen drawer. He had other weapons stashed about the house, at least one in every room in fact, but he felt better having one right at hand should he need it. Who knew, those few seconds might make all the difference.