Demon (4 page)

Hank nodded. He would drive into the desert, away from the road. First, though, he'd call home. Say good-bye.

He pulled out his cell phone, hoping he had a signal. Instead, the battery was dead.

“Fuck!” Hank threw it into the dashboard. The battery broke free and hit him in the face. “Can't even say good-bye?”

Hank wiped his dry eyes and dropped his wallet on the seat. He took a shallow breath and exhaled slowly before shifting the truck into drive.

So this is it. No good-byes. No “I love you.” Just a picture and some memories and that's it. You'll probably be dead within an hour. Just drive out into the desert and cough yourself to death.

Hank looked in the rearview. No movement. He put the truck in reverse and headed toward the nearest Land Cruiser. Once there, he got out and walked slowly, his legs shaky and unsteady, over to the contractor who'd shot himself after winning the battle royale.

A swarm of flies already coated the back of his head where the bullet had exited. They crawled over the red mass and gray matter until Hank walked up. Then they took off in a black cloud.

But they didn't leave. They hovered over the body. Then a few flies fell to the ground.

Shit
, he thought.
Even the flies are fighting.
Something about them disturbed him more than any of the other deaths. He'd almost accepted that whatever he had could affect humans and complex animals. But insects?

Hank turned his attention to the ground and grabbed the rifle. Carefully, he dug through the corpse's pockets and found a cell phone. Still had half a battery left. Clutching it in his fist, Hank thanked God for giving him another chance to say good-bye to his family.

He walked back over to the truck. As he did, he turned to see if the flies had stopped fighting, hoping it was a proximity thing.

Nope. The cloud had already shrunk by half, little black bodies decorating the highway. If it was a proximity thing, he needed to get farther away.

“Well, that's that then.”

He heard shouting. Hank turned, thinking one of the contractors or drivers was still alive.

No, it was in Arabic. It was someone shouting in Arabic.

Hank looked at the side of the road. Another Bedouin with a camel marched toward the convoy.

“Stop!” Hank waved his arms. “Don't come any closer.”

The man shouted more words in Arabic and kept approaching the dead. He couldn't be more than fifty feet away.

“Please stop.” Hank wished he could remember any Arabic. All that came to mind were words for “work” and “faster.”

The old man kept coming, still shouting the same words and pointing at the bodies. Still moving closer.

Hank raised the rifle and pointed it at the man. “Don't come any closer. Please.”

The man shifted his eyes from the bodies to Hank. They were old eyes. And Hank knew they had seen death before. But there was something else in them. Something unsettling. More than fear. As if the old man had found himself treading suddenly through hell itself.

He pointed at Hank and said something else in Arabic. Louder than anything he'd spoken yet. Almost hysterical.

Thirty feet away? Maybe closer.

The old man's eyes changed. The desperation that had dwelled in them faded and was replaced by rage. He screamed and for a moment Hank thought he was going to run and attack him. Instead, the old man turned on the camel, pulling his knife from his belt and drawing it quickly across the animal's throat.

The camel wailed and collapsed to its knees. The old man bellowed a primal cry and stabbed the creature repeatedly in the side and neck until it lay in an ocean of blood-mixed sand.

The old Bedouin turned to Hank, locking him with wild eyes. He breathed heavily, sucking in giant gulps of air. Drool hung from his lips and chin.

A few seconds of silence passed between them. Eyes fixed on each other. Hank knew what was about to happen but prayed it wouldn't.

The old man brought the edge of the knife to his throat and ripped it across. The arterial spray was immense, jutting six feet away from him. The man dropped to his knees, blood gushing down his robes, and collapsed next to his camel.

Hank turned away and contemplated the rifle.

Do it now,
he thought.
Kill yourself before anyone else comes by.

But what if my body remains infected even after I'm dead?
Hank shook his head.
No, get somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Then do it. As long as they don't come within thirty feet, they'll be okay. But go, now, before anyone else shows up.

Hank climbed back in the truck. He dropped the rifle in the blood on the seat, turned the wheel, and drove off the highway into the desert to die.

CHAPTER FOUR

B
y the time Mike found site R91, the temperature had already hit a hundred degrees. The drive from Basra was shitty thanks in large part to his Lincoln Town Car's barely functioning air-conditioning and a stereo that picked up only local music and the call to prayer. Once the sun rose higher, it beat down on the black car like the hammer of Vulcan.

Mike blasted the A/C but it didn't help. Trying to tune anything in other than tribal flare and the prayer roundup landed nothing but white noise. Hot and miserable, Mike resorted to humming Rolling Stones tunes while the constant scenery of the desert sprinkled with random palm trees and marshes along the Euphrates passed by.

Then he hit heavy traffic on the way into An Nasiriyah just north of Jalibah. Someone had raided a truck convoy on his side of the highway. The Iraqi military had the route toward An Nasiriyah completely shut down and redirected northbound traffic onto the southbound side for a few miles.

Apparently the armed contractors had resisted. The whole scene was one big fucking mess. The trucks were wrecked to hell, and grain and blood covered most of the highway. Then Mike saw the bodies of the contractors lined up neatly in a row on the median, cleared from the highway by military personnel. It didn't look like anyone had survived. Mike shook his head, sorry for the families who would soon find out the fate of their loved ones.

Once clear of that, Mike made it to An Nasiriyah only to find out site R91 was another twenty miles down the road near Ur, wherever that was. Hot, sweaty, and exhausted, Mike pulled up to a makeshift Marine checkpoint just before noon.

Four Marines stood the guard. One checked identification while the other kept an M16A4 trained on the driver. The third and fourth Marines swept the car for explosive devices. Mike had both hands up, his wallet in his left, and his window down.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the Marine checking IDs said. “Can I ask your purpose in Ur?”

Mike smiled and handed his wallet out the window slowly. “Been asked to come up here and check out the damage. The agency wants to make sure a Revolutionary Guard unit out of Iran doesn't have anything to do with this.”

The Marine took the wallet and then removed and examined the ID card for Jeremiah Hosselkus. “Really? The RGs operating this far in-country? I thought they were sticking to the border and Basra.”

Mike shook his head. “They're financing guerilla groups all over the country, hitting infrastructure projects like crazy. Mainly sabotage ops. Nothing spectacular. Pains in the ass, more than anything. We knew a big sewer line was going in up here and thought the RG would take a stab at it. Just figured they'd wait until the progress got closer to An Nasiriyah. They usually like to hit near populated areas. Easier to blend in with the locals. Hitting a target this remote is rare outside oil pipelines.”

The Marine nodded and flipped the ID over a couple of times in his hand. “The issue is we've been cleared to allow only military investigators and Iraqi police in. No one said CIA would be coming through.”

Mike smiled. “Yeah, it's a spur-of-the-moment thing. And I understand if you don't clear me. But could you do me a favor? I'd appreciate it if you ran it by your superior. No offense but it saves me a hell of a lot of time and paperwork back in Basra. Plus, the drive out here fucking sucks.”

The Marine chuckled. “Sure, hold on.”

He lifted a radio and dialed a number. “Major, Sergeant Haywood. Got a CIA spook down here wants to know if he can come take a look.”

Mike listened as Haywood explained Mike's story while flipping the ID over and over in his hands. The Marine with the M16A4 kept it leveled on Mike and asked him to pop the hood and trunk for inspection. He did.

After a few minutes, Haywood hung up and turned back to Mike. Two of the others completed the sweep, nodding all was clear, and closed the trunk and hood. “The major said to let you on in. But he said it's got to be quick. I guess some general's coming in, and he doesn't want a territorial pissing match between DOD and CIA.”

Haywood handed Mike's wallet and ID back. “The site is three klicks up the road. You'll pass an armed Humvee, but they won't bother you. They know to let you by. Once on-site, park where all the other vehicles are. Major Greengrass is waiting for you there. He'll escort you, let you take a look at the site, then probably ask you to leave after about a half an hour.”

Mike nodded. “That's all the time I need. Appreciate your help, Sergeant.”

“Welcome, sir.” Haywood waved him by. The other Marine lowered the M16A4.

Mike passed the Humvee slowly a minute later. Mounted on top was a .50-cal machine gun, and the operator had it trained on him. Haywood had said he was expected and the Humvee would leave him alone, but Mike drove in a respectful manner, not giving the shooter any reason to open fire, especially if he was new in-country and had an itchy finger.

A couple of minutes later, Mike arrived on-site. He saw several more US and Iraqi military vehicles and a few Iraqi police SUVs. Mike parked next to them and got out. As he did, a tall man in desert camouflage, flak jacket, and helmet walked over to him.

“Mr. Hosselkus.”

Mike waved. “Major Greengrass, I presume?”

Greengrass extended his hand and Mike shook it. The guy had an iron grip and squeezed just enough to let him know. Mike reciprocated but couldn't match the pressure.

“Welcome to Ur,” Greengrass said and offered Mike a bottle of water.

“Thanks. I wish I had other reasons to be here.”

Greengrass shrugged. “An investigation is the only reason I'd come to this godforsaken pit. It sure as hell isn't a place to visit for fun.”

“I thought Ur was supposed to be a nice, archeological wonderland.”

“Sure.” Greengrass chuckled. “If you're a nerd or an Indiana Jones wannabe. Personally, I'll settle for watching it on the History Channel. Dead bodies and this heat—no thank you.”

Mike wiped sweat off his brow. “Well, I can't blame you. It's a hot one, for sure.”

“Hell, it's cool right now. You should be here in another hour.”

“No thanks.”

Mike made quick observations of Greengrass from behind the cover of his shades. The major looked like the kind of a guy who could share a beer with you one minute and stab you in the neck with the broken bottle the next. Mike had met guys like him before. Great and fun to be around, but flip the switch on their tempers and watch out. Which made Greengrass perfect for the Marines.

“So, all banter aside, the CIA wants to check out this slaughter to make sure the RG wasn't involved?” Greengrass said.

“That's the long and short of it.”

“Hate to break it to you, Mr. Hosselkus, but the RG didn't play here.”

Mike opened the bottle of water and took a sip. “Really? That didn't take long to figure out. Why'd you let me up here then?”

Greengrass scratched his chin and looked at the desert around him before settling back on Mike. “Well, sir, because I'm hoping you can shed some light on what did happen here.”

Mike was confused. He didn't expect to be a consultant today. “What do you mean?”

“You see, my boss is on the way; and he's going to want answers. And I can't give him any because I haven't been able to figure it out myself. Nor has the Iraqi police.”

Mike didn't like the sound of this. “It was an attack. Someone killed a bunch of contractors. It's figuring out who did it that's important, right?”

Greengrass chuckled. “No, we know who did it. It's figuring out why that's got us all confused.”

“Major, what are you telling me?”

Greengrass paused a moment. “I'm telling you we've got fifty dead contractors over there and they killed each other.”

Mike looked past Greengrass's shoulder toward the site. “Killed each other?”

Greengrass nodded. “I know it's not the RG, but I was hoping you'd take a look and maybe give a professional opinion because, right now, I'll take just about anything.”

“Tell me how they killed each other.”

“Let me show you instead.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“I
don't know what they'll tell you. Hell, I don't know what to tell you. What happened . . . Well, it's pretty unbelievable. I wish there was something else I could do. Wish I could talk to you all, tell you how much I love you. But it's not going to happen the way I want. At least I get to say good-bye. Remember, I'm doing this to protect people. I love you all.”

Hank hung up the cell phone and tossed it on the floor. No one had answered but the machine. In a way, he was glad no one had. Saying good-bye on voicemail left him emotionally drained. He doubted he would have been able to talk without breaking down completely if anyone had picked up.

Hank stared at the empty desert surrounding him as the sun beat down on the truck, roasting him inside. He'd managed to avoid crossing paths with other people and said a quiet thanks to God for that.

So what are you waiting for?
he thought. He didn't know.

Hank had driven for a good hour away from the highway. Just wanted to make sure he placed a sizeable distance between himself and the road. Wanted to make sure he was completely alone when he put the bullet in his head and avoid any more incidents with any Bedouin or commuters.