As promised, now delivered. I'm proud to present to you a sneak peek of the first chapter of the third and final book in the Deepest Darkness series "Rising from the Darkness."
Enjoy!
Chapter 1 – The End Draws Near
The constant echo of drill and
hammer gradually 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. There was then the
chance to dream of Maria’s outstretched arms waiting back 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 back 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 Arca
de Noe.
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 his 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 once was 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 just eaten joined the carnage,
pain shooting along his arm with each wretch.
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 purposes. Mohuzari’s voice carried urgently 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 and
brain matter 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.
