Mortal Eclipse Read online

  Tears pooled his eyes as he turned the cameras on the blurred image that Luis had identified as Delahoya, and Davey froze as the image pointed a finger at his own mountainside position. The guards scattered from the camera’s view as Davey continued to stare at the blurred image. What the hell was wrong with his equipment? Why would two men fail to register clearly, while the other images, including Luis, appeared crisp and easily identifiable?

  As if awakening from a trance, Davey was suddenly aware of what he had to do before Delahoya’s guards closed in. Working rapidly, he prepped the digital video file, the audio record of his conversation with Luis, and the portable satellite dish for transmission to Lynn Baker’s office at headquarters. He didn’t waste time attempting to escape Delahoya’s men. They would arrive soon, and he’d deal with them then. Lynn needed to see this visual anomaly for herself. It would take better minds than his to figure out how two men could conceal their features from his cameras. Finally, he dialed in the transmission codes and sent the files.

  Suddenly, a blinding flash blotted out the southern horizon, followed by a thunderous explosion that knocked him to the ground. Davey quickly regained his feet and checked the monitor. The plateau was gone, replaced by a mushroom of dust and raining rubble. Hector Delahoya’s mansion, eleven of the most powerful drug czars in the world, and dozens of innocent women and children were immediately incinerated from the fiery blast. Luis’s corpse had been mercifully cremated before the heat and insects could ravage it.

  A bell sounded on his computer, signaling the completion of the transmission. As Davey destroyed the equipment and files, a whup-whup sound distracted him. Three armed helicopters floated into view just above the mountainous horizon. The DEA agent stood and faced them, knowing that retreat was impossible. He was trapped against the mountain, shielded only by fifty feet of jungle. He was a dead man.

  Bowing casually at the pilots, he grabbed his automatic rifle and stood-up firing.

  The copter pilots hesitated - one too long. Davey’s bullets shattered the cockpit glass, killed the pilot, and penetrated the instrumentation. The helicopter wobbled, spun, and fell nose first from sight. Before the sound of its explosion below reached Davey, the remaining pilots fired four Stinger missiles into the modest campsite.

  The DEA mission was officially scrubbed.

  Chapter 3

  A single candle flame flickered in the enormous room. A hulking shadow leaned over the nude, scarred, woman’s body bound to a bed by her hands and feet. A tangle of wires extended from over a dozen electrode patches taped to her forehead, breasts, and the shaved area between her thighs to an electronic device with several blinking LCD readouts. An IV tube stretched from a hanging bag to the back of her left hand.

  “You’re back,” the woman on the table whispered nervously. Her voice was tired and worn from days of screaming.

  The shadow shifted. “Of course. We’re not finished with you yet.”

  Tears crystallized at the corners of her eyes. “I can’t stand anymore.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, my dear.” His voice was hollow and raspy.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  The shadow turned slightly. The woman watched him stroke the Siamese cat in his arms. “You will know in good time.”

  “Am I being held for ransom?”

  “Absolutely not.” He stepped away. “No more questions for now. My assistant will be in shortly to continue the treatment.” He dropped the cat, and it bounded into the darkness.

  “Oh God, please! No more!” she begged. “Please!”

  He retreated beyond the dim light as a loud pounding rattled the front door. He quietly made his way downstairs to a front window, where he peered through a narrow opening in the heavy draperies. Several rebel soldiers were scattered across the lawn with their automatic rifles trained on the front door. The man stood in the complete darkness, groaning quietly. A moment later, he opened the front door.

  “What is the meaning of this!” he demanded in perfect Spanish.

  The soldiers on the ramshackle porch backed away.

  “Many pardons, Don Bustillo. We are on patrol, and when I saw the helicopter in back, I thought those NLA pigs had decided to take over your abandoned hideaway,” the closest soldier explained nervously.

  “They didn’t,” the man snapped. “I am here on private business. I am not in need of protection here.”

  A woman’s scream carried down the stairs to the porch. The soldiers straightened.

  The man smiled. “A traitor is being taught a lesson.”

  The soldier returned an anxious smile. “A good lesson, I hope, sir. Well, we will be going.” The soldiers moved swiftly from the porch to several jeeps parked on the dirt road.

  The man shut the door and sighed heavily. He was exhausted. His energy level was nearly drained by his unique talent, but it had been necessary. It was all part of his plan.

  The woman upstairs screamed again. His grin was lost in the dark. All was going according to schedule. It wouldn’t be long now. After taking care of some FBI business in Washington, he would head back to the states, where he would squelch the last of his enemies. Then the world would be powerless to stop him.

  The full moon broke from behind a cloud, casting its silvery light onto the isolated landscape around the rundown Bustillo hideaway. The helicopter lay exposed in a circular clearing enclosed by a forest of thick shadows. In front of the two-story house, the dirt road and long driveway were gray ribbons. The garage in back was beyond repair. The roof had collapsed inside its walls many years ago.

  A man broke from the forest gloom, and sprinted quietly to the back door of the house. He listened at the entrance while he caught his breath. He was dressed in black with a ski mask pulled over his head. His right hand clenched a silenced 9mm automatic pistol.

  Inside, all was still. The man slept on the sofa downstairs with the Siamese cat sandwiched between his chest and a cushion. It purred rhythmically. Its slender frame stiffened abruptly, and its jade eyes snapped open. The man awoke and lay listening, his senses alert.

  “What is it, baby?” he whispered.

  The cat leaped to the floor, standing with its back arched, and its ears rigid. It moved deliberately toward the kitchen at the rear of the house. The mysterious man rolled off the sofa and followed.

  Outside, an intruder tried the doorknob, but found it locked. Swearing under his breath, he withdrew a pouch of tools from his pocket and jimmied the lock. The tumbler turned with a low click. After replacing the tools, he turned the knob and gently pushed on the door. Surprisingly, it swung open noiselessly. He raised his weapon and entered.

  The man inside watched the sliver of moonlight widen as the intruder pushed the door open. He backed away, wondering who was paying him such a late night visit. He was certain it wasn’t his old friend Bustillo. The old general had been informed that his guest had arrived much earlier, so he would have entered through the front door.

  The cat nuzzled her master’s leg before merging with the deep shade behind the kitchen door. The intruder stepped inside and flicked on a penlight. The slender beam slowly swept the room, until it froze upon the man’s face. It was a perfect reflection of the intruder’s ski-masked visage! The intruder was visibly startled by his own reflection standing ten feet away, but he quickly regained his professional composure.

  He snickered. “Cute.”

  The man bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

  “Jesus, you’re a cool one,” the intruder said, sighting the lethal barrel on the shadow between his target’s eyes.

  The man shrugged. “What do you want?”

  “You can’t be that dense, man. After today’s fireworks display in the jungle, what’s left of the cartel is more than a little pissed at you, friend.” The man tugged off his ski mask. “I’m here to even the score.”

  “Carson,” the man said. “The high-priced freelance eraser.”

  Carson grinned. “Just wan
ted you to know who was going to put a bullet in that chameleon face of yours.”

  “I’m impressed by your courtesy,” the man said sardonically.

  “How about we get a look at your real face, friend. Before I blow it away.”

  The man remained motionless, yet his facial features transformed into a hideous, moldy mummy face.

  Carson almost dropped the penlight. It was the face that caused him many childhood nightmares. “Jesus!” he gasped. “How can you stand looking at that in the mirror?”

  The bandages wrapped across the mummy’s mouth snapped to dust as its lips parted, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. “But you are not me, Carson. You’re an amateur. A dilettante who’s about to retire.”

  Carson laughed uneasily. “I’ve got the gun, remember? You’re good, but not that good.” The words were brash, but a slight tremble in his voice betrayed a faltering confidence. “There’s no way in hell you can get to me before I shred your moldy puss with my entire clip.” His finger tightened against the trigger. “Adios, mummy man.”

  However, before Carson could pull the trigger, a naked oriental woman pounced onto his shoulders and sank her keen nails into the gelatin of his eyes. The penlight slipped from his hand, as the woman clawed the oozing sockets. He screamed and fired the automatic pistol wildly with the other hand, but his intended victim had swiftly circled behind him. The woman jerked Carson’s neck back, and the reptilian man carved the exposed flesh and tendons away with a single swipe of his talons. The pistol clattered to the floor an instant before Carson’s lifeless body.

  The woman kicked the dead man’s ribs. “He was an amateur,” she hissed angrily. “And he came to kill you!” She spit on his face and hissed.

  “Temper, temper,” he said quietly. “You can clean-up this mess in the morning. We need more sleep. I’m dead tired.”

  The oriental woman nodded and glided past him through Carson’s puddling blood into the living room. The man paused, studied the arrogant Carson’s corpse, and then brought his foot down on the glowing penlight. It was lights out for both Carson and his flashlight. Stupid man.

  By the time he reached the sofa, the Siamese cat was curled on a cushion, licking blood from its paws while it awaited her master.

  Chapter 4

  The mysterious light bleached the Earth white with its brilliance. Nick’s eyes were useless. The trees, the lake, and the town were all merged into a single image. A polar bear in a blizzard. A plain piece of white paper. He was lost. Panic thickened his throat. There was no escape, and he’d been trying all night.

  He had no idea why he was there, or where there was. Sounds of birds and insects filled his ears, a light breeze massaged his exposed skin, and the smell of a baking pie – possibly peach – tantalized his nose and taste buds. His secondary senses were acute in this world. He could very likely hear a hummingbird fart. But as powerful as these senses were, his grasp of this world was severely handicapped without his sight.

  He jumped, startled, as a small hand slipped into his. He strained to see through the brutal light at his sudden companion, but all he could make out was a silvery outline of a woman’s figure and occasional flitting shadows of streaming white hair. She guided his hand over the soft contours of her body, enveloped in a flimsy lace that fluttered about his hand and face in the breeze. She was seducing him, and he was defenseless. He had neither the will to resist nor the aggressiveness to bring this sexual encounter to a satisfying closure.

  Bells rang in the distance, faintly at first, then louder. The woman’s body drifted away, and her hand slipped from his. The world darkened, and his eyelids fluttered. He had lost her for the hundredth time. The ringing grew louder. Clearer. Closer.

  Nick Bellamy’s eyelids snapped open, blue isles afloat in two red seas. He abruptly sat up, rubbed away the sleep, and focused on reality. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Mounds of clothes littered his bedroom landscape, and dust bunnies danced on his furniture in the air conditioner currents. For a brief moment, he longed for the serenity and sensuality of the extraordinary White World where his senses weren’t dulled by grief and booze.

  The ringing continued to reecho in his brain. Pain erupted. The hangover from last night’s binge crushed his skull like a nutcracker. Nick quickly snatched the phone receiver off its cradle, and put a merciful end to his distress.

  “Yeah,” he managed. His voice was deep and husky.

  “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” the caller hailed cheerfully. “Were you planning to make it in to work sometime today?”

  “Up yours, Neo,” Nick said irritably. Neo was his partner at the Orion Sector, an ultra-special division of the FBI. Neo was a big, strapping black man who turned his back on a multimillion-dollar contract as a defensive lineman with the New Giants to pursue his dream in the FBI. Idiot.

  “Going to see Jimmy today?”

  Nick dug his fingers into his eyes to relieve the deep throbbing. “Yeah.”

  “Give him a hug for me.”

  Like Jimmy could feel it, Nick thought angrily, but said, “Sure.”

  “That woman called here for you again,” Neo told him.

  Shit! “What’d you tell her?”

  “That she was wasting her time trying reach a stinking drunk.”

  “Fuck you very much!”

  “You’re welcome,” he said lightly, then sobered. “Look, Nick, she might be the best lead we’ve had to find your killer. Would it be that big of a deal to at least call her back and check out her story?”

  “Yeah,” he grumbled.

  “You know, you’re an asshole when you drink. I don’t know why I haven’t given up on you.”

  “Because I’m the best agent in the agency, and I make you look good,” he replied.

  “Well, right now you’re making us both look like shit sandwiches. Withers is breathing down my neck asking about our progress on the case – your case. If he doesn’t get something soon, we’ll be a couple desk jockeys,” he said loudly. “Comprende`?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Call her.”

  “When I get to the office.”

  “She’ll only talk to you, or I would’ve . . .”

  “I said I’d call her. See you about eleven.” Nick slammed down the phone, then immediately regretted it. His head was thumping like an aspirin commercial.

  Wedges of dawn leaked through the bent blinds. He shielded his eyes and slipped out of bed. He paused in front of the dresser mirror, the only keepsake of his late wife, Laura. His long, ash hair was snarled at the sides. Saturn rings orbited his eye sockets. His face was sallow with one day’s stubble. He refused to grow a drinker’s beard, because he had been clean- shaven before the brutal attack on his son, and he wanted his son, Jimmy, to recognize him if he ever awoke from his coma.

  Suddenly, small fissures fractured his reflection. Nick’s mouth fell open. The rifts in the mirror deepened, then splintered loudly as they spread outward and formed an uneven web. His image became fragmented like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It displayed what he attempted to conceal everyday since the tragedy: a broken man.

  Backing away, he stumbled on his shoes and fell against a corner of his computer desk. Pain stabbed his back like thrusts from a blunt knife.

  “What the hell,” he mumbled, his eyes riveted on the mirror.

  The dresser beneath the mirror started vibrating. His aftershave, change, and keys crashed to the tile flooring. The vibrations escalated into deep rumbles that jolted his apartment like an earthquake. The noise was deafening! The computer mouse hopped crazily to the desk edge like a Mexican jumping bean, and nose-dived onto the crown of his head. Even the bedroom window blinds got into the act with a violent shimmy before plummeting to the floor in a twisted heap.

  Nick’s flesh oozed sweat. A sour, booze sweat. It stung his eyes and assailed his nose, nearly gagging him. With a tremendous effort, he shifted his horrified gaze from the mirror to the holster hanging from his bedpost. He was operating on pure
instinct now. Under the circumstances, rational behavior seemed useless. He lunged at the holster and pulled it to his chest in a teddy-bear hug. Fighting floor motion similar to that of a small boat bouncing on a rough sea, he targeted the general direction of the mirror, and fired his Glock several times. The mirror burst in a shower of glass shards, scarring the room like a shotgun blast. Nick turned, pressed his face into the mattress, and clasped both hands against the back of his head.

  After a minute that felt like an hour to him, the rumbling ceased as quickly as it began. Nick guardedly raised his head, and surveyed the empty mirror frame. Three bullet holes resided where the glass had been. He exhaled in one strong rush, and realized that he had forgotten to breath during the madness. It appeared that the nightmare was over.

  The Glock slipped from his hand and thumped to the bedside rug, as he leaned back against the mattress. He was exhausted and edgy. What the hell had caused the mirror to go haywire? And, where had that damned quake come from? This was Washington D.C., not L.A.

  He didn’t have a clue. His hands trembled as he picked embedded glass from his skin. Sweat quickly filled the tiny wounds, stinging him like a hive of angry bees.

  What the hell had really happened? Had it been his imagination? His raw flesh was a strong indicator that that was certainly not the case.

  Nick hadn’t been this upset since the attack on his family had left his wife dead and son in a coma. He was not a man who succumbed easily to fear, because fear shut down the brain, and that was something an FBI Special Agent couldn’t tolerate. His survival depended on his cool. But this . . .

  All of a sudden, the remaining razor-sharp glass shards were ripped from his skin. He swore and grabbed his gun. Throughout the bedroom, glass fragments were drawn across the air toward the mirror by some unseen force. Shocked, Nick watched helplessly as the pieces reassembled in the frame and melded together to reform the original flawless sheen. There was no indication that the mirror had ever been broken!