The Nephilim Read online

  “That's -.”

  “I've seen him do it. We all have. About three years ago. He gave us a demonstration. And it was awesome. He streaked like a hawk across the sky and landed as gently as a dove. Just over there on the field.”

  But it wasn't awesome. Not to her. One moment he was a hunter and the next he could fly? What if he was sent to find her grandfather? Because if and when she escaped he probably would be sent against him. That was not good. The bitch had been bad enough, but at least she was limited in what she could do. Or Katz she kept getting told. Apparently she couldn't act against normals. They had some stupid rules that they had to obey. But Garrick could. He carried a gun for God's sake!

  It seemed she would have to start taking the shaved gorilla a bit more seriously. She also had to warn her grandfather about what he could do. If Garrick was coming for him he could be in trouble. He could arrest him and in doing so even if he didn't shoot him, her grandfather would be sent to his death. He could ruin everything.

  Katz couldn't allow that. Not to her grandfather. And not when so much hung in the balance. It was time to snaffle another cell phone from another student, and send another message. Armando already knew Garrick's name and that he was an agent. She'd texted that to him on the first night after the fucking cow had dumped her in his house. But she hadn't told him anything about his gift – mostly because she hadn't known about it until now. Actually he might have said something about what he did as she recalled, but she hadn't believed him. Now she had to. She had to protect her grandfather. And she would.

  Stupid teachers. They thought that just because they could imprison her in this school and take away her phone that she was helpless. It was time that they learned the truth. And just then as the bell rang to release them from the first part of their lunch and tell them they were free to do what they wanted, she knew it was time to teach them a lesson.

  “Come on, let’s go to the music room.” Mark was up and off, lunch box full of his half eaten lunch in hand, and Katarinka suddenly wanted to go with him. She'd never been in a place where you could simply go to a room and play around with any instrument you wanted while absolutely no one was there to watch over you. The shaved gorilla had been right about one thing; this academy was an amazingly well equipped place. She'd never been to a school like it.

  Maybe, she decided as she chased Mark to the kitchen to hand in the lunch box, she could arrange to snaffle a phone after dinner.

  Chapter Seven

  It was a fairly innocent looking cabin Garrick thought. Peaceful and rustic, not the sort of place you expected to find a serial killer living. There were even wild flowers throughout the clearing. But it was the place where Newman was currently holed up. The place he'd called home for a long time. The others only knew that someone was inside from the wisps of smoke rising from the stone chimney. But as he stood behind the truck, his elbows on its roof as he used it as a support to hold his arms while he studied the cabin through binoculars, Garrick knew he had caught his man. He could feel him inside.

  The evidence all led here. The clues Newman had left behind at each of his four crime scenes. The reports of witnesses. Fragments of video from various security cameras. Even his vehicle, a somewhat battered old four wheel drive, was parked out front. But it wasn't the evidence that had led him to his man. In fact it was the other way around. He had the scent of the killer in his thoughts and he used that to find the evidence. The evidence was there to prove what he already knew.

  And he knew that he had his man – again.

  Actually this would be his eighth serial killer he'd put away, and he felt pleased about that. Though several of them were on death row awaiting execution and he didn't really agree with killing people for any reason, he was still pleased that they were off the streets and no longer killing. And unlike other agents he had the advantage of actually knowing that they were guilty. There was no need for doubt in his case. He knew what they'd done and why they'd done it.

  Garrick was beginning to gain a serious reputation for his hunting skills. In fact they were starting to call him a bloodhound. Other agencies were starting to contact him, hoping to lure him away from the FBI. That was why the bureau had given him such a free hand in his pursuits. They might not know quite what it was that gave him his edge, but they recognised that he had the skill set they needed and they wanted to keep it. So they gave him a lot of leeway. They understood that he always knew the people to see and the questions to ask. That he liked to move fast and that a partner would just slow him down. That he liked to spend his days in the field, communicate with his base by email and phone where he could, and then write up his reports after it was all over. They even let him use his own truck. He needed the four wheel drive ability from time to time, and he needed to be able to carry evidence as he gathered it, sometimes quite large pieces of evidence. It was also useful to not be instantly recognised as an agent. But mostly he just liked his truck.

  This particular killer hadn't been that hard to track. He'd been too sloppy for that. But then he was a psycho-sexual predator and they often were. They made messes. They left trace. For them the kill was about the thrill and when they got excited they lost control. That meant they had to clean up afterwards, but the golden rule of crime was always that it was better not to leave trace in the first place than to have to clean it up afterwards. You always missed something. Newman had missed a lot. And if not for the fact that he fitted the typical serial killer profile he would have been caught long ago.

  Unfortunately serial killers were often difficult to catch. That wasn't because they were genius level criminals as the movies would have you believe. It was simply because unlike most other killers they had no connection to their victims. For that reason the normal rules of hunting murderers just didn't apply to them. You weren't looking for the husband or the co-worker with anger problems. You were usually looking for a complete stranger. That made things difficult.

  Now though Garrick was sure he had caught Newman. Actually he knew he had, but since that knowledge was a part of his gift and he couldn't reveal his gift to normals, he had to base his knowledge purely on what he could deduce from the evidence. And the evidence said that Newman was probably the man in the cabin. Of course, without his gift he wouldn't have unearthed the evidence in the first place. He wouldn't have known where to look. But nobody had to know that.

  “Ready?”

  Special Agent In Charge Rodgers asked him the question as he stood beside him and Garrick nodded. He was more than ready. It was time for Newman to go down. To face the courts and then spend the rest of his life behind bars.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Rodgers made the call and the team of heavily armed agents in body armour began their slow advance on the cabin. The plan was simple; advance slowly maintaining the cover of the trees until they were close enough, then at the last minute the team would do the actual take down. They would rush the door with a battering ram from a blind angle then throw in some stun grenades while the rest would remain in the trees and provide backup in case it was needed. It was all about not giving the suspect a chance to either escape or pick up a gun. And this guy would shoot, Garrick was certain of that. He wasn't a white collar criminal. He liked to get his hands dirty and he liked to fight. He also knew what would happen to him if he was sent to jail. Rapists weren't popular. On top of that the chances were that he could be facing a death sentence depending on which state prosecuted him.

  So the agents advanced slowly, cautiously, guns drawn, all of them careful not to make a sound as they walked over the fallen leaves. It wouldn't take much to give themselves away. A twig snapping underfoot perhaps, or someone speaking too loudly. So they watched their footing as they'd been trained to and held their breath.

  Soon they were at the edge of the tree line, fifty yards from the cabin with only open ground between them and it. Between them and Newman. The squad paused there for a moment, everyone studying the cabin windows carefully, look
ing for any sign that they'd been spotted. But the curtains didn't move, and thirty seconds later they knew it was time.

  Rodgers raised his hand to give the signal for the tactical team to advance, but before he could complete it the sound of a siren started up from somewhere behind them.

  Everyone froze for a second, and then in disbelief turned as one to see what unbelievable idiot was screwing up their take down. Who could be doing something so unbelievably stupid. Ten seconds later they had their answer as a large black SUV came barrelling up the dirt road leading to the cabin, lights flashing and siren wailing.

  That was bad, worse than bad. Worse still, it told the suspect that he had company. He had come to the window, and when Garrick finally thought to turn back to look he could just make out his huge silhouette standing there, gun in hand. And the silhouette was staring at them.

  “Gun!” Garrick gave the call and desperately hoped he was in time.

  He wasn't. He knew that when he saw Newman raise the weapon and started firing while everyone was still staring at the SUV. Garrick raised his own gun and started firing back as fast as he could.

  After that it was complete chaos as they traded shots, and bullets flew in all directions. To make matters worse Newman had an assault rifle which had been converted to full auto. He was spraying the entire forest, cutting down leaves, twigs and small branches, and sending up puffs of dirt everywhere. He wasn't accurate, but what he lacked in aim he made up for with bullets.

  Two agents caught out in the open went down early on, and as Garrick watched in horror he could only hope that their vests would protect them. But there was nothing he could do for them. Instead he continued shooting, emptying an entire clip into the cabin, most of them unfortunately into the log walls, and then reloading hurriedly. His gift made him a very capable shooter but it was a seventy yard shot with a hand gun at an awkward angle into a darkened window and only the slimmest of openings through which he could see his target. Still, he hit Newman several times, and watched as the killer didn't so much as flinch. He had to be wearing a vest. Newman was paranoid enough that he just might be.

  Other agents were doing the same as him, firing and reloading frantically. The weapons held good sized clips, but the adrenaline was flowing and this had not been meant to be a full on fire fight. They were only supposed to be backups while the tactical team breached the house and took down the suspect. Unfortunately that hadn't happened. The tactical team had not been in position, and those other agents with automatic weapons didn't have a good angle on the window. As for the chances of someone lobbing a stun grenade into the house, they were slim.

  Then, in the middle of it all, just as he'd slotted his third and final clip into his weapon and begun firing, things became unexpectedly worse.

  He heard footsteps behind him but paid them no mind. He was too busy taking cover behind a tree and trying to shoot a serial killer to worry about who was behind him. Until they yelled at him.

  “Garrick Hamilton you're under arrest!”

  For a moment Garrick didn't believe he'd heard the man say that. It was utter lunacy. And he had a murderer shooting at him. So he ignored it and kept shooting, putting bullet after bullet into that dark window, hitting Newman several more times. But then the man yelled it at him again and he had to wonder. And eventually when his clip was finished, he had the chance to look.

  He turned around to see who was addressing him, not stupid enough to come out from behind the tree, and saw the three Treasury agents from the diner standing behind him. All had weapons drawn and all of them were pointed at him, and for a moment he wondered if the world had gone mad. He wasn't the only one wondering that.

  “Gun!” One of the agents yelled it out and for a brief moment Garrick wondered why. He looked around hurriedly. Who had a gun? And then he realised the shocking truth just as they started firing at him. It was him!

  The vest took the first couple of bullets for which he was unbelievably grateful. But it didn't stop the impacts and he gasped as the pain hit. They were using heavy calibre handguns. Not nines, forty fives maybe. Then one of the bullets tore straight through his arm and the pain got much worse. Even as he was reeling from that another bullet smashed into his thigh and he knew he was in trouble.

  The pain was terrible, the bullets burning through his flesh like hot pokers, and the injuries were serious. There was blood everywhere, running down his arm, running down his leg. Worse than that though was the weakness he felt. His injured leg threatened to collapse beneath him. A further two slugs sent into his vest sealed the deal and he fell to the ground while the agents were all yelling “Treasury” at the top of their lungs. As if they were trying to identify themselves to other Treasury agents. What other Treasury agents?

  After that things turned truly strange. Bullets were still flying in all directions, people were yelling all around and he didn't know what was being said by anyone. But what he did know was that one of the Treasury agents was hit, and while he was wearing a vest the bullet had somehow snuck through a gap. Garrick saw the bright red blood appear on his white shirt around his collar and then saw him fall just as he had.

  The other two agents suddenly rushed him as he lay there, and he was quickly rolled on to his stomach, kneed in the back and handcuffed, all while the gun battle carried on. The agent who was down was holding up his ID to the sky and still screaming “Treasury” at the top of his lungs for some unknown reason, while all around other agents were yelling “FBI”. After that the Treasury agents started yelling at him to do something. But he couldn't. There was a roaring in his ears and he couldn't quite work out what the men were yelling at him. He couldn't really move either. All he could do was lie there on the leaf covered forest floor and wonder if the world had gone completely mad.

  He was still wondering that as the light left his eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  He was in a hospital. Garrick knew that even before he opened his eyes. He could hear the sounds of medical equipment monitoring vital signs and smell disinfectant. He could hear people talking in hushed tones. And then when he did finally open his eyes he could see the white acoustic ceiling tiles he'd expected. He could see the rails too around his bed area, and the floral curtains hanging from them that the nurses or doctors would pull shut when they wanted to examine a patient in private.

  He was alive, and as the memories came flooding back of the capture and the reason he was in hospital, he knew that that was a lucky thing. The agents had scored at least two strikes on him and even if neither of them had hit anything vital, blood loss could still have killed him. Assuming they hadn't gone on to shoot him in the head while he was lying on the ground – which thankfully they hadn't done.

  Looking around he could see he was in a ward with three other patients, some of whom were connected up to monitoring equipment, though at least none looked to be on life support. None of the other patients were looking at him. Nor were they reading magazines or talking to each other or doing any of the things patients normally did. Instead they were all staring intently at the double doors to the ward, almost as if they were expecting the nurses to come.

  But the nurses weren't coming. They weren't attending to any patients at the moment. Neither were the doctors. And the other patients weren't expecting them. He knew that because he could hear the doctors just outside. They were talking to men somewhere out in the corridor. Angry men. They were trying to calm them down, telling them that this was a hospital, not a place for shouting and screaming. They weren't having a lot of luck though.

  The men were trying to restrain themselves a little bit, but not succeeding completely. In fact they were only a little short of screaming incoherently at one another. And strangely he realised that he knew one of them. Garrick recognised the voice of the deputy director, even though he was yelling. He'd never heard him yell before. But then he was apparently saying something about his fellow agents being shot in the line of duty, and operations being compromised by incompe
tent agents, so Garrick could understand his anger. He felt it himself.

  The other man he didn't know. But he recognised the anger in him too. And he was yelling something about corruption within the bureau and mass murder. Both men were losing control, and this was not the place for that. The dirty laundry of the bureau shouldn't be aired in public.

  Meanwhile he was lying in a hospital bed, handcuffed as he quickly discovered, to the railing, and starting to wonder just what was happening. He remembered the Treasury agents showing up and shooting him in the middle of a gun battle they'd caused. But he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to have done.

  It had to be something to do with the girl, Katarinka. He knew that. He'd had no other involvement with Treasury since then, and he'd recognised the agents who had shot him. But his involvement with her had ended. It had ended well over a week before when he'd dropped her off at the Academy. And as far as he knew the Treasury only suspected her of an association with Benedict. Not complicity in his crimes. Unless that had changed? Maybe it had, he thought, since to go from her mere association with a counterfeiter to arresting and shooting the FBI agent who had escorted her to school, made even less sense than everything else.