Authors: Robert Browne

The Paradise Prophecy (17 page)

BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy

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She didn’t yet know the answer to de Souza’s question, so she fell back on a reliable lie. “We’re here at the request of the governor of São Paulo. The United States is always happy to assist in cases of international importance.”

“International importance?” De Souza shook his head in disgust, then gestured at the television. “I suppose with the world falling apart around us, it shouldn’t surprise me that both of our governments are distracted by the death of a self-righteous demagogue. The Middle East and central Asia are about to implode, Africa right behind them, yet all eyes are here on Brazil. What happened to our precious Gabriela?”

“You don’t seem very upset by her death.”

“Why would I be?”

“I’m told she worked for you at one time. As a courier.”

De Souza shrugged. “A lot of people work for me. They live, they die. It’s nothing unusual around here.”

Callahan thought about the dead man in the alley and wondered if he’d worked for de Souza, too. “But Gabriela spoke out against you. Condemned you for selling drugs to children. Her boyfriend says you threatened her more than once.”

“Ahh, yes, the demon de Souza. I make no secret of what I do or what I believe, and to some that means I should be feared and reviled. I’ve never understood why people are so quick to condemn those who don’t buy into their feeble ideology. The truth is, the only threat I pose is philosophical. I’m nothing more than a man who fills a need, with no more power than any other human being. Including Gabriela.”

“And you never considered
her
a threat?”

“To what? My luxurious lifestyle?”

Callahan glanced around her again. He did have a point, but she pushed anyway. “I’m told she was pressuring the police to clean up the
favela
.”

De Souza shook his head. “A useless publicity stunt. The police know their place, just as I do. And they’ll soon have a lot more to worry about than this little piece of hell.”

“Meaning what?”

“Look around you, Agent Callahan.” He waved a hand toward the hole in the wall. “It’s obvious to anyone paying attention that the dragon is loose and systematically taking control of our planet.”

“The dragon?”

“Satan. Lucifer. The King of Babylon. The God of This Age. We’re surrounded by his influence—people dying in the streets, endless wars, the constant promise of terrorism and nuclear holocaust. The gates of hell are about to open and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. I’d be a fool to align myself with anyone who might try.”

De Souza smiled now, revealing that his left front tooth had been carefully painted with shiny black enamel, an inverted white cross at its center. “I may be easily corrupted, senhorita, but that doesn’t make me a fool any more than it means I killed Gabriela Zuada.”

“So do you think Gabriela was murdered?”

He shrugged. “You’d know more about that than I would.”

“Then if it wasn’t you, can you think of anyone else who might want to harm her? Someone who practices the occult?”

De Souza straightened himself in his chair, then leaned toward her.

“Something’s stirring in the air, Agent Callahan. Do you feel it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Dark forces at work. Stronger than ever. Dangerous, malevolent forces that may well be responsible for what happened to our sweet Gabriela.” He paused. “I’d advise you to tread lightly,
querida
. Because you never know who’s watching.”

Callahan shivered slightly. Then, remembering that she was a skeptic who valued rational thinking over superstitious voodoo, she got hold of herself. The only dark forces at work here were man-made, and if Gabriela had been murdered, it was by human hands.

But not de Souza’s. She was convinced of that now. He might be the obvious suspect, and he might not hesitate to kill a rival, but it was clear that he had considered Gabriela a harmless trifle and had neither the motive nor the desire to go after her.

In other words, Callahan was wasting her time.

“Thanks for the advice,” she said.

De Souza studied her for a long moment, assessing her, but not in the same lewd way as the other men (and boys) she’d encountered in São Paulo. There was nothing lascivious in the look at all. And that only compounded her uneasiness.

He checked his watch. “You’d better return to your bus, senhorita. They’re scheduled to leave soon. And once they’re gone, I’m afraid I cannot guarantee your safety.”

Then he smiled again, running the tip of his tongue along the edge of that shiny black-and-white tooth.

“
Vá com Deus
,” he said.

Go with God.

W
hen Batty awoke, he was blindfolded.

The blindfold was thick and had been pulled taut enough to keep any outside light from seeping in, and he had no idea whether it was day or night. The air around him felt humid, his clothes and skin slick with sweat, so he assumed he was still in Louisiana.

But where?

He couldn’t move his arms and legs. He was sitting in a chair with his hands bound behind his back, his ankles strapped tight, and judging by the feel, whoever had done this to him had used those plastic zip-ties you always saw on the cop shows.

So what the hell was going on here?

He had been kidnapped, that much was clear. But if there was one thing Batty knew for certain, it was that he didn’t have a thing of value to offer a kidnapper. No money. No rich relatives to pay ransom. In fact, the only human being on the planet who had really given a damn about whether he showed up for breakfast every morning was Rebecca.

And Rebecca was two years dead.

The last thing Batty remembered was the fight outside Bayou Bill’s and the tourist poking a needle into his neck—followed by darkness.
Blissful
darkness, if you wanted the God’s honest truth.

No nightmares. No troubling images. Nothing.

Until this.

Whatever
this
was.

He sat there quietly, telling himself not to panic. A mistake had obviously been made and that mistake would be corrected when his kidnappers realized he wasn’t the man they wanted.

But then the tourist’s words came back to him like a sledgehammer to the head—
You okay, Professor?—
and he knew he was wrong. Bayou Bill’s wasn’t exactly the type of place known to attract academics. You weren’t likely to find anyone else from Trinity Baptist College knocking back a beer there—

—so this wasn’t a mistake. Far from it. And the only explanation was that he had been targeted, just as he had suspected the moment he saw the tourist walk into the bar. The guy who had stopped a biker from stomping his brains to a pulp was not a Good Samaritan. He had come to Bill’s specifically to kidnap Professor Sebastian LaLaurie.

The question was
why
?

Batty tried to separate his wrists to see if he could loosen the tie, but there was very little wiggle room. He shook his head back and forth several times, but the blindfold wouldn’t give either.

“Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone here?”

Silence.

“If you’re looking for money, you’ve been sadly misinformed.”

No response.

Batty’s heart was pounding and he suddenly realized he was starting to hyperventilate. Calming himself, he slowed his breathing and concentrated, trying to get a reading on the room, knowing he wouldn’t get much without being able to feel it beneath his fingers.

Several moments passed before it came. Then, quite abruptly, a small part of the room’s history skittered through his mind—vague but unmistakable feelings of fear and anger and pain—and he knew he wasn’t the first person to occupy this chair.

And not all of its occupants had left here alive.

C
allahan was suddenly very tired.

On the ride back to the Barbosa Tours building, she couldn’t stop thinking about de Souza’s warning and the dream or hallucination or neural breakdown she’d suffered in that alleyway.

She couldn’t stop seeing the little girl—seeing
herself
—look up at her with those amber-tinted eyes.

There’s no saving us now.

There’s no saving any of us
.

All Callahan wanted was to get back to the hotel and crawl into bed and hopefully sleep the afternoon away. Her mind and body were screaming for it.

Unfortunately, the moment she stepped off the bus and signaled for a cab, her cell phone rang.

Section.

“The asset has been procured,” the disembodied voice said. “You’ll find him at the safe house on Ribeiro de Lima.”

“Was it really necessary to bring him here? This could have been handled over the—”

“NQN, Agent Callahan. The directive came from the top.”

NQN.

No Questions Needed.

In other words, shut the hell up and do as you’re told.

Callahan sighed. “Has he been briefed?”

“We’re leaving that to you.”

Of course.

Section was sometimes so callous and devoid of emotion it infuriated Callahan. It was too often all business, the powers-that-be failing to see the value in nurturing a relationship rather than simply pulling the trigger and worrying about the consequences later. That she was expected to do the debriefing only meant that they had run a basic smash and grab and it would be up to her to stabilize the asset and secure his cooperation.

Not surprising, but still an annoyance.

There were sixteen known elements to the United States intelligence community, including the CIA, the NSA and the FBI. Section was the seventeenth, a no-nonsense off-the-books ops unit that had been formed by the previous administration in direct response to the 9/11 attacks, and given more autonomy than all of the other elements combined.

Section’s mission, however, was not restricted to hunting down terrorists. Its mandate included crisis management, facilitation and sometimes even instigation. And considering the coldhearted way it handled its assets, Callahan figured it was a miracle she’d been given a choice about joining, back when she was a potential recruit.

What would her recruiter have done if she’d said no?

But maybe her psychological profile had made it obvious that she’d jump at the opportunity. She was, after all, the perfect candidate. Single. No blood relatives. No emotional ties whatsoever. She doubted she would have been approached otherwise. Still, she was surprised Section didn’t simply snatch her from campus, throw her into an iso tank and sweat her until she agreed to . . .

Callahan stopped herself.

Why was she dredging up all this nonsense? Shoving her thoughts aside, she signaled again and waited as a cab pulled up in front of her.

No point in wallowing in the weeds.

She had work to do.

B
atty had been sitting there close to an hour, his arms and legs going numb, when he heard a sound: a door opening and closing somewhere above him. It was so faint that he wondered for a moment if he had imagined it, but then his gut told him that he was no longer alone here—wherever
here
was.

A moment later, he heard footsteps on stairs, then a door directly across from him flew open, letting in a waft of slightly cooler air.

“Jesus Christ,” someone said.

Not the tourist, but a woman. And she didn’t sound pleased.

“Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”

“Definitely not this.”

Then he heard her footsteps and felt her moving around behind him. He stiffened slightly as she grabbed hold of the blindfold and pulled it free.

Harsh fluorescent light assaulted his eyes and he squinted against it, catching glimpses of a small nondescript basement with a cement floor and walls and a workbench full of tools.

The woman came around in front of him now, and he did his best to focus on her. She wasn’t as beautiful as Rebecca or the elusive redhead, but the package she presented had been put together quite well and he had no doubt she’d broken a few hearts in her time.

And balls.

She wasn’t particularly large or muscular, but there was a definite solidity to her body and a fierceness of expression that led him to believe she could kick his ass without really trying.

Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

“I want to apologize for the way you’ve been treated, Professor. The people I work for sometimes mistake brutality for efficiency.”

“The people you work for?”

BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy

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