Michael: The Mark (Airel Saga Book Four)

Chapter VI

"COMFORTABLE, JOHN?" MR. EMMANUEL asked the girl's father. It was one of those things people said. He actually wasn't the slightest bit interested in John's comfort level.

John made no response; he lay on his back under the restraints.

Mr. Emmanuel had known all along, of course. He had many levers to pull, and he had pulled enough of them in America to get Harry—his agent and a member of the Nri—inserted, with another, a helo pilot, into the FBI investigation on the girl Airel. It gained him the inside track, got him closer to the Daughter of El through her desperate and unsuspecting parents.

It was a thing of beauty, really.

There had been considerable collateral damage, about which Mr. Emmanuel was completely indifferent. And of course Harry had always been expendable, which Harry hadn't needed to know. He had served his purpose; he had lured the bait man John all the way to Cape Town. Soon, the girl would come and the Sword could be ... appropriated from her.

For Mr. Emmanuel, the ends justified the means, if they were pragmatic to him. There were those who were born to serve, and others who were born to lead. And then quite apart from all that, there were those who crushed both the servers and the leaders and enslaved them to a whim.

History was replete with examples of the stupidity of sheep. Ignorance is its own drug, he thought, it needs no catalyst. It simply is.

He chuckled.

There sits the mosquito, engorging itself upon human blood, completely ignorant of all peril. It does not know of the vampire spider, hunting for human blood by proxy. The mosquito does not know that by indulging in its drone-like instinctual tracks of behavior, it is in fact attracting, by the very scent of the blood it consumes, a most fearsome hunter. The spider cares not for the mosquito, only the blood. But sometimes the circle of life produces a two-for-one deal.

The mosquito could not know of the trap that had been laid for it. But indeed, dear friend John had stumbled into the web, and perfectly.

It was a funny thing, coincidence. It was too good. Who would have thought that John, Mr. Emmanuel's special weapons sales rep, would be the blood father of the girl? Speaking of blood, that is. Anyway, it was staggering; it was indeed a small world. These things simply happened sometimes, and it was best to just let them play out, let them detangle on their own.

As the various pieces of the puzzle showed themselves, they fell perfectly to the spider's hand. "Well? Aren't we on speaking terms, John?"

John, becoming semi-lucid, finally regarded his captor, though he did not look at him. "Mr. Emmanuel, I regret to inform you that I am no longer your sales representative."

He was interrupted by a burst of laughter from the spider.

He continued, "You're going to have to call the company and make the necessary arrangements."

"Oh, John. You bossie; crazy man. I knew there was some reason I liked you." He sat down in a chair by his bound captive. "Still ..." he looked around the room, "we simply must come to a meeting of the minds."

Mr. Emmanuel was gazing at the hypnotic dance of fire. The room in which he sat—at the side of the examination table to which John was bound—was big and dark. Its ceiling was dark and domed, a large hole at its center that emanated darkness. Its circular perimeter was only delineated by a trough of white stones, in which orange-blue flames licked mildly upward at the highly polished black stone walls all around. It lent an evil cast to the atmosphere of the room, for there was no other source of light there. In fact, it looked like hell's own drawing room.

"I'm just looking for a little bit of intelligence, John. Surely if you've come this far, you must know something I don't. Surely you must have something with which to barter her life." He paused. "Or yours—I don't care. Come now. Can we not compare notes?"

John did not look at him. "Nope."

"John, you must know me better than that. After all these years providing some of the most delightfully effective weapons in the world? I wish your daughter no harm. No, certainly not. It's simple. She only has something I want. I wish to find her and then retrieve it. It's just a little trinket, a souvenir."

John cursed at him. "I do know you, Mr. Emmanuel. That's the problem. I know all my clients."

For the first time, Mr. Emmanuel began to show irritation because the ruse wasn't working. His facial features dropped into a scowl. "Be careful, John." He stood so he could pace, lecture. "I have some choice items from your own catalogue. I might use them on you; I might not. Listen. I'm being serious. Just tell me where she is. Then I will recover the item and bring her to you, and you both can live."

John sighed.

In truth, Mr. Emmanuel had always planned on using John as a hostage. He was terrific leverage, and the girl would certainly come running if Daddy needed her superheroine help. Of course, John didn't need to know that; even if he had already deduced as much, he didn't need to hear it from his own lips.

But Mr. Emmanuel changed tactics again. "The fact is, I will find your daughter before you do. Just look at you. You're bound to a slab, John. It was a game; you've already lost. I have you. We pitted you against me, your motivations against mine. You lost because you seek to preserve ..." He shrugged, thinking of a new button to push. "Seems noble. To preserve the flower of her youth, her ... purity."

John struggled against his bonds, but said nothing.

"But my motivation is stronger. And I have many, many more resources." Mr. Emmanuel drew near and began to talk into John's ear. "And I know something you don't know." He said it in a singsong voice. He couldn't resist.

John looked up at his captor now, hatred and a lust for vengeance burning through his eyes at the man.

Mr. Emmanuel feigned shock, gasping. "Oh. What? Did you think I was going to tell you?" Laughter. "Oh, no, John. Oh, no." He turned aside briefly and drew an object out of his pocket. "You know what this does, right?" He held the object before his prisoner's face.

John's expression revealed the slightest amount of recognition and fear, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

"Yes, you do." Mr. Emmanuel laughed insanely. "Yes, you know precisely what this does. It applies pressure. Gets me what I want."

"Tell you what," John said. "How about we make a deal."

Mr. Emmanuel arched his brows and leaned over his prey.

"How about this: How about we dispense with the theatrics, you release me from this table, and then I kill you with my bare hands? How about that?"

Mr. Emmanuel shook his head in amazement. "Wow, John. You surprise me." He removed the protective cover from the syringe he held in his hand, primed it, raised it high, and then slammed it straight down, the needle piercing John's heart, injecting the drug straight into his system. Through bared teeth, Mr. Emmanuel said, "It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?"

John gasped for air, eyes wide.

Mr. Emmanuel withdrew the syringe with contempt, throwing it across the room.

John faded and then passed out.

Mr. Emmanuel kicked the chair over, walking for the door in fury.