Reign of Evil

His legs trembled as they struggled to hold him upright. Although he couldn’t see through the blindfold, he’d known the instant the spike had touched his palm what they’d intended to do. And it was the merging of their laughter with his screams as they nailed first one hand onto a length of wood, then the other. He’d been crucified in honor of his Christian upbringing. Let Christ come down and save you, they’d howled, then added, But then he couldn’t save himself.

Of course he’d had his chance to escape. He’d thought he’d had the time. Walker and YaYa had exfilled the window and he’d heard a scratching in the hallway. Part of him had screamed for him to flee, but he’d paused, raised his weapon, and readied to fire. He hadn’t wanted to leave anyone behind him who would shoot him in the back when it was his turn to exfil the window.

When it came around the corner, he’d tried to pull the trigger but found himself frozen, incapable of even calling out. It stood there. She wore only a stitched smile, her naked body blossoming with pendulous breasts. Her pubic hair had been shaved, revealing a pierced vulva. Her arm came up and pointed to him and he felt himself pulled in her direction. He fought against it, resulting in a hobbled walk like a two-year-old, crossing the floor of the room until he was in her arms. She closed them, giving him a cold embrace; then she kissed him through the stitches.

He’d vomited then and lost consciousness.

When he next came to, he was standing in the middle of a pentacle being struck in the face over and over by men in suits, men dressed as women, women wearing strap-ons, and women dressed like animals. He remembered seeing an impressive figure sitting in a throne-like chair, laughing at him. The figure was regal and wore an iron crown. He was completely cloaked in green, the cloth patterned with holly leaves.

But that’s all he remembered. He’d been hit so frequently and violently that his memory of that period was like an old 8mm movie, skipping ahead, with black spots between images. Then his vision had stopped, but the beating had continued.

Sometime afterward, he’d awoken to find them cutting him. Thin lines of pain along each arm and each leg, one by one by one. He was beyond screaming and whined like a broken dog with each pull of the knife, trying desperately to ignore the bombastic hilarity of his cutters as they laughed uproariously at their deeds.

Then they began to touch him. He’d cried as his body ignored his complaints. A part of him had a will of its own and ignored his protests. He imagined himself trussed somewhere on the ground so he could be cut, then a man, or a woman, or both, wrapping themselves around him and making his body tremble.

And now, as he hung crucified in the middle of the vile celebration, he pushed all those images aside, forgot about the abuse and the pain and the cold, and instead focused on a single image—Preeti standing, her head cocked, her long hair falling down to one side, a self-conscious look on her face, not for a second realizing how beautiful and how wonderful a person she was and how lucky he’d been to know her for a time.

CHAPTER 43

REDLANDS AIRFIELD, SWINDON. 0755 HOURS.

Yank sat behind the pilot, making sure he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. At this point, Yank doubted the pilot would do anything that would make him mad. He’d intentionally tried to terrify the poor kid, both because he needed the man to be afraid of something immediate and because Yank was pretty sick and tired of this whole idea of creating a white-only England. Each time they’d discovered a group had gone missing or someone was killed who had been involved with helping immigrants and refugees, it had served to fuel his anger. Add to that the ineffectiveness of the government and he wanted to punch something or someone. Not only had they emasculated Section 9—which should have been ten times the size of SEAL Team 666 because of all the supernatural shit going down in England—but it was clear that there was compliance at the highest levels, making him wonder how long they’d been planning this. That it took Jen’s death for anyone to notice was a terrible thing, but at least they had the chance to stop what had been inevitable before.

He tried to imagine how England would look without Queen Elizabeth and parliament and instead having King Arthur sitting on the throne. Would there be a round table? How would this sixth-century ruler be able to survive in the modern era? Or would it be kept a secret, King Arthur working from behind the scenes, ordering the complicit MPs to do his bidding? It was all too much.