God Maker: Eric Swan Thriller #3 (Eric Swan Thrillers)

  God Maker

  Eric Swan Thriller #3

  Dom Testa

  Profound Impact Group

  Wait . . . is this your first time?

  Did you just discover this secret agent named Eric Swan?

  Sure, you could start here - but there are two previous books in the series that you might want to check out first.

  It all begins with Power Trip, followed by Swan’s next adventure, Poison Control. Everything will be much more clear if you start at the beginning.

  Regardless, welcome to the Swaniverse. Have fun!

  Dom Testa

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter One

  One in ten people suffers from claustrophobia. For some it’s tough getting into an elevator, others are bothered by small cars, and I once knew a woman who triggered a claustrophobic fit just by putting on a sweater that was too tight.

  It had never bothered me before, but now that I’d been locked inside a small closet for hours, an uncomfortable sensation produced a quasi-claustrophobic reaction.

  I had to pee.

  Compounding the problem was a little matter of my hands being tied to a strong metal hook at shoulder height. That prevented me from unzipping my pants, which eliminated the option of just urinating in a dark corner and letting the building manager worry about it later.

  I was already irked at having to wait in the closet for the gang of would-be terrorists to summon their fearless leader. But if I pissed my pants, so help me, I might shoot every one of them in the head out of infantile embarrassment. I imagined the upcoming confrontation and me duking it out with a giant wet spot spread over my crotch.

  In movies spies may be portrayed as superhuman, but sometimes, no matter how tough you are, you’ve just gotta go. I’ve trained for years, learned every form of battle with hands, feet, and weapons, and never had a single class covering this particular problem.

  I decided to distract myself. I recalled an assignment that had wrapped up in the Mojave Desert in Southern California. There I’d suffered serious dehydration and sunburn, nearly costing me one of the best bodies I’d ever used.

  But that memory only led to the follow-up image of finally flagging down a car on Route 66 not far from the town of Amboy, then guzzling the greatest chilled bottle of water in history before a shocked and speechless family of four.

  Now the memory of that life-saving drink caused my bladder to swell another inch. I bit down hard on the bandana serving as my gag.

  I decided that soggy pants or no, the time had come. But just as I reached that decision I heard footsteps and voices. This delivered a shot of adrenaline that temporarily drove the piss pain from my brain.

  At least two men exchanged muffled words right outside my closet door. They were likely deciding who would get the honor of putting a bullet into me. Boy, were they in for a big surprise. If there were three of them it might be challenging to pull off an impressive win, but certainly not impossible.

  If there were only two, it wasn’t even fair.

  When they’d cornered me several hours earlier, while I’d prepared to break into a storage room in the building’s basement, there’d been four of them, each armed and itching to shoot. I’d played dumb and acted scared, knowing that could pay off later. That led to a discussion about what to do with my sorry ass, which led to my imprisonment, which now led to my abdominal discomfort.

  As the lock turned in the door handle, I went into my frightened act again. By the time the door swung open, I was sniffling like a lost 4-year-old.

  A hand reached up and removed the gag from my mouth, then dropped it to the floor. In a pretty nice stammer, if I do say so myself, I said, “Wh-wh-who are you guys? Wh-wh-what are you—”

  “Shut it,” said the biggest of the three. Yes, three; two from the first group that had collared me, and a new guy, who I took to be either the one in charge or at least one rank up from these two pawns.

  “But I wasn’t doing anything,” I said in a whine. “I’m supposed to do random checks of our buildings. You-you-you can ask my boss.”

  The leader stepped up to me, squinting, as if I was some strange bug.

  “You do all of your random checks with a Glock?” he asked. His voice, slightly European, perhaps a touch of French, carried a scratchy sound, like Rod Stewart when he sang.

  “I hate that thing,” I said, raising the pitch of my voice. “They make me carry it.”

  He continued to squint at me, but didn’t respond to this. Then he turned and nodded to the second underling, who stepped forward with a knife and sliced through the rope connecting my hands to the metal hook. With my arms now relaxed at my sides, it relieved some pressure from my bladder, thankfully.

  But that gave me an idea and I chose to go with it, as disgusting as it was.

  Carrying on with my sniveling act, I let the pent-up pee run free.

  All three of them saw it at the same time and took an involuntary step backward. Which was funny to me, because it’s not like it was going to splatter on them. My pants just suddenly bloomed with a coarse, dark stain in the groin, and then some excess dripped out of my pants legs into a small puddle on the floor.

  I struggled to keep from laughing. Not just at the fact that I’d intentionally pissed my pants, but that it had accomplished exactly what I’d wanted: taken these idiots off high alert. I’d sold at least the two soldiers on the fact I was a, well, a pissant, and nobody to be feared.

  But my hands were now free, there was no one else in the room, and only two of the three had a weapon visible. One held his handgun, the other his knife, in a nonchalant fashion, as if merely brandishing these was enough to keep me in line.

  The leader had made a decision, and I had a pretty good idea what it was. He jerked his head toward the door. The plan, I surmised, was to dispose of me outside, quickly and quietly. One soldier shoved his gun into the back of his waistband and grabbed my upper arm. The other goon, still holding the knife he’d used to free my hands, gave me a shove forward, which was juvenile, but probably meant to show his boss he was tough, too.

  I let out a long, drawn out cry, and performed the best reluctant, terrified walk I could.

  Right up until five feet from the door.

  Let me slow down the action sequence, like a Matrix scene. With a slight twist to the side I landed a boot into the throat of the knife-wielder behind me. Continuing the spin I brought my right hand down hard along the neck of the one grasping my arm. He gave a grunt, and, as he crumpled, I grabbed the gun from his waistband and used the butt on the back of his head.

  The knife was on the ground, the larger goon behind me on his knees, and I put him to sleep with another vicious kick, this time to the jaw. As he fell sideways I raised the gun into the face of the leader, who was in t
he process of drawing something from a jacket pocket. He froze, staring at the barrel of the gun.

  Everything, from first twist to gun-in-nose, took three seconds.

  With his underlings unconscious, he stared at me, but it was no longer a squint. I had his full, undivided attention.

  “Knees,” I said. “Now. Fingers laced on top of your head.”

  He hesitated just a moment, then followed directions.

  “So far, so good,” I said. “Now, sit back on your butt. Keep your fingers laced.”

  Another hesitation, but he eventually dropped into position.

  I scooped up the knife and stuck it in my belt, then walked behind my new captive and reached around into his jacket pockets. This turned up the suspected gun, a wallet, and a Mercedes car fob. I flipped open the wallet to his ID, and read Tony Johnson. It was so obviously a forgery — cleverly made, but bullshit — and I tossed it aside. I pocketed his gun and the fob.

  Now I knelt on his right side and stuck the barrel of the first gun into his ear.

  “We have places to go,” I said, “so let me lay out the plan. First, we’re going to retrieve my Glock, because I lied. I really don’t hate it. In fact, it’s so much better than the pieces of shit you guys are carrying.

  “Next, we’re going to go back to that storage room where I met these sleeping friends, and this time we’re going to open the door together. Are we clear so far?”

  He chose now to play it cool and not say anything. Instead I saw a small smile creep across his face.

  I gave a low chuckle, then, with a quick motion, raised the gun up over his head and brought it down hard on the laced fingers. I’m pretty sure at least one broke, maybe two. It couldn’t have felt good on his head, either. He let out a shriek.

  “Look, Tony, or Antoine, or whoever the hell you are. You may have a fractured finger or two, but I just pissed my pants on this job, so I’m not in the greatest mood either, you understand? Let me ask again: Are we clear on the itinerary? Or do I need to take out some of your teeth, too?”

  He clinched his eyes in pain, then blinked a few times and managed to say, “Yes. Clear.”

  “Now we’re making progress,” I said, standing and stepping back. “Up you go. Good boy. Now, walk over there and pick up the bandana.” When he had it in hand I told him to wad it up and stuff it into his own mouth. With broken fingers it took him a moment. The whole time his eyes watered.

  I shoved the gun under his chin, pushing his head up an inch. “And now your final instructions, Tony. Your little buddies here got lucky. One’s gonna sound like Steven Tyler when he talks, and they might both have a concussion, but they’re breathing. You will not get that same deal. I kill people for a living, tough guy, and fairly often, so it will mean nothing to me to leave your brains dripping down a wall. You don’t want to test me on this. Again, are we clear?”

  He nodded, with the blue bandana bulging his cheeks.

  Now I jammed the gun into his kidneys and pushed him ahead of me to the door. A quick glance into the corridor turned up nothing.

  “Which way?” I said into Tony’s ear.

  Without answering, he led us down the hall to the left. Around a corner we approached an open office door. It was quiet.

  Nudging him forward, we entered the empty office. My Glock and cell phone rested on a desktop, along with my small backpack. I forced my new pal into a chair and did a quick appraisal. The gun was in good condition, with a full magazine, so I flipped the safety on the confiscated gun and stuffed it into my waistband. If things heated up again I had a Rambo-ish arsenal of weapons at my disposal.

  The backpack contained three spare magazines; I hoped that would be enough.

  The phone showed two percent power, and my extra charge pen was nowhere to be found. Pocketed by one of these shitheads, no doubt. I’d have to use the phone while I could.

  I called Poole at Q2 headquarters in Washington.

  “Have you found it?” she asked.

  “Not yet. But I found the caretakers, so I’m sure it’s here. Phone’s about to die. Send the cavalry to this address. Do you have it?”

  She paused a moment, dialing up my GPS coordinates. Then she said, “I—”

  The phone died.

  “Shit,” I muttered. Had she found me or not?

  Regardless, I had to move. Sundown meant reinforcements on the wrong side.

  Our limited intel had told us there’d be no more than five or six assholes in the building before nightfall. Two were napping where I’d left them on the floor, Tony made three, the others could be anywhere; I hoped they wouldn’t be in the storage room.

  At dusk the entire stash of weapons in that locked room was slated for shipment, and we estimated another six helpers would join the party. I wanted to wrap up Q2’s business by the time these extra hands arrived, and to have a nice welcoming committee in place. Finding a working phone would help my cause if Poole had been unable to lock in.

  We made our way down another hallway, down one flight of stairs, and soon found ourselves outside the same door where I’d been cornered earlier.

  “How many are in there?” I asked Tony, keeping my voice low.

  With the gag in his mouth he simply shook his head, trying to indicate the room was empty. Which meant it wasn’t.

  “Well, that’s good news for you,” I said. “Because you’re going to be my shield.”

  I noted the quick widening of his eyes but didn’t wait around. Although the shots would alert the room’s occupants, the lock on the handle and the door’s deadbolt required some surgical work. Holding my captive to the side, I raised the Glock and fired multiple shots into both locks. They splintered away and the door shook.

  With the speed acquired from incessant training, I grabbed Tony’s collar and, taking a deep breath, launched a solid kick to the door. As it exploded inward, I pushed Tony inside and followed behind him, as low as I could get, firing rounds across the room.

  His muffled shouts to his companions were almost comical. I felt him straining to force the words through the bandana.

  It was fruitless. The first three incoming shots cut into him, one of which clipped my left arm as it passed through his body. Several other rounds slammed into the wall behind us.

  Tony was useless to me now, literally dead weight — or soon to be. I pushed off as he collapsed, found a stack of crates and dove behind them. Another dozen shots landed all around me. A real shit show was underway in the storage room, and I was the featured act on center stage. And a bleeding act, to boot. The pain in my arm was just enough to really piss me off. I gave the wound a cursory inspection, jammed a fresh magazine into the Glock, then looked around the storage room.

  It was larger than I’d expected, about the size of a Walgreens. Crates were everywhere, scattered haphazardly. Fortunately, many of them were clustered near me. If I had to move, at least I had cover.

  With the amount of firepower raining down, it had to be three people. I ventured a quick glance over the top, just fast enough to see one of the shooters leaning against a different crate. The idiot wasn’t even taking cover; just so confident he’d nail me that he’d assumed the stance you see cops take in the movies, not bothering to conceal himself.

  Poor fool. I ducked back down as another volley began, whipped around to my left, leaned out from the side of the long crate and put two quick kill shots into Dirty Harry.

  One down. But the rapid demise of their brother-in-arms was enough to temporarily silence the other two. Experience taught me that they’d take a minute to assess this change of fortune. I always used those minutes to tilt every bit of fortune my way.

  I scrambled across an open patch and dropped behind another large stack. There was no incoming fire during this sprint, and I wondered if they were so busy with their own maneuvers that they hadn’t seen me. I was just about to test that theory with another dash when I glanced at the crate behind me.

  It was open, so I peered inside. Unlike most
of the crates in this arsenal, it didn’t contain handguns and assault rifles. It had other military gear: compasses, canteens, food rations, binoculars, spotting scopes.

  And night-vision goggles.

  I chuckled as I pulled out a set. They were designed to clip to a helmet, which I didn’t have. But I could hold them up. Now I just needed to tilt that fortune a bit more.

  There was a scrape of boot against concrete from across the room, so at least one of the gunmen was on the move, hoping to triangulate with his buddy and mow me down. I took a moment to assess the lighting in my current hunting ground.

  Three large overhead fluorescents, an exit sign above the door, and an oddly-placed wall light directly opposite. I’d start with that.

  Leaning to my right, I fired toward the space where I’d heard the commotion. That would get their heads down for a moment. Then I straightened, took out the wall light with two quick shots, pivoted, shattered the exit sign, and ducked back down as my targets opened up again.

  I let them expend two dozen rounds, then rolled across to my left and blew up two of the fluorescents in the ceiling. The room immediately took on a dusk-type feel, with only the one remaining light plus the faint glow bleeding in from the battered door to the hall.

  This would have my assailants on their heels and confused as hell. I had to risk that they hadn’t stumbled across the same gear I now had. There were more sounds of scrambling, which was helpful.

  I replaced the magazine, leaving a single spare. With the new-found goggles, I wouldn’t need it.