March Into Hell (10 page)

She tilted her head, her expression softening. "You've been really stressed with all of this attention lately, and you haven't even had a chance to recover from your concussion. Will the world end if you don't develop your film tonight and just got a good night's rest for once?"

"I'm fine, Lily."

"So you say, but it couldn't hurt to take it easy tonight. Aren't you a classic film geek? I saw a commercial for some old black and white movie on tonight. I think  Jimmy Stewart was in it."

It sounded tempting. Really tempting and, as though to seal the deal, he was overtaken by a monster yawn.

Lily smiled and raised her eyebrows.

"Fine. You don't have to convince me anymore. I'll see you tomorrow." Mark gathered his trash and deposited it in the garbage can. Now that he was on his way to his loft, the fatigue that he'd kept at bay by sheer willpower swept through him. Maybe he'd just go straight to bed. He glanced at his watch. It was only seven o'clock, but he was beat. Before he could put the plan into motion, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number and groaned, wanting to ignore it, but knew he couldn't. He'd agreed to this arrangement.

"Hello, Jim."

"Why aren't you carrying the phone I issued you? I tried calling you earlier."

Mark entered the loft and kicked his shoes off. "Now you're starting to sound like my mother. Yeah. I guess I forgot to grab it this morning. I had a lot on my mind." He refused to apologize -- not when he'd never wanted the damn secure phone to begin with.

"Yes, I saw that. All the more reason to keep the other phone handy. You're supposed to avoid attracting attention. I would hardly call this article as keeping a low profile."

"I had nothing to do with the article. I spoke briefly to the reporter, but I told her nothing that she didn't already know." He eased down on the couch and let out a sigh as he relaxed. His back was still sore from yesterday's adventure.

"Why didn't you tell her to forget the story?"

"Listen, Jim, the last time I checked, the press had the right to free speech, or is that is that not true anymore?"

Jim was silent for so long, Mark pulled the cell from his ear and checked to make sure they were still connected. He knew it still rankled Jim that judicial process hadn't been followed with the enemy combatant thing, but Mark didn't care. It was nothing compared to the anger he'd been forced to bury away.

"Nobody is talking about taking away any rights. It's not even about free speech, it's about maintaining national security. Do you have any idea  how valuable your 'gift' could be? But that's beside the point. If you didn't cooperate, where did she get the photo of you? It's an old one, so someone had to give it to her."

Mark stifled a yawn and scrubbed his fingers against his scalp. "I have no idea. It's kind of funny, actually. The picture is one of the first taken with the camera."

"You mean the special camera? I thought only you used it."

 "Not long after I came back from Afghanistan, I had the camera sitting on a counter in the studio while I was doing a commercial shoot with a few kids for an ad. One of the kids picked up the camera and caught me off guard. I meant to send that picture to my mom because she complained that I'm a photographer, but she never had pictures of me." He shrugged even though Jim couldn't see him. "I never got around to giving it to her though." He put his feet up on the coffee table, crossing them as he searched for the TV remote in the cushion of the couch.

"So how did the reporter get it?

Damn, Jim was like a dog with a bone. "How the hell should I know? I haven't seen the picture since I got out. I figure it disappeared with just about every other thing I owned." He couldn't resist that last dig.

"Mark, I'm sorry if this is coming off like I think this is your fault. I know it's not. It just makes me really nervous to have one of my guys in the spotlight."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mark felt their presence before he heard them. He bolted awake. Hands--it seemed like dozens of them--yanked him to the floor. The covers tangled around his legs and a vise-like grip in his hair immobilized his head. He lashed out with his feet and arms, feeling impacts and hearing grunts, but there were too many hands.

Panting, he swore, the torrent of words erupting as a harsh growl. The blows landed on every part of his body, but he ignored the pain as terror fueled his efforts. A hand brushed his face and he lunged at it, biting hard. The metallic tang of blood washed over his tongue, but he only released when forced by a hard kick to his ribs. Frozen in agony, he couldn't resist as they dragged him away from the bed and hauled him to his feet.

His eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he flinched when three shadowy forms swarmed on his right and grabbed at his arms. The shadows, loose hoods hiding their faces, surrounded him. More of the hooded figures converged on his left and slammed him against the support beam in the center of his loft. They held him tight.

"It's no use, Taylor. Stop fighting, and it'll go easier for you." A face loomed above his own and Mark recognized it. Pale light from the streetlights reflected off the snake eyes.

"No! Let me go!" Mark arched his back, every muscle straining to escape, but the intruders didn't relent.

"Uuuhhhh!" He sagged, his breathing ragged and harsh. It filled his ears. "Wh...what do you...want?"

Kern laughed. "We want to see if it's true, Mark."

A bright light shone in Mark's eyes and he squinted against the intensity. "See if...if what's true?"

"If it's true that you're the second coming."

A soft chortle followed the comment, but the flashlight prevented Mark from seeing anything except vague shadows. He picked out the tallest one and tried to focus on him. "What? That's...that's crazy!"

"Oh, but is it? See, I've been doing some research on you, Mr. Taylor." He paused to smile, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. "It seems like you have saved a lot of people. Hundreds, if the tally is right. You have a 'gift' for saving people." Crossing his arms, the leader leaned back slightly. "And isn't that what Jesus did? He saved people? He's the Savior, right?"

Mark shook his head back and forth. "No! It's not like that! Th...that's insane! You're
all
insane!"

Grinning, the man stepped close to Mark. "We shall see. I have a little...test for you. Just to see what happens."

"I'm not doing any damn test!" In blind panic, he fought to escape. His muscles screaming in protest as he raged against the arms that held him. His tee shirt ripped, and he could feel fingers and sharp nails biting into his skin. In his frenzy, he managed to free one arm and used it to claw at the nearest person, grabbing onto the hood. The dark cloth fell back and even the darkness couldn't hide the bright blond hair or the delicate features.

Stunned, Mark's arm dropped and someone immediately grabbed it and restrained him once more. "Judy? I... don't understand."

"I'm sorry, Mark, but it's beyond my control. This is where I belong." And then she smiled. "It'll be okay."

"Let's get on with it people," Kern snapped.

Mark's hands were wrenched behind his back and bound. Another rope circled his neck like a noose. He tried to resist again, but a sharp tug on the rope tightened it enough that, instinctively, he stilled.

His captors urged him forward with a pull and he had no choice but to comply. He stumbled down the steps and out the back door of the studio. A light snow drifted down, and he gasped at the pain of the snow on his bare feet. The rear doors of a large van opened and the holder of the rope stepped in, yanking Mark in behind him. The rest of the group piled in the side door. Mark knelt on the floor while one of the members held his leash.

Chills wracked his body, and he fought to control his trembling. He remembered the horrifying details from Judy's ordeal. There had been that pole, and he recalled the ropes attached to it. Feeling sick to his stomach, he swallowed hard.

Far too soon, the van pulled into a deserted alley behind an old building. Mark had no idea where they were and he tried to look for landmarks when he staggered out of the van, but a jerk on the rope tugged his head forward.

"Ahhhhgh!" He struggled to breathe and sank to his knees as his vision dimmed. A roar filled his ears.

"Loosen the rope! We can't have him dying out here. That would ruin everything."

A rush of air poured into his lungs and Mark sucked it in as fast as he could. Hands clamped onto his shoulders and pulled him to his feet, the lead rope left mercifully slack this time. A door opened and the group quickly entered, maintaining their almost complete silence. With the exception of Judy and Kern, no one had uttered a single word during the whole ordeal.

A long hallway opened into an empty warehouse. A bonfire blazed in the middle of the room. A half dozen black clad members of the cult greeted the new arrivals with bows of their heads. Someone threw a piece of wood onto the fire, sending a cascade of sparks shooting into the air. Broken windows high on the walls ventilated the room and the fire flared as a cold breeze swept the space.

A  make-shift wooden cross loomed over the room. A small ledge jutted out from the bottom of the pole. Mark stopped in his tracks and even the tugging on the rope couldn't get him to budge. His trembling intensified, and he uttered a hoarse, "No."

Kern approached him. "Oh yes, Mark. How else can I test my theory?" He looked to the cross and back at Mark with a mocking smile. "Be grateful we didn't make you haul it in here."

Hands tightened on his biceps and jarred him into action. Spinning suddenly, the grip on his arms slipped and he lowered his shoulder, plowing his way through the group. Two people fell and Mark made a break for the hall. He hadn't gone three steps when the rope tightened, snapping his head back. His legs flew out from under him and he crashed hard on the cement floor, his skull cracking with a dull thud on the pavement. Sparks shot through his sight. The impact knocked the wind out of him and pain rocketed through his back and shoulders. The rope bit into his neck and when he tried to breathe, his diaphragm spasmed.

There was nothing left to do but pray.

The cult members dragged Mark, face up towards the cross. He closed his eyes; barely registering the movement. Flashes and snippets of his childhood and adolescence played in his mind like a movie on fast-forward. His thoughts filled with images of his parents. It bothered him that he couldn't remember exactly what he had said in his last conversation with them. Had he told them he loved them? Maybe he'd told his mom, but probably not his dad. His dad didn't go much for expressing his feelings. What his dad lacked in verbal expression, he made up for with handshakes and claps on the shoulders. Mark's mom had no qualms about telling Mark she loved him and no visit ended without lots of hugs and kisses.

Vaguely, he heard clatters and clanks, but ignored the intrusion into his thoughts. He concentrated on the kaleidoscope of images swirling in his brain; his first bicycle, first home run in Little League, and later, the first time he ever made love. All his friends and loved ones made their appearance in his parade of memories.

Several people rolled Mark onto his side, rudely yanking him from his reverie and thrusting him into the present. They tore off the remains of his shirt and cut the rope around his wrists. Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, they pulled him onto the long vertical part of the cross, which now lay on the floor. Gasping, his eyes darted around him and his heart beat at breakneck speed. This can't be happening! His terror ratcheted up another notch when a drum started pounding and the cult began chanting.

Stretching Mark's arms wide, they held him down. He tried one more time to get free, kicking with his legs, but within seconds, he felt his arms and legs lashed to the wood.  Another rope circled his chest, holding him fast. The drum tempo increased and the chanting matched it beat for ominous beat. Then, silence.

Kern bent over him, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Are you ready?" He placed a hand on Mark's chest. "Hmm... your heart seems to be beating pretty fast. Are you nervous? If you'd like, I could convert this to a different kind of ritual."

Mark couldn't answer, his whole body felt paralyzed. Why the hell didn't they hurry and just get this over with? His throat spasmed several times before he managed to respond, "Why can't you just shoot me?"

Kern threw his head back and laughed. "But that wouldn't serve our purpose, now would it?" He drew a sharp knife out of a leather case attached to a belt around his waist. "What I could do, though, is make this into more of an Aztec sacrifice than a Christian test of faith. Hmmm...I've always been intrigued with a culture that was so advanced and yet, worshiped in such a blood-thirsty way. Utterly fascinating."

The gleam in his eyes was replaced with a cold, flat effect, and he touched the tip of the knife against Mark's upper abdomen. "Are you familiar with their rituals?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "They would cut the heart right out of a person, and while it was still beating, show it to the poor victim."

Mark could only gape at him in mute horror.

"It could be all over in a matter of seconds if I just plunge this in right...here!" Kern shoved the knife in and Mark cried out, his whole body writhing as he tried to get away from the pain.

"You're lucky. I held back or you'd be dead."

Slowly, he withdrew the weapon and Mark groaned. He went on as though carrying on a casual conversation. "No, I don't think we'll go the Aztec route. I'm too curious about you, Mark. I've always despised the Church and its silly belief that the son of God walked amongst ordinary men, performing miracles and healing the sick." Kern paused for a long moment, his eyes took on a faraway expression before snapping to Mark's. "Do you heal the sick?"

Mark moaned, his head lolling in pain and shock, Kern's question barely registering. For a minute, the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing. He almost wished the knife had gone deeper--just to end the whole thing. His eyes opened wide and he gave a hoarse cry when Kern poked his finger into his wound and then held it up, the blood dripping down.