Daemon (11 page)

Guerner checked his radio. “Blue Team Leader, this is Unit B, do you copy? Over.” There was nothing but static.

Limon looked at him. “This whole place is a storm of radio signals.”

Suddenly they heard a noise of movement upstairs. Like someone walking around. Footsteps echoing on hardwood. They looked at each other. Guerner grabbed his radio. “Blue Team Leader, we’ve got someone in here. Do you read?” Still static.

Just then a voice called out clearly from the end of the hallway upstairs. “Who’s there?” The voice echoed in the marble foyer.

Guerner unsnapped his holster cover and raised his visor. “This is the FBI! Show yourself with your hands on your head!”

No reply. But they heard walking again. The footsteps came down the marble stairs to their right, some distance away from them. They could clearly see the staircase, but no one was there. They could hear the sound of a hand sliding down the metal railing.

Instinctively they all drew their pistols.

Limon smacked Guerner in the arm. “Jesus, what are we, idiots? This is a trick.” He still didn’t lower his pistol.

Guerner focused on the staircase. “I know. But it’s a fucking impressive one.”

The footsteps were moving across the floor to them now.

Guerner motioned toward the front door. “Let’s back it up, guys.”

Then, in midair not five feet in front of them, a man’s voice shouted, “You don’t belong here!”

What happened next surprised even the veteran Guerner. The deepest sound he’d ever felt passed over and through him. Then it was quiet, until the mission table near him began to vibrate so violently it started moving across the floor. A crystal vase on top of it shattered.

Suddenly Guerner felt as though someone had grabbed his intestines straight through his Kevlar suit. He didn’t even have time to warn Limon and Chapman before he was doubled over on the marble floor, vomiting. His guts felt like writhing snakes trying to climb out of his body. The agony was intense. His whole being was gripped with a deep and primordial feeling of dread—like a palpable evil had climbed inside him.

Guerner was a man of science and reasoning, but his entire knowledge of the world fled, leaving him alone on the floor weeping in terror. He crawled away through his vomit, listening to insane shrieking. Then he realized the shrieks were coming from him.

Sebeck, Ross, and Mantz stood with the gathered officers in the courtyard. A moment ago they had heard Guerner shout a warning to someone in the house. Chief Eichhorn leaned over to the caretaker to confirm that no one else was in the mansion.

Sebeck’s cell phone twittered. He pulled it from his belt clip. “Sebeck.”

A voice he vaguely recognized said,
“Detective Sebeck, I just needed to know where you were.”
The connection dissolved in a flurry of static.

Mantz noticed Sebeck’s stunned expression. “Who was it, Pete?”

Sebeck stared at his phone, then looked to Ross. “I’m not certain, but I think that was Matthew Sobol….”

That’s when the shrieking began. They were the most bloodcurdling shrieks Sebeck had ever heard, like a man burning alive. Agents and officers pelted toward the front door. Before they got far, Decker shouted, “Don’t go inside! Stay clear!”

They slowed for a second, but then they saw Limon clawing his way out the open front door on his hands and knees. His Kevlar vest was covered in vomit, and his helmet was off. He was bleeding from the nose, eyes, and ears and groped along as if blind.

Sebeck and some of the others rushed to his aid. Limon was still sixty feet away from them. Eichhorn and Decker shouted for caution, and with all eyes looking forward, no one noticed the middle garage door silently rise behind them.

The first warning they received was the guttural sound of a powerful engine, then screeching tires. Sebeck and the other officers turned to face a full-sized black Hummer roaring out of the garage. It bore down on the nearest of them and crushed a deputy and an FBI agent into the side of an FBI sedan, hitting it so hard the car slid into the police cruiser behind it.

Sebeck stood in a paralysis of incomprehension. He could clearly see that no one was driving the Hummer. It sported six tall whip antennas—still wagging from the impact of the collision—and it had odd-looking sensors bolted to its hood, roof, and fenders.

The Hummer’s engine roared as it backed away from the wrecked car and the bodies tumbled onto the paving stones. The Hummer’s push-bar bumper was barely dented and was covered in blood.

It all happened so fast. Two men had just been killed. Adrenaline flooded into Sebeck’s system.

People ran in every direction, shouting. Sebeck looked back to the door of the mansion to see the other two bomb squad members running out of the house, screaming. One of them stumbled down the front steps and fell into the flower beds, where he went into convulsions.

Deputies and FBI agents drew pistols and fired at the Hummer as it screeched around the edge of the courtyard, building up speed again. Shots cracked in rapid succession, echoing against the side of the house. The familiar, pungent smell of smokeless powder brought Sebeck to his senses, and he pulled his Beretta from its holster. He rammed its slide back, gripped it with both hands, then opened fire. He aimed for the Hummer’s tires.

Sebeck could clearly see bullet impacts on the tires, but they had no effect. The tires were either run-flat or solid rubber. He brought his aim up to the windows—but remembered there was no one to shoot at.

Now the Hummer howled straight back toward them. Deputies and agents fired a few frantic last shots before scrambling from between the parked police vehicles. It crashed into the side of another patrol car, halving the car’s width and driving it back like a battering ram into two more cruisers. Those cars smashed into the patio wall, pinning a couple of officers there. The sheer force and loudness of the crash sent Sebeck running for the nearest high ground—a garden wall.

Screams of pain came to his ears from the pinned officers. He looked back and saw the Hummer seesawing backward as its gears whined. It swung wide and winged a fleeing officer with its fender. The man went rolling across the courtyard. Turning on him, the Hummer screeched forward before he could get up. The deputy went shrieking under its wheels. His body was dragged halfway across the courtyard before it fell loose.

Sebeck screamed in rage and emptied his pistol at the rear of the Hummer while it chased down two agents fleeing toward a garden pond.

An agent with a pump shotgun ran up to it as it passed by. He fired two rounds into it, blasting out its windows and sending pieces of plastic flying. He kept firing as it drove on.

Shouts filled the courtyard now. Nearby, Sebeck saw Decker screaming into his radio, “…do you copy?”

Back at the estate gates, Deputy Karla Gleason stood taking in the sun and watching for the expected arrival of the media. There hadn’t been any radio calls from the mansion—which was odd—but she stood next to her patrol car, attentive and wondering what the mansion would fetch on the real estate market.

Across the driveway, Deputy Gil Trevetti stood next to his cruiser, waving a curious passenger car on by. That’s when the crackling of gunfire reached Gleason’s ears. She and Trevetti exchanged looks, then ran for the fence line.

Everything looked normal. The mansion was partially masked by trees, so none of the police vehicles were visible from here. But now the gunfire crackled like firecrackers. It was an unbelievable amount of sustained shooting. Maybe it
was
fireworks.

Gleason pressed the button on her shoulder radio. “Unit 920 to any available Blue Team member: 10-73?”

No response.

“Repeat. Unit 920 to any available Blue Team member: 10-73?”

A distant truck engine raced, then a crash.

“What the hell’s going on, Gil?”

The unmistakable boom of a shotgun reached them over the grounds. Five shots in five seconds. Gleason shot skeet. She knew that sound well. She pressed the button on her shoulder radio. “920 to Control, multiple 10-57 at 1215 Potrero Road. Repeat, multiple, multiple 10-57. Code 30. Radio contact lost with Blue Team.”

The courtyard was chaos as the Hummer roared back in from the garden and smashed headlong into the ambulance, sending glass and metal debris flying. It surged ahead, pushing the ambulance sideways at the mouth of the driveway—blocking the exit.

The entire time, officers laid down sustained gunfire on it, pocking its body with bullet holes. The bullets didn’t appear to have much effect, even though some of the Hummer’s sensors now dangled loose on wires.

It slalomed across the courtyard, finally locking in on an agent firing at it from the garage. The man stopped shooting and ran for cover through the doorway.

The Hummer plowed through the entire wall after him and emerged on the far side, leaving shards of two-by-fours and shattered walls toppling in its wake.

Sebeck fired the last of his third clip into its rump as it roared back out into the garden. He added his own voice to the shouting and the cries of the injured. “Nathan!”

“Here, Pete!” Nathan came running across the courtyard with a shotgun and a box of shells in his hand. Several car trunks were wrenched open in the wreckage, and the officers raided them for heavier weapons.

Sebeck pointed to the bomb squad truck. “Stay with Mr. Ross, and make sure he gets out of here. He has information the FBI needs.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll help with the wounded. Move!”

Nathan gave him one last look, then raced off toward the bomb squad van. Sebeck dodged between damaged police vehicles and almost slipped on blood as he raced across the cobblestones. A severed arm lay next to a crumpled bumper. His mind had trouble wrapping itself around the sights and smells. Officers were trying to get a bleeding FBI agent out from under a smashed sedan before the Hummer returned. The wounded man screamed in agony and fear.

Nearby, Sebeck saw Aaron Larson attended to by an FBI agent and another deputy. Larson looked to be in tremendous pain. He was standing up, sandwiched between two damaged patrol cars.

Sebeck turned and called across the courtyard. “Get that truck over here! We need to pull these cars apart!” He holstered his pistol and ran to help. Shouted commands echoed from every corner of the courtyard.

“I can’t get anybody on the radio!”

“Cell phones don’t work either!”

“It’s coming back in!”

Decker climbed across the crumpled hood of his sedan. “Get the wounded into the vans! Fall back to the road!”

Sebeck was sprinting across the middle of the courtyard when the Hummer roared in behind him through an opening between the house and garage, sending debris flying.

“Pete, look out!” Gunfire erupted almost immediately. A bullet whined past Sebeck’s head. He ducked, then turned to see the Hummer bearing down on him. It was almost on him already. He felt the bass rumble of its engine in his chest, the black grill racing straight toward him.

Then it shuddered violently to a stop on the cobblestones just a foot away. Sebeck stood motionless—heart pounding—before the massive steel grill. His eyes focused on the Hummer’s front vanity plate:
AUTOM8D.
It was smeared with blood. The plate suddenly began to recede as the Hummer shifted into reverse and backed away from him. The Hummer then roared forward again, passing Sebeck wide on the left and accelerating toward the FBI agent and deputy helping Aaron Larson. They scattered as Larson screamed.

The crash scattered the cars across the courtyard, sending Larson’s body hurtling like a rag doll.

Sebeck stood motionless, in a state of shock in the middle of the courtyard. Amid all the screams and shouts, gunshots, and the roaring engine of the Hummer. He was still alive, and he didn’t know why.

Then the familiar sound of racing V8 engines came to Sebeck’s ears. Two Ventura County police cruisers hurtled down the driveway from the front gate, rack lights flashing. They screeched to a stop next to the ambulance blocking the driveway. A male deputy jumped out of one and raced to retrieve Larson’s body, while a female deputy leaned out the passenger side of the other car and opened fire on the Hummer with a shotgun.

Sebeck was dimly aware of someone pulling on his arms. “Pete!” He turned to see Deputy Gil Trevetti. “Larson’s dead! We need to pull back!” Trevetti tugged Sebeck toward a nearby patrol car. A rumble came to his ears and Sebeck turned to see the FBI’s bomb squad truck with deputies and agents hanging off its armored bomb disposal trailer accelerating across the littered courtyard. Mantz leaned out off the trailer and jabbed a finger at Sebeck, then toward the exit. The bomb truck crashed through a nearby rose garden and headed out across the estate lawn.

Sebeck snapped back to reality and turned to Trevetti. “Okay. Got it.” They jumped into the patrol car while the black Hummer raced to intercept the bomb squad truck in the distance.

From the front seat of the bomb squad truck, Ross saw the Hummer racing toward them like a torpedo—leaving twin ruts in the soft grass.

“It’s going to ram us!” the agent driving shouted. “I can’t maneuver on this grass.”

Ross faced him. “Turn toward it. Head-on!”

The driver gave him a look.

“It will avoid a head-on collision with a larger object.”

“How the hell do
you
know?”

“Because Sobol’s probably using his game physics engine.” On the driver’s blank look, he shouted, “Ram the Hummer, goddamnit!”

The driver looked into Ross’s intense eyes. There was no doubting his confidence. The driver spun the wheel to aim head-on at the advancing Hummer.

Agents and deputies hanging on to the bomb squad truck shouted at the driver. The Hummer accelerated straight toward their front grill—then it swerved aside at the last second, winging their front right fender with its rear quarter panel.

A cheer went up in the truck. The driver accelerated straight toward the estate fence line. He glanced toward Ross. “How the hell did you know that?”