Cabal Read online

  Copyright © 2019 David Delaney

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanically, including photocopying and recording, taping or by any information retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of a brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art Design by: Deranged Doctor Design

  derangeddoctordesign.com

  The Paragon Society

  Orson: A Paragon Society Novel

  Gypsy Witch: A Paragon Society Novel

  Lucy: A Paragon Society Novel

  Cabal: A Paragon Society Novel

  Blood-Mage: A Paragon Society Novel (Announced)

  Singularity Barbecue: A Paragon Society Novella

  Join the Paragon Society Newsletter for updates on new releases and more. See details at the back of the book.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Author’s Note

  Paragon Society News

  Singularity BBQ

  A quick note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Prologue

  The elevator shaft was stuffy and smelled funny, like someone had been using it as their personal garbage can for old fast-food wrappers and sweaty socks. Tango-7—that was his ridiculous call sign for this op—was already cranky and the stale air wasn't helping to improve his mood. He couldn't believe that he had been stuck with this crap location. Did anyone really expect the targets to retreat to an unused elevator shaft at the back of the building? Hell, he had more field experience than most of the team combined, but still they had dropped him in the back and out of the way. It really pissed him off.

  It was his initial intel that had led to this raid in the first place, and without him nobody would even know that the Cartel was using the building as a research and development site.

  Cartel.

  That wasn't even an accurate designation for the group they were pursuing, but nobody, including himself, could come up with a better term for criminals who traded in biogenetic modifications. A new strain of anthrax, a serum that promised increased cognitive abilities, ocular implants that supposedly gave the recipient Superman-like vision, you name it and this group was into it. And these a-holes had a habit of testing their newest creations on unwilling volunteers, like small villages in third-world countries and public schools. They needed to be stopped, but every time Division got a promising lead the Cartel would disappear into thin air.

  What sounded like an explosion rocked the building, sending a Category 4 dust storm billowing around the elevator shaft. What the hell was that? It didn't sound like any type of ordinance Tango-7 had ever encountered. A second, smaller, but just as weird-sounding explosion knocked loose the remaining layer of sooty grime and was quickly followed by multiple gunshots.

  "That's it, I'm out of here."

  Tango-7 pulled himself from the shaft and double-checked his assault rifle. It was good to go. He closed his eyes, listening to the gunfire, pinpointing where in the building he needed to go.

  "There," he said to himself, pointing up and to the left.

  He ran up a flight of stairs two at a time, grateful for the grueling hours he spent pushing himself to train harder and longer than anyone else on the team—even the young guys couldn't keep up with him.

  The gunfire cut out, and an ominous silence descended on the building. Per Division's rules of engagement, complete radio silence had been maintained, even during the firefight. A piercing, inhuman scream brought Tango-7 to a standstill.

  "Holy hell," he whispered, nervously fingering the radio strapped to his shoulder. Was there a wild animal loose in the building? He was tempted to break protocol and demand to know what was going on, but years of training and countless mission deployments stopped him from pressing the button.

  Tango-7 continued his ascent, only slowing when he heard voices. He recognized the team leader's Texas drawl and climbed the final flight of stairs, pushing through a door that led to the third floor lobby. The team leader and two other members were standing out in the open with their weapons shouldered. He followed suit, thumbing the safety and slinging his rifle behind him.

  The team leader spotted him and barked, "What are you doing here?"

  "I work here, remember?" Tango-7 snapped back. "Explosions were shaking the building to pieces and I heard gunfire. I thought maybe you guys could use a hand."

  "Nothing left but the mop-up," responded the team leader.

  "So, was the intel right? Is this an R&D lab?"

  "It was some kind of lab, but there's no product."

  "What about the people working here, what are they saying?"

  "Unfortunately we don't have any survivors."

  "What? You're telling me you wasted everybody?" Tango-7 couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  "Yep, that tends to happen when people shoot at us . . . and we shoot back."

  "The lab techs were armed?"

  The team leader shrugged dismissively and turned back to the other two members of the team. Tango-7 wanted to walk over and pound the team leader’s stupid face, but that wouldn't be helpful in the current situation. Instead he strode off in the direction of the lab.

  "Hey," the team leader shouted. "You aren't authorized to go in there."

  Tango-7 flipped him the bird and kept walking.

  “Stop right there, mister."

  Tango-7 ignored the directive and pushed through a set of double doors into the main floor. The entire space had been retrofitted from a cubicle farm into a high-tech lab. The only thing Tango-7 recognized was a row of gene-sequencers, the purpose of the other machines scattered around the room he could only guess at. The dead had been laid side-by-side against a wall. There were five in total, only two of them guards, the other three wearing long white coats, marking them as lab technicians.

  Tango-7 scrutinized the bodies. One of the guards had several expertly grouped bullet holes in the upper chest. The other four had no visible signs of trauma.

  A hand slammed down on Tango-7's shoulder and squeezed. "I said you aren't authorized to be in here."

  Tango-7 didn't hesitate. He spun away from the hand on his shoulder, landing an unchecked elbow-strike against the face of the team leader. A satisfying crunch brought a smile to his lips. The team leader's eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped like a bag of hammers. Tango-7 used his momentum to swing his rifle down into the ready position, outdrawing the two other team members. He didn't fire, these were the good guys and they were on his side, but he made damn sure they understood he was serious. The three of them faced off, no one blinking.

  "Morgan," a stern voice called out.

  Damn, what was she doing here?

  "All of you, shoulder yo
ur weapons, immediately."

  Tango-7, a battle-worn Morgan Crawford, complied with the order. He turned to face his boss, Mrs. White, which was the only name she'd ever given. Morgan knew without a doubt it was a codename. In the Division, names were temporary, changing sometimes on a daily basis.

  Mrs. White was plain—a middle-aged woman who wouldn't stand out in a crowd of other middle-aged women. She wasn't too tall, she wasn't too short, she didn't wear a lot of make-up, and she wore her hair in a conservative bun. Her only distinctive feature was her eyes, an off-color blue, cool, and perceptive.

  "Ma'am," the taller of the two still-conscious team members began. "He started—“

  "I don't want to hear it," said Mrs. White. "Pick him up," she inclined her head to the team leader, "and get him to the medical van." She focused her gaze on Morgan. "You, stay here."

  After the team members had carried the team leader out of the room, Mrs. White rounded on Morgan. "Just what do you think you are doing?"

  "What I'd like to be doing is questioning bad guys, but everyone is dead. So instead, I'm checking the crime scene for clues . . . you know, trying to find evidence that may lead us to more of these dirtbags."

  "It's unfortunate that all the personnel were killed, but we have people, experts, that will go through all of this mess. Your involvement is done."

  "My involvement?" Morgan said, disgusted. "My involvement amounted to waiting in an unused elevator shaft that wouldn’t even be useful as a storage closet."

  "Morgan," Mrs. White began in a placating tone.

  "No," he said. "There is nothing you can say that will make it okay. This was my op, I discovered the intel that led us here, and I got shuffled off to the side—again. I have to ask myself, why? And the only reason that I can come up with, the only thing that makes any sense, is that I wasn't supposed to see something." Morgan crossed his arms and glared at his boss. "Tell me I'm wrong."

  Mrs. White sighed. "It's not that simple."

  "Really, boss?" Morgan pointed at the dead lab techs. "They have no wounds on their bodies. Do you want to explain to me how they got dead?"

  They were interrupted by the chief crime scene analyst sticking his head in through the doors. He was clearly wary of intruding on the argument.

  "It's alright," said Mrs. White, waving him in. "Your team can begin."

  The crime scene team marched in and got to work cataloguing the contents of the room.

  Morgan continued quietly, "Boss, I’m a team player, I go where I'm told, I follow orders. But lately . . . I can't help but feel like I'm being kept in the dark." Morgan directed his gaze to the ceiling that was streaked with long, black scorch marks. "Do you want to explain those? What kind of incendiary device leaves scorch marks up there, but a completely undisturbed lab below? I've been in the war business for a very long time and I can tell you I've never run across anything like that."

  "I'm sure CSU will be able to provide an explanation once they've studied the scene," said Mrs. White.

  "The way they did last month with all those bodies that had been ripped apart by what was clearly a huge animal? Because I believe their expert explanation was that someone had used a chainsaw."

  "Which was a perfectly reasonable interpretation of the facts."

  "Yeah," Morgan agreed. "Except for the fact that my team had been at the location the entire time and nobody heard a chainsaw, and last I checked they are kind of noisy. Not to mention the dead guys were clumped together, weapons facing outward. Now, don't you think if a psycho with a chainsaw was coming at them, they would have scattered in every direction?"

  "Morgan, all I can rely on is the official report," said Mrs. White. "And the official report is very conclusive. Maybe you should take some time. Go plant yourself on a beach somewhere, have several of those fancy drinks with the umbrellas."

  "A vacation?" said Morgan. "You want me to leave, just when the case against the Cartel is breaking wide open? If I didn't know any better, boss, I'd think you were trying to get rid of me and my annoying questions."

  "Nonsense. You just seem a little overworked and stressed. Your theories about the Cartel . . . are, well unique."

  “It’s okay, you can say crazy,” said Morgan. "Let me guess, you've been talking to my old buddies at the CIA? And they've told you tales about Morgan and his monsters?"

  "It's my job to ensure that everyone who works for Division is in top shape, both physically and mentally," said Mrs. White. "And your behavior has been a little erratic."

  "I transferred to Division because it was my understanding that you guys handle the cases that no one else considers worthy of investigation. You know, the weird stuff.”

  "While we take on cases that on the surface appear to be irregular—"

  Morgan snorted. Irregular? The word on the street was that Division, a covert group that didn't even have an official government name, tackled the cases where witnesses had reported aliens or vampires, or even Bigfoot carrying off the local teenagers—all the crazy stuff that other agencies wouldn't touch. But after being at Division for a few months, Morgan was starting to get the feeling that they weren’t so much investigating as they were covering up.

  Morgan had to tread carefully, because Mrs. White was his boss and she could freeze him out with the snap of her fingers. He said, "So, when you say ‘on the surface’, um . . . does that mean you don't believe what's been reported about the Cartel?"

  "What's that?" Mrs. White asked. "That they are able to provide people with tech that can give them superhuman abilities? Of course I don't believe that. What I think is, they are a dangerous, criminal organization that is making outrageous claims to bolster their reputation."

  Morgan didn't know what to say, so he decided that silence was his best option.

  Mrs. White said, "You don't really believe the more outlandish stories about the Cartel, do you?"

  Morgan hadn't survived two war zones and multiple tactical raids because he was stupid, so he structured an answer that he thought was acceptable and would keep him out of a padded cell. "I think they're trying, very hard, to accomplish the things we've heard about and I think that eventually they might succeed."

  "Succeed at what . . . creating a monster?"

  Morgan shrugged. "I think I will take you up on your offer. I'll submit my debrief and then I'll take a week, maybe two."

  Mrs. White smiled. "I think it will do you a world of good."

  Morgan nodded and turned to leave. As he walked toward the door he noticed one of the CSU analysts kneeling in front of the gene sequencers. There was a blue light shining from the tech’s hand. Morgan couldn't stop to stare, he would have drawn too much attention, so he couldn't be certain, but he was pretty sure the source of the light was a swirling blue orb in the woman's hand.

  That was so not normal.

  What were Mrs. White and Division up to? It wasn't just about debunking reported strange phenomenon, because Morgan was positive they were actively engaged in trying to stop the Cartel. But was it to block cutting-edge tech from being sold to the highest bidder, or was it to secure the tech for use by Division?

  Morgan needed to find the answers to those questions, because he was sure once he had, he would be able to solve his own problem, something that had plagued him for decades now. It was a recurring dream, one so detailed he had finally accepted that it had to be a memory or a fragment of a memory that eluded him while he was awake. And the star of this nightly vision was a beautiful dark-haired girl who was both familiar and a stranger to him. She was special, because she could do magic, real magic, not that hocus-pocus nonsense. Morgan wasn't sure that dreaming about a pretty girl would have motivated him to the point of obsession, but the nightly descent into his subconscious always ended the same way—the girl, covered in blood, standing in a room full of bodies, screaming his name over and over.

  Chapter One

  Our sudden and magical appearance at the shifter compound had sent excited ripples through the
community. And the fact that Mrs. Kelly was alive and well, and among our number, brought every resident out to meet us. Mr. Kelly wouldn't let his wife go. He kept a hold of at least her hand the entire time she was being thronged by old friends and family. Mrs. Kelly was handling all of the attention very well, considering the circumstances.

  "She has to be freaking, right?" Wyatt quietly asked Lucy and me. "They're all treating her like she just came back from the dead, which she did . . . kind of. And are we still not talking about that? Because, you know, I have a list of questions."

  Lucy shook her head. "No, we're not talking about that yet."

  The members of the Shifter Council arrived and after greeting Mrs. Kelly turned their attention to our little ragtag band. We made quite the sight, Lucy in her hospital gown and the rest of us a little frayed around the edges from our fight with Lucy's memory monsters. Then there was the fact that we had somehow been beamed from the hospital wing of Society HQ in LA to the Sierra Mountains. The council had five members. The co-presidents were a married couple named Daniel and Roxanne Crane.

  Daniel spoke first. "This compound is off-limits to non-shifters unless a formal invitation is extended." His dark green eyes flicked between the four of us. He was clearly not in a friendly mood. “Aside from Elyse Kelly, only one of you is a shifter, although from the accounts we've been told, a shifter with interesting abilities. You others are trespassing, we are within our rights to kill you."