Hand of the God

  Hand of the God

  The DeathSpeaker Codex: Book 8

  Sonya Bateman

  Thank you for picking up Hand of the God. Please join my mailing list to find out about the latest new releases, book sales, and special subscriber-only offers.

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  Copyright © 2019 by Sonya Bateman

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lou Harper, Harper By Design

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

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  Books in The DeathSpeaker Codex series

  Available now from Amazon and Kindle Unlimited

  WRONG SIDE OF HELL

  FIELDS OF BLOOD

  REALM OF MIRRORS

  RETURN OF THE HUNTERS

  CITY OF SECRETS

  PRISON OF HORRORS

  THE SCROLLS OF GIDEON

  HAND OF THE GOD

  Coming soon… Book 9 (untitled) in the DeathSpeaker Codex!

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  More books by Sonya Bateman

  About the Author

  Prologue

  New Mexico - Sunrise

  Yusef watched through the windshield as the charter plane descended into the badlands, taking in the unspoiled nature of this place where humans had yet to scar the environment. It would all be like this soon. The grand plan would be set into motion, and though the blood would run in rivers, oceans, before it was over, what survived would be purified and sanctified.

  The world would be saved.

  “Pretty morning, ain’t it?” the pilot half-shouted over the chopped buzz of the plane’s engines as he flipped various switches, checked gauges, and guided the aircraft toward the ground and the nearly invisible landing strip that paralleled the steep face of the mountains immediately to the right. “Yeah, it’ll be hot enough to sizzle your biscuits in a few hours, but it sure is nice to look at.”

  Yusef didn’t bother to comment. He had no time for small talk, and no interest in encouraging this man to pry into Milus Dei business. What he’d come all the way here to take care of was delicate, but urgent.

  There was a potential threat to the plan, and it must be handled.

  The plane bumped down. As the pilot turned his attention to stopping the rickety little puddle-jumper, Yusef cast a critical gaze over the cargo secured behind them. None of the straps appeared to have loosened or ripped themselves apart in the forty-minute flight from the private airfield near Roswell — a minor miracle in itself, considering the state of this aircraft. He had taken extra precautions with one crate in particular. The long, slender one fastened carefully just behind his seat held the key to this undertaking, the one that would allow him and his fellow paladins to address the threat fully.

  Provided, of course, that the artificer was persuaded to cooperate. But that was why he’d been selected to make this journey above his brothers. Yusef could be very persuasive when necessary. And failing that, his presence would allow his lord to take matters into his own hands.

  “Uh … so where, exactly, are you going with all this crap? You do know there’s nothing out here for miles, right?”

  The pilot’s voice cut into his musing, and Yusef realized that the plane had stopped and the engines were winding down. They’d reached the end of the landing strip, and nothing was there to greet them. Cavanaugh should have been here waiting, damn him. In Yusef’s opinion, the magister of the Fata site had been more trouble than he was worth since the incident with Subject Z-000119, and the subsequent loss of the facility’s best researchers. These days, Cavanaugh was little better than a glorified boot-licker, though he’d at least managed to keep this site secure. So far.

  “My team will be here momentarily,” Yusef said to the pilot as he reached into his satchel for something and handed it to the man. “In the meantime, if you would put this on, please.”

  The pilot took the small, folded piece of coarse brown material, shook it out, and frowned. “No, thanks,” he said, trying to hand it back. “I know what happens to guys who wear these.”

  “Mr. Vanderwall.” Yusef stared coolly at the pilot as he used his name for the first time, just to ensure the man was paying attention. “Do not mistake my polite tone as an invitation to debate my orders. I may have said please, but that was not a request.”

  “Your orders? Who the hell do you think—”

  “Put the hood on, Mr. Vanderwall. The terms of our contract are quite clear,” Yusef said. “I won’t tell you again.”

  The man hesitated for an instant, and Yusef saw the decision he’d made in his eyes a moment before he pulled the rough burlap over his head. The mistrustful glare that said he was doing this only for the money, and not out of any respect for authority. That look could prove problematic.

  “As I mentioned, my team will arrive any moment,” Yusef said as he gripped the handle of the small door beside him and stared at the hooded pilot. “You will remain here until I tell you it’s safe to leave the area. Is that understood?”

  The pilot grunted something that was not especially agreeable.

  Yusef held back a sigh as he opened the door and climbed down from the plane. Using this man’s charter service had not been his idea, though the pilot had come highly recommended. And now Cavanaugh’s failure to arrive on time had complicated matters significantly. He did hate to spill more human blood than necessary, but if Vanderwall witnessed anything that could compromise the facility’s secrecy, he would be forced to ensure the pilot’s permanent silence.

  In fact, he may have to do so regardless of whether the man obeyed the order to stay put. Clearly, Mr. Vanderwall had been an unfortunate mistake.

  He busied himself by opening the cargo hatch and beginning to unfasten the first of the crates. He hadn’t been at it long when a vast, low grinding sound rolled through the still desert air. When he turned toward the mountain and saw the hidden doors opening and a small convoy of vehicles driving out from the interior, he cursed under his breath.

  Now it was certain. The pilot would have to die.

  Yusef took his time as he slid a large crate from the aircraft and set it on the ground. The noise of the approaching vehicles rose steadily, and he circled the plane toward the door on the pilot’s side. He would invite Mr. Vanderwall to assist with the cargo after all, and then dispose of him and destroy the plane once it was done.

  But when he first knocked on the door, and then opened it, he found an empty seat.

  The fury that pulsed briefly through him was directed toward Cavanaugh. If the magister had been on time, this wouldn’t have been necessary. He stepped back, closed the door softly, and turned in a
slow half-circle. “Mr. Vanderwall?” he said in calm tones as he bent to look beneath the plane. “I want to apologize, for the hood. Where are you?”

  He didn’t expect a response. But he also didn’t expect to see a figure some distance across the desert, heading away from the mountains, already obscured by the heat shimmer of the newly-risen sun. The man looked to be at least half a mile out and moving quickly. Vanderwall must have fled the moment Yusef got out of the plane.

  Perhaps he’d misread the grudging rebellion in the pilot’s eyes the moment before he donned the hood. It may have been paranoia.

  No matter. The nearest town — Basin Springs, the home of his wayward charter pilot — was at least thirty miles from here across the desert wasteland. The chances were slim that Vanderwall would survive the trek.

  Still, Yusef would remove even that remote possibility from the equation.

  On the other side of the aircraft, engines were being turned off, vehicle doors opening and closing. He heard a few murmurs of conversation as he walked around to greet Cavanaugh, composing his features into a relaxed mask.

  Magister Cavanaugh stood beside the lead vehicle, the first of four jeeps. Behind them were three cargo trucks with wooden slat sides, and then two more jeeps, each flanked with men on four-wheelers. All of the men were heavily armed and wore desert camouflage and helmets, save for Cavanaugh, who was dressed in dark linen and a black fedora.

  And talking on a cell phone.

  Yusef’s jaw clenched as the magister glanced at him and held up a finger. “Yes, I heard you the first time,” he said into the phone. “He’s here now. I’ll find out what he wants to do about it. All right. Don’t call again.” He ended the call and sighed heavily as he tossed the phone onto the driver’s seat of the jeep. “Sorry about that,” he said. “We have a—”

  “You’re late.”

  Cavanaugh flinched at the cold tone of Yusef’s voice. “I’m sorry, but it couldn’t be helped,” he said carefully. “We have a problem.”

  “Yes, we do.” He jerked his head toward the plane. “The pilot’s run off. Into the desert. You’ll need to send some of your men after him and dispose of him.”

  “Fine. The pilot was the problem, anyway.” Cavanaugh turned toward the rest of the convoy and barked a few orders. In response, one of the jeeps carrying three armed men pulled out of the line and headed around the plane. The magister shook his head as he turned back. “That’s why I’m late,” he said. “My contact in Basin Springs says that Vanderwall broke the non-disclosure agreement. Told one of his friends about this contract, who he was working for, and where he was going.”

  “He did what?”

  This time Cavanaugh jerked hard enough to stumble back against the jeep. He cleared his throat. “I said—”

  “I heard what you said,” Yusef nearly snarled. He drew a steadying breath and closed his eyes, thinking it through. “Who did he tell? How many?” he said without looking at the magister.

  The other man made a small, strangled sound. “I don’t know that much. Yet,” he added quickly. “But it has to be someone in town. This guy doesn’t have many friends, either. I’ll have my contact find out, and—”

  “It may be too late already.” Yusef rubbed a temple absently as a spike of pain shot through his head. Apparently, his lord had taken an interest in this conversation — the pain was a sign that he was listening intently. “Contact your man now,” he said. “I wish to speak with him.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Cavanaugh said with a faint sneer. “I can handle this.”

  Yusef’s eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning my orders?”

  If Cavanaugh had a response to that, Yusef didn’t hear it. Suddenly there was nothing but dark, smooth silence, the sensation of floating in an endless void. His lord must have stepped in to address the magister.

  He very nearly felt sorry for the man.

  When Yusef returned to himself, it was as usual with the sensation of hundreds of nails scraping his insides — caused by the essence of the one he served leaving his body. He withstood the pain, accepted it gratefully. None of the other paladins were strong enough to contain their lord, but Yusef had dedicated his life to making himself worthy. And he would be rewarded.

  Cavanaugh had fared no better from the visitation. The man was on his knees in the dirt, gibbering incoherently with blood leaking from his nostrils. His eyes were impossibly wide and staring at nothing.

  Yusef backhanded him.

  The magister drew a great, whooping breath and focused. Shivering set in as he bowed his head and pushed up slowly from the ground, not daring to meet Yusef’s eyes.

  “I trust that your orders have been made clear, then,” Yusef said.

  “Yes, sir. My apologies.” The rasping whisper was tinged with fear. Whatever his lord had said to the man, it must have been effective. He had faith that the situation would be properly rectified.

  Yusef turned back to the plane as Cavanaugh began issuing orders. The men could unload the rest of the aircraft, but he would secure the weapon himself. It was far too important for a fool like Cavanaugh to handle.

  The end is coming, he thought as a small smile played on his lips.

  And what a glorious end it would be.

  Chapter 1

  Manhattan, New York City - Morning(ish)

  Abe poked his head into the morgue corridor and looked around like a kid getting ready to sneak to the bathroom for a joint. Finally, he stepped out and motioned for me to follow him.

  “You do know that we both have the authority to be here, right?” I said as I moved out of the elevator nook into the hallway and joined him. “I mean, you’re a cop. And I’m sanctioned, or whatever. I still come down here pretty regularly, even if you’re riding a desk these days.”

  “Ha-ha.” He rolled his eyes as we walked. “I just want to make sure none of my guys are around, especially Hawkins,” he said. “Got a feeling he’d really lose his shit if he saw what you’re about to do to his brother.”

  “Oh, man. The vic is Robbie Hawkins’ brother?” Robbie was a patrol officer when I started moving bodies for the NYPD, and I’d run into him at plenty of scenes. Even more often when he made detective, which hadn’t taken long — he was whip-smart and sharp as hell, besides being an all-around good guy.

  Abe nodded. “Yeah, he’s taking it real hard. Won’t eat, won’t sleep, and he’s been working round-the-clock for just about seventy-two hours now. It’s going on day four and he’s got nothing. I don’t have the heart to take him off the case, but …” He let out a sigh. “He can’t keep on like this, and he’s not going to stop until he finds out who killed his brother.”

  I couldn’t blame him, really. I had no idea what I’d do if I lost Taeral, but I knew it wouldn’t be pretty. “So that’s why you wanted me to do my thing, right?” I said. “I ask the man who killed him, you slip the info to Robbie, he gets to close the case and stand down before he works himself into the ground.”

  “Something like that.” Abe shook his head. “It’s a damn shame, though. Hawkins is one of my best detectives, and it’ll be a long time before he’s back in top form after this. If he ever gets there. Whatever bastard shot his brother, I’d happily arrest him myself — and it wouldn’t be one of those textbook arrests.”

  I clapped his shoulder. “Come on, Abe. Police brutality?” I said. “You’d never hurt anyone, if there was any possible way to avoid it. No matter what flavor of asshole they might be.”

  “Yeah, well sometimes I wish I would,” he grumbled, slowing to a stop in front of one of the exam room doors. “He’s in here.”

  I let Abe go in first, and then followed him through and shut the door. This room had eight body drawers and two autopsy tables, one of them holding a sheet-draped corpse. “That should be him,” Abe said, approaching the occupied table. “I had Doc Cavanaugh pull him out for us. She said she’d text me if anyone heads for this room.”

  That was a good ide
a. Dr. Cavanaugh was pretty much the only medical examiner here who wouldn’t ask too many questions about weird shit I might be doing, since she’d seen plenty of weird from me in the past few years. “How is Viv, anyway?” I said. “I don’t see her much since she switched to the day shift.”

  Abe shrugged. “She’s good, far as I know,” he said. “Her and Thompson are engaged, you know. June wedding.”

  “No shit, really? Good for them,” I said. Last I remembered, Viv and Detective Brad Thompson had been going on date three. That had been the moment I realized things weren’t going to work out for me and Dr. Vivian Cavanaugh — mostly because I’d never actually gotten around to asking her on a date.

  But I had a thing with Calla Frost now, and it was … going. I hoped.

  Abe pulled the sheet halfway back, exposing the dead man’s torso. He looked about mid-thirties, with brown hair and a rounded face that bore a definite resemblance to Robbie, even in death. The stitched Y-incision on his chest, made ragged by a gunshot wound left of center, said they’d already finished the autopsy.

  “His name’s Jack,” Abe said. “He was found shot in an alley. Poor son of a bitch died of a cliché.”

  Yeah, that definitely sucked.

  I walked around the body, frowning slightly as I considered how to phrase what I had to say to Abe. He’d never seen me talk to the dead, not even when I used to do it all in my head and no one but me could hear them. Now I knew how to project souls out with a glamour, which allowed anyone who was around to see, hear, and interact with them.