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walls. He was terrified.
    T he captive wrapped the barbed wire around one hand, tightly circling the bones and pinning the end of the strand into his necrotic flesh. New sensations exploded in his mind. Pain was magnificent. There was a peculiar sense of peace within perfect anguish. Perhaps it was the knowledge that one could not sink deeper, fall lower, or endure more. The Lord had been surprised by this epiphany at Gethsemane. Centuries ago, hidden under prickly desert brush and olive trees, the captive watched as God atoned. In the garden, they both learned about the secrets of agony, the transcendental power of pain.
    He gasped with miserable delight. The wait was over. Buried beneath anguish was power, pain so severe, it could unlock the metaphysical world.
    The door swung open and slammed against the inside of the cell.
    Javan was out of breath. He saw the twine and called for his guards.
    It was too late.
    Convulsions racked the captive’s hand as he pulled at the twine. Metal sunk into hollow bones, which had long emptied of marrow. At once the captive was everywhere. His mind expanded like nuclear fission, a million particles bombarding every brain. He stopped their thoughts with his own.
    The guards turned on each other.
    Javan dropped to the floor.
    There was thumping recoil as the guns fired in unison. Bullets ripped through flesh, and the men fell dead.
    In one sweeping moment, the captive stood over Javan.
    The mark along Javan’s left side had begun to heal.
    With o ne disjointed finger, the captive traced the wound that ran from Javan’s missing ear, down his neck, over his heart, and along his arm. The skin split apart obediently, oozing the life force the captive coveted: blood. Blood was mortality. It promised the sweet possibility of death.
    Javan clutched his chest.
    No, this human was not a prophet, just a talisman of misfortune to mark the end of times. Like the others, Javan’s fate was planned with exactness. His purpose remained unfulfilled. So, the captive let him live.
    Using the last of his sickening power, the captive left the room, slamming the cell door shut with his mind. He limped down the corridor anxious to reemerge in the world, to rise up as if from death, to be born again so that all may die. Dragging his body up the stairs, he forced open the trapdoor, stumbled down the hallway and out onto the city street.
    Rain drenched his naked body, washing away the sludge of his mocked atonement.
    His savior, the silver twine, glistened under the street lamp.
    He stared at the night sky and laughed.
    God be damned.

Chapter 8
    SATURDAY 2:06 a.m.
    Orkney Island, Scotland
     
    “Are you ok ay?” The voice sounded distant, but familiar.
    Thatcher opened her eyes.
    Marek hovered over her, out of breath. “Brynne, are you okay?” he asked again.
    “What happened?” She held her hand over her chest in a futile effort to slow the beating of her heart. “Was that us?”
    “I don’t know.” Marek helped her up.
    “My head is banging.” Thatcher cupped her forehead with both hands as they moved to the tent door.
    Outside, a flashlight beam danced around the nearby generators. Someone was trying to turn them back on.
    “Lee?” Thatcher called out.
    The stout British-Asian turned his flashlight toward her. Thatcher and Marek shielded their eyes. Lee lowered his light.
    “Is anyone hurt?” Thatcher asked.
    Lee ignored her as he tinkered with the generator panel.
    “What’s going on?” Marek said.
    “Bailey and Golke are getting Sonja back online ,” Lee replied. “Whatever the hell that was, it shorted the whole system.” He flipped on the power grid, but the generators didn’t start. With a huff, he opened an internal access panel to the circuit board and began untwisting wires.
    “Was it an acoustic blast?” Thatcher asked.
    “Bloody well felt like it.” Lee shook his head. “Those tossers are always messing about when you’re not babysitting them.”
    “They’ve never