The Gifts of Kali arrives next week! Greystone-in-Training continues with this second installment. Check out a special sneak peek of the book below.
Chapter One
The operation went like clockwork. The shipment had been lost in the midst of a small, violent outbreak along the borders of no less than four third-world countries. An enterprising soul found the missing cargo crates filled with weapons in the ruins of a firefight and contacted some friends across the Atlantic. He managed to have the shipment smuggled on a small freighter that took them down the Mediterranean and into open waters.
They were free and clear before a shred of paperwork had been written over the incident. To the military, the supplies had been destroyed in the conflict—possibly even due to their own bombing of the area. It was a fact no one wanted in the media, so it was suppressed and forgotten.
The right payoffs had made their way into the hands of customs officials at the port on the east side of Portents. A covered maintenance slip had been reserved for the delivery, and the ship had come in under the cover of night into the waiting hands of the crew ready for their payday.
Devon Little had been waiting for his for over two decades. He carried a job as an administrator for a local bank—he made peanuts but kept his head down and was therefore viewed as valuable to the company. He had even been promoted for his minimal efforts. It kept him occupied when his real work ran dry.
Petty theft. Gun running. Protection schemes. He and his crew were versatile in their work. They rarely let an opportunity pass by, so when a colleague in the Army reached out, he was ready, willing, and able to see the deal through to the end.
It was the one—the final score to set him up for life. It would give his children and their children the best of everything. Cost would no longer be an issue. There would be no more small-time jobs, no more slaving away for his 401k.
Devon would finally have it all.
The shipment arrived unmolested by any officials and his crew was there for the delivery. Geoff and Dougie took the lead. They removed the arms from the hidden compartment below deck. Placing each item in crates, the crew catalogued everything for the buyer Devon had lined up weeks earlier.
Automatic weapons, sniper rifles, grenades, even landmines were part of the deal. Each crate contained enough product to go for seven figures. There were twelve crates and six men on the team—a nice, easy split of over two million dollars each once the job was completed.
Devon acted as a lookout. There was always the chance of outside interference. A payoff might have been seen as too little, or a better deal might have sprung up by a third-party source. Hell, there was even the chance the cops might have caught wind of their smuggling, but with each passing minute that seemed less and less likely.
“Hey,” he called to Geoff, who was overseeing the packaging. “Make sure they’re careful with that crate.”
Geoff grinned, then approached. A cigarette sat on his lips, and he puffed it casually. “Relax, Dev. We’re all here for the same thing.”
“I know,” Devon said. He shook off the stress of it, pushed aside the tension that came in tandem with his excitement. It was almost too good to be true. “This is it, man. This is the big one for us.”
“Thank Christ the Domingos ain’t around no more, eh?”
Frank Domingo had once been the man who ruled the street gangs in Portents. Nothing was done without his approval. Devon and his friends had found themselves under Frank’s heel more often than not, working for a pittance while the Italian-loafer-wearing goomba cleaned up from their hard labor. When the indictments came down ending Frank’s reign, Devon had hosted a party at his place.
Dougie stopped near the door. He carried a pair of Colt M16A2 rifles. “They were nothing but greedy bloodsuckers. To hell with all of ‘em.”
“This one is ours,” Devon said with a smile. It caused the scar on his chin to stretch across his cheek. Dougie handed him one of the rifles. They were military grade, all right, but the serial numbers had been defaced. They were untraceable.
“The buyer?” Geoff asked.
“He’s flying in tomorrow morning,” Devon replied. “We make the deal here at midnight.”
Geoff took the automatic weapon in hand and raised it over his head. “And buy our first beachfront property the next day.”
Devon laughed. “Something like that.”
Dougie took the gun back, then passed the pair off to the others, who continued to pack the crates. He held out a hand to Geoff. A roll of the eyes was Geoff’s standard answer to the gesture, but he relented and passed along a cigarette to the waiting man. Dougie pulled out his lighter and settled along the frame next to Devon.
“You still worried, Dev?”
“Trying not to be.”
“Good,” Dougie said. He patted the man’s shoulder. “Gotta put those kids through college, right?”
Devon had four of the ankle-biters at home. His wife couldn’t get enough of them. He had never had the family-man gene in him before he met her. Over time, though, he had grown to appreciate the joy children brought to his home. They were all he thought of now.
“Exactly,” Devon said. He stared out into the quiet of the docks. The port stretched up the coast, which was mostly emptied due to the late-winter weather. The ice had broken weeks earlier and slowly drifted out of the harbor to allow their transport to arrive unhindered. To Devon, the solitude of the dock was peaceful—almost serene.
Suddenly, a sharp streak of green light soared across the sky. It started at the middle of the port and sailed overhead for miles to the north. Everyone at the slip stopped what they were doing. Six men crowded around the door for a better look.
Geoff pushed ahead. His cigarette fell to the ground and he stamped it out. “What the hell was that?”
Devon held him back and pointed to the gear scattered across the deck. “You guys finish unloading. We need to make sure everything is ready for tomorrow night.”
Geoff’s brow furrowed. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“It’s probably nothing,” Devon answered with the shake of his head. “I’ll be right back.”
Protests rose from Dougie and Geoff, but Devon refused to listen. He started out of the covered dock to check out the streak that had faded as quickly as it had arrived.
The waterfront was quiet and a fog settled in with the late hour. It covered his movements. It also obscured the path ahead.
From between two storage units, which were used for cleaning equipment and long-term parking for some of the high-end clientele who frequented the port, came a figure rushing into the night. Devon could tell it was a woman from her slight figure. She wore a green cloak. The hood did its best to cover her scarlet locks.
“Not again,” he heard her say as she fled from the area.
“Hello?” Devon called out.
“It isn’t right,” she cried. Her words faded just like her presence. “I failed. Again.”
He tried to catch her, but she broke into a run. “What are you—?”
Devon stopped between the buildings where the woman had been. He meant to keep going, to find out if she was in the area because of their operation. He had to know if they were at risk. But at that moment, a light cut through the fog from deep between the storage units.
“What the hell?”
Devon stepped deeper, winding his way through a series of crates, until the light took shape. It was a door—free-standing away from any structure. The light grew from its center. Devon approached cautiously. His hand ran along his back to where his pistol was secured. He suddenly wished the others had come along.
A figure stepped out of the light emanating from the door. He stood tall and proud, his torso was completely naked, and his legs were covered by a pair of white pants. His skin beamed in a pale bluish hue. He stopped once free from the door and stared through the light to where he had come from.
“Hey, pal,” Devon said. “You can’t be here.”
“I can’t? Yet here I am,” he said, his voice confident. He continued to stare into the piercing light. Devon couldn’t make out any details within the strange portal. “This is the world, isn’t it? The physical world? I’m here after so long.”
“What… who are you?” Devon asked. He stumbled forward, curiosity overtaking common sense. He snapped back when he heard the approach of steps behind him.
“Dev, is everything all right?”
The rest of the crew had joined him. Dougie and Geoff held tight to the military-grade arms they sought to sell. The others stayed back, however, more terrified than curious.
“Who the heck is this guy?” Geoff asked. He huffed and approached the man, who still focused more on where he had been than the threat at his back.
“Geoff,” Devon said. “I wouldn’t—”
Geoff shook his head and primed his sidearm. “I can handle this refugee from a horror flick. Now beat it, buddy, before I—”
No one noticed the sword against the man’s back. They never saw the stranger pull it free from its sheath or slice the air where Geoff stood. They only saw their friend fall with a deep cut across his chest.
“GEOFF!” Devon yelled.
The man held the blade up. The steel darkened to black, and the stranger ran his finger over the obsidian.
“Ah, the fresh taint of sin,” he said. His eyes were all white and they seemed to glow in the shadows of the dock. “Exactly what I was looking for.”
“Dear God,” Devon whispered.
The man approached, the sword at his side. “Close enough.”
Devon failed to move. He heard the cries of the others, especially the rage from Dougie over the death of their friend, but he couldn’t follow his crew as they raced toward the stranger. He could only watch as they were slaughtered, each in turn, by the man’s sword. Devon was unable to move, unable to believe his final score had slipped through his fingers just as quickly as his life was taken from him.
Chapter Two
The music boomed throughout the bar. The jukebox—on its last legs—was scratchy with its rendition of a pop song long forgotten by most of the crowd. The woman dancing between three young men in the middle of the open floor knew every word. She screamed them with a smile on her face and a beer in her hand. With each repetition of the chorus she lifted her glass to the air and joined the others in a drink.
The Town Hall Pub was not known for its revelry. Most of the patrons were aged men who wanted nothing more than somber silence in which to drown their memories away for the night. Once a week that changed for the establishment. Once a week, the woman named Callie stopped in for a visit.
She changed the entire dynamic of the bar. Young men started to frequent the place. They hung around the electronic dart boards that rarely worked and the one pool table with a thick scratch that tended to block the corner pocket along the green felt surface. They came in the hopes of seeing Callie, of being next to her through her renditions of songs few knew, or hearing her laughter when offered free drinks and more.
Callie rubbed against the man to her left, who seemed to be the leader of the pack. The song reached a crescendo, sending them all into a frenzy. They hopped like mad on the makeshift dance floor and sang at the tops of their lungs. The world around them was nothing more than a blur. Everyone stared at Callie. She was the center of their universe whenever she was in the room.
When the song ended cries erupted for more. The men wanted her close. They wanted to feel the life that seemed to beam from her surface. But in the silent aftermath of the dance, Callie pulled away. Hands grabbed for her and gifts were offered for another second of her company.
“Soon, boys,” she cooed. Her wide eyes washed over them all, always careful not to focus too long on an individual. They might have known her name, but she couldn’t tell them apart. They were merely there for her in whatever capacity she demanded for the night. “I’ll be back soon.”
An argument wasn’t necessary and none took root. The group of enthusiastic man candy returned to the dart boards and their waiting pitchers of beer. Callie headed for the bar. Her hand grazed the shoulders of the older gents slumped in their seats. Each touch brought a smile to their lips. She continued to the far side, under the dim lights, and sat.
The bartender was in front of her before she could even ask. She might not have known the names of her dancing companions, but she would have been remiss to ignore the man with the keys to the liquor. George had been the only bartender she’d ever seen at the Town Hall Pub.
He grabbed the bottle of tequila and filled a glass. “Callie.”
The name widened her grin. She didn’t know why it mattered to her, but when she heard it from those around her, it brought her a sick sense of joy. She took the shot and swallowed it down. The glass settled on the bar before her, her nail tapping lightly along the lip.
“Another one, Georgie.”
“I don’t think that’s what you want,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow at him and waited. “Come on, George. I can take it.”
“I know you can, girl,” George replied. He shook the bottle of booze before her. It was almost drained. “It’s my tequila that has trouble keeping up.”
He lowered the bottle on the bar and she snatched it. Callie poured a shot, then downed the searing liquid with a gulp. She set the glass before him. George grumbled and reached for the booze. Callie put another twenty on the bar next to the glass. With a sigh, he pocketed the cash and left the bottle in front of her.
She poured the next round and held it in front of the face in the mirror at the back of the bar. The glass obscured her image, splitting it as she squinted through the liquor.
George swiped at the bar with a stained rag and watched as she finished another shot. “You come in here once a week. Always solo. You make a big splash, stir up all kinds of trouble from the boys even though you have zero interest in any of them. You don’t really talk to anyone except me, and that’s only to get your fill of my liquor. You’re young, beautiful, could have your run of the place with anyone or anything you want. So what’s your story, Callie?”
“No story to tell,” she said. She had never answered that question, not in all the years it’d been asked. Stories came with endings. She preferred to just keep living. “I hate to get bogged down in the details—”
“—so why bother to offer any.” George said, finishing her thought.
“More fun that way,” Callie admitted. She played with the ribbon at her wrist. It was pink and snaked up her left arm to her elbow. She picked at the tightly tied knot, feeling the warmth of the fabric against the cold of the night. “The living’s all that matters.”
George nodded. He filled his own glass and joined her for another round. A question settled on his lips. His curiosity was bordering on pestering. Before he had the chance a bright light filled the room.
“What the hell?” George asked. He hobbled to the end of the bar. Patrons rushed for the windows lining the front of the establishment. The streak of light shot across the way before disappearing from view, and then the calm returned to the night.
“You see that?” one of the patrons asked.
“Strangest damn thing,” another commented.
The first man shook his head. “Whole city is getting strange, you ask me.”
George turned back to Callie, who stood from her stool. Her eyes locked on the window and the quiet of the docks outside. The green hue of the light brought back a distant memory.
“What is it, kiddo?” George asked, clearly able to see the concern on her face. “You seen something like that before?”
She poured a final shot. “Not in a long time.”
Callie downed the drink and placed the glass on the bar before George.
“Callie…”
“Thanks for the drink, George,” she said without looking at him.
“Everything all right, kid?” he called after her.
“Always,” Callie said with a smile and a wave. “I’ll see you soon.”
The light was still caught in her eyes. It blinded her thoughts and caused her to collide with one of her former dancing partners from earlier in the evening.
“Whoa there, beautiful,” he said, blocking the front door. He caught her wrist, and his gaze washed over her entire body in an instant. “Where you headed in such a hurry?”
“Out,” she said. She pulled away from him, but he stuck close. Her answer had done nothing to satisfy his appetite.
“Want some company?”
“Not at all.”
He continued to block the door when she tried to push through. His hand settled on her arm this time, tighter than before. “Come on, you don’t mean that. Not after all the fun we’ve had already.”
One of the man’s friends at a nearby table shuffled over. He held out a set of darts for the game that had been interrupted by the strange light. “Ed, come on. I wouldn’t—”
Callie grinned and leaned close. “Yeah, Ed. I wouldn’t—” Her fingers danced up his arm and his grip slackened.
“Now, that’s what I—”
Her hand stopped at the back of his head, and then she slammed it down with all her force. Ed’s face collided against the tabletop next to them. Blood smeared the solid oak from the impact. Callie let Ed go and backed away for the door. His friend rushed to his side, while Ed covered up his nose which freely poured blood down his face.
“My nose!” he cried. “She broke my—”
Her laughter carried her from the bar. She didn’t have to hear another word. Joy followed her steps down the pier and her concern faded away. Life mattered, free and unencumbered. Fun was what it all boiled down to when it came to living.
The Town Hall Pub sat in a derelict corner of the harbor. It was forgotten, like many of the early days of Portents. Few traveled in that direction, not with the red-light districts of downtown or the more sophisticated—and safer—aspects of the coves. Callie roamed the docks alone. She was free in Portents, content to go wherever the wind took her. She regretted the wind’s choice of destinations that night.
Bodies lay on the ground. Guns rested in their grip or at their side. Bullet holes dotted the buildings and cargo containers around them. There had been a fight, but the weapons had obviously done little to save the poor fools before her.
“Great,” Callie muttered as she crept closer to the gap between buildings. “A perfectly good buzz ruined by my own curiosity.”
She stopped at the edge of the first building. It was a storage warehouse for the docks. There were a dozen of the same type staggered up and down the entire port. A dim light glowed between the two closest to her position. She crept around the corner and through a series of crates for a better look.
The light shone in the shape of a door. A green hue emanated from the surface. “That light,” Callie said. “I’ve seen that light before. But where—?”
A shadow fell over the door and a figure stepped into view. He carried another body with one hand. He emptied the dead man’s pockets. There was a curious look on his face as he took the victim’s cash. He tucked the bills away, then dropped his victim at his feet. He surveyed the death around him.
“Oh, no,” Callie whispered.
She covered her mouth, cursing her loose lips. When the figure’s white eyes started to turn in her direction, she ran. She reached the far side of the building, and ducked for cover behind another row of crates. Her body trembled with fear and she shut her eyes tight.
Wood creaked on the other side of her shelter. The sound of scraping metal ran along the wooden lids above her. Then the sound faded, and the steps along with it.
When she shifted from her cover, the figure was gone. Callie slid down the side of the closest crate, and tucked her knees in close. She was terrified at what the man’s arrival meant for her and for the future she had dared to ignore for so long.
“No,” she whispered in the cold of the night. “Not him. Not now.”
But it was him. There was no denying it.
Shiva had come to Portents.
