Diabolical Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epigraph

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bram Stoker Award–winning author of Damnable

  “Hank Schwaeble has done it again. Diabolical more than lives up to its title.”

  —F. Paul Wilson, New York Times bestselling author

  “With Diabolical, Hank Schwaeble proves he is the real deal and one of the best new horror writers out there.”

  —David Liss, Edgar® Award–winning author of The Devil’s Company

  Praise for Hank Schwaeble and Damnable

  “Flat-out fabulous . . . Damnable kept me breathlessly glued to the pages from start to finish. Fast-paced, edgy, and gripping.”

  —Cherry Adair, New York Times bestselling author

  “Hank Schwaeble is a new, talented voice on the scene. He writes with a confidence that could be called swagger if it wasn’t so good. Damnable is a powerful tale . . . fresh and irresistible.”

  —Thomas F. Monteleone, award-winning author of The Blood of the Lamb

  “Hank Schwaeble steps into territory usually dominated by Dean Koontz . . . and solidly holds his ground. Suspenseful, inventive, and consistently surprising.”

  —Gary A. Braunbeck, Bram Stoker and International Horror Guild–award winner

  “Fast-paced and tension-ratcheting . . . a page-turner sure to satisfy the most fickle supernatural-thriller junkie.”

  —Deborah LeBlanc, author of Water Witch and The Wolven

  “Hank Schwaeble’s Damnable is a first-rate fusion of horror, suspense, and noir. There are plenty of creeping chills and chilling creeps here for every fan of the dark. Schwaeble takes the horror-action novel to the max.”

  —Tom Piccirilli, award-winning author of Shadow Season

  “Schwaeble’s voice is sharp and smooth . . . Noir has never been this dark.”

  —Rue Morgue Magazine

  “Part horror, part thriller, part noir, and all successful . . . One hell of a recommendation for this read.”

  —Horror World Reviews

  “Stylized and unpredictable, Hank Schwaeble’s Damnable is a real treat.”

  —Fangoria

  “Damnable is chock-full of deeply flawed but intensely intriguing characters, simultaneously unconventional, disturbing, and remarkable. Its flair for the macabre makes the suspense tingle, and the story lingers long after the final pages. One awesome kickoff.”

  —Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of The Emperor’s Tomb

  “Damnable is an extraordinary debut with superb characters that live and breathe with both frailty and charm, thrills and chills that keep you turning the pages, and a plot line that absorbs the reader through and through. It’s a wonderful book that’s not to be missed.”

  —Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author of The Keepers

  “Exhilarating.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Highly recommended.”

  —Dark Scribe Magazine

  “Bodacious babes, dastardly demons, sociopathic sadists, and a maniacal mastermind combine forces in . . . Damnable . . . A damn good read . . . A sequel must surely await; it would be hard to keep Jake Hatcher from dealing with unfinished business.”

  —Hellnotes

  “Hard-hitting paranormal horror . . . great twists.”

  —Desert Book Chick

  “[An] outstanding debut thriller . . . a seamless combination of suspense, romance, mystery, and horror.”

  —Suite101.com

  Jove titles by Hank Schwaeble

  DAMNABLE

  DIABOLICAL

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  DIABOLICAL

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / July 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Hank Schwaeble.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-51615-7

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book couldn’t exist without the wonderful efforts of my tireless agent, Bob Fleck, and my editor with a heart, Tom Colgan. And, of course, it wouldn’t have been nearly as much joy to write without my first reader and essential critic Rhodi, who always keeps everything so positive.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE GUY AT THE BAR WITH THE WINNING SMILE AND FLAWLESS hair was on the small side, so Hatcher decided he’d have to kill him.

  He dropped his eyes to the note one more time before crumbling it and stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans.

  Roses are Yellow

  Falcons are Blue

  I know a fellow’s

  Been looking for you

  Side alley, Chief. Four balls.

  —Mr. E

  A runny splash of moon reflected off the indigo Pacific, the ch
urn of waves flashing silver as they broke on the beach. Hatcher inhaled a briny whiff of sea breeze. It carried a chill in through the patio, managed to cause goose bumps on his arm even as it dissipated under the ceiling fans that blew hot air down from the lights.

  Three months. Hatcher liked Venice Beach. The weather was tame. The people managed to be friendly while still leaving you alone. Nobody ever asked what his last name was. Nobody seemed to care about anything except soaking up the sun and having a good time.

  He took in a breath, exhaled half of it. Mr. E was still grinning, scraping nuts from a bowl and shaking them in a loose fist, for all appearances quite invested in conversation with one of the blonde barmaids as she rested a tray of empty glasses against her hip. Long-sleeve white shirt, untucked, cuffs turned once and hanging open; black vest, unbuttoned. He looked completely at ease. Not even so much as a glance in Hatcher’s direction. Hadn’t made noticeable eye contact when he walked in, hadn’t looked over from the moment he’d taken a stool.

  It was a Thursday night. Crowd was light. Two couples sharing a booth. Half a dozen regulars scattered around the bar, dropping comments out of the sides of their mouths while they watched a football game. Two young gals conspired over drinks at one of the tables, talking behind cupped hands about stuff that made them giggle. Patio was empty. Place wasn’t very big. The guy seemed to be alone.

  Yes, Hatcher concluded. No doubt about it. Way too slight a build. He’d have to kill him. And quick.

  There were other options, of course. There always were. Just not good ones. It was still several minutes till. He could slip out, walk right off the patio, vanish into the cool California night. Zero Residual Presence. He sure as hell knew how to do that. But that was a tactic, not a strategy. It didn’t solve the problem, only kicked the can down the road. Or maybe just along the curb a few feet. That was the trouble with running. You never knew how far away you were really getting, because behind every problem was a person, and people had a way of giving chase.

  On the other hand, if the individual you pegged as doing the chasing was incapacitated, the distance you could put between you and your problem was likely to be much bigger.

  Besides, it was rarely better to run from a fight. Engaging an adversary created some control over the dynamic. Running meant you were either scared to make a stand or content to let yourself be hunted. That pretty much established where you were on the food chain.

  Not that engagement was a foolproof strategy. Killing the guy wouldn’t necessarily solve anything. But it would sure address the food-chain issue. There was a term for it in the military. Decisive Intervention. In this case, the idea would be to turn the tables, be the predator rather than the prey. What sucked about it was he’d still have to move on. In the civilian jungle, the guys with badges were at the apex. They hunted in packs.

  And considering he’d dropped one from a rather tall building not that long ago, he figured he’d already used up whatever breaks he could hope for when it came to taking on cops.

  The guy took a swig of his beer, popped some more peanuts into his mouth. Didn’t glance over once.

  As much as Hatcher would have loved to hear what the guy had to say, he knew that was an option he had to dismiss outright. This was no simple messenger. The wording of the note clearly meant the sender was military. Ex-military, most likely, but definitely a soldier. And he wanted Hatcher to know it. Chief referred to Hatcher’s highest attained rank, chief warrant officer second class. Four balls was army jargon for midnight, when the twenty-four-hour clock was all zeros.

  But it was the way the note seemed designed to bait him that was most bothersome. Like the author was determined not to give him a chance to ignore it. Like he wanted to make sure his quarry showed up outside in an enclosed area looking for a fight at a specific time. Roses are Yellow, Falcons are Blue. Operation Rose Garden had comprised three phases—white, yellow, and red. It was during Yellow that Davis, moronic fucker that he was, screwed the pooch and nearly got the entire team killed. The guy was such an egomaniac, his nickname was “Mister I.” Only a child would entertain the possibility of that being a coincidence.

  Falcons are Blue was the clincher, though, the reference that really stuck out. Blue Falcon was phonetic slang for BF, which stood for buddy fucker. It was a moniker slapped on someone who ratted out a teammate.

  And in Spec Ops, if you called someone a BF out in the field you were as good as marking them for death.

  Hatcher sensed heavy footfalls approach. Heard the familiar labored breathing behind him before he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey, Jake. What do you think of small and lethal?”

  It was the owner, Dennis, standing next to him with his usual jowly half smile. He was a flabby guy with a red waft of hair and an equally red beard, like a cross between Santa and Satan. He always seemed to be winded. And he always seemed to have some new toy to share.

  He held his hand up, dangling something in front of Hatcher’s face.

  Hatcher drew back a bit, saw it was a tiny holster with a little gun handle sticking out, swinging on the end of a chain. He shifted his gaze over the man’s shoulder to the flat-screen TV suspended in the corner. A cable sports channel was running down scores, with a headline ticker across the bottom. The time on the ticker read 2:53 EST. Seven till midnight, Pacific.

  “Wait till you see how cool this is,” Denny said. “C’mon back to the office.”

  “I’m about to go on break. There’s something I need to take care of.”

  “Well, come back there when you’re done, okay?”

  “Sure, Den. Give me a few minutes.”

  “Not gonna forget, are you? Make me sit back there waiting? I’ve got a new DVD to show you. Better than the last one.”

  Early on Hatcher had pegged Dennis as a guy who was more or less full of shit. Harmless, though. Geeky. Always wore the same jeans and an XXL shirt with the name of the bar plastered across the front of it. The Liar’s Den. One of the bartenders had intimated Dennis didn’t actually own the place, but had a small percentage of the company that did and ran it for his brother-inlaw, who owned the other 95 percent. Denny did his best to create a different impression. Referred to himself as the owner in practically every conversation, same way he was always mentioning some new injury he’d sustained playing a sport. Pretty active for a guy who couldn’t lift an eyebrow without sounding like he was on life support and who spent his days practicing magic tricks and playing on his computer. But he paid Hatcher under the table and didn’t ask a lot of questions, so Hatcher liked him, even if the big goof seemed to have some sort of weird man-crush on him.

  Liked the bar’s name, too. It fit.

  “I won’t forget.”

  Dennis lifted his hand off Hatcher’s shoulder and dropped it again with a convivial slap before heading off, each breath still crying out for some WD-40. “Darn good man.”

  Hatcher glanced over at the guy who’d passed him the note, thinking, Not really.

  The vibe he was getting from the guy at the bar really bothered him. The fella was just so pissant scrawny. A guy who, for all appearances, Hatcher was inclined to think he could snap like a number two pencil. Yet considering the implications of the message he’d sent, the shrimp wasn’t showing the slightest bit of nerves.

  Big men, at least the pugnacious ones, were used to pushing people around. Even if they didn’t have big mouths—and the dangerous ones usually didn’t—they knew how to use their size to win the psychological battle, how to project it, to get inside the other guy’s head. They were all about intimidation. If a fighter can persuade the other guy he’s going to lose, chances are it will become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Small guys learn that early from the bullies, naturally attempt to imitate it when dealing with others, try to act bigger than they are. But in wanting to come across as tough they tend to overcompensate, act louder, more obnoxious. Little man’s disease, they call it.

  A small guy who acts
as cool as the other side of the pillow, though, that’s different. Truth was, it didn’t matter what this one wanted. No way Hatcher could afford to take any chances. Guy like this has danger writ large over every inch of him. Obvious, but only if you knew what to look for. Like a coral snake: all venom, no hood.

  There were three possibilities, not mutually exclusive. One was that his little friend was armed. That was less of an option than a certainty, the more Hatcher thought about it. Armed, and the type who knew how to use whatever he was carrying. An expert. He’d have to be. A gun or knife in the hand of a small guy might make him cocky, but it wouldn’t make him calm unless he knew how to use it and knew he knew how to use it. This guy was the definition of calm.

  Possibility number two was that he was an extremely skilled fighter, the world-class kind. Hatcher doubted it. Nose was straight, lips were thin and delicate, face was free of scars. Skilled fighters get their skills from fighting. Nobody escapes every fight unscathed. Add to that the fact this guy obviously knew something about Hatcher’s background, and it became even less likely. A fighter good enough to be that confident would be smart enough not to take an opponent with Hatcher’s training for granted. Wouldn’t be letting his attention drift so freely to flirt with another barmaid, like he was now. Not after passing a note as provocative as the one in Hatcher’s pocket.