She took a deep breath and slowly made her way to the entrance of the room. She peeked inside and saw a small altar made of rocks and bones. Candles flickered around it, casting eerie shadows on the walls. She stepped into the chamber, her hand hovering over her Glock.

  “Samson,” she said. She didn’t have to ask. She already knew. He was here somewhere.

  Just not in this room. He was close, though. She could hear him chanting. Of course, she could only imagine the sort of tricks these mines and tunnels would play on sound. He could still be a good distance away, but if the acoustics of these tunnels were at all misleading, it could sound as if he were right on top of her.

  Frustrated and just a little spooked, Morgan continued into the room. She saw a thin, yet tall opening along the back of the chamber, right where two walls intersected. And as she walked over to it, she saw another small light source coming from within.

  Morgan approached the opening cautiously, shining her flashlight inside. It was a tight squeeze, but she knew she had to see what was inside. She squeezed through the opening and found herself in a small chamber. The chanting was louder now, and she knew she was getting closer.

  She followed the sound of the chanting and came to another opening. She was looking into another chamber right away, yet another opening to her right. And the moment she saw this, the chanting came to a stop.

  The mines went eerily quiet. Morgan focused on that silence, listening for any signs of movement. She still heard that dripping noise further back and, layered with it, a very soft sound. Like the footsteps of someone trying to sneak around.

  Fear seized her as she finally drew her Glock. The sudden silence told her that Samson knew she was here…that he was on to her and using his knowledge of this tunnel system to get the drop on her. She didn’t want to be stuck in a tunnel if he did manage to get the best of her, so she made her way into the next little room instead.

  Another tiny altar sat at the back, a single candle flickering just like the chamber before. She realized that there were three different openings all around here…three different ways for Samson to get to her. She leveled the flashlight, scanning the room with her left hand while she held the Glock in her right.

  She stood in the dark, heart hammering madly in her chest, waiting.

  Suddenly, she heard a faint rustling from one of the openings. She quickly turned toward the sound, pointing her gun at the opening. But she saw nothing. The rustling had stopped.

  Morgan took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves. She knew she had to be careful. Samson was dangerous, and she couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

  Just then, she heard footsteps coming from behind her. She quickly spun, ready to point her gun at the sound. But it was too late. Samson had already grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arm around her neck. His grip was instantly like a vise. She was quite sure both arms were wrapped around her neck as he pulled her back. They struck one of the walls, an intended action by Samson, as he tightened his grip around her neck. She tried to fight against him, but it only served to cut off her air supply.

  Morgan struggled, trying to break free, but Samson was too strong. She felt his hot breath on her neck, and she knew he was enjoying this.

  “You wasted ten years of your life in prison because of things I did,” he whispered in her ear. “And this is how it ends. You should have just stayed in prison.”

  Morgan gritted her teeth, trying to hold on to consciousness as Samson tightened his grip. She knew she was in trouble. Yes, she had a Glock, but firing it blindly out into the darkness in such a tight space, with rock walls to all sides, could prove very dangerous.

  “It’s not over for you yet, though,” he said. His voice was starting to sound far away. And even though the little chamber was dark all around her, she could sense everything fading…her thoughts, her hearing, everything.

  To hell with it, she thought.

  She started to raise the Glock, trying to angle it so that it would turn at a backward slant. But as she raised it, the strength went out of her arm as her lungs begged for air. And then, just as she thought her chest might collapse from the lack of air, Samson released her.

  He’d timed it perfectly. Her knees swayed and she felt her head grow light, as if it were swimming away. And at that, Morgan fell and faded away herself, feeling as if the darkness of the mines had swallowed her up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  He looked down at her body, motionless but still breathing on the chamber floor. She was quite pretty but he could tell she was hollow inside. Something about her was missing. He knew she’d been locked away from the world for a decade…the result of a very messy situation pertaining to the fourth victim.

  He recalled what she’d looked like ten years ago. She’d been so fast, so determined…a worthwhile opponent. But based on what he’d seen this last couple of days, most of that was gone now. All that was left was rage and a muted sort of obsession.

  But in all honesty, that was good. It would make what needed to happen next even more poetic.

  She and her partner had known this entire time that he was working to fulfill testaments of the Seven Signs. But what they had likely missed was there was one last sign…one that would ensure the coming of the messiah.

  That final sign wasn’t so much a sign as it was a sacrifice. In the same way Christ had died upon the cross for the sake of all mankind, someone else would have to die to usher in the coming of the messiah.

  And the last name of the woman at his feet just seemed like a delicious little irony. And once she was dead, the messiah would indeed come back. No matter how often he thought back to when he’d started his work, Samson could not recall the exact moment he knew that Morgan Cross was going to have her part to play in this.

  He felt it was after he’d enacted the Second Sign. He’d watched the police and feds come and go through the window of a diner at the end of the same block he’d taken the life. Morgan had caught his attention right away and, though he knew it would be foolish, he’d followed her for a while after that. He’d studied her movements, her daily routines. He’d watched her come and go with her partner, watched how diligently she had pursued the case, how badly she’d wanted to find him.

  He had chosen her for the last kill because he respected her. And also, saving the strongest sacrifice for last seemed more pleasing.

  He knew this. He felt it. He could recall with perfect clarity when this message had first come to him—when he’d been called to enact the Seven Signs and summon the messiah forward.

  He had been in a similar situation, standing over the body of a woman he had just killed. But instead of feeling guilt or remorse, he had felt a sudden clarity. He knew what he had to do. He knew that he was meant to bring about the end of the world and the beginning of a new age.

  The first victim had felt…well, it had felt like practice. And in the moment immediately following that woman’s death, he’d known. He’d known it was only the beginning…that much more death was to come. And that it was all for good reason.

  And now, standing in this small chamber with Morgan Cross at his feet, he knew that he was one step closer to fulfilling his purpose.

  He leaned down to Morgan, studying her face. She was still unconscious, but he knew that wouldn’t last long. He needed to hurry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the same knife that had taken the lives of four of the eleven. Without hesitation, he made a small incision on Morgan’s left wrist, letting the blood drip onto the floor.

  She let out a little yelp and moved her head slightly. She was starting to come to, her breath more regular, her head still tilting.

  He muttered a quick prayer and stood up, looking at the ceiling. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement. The messiah was coming, and he would be the one to bring him forth.

  He could not kill her yet. Her blood on the floor was just the start. He’d needed to incapacitate her for that. But she would need to be aware of her death. She would need to know why she was being offered up for this final act to work.

  “Agent Cross,” he muttered into the dimly lit chamber, “wake up. It’s time to do your part.”

  She muttered something, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

  He was quite anxious for her to open her eyes…and not just to bring his work to a close. But he had one thing to tell her, an answer he hoped might make her more willing to play the part he’d reserved for her.

  He thought that she was ready to sacrifice herself, deep down. After all, she’d willingly come back to this place. Surely, after having discovered it earlier in the day, she’d know the significance and importance of it. She knew what this place was, and she had come to him.

  Yes, deep down, she was ready and willing. Soon, she’d see what she’d truly spent those ten years waiting for.

  Smiling in the dark, the man who called himself Samson sat patiently beside the stirring body of Morgan Cross and waited.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  When she came to, there was a paralyzing moment when Morgan was certain she was still in prison. She was still in her cell, she was still locked away from the world, and the chase for Samson and the reunion with Derik over the last two days had been nothing more than a fanciful dream. Kimmy Byers would be waiting for her in the cafeteria, wanting to share one of her insane theories on world religions.

  But no…somewhere off near the corners of her consciousness, she knew she was not in prison. She had a faint idea of where she was…an idea that grew more resolute with every moment she drew closer to becoming awake and aware.

  Samson had been here. He’d surprised her from behind, had attacked her and…

  And then what?

  She knew all she had to do was open her eyes to find out. But the darkness and the sort of in-between place she inhabited was nice. The real world was on one side of the veil, and a dark and malleable place was on the other side.

  She sensed that if there were memories of prison on that other side, surely there must be other memories.

  As if summoned by the mere thought of such memories, Morgan caught the flicking image of her father. He was helping her into a small aluminum boat as she held a fishing rod. Morgan knew the day she was remembering, and her heart filled with a little flood of joy as she allowed herself to peek in at that memory.

  She’d never been good at fishing. She’d never really had the patience. But that day out on the river had been perfect. Nothing of any real significance had happened, but it was one of the happiest days of her life. And in that dark, disconnected place, she let herself sink into it.

  As she was lost in that memory, Morgan felt a warmth envelop her. But it wasn’t the warmth of the sun or the feeling of a summer breeze. It was a warmth that came from something else—someone else. It was a reminder that in the real world, she wasn’t alone in the cave. But she didn’t want to face that. She did everything she could to bring back the memory of that little fishing trip with her father.

  But that memory shifted, as memories often do. She was in a hospital room, holding her mother’s hand. There were tubes and machines beeping around them and her mother’s face was pale and drawn. Morgan could feel the sadness and the grief like a physical weight on her chest.

  And then the memory shifted again, quick and jarring. She was in a cemetery, standing over a small gravestone. The sun was shining down on her, and the grass was green, but Morgan couldn’t shake off the feeling of sadness that washed over her like a wave.

  But that train of memory was soon interrupted as she felt a sharp stinging pain in her left wrist. Her eyes shot open, and she gasped, trying to sit up. She just barely saw Samson, a murky shape in the darkness.

  “What…what are you doing?” she asked, her voice hoarse and weak. She started using her right hand to feel around for her Glock, hoping it was within her reach.

  Samson leaned in, his face almost touching hers. “It’s time, Agent Cross,” he said, his voice low and intense.

  She looked into his face and saw the last ten years. She saw his features, the worn down, crazy look of him. But his blue eyes were sincere somehow. He had no idea that what he was doing was insane. She was almost let down by how normal he looked.

  Morgan tried to pull away from him, but her body still felt sluggish from the attack. “Time for what?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto his gaze.

  Samson didn’t answer. Instead he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. Morgan shuddered at his touch, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel almost drawn to him…not in any romantic or respectful way. No, there was something else. Some sort of connection she felt between them. This was the man she’d been chasing for so long, the man that had felt like a failure hanging over her head during her decade in prison. There was something about the way he looked at her, as if he knew her better than anyone else ever could.

  Morgan’s heart raced as she looked down at her wrist, seeing the open wound and the blood staining the floor. Dimly, she had an idea of what this meant…she knew what Samson was planning to do. She guessed he had plans for her to somehow be part of the closing of his ritual.

  “You have to know this is insanity,” she said. “You’re no messiah. You’re a murderer, plain and simple.”

  But Samson only laughed. He made no move to come to her, apparently feeling confident that she wasn’t interested in fighting him in that moment. “I’ve never claimed to be a messiah, Agent Cross. I’m a prophet. And I’m here to bring about the end of this world and the start of a much better one.”

  Morgan’s heart sank as she realized the full extent of Samson’s delusion. He truly believed he was doing the right thing…that he was playing a part in some sort of divine plan.

  And now, he was about to sacrifice her for it.

  Of course, she had no intention of allowing that to happen. Even if she couldn’t find the Glock, she had no problem imagining herself beating the hell out of him. She’d felt his strength when he’d grabbed her from behind and choked her out. But this time, he wouldn’t take her by surprise. And face-to-face, with no real advantage other than whatever he’d cut her with, she liked her chances.

  “Before this happens, I’d like to tell you why you ended up in prison.”

  That simple comment disarmed her.

  She moved slightly, propping herself on her right forearm. She tested her left arm while doing it, not sure how deep the cut was. There was still a stinging pain there, but she had function of the limb, at that was the important thing.

  “You made it look like I was helping you,” she said. “You made it—”

  “Oh, no, no…not me. No, Agent Cross. I did indeed murder that fourth victim. I will gladly and proudly admit to that. But here’s a little secret. The night I enacted the fourth sign, there was someone else there that night, in her house. I thought I was going to have to kill them, too. But they simply stepped out of my way and let me continue my work.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh, I don’t care one way or the other. But if you think very hard about it…I needed you to make sure I had a driving force. You made me better at what I did. You made me want to ensure I gave this work everything. Without you on my trail, I had no real push. I’d be just another maniac out there killing people.” It was dim in the chamber, but she managed to see his smile when he added: “Think about it, Agent Cross. Why do you think I stopped my work when you were away? I needed you. The last thing I would have ever wanted was for you to go to prison. While you waited, I waited. We need one another, you and I. For this work to be finished, we have to work together.”

  Morgan felt momentarily sick. He was right. While she didn’t buy a single aspect of what Samson considered “his work,” it did always strike her as odd that he’d stopped when she was in prison. It made her wonder how early into his series of murders he had decided he wanted her to be the final act.

  “Who was it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know that. They were gone when I was done.”

  “And how did you make it look like I did it? Why was I framed?”

  “I just told you,” he said. “I don’t know. It wasn’t me. I never did it. I never would have. Did you not hear what I said just now? I needed you.”

  In the darkness, she did her best to ignore the pain in her left arm, the sticky flow of her blood. She tried to think of that fourth victim. A woman in a well-to-do neighborhood, killed in a small home library. Bludgeoned with a wine bottle and then stabbed for good measure…the wine bottle illustrating the sign of Christ turning water to wine.

  She recalled the woman’s name, Sandra Berryhill the set-up in the house, bringing to mind everything she could process about that particular crime scene. And then it hit her. The woman’s husband had been out of town that night. He’d been on a business trip to Chicago. And he’d come back the next day to find his wife dead. Only, the details of that trip had never been confirmed by the husband’s employer. Not that it mattered. Samson had left his note, so it was assumed that he’d done the killing.

  Until, of course, evidence surfaced that pointed at Morgan. Evidence she’d always assumed Samson had planted there.

  “The husband?” she said.

  “I don’t know. I suppose it would make sense.” He sighed deeply and positioned himself to his knees. “I simply thought you should know that I had nothing to do with what happened to you. I was just as shocked as you were.”

  Shocked, she thought. Sure.

  But deep down, she thought he was telling the truth. As much as she hated to think it, there was a bit of logic to what he’d revealed to her.

  Her right hand continued to search for the Glock but all she felt was the cold, unforgiving rock floor. Of course he would have taken it and hidden it away. But he wasn’t going to use it on her. No, that would be too easy. If she was to be the last sacrifice to bring about his messiah, it would need to be truly special.

 

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