Shadows of the Midnight Sun Read online

  SHADOWS

  OF THE

  MIDNIGHT SUN

  Graham Brown and Spencer J. Andrews

  Shadows of the Midnight Sun Copyright © 2013 Graham Brown and Spencer J. Andrews All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, printed, scanned or distributed without express written permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, character, incidents and places are the products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living, dead or undead), places, companies, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Jack Hendrick

  ISBN: 1482799448

  ISBN-13: 9781482799446

  OTHER NOVELS BY GRAHAM BROWN

  Black Rain

  Black Sun

  The Eden Prophecy

  Co-authored with Clive Cussler

  Devil’s Gate

  The Storm

  Zero Hour

  COMING SOON: FROM GRAHAM BROWN AND SPENCER J. ANDREWS

  Shadows of the Dark Star

  (Book 2 of the Shadows Trilogy)

  Shadows in the Blinding Light

  (Book 3 of the Shadows Trilogy)

  The Gods of War (Volumes 1 and 2)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue: The Dying of the Light

  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

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE: THE DYING OF THE LIGHT

  The Germanic Front, 396 AD

  A COLD wind blew across the Germanic plain. It rustled the dead leaves and swept past a set of ancient stone walls. High atop the ruins, a set of ragged standards fluttered in the wind as the approaching darkness consumed the final rays of heaven’s light.

  A battlefield stretched out before the silent walls. Here and there, fires burned, illuminating a field strewn with the dead. Thousands lay where they’d fallen, their bodies gashed open, their blood soaking the chalky soil in an odd communion between earth and man.

  A Roman captain looked out on the carnage from beneath a ruined archway. He was the only living soul for miles around. Clothed heavily, as winter was setting in, his face was youthful but weathered by war. His hair was blond and cropped short, in the style of the legions. Hints of pain and determination filled his blue eyes, and blood dripped from the sword he carried.

  He slid it into the sheath at his side and took his horse by the reins. With a tired gait, he led the animal across the field, picking his way between the mangled shells of the dead. Traces of mist grew up between them, hugging the ground like spirits too broken to fly.

  Perhaps the souls of the dead were not ready for the journey to Elysium, he thought, or maybe there were just too many for the Boatman to take all at once. Four days of pointless war had seen to that.

  Struggling forward on weary legs, the captain kept his eyes focused on the brow of a low ridge a mile or so in the distance. It was the only thing that mattered now.

  That ridge was the boundary of civilization. On this side lay the power of Rome. Beyond it was the wilderness, anarchy, and the Goths. That would be his home now. Until the end of his days, however few remained.

  They will never forgive you for what you’ve done.

  These words formed in the captain’s mind. The thoughts were his own. But for reasons he could not explain, they rang with the timbre of another voice.

  They will never take you back.

  The sound of a horse neighing in the distance startled him.

  In the dark, under a strand of dying trees, he spied a black horse standing beside a small fire. The animal was huge and sturdy—a warhorse, a soldier’s horse.

  It stood calmly, and then reared up and neighed again, vapors streaming from its nostrils like dragon’s breath. The sound carried across the open field, sending a chill through the captain’s veins, as if this horse belonged to death itself.

  His own steed bucked at the sound, trying to break and run. He tried to steady it, pulling hard on the reins, but the animal snapped its head around and ripped free of the leash. The captain lunged after it, but stumbled and fell as the animal galloped into the distance.

  Exhausted from the fighting and killing he’d done, the Roman captain remained on his knees for a moment, trying to catch his breath. With his own steed gone, his thoughts turned to the black horse on the hill. Perhaps he could take it for himself.

  He looked back up the slope, but the stallion was no longer alone. A figure now stood beside it, cloaked and unmoving. It seemed the animal’s master had returned.

  Try as he might, the captain couldn’t identify the man by his clothing. His face was shrouded, his cloak billowed in the wind, but it was not the coat of a Roman soldier or the rough garments worn by the Goths. Whoever the man was, he stood calmly, with a large sword drawn and ready at his side.

  As he looked upon this figure, the punishing thoughts returned to the captain’s head like a nightmare.

  They will never take you back…They will never forgive you for what you’ve done… So where have you left to go but to death itself?

  He fought to block the words but they only seemed to grow stronger. Somehow, he knew they were coming from the man on the hill.

  They will never forgive you. So where have you left to go but to death itself?

  With great weariness, the captain stood awkwardly, gripped by a kind of fear he’d never known. He reached for his sword, pulling the crimson-stained weapon from its sheath and holding it toward the dark rider in the distance.

  “I have no quarrel with you!” he shouted.

  The figure did not move or even react. He just stood like a statue.

  The Roman captain took a step back, holding the sword out before him. He turned, looking for his horse. He scanned the open field, but the animal was long gone, vanished into the night.

  He glanced back toward the hill.

  To his astonishment, the cloaked figure stood directly in front of him, swinging his blade. With the reactions of a hardened soldier, the Roman parried the blow, but it rang his arm as if he’d struck a great stone.

  He stepped to the side and swung for the stranger’s head, but the attacker was too fast. The swords collided between them. T
he impact knocked the captain off-balance and sent him stumbling backward. He regained his balance just as the attacker swung again. This time the blow was far greater. The Roman’s blade shattered, and the hilt was torn from his hand.

  Before the captain could retreat, a gauntlet-covered fist cracked him across the side of the head, sending him flying to the ground. He landed hard, rolled, and grabbed for a dagger in his boot. Before he could reach it, the weight of the attacker crashed onto his back, knocking him face-first into the dirt.

  Pressed down by the heavy foe, the Roman felt his head being pulled backward until his neck was stretched and exposed. A razor-sharp blade sliced across it, cutting his throat wide open. He dropped forward, choking on the warmth of his own blood.

  As quickly as it came, the weight of his opponent vanished. But even freed from this oppression, the captain could do nothing but grasp at his neck.

  A booted foot rolled him over and onto his back. Clutching his bleeding throat, he looked up.

  The dark rider loomed over him now, sitting on his haunches like a vulture. He pulled back his hood, revealing angular features and short dark hair. He glared down at his victim with lifeless black eyes.

  And then it came—a message, a whisper.

  Do you want to live?

  Memories flashed through the captain’s mind. Thoughts of his mother, father, and sisters. The beauty of Rome. The taste of cool water and good wine.

  The words rang out in his mind once again, louder this time.

  Do you want to live?

  Guilt, pain, and fear crashed over him, all at once. He wanted to say no, to die like a soldier should, but he reached out for the dark rider. He tried to speak, tried to say yes, but all that came out was bloody froth.

  He felt his life slipping away. He could feel demons of Hades reaching for him from beyond the great void.

  Yes, he thought, hoping the rider could hear him somehow. Yes! Anything to live. Anything!

  As he pleaded with the stranger in his mind, the stranger smiled. It seemed he’d gotten the answer he had been waiting for.

  CHAPTER 1

  New York City, Present Day

  A LATE-MODEL Audi sat parked in the cold rain on a darkened street in Morningside Heights. Run-down apartment blocks loomed around it like monoliths, lit only by the dim light of a few battered street lamps and glare from a neon sign at the corner bar.

  Inside the Audi, a man with cropped blond hair, broad shoulders, and black eyes sat in the driver’s seat. He waited patiently as the clock ticked past midnight and rain drummed steadily on the roof.

  The weather was miserable. The windows were lined with drops on the outside and slightly fogged on the inside. The bitter cold had seeped into the car long ago.

  Christian Hannover didn’t notice. It’d been a long time since he felt it. In fact, it’d been a long time since he felt much of anything.

  His gaze fell to the passenger seat and the twelve-inch hunting knife that lay there. He stretched his hand out to touch it, running his finger across the razor’s edge of the blade. The slightest pressure would split the skin, the slightest thrust would punch the tip through flesh and muscle and bone. It was a weapon to kill with, and tonight someone would die.

  Maybe it would be him? Would he care if it were?

  His life was hollow, empty. His existence had been meaningless for longer than he could remember. What was the point of it anymore?

  It was a riddle he’d considered often. At least once during each day, he thought of destroying himself, but so far, every day, he’d chosen to live.

  He looked down at the blade. No, he thought, this weapon was meant for someone else.

  He looked back out into the rain as a cab pulled up to the brownstone across the way and a crack of light appeared around the doorframe. A tall, well-built man who might have been in his thirties stepped out dressed in sharp clothes.

  “Hecht,” Christian whispered to himself. “So it is you, after all.”

  As Christian watched, James Hecht ignored the rain, walked quickly down the stairs, and ducked into the waiting taxi. The door shut, the brake lights went dark, and the cab began to move.

  Christian turned the key, starting the Audi. Once Hecht’s cab had moved off, Christian pulled onto the street, turning on his headlights. He didn’t need to stay too close. He had a pretty good idea of where Hecht was going.

  The two vehicles traveled north amid the steady rain, heading uptown along Broadway and moving past 155th Street and into Washington Heights. At this point, they weren’t too far south of the George Washington Bridge. The traffic thinned as they entered an industrial area, and Christian pulled back farther.

  In the distance, he saw the cab stop in front of a large factory with rusted steel walls and frosted glass windows, half of which were broken out. Weeds grew waist-high around the perimeter, while a hurricane fence carried signs that read keep out and no trespassing somewhere beneath the graffiti that covered them.

  Christian parked the Audi down a side street and grabbed the knife. He climbed out of the car and threw the keys on the seat, fully expecting he’d never see it again. He pulled a black trench coat over his shoulders, stepped into the shadows, and all but disappeared.

  Up ahead, Hecht was out of the cab. He didn’t pay, just waved off the cabbie, and the driver sped away. Now on foot, Hecht glanced Christian’s way.

  Christian waited, wondering if Hecht had sensed him following. But Hecht had other things on his mind and turned quickly, heading onto the factory grounds.

  Christian held his position for a moment, watching the rain fall in its endless, repeating pattern and listening to the repetitive thumping sound coming from inside the old factory.

  When Hecht finally vanished around the corner of the building, Christian began to move. He hiked quickly down the street, crossed over it, and pushed through an iron gate. He crossed the vacant parking lot and made his way around to the far side.

  Sheltered from the wind and protected by a six-foot overhang, the factory’s warehouse-style doors were open a few feet. Three men stood in front of them as the heavy beat of club music pumped out into the night. Flashes of red and green danced through the crack in the door.

  An illegal rave—rife with drugs, prostitution, and any other type of criminality one could think of—was raging inside.

  Christian approached the bouncers—two black men and one white. The first black guy had dreadlocks, the second a shiny bald head. The white guy beside them had a full sleeve of ink on each arm and half his neck. All three of them looked like prison was a second home. Prison and the gym.

  The black guy with the shaved dome stepped in Christian’s path, holding up a hand. He tilted a pair of sunglasses down just enough to see over them.

  “You got a reason for being here, my man?” His accent was Jamaican.

  “I’m here for the rave,” Christian said.

  “You better have more than that,” the dreadlocked man said from his spot against the building.

  Christian looked his way.

  Dreadlocks held out a hand and rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “This gig ain’t free.”

  The inked-up white guy pressed close, a Glock pistol of some kind stuck into his belt.

  Christian pulled out a small wad of cash, three C-notes folded up tight.

  The white guy leaned even closer, his eyes darting back and forth. From the twitchy way he moved and the skull-like appearance of his face, Christian guessed he was a meth junkie and probably high right then and there.

  “Smells like a cop to me,” he said.

  Christian turned toward him. “Surprised you can smell anything over the stench coming from your mouth.”

  The junkie put a hand on Christian’s shoulder and went for his gun, but Christian’s right hand snapped forward like it had been fired from a catapult. He snatched the gun from the man’s belt before the guy could touch it.

  At the same time, his left hand clamped onto the man’
s throat, half crushing the junkie’s windpipe. He shoved the guy backward and slammed him into the metal door of the factory, which reverberated with a resounding boom.

  Christian’s fingers curled tighter and tighter around the tattooed guy’s throat. He stared into the man’s eyes, which twitched and jumped from the drugs and the adrenaline.

  “If I kill you,” Christian said, “will that prove I’m not a cop?”

  The sound of guns cocking told Christian the others were ready to shoot, but he didn’t let go. He continued to stare, willing the junkie to look at him, bending his thoughts.

  The tension left the guy’s body, and then the twitching in his eyes slowed and eventually stopped. Only then did the man really look at Christian, falling deep into a type of pain he could not escape nor understand.

  A deep voice called out from behind Christian. “Best let my man go, if you want to live.”

  Christian ignored the threat. He stared into the meth addict’s eyes. “You don’t want to go where I can send you,” he whispered. “Understand?”

  Staring back at him, trembling now, the guy nodded slowly.

  Christian let him go, and he fell to ground, clutching his throat.

  Christian dropped the Glock, calmly put up his hands, and turned back to the bouncers. The bald guy held a Tech 9 machine pistol with a high-capacity magazine sticking out the bottom. Dreadlocks aimed a long-barreled, nickel-plated .357 revolver.

  For a second, Christian thought they might fire. Then Dreadlocks laughed and de-cocked the pistol.

  “You one crazy son of a bitch,” he said, lowering the weapon. “Whatever you’re on man, I wanna get me some.”

  Christian handed two bills to Dreadlocks and then crumpled up a third and dropped it onto the ground by the fallen bouncer.

  Dreadlocks waived him inside, and Christian stepped through the gap in the warehouse doors, his right hand clutching the knife inside the sleeve of his coat. The bouncers he’d left behind would never know how close they’d come to dying.

  Inside the factory, a few hundred people danced and mingled on three different levels. Green and red lasers bounced around as the music pounded the steel walls with so much force it seemed it might shake the place apart.