Shadow Warrior

By Ethan Somerville

One day after school, five bullies emerging from detention attack and rape their disabled classmate Abigail White. Due to the trauma and her speech impediment, she never tells anyone what happened.

Several years later, she discovers a mysterious ream of paper on her doorstep, and decides to pen down her thoughts. She launches into a bloody tale of revenge against the evil youths who violated her.

On the pages Abigail describes her dream warrior, a powerful, darkly handsome man she names Damon Black. He becomes her instrument of vengeance and her first true love.

Then a young man is shot dead at the front door of his house. Detectives Carl Rojas and Jake Herron are put on the case, but the bizarre murders continue, each one more brutal and horrifying than the last. The police begin to feel like they are chasing a ghost, a black shadow who seems able to appear and disappear at will.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Publishing
• Release date: Sep 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301329342

Ethan Somerville

Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

Book preview

SHADOW WARRIOR

BY

Ethan Somerville

And

Emma Daniels

Copyright 2010/2012

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Shadow Warrior

Copyright 2010/12 by Ethan Somerville & Emma Daniels

www.stormpublishing.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Chapter 1

Dawud Ayoubi only had ten minutes to live. Fortunately, he didn't realise this as he sat sprawled in his favourite armchair watching TV. After putting in a hard day’s work at the construction-site, he was tired and in need of a good long rest. A large man with muscular forearms, a barrel chest and a bull neck, Dawud prided himself in his physical prowess.

I’ve just put Yvonne to bed, Danielle Ayoubi declared as she entered the darkened lounge room. Dawud’s wife was as petite as Dawud was large, an attractive twenty year-old with masses of curly brown hair and an almost perfect hourglass figure, despite the nine pound baby she'd had delivered by caesarean section six months earlier.

She was pretty quiet tonight, Dawud declared, as Danielle made herself comfortable on the old sofa beside him.

For once. Now why can’t she go out like a light every night? Why all the screaming and thrashing?

Oh, she just doesn’t want to miss out on anything, Dawud chuckled, slipping a brawny arm around his wife's slender shoulders.

Like what? Danielle yawned. Us going to bed, maybe?

How ‘bout this? He drew her close, planting a hungry kiss on her lips. She giggled, and slipped her arms around his neck. His moustache tickled her cheeks, but this only helped fuel her desire.

A determined knock at the front door sent them springing apart.

Who the Hell could that be? Dawud cast a poisonous glare at the source of the interruption. It’s after nine-thirty for Pete's sake.

Danielle shrugged and moved to get up. Dawud caught her arm. Let’s pretend we’re not home. Whoever it is can come back tomorrow.

But it might be important, Danielle protested. Always the practical one, she pulled herself free and hurried to answer. Fearful of burglars, the Ayoubis had a deadlock as well a security chain on their front door. Although there wasn't much in their little brick house worth stealing, they didn't want to encourage thieves. Danielle opened the lock, but didn’t lift the chain. Having lived in Sydney's seedier suburbs all her life, she knew how to take precautions.

Dawud watched her speak with their visitor, their voices too hushed for him to hear. He simply admired her trim figure, which she always clothed in sheer, seductive outfits to entice him. Outside, where she could fall prey to the lustful gazes of other men, she garbed herself in the traditional attire of their homeland; loose robes and a hajib covering her thick, dark curls. The young couple weren’t particularly strict about their religion, but for the sake of propriety they acted like good Muslims in public. Most of the people in their suburb heralded from Lebanon, and the Ayoubis still felt comfortable there, despite escalating crime and drug-taking.

Danielle turned. It’s for you, honey.

Who is it? he asked in surprise.

Shaking her head, Danielle stepped away from the door. With a grunt Dawud heaved his impressive bulk up from the lounge and lumbered across the worn carpet.

Okay. What d’ya - Dawud never got to finish his sentence. The door was flung wide with an agonising squeal of tearing metal and splintering wood. The security chain tore from its moorings, clattering against the wall.

Jaw dropping, Dawud looked up into a pair of the darkest eyes he had ever seen. Light seemed to disappear into them, as though they weren't eyes at all, but black-holes swirling deep into space. They were also the wide eyes of a curious child, taking in its surroundings with enthusiastic wonder, a child waiting in anticipation to see what would happen next.

How can this be? Dawud wondered, his last coherent thought. The dark man surged forward, his presence swallowing space and slowing time. Dawud stumbled backwards as the stranger brought up a weapon. Dawud's last second was spent staring down the barrel of a shotgun, before it exploded with a deafening roar.

Danielle watched in helpless horror as her husband of two years crashed to the floor like a felled tree, a bright rose of blood blooming on the front of his pale blue T-Shirt. Bloody petals opened in all directions.

A second shot blasted his head into unrecognisable chunks.

The young woman rediscovered her voice and screamed. The stranger lifted his gun, aiming it at her. He stared in her direction but his black eyes were horribly blank, as though he wasn't looking at her, but at something past her, or nothing at all. Convinced she was also going to die, Danielle's shriek froze in her throat. He knees buckled beneath her, and she collapsed on the carpet.

But then the man spun and hurried away, melting into the night as though he had never been.

Detective Carlos Rojas arrived at the crime-scene a little after eleven. Since he’d been about to retire for the evening, his clothes looked thrown on; wrinkled shirt and trousers covering his lean body, tie hanging limply from a loosened knot at his throat. He had finger-combed his thick black hair, making it stand at attention instead of falling neatly from a centre-part. Rubbing his weary eyes with one olive-skinned hand, he cut the engine of his unmarked police car, a deep blue Honda Prelude.

Climbing out he headed towards the flashing blue lights. The usually quiet, residential street now resembled a busy city thoroughfare. The commotion had drawn neighbours like moths to a flame. Women wearing head scarves held curious children back, and dark-haired men strained to see around the press of uniformed bodies. The shocked expressions on their faces told Carl all he needed to know; not another murder.

Carl remembered back to Buenos Aires, the city of his youth. In the crowded metropolis thugs shot street-kids for fun, and the government silenced subversives with violence. When he migrated to Australia at the age of eighteen, he thought he was entering utopia - a place where such evil crimes were unheard of. Unfortunately, Sydney was rapidly becoming as dangerous as the dark, dingy streets of his homeland.

Also having escaped a country ravaged by war and political unrest, the watching Lebanese were probably wondering what had happened to their normally quiet neighbourhood.

Carl pushed his way through the small crowd, flashing his badge to the grim-faced sergeant. Nodding, the burly young officer lifted the blue and white tape cordoning off the property. As he strode up the uneven concrete path, Carl wondered what he would find in the old brick house. A wife beaten to death? A pensioner stabbed for the coins in his coffee tin? A boy killed over drug money? The sickened expressions on the other cops’ faces hadn’t been promising.

The detective marched up the front stairs, and had to push aside a green plastic sheet pinned to the doorway, concealing what lay within from prying eyes. The body lay beneath another plastic covering. Unfortunately, the sheet couldn’t hide all the blood that had oozed out after death. A dark stain was slowly soaking into the carpet.

Ah, Detective Rojas! A pale-faced policeman walked up to him.

Sergeant Wright. Carl knelt down beside the body. Tom Wright joined him. He had recently transferred from the northern beaches, and Carl wondered idly how long he would last in the crime-ridden western suburbs. Suddenly the thirty-one year old detective felt old, and his knee joints cracked in protest as he leaned forward to lift the sheet.

Mother of God! He had seen some horrific sights during his time, but nothing quite as disgusting as this. The victim was lying on his back, a hole in his torso big enough to insert a head, and his face reduced to bloody soup. One white eyeball stared blindly from the mess, as though accusing the police for not coming to his rescue soon enough. Brains had made a gruesome splatter pattern around the remains of his head.

Looks like two shotgun blasts at close range, very close range, Carl observed tonelessly. At least a twelve-gauge, I reckon. The poor man looks like he was executed, but for what?

We can’t work that out, either. Nothing of value appears to have been stolen. Tom waved a hand towards the TV, video and stereo unit. But there aren’t any shells. We’ve already done a preliminary search.

Perhaps the killer took them with him, Carl suggested.

I don’t know. The sergeant looked dubious. Collecting shotty shells isn’t something you stop to do after exterminating someone in front of a witness.

Carl nodded. I expect they’ll turn up. So... who is this poor bastard? He lowered the sheet and straightened, brushing damp hair from his eyes. The humidity of the early autumn evening was starting to take its toll and his skin prickled with perspiration. Or was it the sight of such destruction? Carl had never had a problem with the gory nature of his work before, but then he’d never felt this weary before. Too much had gone wrong in his life lately. Perhaps it was time to take that holiday he was always promising himself.

Dawud Ayoubi, a builder's labourer for some local company. Twenty-two years old, a wife and six-month-old daughter. It was the wife who witnessed the whole thing, but we can’t talk to her yet. She and the baby have been taken to hospital.

Seeing something like this happen would really screw you up, Carl muttered.

She was completely hysterical, Tom continued. Kept going on about a black shadow from Hell. We figure that’s her description of the killer, but we couldn’t get any more out of her.

Carl nodded, looking around the lounge-room. Only a few hours ago an ordinary family had been watching television. Now their house was evidence, swarming with police looking for clues. Mr Ayoubi’s daughter would never know her father. Her mother would probably need counselling for months to come. Unless...

Do you suppose she could have done this? Always on the hunt for possibilities, Carl had to ask, although he sincerely doubted it.

We’re not ruling out that possibility. Suddenly the sergeant turned and departed to a call from a back room. Carl stared down at the shrouded body for a few seconds and then up at the doorway.

The front door stood wide open, security chain hanging limply at its side. Who let the killer in? Did Mr Ayoubi open the door for him, then receive two shot gun blasts for his efforts? Carl skirted the body and approached the door to examine it. One deadlock and one security chain. He lifted the chain and saw that several links had been stretched, as though the door had been forced at some stage. Then his gaze fell on the splintered hole on the other side of the doorway. He realised that the chain had been ripped from its fittings.

Cold fingers kneaded Carl’s insides. Dawud Ayoubi hadn’t opened the door at all. The murderer had thrown it wide - torn the chain right out of the wall.

Shit! The detective examined the damage. To do this, the killer would have to be incredibly strong, almost inhumanly so. Quickly, Carl checked the hinges. Yes - they also bore signs of stress, their screws partially pulled from the wood. The killer must have really hurled himself at this door.

Carl drew out his notepad and started scrawling feverishly. The killer could only have only hit the door once, because had he had thrown himself against it repeatedly, Ayoubi would not have been standing right behind it. Now, to completely mangle a security chain with only one strike ... Carl shook his head in disbelief.

Were they dealing with some crazed drug addict, high on meth? Carl knew that crystal decreased the ability to feel pain. But did it actually make people stronger?

Detective Rojas, Tom called from the back of the house. We’ve found a gun.

Carl spun from the door and marched into a small sunroom, now used as a storeroom. The sergeant stood beside a forensics officer, holding up a Remington hunting rifle, model 700. We found this hidden at the bottom of that cupboard. He motioned towards a scratched lowboy. But we don’t think it was involved in the crime.

Carl doubted it as well. If no shells could be found, it was unlikely the murder weapon was still in the vicinity. Add it to the collection. More important is the front door. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. It was held closed by a security chain when the killer threw it open. I want it examined thoroughly.

Right.

Carl left the room. The damaged door and broken chain were the important clues, not that hunting rifle. No doubt the weapon belonged to Ayoubi, and was probably unlicensed; a young man’s futile attempt to protect himself and his little family. The fact that he hadn't even managed to get to it proved an extremely dangerous killer was on the loose, someone Carl suspected would strike again.

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Chapter 2

Come on Abby - time to get up!

The cheerful voice tore down the flimsy shroud of dreams surrounding Abigail White, and dragged her towards unwanted reality. Slowly she sat up, cursing the effort that simple movement required. In dreams she was never sluggish and uncoordinated. She flew high above the earth, slender arms spread wide to embrace the heavens, wind streaming through her long reddish-brown hair...

Abby!

Angrily she shook the last of her dreams away. Daylight had returned to remind her just how useless she was. She rubbed grimy sleep from her eyes with her good hand, and looked up to meet the round, eternally cheerful face of her mother. It was framed with bouncy blonde curls, dyed that colour because it more easily matched the increasing grey streaks in her natural brown.

The maxim that fat people were jolly certainly applied to Lenore White. Almost as wide as she was tall, the short, forty-five year old woman was always smiling about something. She even grinned while washing up, a chore Abby always approached with a grimace. Now, Lenora smiled as she yanked down the blind over Abbey's window and let it shoot towards the top.

Mornin’, Abby mumbled, squeezing her eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of bright sunlight slanting across her bed.

It’s a beautiful day, Lenore continued as she flung open the window. Far too nice to be spent cooped up in this poky little room. She clapped her hands. I left the breakfast things out for you. Time you got moving for the day. She toddled out, leaving Abby to experience a cool morning breeze, and the trill of birdsong. The young woman liked to keep her room free of daylight and the outside world in general, hiding its untidiness under the gloom of two small lamps.

Because Lenore had made the mistake of letting Abby decorate her room herself, the young woman had chosen dark, chunky furniture from the early years of the Twentieth Century. A large three-doored wardrobe frowned down from one wall, its dark planes softened only slightly by the moody posters Abby had stuck on it. Her huge roll-top desk was hidden under a mass of papers and pens. Her bookshelves bowed beneath the weight of paperbacks and fat tomes on mysticism and the occult. Even her bed was in keeping with the room’s dark tone; a three-quarter single with a carved headboard like a basalt cliff-face.

If Lenore had permitted, Abby would have painted the walls black as well. But they had remained a creamy pink - made all the more cheerful by the rising sun.

Come on, Abby! her mother called from down the hall. If Abby had her way, she would sleep to midday, but like the war over Abby’s walls, Lenore had won this battle as well, urging her protesting daughter out of bed before eight every morning.

While at school and university, Abby had had cause to rise, but now that her studies were over, she couldn’t understand why her mother wouldn’t leave her alone. Does she really expect anyone to hire me? Abby asked herself. Luckily, Lenore only went so far as to place the daily newspaper on the kitchen table, and hadn’t mentioned the Job Centre for weeks. Abby had been for several interviews since graduating from her arts degree, but her gloomy attitude and sombre appearance ensured other jobseekers secured the position.

Abby shrugged out of her long black nightie, and replaced it with an almost identical dress. It whispered against the wooden floorboards as she limped towards her hulking dressing-table, yet another heavily carved artefact from a bygone era. Abby barely glanced at her reflection as she brushed her waist-length hair with. It framed a slender, heart-shaped face with delicate cheek-bones and chin; a face more suited to a girl who favoured pastels and subtle make-up. She had large hazel eyes with sleepy lids, and a small but full-lipped mouth. When she smiled, an extremely rare occurrence, one side drooped on account of the spasticity that affected the left side of her body.

With her slender build and long, willowy neck, she could have been much sought after by the opposite sex, but few boys saw past her limp and twisted left hand, which she always nestled close to her body like an injured bird. When she spoke, the true nature of her infirmity was revealed in a slow, slurred tone which so many found amusing. But Abby wasn’t interested in attracting a boyfriend. She was content to admire powerful male bodies from a distance, knowing they were far away enough not to hurt her.

She finished brushing her hair, so that her straight auburn bangs shone brilliantly; the one aspect of her appearance which did please her.

Outside her room lay a different world, dominated by her parents’ tastes. Abby thought the cheerful flower paintings and intricate ornaments horribly kitsch, but Lenore was forever dusting her endless dioramas of baby animals and Eighteenth Century figurines with their powdered wigs and red, cupid-bow mouths. Abby had learned long ago to walk very carefully around the buffets and side-tables on which they were arranged.

Lenore worked in the sunny modern kitchen, already preparing the evening meal. She had sent her husband off to work at seven-thirty, his lunch box and thermos full, as she had done all their married life. Charlie White worked at a local panel-beaters, doing what he loved best, getting himself dirty. A partner in Smarten up Smash Repairs, Charlie did as much of the work as his employees. His was as equally up-beat and cheerful as his wife, and neither parent could understand how they had managed to spawn such a morose daughter.

Abby poured cereal into her bowl. Some flakes spilled over the sides as she doused it with milk. Her disability was not conducive to gracefulness, and she knew it. Silently she began to eat.

This morning, I want you to go down to the shops to get a few things for me, Lenore began crisply. We’re nearly out of milk, sugar, tea and coffee.

Abby groaned.

I don’t know why you’re complaining. It’s a beautiful day, and you really do need to get out. You spend way too much time in your room.

Like my room, Abby mumbled. Nobody can hurt me in there, she thought. It’s my sanctuary, my own world where I can do whatever I want. But she couldn't say any of these things to her mother. Beautiful sentences whirled gracefully around her mind, but whenever she tried to speak, her uncooperative mouth broke them up and tore away their impact. At least her mother had stopped harping on about employment. Even the daily paper was conspicuously absent this morning.

Here’s the list. Lenore placed it on the table beside Abby. Don’t forget anything.

But I don’ wanna go out, Ma, Abby protested.

You’re twenty-two years old, Abby, an adult, not a child. How do you ever expect to get anywhere in life if you keep shutting yourself up like a hermit?

Inside my head I can go anywhere I like, she thought, but to her mother she said; Hate goin’ out. Hate bein’ stared at all the time. I jus’ wanna be lef’ alone. Why can’ people leave me alone? Why can’ you leave me alone? She pushed herself to her feet, lurching unsteadily. She had to grab the edge of the table for support. Her mother stepped in, taking hold of her slender arm.

Abby, for pity’s sake! You’re not the only one who gets stared at. You should count your blessings. You’re a very attractive young woman when you don’t bury yourself in this horrible black stuff! She tugged disdainfully at one of Abby's sleeves. And you can still walk and make yourself understood. Think of all the burn victims, deformed with pain, or quadriplegics stuck in wheelchairs who would love the use of your nice slim legs.

Abby didn’t bother with a response. She had heard it all before. Her mother was right of course. She was feeling sorry for herself. But years of taunts, jibes and downright cruelty throughout school and even university, made it difficult for her to shed the cloak of inadequacy she wore wrapped so tightly around her shoulders.

Now I have to go to work. Please get those things for me? She gestured towards the list resting on the shiny Formica table.

Abby nodded, and picked up the small piece of paper.

Good girl. Lenore turned and collected her handbag from one of the chairs on the other side of the table. She worked part-time as a bookkeeper for a firm of solicitors in the city, heading for the train station at eight-thirty every week-day except Friday.

After washing her bowl and placing it in the rack to dry, Abby collected a black purse from her room. Then she retrieved a vinyl shopping trolley from the hall cupboard, and left the double-brick federation-style house.

Beyond the terracotta tiled porch lay neatly pruned rows of flower beds and an immaculate lawn, lovingly tended by both parents. They loved the outdoors, but their weekends in the country had been whittled away by their daughter’s reluctance to go places where people stared. They now went alone, but Abby knew they felt guilty for not including her.

As she limped around Roselands' Coles, she kept her head down, avoiding the gazes of the people she passed. Nevertheless, the tactless voices of children still greeted her ears as she tossed groceries into her trolley.

Mummy, why’s that lady walking funny?

Shh Mary! Don’t point. It’s rude!

Abby scowled. She should have been used to that kind of thing by now. She had only put up with it all her life, but each stare and comment felt like an icy knife slicing through her lonely heart. No matter how hard she tried to ignore them, they still hurt - as much as they had on her first day at high school. What a nightmare that had been! Abby had to shake her head to clear it of the unpleasant memory.

The checkout lady tried to be helpful by unloading the groceries for her before running them through the scanner. But instead of feeling grateful, Abby was conscious of the extra time this took, and the impatient sighs of shoppers behind her made her cringe. As soon as the trolley was repacked, Abby hurried off as fast as her lopsided walk would allow, grateful that chore was finally over.

By the time she returned home, she felt physically and mentally drained, in no mood to return to the magnificent prose she had poured out last night. Instead she inserted