The Logos Code
The Logos Code
Book Three of the Dark Horizon Trilogy
Duncan Simpson
Contents
1 John 1:1
Prologue
Part I
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
Part II
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
Part III
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
Part IV
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Epilogue
Mark 11: 27-30
Afterword
You Can Make A Big Difference
Book 1 - The History of Things to Come
Book 2 - The Devil’s Architect
Bibliography
Acknowledgments
Team Blake
About the Author
FREE STARTER LIBRARY
1 John 1:1
* * *
In the beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was with God, and the Logos was God.
Prologue
Nasiriyah, 215 miles south-east of Baghdad, Iraq
Fifteen Years Ago
Enoch Hart narrowed his eyes against the sun and followed the black smoke as it mushroomed up into the sky. Smoking shreds of blackened paper drifted across his vision like confetti. The air was as hot as a furnace, and the clawing stench of war filled his nostrils. He rubbed his mouth and felt his lips crack in the dry, unrelenting heat.
The three surviving members of the SAS team were huddled behind a burned-out Toyota pickup truck in the middle of a heavily shelled road on the outskirts of Nasiriyah. On both sides of the road lay ruined buildings. Shop fronts had been reduced to crumbling shells of exposed brickwork and shattered masonry.
The mission had been simple but not easy: take out an insurgent-held communications centre and then get to the extraction point before the enemy knew what hit them. Taking out the target had gone like clockwork. However, due to faulty intelligence concerning the strength of enemy numbers, their escape was now spinning out of control. The hornet’s nest had been truly kicked, and all hell was breaking loose around them.
Disguised in Arab dress, the elite soldiers of 22 SAS Regiment reloaded their weapons and assessed their dwindling options under the blazing Iraqi sun. Less than forty-eight hours ago, they had been training in the famous ‘Killing House’ facility at SAS headquarters in leafy Herefordshire, England. Now, they were breathing in the choking dust of an Iraqi war zone.
‘Got to get off this bloody road!’ shouted Hart to the two other men as he racked the cocking bolt of his weapon.
On the opposite side of the street, the barrel of a machine gun edged out and right-angled itself around the corner of a wall. It let off a ragged burst of gunfire. A flurry of bullets zipped overhead and thudded into a wall on the other side of the road.
‘Any ideas?’ cried the squad leader as he adjusted his dark wraparound sunglasses.
Hart rubbed his dripping neck and motioned to a large building fifty feet down the road. ‘Over there. We might be able to bust out the back.’
Resting the barrel of his weapon against the truck, the third SAS man in the group followed Hart’s line of vision down the optical sight of his machine gun. With the side of his bearded face still snug against the weapon, he concurred with Hart’s proposal. ‘Looks like it’s our only play.’
It was a crapshoot, but if they didn’t move soon, they would be all out of options.
‘Okay,’ called out the squad leader while risking a glance over the roof of the truck. Through the shimmering reflection of the asphalt road ahead, he could make out movement. ‘Hostiles, maybe a dozen, at least one heavy machine—’ His voice was drowned out by the ripping blast of a sniper rifle fired from high on the building opposite.
Hart felt something splatter against his cheek. He whirled around to see his comrade crumple to the ground. Blood bubbled up from behind a smoking bullet hole in the squad leader’s sunglasses. It quickly pooled around his head in a crimson halo. Hart was immediately on his knees assessing the injury, but it was hopeless. The sniper round had torn through the soldier’s head.
Hart and the other SAS man locked eyes, and a steely determination grew in their faces. Together, they mouthed a hurried countdown and then bolted in the direction of the building. A fraction of a second later, the place erupted in gunfire. Bullets tore effortlessly through the side of the truck, punching lines of holes into the metal panelling. Searing rounds whizzed and zipped around them as bursts of gunfire cut through the air.
The two SAS men returned fire as they ran, the rat-a-tat of their weapons deafening in their ears. Out of the corner of his eye, Hart glimpsed shapes closing in on the pickup truck behind them. He gritted his teeth and willed himself forwards. They were now only twenty feet away. His chest burned as his feet scrambled over the loose terrain towards the building.
Fifteen feet.
Raking gunfire churned up the dust all around their feet as they ran.
Ten.
They vaulted over the low wall surrounding the building.
Five.
Almost there.
Skidding to a stop, the two men simultaneously grabbed for the door handle.
Then, a muzzle flashed from the opposite side of the road. A boom echoed off the surrounding buildings, and Hart heard the sickening sound of shattering bone feet away from him. An instant later blood misted the door. Hart’s comrade collapsed to the ground. His legs kicked out with a violent spasm before his body went slack. Another loud shot and a bullet whizzed past Hart’s cheek. It drilled a hole through the wooden doorframe in an explosion of splinters.
Hart turned and aimed his weapon wildly at the invisible enemy. Before he could get a round off, he felt the searing punch of a bullet cut across the top of his left arm. He was a sitting duck. Pain spiked through him as he tore open the door. Almost falling through, he slammed it shut and locked the bolt behind him. With dread spilling through him, Hart scrambled away from the
door.
For an instant there was silence, and then came an explosion of sound. Bullet holes riddled the door, sending pencils of light in random directions. As Hart fell to the ground for cover, pain lashed along his left side. Desperately, he felt the shredded material of his jacket. His fingertips came away stained red. Cursing, he raised himself onto his elbow and craned his head to the roof. In the gloom, his eyes slowly adjusted to his new surroundings. He was momentarily puzzled. Unlike its bare exterior, the inside of the building was elaborately adorned with gold and blue paint. A striking fresco of a man’s face stared down from the roof. It looked like the face of a religious icon. Was this a church?
The sound of raking gunfire tearing into the fabric of the building snapped him back to his senses. There was no back door or rear window. He was trapped. He shook the pain from his head and quickly reloaded his weapon.
Moving closer to one of the simple windows at the front, Hart snatched a glance outside, trying to evaluate the positions of the enemy. Almost instantly he shrank away from the window at what met his eyes. Close to the pickup truck, an insurgent heaved a rocket-propelled grenade launcher onto his shoulder. Panic raced through Hart’s body as he clocked the weapon and frantically scrambled over to the opposite wall.
His eyes darted around the room and landed on a small piece of carpet in the centre of the floor. One of its corners was folded over to reveal the edge of a brass grille set flush into the floor tiles. Hart dashed over and tore back the mat to reveal the grille underneath. He could see steps leading down into a basement. Using his weapon as a lever, he worked it open and slid it to one side.
As he lowered himself through the hole, his world erupted in a storm of flying brick. A rolling shockwave of rubble, smoke and flame threw Hart forward down the steps. He tumbled downwards, his vision exploding in white light as his body slammed against the hard edge of the steps. He came to rest face up in a cloud of floating dust, his arm unnaturally twisted up under his back.
Slowly he blinked his eyes open. For a moment, everything skewed in his vision, with shapes blurring in and out of view. He heard the echo of a disembodied voice and saw a swirling confusion of forms around him. Then a hazy silhouette materialised from the mist. It was a man. Hart felt himself drifting away, as he strained to focus on the outline of the figure bearing down on him. The man wore a white robe, like a monk.
Part One
Mark 11:27-30 New International Version (NIV)
They arrived again in Jerusalem, and while Jesus was walking in the temple courts, the chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders came to him. “By what authority are you doing these things?” they asked. “And who gave you authority to do this?” Jesus replied, “I will ask you one question. Answer me, and I will tell you by what authority I am doing these things. John’s baptism - was it from heaven, or of human origin? Tell me!”
One
London England
Present Day
* * *
A full moon hung heavy in the sky, casting a ghostly pale light across the front facade of St Anne’s Church, Limehouse. Designed by Christopher Wren’s troubled apprentice, Nicholas Hawksmoor, in 1727, St Anne’s stood like a brooding white fortress. Striking in profile, the church projected a strange almost threatening aura that penetrated the thick, humid night air hanging over the East End of London.
Five figures hurried silently across the graveyard, weaving a path through the pallid gravestones to the strange stone pyramid standing at its centre. The Apprentice looked up at the fifteen-foot curiosity and felt its powerful presence dominate his senses. Each face of the pyramid was divided into five carved panels, onto which was chiselled a series of arcane symbols and letters. The Teacher ushered the Apprentice closer to the bizarre object.
‘Your initiation is almost complete,’ said the shadowy figure. ‘Now it is time for you to understand your true purpose. The pyramid was left to us by Nicholas Hawksmoor, an earthly ambassador of the Dark King,’ he said reverently. ‘The writings carved into the stone are the true telling of the books of Genesis and Revelation; how the Heavens and the Earth were created and how the End of Days will come to pass. Come closer. The inscriptions become easier to see in the moonlight.’
The Teacher pointed up to the lettering on the pyramid side closest to them. The top panel was inscribed with ‘The Logos.’ Carved into the panels beneath were lines of Hebrew lettering and a myriad of occult symbols.
‘This side tells of the Creation. It is written in their Bible, that God spoke the spell of the Logos and brought all of creation into being. From the very beginning, God wanted total control, to imprison existence in a cage of His own will. First he commanded Heaven into being; a place of perfect conformity, His rigid symmetry cancelling out all inconsistency. Then He created the Cosmos and the Earth to His exact design.
‘Then from the void, the Dark King compelled himself into existence; a glorious aberration in the fabric of Heaven. The Dark King’s power grew rapidly, sending out a wave of instability throughout God’s creation, threatening to shatter its very structure. Angered by the opposition to His will, God expelled the Dark King from Heaven, throwing him to the Earth in a lightning bolt.’
The gaze of the Apprentice zigzagged down the lightning symbol carved faintly into the stone.
‘We are all children of that expulsion,’ said the Teacher earnestly while laying a heavy hand on the Apprentice’s shoulder. ‘But before the Dark King was cast out, he created a backdoor in the foundations of Heaven that would allow for his return. Once back on his rightful throne, the Dark King will demolish God’s order and bring Heaven and the world under his dominion.’
The Apprentice felt his breathing quicken. ‘But how?’
‘Through the Logos Stone and the Rod of Aaron,’ instructed the Teacher.
The Apprentice’s expression tightened with concentration.
‘The Logos Stone contains the key to the backdoor, and the Rod creates a connection between the Heaven and Earth that will allow the Dark King to return from exile. Once we have found these two relics, the Dark King will take his throne and we will sit at his right hand.’
‘Where are the relics?’ the Apprentice asked eagerly.
‘They are here in London,’ answered the Teacher slowly.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because the Dark King has returned to claim them.’
Two
‘You’re going to be late,’ shouted Vincent Blake as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Sarah, Blake’s thirteen-year-old daughter, rumbled down the stairs, dragging a rucksack behind her. She skidded to a halt next to her dad by the open front door.
‘Got everything?’ he asked.
Her nose crinkled as she remembered. ‘Noorjehan’s makeup mirror.’
‘It’s in my pocket,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You left it on the kitchen table.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So, there are boys at this camp, right?’
‘Dad!’ Sarah protested, her large almond eyes displaying a pained expression.
‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’ Sarah picked up the car keys from the soap dish by the door and tossed them to her father.
Blake grabbed them out of the air and ushered Sarah outside. After locking the front door, they hurried towards the red Alfa Romeo 155 parked on the other side of the road. He patted his newly repaired car like an old family pet. The roof panel gleamed in the morning sunlight. It looked as good as new. Blake unlocked the car and threw the rucksack into the back before settling into the driver’s seat.
‘Don’t forget the sun cream. It looks like it’s going to be a hot week.’
‘Dad, stop fretting,’ said Sarah as she fastened her seatbelt. ‘Can we please go? The coach leaves in fifteen minutes.’
Blake shot his daughter a faint smile. ‘Yes, madam, your driver awaits.’ He twisted the key. There was a grinding noise, but the engine didn’t catch. He tried it again, this time applying more pre
ssure to the accelerator. The same laboured noise hacked back from beneath the hood. Sarah threw her dad a long sideways glance. Blake gripped his hand tightly around the steering wheel and straightened up in his seat. ‘Come on,’ he said, turning the key for a third time. The engine coughed a couple of times and finally shuddered into life. Blake pumped the gas pedal and the engine roared.
‘Classic cars can be a bit temperamental,’ he said over the throaty sound of the exhaust. A smile lifted the corners of Sarah’s mouth as sheer relief unstiffened her muscles. Blake dumped the clutch and they sped off down the street.