God Touched - 01 by John Conroe Read Free Book Online Page A

generally scraped up appearance.
    “My name is Deckert, I run the daytime shift.” His voice was level, not friendly, not hostile, all business. A straight-forward, mission first operator.  I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.    “ I’m gonna go out on a limb here and surmise that was a demon?” he asked.  I nodded, still trying to catch my breath.   “It didn’t show up on the monitors,” he stated.  
    “They can cloak themselves,” I panted.  One eyebrow raised but that was it.  Just another day at the office for him.
    “ My employer would like y ou to hang out till she…arrives, ” he stated, making it sound like a real good idea.
      Right then my chest started to vibrate.  “Wait one please, Mr. Deckert” I replied.  My cell was lit up with a text message from ‘Peter G’.
    r u free for cleansing t-nite? 
    Peter Gillian ran a local paranormal investigation group. He obviously had a problem entity that normal exorcism had failed to remove.  Pete acted as my clearing house for these kinds of things, only bringing me in when it was really bad.
    I texted a reply :
    How bad?
    He came right back:
    Kid in danger!
    Kids were often the target of demonic entities and always co mmanded my immediate attention.  My response was immediate.
    Needs be tonite. shift change t-mrow.
    8PM?
    With Bells on!
    He sent me an address on Second Avenue, not too many blocks from my apartment.
    Deckert was watching, arms crossed, evaluating me.
    “Mr. Deckert, I’ll have to decline your employer’s request at this time.  I have another matter to attend to.”
    He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at me, as he considered my response.  His men closed in around us.  Many private security types in the City are ex-cops.  Not these guys.  Deckert and the rest of his guards were blatantly ex-military types.  Marine Force Recon, SEALs, Spec Ops, Army Rangers and that ilk.  Growing up to be a demon hunter, I had fantasized about getting that kind of training.  Learning to kill bad guys with drinking straws and camel patties, improvising explosives from twenty dollars worth of convenience store items, rappelling down 30 story buildings on a batman utility belt.  Useful stuff like that.  The problem had always been one of time commitment.  Military basic training was like six months, twelve months for more specialized stuff, three and four year tours of duty, that sort of thing.  It added up to some real time.  I get two to four visions per month, each requiring a foray into the stuff of nightmares, hunting down things that inspire serial killers.  Near as I could figure, most military units frowned on trainees popping out of camp to cap some monster in a meat shell.  So, Gramps and I did the best we could with what we had.  When I was thirteen, I shut down a minor demon that was haunting a family in Potsdam.  The dad was an ex-Ranger, who had been totally helpless to protect his own family.  He threw himself into training me with everything he could, calling in favors to have other guys come by and help educate me.  I enrolled in every martial arts school in the area, wrestled on the high school team, and played football.  In football, I played safety and the guys I hit went down hard enough to lose memory.  I was playing only to learn how to take down stronger, faster people.  To me it was life or death.
    The local cops were on board after I helped with a Hellbourne who wounded two cops and slashed a housewife.  I was the only fourteen-year-old who regularly had firearms training with the sheriff’s department Special Response Team.
     
    Deckert’s men moved in to restrain me, and my adrenaline ramped up. This would be interesting.  The group opened a bit and a guard came through with about a hundred and ten pounds of German Shepherd straining its leash.   Dogs don’t scare me.  Mostly ‘cause they haven’t made one that will bite me.  I think it must be God’s