by Powers, AJ
Fearing for her sister’s life, Melody took several slow, deep breaths, forcing herself to calm down. As her breathing and heartrate slowed, her eyes rested on the sheathed knife attached to Wilks’s belt. There was no time to second-guess the dangerous move. Drawing in another deep breath, Melody reached out and grabbed the handle of the fixed blade. Wilks only registered her actions just before Melody drove the knife into his back.
The man screamed with a red-hot fury and threw his elbow back into Melody’s face, striking her nose. “You stupid whore!” he screeched, spinning around to attack.
Melody’s vision bounced with tears as the furious man lunged at her. Before he could reach her, though, a dark, blurry figure burst into the tent. Grabbing Wilks from behind, the figure pulled him into the dark abyss outside.
Wilks’s agonized screams morphed into gagging and wheezing. Seconds later, a disturbing silence once again fell over the camp, the rustling branches overhead the only sound reaching Melody’s ears.
She remained motionless, paralyzed with fear, trying to comprehend what just happened… what was still happening. “Tabitha!” she shrieked as she scrambled to her feet and leapt out of the tent. She tripped over a body just outside and smacked into the cold, wet ground. She scrambled back to her feet and franticly searched the area. The group of women were huddled next to the fire trying to calm and soothe each other. Melody’s shoulders dropped as relief flooded her when she saw her baby sister standing next to the fire, tightly embraced by the woman next to her.
“Are you okay?” a man’s voice asked from the shadows.
Melody recoiled from the voice and pointed the bloody blade that she didn’t realize was still in her hand. “Stay back or I’ll-I’ll kill you!”
“Calm down,” the man said as he slowly stepped into the firelight. He held his hands up, palms forward. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
Melody tried to steady the tremble in her hand as she studied the tall man in front of her. A red-checkered shemagh covered his mouth and nose while a pair of goggles mounted to his helmet obscured his eyes. He wore dark clothes and an armored vest with several rifle magazines attached to it. Just above the magazines was a patch with a strange emblem—a strange sort of skull and crossbones with angel wings and a hat. The crossbones were a pair of knives, and the words GROUND DIVISION stretched across the top.
“Like I said, we’re here to help,” the man repeated.
We? Melody heard herself ask in her head. He keeps saying we but I don’t—her thoughts were disrupted when she finally spotted a second figure lurking just behind the women, as if he was a sheepdog keeping himself between the flock and the wolves. Melody then saw the expression on the faces of the other women. Hope. For the first time since she and her sister had been taken, she saw hope in their eyes. The knife fell to the ground as Melody dropped to her knees weeping uncontrollably.
She and her sister had been spared.
The man stepped over and draped a blanket over her shoulders, covering her exposed body.
“Thank you,” she said through a whimper. “Thank you!” she cried again, staring at his boots. She then looked up at the man who was towering over her. “I’m Melody,” she said, genuine delight in her voice.
The man dipped his chin.
“Hagan.”
Chapter 2
Matthew Hagan quietly observed the bar from the darkened corner of the room, scrutinizing the subtle expressions and behavior of the people around him. He was deep inside enemy territory, armed only with his pistol. Hagan rarely ventured so far into the lion’s den, and when he did it was never in such a public setting. Ordinarily, he would have declined such a request. But Aileen insisted, and Hagan wasn’t keen on burning that bridge before he’d finished building it.
A lone man at the end of the bar locked eyes with Hagan for an instant before quickly looking away, trying his best to act nonchalant. He was in his mid-20’s, clean shaven and was very well-fed—a stark contrast with the rest of the patrons at the bar. Hagan had been eyeing him since he arrived fifteen minutes earlier. Despite ordering his beer as soon as he sat down, he hadn’t so much as lifted the mug as he busily listened in on the conversations around him.
I see ya, fink, Hagan said to himself as he memorized the man’s features, determining if he was a threat. When the outsider turned his not-so-subtle attention to a group of men cautiously looking over their shoulders as they whispered amongst themselves, Hagan decided he wasn’t going to be much trouble.
“Here ya go, brother,” Solomon said, handing Hagan a pint of beer.
“Thanks, Saul,” Hagan said, keeping his eyes on the big man across the room a moment longer. He accepted the drink from his friend and took a long pull of the brew.
Of all the people that still remained in the land that was once called America, Solomon Kidd was the only one Hagan trusted. They met at Fort Leonard Wood an eternity ago, and the two men spent most of their time in the Army assigned to the same unit. After a few tours in Afghanistan and one in Syria, the battle-hardened soldiers were brought into a clandestine group called the Ground Division, where they spent several years hopping from one sandbox to the next, doing the type of work no respectable government would ever take credit for. The commanding officer of Coyote Team—Hagan’s team—always referred to their group as “the Garbage Men” because their job was to take out the trash that regular Joes weren’t allowed to touch. Hagan took that job seriously. When evil came after the flock, it took a special breed of men to keep the wolves at bay. Wolves that most of the world never knew existed because of men like him.
Fighting with the Ground Division had trained Hagan to fight in this new world. While he and Solomon were sappers with the 1st Infantry Division, he was always just one radio call away from artillery, airstrikes and numerous other tactical amenities that he lacked in the Ground Division. Since their work was not exactly viewed as legal among the members of the United Nations, supplying a group of government mercs with an A-10 strafing run or a show of force from an F-15E Strike Eagle was a luxury rarely granted to them. The lack of resources forced Hagan and the other men in the covert group to be resourceful and think on their feet. If they needed something done, it was up to them, and them alone, to make it happen. Sometimes, it meant temporary alliances with bad men, other times, it meant making choices that should have earned them two life sentences at Leavenworth. Hagan endured countless sleepless nights from some of the decisions he’d been forced to make during his tenure with the Ground Division, but that was war. And war was ugly. It was rarely black and white and, sometimes, the ends had to justify the means.
Solomon knew that better than anyone else, which was why he was the only person Hagan asked to join him on his crusade of retribution. They were in a war with no end in sight, and Hagan would rather no other man by his side than his old friend from a world that no longer existed. A past long-forgotten.
“Ya know, I kind of like this place,” Solomon said, his nostalgic gaze moving across the old, Irish-themed bar. “Kind of reminds me of that little pub Tommy took us to whenever we were in Beantown.”
Hagan nodded as he recalled the Boston pub. “Yeah, it does. Beer’s not too shabby, either,” he said before taking another pull of the amber liquid.
“Best brew I’ve had in quite a few years,” Solomon agreed.
Before the men were halfway finished with their drinks, a tall, broad man stepped through an obscured door behind the bar. His neatly pressed khaki pants and dark sports coat with a pocket square would have commanded the attention of all the guests had he not remained in the shadows. The man scanned the bar, running his fingers over his graying goatee. Significant scarring on his bald head was noticeable when he rested his eyes on Hagan and dipped his chin.
“I think that’s my cue,” Hagan said, nodding back at the guy.
Solomon did a quick glance around the room. “I assume you already saw the hall monitor at the end of the bar…”
“Yeah.
Not very subtle, is he?”
Solomon chuckled. “Might as well have whiskers and a tail.”
Hagan took one last sip of his beer before setting it down on the table and standing from his chair. “All right, Saul, make sure things don’t get out of control down here. I’ll be back in a few.”
“Consider it done.”
As Hagan weaved between tables and inebriated customers stumbling up to the bar for another drink, he deftly slipped his hand inside his jacket and felt a sense of relief as his fingers brushed over the handle of his FN Five-Seven. Aileen’s intelligence on the girls had been solid, but that wasn’t enough to keep Hagan from raising his hackles. Experience had taught him to be wary of anyone unexpectedly reaching out to work together. Especially when they shared no mutual friends. After all, Hagan was a wanted man with a sizable bounty on his head, and for someone not to capitalize off such a reward either meant the money wasn’t worth it to them—which was hard to imagine for most people in Alexandria—or their hatred for the regime was greater than money.
Despite his best efforts, intel on Aileen O’Connor was hard to come by. One thing was very clear, however. The woman had connections. Connections that Hagan needed. Connections that could revive the cold trail he’d been on for the last two years. That alone made it worth the risk. Even though she had the potential to be his best asset inside Alexandria, it would take months, if not years of them working together for a true level of trust to form. And until that moment arrived, Hagan would never meet with Aileen without a plan to kill her, and every one of her associates in the room, if something in the air didn’t smell right.
Trust was funny like that.
The bald man returned to the door as Hagan approached.
“How long’s his beer been full?” the man asked as Hagan stepped through the door.
“Since he got it about twenty minutes ago.”
The man nodded and peeked back out into the bar before turning to lead Hagan down a dimly lit corridor. As they reached a door flanked by a pair of guards at the end of the hall, Hagan’s escort turned to one of the armed men. “We got a rodent problem at B-Seven. Fat man, blue ballcap. Take care of it,” he said to his subordinate.
“Yes sir,” the guard replied before leaving his post and going through a different set of doors halfway down the hall.
The remaining guard placed his thumb on a biometric scanner—an illegal one, from the looks of it—and opened the door. Hagan once again fell in line behind the man as they climbed a flight of stairs.
“You guys deal with a lot of rodents here?” Hagan asked.
The man shrugged. “A few times a week,” he said casually, as if having government snitches in his bar just came with the job.
“You deal with them all the same way?”
The man laughed. “Hell no. They aren’t exactly hoplites, but they’re still on the regime’s payroll. If too many go missing in our district, its gonna raise some eyebrows,” the man said as he climbed up the last step. “It’s better to let the rats snitch on a couple drunk laborers every now and then than to disappear each one that drags his balls through the door and draw a lot of unwanted attention our way.
“Wise approach,” Hagan replied.
“Now, if it were up to me,” the man continued, “I’d personally strangle each and every one of the traitorous assholes until they were blue,” he said with conviction. “But, fortunately for them, it’s not up to me,” he said, gesturing at a set of steel double doors ahead. As if on cue, three loud clanks echoed down the hall as the heavy locks on the doors disengaged. “After you,” the man said, opening the door and waving his hand inside.
Hagan stepped into the grand room on the other side of the doors and saw a petite redhead sitting behind a large, walnut desk. The room’s décor was more fitting for a fortune 500 executive than a criminal enterprise—a stark contrast from the rest of the building. From the wood-paneled ceiling and recessed lighting to the pair of oversized, pre-war leather couches, the office screamed of elegance. Aileen’s ability to afford such luxurious items—many of which were considered contraband—meant she was either deeper in bed with the regime than Hagan anticipated, or she was good at what she did. Perhaps both.
“Well, well, well… Typhon... It’s nice to finally meet the man behind the legend,” the woman said, greeting Hagan in the middle of the room with a delicate yet firm handshake. She then turned to the bald man to Hagan’s left, “Wilford, I noticed on the security cameras that there’s a man at the end of the bar…”
“Already taken care of, Ms. O’Connor,” the man assured.
Aileen smiled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth and a pair of sexy dimples. “That’s why I’m glad I hired you, Wilford. You’re always two steps ahead of me.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“So,” the redhead continued, shifting her focus back on Hagan. “Typhon… Assuming you aren’t the son of Gaia, why the name?” she asked.
“Aren’t you a little young to know Greek mythology,” Hagan asked, cracking a smile at the beautiful young woman, whom he guessed wasn’t even quite thirty.
Aileen flashed a smile back. “I like to learn, Mr. Typhon. Because knowledge, when properly wielded, is more powerful than any weapon a man can carry.”
“Tell that to the scumbags back in the Ozarks,” Hagan retorted.
Aileen laughed and slowly nodded her head. She spun around on the ball of her foot and walked back to her desk, gesturing for Hagan to take a seat across from her before sitting in her white leather, Aurora Executive chair. She leaned forward and propped her elbows on the desk, resting her chin on her folded hands. “My contacts in the Texas Alliance confirmed that the abducted women are all safe and sound back in their homes,” she said as she slid an envelope of cash across the desk. “Here’s a little thank you for your troubles,” she added.
“That’s not necessary, Ms. O’Connor. I never need money as an incentive to put down a couple dogs like that.”
“Well, consider it a bonus for a job well done, then,” she inched the envelope even closer to Hagan. “I don’t believe in receiving charity, Mr. Typhon. When someone does a job for me, I pay them.”
Hagan relented and took the envelope, stuffing it in his inside jacket pocket. “So, why do you care so much about a couple of girls from the Texas Alliance? You know them?”
Aileen shook her head. “Nope, but I have my reasons. And among them was to see if you were as good as my client said you were,” she replied as she pulled a manilla folder out of a drawer. “And I must say, you and your friend hunting down those traffickers in the middle of nowhere was quite impressive.”
Hagan ignored the compliment. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘client?’” His back stiffened in his chair and his eyes narrowed in on Aileen’s. “I didn’t realize I was participating in a three way.”
“Trust me. You’re going to be glad you got invited to this party…” Aileen slid the folder across the table.
“What’s this?” Hagan asked, picking up the folder and looking inside. After a quick glance, Hagan determined it was a shipping manifest. Food. Medicine. Weaponry. Technology. It was a score of a lifetime. But, more importantly, it would be quite the haymaker on the regime’s jaw.
“Your cut is twenty-five percent.”
“For doing a hundred percent of the work...?” Hagan shot back.
“Do you have the ability to move that much merchandise on your own?” Aileen rebutted. When Hagan didn’t respond, she smirked and nodded her head. “That’s what I thought.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “And trust me, Mr. Typhon, you have the easy part. All you have to do is board the ship, take control, and then dock it. My crew will take it from there. Then, you can grab your cut from our warehouse whenever you please. I won’t even charge you rent,” she said with a wink.
Aileen’s offer was generous, even though Hagan acted offended with twenty-five percent. Most of his deals came at a flat ten percent rate,
and typically not for merchandise nearly as high quality, which got more impressive with each page he flipped through the manifest. As Hagan turned over the last page, he noticed a yellow sticky note on the back of the envelope. It was a name and an address. Hagan peeled the note off and held it up. “Who’s this?”
“My client knows why you came to Alexandria, Mr. Typhon. He knows why you’re here and that your trail went cold more than a year ago. As a sign of good faith, he’s giving you a way to get back on that path.” She opened a metal cigarette case and stuck a thin, white cigarette in her mouth, flicked open a Zippo and lit the cigarette, taking a long drag as she closed her eyes. She let the smoke pass leisurely through her ruby-red lips as she returned her focus on Hagan. “My client told me to tell you that that’s just the beginning. So long as you and your friend continue to do good work, he’ll keep feeding you names until you’re able to finally get the answers you’ve been looking for.”
Hagan stared at the name and address for several seconds. There was doubt.
“Feel free to check it out for yourself to confirm, but it’ll have to wait. That boat will be coming up the Mississippi in less than twelve hours. If you want more names, you better deliver on this one.”
Hagan nodded. “All right. We’ll get it done.”
Aileen took another drag on her cigarette and smiled. “See? I told you you’d be glad we invited you to this party.” She stood up from her chair and began walking Hagan to the heavy, steel doors on the other side of the room. “Wilford will make sure you have everything you need for tonight.”
The bald man nodded.
“Good luck, Mr. Typhon,” Aileen said, offering another handshake. Her thumb slid seductively across the back of Hagan’s hand, taking the gesture from professional to personal for just a brief moment. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”