The Creed (Book 1): The Hunt

by Powers, AJ

“Son of a bitch…” Mason mumbled, still staring at the picture.

  “That image was taken of a drunk on the sidewalk two blocks away from the victim’s building. It was taken at 2357, and by the next flyby at 0117, he was gone.”

  “What’d the forensics team say?”

  “Preliminary results give it an 82% match of our known photos of Typhon. However, it’s a 97% match based on the description the witnesses gave. Whoever this guy is, it’s pretty likely he killed Jericho Stephens. The question is, was it Typhon? And if so, why the hell would he go after a small-time drug peddler like this?

  Mason, his body now very awake from the adrenaline of the hunt, began tapping away on his tablet as he started digging through the evidence the on-scene detectives submitted.

  “Next steps, boss?” Winters asked.

  “Have our guys pay a visit to the evidence locker and collect everything that Detective…” Mason paused as he flicked up on the tablet screen a few times, reaching the top of the report, “Wallace found at the scene. Then get some of our guys back out at the apartment to do another sweep. I know Wallace. He’s as competent as a two-legged horse. He probably missed something. I want to know what.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Do you have an address for the three witnesses?”

  “It’s on the report.”

  “Meet me over there at 0800. Maybe there’s something more we can get out of them.”

  “Yes sir. See you there first thing.”

  Mason tapped on the END CALL button and set his phone down. He stood up and reached for his coat on the back of his chair. Kayla looked up from her book, a frown stretching across her face.

  “What are you doing?” she asked wearily, though she already knew the answer.

  “Sorry, Kay, but I need to get to the office. Some things going on that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

  With a look of petulance, she shook her head. “You bring the office home with you every night. Can’t you do it here?” she protested.

  “Sorry. There’s tools and equipment there that I don’t have here. And it really can’t wait.

  Kayla said nothing more; she just returned to her book. The icy shoulder she gave her husband was cemented when he leaned across the back of the couch to kiss her and, instead, got her cheek.

  “I love you, Kay,” he said.

  “Love you, too,” she replied, her eyes remaining on the pages of the book.

  “Give Robyn a kiss for me when she wakes up,” Mason said as he headed for the door.

  “Mmmhmmm,” she responded bitterly.

  Mason locked up and headed to the elevator. In the garage, he walked quickly toward the red sedan that was issued to him yesterday, trying to shrug off Kayla’s icy response. He didn’t blame her. Since joining the hoplites four years ago, just a day after his 21st birthday, his days at the office were long—not to mention dangerous—and his time at home was often filled with reports and other administrative paperwork. Being assigned to this new task force would only exacerbate those issues, but Mason knew that Typhon would only be a problem for so long. Then, after everything passed and the dust settled, things would get better. He looked forward to those days. To be able to spend more time with his wife and daughter. To be a more involved husband and father. But more importantly, to make it out alive so that he could be those things to them, unlike his own father, who was a Marine killed in action when Mason was just a young boy.

  As Mason buckled into his car, he said aloud, “Delta-whiskey-one-one-four-seven-charlie-delta.”

  “Authorizing,” the onboard computer replied. “Authorization complete. Good morning, Lieutenant Mason. Where would you like to go?”

  It was going to be a long night, but Mason was confident this was the next step to greater things.

  Chapter 8

  Hagan stretched his arm across the table and grabbed another box of ammo. He tore open the flaps and immediately began thumbing the 4.6x30mm cartridges into the top of the magazine. The tips were painted black on the end of each bullet indicating a steel core lay beneath the copper jacket. After maxing out the capacity, Hagan slammed the magazine home inside the handle of the Heckler & Koch MP7 and set it aside as he began filling the six spares.

  Khavari was going to be a much bigger challenge than some low-level scumbag like Jericho Stevens, and Hagan would be foolish to walk into the situation with just a .45 strapped to his hip. At the same time, though, he needed to blend in with the people that would be surrounding him during his trip. The compact MP7 machine pistol was a perfect solution since it could easily penetrate Level III body armor at a devastating 950 rounds per minute, yet it was small enough to carry comfortably under his winter jacket. Most Secret Service agents, especially those on presidential detail, carried the German gun on a shoulder slings beneath their suit jackets, ready to dish out a serious dose of carnage within seconds of a threat appearing. Hagan and Solomon had snagged a pair of the guns from a safe house back in Alabama as America began its downward spiral. They also grabbed just over 3,000 rounds of 4.6mm, though time whittled that number down to under 500—even less now as he topped off the first of the spare magazines.

  The cell phone on the table rang, an unknown number calling. Wilford gave Hagan the phone as he was leaving Aileen’s. He was told to keep it on him at all times, which Hagan did. But the man never said anything about answering it. And, right now, Hagan had bigger things to worry about than another smash and grab for the redheaded woman.

  Hagan looked up as the door to the small, remote cabin in the woods opened, an icy breeze whooshing inside. Solomon stepped out of the cold and stomped the snow off his boots. “Man, it’s getting ridiculous outside. Hope that rusty POS doesn’t break down on me today or it’s gonna be a long, sucky walk home.” Solomon stepped over to the table and peeked inside the ammo can. “That the last of the four-point-six?”

  Hagan dipped his chin. “Yep.”

  Solomon let out a grunt. “Guess we should probably pay Marcus another visit sometime soon. You think he’s still up in Champaign?”

  “Last I heard, he was. Let’s plan a trip when things warm up a bit, in case that ‘rusty POS’ breaks down along the way,” Hagan joked about the Ford Ranger they’d been keeping on life support the past five years.

  Solomon grinned and nodded his head. “Sounds good,” he said, picking up a box of supplies off the floor.

  “That all of it?” Hagan asked.

  “Yep. Can’t believe we’ve still got a whole storage locker full of this stuff,” Solomon remarked.

  Aileen held up her end of the bargain and gave Hagan and Solomon access to a quarter of the hijacked goods from the ship. There was far more food and clothing than would be useful for the two of them, and a decent supply of Russian and Chinese-made guns, including an RPD belt-fed machine gun. There was even a pair of portable manpads with a few spare missiles. But it was the medicine that Hagan was most excited about. Dozens of cases of antibiotics, pain killers and other pharmaceuticals that were not readily available to the common man of Alexandria. Even less so to those who chose to live a quiet life of independence in the Outlands, which was where Solomon was trekking off to.

  “Why don’t you come with me? We can go after Khavari together when we get back,” Solomon said, setting the box down on the table Hagan was working at.

  “Can’t risk the trail going cold again,” Hagan replied, shaking his head no.

  “Come on, man,” Solomon sighed. “The trail ain’t gonna go cold over the next few days, and you know it. It would do you some good to go back and see everyone.” Solomon paused for a moment and sat down, resting his folded hands on the table. “Samaya asks about you every time I go back, ya know. You really need to go see her.”

  Hagan ignored the comment and continued stacking ammunition into the magazine.

  “So, did you just forget that creed you had tattooed on your arm, then?”

  Solomon’s remark cut deep, but Hagan kept busy and tri
ed not to show his best friend that he was right on target. Solomon wasn’t wrong, Hagan did need to go back and visit the village again, but not yet. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t imagine looking any one of them in the eye—especially Samaya—until he could tell them, “I got the bastards.” But more than that, Hagan wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his cool around her father, whom he blamed just as much for Benjamin’s death as he blamed the men who pulled the trigger. Going back now was not an option.

  Without looking up, Hagan said, “You better get moving if you want to get there by dark.”

  Solomon pushed back from the table and stood to his feet. Trying to reason with the only man he truly looked at as family one last time, he said, “I get it, brother. I do. You don’t want to see them right now. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a bad idea to go behind enemy lines without someone watching your six. It’s not just hoplites you gotta worry about in that part of town. The Civvies will likely be on patrol that close to downtown, not to mention the Raza Reyes are probably close by, too.”

  Hagan looked up at Solomon, his defiant expression telling Solomon everything he needed to know.

  “Fine. Just don’t be stupid about it. If something doesn’t feel right, walk away, man, and we’ll come up with an alternate after I get back.”

  Hagan nodded. “You know I won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Right,” Solomon said dryly. “Matthew Hagan is very well known for his safe, cautious approach to life.”

  “You’re one to talk, Saul,” Hagan said with a smirk. “Wasn’t it you that jumped out of that second-story window into the back of a moving technical to make sure your target didn’t get away?”

  Solomon suppressed a smile. “Nah, man. That must’ve been some other black Jew you’re thinking of.”

  “Hah!” Hagan cackled. “Because there were just so many of you guys on Coyote Team.

  Solomon’s façade finally cracked, and the corners of his lips tugged upward. “Just be safe, Matt,” the man said before walking outside.

  Hagan listened as the truck engine cranked for several long seconds before finally turning over. It idled in the gravel driveway for a while, slowly warming up in preparation for the long trip southwest. The village was less than 300 miles away, but the drive would take at least eight to ten hours with all the check points, debris-blocked passages, and flat-out destroyed bridges he’d need to detour. And that was if the weather didn’t deteriorate any further.

  He shrugged off the problems facing Solomon and returned his thoughts to his own challenges ahead. The entire operation was going to have to be made up on the go. Aileen was kind enough to get him an address but had no other intel to offer. Staking out the place ahead of time would be suicide because of its high-end location. Hagan realized it would be impossible to conceal his identity in such an area without raising a few eyebrows, which meant Alexandria would finally have a full picture of his face. However, they were all calculated risks he was willing to take.

  It would probably take the AI a few hours to collect enough photos to come up with an accurate profile of Hagan, then probably another hour or two to put the puzzle pieces together. Hagan assumed it would take less than an hour for a human to review the findings before the CRG’s were dispatched to his location. In a perfect world, Hagan would be on his way back home with a few more names long before the Civvies arrived on scene...

  But the world was a far cry from perfect.

  Chapter 9

  The car swayed and rocked as the train’s automated brakes gradually applied. Moments later, the AI-controlled conductor announced their next stop, the braking intensified. Hagan suppressed a yawn and checked his watch. It was half past noon. He’d left shortly after Solomon, just before dawn, and rode one of their ATV’s as far north as he dared before stashing the off-road vehicle in a long-abandoned barn near an old county highway. He hoofed it the rest of the way on foot, reaching a train station in one of the slums around 10:30. After slipping past a few security guards, including bribing a young, naïve man with a pack of cigarettes, Hagan boarded the Chicago-style Ell train that was now squealing to a stop at his destination.

  A soft melody played over the speakers twice, then a woman’s voice said, Now arriving at… Cass Avenue. Remember: You work hard for the Council so that the Council can work hard for you. Have a great day!

  Hagan bit his tongue to keep himself from laughing over the irony of the message.

  The train finally wrenched to a full stop and the doors opened, a horrific screech of grinding metal filled the air as the cold rushed through the parting doors. Hagan waited for the bulk of the car to empty before shuffling off the train and out onto the crowded platform.

  Located just a few blocks away from the industrial district, Cass Avenue was one of the busiest terminals in the nation. Every day, thousands and thousands of Alexandria’s working class walked across that platform to go to their state-appointed jobs. There was rarely a day the small platform wasn’t packed with men and women going to—or heading home from—one of the numerous factories or warehouses along that stretch of the river.

  The sight around him was pitiful. No matter which way Hagan turned, his view was overflowing with hopeless drones staggering about, heading for the stairs like sheep corralling themselves to the killing floor. Men and women—both the young and the old—walked down the steps and out onto the snowy streets of St. Louis, enduring the frigid temperatures with ragged clothing that provided little protection from the arctic gusts coming from the west. Hagan had never seen this side of Alexandria up close before, and it made his stomach stir with indignation.

  These people weren’t free. They didn’t get to choose their jobs. They weren’t allowed to just quit if they could no longer handle the grueling expectations of ten-hour workdays, six days a week. They couldn’t even go on vacation if they just needed some time to recuperate. The citizens of Alexandria were expected to give the regime the very best they had to offer until either their body or mind gave out.

  And for what? Inadequate room and board, and, maybe, for some of the more skilled workers, a few extra bucks to visit a bar like Aileen’s. And that was if they were fortunate enough to be granted an alcoholic beverage permit. No. The people around Hagan were slaves. It was written on their faces. On their exhausted posture. Their anxious and depressed eyes.

  They were hopeless.

  Hagan shook off the miserable thoughts and threaded his way through the throng of people, doing his best to mix in with his surroundings. He donned the same blank expression as those around him, and he made his way to the streets below where the cold quickly numbed his face. He had dressed warm for the trip, but he could barely tolerate the blistering squalls bombarding him. He could only imagine how much more punishing it was on those lacking proper coats and gloves.

  The streets were filled with far more people than cars, though there were still a fair number of vehicles on the road. Especially when compared to the slums. There was a strong presence of hoplites in the area, too, and even a few CRG’s guarding the entrance to a government building across the street from the train station. Hagan did his best to avoid eye contact with any of the armed men he passed while also trying to act like everyone else. Many of the pedestrians behaved similarly as they walked by their oppressors, their gaze directed downward, giving Hagan confidence that the same would keep him from being overly scrutinized by the authorities.

  However, as Hagan moved closer to a residential block crammed with high rise apartments, the herd of people began to thin. With less of a crowd to hide in, Hagan’s hackles raised, and his senses heightened as he felt the stress of each set of eyes that turned his way. He didn’t belong there, and the concern that someone would eventually figure that out grew with each glance he received from both citizens and hoplites alike. Hagan didn’t have proper paperwork to be in the country, much less St. Louis, which meant if he was questioned by any of the authorities, things would get messy in a hurry. And
he couldn’t afford that. Not now.

  Hagan kept his chin tucked into his chest and his hands stuffed into his coat pockets as his legs kept him moving. Each step brought more worry about what he would do once he reached Parkland Heights. If he felt out of place in the working district, he was really going to stand out in Parkland Heights. His concerns, however, were soon disrupted when a convoy of Ramtracks, MRAPs and Humvees screamed past. The military transports weaved in and out of what little traffic was on the road, not bothering to apply the brakes for pedestrians unfortunate enough to be crossing their path. People jumped and dove out of the street, narrowly avoiding death as the heavily armored vehicles raced to their destination. Hagan stole a glance as they passed, catching a glimpse of a black Land Cruiser bringing up the rear.

  Something bad was about to go down.

  The convoy took a sharp turn a few blocks down the road and vanished from Hagan’s sight. He followed the trail, all but forgetting about his objective, Farhad Khavari, in the heat of the moment. A pit in his stomach formed when he rounded the corner and saw the trucks stopped just another block down. Dozens of armed men sporting advanced combat armor and black balaclavas advanced on one of the buildings, guns raised. Multiple squads went around to the back of the building while others used the doors of their armored vehicles as cover.

  Something’s not right, Hagan thought. He knew this was more than a routine shakedown. The CRG’s didn’t take on such menial tasks as contraband raids or unauthorized signal interceptions. That dangerous responsibility was left to the more expendable hoplites. The Guard didn’t mobilize without the regime knowing about it, which made their mere presence all the more disturbing. This is not your fight, Matt, the voice of reason warned. Get back on mission. But Hagan kept walking toward the disturbance, anyway.

  As Hagan approached the end of the block, a squad of CRG’s led a group of unarmed men and women out of the apartment building, their hands zip-tied behind their backs. There were nine in all, eight of whom were promptly lined up in front of the building while the ninth, a tall, skinny man only in his boxer shorts, was pulled off to the side. The detainees were quickly patted down and searched for weapons and other contraband, but, at least from Hagan’s vantage, the search turned up empty.