The Creed (Book 1): The Hunt

by Powers, AJ

  “Reaver Six in racetrack orbit over fragged keypad. Holding steady at one-seven-zero knots,” a woman’s voice was heard on the radio as the screen on the right cut to an infrared aerial view of the target.

  “Viper One, this is Alpha One. We are two minutes out,” a man’s voice chimed in shortly after.

  “Alpha One, this is Viper actual. Copy that. You are weapons hot. You know what to do.”

  “Roger.”

  The men on the left screen rose to their feet, each one checking his equipment and readying his primary weapon. After a minute, the rear door dropped, and the squad glided silently out onto the dark, snowy streets. Their helmet cameras shifted to night mode, bathing the world in a sickly green as they crept the three and a half blocks south and one block west to reach their target.

  “This is Alpha One, I have the junkyard in sight. Advancing to the eastern fence.”

  Mason looked over to the right screen, eight glowing white bodies converging on the junkyard from the east. A bright, intense strobe of light pinged off each of the blobs, the friendly flashes synched specifically to the shutter speed of the IR camera onboard the Reaper drone gliding silently overhead.

  “I’ve got eyes on you, One,” the drone pilot said. “You’re looking clear from my vantage.”

  “Copy that, Reaver Six. What about you, Cobras?” Alpha One asked.

  “This is Cobra One. I’ve got no movement in your immediate vicinity,” the sniper said.

  “Cobra Two. More of the same here.”

  “Roger. Alpha squad breaching.

  Mason watched intently as the elite squad cut through the chain link fence before spilling into the junkyard. They deftly navigated the maze of car parts and construction equipment, each man following their mission plan to the very last detail. Mason’s eyes shifted from the birds-eye view back over to the quadrant of helmet cams on the left screen just as they approached a large building with a bay garage.

  “Movement at three o’clock,” someone whispered over the radio. With no audio except during radio transmissions, Mason, along with the rest of the room, watched in silence as one of the carbines on the screen quickly pivoted to the right, pausing for a beat before a puff of smoke spewed out the end of the suppressor. The body on the camera crumpled to the ground and then, “Tango down.”

  The squad closed in on the building, dropping two more threats with little effort. Alpha One and Four stayed out in the cold while the other six split into two elements, infiltrating the garage from different points of entry. Their encounters with the enemy were fast and fierce, but it was only the enemy suffering losses as the squad punched deeper into the building.

  Suddenly, a dog rounded the corner and leapt onto Alpha Three, viciously latching onto his arm. Alpha Six drove his boot into the side of the dog, forcing it to release its grip on his squad mate. Before the dog could recover, the man put it down with a pair of shots to the ribs. Amidst the chaos of the canine attack, a man rolled around the corner and opened fire with an automatic weapon. Alpha Squad engaged the target, forcing the man back around the corner.

  “Alpha Three is down!” a voice shouted.

  Mason watched in horror as the body count continued to stack up.

  The man spun back around again to fire again but was immediately dropped by the two remaining Anacondas.

  “This is Reaver Six. Be advised, I’ve got two exiting the building. Coming right to you, Alpha One.”

  “Copy that. Thanks for the heads up.”

  Mason’s eyes were glued to the right screen, watching as two white blobs darted away from the building and out into the junkyard. As the frantic bodies fled, Alpha One and Four spun out of cover and dropped the runners with just a few shots.

  By the time Mason’s eyes swung back to the left screen, one of the Alpha elements was entering the garage. There was a black SUV parked in the middle of the room, an official Trident logo on the side of the door.

  “What the hell? Is that one of ours?” Gray asked from the front of the room.

  “Doubtful. But it looks like a damn good knockoff,” Price said. “These bastards are going to pay.”

  Soon, Alpha team was clearing the last section of the building, cutting down every threat that sprang into view. As they reached the final room, a man jumped out of a door with a KSG-12 shotgun, peppering Alphas Two and Five with a single blast of buckshot. The remaining man in the element quickly stitched a line of 5.56mm across the shooter’s chest.

  “Dammit!” the radio squawked. “Target is down. I repeat, target is down.”

  Price grimaced and slammed his fist on the table, breaking the palpable silence. But before he could say anything, there was another transmission.

  “Reaver Six. I’ve got three bodies heading to the streets from the northwest. Looks like they’re heading to a car.”

  “We’re moving to intercept,” an unknown voice said.

  “Standby, Sierra One,” Price said, pressing down on the transmit button of a radio. “Alpha Five, can you confirm the target is KIA.”

  The man on the screen ran up to the body on the floor and held out something that looked like a phone. He pried the cadaver’s eyelid open and held the device up in front of his face. A square popped up on the screen, encompassing the dead man’s iris briefly before bringing up a photograph of Carrick O’Connor along with a dossier.

  “Confirmed. Carrick O’Connor is KIA, sir.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Price growled.

  “Vehicle is on the move,” Reaver Six spoke.

  “Sierra One, stand down. Reaver Six, you are free to engage the target.”

  The already silent room fell even quieter.

  “Sir?” Reaver Six responded, as if she was sure she had heard his order incorrectly. “Is your intent to destroy the vehicle and all pax inside?”

  “You do not have the authority to issue such an order, William,” Gray said with contempt as he stared at Price.

  Colonel Price glared at Gray for a long second, before a menacing smirk twisted across his face. “You’re here as an observer only, Anthony. This is not your call,” the man said before mashing down on the transmit button of the radio. “Affirmative, Reaver Six. Blow them to Hell!” Price said before tossing the radio on the table.

  “Uhhh, roger. Good copy,” the drone pilot said.

  Mason reluctantly watched as the drone left its orbital pattern and caught up with the car. How the hell is he going to let this happen? Mason thought to himself. A drone strike on their own citizens inside the city? Even if the men in the car were deemed terrorists, this was well outside protocol. Gray was right to challenge it but had said nothing since.

  The Reaper drone quickly caught up to the fleeing vehicle, all eyes in the room on the right screen. Even after getting into range, she refrained from firing, as if waiting for the most ideal spot to minimize collateral damage. As the vehicle left the residential district and headed toward a nearby highway, the drone increased speed for a moment, then, “Sending.”

  The room watched in silent awe as the missile soon came into the camera’s view, smoke and unburnt fuel spraying out its tail as it screeched away from the drone. The sidewinder missile became smaller and smaller on the screen as it raced toward the target. Seconds later, the feed flickered as a bright, white flash overexposed the infrared view. An intense fireball could be seen mushrooming into the air as flaming wreckage slowly rained back to the earth.

  “That’s a good hit. Target is destroyed.”

  The air was still as the drone circled over the destruction, the room deafeningly silent as each one of the spectators processed what they just witnessed. Someone turned on the lights and the crowd began to talk amongst themselves, ignoring the elephant in the room. A few men congratulated Price on eliminating the terrorist scum, or said, “May the enemies of Alexandria be damned to Hell for a thousand eternities!” loudly—a favorite among the impressionable youth. But Mason’s jaw still hung slack as the flames continued to lick
the side of the car on the screen until the feed suddenly cut and a black screen with a gold trident logo appeared.

  Price looked at Gray. “Well, that certainly could have gone a hell of a lot better,” he said through an angry sigh.

  Gray, seemingly hesitant to speak what was actually on his mind, simply said, “The message was still delivered, Colonel. The insurgents will think twice before striking us again.”

  Colonel Price pushed his chair back from the table and stood to his feet. “I leave for Texas in the morning, so, I need you to take care of the fallout on all this in my absence.”

  “William, I have my directive from the Council, and it doesn’t include cleaning up your messes,” Gray responded firmly but quietly. He leaned in closer and said, “You might be in charge of this operation, but don’t you dare forget your place. Don’t you ever tell me what to do again,” Gray hissed, his finger tapping forcefully down on the table. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Price leaned away from Gray and gave a sarcastic smile. “Loud and clear, sir.”

  Colonel Price gathered his things and spun on his heel before making a hasty exit. Ever since joining the hoplites, Mason remembered seeing these two men butt heads. Price was good at what he did, but part of his success came from insubordination, which, as Chief Defense Secretary, infuriated Gray. However, its effectiveness could not be disputed, and Gray’s recommended discipline always got overruled by the Council. They wanted results, and they didn’t care how many rules were broken to get them. It was why William Price was still a colonel but often tasked with the responsibilities of a general, or, even Chief Defense Secretary. Which, Gray knew, was the man’s end goal.

  Gray turned his head and noticed Mason packing his things, moving slower and more gingerly than the others. The young man looked like he needed a stiff drink as much as Gray. Mason’s eyes met Gray’s and Gray gave him a nod of admiration for his dedication. “Mason, meet me in my office in twenty minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mason said.

  Chapter 21

  The sharp crack of the unsuppressed pistol made Hagan’s ears ring as the report reverberated through the abandoned factory’s floor. Joseph Steck’s head whipped back, the spray of blood faintly shimmering against the bright moonlight angling in through the tall windows along the length of the wall. The man’s head then slumped forward and a stream of blood poured out from the entrance wound, pattering off his pants.

  Hagan holstered the pistol and headed for the doors on the other side of the cavernous room.

  Carrick’s warnings of vengeance bounced around his head as he stepped into the cold, winter’s night and headed toward the red pickup truck that Solomon already had running. Carrick wasn’t wrong, vengeance was a hollow victory. And Hagan knew that long before the Irishman ever told him. But his heightened awareness of this fact was troubling him more than usual tonight. Maybe it was Carrick’s passionate speech in the Humvee, or Solomon’s sobering reminder that there’s something bigger at stake than revenge. No matter the case, Hagan’s priorities to take down every last person involved in Benjamin’s death were softening.

  Hagan climbed into the truck and Solomon had his foot on the gas before Hagan shut the door. The old Ford Ranger lurched across the empty parking lot and turned hard onto the icy streets. They drove along rows and rows of abandoned factories as they left the area.

  “Wilford called while you were in there. Aileen wants us to meet with her ASAP. He said it’s urgent.”

  “All right,” Hagan nodded, finding himself, for the first time, excited to help her out for reasons deeper than just a name and address. “Aileen’s is that way,” Hagan said, pointing to the north as they plowed through an intersection.

  Solomon shook his head. “Wilford said the bar is compromised,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “Civvies and hoplites are crawling all over the area twenty-four-seven.” Solomon paused for a minute, then looked over at Hagan. “Get anything useful?”

  Hagan shook his head. “No. He didn’t know anything. Just like Kuperman the other day. Just a hired gun that didn’t ask questions.”

  “Well,” Solomon said, “another step closer to Oscar Charlie.”

  Hagan didn’t respond.

  The alternate rendezvous point was not far from the factory; the truck was soon pulling up to an old elementary school. It was dark, quiet and ominous, which had both Hagan and Solomon reaching for their battle rifles stashed behind their seats.

  Hagan’s boots crunched through snow and mud beneath his feet as he cautiously approached the crumbling red-brick façade of the building, Solomon took care of rear security. There was no sign of life anywhere, which only added to Hagan’s apprehension. But as they moved up the steps at the front of the building, the boarded-up door in front of them swung open.

  “This way,” Wilford’s familiar voice spoke.

  Hagan’s muscles relaxed and his lungs exhaled as he bested the remaining steps. Wilford propped open the door and slid out of the way as the men stepped inside. Hagan shifted his AR-15 to his left hand so he could shake Wilford’s hand with his right. Wilford led Hagan and Solomon down the dark, narrow corridor of lockers and water fountains, the soles of their boots slapping off the linoleum floor with loud thumps. They quickly moved up to the second floor of the derelict building and into an old classroom where more than twenty men and women chatted amongst themselves under the soft glows of LED lanterns

  Ignoring the stares from the others, Hagan and Solomon moved to the back of the class and leaned against a dirty chalkboard, taking in their surroundings. Aside from the windows being covered by sheets of OSB and other pressed boards, the classroom was almost a cliché snapshot of an American schoolroom. There was a dusty American flag standing in the corner next to the Missouri state flag. Portraits of the American presidents laced the top eighteen inches of the exterior wall, ending with President MacLeod, the very last elected President of the United States. There were cutesy decorations sporadically tacked around the room, such as a giraffe holding a math equation or a furry, smiling creature hanging upside down with an S = SLOTH card in its claws. There were dozens of desks crowding the middle of the room, almost impossibly neat and orderly given the likelihood that the building had been thoroughly picked through by scavengers over the years. It was both haunting and beautiful. A reminder of what America once was. Maybe, someday, what America could be once again.

  The room fell quiet as Aileen walked in. Unlike the previous time Hagan met her, she had traded out her Chanelle pencil skirt for a pair of khaki cargo pants and an olive drab t-shirt, and she had swapped her three-inch black pumps for a pair of hiking boots. Her wavy, copper hair was not meticulously styled this time but, instead, simply pulled back into a ponytail. She wore no makeup and her eyes were filled with venom and rage instead of smooth confidence. Something was wrong. Something more than just the regime stalking her bar.

  Aileen leaned against the teacher’s desk at the front of the room and cleared her throat, the last remaining murmurs falling silent. “Last week, several of our brothers and sisters were savagely executed in their pajamas right in front of their neighbors by the regime’s dogs, the Civil Republican Guard,” she said with disdain, a fiery hatred in her tone.

  More rumblings among the people in the room filled the air as images of the execution played out in Hagan’s head. He felt the growing gnaw of guilt attack his insides as the vivid detail of the event flashed through his mind. There was nothing he could have possibly done to stop the massacre from being carried out, but he would forever carry a burden of shame for his inaction. Just another to add to the pile that already kept him from ever having a good night’s sleep.

  Aileen continued. “Our intelligence initially reported that all nine had been lined up and shot dead, but we learned just a few days ago that the leader of that unit, Jakob Massey, in fact, was not among the dead. It is believed that he was taken to the Yellow House for three days before he was then transferred to a
n undisclosed prison camp to the north.”

  The whispers picked up again.

  “I don’t think I need to tell any of you that the Yellow House is not as pleasant a place as the name implies.”

  Hagan nodded his head. He was quite familiar with the Yellow House and the stories surrounding it. The atrocious acts and war crimes that were carried out at the black site facility made Hagan’s recent interrogations seem dignified by comparison. Inside the Yellow House, there was no technique too cruel, no method too merciless to use on the enemies of Alexandria who usually disappeared afterwards. Few people knew of its existence, even fewer knew its location.

  “After learning of Jakob’s stay at the Yellow House, I immediately ordered the purge and evacuation of six different safe houses that Jakob would have been privy to…” Aileen trailed off, her eyes glistening with fury as she tried to maintain her composure. “And while our efforts were successful at those six locations, it would appear that Jakob had also been familiar with an outpost at a junkyard southwest of downtown. And last night, just a few minutes before 2300, the Civil Republican Guard assaulted the compound.”

  No… Hagan thought, already knowing the next few words that would leave Aileen’s lips.

  “All twenty-four men and women present are dead. My brother—” Aileen stammered over those words, but powered through, “My brother, Carrick, among them.”

  Hagan’s stomach dropped, his fist clenching without realizing it. He watched from the back of the room as the fighters in front of him reacted to Aileen’s poignant words. Though they were not tied to any formal military or armed forces, it was clear these men and women had formed a bond that few outside the brotherhood of service could understand. A relationship that is forged from the hottest of flames. Some of them wept. Others offered a reassuring hand on the shoulder. The room weighed heavy with anger and hatred, grief and sorrow.