by Powers, AJ
Hagan took a knee, his eye never leaving the optics. He was starting to think losing the guns and gear they had inside would be worth the tradeoff. He was a sapper, damn it! Not a sniper. Waiting patiently was not his game. But his persistence soon paid off as another man cautiously approached the door.
Letting the man feel safe for a moment, Hagan and Solomon waited for him to expose himself more. He leapt outside and mashed down on the trigger, his AK-74 flashing brightly as shells furiously spit to the ground. The man sprayed his bullets in a wide arc in desperation.
Hagan felt the pressure change near his head as one of the projectiles whizzed dangerously close by, but he remained motionless as the man’s magazine went dry. The man sloppily traded out magazines before looking around the dark forest with unaided eyes. He seemed to stare right at Hagan for several long seconds, as if he might have seen something, but then moved on.
“¡Ellos se han ido!” he shouted.
Hagan had never listed Spanish as one of his spoken languages, but he knew enough to know the man was telling the others that the threat was gone. Soon, the other four men carefully approached, their guns all raised and spinning around the dark world around them as they exited. The moment the last man crossed the threshold, Solomon opened fire, sending the remaining five men into a frenzy. Hagan’s carbine joined in on the fun, and soon, the entire squad lie dead on the ground.
Hagan and Solomon approached the front door, their muzzles trained on the small pile of corpses just in front of them. One of the arms among the pile moved toward a gun on the ground, causing Hagan and Solomon to light the pile up like a bonfire on the first day of summer. Both men swapped magazines as their feet carried them closer to the bodies, ensuring that all targets were truly neutralized.
They were.
Hagan stared down at the hit squad, his head shaking with professional disgust. “Who the hell sends guys out on a job in the middle of the woods at 2:00 a.m. without at least a pair of Gen-1 NODs?”
“North Koreans?” Solomon replied. “Damn it, Matt, did you piss off the Kims again?” he joked, making light of an otherwise serious situation.
Hagan saw the tail end of a tattoo on one man’s bloodied arm. He pulled the dead man’s sleeve up, revealing a dragon with three heads. “Not far off,” Hagan said, “Raza Reyes.”
“Oh,” Solomon said, “Well, we definitely know you pissed them off.”
“How the hell did they know it was me that took out Farhad?”
“You said Farhad made a comment about others inside the Alexandrian government.”
“Fair enough. But how did they know about this place?”
“Now that’s the six-million-dollar question, brother, and we can figure it out later…” Solomon said as he stepped over a corpse and into the doorway. “But right now, we need to grab everything we can squeeze into that truck and blow this place before reinforcements arrive.”
Chapter 23
Gray poured himself another glass of scotch and tossed the liquid down in one smooth motion. He’d always enjoyed a snifter or two, especially after a long day at the office, but he’d noticed his limited supply of pre-war Chivas Regal was draining faster than usual the past few weeks.
It seemed that everything that could be going wrong was going wrong. There was an increase in insurgent activity, which was surprising given Colonel Price’s recent aggression toward the group. He’d expected the actions to deter further rebellion—to force the group to cower in fear—but it had had the opposite effect. There was movement happening, but from what little intelligence they could gather, the action was out of strategy rather than panic.
Then there was Typhon. When the man first became a thorn in the regime’s side, it was assumed he was part of the insurgency. But, as time went on it was believed that he was something of a mercenary, carrying out missions with surgical precision to the highest bidder. He never gave some public declaration about his actions or offered a manifesto to inspire others to follow in his footsteps like the insurgents often did. No, Typhon got in, did his job, and got out. He did his best to cover his face, and leaving witnesses behind was not his MO. Over time, this behavior led the team of hoplites investigating his sporadic but devastating actions to believe that while he was running ops for the highest bidder, that he was there, in Alexandria, for his own reasons. But now… Now they were back to where they started. Between the hijacking of The Hercules, and now the wake of destruction he left behind as he and Carrick O’Connor blasted their way into the Outlands, the taskforce once again believed that Typhon was an agent of the insurgent group after all.
Sighing as he leaned far back into his chair, Gray stared up at the ceiling, quickly becoming lost in thought. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when a knock on his door startled him back to reality.
“Come in,” Gray said.
The door cracked open and Mason stuck his head through. “Is this a bad time, sir?”
Of course it was a bad time. But that wasn’t Mason’s fault, and it didn’t make his update any less important. Gray nodded at Mason, “It’s fine, Andrew. Please come in. Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to one of the two chairs across from his desk.
Mason walked in with a folder, slowly crossing the expanse of the room before gingerly sitting down in one of the chairs facing his boss.
“How’s recovery going?” Gray asked after noticing Mason wince in pain as he sat down.
“Doctors told me to take it easy for at least a month…”
Gray smirked. “It’s only been a little over a week since the man almost killed you, and here you are, burning the midnight oil again so you can apprehend him.”
“Yes, sir,” Mason said confidently.
“So, what has you knocking on my door at this hour, Andrew?”
Mason shifted uncomfortably in his chair before tossing the folder onto Gray’s desk. “These were taken a few weeks ago by one of our civilian surveillance units. The photos automatically uploaded to our cloud network after they were taken, but we’ve not heard from the man who took them since then.”
Gray opened the folder and flipped through images of two men sitting at a bar drinking a beer. Gray immediately recognized the one as Typhon. “Where was this taken?”
“Aileen’s Tavern.”
Gray let out a lengthy, frustrated sigh. “So, Typhon is working for the insurgents, then?”
“No,” Mason responded. “Well, not exclusively, anyway.”
Gray raised a single eyebrow, compelling Mason to explain himself.
“The common denominator between Typhon’s first two targets, Jericho Stevens and Farhad Khavari, was drugs.”
Gray cringed with the mention of Farhad’s name. Though Gray was rarely involved with the process of hiring guns for the Civil Republican Guard, hiring Farhad happened on Gray’s watch. The revelation that Farhad Khavari was actively working with the cartels while also working for the regime was yet another mark on Gray’s record.
“As unlikely as it seemed that Typhon was somehow tangled up in the drug trade, it was the only connection we could make at the time. However, his last two victims appear to be completely random. The first man, Leonard Kuperman, worked as a phlebotomist at one of the health clinics just outside St. Louis, while the most recent victim, Joseph Steck, worked for the sanitation department. Neither men have an arrest record—at least nothing related to drug trafficking—and, as far as we can tell, have no obvious connections with one another or Jericho and Farhad.”
“Where’s the chase, and can you just cut to it?” Gray said impatiently, his frustration lying more with the situation than the messenger.
“Well, sir, I had my team do a comprehensive background check on all four victims going back a few months before Typhon’s estimated arrival, and we found that all four men had received deposits from our treasury department just forty-five days before Typhon’s first known incident in Alexandria. Jericho, Leonard and Joseph all received the same amount, while Farhad rec
eived a slightly higher amount.”
Gray’s eyes widened, but he quickly masked the shock. “Okay?” he said, trying to sound only slightly intrigued.
“Well, sir, I don’t have the clearance levels to access any transactions initiated by the treasury, so I don’t have the details. However, one of my cyber forensic analysts found a hidden memo inside the authorization code. Cassandra.”
This time, Gray wasn’t able to stifle the surprise on his face. “Cassandra?”
“Yes sir. I’m thinking it might be a mission name or something to that effect. Whatever it is, these four men were involved in it, and, as far as I’m concerned, it has everything to do with why Typhon came to Alexandria in the first place.”
Gray leaned back in his chair, puffed his cheeks and emptied his lungs. Leaning forward again, he reached for the bottle of scotch and rested his hand on it for a moment as he weighed the pros and cons of another glass. Out of the corner of his eye he saw another email bounce into his inbox, prompting him to pull the bottle across the Walnut surface of his desk and tip it into his glass. As he upended the glass, dumping the contents into his mouth, the weight of the situation truly started to take hold. The constant shift in direction the investigation kept taking was suffocating him. He needed a few days to clear his head. A few days in solitude so that he could just think. Think without impromptu meetings, email messages, and the constant worry that the Council would summon him at any minute.
In his former life, Gray was a prominent agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He quickly rose the ranks and was soon in charge of the entire D.C. Cyber Division. He was among the youngest agents ever to hit the field and was the youngest department head in the history of the organization. Then, at just thirty-three years old, Gray was approached by Mark Dorsey and Shravya Aurora to trade out the modest salary and laughable pension of a federal employee for the lavish, luxurious life of the Apollo Group. And the best part was that he got to stay at his job with the FBI for a while, acting more as a consultant for Apollo. That is, until shortly after Apollo activated Delphi, and he was recalled to St. Louis.
Gray’s success in life didn’t come easy. It took hard work and dedication to graduate from Quantico at such a young age, and, not long after that, become a millionaire. Gray devoted his life to his work, and as he looked back, he could easily see how his efforts had paid off. It was part of the reason why he specifically chose the young man sitting in front of him to lead up one of the teams assigned to this case. He saw a lot of himself in Andrew Mason. A smart and talented kid that gave every bit of himself to the job. Fiercely loyal. An outside thinker. Searching for a hidden memo inside the authorization code was a brilliant, albeit illegal, thing to do. It was the type of thing a younger version of Gray would have done. He was glad to have the young man on his team.
With the revelation that Typhon was in Alexandria to enact revenge for Operation Cassandra, Gray reached for the Chivas again, dumping the rest into the glass and wasting no time emptying it into his mouth. He balled his hands into fists as the sizzle of the alcohol warmed his throat, washing just a little more of his anxiety away. He needed to get away from this. And soon.
“Sir,” Mason said, snapping Gray from his mildly intoxicated thoughts. “Do you have any idea what Cassandra might be about?”
Gray stared blankly at Mason, as if to look through the young hoplite. He didn’t say anything for several long seconds before he finally opened his mouth. “Yes. I do.”
Chapter 24
The skies over Lake Eufaula hung heavy with dark, menacing clouds, washing an otherwise picturesque setting in a drab, monochromatic gray. A wintery mix of sleet and snow intermittently struck throughout the day, making it impossible for Hagan to steal a few minutes of shuteye whenever Solomon was on watch.
Sleep had evaded Hagan since the Raza Reyes’ attack on the safe house the other night, and his body was enthusiastically reminding him that it was not capable of handling much more without a solid recharge. His muscles, joints, and head all ached relentlessly, and his brain felt as if it had been smothered in tar. If he were still in the Army, he might have warned his CO that he wasn’t fit to be on mission given his foggy state of mind. But no such luxuries could be afforded to him this time. He needed to be there, mental haze or not. He needed to bring down Price, and, hopefully, the shot of adrenaline from the first cracks of his rifle would be enough to get him through to the end.
Just need to get through today, Hagan thought, then I can take a few days to recover. But the quote about plans, mice, and men warned him not to hold his breath.
Hagan grunted out a sardonic laugh as he thought about it. He didn’t even have a place to recover, and neither he nor Solomon had any leads to remedy that. The nearest known safe house was somewhere between Jefferson City and Kansas City, which was less than ideal if they still wanted to operate out of St. Louis regularly. Beyond that, Hagan and Solomon would have to kitbash together their own safe house from one of the millions of abandoned structures throughout the remnants of the territory formerly known as Missouri. Otherwise, they would have to bunk up with Aileen’s crew. But, depending on the outcome of the day, Hagan suspected they may not be terribly accommodating. Worst case scenario, Hagan and Solomon would bug out to the safe house near Jefferson City and lay low for a few weeks before locking down a long-term solution to their housing problem.
Knowing there was nothing to be done about it now, Hagan’s mind shifted gears and he, once again, pondered how he would react to seeing Price. His desires shifted like the wind, adding to the growing frustration of the last few days. Hagan knew a decent amount about the man before he arrived in Alexandria, but even more facts and details of his war crimes came to light during the mission briefing at Outpost Delta. Most of the intel made Hagan hate the man even more, but some would be useful. Every man had a weakness, and now Hagan knew Price’s. He wasn’t going to be satisfied with just killing Price. He wanted a name. He needed a name. And Colonel Price was going to be the one to give it to him.
Morning gradually faded to afternoon, and afternoon was soon approaching evening. Positioned in a cluster of trees just off the northern end of the bridge, Hagan held up a pair of binoculars to his eyes and glassed to the south while Solomon grabbed a quick nap. He panned over cracked and sun-bleached asphalt and decaying cars, quickly spotting three of Aileen’s men waiting restlessly in the back up a semi-trailer. A few hundred feet beyond that, a delivery truck held five men and women armed with belt-fed machineguns, grenade launchers, and an AAMT-12. Hagan wondered if it was the same one he used to down the X-41 last week. How many did the insurgents possess? Dozens? Hundreds? Just the one? Hagan had to admit, as far as rebel forces went, Aileen, or Cleon, or whatever name she preferred, seemed to have deep pockets. She’d spent months, maybe even years for all Hagan knew, amassing not just enough soldiers, but firepower and allies necessary for an undernourished, ad-hoc military to take on the despotic regime of Alexandria. And he knew, despite how it might appear from the outside, her decision to apprehend Price was not just an irrational, emotional response for her brother’s death. It was a cold, calculated military move that just happened to allow her to kill two birds with one stone. For Hagan, as well.
Panning the binos to the right, Hagan observed Wilford leaning against the hood of a rusted-out Camaro near the end of the bridge. He was talking into a large handheld radio, disappointment on his face. He looked just as exhausted as everyone else, very little life in his movement.
Hagan let out a sigh of frustration as his magnified vision quickly blurred with tiny droplets of precipitation; the departing clouds offering one last gift as they finally drifted away. He let the optics hang from the strap around his neck and fell back against a tree. The intelligence was wrong. It was believed that Colonel Price would come up 69, southeast of Tulsa, where Hagan and half the crew from the school would trap the convoy on the bridge. After a brief but intense firefight, Colonel Price was to be apprehende
d, hooded and tossed into the trunk of Wilford’s vehicle where he’d be transported to Aileen’s own version of the Yellow House. But as the hours ticked away, Hagan was confident that Price and his convoy had taken the alternate route up I-30, where the other half of the team waited to carry out a similar ambush.
The sky cleared as dusk arrived, chasing away the dreary world of grays and browns that had been looming throughout the day. Hagan looked out over the lake, a beautiful real-world painting shimmering in front of him, the soothing sound of waves lapping off the rocky shore just a few yards away.
“Dammit!” he growled, knowing he’d missed his opportunity to grab Price.
But no sooner than Hagan grumbled, the radio squawked to life.
“Phalanx One, all stations,” Wilford said, a jolt of excitement in his voice, “Positive ID on Price. Middle vehicle. Black SUV. ETA five minutes.” There was a pause, then, “Let’s do this.”
By the time the transmission ended, Solomon was on his feet and moving over to Hagan. Hagan looked at the tall, lanky man standing in front of him, the closest thing Hagan had to family. “You got my back on this one, Saul?”
Solomon dipped his chin. “You know I do, brother,” he replied, his voice lacking any form of apprehension.
“All right… Let’s get this pig to squeal,” Hagan said, taking off for the twisted wreckage of what was once a work van.
They stormed up to the van and quickly got into position. They had already meticulously set everything up after they arrived early that morning, leaving Solomon with the trivial task of connecting the wires to the clacker hanging from his plate carrier. Connected to the other end of the wire was a hefty amount of C4 packed inside an F-350 dually sitting dormant on the shoulder of the bridge. The entire mission hinged on a successful detonation. If Solomon was off, even by just a second, then either Price would escape, or he would be killed in the blast instead of the lead vehicle.