Infinite Assassins: Daggerland Online Novel 2 A LITRPG Adventure

by Peter Meredith

  Infinite Assassins

  Daggerland Online Novel 2

  A LitRPG Adventure

  By Peter Meredith

  Copyright 2017

  Hands off, Buddy!

  Fictional works by Peter Meredith:

  A Perfect America

  Infinite Reality: Daggerland Online Novel 1

  Infinite Assassins: Daggerland Online Novel 2

  The Sacrificial Daughter

  The Apocalypse Crusade War of the Undead: Day One

  The Apocalypse Crusade War of the Undead: Day Two

  The Apocalypse Crusade War of the Undead Day Three

  The Apocalypse Crusade War of the Undead Day Four

  The Horror of the Shade: Trilogy of the Void 1

  An Illusion of Hell: Trilogy of the Void 2

  Hell Blade: Trilogy of the Void 3

  The Punished

  Sprite

  The Blood Lure The Hidden Land Novel 1

  The King’s Trap The Hidden Land Novel 2

  To Ensnare a Queen The Hidden Land Novel 3

  The Apocalypse: The Undead World Novel 1

  The Apocalypse Survivors: The Undead World Novel 2

  The Apocalypse Outcasts: The Undead World Novel 3

  The Apocalypse Fugitives: The Undead World Novel 4

  The Apocalypse Renegades: The Undead World Novel 5

  The Apocalypse Exile: The Undead World Novel 6

  The Apocalypse War: The Undead World Novel 7

  The Apocalypse Executioner: The Undead World Novel 8

  The Apocalypse Revenge: The Undead World Novel 9

  The Apocalypse Sacrifice: The Undead World 10

  The Edge of Hell: Gods of the Undead Book One

  The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead Book Two

  Pen(Novella)

  A Sliver of Perfection (Novella)

  The Haunting At Red Feathers(Short Story)

  The Haunting On Colonel's Row(Short Story)

  The Drawer(Short Story)

  The Eyes in the Storm(Short Story)

  The Witch: Jillybean in the Undead World

  Infinite Assassin Daggerland Online Novel 2

  Chapter 1

  Glenwood Landing, New York

  It was doughnut day. Some people found it strange that a man who wasn’t just a war veteran but also a judge would get excited over such a little thing as doughnut day. It was the Honorable Brad Gibson’s one cheat day of the week. After he’d had a stent put into his heart, his wife had turned into a combination of prison guard, workout guru and food Nazi.

  Under her dictatorial reign, he had lost twenty-three pounds and had a significant decrease in his blood pressure. He looked and felt great, yet all he could think about was steak, and fried chicken, and pizza, and of course doughnuts. The judge had no idea what was on his docket that morning, or whose life was practically in his hands, but he knew there was a jelly calling his name.

  He spent an extra ten minutes on the treadmill just to earn that doughnut…or rather doughnuts. The evil queen had insisted that he could have only one. “As if,” he said, stepping out of the shower.

  “As if, what, dear?”

  “Hmm? What? Oh, nothing, honey. Just thinking about that case.” The Arching case had been looming in the back of his thoughts for a week now.

  From the bedroom, she made a disapproving clucking noise, one that Gibson had heard all too many times in the last year. “That Arching deserved everything he got, if you ask me,” she said. “What kind of world is it where a defendant threatens a judge?”

  The real world, Gibson wanted to say as he went to his closet. He’d been threatened dozens of times, but this was the only time that it had made the news. And now it was just one more thing for his wife to worry over.

  “He’s behind bars,” he said, reaching for the next suit on the rack without looking at it. In his mind, suits were suits. Navy blue, black, charcoal grey, made no difference to him and instead of wasting a moment worrying about what to wear, he simply wore his suits in the order they presented themselves in his closet. “Arching can’t hurt anyone now.”

  She stepped into his closet and lifted an eyebrow at the grey suit he’d grabbed—she had been trying for thirty years to get some color into his wardrobe. “And if he wins his appeal? What then? Janet seems to think the conviction will never stand up.”

  A sigh escaped Gibson as he slid his pants on. “Janet has been a lawyer for all of eight months. I know she’s your favorite, but she still has a lot to learn. Arching confessed to an FBI agent. Yes, the particulars are different, but virtual kidnapping, when it extends to the real world, is still kidnapping.”

  Although he spoke with confidence, there was a huge chink in his legal armor: an appeals court could decide that Arching had falsely imprisoned Amanda Waterfall as opposed to having kidnapped her. False imprisonment carried a three-year sentence compared to the twenty that Arching had received. With a year already served and the leniency of many parole boards, he could be on the streets in six months.

  There wouldn’t be much anyone could do if that happened since the eight murder charges had slid right off Arching’s slick hide as if he’d been greased.

  Gibson was quiet as he buttoned his shirt and knotted a paisley tie—the only nod to color that he allowed in his wardrobe. “It’ll stick,” he said, more to himself than to his wife. He took up his suit coat but paused before putting it on.

  The threat to his life hadn’t bothered him so much as the public’s reaction to it. Instead of condemning Arching, the slimeball had become some sort of folk hero. As if a multi-millionaire elitist was some sort of “man of the people” by killing two FBI agents.

  He was just putting on his coat when something sharp jabbed him on the inner aspect of his left forearm. “Ow!” Gibson jerked in surprise as there was an immediate burning sensation and then a dull pain. Pulling off his coat, he saw three small blood stains on the sleeve of his shirt. He rolled up his sleeve and examined the puncture wounds with little comprehension.

  One pin accidentally mixed up in his dry cleaning was one thing, but three? “Honey? The next time you go to the cleaners, let them know they owe me a shirt. They left a pin or something in my jacket.” Carefully, he turned the sleeve of his coat inside-out and saw the needles—they weren’t tailor’s needles.

  “What the hell? These are like hypodermic needles. How on earth did they…” It was then that he felt the first tingle creep up his arm. “Ka-Kathy? Can you call an ambulance?”

  “Because you got stuck with a pin? The Wu’s are nice people. They don’t need you making such a big fuss over an accident.”

  The needles had been sewn into his coat. “This was no accident. This is murder.”

  2—

  Fifteen miles away and thirty stories up, Assistant District Attorney Isabella Thomas strode into her office in her usual no-nonsense manner and went right for her desk. She wasn’t one to chat around the coffee machine. In fact, nothing bothered her more than minutes wasted. Thomas hadn’t become the head of the Cybercrime Bureau by talking about the latest episode of M*A*S*H or Sex in the City or whatever it was people watched on television these days. In her opinion, television was the worst time-suck ever invented.

  She had her own coffeepot and exactly ten minutes earlier its automatic timer had clicked on and now the brew was just the right temperature. The cup was half empty before she felt the first touch of vertigo. Her computer screen seemed to tilt first to the left and then the right.

  Confused, she held onto the edge of her desk until her vision cleared.
Sighing in relief, she took another sip of her coffee.

  The vertigo came back a minute later and with it came a spike of pain in her head. “I can’t be getting sick,” she groused, fishing a bottle of aspirin out of her top drawer and taking four of the white pills with her coffee. “I’ve got no time to be sick.” She had three different cases going, and she also had to prepare for Arching’s appeal.

  Arching’s prosecution had been quite the feather in her cap. Isabella had gone against the best lawyers money could buy and she had won! It had been such a big deal that she had temporarily reversed her ban on television to watch herself being interviewed. Of course, that television hadn’t been a waste of time. It was preparation for when she ran for the District Attorney’s job in the fall.

  The Arching kidnapping case had been the highest profile case since Bill Clinton had been impeached, and it had vaulted her into the headlines. It was why she absolutely couldn’t lose the appeal. Her dreams of being the first female mayor of New York City could be crushed in a snap.

  She took a shaky breath and tried to put the headache and the vertigo out of her mind, only the breath had been shakier than she had expected. It was weaker, as well.

  “I’ll lie down, that’ll help.” She tried standing and when the room spun, she dropped back down into the leather chair—only then did she start to grow afraid that something more serious than a sudden onset flu was happening to her. But not for a moment did she glance at her phone. Calling for help would be an admission of weakness. People would talk, perhaps even to the press.

  “No…I’ll just…scoot.” Her chair had wheels and it wasn’t difficult to push herself to the couch that sat against the far wall. She had never sat on, it let alone laid on it. The leather was blessedly cool and wonderfully soft and, right away, it felt as though her lungs were going to seize.

  It took a huge effort to sit up and even more of one to get back into the chair. By the time she did, she could only take sips of air. Panic set in and she made a valiant effort to cross the four feet of space between her and her desk phone. Isabella didn’t make it.

  A seizure spilled her onto the floor where she jitterbugged, her heels thrumming, foam slowly spilling from the corner of her mouth.

  Her personal assistant heard something odd, but was so afraid of her boss that she only timidly approached the door. “Ms. Thomas? Are you okay? Do you need anything?” She waited another thirty seconds and when she opened the door, Isabella Thomas was in full cardiac arrest, her skin an unhealthy cherry red color.

  3—

  The screaming ambulance that picked Isabella up had to detour a block out of its way because of a bomb scare. FBI Special Agent in Charge Mike Caron didn’t even look up from his laptop. He was watching a recorded video taken by the NYPD bomb squad’s whirring drone.

  “I don’t see what’s so special about this bomb. Looks like your usual IED. Maybe a little bigger than most, but nothing special. So why call me?”

  “Keep watching,” the ordinance man said, in a thick New York accent. “You’re almost there. Almost…ah, you see it now?”

  Caron’s chest tightened as the drone moved all the way around the bomb and he saw his own face sitting in a picture frame. Next to it was a handwritten note: R.I.P. SAC Mike Caron. “What the hell? Is this a joke?” In his gut, he knew it wasn’t; he just wished it was.

  The EOD—explosive ordinance disposal—expert rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. We blocked traffic off an entire city block and called in fifty officers just to prank you.”

  “Alright, fine. You have a bomb with my face on it. Why is it still in there? Why haven’t you guys done your damned jobs?”

  “We were waiting to see if you had any constructive input. Have you been dealing with a serial bomber? You put away any foreign operatives? What about vets who might have it in for the government, or you specifically?”

  Caron looked over the top of his sunglasses at the expert. “Everyone I put away has it in for me. But not everyone knows about bombs, that’s for certain. Probably very, very few of them do. And the picture, that’s an exceedingly personal touch. Whoever it is wanted me here. He wanted to see the look on my face when I saw that picture.”

  The EOD expert went stiff. “You think the bomber is here, now?”

  “Oh yeah. Do me a favor and get your little drone to scan the buildings. The bomber will be up high so as to get the best view of the show.” The bomb expert started to hurry off, his head craned upwards. Caron hissed through a fake smile, “Chill out. Don’t be so obvious.”

  When he was gone, Caron had to force himself not to look up either. It wouldn’t have done him any good. He was sitting in a man-made cement canyon, surrounded by buildings many stories high. There had to be a thousand windows looking down on him and there were curious people in half of them.

  No, it was best to appear busy and wait out the bomber. Perhaps the drone would spot their guy. Or perhaps the bomber would get bored of watching and reach out to Caron. Of course, he could just blow the bomb and be done with it. That was possible. After all, Caron had already seen the picture. It begged the question, why wait? The answer was obvious. “Maximum casualties. He’s going to wait until the EOD team goes back in. Crap.”

  Setting aside the laptop, Caron walked casually over to where a group of three men stood, looking like futuristic robots in their armored suits. He clapped one of them on the shoulder. “Is there any way to get into the building without being seen?”

  The same expert he’d been talking to earlier had a sheen of sweat around his eyes. “Are you asking if we can slip in through the back door? There’s an alley around on Chambers, but what if he’s watching there?”

  “He can’t be everywhere,” Caron said, wearing an easy smile. A second later, a bullet fired from a rooftop a hundred yards away, punched a hole through the back of his head and blasted out through his mouth, spraying blood, brains and teeth all over the startled EOD expert.

  4—

  Four minutes before Caron was killed, Special Agent Daniel Roan set out on his morning run. He didn’t believe in jogging; he believed in running as if one day his life would depend on it. It was the same with his weight lifting. He didn’t care about looking like an Adonis, he cared about being able to take that Adonis and bending him into a pretzel.

  Roan ran for five miles. He wasn’t like the other runners he passed. They all seem to sweat in a polite manner, keeping their bodily fluids to themselves. Halfway through his run, Roan looked as though he had just stepped out of a shower, fully clothed.

  During his cool down, steam rose from the top of his head in nearly invisible wisps.

  His third floor apartment was on the lower west side and although it was only seven hundred square feet, it was astonishingly expensive. He liked to joke that he didn’t pay by the square foot, but by the cockroach, though in truth Roan was not much into jokes, or laughter for that matter.

  Scowling seemed to be the default setting with him. It was to be expected when he had to deal with the worst of humanity on a day to day basis. He had trouble understanding evil. How people could be so horrible to each other was beyond his ability to grasp—not that he was a saint in any way, but he did have a code of honor.

  The one thing that was guaranteed to make him smile was his daily call from Amanda Waterfall. He hadn’t seen her in six months. In the Bureau’s wisdom they had transferred Amanda, an actual cyber agent, to San Diego to go after gang violence, while Roan, who excelled at violence, was still stuck among the nerds.

  Three seconds after walking in his door, he picked up his phone and listened to his first message. “Good morning, Roan,” Amanda said. Her smile was obvious even in a recorded message. “I just wanted to let you know I have a forensic class today, so I can’t talk. Are we still on tonight? It’s the Green Dragon Inn. Seven my time. Don’t be late.”

  He hadn’t “seen” her in the real world in six months, however he saw her in Daggerland three to four times a week. Ro
an found virtual sex to be just as fulfilling as real-world sex, while Amanda liked it better online. She felt more relaxed and less inhibited by societal and personal pressures.

  After their first deadly experience in Daggerland, neither of them had been eager to go back. Roan had gone first, stepping through the “game door” and into Daggerland with his sword drawn, expecting to be attacked in the first second. When that didn’t happen, he checked his character screen and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the “Quit Game” tab glowing.

  Now, it was nothing to go back, although he wouldn’t be going back at seven sharp and he wouldn’t be going to the Green Dragon Inn, either. The two of them were still paranoid enough not to simply blurt out where they would be. It was code. There were five letters in green, so she wanted to meet at five at the seventh inn on their list: The Riverside Inn.

  As a further nod to his paranoia, he erased the message before going on to the next. “Roan, pick up, it’s Wendell. Caron was just killed. Call me back ASAP.”

  Roan felt his stomach roll slowly, painfully. Stunned, he stared at his phone, not wanting to listen to the next message. He and Caron had never been friends and had rarely seen eye-to-eye. They had been too much alike; two alphas who were constantly on the verge of coming to blows. Still, he had respected Caron.

  He was sure the next message would be Wendell getting emotional. “It’s the last thing I want to hear.” Roan took his phone with him into the bathroom and turned on the shower. After testing the water, he looked back at the phone and shook his head. “Damn it. I hate people, sometimes.”

  His normal routine after a run would be a long shower. He would stand there dwelling on his current cases until the water ran cold. The thrum of the water on his muscles combined with the white noise almost always put him in a deeply concentrative state. Nuances he might have otherwise missed sometimes came to him and loose threads connected. With his mind occupied with the news of Caron’s death, his mind became a blank that was interrupted twice by the phone.