Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1)

by Lee Swift

  A single hand of his digital prints was the only requirement to leave. No voice recognition was needed to exit, only to enter. Still, a nice way to keep his friend from escaping without his knowledge.

  After years of searching, Bathry had finally found his enemies’ secret location. His excitement had bubbled up inside him. The culmination of his father’s dream.

  But then the reports in the newspapers had emptied out his sails. That abominable letter.

  Betrayed by his puppet. The bitterness of it sickened him. He had wanted to confront the man, letting him know who was really in charge. But he had bitten back his tongue. This last assignment’s importance surpassed the previous jobs. The delay was necessary.

  He would conclude his business with his associate this very morning.

  He glanced at the several portraits of Bathry leaders, including his father, along the wall. He’d placed them in the room as visual examples of the promised world the man could join once he completed his training and missions. None of the promises were true, of course, but affability seemed warranted.

  Standing in front of the most prominent portrait, Bathry studied his father’s firm expression. He had been a hard man, demanding absolute obedience. His father prized loyalty above all else.

  After having the highest responsibility for so many years for the Bathry Bloodline, he now understood the reason. During his own reign, he had to condemn two traitors himself. Though cousins who shared his Bathry blood, his wrath had been swift and final.

  Next to his father’s portrait was his own. Bathry did not think the artist quite captured his piercing blue eyes, but the painting was a fair enough representation. He shared the family traits of sandy brown hair and cleft chin. But his own tough countenance rivaled even his father’s.

  Bathry walked over to the cupboard and brought out two Waterford crystal tumblers. He opened the rare bottle of Scotch whisky, filling both glasses.

  Bringing out the vial of poison, he emptied its contents into the one meant for his friend. He then toasted the air with his own glass. To you, father.

  2003

  Iraq

  CHAPTER 4

  Austin McCord quietly broke the surface of the Khawr Abd Allah water, removing his mask and snorkel.

  His scan of the western horizon revealed a thin ribbon of dark orange. Except in his childhood home of West Texas, he’d never seen more beautiful sunsets than in the Middle East.

  Pending war hung in the air. A little over a week ago, General Colin Powell presented the U.S.’s case against Saddam Hussein’s government to the United Nations. Iraq showed no sign of backing down. But Austin and his team weren’t here about the war. They were here to save a young man.

  Austin was grateful for tonight’s new moon; the additional darkness would provide another layer of cover. His heart thudded in his chest, like it always did during this kind of mission. Massive amounts of adrenaline flowed through his veins, not from fear but from anticipation.

  Straight ahead he spied one enemy soldier smoking a cigarette and carrying a Soviet RPK, clearly unaware of the men in the water below the docks.

  Though Austin had a healthy respect for the enemy’s weapons, he and the rest of the team were armed with M4A1s that had been modified for this specific mission, including sound suppressors, night vision sight mountings, and more, giving them the advantage.

  The team’s commander, Lieutenant Warren Davis, swam silently over to him.

  There wasn’t anyone he respected more than the lieutenant.

  The past twelve years since leaving basic training, Davis was the only commander he’d served under, which was not typical for the Navy. Though the lieutenant had never admitted to requesting him for his teams, Austin suspected he had. He knew Davis would protect his back and always lend an ear.

  Lieutenant Davis was only one of two people he’d ever told about his parents’ tragic deaths. His buddy, Remington, was the other.

  A year after the fire that killed Austin’s parents, Davis, who seemed to be able to read minds at times, asked what was troubling him. Talking to the lieutenant came easy, like asking the advice of an older brother.

  Now they shared an unbreakable bond.

  Davis gave the signal: “so far so good.”

  He nodded, knowing they’d only crossed the first of several obstacles in tonight’s mission.

  The two CIA officers assigned to this joint covert mission were already in position near the targeted building, waiting for the remainder of the team to arrive.

  Out of his peripheral vision he could see his team. With only their heads above the still surface, they were nearly invisible. The five-mile swim from Warbah Island hadn’t fazed them one bit. They were the best. Men he could trust. Men he could always rely on. Men he knew would sacrifice their lives if necessary in the line of duty. They were Navy SEALs.

  Just twenty-four hours earlier, Hussein’s operatives had crossed the border, captured a senator’s nephew and scurried back into Iraq. Intel from local assets had identified the time as midnight for the nephew, Eric Shaw, to be transported to Baghdad.

  Davis pointed to the solider on the dock and made a motion like he was taking a last drag on an invisible cigarette before tossing it away, as if to relay the fact that the enemy was just about done with his smoke break.

  He looked up and saw the Iraqi throw his butt into the water and then turn around and walk out of sight. Austin motioned to Davis, silently communicating, “That’s one lucky guy, Chief.” If the soldier hadn’t left, he would have had to be taken out. One less hurdle to deal with.

  He recalled the mission’s earlier briefing.

  “I’m afraid there will be numerous hurdles on this one, gentlemen,” the lieutenant had stated flatly to the team.

  Treading water, Austin recalled how formal Davis sounded at times compared to most officers.

  Davis gave the signal for everyone to hold position.

  Austin knew the lieutenant was just making sure the Marlboro Man wasn’t coming back. He motioned Davis’s message to Remington. His buddy nodded and silently passed on the same signal to the others.

  Remington, whom he called “Professor,” had served with him since basic. They’d started out as fierce competitors, always trying to best each other. During the fitness qualifying test Remington completed the 500-yard swim in 7 minutes 44 seconds. Austin had edged him out by 3 seconds. Though the competitive drive remained, they were tight as any two men could be. Remington was a good friend he could always count on.

  Austin hadn’t even considered trying for the SEALs, but Remington convinced him to go for it. Remarkably, they’d both made the cut. Next month his buddy would take the Chief test. He would pass it, no doubt about it, and would be assigned to a new team.

  Austin stared at the dock right in front of him. This wasn’t the first time he and Remington had been in Iraq together, and he was pretty certain it would not be the last for either of them.

  His men took their positions up and down the dockyards, out of view from any onlookers that might appear. Davis’s team was chosen because when the odds were razor thin, their records of success in these types of missions were unsurpassed. Pride swelled in Austin’s chest. As dangerous as this op with the CIA was, he would make sure all of them would come out alive. That was his job. That was what he must do.

  The call to sunset prayer rang out from a nearby mosque.

  Davis held up his hand and then lowered it.

  Go time.

  Austin gave the signal to move, and the entire team crawled onto the barren dock, which only a few weeks ago would have been bustling with workers.

  Making it to the target location came without a hitch. The building’s roof was destroyed in an earlier bombing, not from U.S. forces but from Saddam’s Republican Guard. The dictator had no qualms killing his own people when it suited him.

  On plan, he, Remington, and the lieutenant entered the building from the rear, while the others rushed in through the fr
ont.

  Three Iraqi soldiers stood to the left of Eric Shaw, who was tied to a chair. Shaw barely resembled his photo, taken at his graduation from Harvard and included in the mission’s initial dossier. A good-looking black kid with a smile and a bright future in front of him. His current condition—swollen eyes, broken jaw, and dark bruises on his body—presented a different image. His clothes were torn and covered in stains of blood and sweat.

  The brutality of Shaw’s captors angered Austin.

  It was obvious that the soldiers hadn’t been expecting SEALs to show up, so it was easy to neutralize them.

  He and Remington got into position to keep an eye on the door they’d just come through.

  Davis ran to the young man and quickly untied him. “Everything is going to be okay, son.”

  With extreme difficulty due to his injuries the young man looked directly at Davis. “I…can’t believe…you came…to rescue me.”

  Gunfire erupted in other parts of the building.

  “We gotta get out of here, Lieutenant,” Remington said, just as five armed Iraqis charged into the space, shooting.

  Austin and Remington countered their attack, firing their M4s.

  Davis shoved Shaw to the floor, covering the young man with his own body.

  Remington managed to send two of their attackers to the grave before taking a bullet in his left arm, which knocked his gun out of his hands.

  From the corner of his eye, Austin spotted an Iraqi perched above them on the wall’s edge, aiming at Remington.

  He shot the gunman, who fell to the ground, dead.

  The lieutenant negated two more enemies.

  Remington shouted, “To your left, McCord.”

  He turned too late. The last enemy soldier’s bullet passed through his body armor, hit him in the chest, and sent him to the ground. “Fuck. I’ve been hit.”

  Davis charged the soldier, knocking him to the floor, slicing his throat with his field knife.

  A wave of crushing pain took over Austin’s entire body.

  He opened his eyes and saw a blurry image of the gunman back on the wall. That’s not possible. I saw him fall to the ground. I must be hallucinating.

  The other members of his team rushed into the room.

  He glanced back at the wall. No second sniper. I was hallucinating.

  Davis and Remington leaned over him.

  “Get over here, Nelson,” Remington yelled to the medic on the team.

  “Jones, get Shaw out,” the lieutenant ordered. “Hang on, McCord.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.” He coughed and tasted blood. I’m not going to make it. Angelique. I’m leaving her for good. “Professor?”

  Remington leaned closer. “I’m here, buddy.”

  “My sister—” More blood filled his mouth. “Tell her—”

  His heart seized in his chest, and he closed his eyes.

  From somewhere far away he heard Nelson say, “He’s gone.”

  Then everything went silent and turned black.

  CHAPTER 5

  8:46 AM – Present Day

  Four feet away from its body, the head of the dead man faced Austin, its jaw agape, revealing broken teeth. An ear was missing, which by the looks of it had been sliced off at the same time as his head. But there was no sign of it anywhere.

  The two glassy eyes appeared to stare directly at him.

  Blood dripped from the walls and pooled onto the floor.

  He’d witnessed some terrible things on many battlefields during his military career, but this was the worst.

  Another wave of nausea swept over him as he surveyed the gruesome sight. Having just come out of a more than decade long coma he was still reeling. Continuing to scan the room, he leaned against the frame of the door, steadying himself.

  This was definitely not the work of any U.S. Special Ops team, or even the CIA. Cutting off the head of a target was overkill and added time to a mission. It just wasn’t done.

  He knew of many terrorist groups whose preferred execution method was beheading their prisoners, and it was well documented that Saddam’s government practiced it on dissenters of the regime.

  Am I still in Iraq?

  Whether in the Middle East or some other region, nothing about this seemed right. Feeling stronger and no longer light-headed, he stared at the only person inside the space—the headless corpse.

  The man wasn’t in uniform. Not military. A blue tie hung around what was left of his neck. The severed spinal cord was visible from the gaping hole, where dark blood oozed onto the white tile floor.

  The man was in an expensive-looking suit, black leather shoes and belt, and a diamond-studded gold Rolex. A businessman?

  What had been the killer’s motive? Certainly not robbery.

  One of the corpse’s hands held a Glock with a silencer. Assassin? Hit man? Spy? Mercenary?

  Tossing aside his makeshift weapon, the shard from the broken vase, Austin bent down and retrieved the gun. He liked the weight of the Glock. Holding it made him feel more like himself.

  Seeing casings on the floor, he checked the gun’s magazine. It only held fifteen of the available seventeen rounds.

  The room looked to be the identical size as the one he’d just exited, though it appeared more utilitarian.

  No warm glow from soft lights in the ceiling here; only buzzing harsh fluorescents. But just like in the other room, cameras hung down in the corners. I’ve got to move fast. Someone will be coming soon.

  Along the wall to his right were cabinets, shelving, a refrigerator, and a desk with a computer and monitor that was the biggest one he’d ever seen. The wall straight ahead had a long counter with a sink. The left, where the head remained, had a set of wooden stairs, some hooks with one of them holding an overcoat, and a large clock.

  8:49. Morning or evening?

  He couldn’t be sure. There were no windows, just like in the other room.

  I must be underground.

  Trying to avoid the pools of dark blood, he carefully stepped over the corpse. He wasn’t successful, as the bottom of his left foot landed in the sticky substance.

  He went to the computer, which looked so different from those he remembered. The monitor looked as big as his television back on base, though incredibly thin. Hoping to discover something about where he was, he hit the spacebar. The prompt for a password came on the screen. Damn.

  He flung open the cabinets, hoping to find something, anything he could use. They were filled with medical supplies—gauze, needles, tape, linens, alcohol, and cloths. He poured some alcohol on one of the cloths and wiped the sticky substance off his foot.

  The refrigerator held more bags of blood.

  I need clothes before I get out of this damn place. There were no scrubs in the cabinets or on the shelves, and though he wasn’t sure what he would find above ground, he was certain he would stick out wearing a toga fashioned out of a sheet.

  Before someone returned he wanted to be long gone. His only choice was the dead man’s clothes.

  By the gashes in the coat and shirt it was clear to him that the man had put up quite the fight. Had the victim wounded his attacker? He spotted a bullet hole in the wall by the stairs. What had happened to his killer?

  Opting to leave the bloody coat and shirt behind, he pulled the man’s shoes off—all the time remaining alert.

  Touching the corpse’s ankles, Austin knew the man hadn’t been dead long. His flesh was cool but not stiff. He guessed little time had passed since the victim lost his head.

  He removed the corpse’s pants. One bloody stain on the left pocket was the only sign of the murder. He glanced at the overcoat hanging by the stairs. The article would have to do, and would sufficiently cover the stain on the pants.

  Putting on the pants, Austin felt a billfold in one of the pockets. The currency it held was British pounds. He learned from the driver’s license that the headless man’s name was Walt Turner. He also realized the year he’d seen on the calenda
r in the other room hadn’t been a trick, as Walt’s license had been renewed January of the same year.

  I’ve lost so much time since the mission in Iraq.

  Walt’s address was in London.

  Angelique was in London. She’d accepted the teaching job at King’s College just last month.

  No. That’s not right. This isn’t 2003.

  That ancient wave of familiar guilt returned full-force. He shook it off. No time for regrets. After he was long gone from this place, maybe.

  Angelique might have left England and returned to the U.S. by now.

  Whoever placed him down here knew about his sister. The photo proved that.

  Was she in danger? The only thing he had to go on was the return address on her letters—Flat 2B, 29 King Street, London, United Kingdom.

  Could it be the same after all these years?

  Deep down he hoped she was back in the States, far away from the UK. Away, she would be safe. Close, he wasn’t sure.

  He put on the shoes, tying the laces extra tight since they were a size too big.

  He ran back into the room he’d just left. Unwilling to leave the photo of his sister, he took it out of the frame and stuffed it in one of the pants pockets.

  With the Glock in his left hand, he ran to the stairs, grabbing the overcoat with his right.

  He slipped on the coat and tucked the gun into one of its pockets, bolting to the door above and whatever was waiting beyond.

  CHAPTER 6

  8:46 AM

  Dr. Thomas Wilson’s hands trembled as he brought his morning cup of Earl Grey to his lips. The tremor, a product of the disease he had learned to live with, was his ever-present companion for the past fifteen years; Parkinson’s. He no longer feared it, but his search for a cure would not end until his last breath. Still, he had much to be afraid of given the recent unwanted notoriety that wretched letter had given him.

  My last breath might be sooner than later.