Jack Be Nimble: A Lion About to Roar Book 4

by Ben English

  “Missed the bone,” she said. “Sure didn’t feel like it.”

  He looked at her flatly. “Archimedes?”

  She laughed, and used her teeth to lever the wrapping from a Band-Aid. Hello Kitty strikes again. “Good thing for us you’re a smart guy, Jack.”

  Not His First War

  The jungle was a solid, living curtain, drenched every shade of green.

  Alonzo kept up the game as long as he could, but he was running out of tricks. The Colombians had crisscrossed the sparse lowland areas all morning, searching grid after grid, and it was all he and the major could do to keep ahead of them, darting in and out of heavier cover on the mountain slope. Their mission was simple: provide distraction and covering fire for the Tanners, who were moving closer and closer to the collection of greenhouses where the hostages waited.

  Aside from the three squads of men trying to find and kill them, the only immediate problem they had was locating the mortar platform. Still couldn’t figure out where the mortar was located.

  So it went like this: pop out of cover, fire a round from the grenade launcher mounted to the underbelly of his M4 assault rifle, go back into hiding and sprint for the next vantage point while the mortar team lobbed a volley in his direction. Then spot for the Major while she brought her long gun into play on one of the mercenary teams closing in on their previous position. She was a decent sniper—not a surgeon of Solomon Keyes ability, but decent. Only a single confirmed kill so far that morning, but that was fine. Three of the Colombians had been wounded, so from a tactical point of view, it was perfect.

  In a situation like theirs, where a few defenders faced off against a far larger force, the psychological effect of a sniper was a usually of far greater benefit than the kill-ratio. The men in the attacking force could never be sure where the next long-range round was coming from, or who among them would fall. It was the most demoralizing thing to see a teammate fall and not be able to immediately direct vengeance at anything other than the idea of a sniper, somewhere nearby, most likely lining crosshairs on you down the barrel of a long gun.

  It certainly slowed the Colombians down. With any luck, they’d assume the mountain was full of sniper teams.

  He and Allison ditched most of their supplies early, only carrying what ammunition, food, and water they could bear and still run. She kept the sniper rifle, he had the M4, and they both had their sidearms. The grenades were long gone.

  Their most important weapon was the radio link to Steve, a few ridges away. It wasn’t lost on Alonzo that in addition to drawing off the Colombians, he and Allison also represented the only active line of defense between Steve and the mercenary army. He wondered if Ian had finished placing the claymores before he took his little hike up the hill.

  One item Alonzo refused to leave behind, and that was his coffee-flavored cough drops. Nearly mid-morning, and his system was in rebellion. It wasn’t merely a lack of coffee, it was a chasm, a gulf, a planet-sized vacuum. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone this long without any of the elixir of morning life, and if not for the coffee candies he would have long ago forayed down out of the trees and crept up on one of the Colombian sentries, just to see if he could wring some liquid caffeine from the man’s veins and sinew.

  Hey, melodrama. He was starting to sound like Jack. He felt for another lozenge and swore. One left.

  Their biggest problem—lack of coffee notwithstanding—was the type of tactics he and Allison were forced to depend on. They were essentially using defensive tactics in an indirect, offensive effort—which never went well. Truth be told, this made his skin crawl. The weight of history proved him already a dead man:

  Hiding in the brush while the enemy passed you by, only to rise and strike at them from behind was not a strategic plan for a long life. Worked great as a purely defensive maneuver, especially if you weren’t a big believer in the “live to fight another day” thing. Using defensive tactics while on the offense hadn’t worked for the Japanese in World War Two, for the Taliban against the Americans in Afghanistan, or—he should stop now. Makes a guy regret putting so much effort into a 401k.

  This is why he found himself cowering in the boughs of an enormous tree, not twenty feet above a gaggle of soldiers as they slipped by below, silent as leaves on a passing breeze.

  He pressed firmly into the bark of the tree, covering his head with his camouflaged forearms, trying not to breathe. His M4 hung in its sling like a fifty pound bag of sand around his neck—he’d be lucky if he could ready it in time to get off a shot before the Colombians stitched a lead seam from his crotch to the crown of his head. These tactics never worked. He was almost tempted to pray.

  This group of mercenaries was subtly different than the others. Not in appearance—each wore the same motley assortment of equipment, bits and pieces of different uniforms, carried non-standard weapons—but in the way they carried themselves. They moved widely apart, maintaining enough distance from each other that a grenade would have no chance of reaching more than one. By their mud-caked exterior, Alonzo was sure they’d stayed out during the storm, just as he and Allison had, and yet they moved well, as if rested.

  He bet all of them had drunk coffee that morning.

  Slowly, slowly, Alonzo moved his eyes to look at his watch. The Tanners needed him and Allison to be in position in less than ten minutes, to cover their final advance on the hostages.

  Less than eight minutes remained as the last of the Colombians vanished into the deep, layered green. Alonzo forced himself to count to one hundred before climbing down. The major took a bit more time getting down from her tree (she was carrying the long gun, and had to baby the scope), and they both ran downhill to the edge of the forest.

  “They’re moving directly toward Lighthouse Hill,” she said.

  “Don’t think about it,” he replied. “They’ll stay on this side of the ridge, just in case we’ve moved back into the lowlands, into an area they’ve already searched.”

  “Which is just what we’re doing. We’ve allowed them to surround us.”

  There wasn’t anything left to say to that, so Alonzo took the lead in a low, fast run across the meadow. The grass was nearly shoulder-height, but he still felt exposed. At least they weren’t carrying full packs; all that equipment jangling and bouncing like the accoutrements of a one-man band—

  Behind him, the major made a small sound of surprise. He whirled, dropping to one knee and bringing his rifle up. Couldn’t see past two feet in the grass. Damn it. “Major, report. Allison!”

  “Look at this.”

  She knelt next to a tire track, wide and deep. A military vehicle. Easy enough. The ground was flat, might even have been a road around here at some point. The jungle, especially the grass, covered things up quickly.

  The track sunk several inches into the soft ground. Alonzo peered closer, watching the major move her finger along the deepening lines pressed into the dirt. She counted several levels of dirt and gave Alonzo a significant look. “I’ve a theory about why we haven’t yet located the mortar platform.”

  Of course. “It’s mounted on a troop carrier or some other specially-made vehicle,” he said, nodding. “They’ve been moving it around.”

  Smart. Better than smart. Someone with more than theory to help make decisions. Alonzo had seen a silver-haired man moving among the various groups all morning, not wearing any special military insignia, but still. Probably chief of island security or something. Knew what he was doing. Wasn’t his first war. He would have that sort of idea. Fire and move, fire and move.

  “Sure, since everything’s already a known target.” Alonzo said. “With their enhanced camera system, they’ve zeroed in every single point on this island. Makes sense that they could stay mobile, fire from any other point. We’ve got no chance of finding that mortar, now.”

  Allison shook her head. “Say they can take care of the computations that fast. So you can get a firing solution on any target from any location—that�
�s fine for a computer. But you’re a human—”

  “—you’re going to have habits,” he finished. “Favorite places to fire from. Uncomplicated areas with lots of room to maneuver.”

  Alonzo did the math aloud. “The mortar has fired from four locations. How many times this morning?”

  “Nine.”

  “And how many times from right here? Any way to tell?”

  She counted the levels of impressions in the dirt again, carefully. “Assuming each of these divots is made by the recoil caused by a round firing, twice so far.”

  If the mortar crew followed the pattern, they would fire again and relocate immediately after the island’s attackers showed themselves. Which he and Allison were about to do (he checked his watch), in four minutes.

  He activated his radio. “Groucho, this is Harpo. We may have a fix for our little mortar problem, over.”

  To Allison he said, “Can you make it to the next position in four minutes, by yourself? We’re going to have to split up.”

  Treehouse

  Raines called it the “upstairs office.” Marduk privately referred to it as the “treehouse,” not that he’d ever tell anyone. The views from the lodge were stunning. Built into the mountain’s slope just a shade lower than the peak, the balconies provided views of nearly half the island. More than a second suite of private rooms and offices, it was where Raines did his best solitary work.

  A natural lava tube connected the lodge to the main generator room, back in the center of the mountain, as well as the private labs and libraries where Raines carried out his personal endeavors, hidden even from the teams working at the main compound. Marduk loved the place. The walls were teak and oak, and the floors made of the same polished obsidian found everywhere inside the mountain. Pitch black, shot with iridescent crystal.

  Raines seldom allowed servants to visit the lodge. Marduk got himself a Pepsi and a plate of assorted cookies from the kitchen, and carried them to the main balcony. Then returned to the kitchen and put half-a-dozen additional soft drinks in the refrigerator. Raines would want something to eat after completing the code, and he expected Marduk to remain close by so as to test it when it was finished. Second set of eyes, and all that.

  There was really no need for that. If Raines could reconstruct the code from memory, Marduk doubted he’d be able to find anything wrong with it. This was Alex Raines, after all.

  He made sure the doors leading to Raines’ suite were firmly shut and then returned to the balcony. This kind of light is meant to be enjoyed, he thought. Mercedes will like this. Life will be much less complicated once she realizes what the nanodevices are capable of. She’ll be much more pliable. This far up the mountain it hardly ever got uncomfortably warm, but he imagined very little would be required to talk her into the Jacuzzi wearing . . .very little.

  He drank the Pepsi straight from the glass bottle, the way you were supposed to.

  There was a healthy store of concentrated Pepsi syrup in one of the vaults. Coca-Cola, too. Most of the other foods Marduk and Raines had come to love as children, both in a new country. As an added bonus, most of the foods they loved had a hilariously long shelf life due to their preservative content.

  The stored food and equipment was a precaution. Most likely they wouldn’t need it. The different statistical models they’d run in preparation for the Change put full conversion at around three weeks for ninety percent of the world’s population, and five months for the remaining statistically significant portion of humanity.

  Best of all, the point at which they might deactivate the nanodevices was long past. In the few hours since the initial, synchronizing pulse was sent, all the devices were up and running, only awaiting a second set of instructions. The second pulse only waited for Raines to finish the code. A few minutes, now.

  Then, three weeks to five months.

  Time enough for the earth’s population to be . . . adjusted properly. He and Raines would have such a head start on all their projects, by midway through the century they were sure to have completely eradicated every disease, not to mention the vast host of problems caused by humans irresponsibly exercising their free will.

  Best of all were the children. There was something to be said for completely starting over—

  “Lovely day,” said the stout man underneath the balcony. He had a gun, pointed at Marduk’s head. Marduk dropped the Pepsi bottle, and the man caught it. The black emptiness at the end of the gun barrel did not waver.

  The man below was Ian Whitaker, a special agent with the FBI. He was perspiring like mad. Whitaker drained the bottle and tossed it back up.

  “You got any of these on ice?”

  He walked to where the incline of the hill met the edge of the balcony, and levered himself over the railing. “Are those cookies?”

  What Raines Wrought

  Jack and Mercedes spiraled up, level by level, through Raines’ labyrinth. With Steve acting as their eyes and guide they practically ran through the halls, managing to avoid the guards.

  All of whom looked ferociously purposeful, moving in pairs. None of them were unarmed.

  Locked into the video surveillance feed as well as the guards’ radio frequency, Steve provided plenty of warning, directing Jack and Mercedes to a closet or side vault before the quick-step feet became audible. They counted at least three large warehouse-style vaults like the one they’d ascended, each honeycombed with storage units.

  Sometimes the two had to wait minutes on end before a path appeared through the overlapping patrols.

  The walls were polished obsidian, flecked and streaked with pure white and, occasionally, red. Electrical lines and other utilities ran in covered channels down the center of each hallway.

  “I think they built this place in the old, main conduit of the volcano,” said Jack.

  “You mean magma used to flow through here?”

  “Could be. More likely the tunnels were carved by all the minerals driven up by the hydrothermal fluids, which are still flowing. I bet that’s how Raines is powering his electrical generators.” He touched the dark material as they walked. “These patterns are made by metal sulfides, magnesium, iron, iron oxides—that’s what makes these blood-red streaks in the walls.”

  “It smells like a fish aquarium.”

  They passed up a level to new surroundings. The walls were now covered in more conventional particle board, primed and painted. There were ceramic fittings on everything from doorknobs to drinking fountains, and the floor was completely rubberized.

  For some time now he’d noticed a steady hum. Almost a vibration, but lacking cadence. It soaked the air. Jack was about to ask Mercedes if she felt it too, when they spotted the uniformed shoulder of a guard in the next room. He was standing in a wide area and happened to rock back on his heels.

  They froze. He seemed to be speaking with someone, and distracted by a third presence in the room. They weren’t standing close enough to understand more than snatches of the conversation, but they could hear an occasional, almost rhythmic squeaking sound.

  Jack and Mercedes took several careful steps back the way they’d come.

  “Groucho,” said Jack, “You still with us?”

  Nothing.

  Jack checked his earbud, it was fine. His phone was completely dead.

  “Battery?” asked Mercedes.

  “Don’t think so. Same thing happened to us in Raines’ building, in London. We might be getting close to his generators.”

  But this place had more of an antiseptic, hospital feel to it. He crept closer to the guard, who still had his back to the hallway.

  Squeak-squeak. Squeak-squeak.

  A child played at the guard’s feet, rolling a plastic car back and forth, back and forth. It was a little girl. A second child sat a few more feet away, drawing. Paper spread outward in irregular concentric circles from her, and piled up in a hard line near the guard’s feet. There were half a dozen children, all on one side of the room, ranging in ages f
rom four to twelve.

  Something about the room struck Jack as odd: Half the furniture was one-third sized, desks and couches, tables and a sink, but the small furniture also ended at the hard line near the guard.

  Guards, plural. A second man faced the children. “That’s just how he likes it, you know? Likes to hear little kids crying. Says it’s ‘relaxing’. Creepy, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, well. He’s the boss.” The first guard leaned forward, and rested his head and forearm—

  Against the glass wall before him. Floor to ceiling transparency, sure. It was like an observation room. Or a museum for children.

  The second guard unkinked his neck and shoulders, and began to turn.

  Jack took three long strides and launched himself into the air, kicking the turning guard full in the face just as he began to register surprise. Spinning, Jack ducked under the other guard’s arm and hard-palmed the first in the flesh just over his kidney.

  In shock, the man folded without a sound.

  Jack whirled back to the first guard, but Mercedes was already there, wielding the baton she’d scavenged below. In one motion she snapped it to its full length and struck the man’s wrist as he clutched at his holster. They all heard the fine bones break.

  A fighter though, this one. He reached for the gun with his off-hand, and Jack hammered him, landing two, three, four open-handed blows to his body. Gripping the injured wrist, Jack twisted it and the arm it was attached to all the way to the limits of its range of motion, and with the new leverage sent the guard face-first into the transparent wall.

  Two of the children on the other side screamed. Holes set at regular intervals carried the sound weirdly from the other room.

  Mercedes stood above the first guard, brandishing the baton, but he wasn’t moving. They found plastic restraints on his belt; Jack knew how these worked, and he quickly secured the guard’s wrists behind him, around a leg of sturdy-looking furniture.