Lessons Learned
A Flint Stryker Thriller
Allen Gregory
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Flint Stryker Returns In - Arctic Ambush
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Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, vents and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Allen Gregory.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Literal Genius Publishing. First Edition.
For SuSu
One
Garrett Riggs gasped uncontrollably for breath. His body’s reaction to near-drowning was overwhelming panic. Coughing and retching, he expelled more water than his lungs were meant to accommodate. So, this was what waterboarding was really like – it was more terrifying than he could ever have imagined.
Spluttering, he begged, “Please… no more,” before spasming into another helpless coughing fit.
His tormentor only snatched him again by his hair, yanking his ashen face towards him to meet his stare. “Perhaps you can end all of this, Mr. Riggs, by telling me and Mr. Sebastian here about the conversation you overheard when you were so ungraciously snooping on us earlier. Hmmm?”
His hands duct-taped behind him, tied to a chair, Riggs could do nothing but gape at Professor Alastor Huxley and his graduate assistant, Estebe Sebastian. Rivulets of water streaming down his face, his hair plastered to his forehead, Riggs blubbered, “I’ve told you over and over, Professor, I only overheard you and Estebe in the hallway that evening as I was leaving the language lab. I had fallen asleep after cramming for my finals and was headed back to my apartment.” He swallowed hard, his teeth chattering as he continued, not meeting their eyes. “The two of you were in your office whispering, and well, naturally I was curious… so I stopped and listened. I shouldn’t have done it, I know, but I overheard some stuff that caught my attention. I swear I have no idea what you were talking about!”
Sobbing, Riggs hiccupped and coughed again sending a spray of water and snot onto Huxley’s jacket. The Professor rolled his eyes and dabbed at his jacket with the rag he was holding – smearing the sputum in an attempt to wipe it away.
Huxley smiled to himself. It was always the same, wasn’t it? Whenever the cold reality of imminent death presented itself, those threatened always went to extraordinary lengths to attempt to save themselves. He could see Riggs’ swollen, bloodshot eyes, and knew that it wouldn’t be long before that last glimmer of hope was dashed. The acceptance of impending death would overrule and that hope would extinguish itself as surely as a quick puff extinguishes a candle.
Sighing deeply, Huxley looked sympathetically into Riggs’ pallid face. “Mr. Riggs, I’m quite sure you meant no harm, I truly am. But you see, Mr. Sebastian and I were discussing some very sensitive matters. We mentioned the names of several persons no one else was meant to hear.”
Riggs shuddered, his breath catching and tears streaming down his face.
“That is why my office door was closed, Mr. Riggs. We were having a private conversation. A very private conversation…” He tutted and shook his head. “Sadly, you happened by at a most inopportune time – for you, unfortunately.”
Huxley saw it then. Riggs’ pale green eyes went dull as if someone had thrown a switch. That was it – the hope was gone, replaced by the finality of his situation. He rose and went to the cabinet by his desk, removing a bottle of bourbon, unscrewing the top as he spoke.
“I think it would be appropriate for you and me to have a few drinks together.” He paused, grinning at Riggs. “Well, actually, Mr. Riggs, you will be the only one drinking, and I’m sorry to say you’re going to be drinking quite a lot – too much actually. Then it will be a good time for you to do a little late-night swimming. I hope you won’t have had so much to drink that you might… drown.”
Sebastian grabbed Riggs by the face before he could react and forced his mouth open as Professor Huxley began pouring the alcohol into his mouth. Gagging, Riggs swallowed and coughed up some of the bourbon as it burned his throat. “Please, I-I…”
“Shush, Mr. Riggs,” Huxley purred. “It will do you no good to fight this. As you know, Mr. Sebastian is an All-Conference wrestling champion, and I feel sure he’ll be able to ‘encourage’ your participation in our little drinking game. So, let’s enjoy it, shall we? Fortunately, as a bourbon aficionado, I have a well-stocked liquor cabinet, and the night is young, so – as they say… ‘Salud’”
His eyes wide with fear, staring into the grim face of the graduate assistant, Riggs began what he knew would be his first and last night of college binge drinking.
Two
TWENTY YEARS PRIOR
Six-year-old Flint Stryker was standing in the huge grassy field behind his parent’s home looking up at the clouds. It was a steam room kind of day, and the humid air was pregnant with the advent of a brewing summer storm. Flint was flushed with the exertion of running carefree through the field on a warm summer afternoon with no cares or worries on his mind except for how many bugs he could catch in the Ball jar his mother gave him.
The horizon roiled like the sea in tempest as the dark clouds scudded across the afternoon sky. Unafraid and curious, Flint stood holding the jar in pudgy, sweaty hands as he watched the approaching storm spanning the horizon like an Old Testament swarm of locusts.
A little over a hundred yards away, he could see his mother waving him in, her shrill voice carrying above the persistent rumble of thunder.
Lightning flashed in the clouds and Scarlett Stryker began to run towards her only son, her feet spurred on by the mindless panic only a mother knows. Flint cocked his head slightly as two thunderheads collided overhead, billowing like the aftermath of an explosion. Eyes lifted skyward, he was oblivious to his surroundings, oblivious to the frantic cries of his mother, oblivious to her running headlong to him unmindful of the danger to herself.
Surging with energy, the sky crackled with instantaneous heating and expansion as the flash of lightning streaked toward the boy. As if in slow-motion, Flint could see the molecules in the air around him clearly as if he were watching a video game through a translucent overlay, giving the supercharged air a blue tint.
Scarlett Stryker screamed in the instant t
he lightning struck Flint, her eyes involuntarily squeezed shut by the impact, as she was thrown twenty feet backward. Deathly quiet, the air nonetheless buzzed around her - hot as an oven. She forced her eyes open to see the boiling clouds overhead as she struggled to focus. There was an odd coppery taste in her mouth, and she wondered if she’d bitten her tongue. She found she was holding her breath, so she let out an explosive exhalation, and pushed herself gingerly up on her elbows.
Scarlett shook her head, trying to clear the incessant ringing in her head, and her jaw hurt as if she’d been struck by a two-by-four. Her eyes slowly came into focus as she saw Flint, some fifty yards away, still clutching his bug jar, lying flat on his back. A kind of blue haze surrounded the boy, and Scarlett swallowed hard, as the reality of the moment hit her.
“NO!” she screamed. “FLINT!”
She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet and began half-staggering, half-running towards her son. The ground surrounding him resembled an organic pattern similar to a circular spider web, with web-like fingers radiating out in a concentric circle from its center.
She flung herself on him, clutching his limp body and weeping as she rubbed his face and forehead and anxiously searched for a pulse. She was so hysterical she couldn’t find a pulse and began to wail uncontrollably.
Suddenly Flint’s hazel eyes snapped open and he stared at her quizzically. “Mom?” he asked in a clear voice, “Why are you crying?”
Scarlett blinked back tears of disbelief as she blubbered, “FLINT! You’re all right? Talk to me! You’re all right!” She squeezed him hard, hard enough to cause the boy to gasp, “Mom! You’re hurting me.”
She eased her grip, tears spilling from her face as she wept with joy. “Sorry baby. Mom was just scared, but you’re all right. You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“Mom?”
“Yes baby, what is it?” she smiled as she wiped her nose, her eye makeup streaking her face like a low-budget clown.
“Why is my face so hot?”
Three
The bright sunlight streaming through the open door caused Flint Stryker to blink awake. He touched his face which was steaming hot, he felt like the school’s ROTC squad had been marching through his mouth on a two-day bivouac. He looked around the room. The overturned kegs and the sleeping bodies (at least he hoped they were sleeping) indicated that everyone had at least enjoyed themselves at some point.
He shook his head, attempting to clear the cobwebs, running his rough tongue over his filmy teeth. Boy! That dream gets more real all the time!
He sat up gingerly, his movements stiff and aching. His head was splitting. And God was he thirsty! It was hard to imagine that anyone could be thirsty after drinking as much as he did last night.
Shambling off into the kitchen, he looked at the array of dirty dishes, cups and glasses crowded into the overflowing sink. He moved them around to make room and noticed the other revelers shifting where they lay as the dishes clattered loudly. He turned on the cold water tap and drank deeply, directly from the faucet.
Drinking his fill, he cupped his hands and splashed the cold water on his face. It was a welcome shock to his system, and he could feel the two-day stubble on his face as he rubbed the water into his skin. He found a t-shirt draped over the oven door handle and wiped his face. As he pulled the shirt away from his face, he was overwhelmed by the sour smell of sweat and beer.
Fighting the urge to vomit right then and there, Flint glanced at his watch. “Cripes!” he muttered. “I’m late for my appointment with Dr. Malloy! He’ll skin me alive!”
Stepping over passed-out friends, he hurried to the bathroom and emptied his filled-to-bursting bladder. He was shocked to see his bleary-eyed countenance staring back at him from the cracked bathroom mirror. His puffy face still showing the pattern of the corduroy pillow he’d passed out on, Flint swished a capful of mouthwash in an attempt to disguise his cat-box breath.
Stepping outside, the light was like the brightness of a thousand klieg lights searing into his optic nerves. The pounding in his head intensified as he stumbled to his car, fumbling with his keys, and opened the door. “God! I hope I’m sober enough to drive now,” he grunted.
Backing out, he squealed his ’06 Chevy Trailblazer out of the parking lot. Fortunately, Dr. Malloy’s office was just a mile from his apartment complex, so at worst he wouldn’t be more than 30 minutes late. The lazy southern campus was quiet these days with graduation fast approaching. Those who were still hanging around not readying for graduation, were mostly like Flint, trying to fit in one last party before returning home to summer jobs, trying to figure out what to do with their lives.
He grimaced as he imagined how worthless he would feel bursting into the doctor’s office smelling like a brewery and looking like he’d been on a two-day drunk (which was exactly what he had been doing). With Flint, worthless had become a relative term.
But Dr. Malloy seemed to have more patience with him than he deserved. While he didn’t necessarily give Flint a pass, he always seemed to believe in and find the inherent good in him, always expecting something better. Rubbing his tongue over his gummy teeth, he hoped one day he could justify that misplaced trust.
He pulled into the parking space of the Science Building and hopped out of his car. Glancing down, he noticed his fly was open, and Little Flint was enjoying the outdoors. He tucked his unit back into his pants and carefully zipped his jeans – it wouldn’t do to snag Little Flint after the night they’d had.
Rushing to the third floor, he hurried down the hall to Dr. Malloy’s office. As he approached the door, he could hear Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” coming from the doctor’s office. Good, maybe he’d be in a mellow mood after listening to one of his favorite composers.
He peeked around the doorframe into the doctor’s office, filled to excess with books, ephemera, knick-knacks, and curios. Dr. Morris Malloy sat with his back to the door, humming absent-mindedly to the cheery strains coming from the Alexa on his desk.
“Ahem.”
Dr. Malloy didn’t move. “Concerto No. 3 in F major, (‘Autumn’)” filled the room and hallway, and for all Flint knew, the doctor was asleep. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Ahem.” He cleared his throat again, more forcefully this time.
“I heard you the first time, Mr. Stryker,” Dr. Malloy intoned without turning to look at Flint. “You may come in, but perhaps you’ll be good enough to hit the area with a spray of that air freshener on the bookcase there as you sit.”
Sheepishly, Flint hit the air with a prolonged blast of “Wintry Pine” air freshener before taking a seat in the doctor’s bare-bones guest chair. He attempted to smooth his auburn hair, which he knew must look like a startled hedgehog.
“I’m glad you could grace me with your presence this morning,” the doctor said without a trace of sarcasm. Flint was always amazed at how carefully the doctor masked his true feelings when he spoke. You never really knew what the man was thinking.
“I apologize, Doc. I know I’m a little late, but I was studying for an exam with some friends, and well, I’m afraid I overslept.”
Dr. Morris Malloy abruptly turned to face him, a smirk on his dimpled face, his eyes peering over his glasses perched low on his nose. “I doubt that very much, Mr. Stryker, as I know that you have already taken all of your exams. And the only studying you could have done was to determine how best to hook up another keg. Forgive me if I am misjudging you.”
Flint reddened as he looked at his shoes. Wait, where were his shoes? He thought he’d put them on. He wiggled his toes as if that should make shoes magically appear. Oh well, it was too late to worry about that now. “No, you’re right, Doctor. I was partying with my friends this weekend. I’m afraid things may have gotten a little out of hand.”
“That, Mr. Stryker, may be the understatement of the morning,” Dr. Malloy said as he rolled his chair closer to Flint. “If you don’t mind, could you please fix us a fresh pot of coff
ee? The pot I made earlier in anticipation of our meeting seems to have gone cold and stale.”
“Sure!” That was the doctor’s way of showing him that he had moved on from the aggravation he had surely felt. As he moved toward the coffeemaker, the doctor took one of the small stone Celtic crosses from his desk and threw it directly at Flint’s head.
Without flinching, Flint reflexively grabbed the cross in midair and set it down on the counter next to the coffeemaker. “Jeez, Doc, do you always have to do that? One of these days you’re going to crack my skull!”
Dr. Malloy laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I very much doubt that, Mr. Stryker. I have been unable to catch you off guard in the almost six years I have known you. Even the first time I attempted to crack your skull, as you put it, I was unable to catch you unawares.”
Flint ignored the not-so-subtle dig at how long it had taken him to get through college. He knew the doctor cared about him and that was just one of his ways he showed it.
He spooned the coffee into the filter in the basket and then filled the water compartment. “I can’t explain it, Doc. I just seem to know when it’s coming, almost like a sixth sense, y’know?”
Dr. Malloy looked at Flint somberly. “It’s amazing, young man. I’ve never seen anyone with your instinctive sense of heightened reflexes and auto-response. I would dearly love to open up that brain of yours one day, to try to see what makes you tick.” He stretched his long, gangly legs as he shifted in his chair observing Flint. His deep-set eyes were nestled under bushy black eyebrows that framed his craggy face, giving him a look of perpetual surprise. As Flint turned to remove two cups from the cabinet, Malloy moved swiftly.
Lessons Learned: The Flint Stryker Thriller Series - Book 1 Page 1