by Weston Ochse
He was forced to slow to enter the open-air market and the werewolf took him in the back. They tumbled like two trains derailing at three hundred miles an hour, taking out tables and goods, leaving people scattered in their wake.
Walker stood first, feeling his speed wane. The blur of the world was becoming less and things were beginning to come into focus. He didn’t want to be human. He knew no mere human could defeat a werewolf hand-to-hand, not even a SEAL.
But he had one more vial. He pulled it out and brought it up to uncap it and drink, when he was struck on the side of the face by a dump truck.
He flew through the air, realizing that the dump truck was actually a werewolf fist.
“You should have left it alone,” came the guttural lupine voice.
Walker landed on a table of children’s clothes, which scattered like confetti. He managed to get to a standing position. Somehow he’d kept his fist around the vial and it was protected. But when he opened his fist, the vial was broken and the liquid ran down his arm.
“I could have owned a god,” Ramon roared.
Walker stared stupidly at the liquid, wondering if he’d get the same result if he licked it. Then he turned toward the sound of an avalanche, except it was the werewolf tearing through tables as it came for him.
Fuck it. No time.
Walker wiped his hands on his pants, turned and caught the wolf in midleap, one hand on its groin, one hand on its neck, and he helped it fly. The werewolf landed hard on the ground, rolling and rolling, until it came to rest in a pile of dust at the base of one of the central poles that held up the roof fifty feet above them.
Walker turned and ran. Merely human now, he could see what was to his left and right. He knew what he was looking for. He’d seen them in Tijuana a thousand times, resting on blankets in front of hooker bars. But were they really made of silver? And if they weren’t, would silver plated work?
He finally spied a table stacked with religious icons wedged between a table selling used books and a knife sharpener.
He grabbed one of the crosses, but it was too light to be anything but silver painted on wood. He grabbed another and another, all the while ignoring the seller’s screams. Then it wasn’t the seller who was screaming.
Walker ducked as the wolf raked the air above him with its claws.
He turned and punched upward into the werewolf’s groin. Supernatural or not, even werewolves had nuts. The wolf howled and bent over double holding his little wolf cubs in his clawed hands.
Walker backed away, his eyes searching for an advantage. All manner of edged weapons were arrayed on the knife sharpener’s table. The sharpener himself was huddled several feet back. Walker gave him a wave, then selected two machetes, both with edges that looked like they could cut through Excalibur.
He turned just in time to swing at the wolf. Both blades dug in. The wolf shrieked. Walker backed away and watched as the wounds closed.
The wolf came for him again.
Walker swung again, this time applying Filipino stick fighting techniques, using the machetes in a Heaven Six pattern, to worry the wolf into striking. The interweaving of the blades did just that. Although they couldn’t kill the wolf, they could cause it great pain.
One, two, three. One, two, three. The blades leaped out in a complicated rhythm, daring the wolf to come at him.
Walker backed away as his arms moved.
He saw it in the wolf’s eyes before he made a move.
The wolf charged, his arms out in front of him.
Walker fell to the ground, rolled under the outreached arms, and popped to his feet. As the wolf passed, he swung both machetes so that they came together in the middle, then crossed his body. They bit cleanly through the wolf’s neck. Its body continued several feet farther, then fell.
They say silver is the only thing that can kill a werewolf. Walker doubted much of anything could survive losing its head.
He found the head and speared it with one of his machetes.
He also became aware of sirens.
The people of the market were becoming brave. They began yelling at him, probably wondering who was going to pay for all of the broken merchandise. They formed a circle around him and the dead werewolf, who’d already resumed human form.
The sirens increased and vehicles skidded to a stop about the time he became aware of some activity above him. His body was suddenly impaled by a great halo of light as part of the roof slid aside.
Police poured into the Mercado, but stopped as they saw two men slide down a rope and land next to Walker. They wore the uniform of the GAFE and were unquestionably Mexican military.
Navarre greeted Walker. “You’ve made quite the mess.”
“I can stay and clean up, if you want. How do you say does anyone have a broom in Spanish?”
Navarre chuckled. “We got that covered. Here,” he said, handing Walker a Palmer rig.
Walker stepped into it and quickly adjusted the straps. He accepted the rope Navarre offered and wove it through the D rings. The next thing he knew, all three of them were rising into the air. The other two carried the body and the head. Soon they were in the bright sunlight of day, dangling on taut ropes from a GAFE helicopter.
Walker loosened his mask and let it fall free of his face. He inhaled deeply of the morning air. God, but it was good to be alive.
EPILOGUE
SIX WEEKS LATER.
Walker and Jen were about as off duty as they were going to get, sitting in the second floor banquet room of The Wharf restaurant on the east end of King Street in Alexandria, Virginia. He leaned over and kissed her, something they’d done a lot more of since he’d finally popped the question in front of the Welcome Home statue in San Diego. She still had some scars from the pebbling during the temple battle, but the dermatologist said that they’d disappear in time. He pushed a lock of hair back from her forehead just as Laws returned to the table with some drinks, a white zinfandel for her and Smithwicks for the two of them.
“You two are going to make me want to settle down and have little Christmas SEALs,” Laws said as he sat back and admired the pair.
“You’re never going to settle down,” Walker said. “You’re the eternal bachelor.”
“Me and Steve McQueen.” Laws patted his heart. “Eternal bachelors.”
Jen exchanged a glance with Walker. “Live fast, die young is for the movies. I want you all staying with us for a while.”
“I haven’t been called young in ages. Thank you, dear.”
“Okay, grandpa,” Walker said. “Next time you need help crossing the street, I’ll see if I can’t get a platoon of boy scouts to help you across.”
Yank came up the steps. He looked as fresh as he had as a new recruit, but he stood somehow straighter. “The rest are on their way up.” He pointed at the drinks. “Where’d you get those?”
“See Brian downstairs. We’re running a tab under the senator’s name.”
Yank hurried back down.
“Did you deliver the arm to Madame Laboy?” Walker asked. When Laws nodded, he added, “I’m curious to learn what the hell it was.”
Laws put his glass down on the table. “She’s not sure. It’s old. She’s seen them before. She called it an obour for lack of a better term. No one knows what it is exactly. It’s a piece of something older than humankind. It lives in the forests. Some animals recognize it. Birds will flock toward it. She said she saw one once. She knew to look for it because all the birds in the same tree were acting exactly the same way, as if they were one creature.”
“Any reason why it only stayed in YaYa’s arm?”
“None, except maybe it’s hard for one to get a hold of a person. Animals are far more easier.”
“Seemed pretty easy for it to get YaYa, if you ask me,” Jen said.
Walker nodded. “Where’s the arm now?”
“Usual place,” Laws said, meaning the Salton Sea facility.
“I heard they took one of the Los Desoll
ados corpses there to study, too?” Yank said with a shudder. “That was some sick shit.”
Walker took a long slow drink of his beer. “At least they gave Jingo a proper military funeral. Hard to believe he ended up that way after we met him on his boat.”
Yank turned to Jen. “You guys figure out what they had in mind for him?”
Jen shrugged. “All supposition, but we think they were going to use him to channel a god, while Ramon had made a deal with the Leprosos to be a high priest in exchange for delivering the Zetas sacrifices. According to what we’ve learned about Aztec theology, the high priests were the ones with the most power. They ran the cults, the people deferred to them, and they communicated directly with the gods.”
“I guess we fucked that plan up.” Yank slugged Walker on the shoulder hard enough for the SEAL to spill some beer. “Ain’t that right, Walker?”
Before Walker could respond in kind, Holmes came up the stairs with YaYa behind him.
“Speak of the devil,” Laws said, standing.
They all stood. Walker grinned from ear to ear when he saw YaYa, who now sported a brand new forearm thanks to DARPA researchers. It was sweet combination of metallic artistry that looked like it could just as easily fit on the arm of a twenty-second-century robot.
“I knew you all were talking about me,” YaYa said.
“Some people will do anything to get attention,” Walker said, leaning over to slap the other SEAL on the back. “Glad you’re back, brother.”
“Glad to be back.”
“So what’s the word, boss?” Laws asked Holmes.
Holmes looked from one to the other. “They want me to move into the Sissy and work with Billings. It means a promotion.”
The other SEALs glanced at each other, wondering what to say. Everyone wanted to be promoted, but there were times when you could promote yourself right out of the field and behind a desk. For those who were field capable, this was akin to exile.
“You all don’t have to look like someone died. I told them to ask me in another year. You kids need adult supervision and this old snake can’t even supervise himself,” he said, squeezing Laws’s shoulder.
Everyone released their breath just as Yank returned with a new round for everyone, including a tall strawberry drink with whipped cream and a straw. This he passed to YaYa, who nodded and smiled.
They all sat at the table. A Secret Service agent popped up at the top of the stairs. “Everything prepared for the senator?”
“All clear,” Laws said.
“Do we have to do this?” Walker asked.
“Cost of doing business,” Holmes said. “He wants to thank all of you and since he controls our budget, we’d better be nice to him.”
Walker and Laws gave each other a look. Holmes saw it.
“What’d you do?”
“Can you call the strippers off?” Walker asked.
“Not sure. I think they’re en route.” Laws pulled out a cell phone. “Oh shit—they’re downstairs.”
“What the hell?” Holmes ran to the window.
Everyone began laughing.
Holmes spun. For the first time in a long time his face turned red. But behind his glower, they could see laughter trying to come out.
Then Senator Withers crested the stairs, holding the hand of Emily. Billings stood prim and proper behind him. Senator Withers took in the scene. “Am I interrupting something?” Although he was in a blue power suit, everyone remembered him half naked and on his knees.
Walker couldn’t help it. Neither could the rest of them. They busted out laughing. Eventually, the senator and his daughter joined them. Then they sat and talked, just them, no reporters, no witnesses, just the people who’d been in the shit, bonded together forever by the events that had so recently made them.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people helped to make the book you’re holding (or viewing or listening to) and I owe them all a sincere thanks. Thanks again to Brendan Deneen, Peter Joseph, Pete Wolverton, and the whole Thomas Dunne team. Thanks of course to my agent, Robert Fleck, for being on the frontlines of publishing so that I don’t have to. Shout out to the bands the Eagles of Death Metal, 009 Sound System, Mumford and Sons, QOTSA, and Everlast for rocking me through the writing process for this novel. And thanks most of all to Yvonne, without whose support, wisdom, and love, none of this would be possible.
Special shout-out to Jon Carte for being there at the real beginning of things. Thanks also to Dave Lake, Brian Wallenius, Barb and Dirk Foster, Hal and Gene, and Eunice and Gregg Magill. Thanks to Comic King Walt Flannigan and Keith Giffen (I Heart Lobo) for your props. Thanks also to Brian Keene, Drew Williams, Bob Ford, Geoff Cooper, and Stephen Lukac for a boys’ weekend to send me off to Afghanistan. And thanks to Brian K and Tommy H for introducing me to Herb and Diane Harmon (Hi Herb and Diane) and the serenity of Cedar Lodge.
And thanks to all the readers and bookstore workers for making SEAL Team 666 such a huge success. I had emails from fans from Vicenza, Italy, where the book was in a military base library, to Hawaii, where tourists were buying copies to take out to the beach. Lots of fan letters. Lots of new friends. I thank each and every one of you for taking the time to write, email, Facebook, tweet, or simply high-five me during a book signing. If you want to reach out to me about this book or anything else, I can be found on Facebook and Twitter under my name and you can always find me at www.westonochse.com.
—Weston Ochse Kabul,
Afghanistan June 2013
ALSO BY WESTON OCHSE
SEAL Team 666
About the Author
WESTON OCHSE has won the Bram Stoker Award for First Novel and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for short fiction. He is a retired U.S. Army intelligence officer and current intelligence officer for the Defense Intelligence Agency.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
AGE OF BLOOD. Copyright © 2013 by St. Martin’s Press, LLC. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Ochse, Weston.
Age of blood: a SEAL Team 666 novel / Weston Ochse.—First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-250-03662-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-03663-6 (e-book)
1. United States. Navy. SEALs—Fiction. 2. Kidnapping—Fiction. 3. Narcoterrorism—Fiction. 4. Mexico—Fiction. 5. Zetas (Drug cartel)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3615.C476A33 2013
813'.6—dc23
2013020585
e-ISBN 9781250036636
First Edition: October 2013