Omega: A Jack Sigler Thriller

by Jeremy Robinson

  King remained in New Hampshire for a month, reuniting with his family and watching over his mending friends while the team’s scientists studied Ridley’s remains and ensured he was, without a doubt, not coming back. Not that anyone was going anywhere. The geopolitical backlash to the events in Carthage, which no one could find a reasonable explanation for, threatened to expose them. So they stayed silent. Waited for the world’s hackles to lower. And finally, Domenick Boucher, head of the CIA and one of the few people who knew Endgame existed, gave them the all-clear. Tensions had eased and a terrorist group was blamed for simultaneously releasing a hallucinogenic gas and detonating several bombs in Tunisia. The governments of several nations knew that was not the truth, but not one of them wanted to tell the world that the 300-foot tall Colossus of Rhodes had come to life and attacked the city. Bodies were disposed of. Videos were destroyed. Rumors were started and evidence was planted.

  As soon as the all-clear had been given, King had taken Ridley’s remains and jetted to Nazca, Peru—where it all began—courtesy of Crescent II. The flight took just hours, and no one would be the wiser.

  He stared down at the sack again, then looked at his watch. Crescent II was a stealth vehicle, but the Nazca plains sported more airborne tourists than anywhere else in the world. It was the only way to really see the giant geoglyphs carved into the desert by the ancient Nazcans and the occasional Greek demigod. He had an hour and a half before the first scheduled flight passed overhead.

  He lifted the shovel and set to work, digging out the entrance to the cave his friend George Pierce had discovered under the massive stone, years ago. The memory was dim for King, but he knew it had happened for George only a few years back.

  When the entrance to the cave, where King himself had once been trapped, was clear, he unceremoniously chucked the head into the cave, watching as it rolled along in its burlap.

  He started filling in the entrance. Before the digging was done, he tossed the shovel itself into the tunnel and finished the work by hand. When he was done, he pulled a small hammer and a chisel from his belt and went to work on the side of the hot stone.

  The symbol was simple, but he wanted it to be large. Large enough to be seen by anyone else that should come along in the next several hundred years. He carved it deep into the side of the stone, then he walked to the other side of the rock where Pierce had discovered the other carving, left centuries ago, by Alexander. The letters were in ancient Greek and the transcription read:

  “Here is buried the beast most foul... Fire and sword did sever the head immortal, forever entombed beneath sand and stone. Be warned all who read these words. Heed the screaming guards within and keep dry the earth lest you wake the monster and taste its mighty vengeance.”

  King went to work with the chisel again, destroying Alexander’s message, which had withstood the ravages of time thanks to the lack of weather on the plains. When the stone was completely smooth, he walked back to his side of the stone, and looked at the symbol he had carved, five feet tall.

  He had never used the symbol before, but since Alexander—the first pillar in the Herculean Society’s insignia—was now gone from the Earth for good, it seemed fitting to start a new legacy. The Herculean Society and its wraith protectors served King now, and he wanted the new symbol to be familiar to them, but to reflect a change in the guard. It was simple and would be easily recognizable to speakers of all languages around the world and through the ages. Over the following years, leaders and governments would come to know the symbol, and what it meant.

  Danger.

  Stay away.

  You don’t want any part of this.

  They would learn to trust the symbol, and that ignoring its warning led to peril. The Herculean Society symbol had worked in the same way over the ages. It wasn’t known to all countries throughout history. Its meaning was lost and found as power shifted between nations and continents. Not every president understood it as a warning, including Tom Duncan, but they usually learned, often the hard way. Where the Herculean Society symbol was found, strange and deadly danger awaited. And whatever it was, someone else was handling it. Someone who knew better.

  The symbol was the reason the Bermuda Triangle was still largely unexplored and unexplained. It was the reason the Russians still kept people away from Krasnoyarsk Krai, where the Tunguska comet had detonated. It was the reason no one would ever know what really happened to Roanoke.

  King stepped back and looked at his new symbol. It was similar enough to the original that those who recognized the Herculean Society symbol might recognize the authority of the new.

  It was crude, but it would do.

  He turned and started walking away from the giant boulder that covered the cave. There was just one more thing to do.

  He had lived an incredibly long life, impervious to harm. He almost couldn’t remember what it had been like to be afraid of death or to know that an injury could be permanent. In a way, he couldn’t remember what it felt like to be human.

  King reached into the small pouch on his belt and removed an auto injector. It was similar to the serum the team had used on the Ridleys to rob them of their Hydra-induced regenerative abilities. But King’s version of the serum had started off as a potion Alexander had left for him in a Herculean Society base in Greenland. King had ordered some of his scientists working for the Society to analyze it and make small adjustments to it. If he injected it into himself, it would once again alter his DNA. It would remove the regenerative abilities Alexander had granted him by slipping herbs into his tea all those years ago. It would also remove his immortality.

  He had lived a long, long time. He was ready to settle down with his family—his fiancée and his adopted daughter. He was ready to live a normal lifespan, and when the time came, he was ready to die.

  He placed the injector against his skin, the metal warm from the hot sun beating down on him for the last several hours. He looked at the metal around the glass vial as it glinted in the sun. Over 2800 years. He wondered if he would still have the memories and experiences of those years, once his genetic code was rewritten, or whether, like his healing abilities, all that would fade as well.

  He activated the high-pressure injector, and then it snapped loudly, driving the serum into his body. He expected to feel something, even though his techs had told him he would not.

  All he felt was the slight sting on his arm from where the needle had punctured his skin. He removed the injector and looked at his arm. The needle hole oozed a tiny drop of blood. He wiped it away with his finger, and noted that the puncture wound had not closed up instantly as it would have in the past.

  Easy come, easy go.

  King looked up at the sky. It would be late afternoon in New Hampshire now. He pulled out a black satellite phone and called home. It took some rings and digital clicks, but the call went through.

  “It’s done,” he said, when Deep Blue answered. “I am officially younger than you again.”

  “Not really,” Deep Blue said.

  “You know what I mean,” King replied.

  Deep Blue chuckled. “Then you won’t mind if I start bossing you around again?”

  King smiled. A mission was coming. “Where do you want me?”

  “Home,” Deep Blue said. “Just come home.”

  “Copy that,” King said. “I’ll be there for supper.”

  As he hung up the phone, a high pitched whistle turned him around.

  Rook stood at the top of the hill, lowering his hands. Beside him stood Queen, Bishop and Knight. And they weren’t alone. George Pierce, Sara, Fiona, Asya and his parents had all made the trip with him. A trip to say goodbye to the past and to welcome home their future.

  Rook, however, had a few more words to say. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted down the hill, “That is the shittiest ‘K’ I have ever seen!”

  King laughed and started up the hill as Fiona raced down to meet him.

  ###

  Dea
r Reader,

  You have just finished the fifth Jack Sigler/Chess Team novel (sixth if you're counting PRIME, the series's book zero) and I wanted to take a moment to thank you for reading. I hope you have enjoyed the journey and that you will come back for more adventures. If you did enjoy the book, please show your support by posting a review at Amazon.com. The Amazon website works on algorithms, meaning the more people review my books, the more Amazon will recommend them to other readers. And the more people buy my books, the more I get to write them, which is a good thing for both of us (assuming you enjoyed the book). While some authors pay for five star reviews, I'm depending on you, the actual reader, to voice your opinion. Not only will your review help sales for OMEGA, but it will help ensure the future of the Chess Team. Oh yes, there will be more! Friend me on Faceook or join the newsletter (or both!) to stay informed.

  Thank you!

  -- Jeremy Robinson

  Older Kindle model? Click here for e-store.

  PROJECT NEMESIS

  Available now! Click here to purchase.

  DESCRIPTION:

  Jon Hudson, lead investigator for the Department of Homeland Security's Fusion Center-P, thinks his job is a joke. While other Fusion Centers focus on thwarting terrorist activity, Hudson's division is tasked with handling paranormal threats to national security, of which there have been zero during his years at the DHS. When yet another Sasquatch sighting leads to a research facility disguised as an abandoned Nike missile site in the back woods of Maine, Hudson's job becomes deadly serious.

  Hudson and the local Sherriff, Ashley Collins, suddenly find themselves on the run from a ruthless ex-Special Forces security team, but the human threat is short-lived as something very much not-human destroys the facility and heads for civilization, leaving only a single clue behind--a name scrawled in blood: Nemesis. Working with his team at Fusion Center-P, Sherriff Collins and a surly helicopter pilot named Woodstock, Hudson pursues the creature known as Nemesis, attempts to uncover the corporate secrets behind its creation and accidental release and tries to comprehend why several clues lead to a murdered little girl named Maigo.

  But as the body-count explodes, along with the monster's size, it quickly becomes clear that nothing short of a full military response can slow Nemesis's progress. Coordinating with every branch of the U.S. military, Hudson simultaneously searches for clues about Nemesis's origins and motivations, and leads the counterattack that will hopefully stop the monster before it reaches Boston and its one million residents.

  Witness the birth of a legend as Jeremy Robinson, bestselling author of SecondWorld and Ragnarok, combines the pacing of Matthew Reilly with the mystery of James Rollins and creates the first iconic American Kaiju* story since King Kong. Includes original creature designs by legendary Godzilla artist, Matt Frank.

  *Kaiju is Japanese for "strange beast." The genre includes classic monsters such as Godzilla, Gamera, Mothra, Rodan and King Ghidorah.

  1

  Now

  "You have got to be kidding me!" I shout to myself when Def Leppard's Pour Some Sugar on Me blares from my pickup truck's feeble speakers. If the flashback to my childhood wasn't bad enough, every thump of the bass drum releases a grating rattle. Whoever owned the beat up, faded red Chevy S-10 before me blew nearly every speaker. Probably some teenager. Man, I'd like to punch that kid in the face. Of course, right now I'd like to punch every radio DJ within a hundred miles, too.

  I tap the radio's "seek" button. Boston. More than a Feeling.

  Again. Jane's Addiction. Pets.

  One more time. Aerosmith. Love in an Elevator.

  I punch, literally punch, the radio's power button, but all I manage to do is spin the volume up. Steven Tyler howls in my ear. The vibrating speakers make him sound like a smoker with an artificial voice box. I tap the button more carefully, despite the racket, and silence fills the cab once more.

  My neck cracks as I roll it, releasing my music-induced tension. "Welcome to Maine," I say, doing my best DJ impression, "home of the seventies, eighties, nineties, and...that's it."

  I should probably invest in a new stereo system someday. Hell, I should probably buy a car with anti-lock brakes, eighteen airbags and all the other things most people care about. But that would require an effort beyond my actual desire to replace Betty.

  Yeah, I named my truck. Betty was the name of my first girlfriend. Like this truck, she had a grating voice and a high maintenance personality. Despite girlfriend-Betty being easier on the eyes, I stayed with her for only six months. Pickup truck-Betty talks less. And doesn't complain when I turn her on. We've been together for going on five years now, and even though she's rough around the edges, she's just about the only thing in my life that makes any sense.

  I glance in the rearview. The road behind me is as empty as the road ahead. I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and shake my head. I don't look like a DHS agent. DHS—Department of Homeland Security. Most of the people working for the DHS are straight-shooting, tight-ass suits. An inordinate percentage of the men have mustaches, like they're 70s porn stars or 1900s Englishmen ready to engage in some old fashioned fisticuffs.

  Of course, I am sporting the beginning of a beard myself, but that's less of a style choice and more of a result of my ancient shaver, pilfered from my father when I moved out ten years ago, crapping out a week ago. I think it looks good, but if any of my superiors saw it, I'd probably get a good talking to. Proper dress. Appearances matter. That kind of stuff. It's a good thing my superiors don't give a rat's ass about me or my department. I don't think I've seen or heard from someone with a higher pay scale than mine in the last six months.

  I adjust the maroon beanie cap covering my crew-cut brown hair. The tight-fitting knit hat has become a staple of my wardrobe, and it is a style choice, mostly because it disguises the fact that my hair is slowly retreating like soldiers from my muddy battlefield. I think it makes me look like The Edge, from U2, a band of the eighties, nineties, and today that I actually wouldn't mind hearing on the radio.

  My smartphone—which is really a company phone—cuts through the silence, saying, "Turn right," in a far from sexy, yet feminine voice that is the closest thing I've had to a girlfriend in a year. Other than Betty, I mean. I spot the dirt road up ahead and turn onto the uneven surface. The road is covered in half buried stones the size of grapefruits and rows of hardened ridges formed by water, which, in combination with Betty's rigid suspension, bounces me around like I'm on a grocery-store horsey ride, having a seizure.

  Twenty minutes and a headache later, I arrive at my destination. I pull the truck into the lone parking space, put it in park and kill the engine. The car door creaks as it opens, allowing the outside world to wash over me. Warm summer air chases away the chill of Betty's air conditioning, which works like a champ. The smell of pine and earth and, I think, water, fills my nose.

  It's been too long.

  Once upon a time, I'd been a real salt of the Earth type. I camped, fished, hunted, slept under the stars and smoked a doobie or two. It's been at least ten years of indoor and pot-free living since then. Thank God I'm not in drug enforcement. I'd be horrible at it, mostly because I think I'd let all of the potheads walk.

  The small cabin is on loan to me from Ted Watson, one of two people I actually oversee. I'm supposed to hire two more team members out of whatever law enforcement branch I can entice them from, but I haven't really bothered. Seeing as how every case I have is like a bad episode of The X-Files, but without the actual monsters, aliens and government conspiracies, I just don't see the need to deal with more personalities.

  Not that Ted is hard to deal with. He's kind of like a grown up version of Chunk, from The Goonies—chubby, funny and he occasionally breaks into a jiggly dance. He's also brilliant with computers and electronics. I'm pretty sure he got posted to my team because, like me, he doesn't exactly fit the company profile. Anne Cooper, on the other hand, does. Cooper, who I call Coop, mostly because it bothers her,
is a straight-laced administrator who does things by the book, even though so little of our mandate is in any book not written by a fiction author, a lunatic or both.

  They've been with me for three years now, manning the home front—a house perched atop Prospect Hill in Beverly, Massachusetts. From the top floor you can see the ocean and, on a clear day, Boston. It's a nice place to live and work, but it's not the great outdoors.

  Believe it or not, I'm not on vacation. I'm working. Watson's family just happened to have a cabin in the area, and I felt like being nostalgic for a night before beginning my "investigation."

  With a shake of my head, I push away thoughts of the ridiculous day I'll have tomorrow and hop up the steps to the front door. Despite the apparent disuse of the cabin, the porch wood feels firm beneath my feet. Maybe it's faux worn, I wonder, like those beat-up looking hutches made for rich old ladies who want to have rustic kitchens without the actual rust.

  I dig into my pocket for the key while scanning the area. Most of the trees are pines, though a few maples line the dirt road, their leaves glowing lime green in the afternoon sun. There's no mailbox or even a number on the cabin. As I pull the key from my pocket, I lean back and peer down the road. Nothing. And there wasn't a single house on the way here, which suits me, because while I don't have any doobies, I do have a twelve-pack buried in a cooler full of ice.

  I'm not supposed to drink on the job, but I'm not technically working right now and I'm pretty good at warding off hangovers. Besides, I'm pretty sure that even drunk off my ass, I'll be able to figure out the mystery of Sasquatch.

  Yeah, Sasquatch.

  Fucking Sasquatch.

  I work for the Department of Homeland Security, and I'm investigating a rash of squatch sightings in the northern woods of Boonie-town, Maine. When the DHS was created in 2002, in the wake of 9-11, the bill was loaded with "riders," tacked-on provisions that wouldn't normally pass if they weren't attached to something guaranteed to pass, like the creation of the DHS. Riders usually have nothing to do with the actual bill, but the one that created my division did. The DHS has seventy Fusion Centers around the country. They're hubs where intel and resources from federal and local law enforcement agencies can be pooled in an effort to openly share information between departments—something that might have helped avoid the events of 9-11. Each hub has its own lead investigator tasked with investigations that affect multiple law enforcement agencies, and that are a threat to national security. That's me, lead investigator, except my Fusion Center has yet to be involved in any serious investigation. Fusion Centers are most commonly identified by the city they're in, such as Fusion Center – Boston, my closest neighbor in the DHS, otherwise known as "those assholes in Beantown".