Predator

by James A. Moore

  “Were you in the war too?”

  “I was.”

  “Is that how you hurt your leg?”

  “It was.”

  Michael nodded gravely. “One day I’m going to be a soldier, and I’m going to be in a war too. And I’m going to get the people who hurt my daddy.”

  Scott heard Devon pull in a breath sharp enough for it to sound like a gasp of pain. Gently he said, “Maybe you will. But there’s a long time to go before that happens. In the meantime, will you do something for your daddy? Something he would really, really want you to do?”

  Michael nodded solemnly. “Sure.”

  “Will you look after your mommy and your little sister? I mean, really look after them, and make your daddy proud?”

  “Yes, sir,” Michael said, “I will.”

  Scott heard Devon weeping quietly, but he still didn’t dare look at her.

  “Good boy, ” he said softly.

  * * *

  Scott thought Dutch had left until the big man appeared suddenly beside him.

  He was at the car, about to leave himself. Ishfaq had opened the passenger door for him, and Scott was tightening his hands on the arms of the wheelchair, bracing himself for the pain he’d feel in his ribs when he pushed himself upright.

  Then Dutch stepped into his line of vision and spoke his name, and Scott looked up, squinting into the weak sun that haloed Dutch’s big square head and threw his face into shadow.

  “Glad I caught you,” Dutch said. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  Dutch stretched out a hand as big as a bear’s paw, which Scott shook.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Dutch said. “Your team fought bravely out there. They were a credit to you. It was an honor to serve alongside you, and them.”

  “I appreciate that,” Scott said.

  “I want to introduce you to someone,” Dutch said, and half-turned to his left.

  A man stepped forward, late forties, maybe early fifties, wearing a dark suit. Flynn would have described him as a typical MIB, but unlike the Ellison clones Scott had come into contact with over the years, this man was smiling.

  “Captain Devlin,” he said, shaking Scott’s hand, “my name is Adam Garber. I have a proposition for you.”

  EPILOGUE

  TEN YEARS LATER

  “Morning, troops,” Scott said, entering the Communications Hub, coffee in hand.

  The majority of his forty-plus-strong team swiveled from their screens, most with smiles on their faces. Some returned his greeting, others waved. Matt Lafferty, himself an ex-soldier, who had lost an eye in Syria in 2010 and now wore a snazzy eyepatch, grinned and saluted.

  As ever, the Hub was a buzz of activity. The only reason a dozen or so of his team members hadn’t acknowledged his greeting was because they were speaking into the microphones of their Bluetooth headsets, while simultaneously tapping at the keyboards in front of them and scanning a range of satellite images that appeared on their screens.

  As he did every time he walked in here, Scott looked around with satisfaction. This room – roughly the size of a university lecture hall – was the place from which he now conducted his missions. It might not be as perilous as being out in the field, but it generated a different and no less exhilarating level of adrenaline. The four-dozen tiered workspaces led down to the kind of control panel that, when Scott was a kid, only ever used to truly exist in high-budget science fiction movies. Above the control panel was a row of screens, across which satellite images from around the world played constantly. These images were used to identify alien incursions as and when they happened, and to distribute information to a whole array of fire teams poised around the globe.

  The Communications Hub had produced such positive results that since Adam Garber had asked Scott to lead the team a decade ago, funding had increased year by year – and this despite the emergence of Stargazer in 2016, a group with a far murkier agenda than the OWLF had possessed, which had counted not only previous OWLF personnel among its operatives, but also many of the MIBs he and Dutch had previously clashed heads with.

  It had been an uneasy alliance at times, but it was one that Scott and his team had managed to ride out over the next couple of years – until, in fact, Stargazer’s decline and dissimilation after their disastrous attempt to take a Hunter alive in 2018 had led to untold death and destruction. That ill-conceived and ill-fated campaign had exposed not only the cracks in Stargazer’s façade, but the corruption and ruthlessness at its core, the immediate aftermath of which had been the dismantling of the organization and the OWLF’s reinstatement.

  Yet although Stargazer had been finished as a government-funded operation, Scott and the rest of the OWLF team were all too aware that the dark remnants of the organization still existed out there. Independently funded, and reliant on guerilla factions and private military companies to do the heavy lifting, they were no longer shackled by rules and regulations, or even by such moribund concepts as honor and integrity, and as such were a constant thorn – a particularly dangerous one – in the OWLF’s side.

  Not that much of this affected Scott and his team tucked away in the Hub. Indeed, since those tumultuous events over five years ago had led to things turning full circle, the Hub’s future was looking rosier than ever before. A decade ago Scott had started his new role with a team of just eight employees, but now there was talk not only of increasing his current team of around forty operatives by a further fifty percent by the end of next year, but also of opening another couple of Hubs, one in Japan and the other somewhere in Europe, most likely Germany or the UK.

  His own office, a sumptuous, glass-fronted affair, from which he was able to oversee operations, was on the far side of the room. As always, it took him a while to reach it, because everyone he passed wanted to speak to him, either to bring him up to speed on the latest intel or simply to pass the time of day. A decade ago doctors had told Scott that the only way he would walk again would be with the aid of a cane, but thanks partly to the adaptation and deployment of purloined alien technology, not only had he been able to jettison the cane, but his limp these days was hardly noticeable. He was even able to run and go to the gym, though admittedly the leg did ache afterward, and it still niggled him when the weather turned cold around December. All in all, though, he had little to complain about. Life was good.

  No sooner had he reached his office, and lowered himself into his seat with a sigh, than there was a knock on his door.

  “Come in, Rachel,” he called, already smiling. He knew what this would be about.

  Sure enough, Rachel, a small but curvy woman around ten years Scott’s junior, who was known around the Hub as the “pocket rocket,” got straight down to business.

  “Okay, buster, spill the beans.”

  Scott shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “At least give me enough so I can tell Angie what to wear.”

  “I’ve already told her. Dress smart.”

  “‘Dress smart’? What kind of bullshit is that? A lady needs more information than ‘dress smart.’ You may be Mr. Likeable, Mr. Laidback-and-Easygoing, but you have a lot to learn about female psychology, my friend.”

  “May I remind you,” said Scott mildly, “that I am your boss.”

  The eye rolling became even more exaggerated. “Whatever. Look, Scott, just put the poor woman out of her misery. She has a right to know where she’s going on her fifth wedding anniversary.”

  Scott folded his arms. “No matter how much of a grilling you give me, I’m not spoiling the surprise.”

  “But Angie hates surprises!”

  “She’ll love this one.”

  “She’d love it even more if it wasn’t a surprise.”

  Scott cupped his hand behind his ear. “I think I hear your phone ringing.”

  Rachel simultaneously narrowed her mascaraed eyes and pursed her maroon-painted lips, then huffed an exasperated breath out through he
r nose, like a bull readying itself to charge.

  “I’ll break you, Scott Devlin. You see if I don’t. I owe it to my best friend to make you bleat like a lamb.”

  “I’ve been face to face with alien Hunters,” Scott said. “I don’t scare easily.”

  “Alien Hunters are pussycats compared to me,” Rachel said.

  “You may be right at that,” Scott replied. “But I’m still not telling.”

  Rachel glared at him one more time, then marched out of the office. Scott chuckled. Beneath her tough exterior, Rachel was a diamond. She and his wife Angie had known each other since high school, and were as good friends as he and Marcus had been. It was Rachel who had introduced him to Angie at a work colleague’s birthday party seven years ago, and he would always love her for that. She was godmother to their four-year-old son, Marcus, named in honor of Scott’s best buddy, and would, in fact, be babysitting him tonight when Scott took Angie on a luxury riverboat cruise, complete with four-course dinner, to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary.

  Yes, life was good. Very good, in fact.

  If it wasn’t for the pain he still felt when he thought about the friends he had lost along the way, he might even have described it as perfect.

  He switched on his computer and checked his emails. He had never been the kind of man who was married to his phone, and so this was the first time he had looked at them today.

  He had seventeen unanswered messages. It was the one on top of the pile that caught his eye. The sender was devon_g_thorne@skymail.com, and the subject heading was “Happy Anniversary.” He clicked on it.

  Hey Scotty

  I just wanted to wish you and Angie a very happy wedding anniversary today. Your 5th, right? Wow. That means it must be at least two years since we last saw you guys. I know you’re busy, and we are too, but we must get together soon. I’ll call you in the next couple weeks and we can maybe arrange something.

  I have some news. Two bits, actually. One is that Marcus’s dad, Fraser, has been diagnosed with bowel cancer. He’s having an operation next week and his consultant seems hopeful, so we’re praying for a happy outcome.

  And the other, which I guess will come as no surprise, is that Michael is going ahead with his long-term plan to pursue a military career. He’s been offered a place at MMI, starting in September. I’m proud of him, but he’s still my little boy, so I’m scared for him too. I’d appreciate it if you would talk to him sometime. Not to talk him out of it, just to let him know what he’s getting himself into. I’ve asked myself whether Marcus would want this career for him, and the answer is, I don’t know. I tell myself lightning won’t strike twice, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying.

  Anyway, I’m sure you’re far too busy to read much more of my nonsense. I think of you often, Scott – you and Angie and little Marcus. If you get chance, send me photos. And genuinely, let’s get together soon.

  Much love,

  Devon xx

  She had enclosed two photographs, one of fifteen-year-old Precious in her school uniform, posing for the camera, and one of Michael in his JROTC uniform, standing to attention and looking serious.

  Examining the second photograph, Scott felt his stomach slowly turn over. As he got older, Michael resembled his father more and more, so much so that this latest photograph was like looking at a picture of Marcus reincarnated.

  He wondered what he would say if he did talk to the boy. Would he discourage him from pursuing what he clearly thought of as his vocation, just because it was more dangerous than, say, becoming an accountant or a lawyer? Absolutely not. Despite all that had happened, Scott regretted nothing. He and his buddies had known what they were getting into from the get-go; they had known the risks involved, and they had been prepared to face them. Of course, it was super-tough on those left behind, like Devon and the kids, and Marcus’s parents; and, of course, Scott wished he could turn back time and… what? Refuse the mission? Do things differently?

  He sighed. What had happened had happened. How many times had he told himself that over the years? He reached forward, about to click on his next message, when a smaller screen to the left of his main console suddenly blinked into life, a green light flashing in the top left-hand corner, and a message in a gray box popped into view:

  Incoming Message?

  Accept/Reject

  He checked the sender’s ID tag. It simply read “Dutch.” He smiled and clicked “Accept.”

  The picture was grainy, slippery, like an old video feed. But Dutch, thanks to the implementation of alien technology, looked the same as ever – big, grizzled, white beard, the grid of scars on his face like some kind of tribal markings.

  He was lit from below, giving him a slightly ghoulish aspect, and behind him was darkness.

  Scott checked the information scrolling across the screen.

  “So how’s the weather in China?” he asked.

  “Inclement,” Dutch said in his usual laconic way. “How’s your nice, cozy office?”

  “Cozy,” said Scott. “So to what do I owe this rare honor? No, don’t tell me. You’ve run out of toilet paper and need me to ship you out an industrial quantity?”

  Dutch chuckled, and behind him Scott thought he heard a few of the other guys chuckling too.

  “No. The guys… well, I guess, me and the guys just wanted to wish you and that long-suffering wife of yours…”

  Suddenly the dark space behind Dutch’s ever-stony façade was filled with grinning faces, all of which yelled, “Happy Anniversary!” at such volume that the sound distorted into static.

  Scott laughed and raised his coffee cup. “Thanks, fellas. I’ll be sure to pass that on. Now, go kill some aliens. And stay safe.”

  “That’s virtually our group motto,” one of the guys said with a grin.

  Dutch raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Hasta la vista, buddy.”

  Then he was gone.

  Scott sat back, grinning. He took a sip of his coffee and glanced at the framed photograph on his desk. Angie, a dark-haired beauty, was laughing into the camera, her cheek pressed against little Marcus’s, who was also smiling, the sun making a fiery corona of his blond hair.

  Yes, Scott thought, life was good.

  Life was very good indeed.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to Christopher Golden, our agent Howard Morhaim, Jared Gerritzen and the rest of the team at IllFonic for letting us play in their toybox, TQ Jefferson, Jared Yeager, Sylvia Son, and the team at Titan, particularly Steve Saffel and George Sandison.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  JAMES A. MOORE is the bestselling and award-winning author of over forty-five novels, thrillers, dark fantasy and horror alike, including the critically acclaimed Fireworks, the Seven Forges series, Blood Red, the Serenity Falls trilogy (featuring his recurring anti-hero, Jonathan Crowley) and his most recent novels Avengers: Infinity, The Predator: Hunters and Hunted and Gates of the Dead (book three in the Tides of War series). In addition to writing multiple short stories, he has also edited, with Christopher Golden and Tim Lebbon, the British Invasion anthology for Cemetery Dance Publications.

  The author cut his teeth in the industry writing for Marvel Comics and authoring over twenty role-playing supplements for White Wolf Games, including Berlin by Night, Land of 1,000,000 Dreams and The Get of Fenris tribe book for Vampire: The Masquerade and Werewolf: The Apocalypse, among others. He also penned the White Wolf novels Vampire: House of Secrets and Werewolf: Hellstorm.

  Moore’s first short story collection, Slices, sold out before ever seeing print.

  Along with Christopher Golden and Jonathan Maberry, he is co-host of the Three Guys With Beards podcast. Jim also teaches seminars and classes, once again with Christopher Golden under the heading of The River City Writers.

  MARK MORRIS has written and edited almost forty novels, novellas, short story collections and anthologies. His script work includes audio dramas for Doctor Who, Jago & Litefoot and the Hammer Chillers serie
s. His recent work includes the official movie tie-in novelizations of The Great Wall and (co-written with Christopher Golden) The Predator; the Obsidian Heart trilogy (The Wolves of London, The Society of Blood and The Wraiths of War); the anthologies New Fears (winner of the British Fantasy Award for Best Anthology) and New Fears 2 as editor; a new audio adaptation of the classic 1971 horror movie Blood on Satan’s Claw, for which he won the New York Festival Radio Award for Best Drama Special; and an updated audio adaptation of the classic M.R. James ghost story A View From a Hill, for which he won the New York Festival Radio Award for Best Digital Drama Program.

  For more fantastic fiction, author events, exclusive excerpts,

  competitions, limited editions and more

  VISIT OUR WEBSITE

  titanbooks.com

  LIKE US ON FACEBOOK

  facebook.com/titanbooks

  FOLLOW US ON TWITTER

  @TitanBooks

  EMAIL US

  readerfeedback@titanemail.com