The Creed (Book 1): The Hunt

by Powers, AJ

  The stillness of the moment sent Hagan’s heartrate through the roof. He felt every pulse of each beat in his neck as he tried to determine what the sudden silence meant. The world around him darkened slightly while the armed men seemed to only get brighter. He began visualizing his next several moves and how he could neutralize each of the men in his view. Hagan had been in more battles than he could count over the years, both pre and post collapse. He had engaged all types of enemies in all kinds of scenarios with a kill count that would make John McClane blush. Gunfights didn’t scare him. But this wouldn’t be much of a fight. With at least four muzzles pointed in his direction, and likely more he couldn’t see, Hagan would be lucky to pop off a single round before getting swiss-cheesed by the group of AK’s in front of him.

  Feigning a yawn, Hagan shifted in his seat and stretched his body, leaning forward just far enough for his fingers to feel the cold steel of the gun beneath the seat. He glanced in the sideview mirror again and saw that Grayson was gone. He considered grabbing the gun to just go ahead and get the party started, but he forced himself to be patient. Ramirez soon rounded the back of the truck. The man held up his thumb and then pointed his finger to the sky, making a circular motion with his hand.

  The guards in front hurried out of the way, one of them immediately running over to a control panel and pressing a button. The gate in front of them jerked to life, slowly rolling to the side as Carrick climbed back into the truck.

  He fired up the truck and wasted no time shifting into gear. They moved through the checkpoint, Hagan keeping his hat pulled down low over his face until after they had cleared the area.

  “Well, then,” Carrick said with a grin, “guess I have two young bucks on the payroll at that checkpoint now.”

  Hagan and Carrick sat in silence for a few miles as they both came down from the adrenaline high. Until something in the mirror caught Hagan’s eye. “I think we’ve got company,” he said soberly.

  Chapter 16

  Even at the long distance, Hagan recognized the vehicle creeping up behind them. “Humvee on our six,” he said to Carrick.

  Carrick looked in his own mirror. He clenched his jaw and shook his head before smacking the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Dammit! I knew that bleedin’ tick was going to turn on us the moment we left!” He stepped on the gas, trying to put more distance between them and the Humvee trailing behind. But it quickly became clear that that plan was going to fail. “Better get yourself ready, lad. We aren’t bribing our way out of this one.”

  Hagan reached beneath the seat and pulled out a Sig MPX. He press-checked to make sure the 9mm carbine was hot, then held it low.

  “Spare mags’ in the glove box,” Carrick said, his focus split between the road ahead and the military truck slowly closing in.

  Hagan opened the glove compartment and found four loaded magazines inside. He grabbed them and stuffed two into each cargo pocket on either pant leg. His eyes darted back to the mirror again, the Humvee taking up more real estate than before. He strained his eyes as he got close to the mirror. “Looks like its missing the .50 Cal,” Hagan said, noticing the absence of the Browning machine gun usually mounted to the roof turret.

  “Well, that’s a fecking relief,” Carrick said, “otherwise, this fight would have been over before it even started.” Carrick checked the mirrors again. "Hang on, boyo,” he said as he made an abrupt lane change into an exit lane, nearly sideswiping a guardrail in the process.

  The truck thundered down the exit ramp, thick evergreens racing by on either side of them. Carrick cut the wheel as they reached the empty intersection, the tires screeching loudly as the weight of the truck shifted to two wheels. There was a brief moment of weightlessness as they nearly tipped over from the aggressive move. Once the truck balanced again, Carrick downshifted and redlined through each successive gear as they screamed toward a small town up ahead.

  They had nearly reached the insignificant downtown district by the time the Humvee got off the exit, turning their way. Consisting of a post office, two gas stations, and a few fast food restaurants, all long abandoned, the downtown was just a few blocks long. But it was all they needed to gain the advantage.

  Crushing down on the brake pedal at the last second, Carrick turned onto the first street they passed, putting a few buildings between them and their pursuers. The truck slapped off the curb with a loud thunk as Carrick narrowly avoided a mail truck parked on the side of the road. He turned again at the next intersection, which took them into a small neighborhood of houses that looked to have been built in the early 1900’s.

  Halfway down the block, Carrick hit the brakes, letting the truck stall out in the middle of the road. Both he and Hagan jumped out of the cab. “Get yourself up in that window over there,” Carrick said, pointing to the house nearest to Hagan. “And whatever you do, lad, don’t shoot the back of the truck,” he said before tearing off for the house across the street.

  Hagan heard the growl of the Humvee’s engine approaching as he rounded the corner at the back of the house. He leapt onto the back porch and threw his foot into the door. Splinters, dirt, and dust exploded into the air as the dry-rotted wood easily gave way to Hagan’s forceful kick. He stormed through the kitchen to the front of the house, grabbing onto the bannister’s newel post to sling himself onto the stairs. He took a right at the top of the steps and then another at the first door along his path.

  Running to the bedroom window, Hagan took a beat to catch his breath before taking a knee. He cracked open the window just as the Humvee arrived, rocking to a stop behind the box truck. Four hoplites dropped out of the truck, their AK-47’s sweeping the neighborhood. The two back passengers advanced toward the truck while the other two stayed behind their armored doors. Hagan deftly propped his carbine on the windowsill and took aim, hoping the sights were zeroed.

  As soon as the hoplite cleared the back of the truck, Hagan sent a trio of rounds downrange, striking the man in the chest, shoulder and neck. A fraction of a second later, Carrick’s own carbine cracked from across the street.

  “Contact, window!” one of the men shouted before opening fire at Hagan.

  Several more shots rang out from across the street, forcing both men at the Humvee to duck down behind their doors. Hagan used the opportunity to sling some more lead at them, though none of his rounds found their mark.

  “Man down! Man down! Need backup now!” Hagan heard a guard shout—presumably into a radio.

  The clock was ticking, now.

  Hagan peppered the Humvee’s door again, draining his magazine before running out of the room. Reflexively, he ducked down as glass shattered and bullets bored into the walls and ceiling of the bedroom as the hoplites fired on a target that was no longer there. He skied down the stairs and back through the backdoor, heading for the opposite side of the house. Executing a quick reload as he circled around to the front of the house, he stopped at the corner. More shots cackled through the old neighborhood as Carrick’s carbine got back in the fight, causing the two hoplites to reengage. With Carrick distracting the men, Hagan peered around the corner to assess the situation. His target was mostly obscured by the heavily armored door.

  Mostly.

  Dropping to the cold, wet grass, Hagan lay on his stomach and brought the iron sights of the 9mm carbine up to his eyes before pulling the trigger several times. The man screamed and yelped as Hagan’s rounds shredded his feet. He fell to the ground, away from the protection of the heavy, steel door, and grabbed at his legs. Hagan shifted his aim slightly and squeezed the trigger again, sending a bullet through the screaming man’s head.

  Scrambling back to his feet, Hagan shouldered the MPX and approached the Humvee. He sidestepped the open door and found the target on the driver’s side. The man, panicked and heavy with breath, stared blankly at Hagan, defeat scrawled across his face. Hagan fired two shots into his chest through the cab of the Humvee. The man rolled off the door and fell into the street, a painful
groan leaving his lungs as the kinetic force from the bullets striking his body armor rippled through his torso. Then, there was a single shot from the window across the street. Then silence.

  Carrick quickly stormed out the front door of the house and over to the truck. “We gotta go, brother,” he said with urgency, climbing into the cab of the delivery truck.

  As Hagan reached for the handle, he heard a low drone off in the distance.

  Ah, crap.

  “We’ve got a bird inbound,” he said, pulling himself up into his seat.

  Carrick turned the key, but the engine wouldn’t complete the transaction. “Ahhh, come on you pile o’ shite!” he fumed. “Start, you bastard!” he yelled.

  No joy.

  “The Humvee!” Hagan said.

  “Come on!” Carrick replied, “Help me get him loaded.”

  Him? Hagan thought.

  Hagan bolted to the back of the truck where Carrick was already fumbling to find the key to release the padlock from the latch. The drone sound was getting louder. More pronounced. But telling the Irishman to hurry up would do no good in steadying his shaky hand. Carrick finally managed to unlatch the door and flung it open. Scrambling to the front of the compartment, he reached for a hammer lying on the floor. He pried at the lid of an oblong crate that was secured to the wall with several ratchet straps.

  “Well, don’t just stand there holdin’ yer flute. Help me get this open!”

  Hagan hopped into the truck and pulled on the lid as Carrick wedged the claw of the hammer further along. The remaining nails soon gave way, and, with a loud screech, Hagan pulled the top off the crate.

  “What the hell?” Hagan asked, surprise and confusion permeating his voice.

  Inside the crate, the Russian national that he and Solomon had found on The Hercules lay unconscious. He had tape over his mouth and both his hands and feet were bound together.

  “Now’s not the time, boyo. Help me get him to the other truck!”

  Hagan and Carrick each grabbed an arm. The prisoner was short and thin, creating little trouble for the pair to transport him over to the Humvee. Hagan strapped him into one of the rear seats while Carrick retrieved a few things from the back of the box truck. He returned with a pair of AR-15’s and an ammo can. He then jogged back over and jumped inside again, crouching down behind some of the crates.

  “Hurry it up, Carrick!” Hagan shouted, the thumping of the helo starting to rattle Hagan’s chest.

  Carrick reemerged from the back of the truck, a long, black case in his hand. He shoved it inside the back of the Humvee, half of it resting on top of the Russian man’s lap.

  “Let’s go!” Hagan shouted.

  Given his familiarity with the old military vehicle, Hagan tried to drive, but Carrick shot the idea down. “No, lad. I’m going to need your expertise elsewhere in a moment.” Carrick fired up the Humvee and quickly accelerated away from the carnage he and Hagan had just dished out. He found his way out of the neighborhood and moved back to the main drag, heading for the highway.

  “Are you stupid? We’re gonna stick out like a fly on a wedding cake,” Hagan said.

  “That’s the idea,” Carrick replied, a wicked grin on his face. “Go ahead and take a peek in that case.”

  The thundering chop of the helicopter was reverberating around the all-metal interior now. As Hagan twisted his body to lean into the back seat, he could just barely make out the aircraft through the rear window. “It’s an X-41.”

  The X-41 Vulture was the successor to the V-22 Osprey. It was loud, scary-looking, and held a hell of a lot of boots. But it was not an offensive aircraft. It wasn’t equipped with bombs or even machine guns. At best there was a door gunner with a very limited cone of fire near the front of the fuselage. Realizing it was a Vulture helped quell the worry deluging Hagan’s mind. As long as Carrick kept the Humvee moving, the hybrid helicopter could do little more than observe their getaway. Of course, there would be no outrunning such an aircraft, which meant that all of Alexandria’s armed forces would have up-to-the-second reports coming in, and Hagan had little doubt that even faster and scarier aircraft were already wheels up.

  Then he opened the case.

  “Where the hell did you get this thing?” Hagan asked, a smile beaming across his face.

  “Me sister may have a bit o’ the devil’s heart in her, but she is one resourceful lady.”

  Hagan lifted the AAMT-12 out of the case and booted up the computer for a quick diagnostics check. The Aim Assisted Multi Target rocket launcher was a thing of beauty that replaced the AT-4 just a few months before the first dirty bomb detonated in America. The rocket launcher was effective against not only ground troops and enemy transports, but it was also designed to lock on to the heat signature of low-flying aircraft—mainly helicopters. It was 30% more compact than the AT-4 and weighed half as much, but the enemy quickly learned not to underestimate the devastating punch the small RPG delivered. And the hoplites in the Vulture drifting overhead were about to learn the same lesson.

  Hagan unfolded the small QLED screen on the side of the tube and read the diagnostics report:

  CPU ---- OK

  MEMORY ---- OK

  DYSON AIM ASSIST GUIDANCE SYSTEM ---- ONLINE

  BATTERY ---- 47%

  SCRUBBING THERMAL SENSORS… ---- COMPLETE

  AAMT-12 OPERATIONAL. PLEASE SELECT MODE.

  Hagan pressed the surface to air option, and the screen flickered from the BIOS text to a FLIR camera.

  INSERT AAMT-12 ROCKET PROPELLED GRENADE.

  Hagan pressed on a release button toward the back of the launcher tube and swiveled the last six inches of the aircraft-grade aluminum pipe to the side. He grabbed one of the four rockets in the case and slid it into the launcher before twisting the rear back into place. The release button snapped, and the launcher was ready to fire.

  “Just keep her steady for about thirty seconds,” Hagan said to Carrick.

  “Aye. Happy hunting, lad.”

  Hagan reached up to the ceiling and popped the locks on the turret hatch. He cranked on the lever then pressed the heavy door up and open with his shoulder. The Vulture was practically on top of them now, keeping pace with little effort. Hagan reached down into the Humvee and brought up the RPG. He hefted the tube onto his shoulder and used the FLIR camera to locate the helicopter, a bright orange blob quickly filling the otherwise purple screen.

  HEAT SIGNATURE DETECTED… LOCKING…

  Hagan’s body whipped to the left as the Humvee dodged a stalled-out car in the middle of the road. “Come on!” Hagan yelled.

  “Sorry about that, brother,” Carrick shouted back.

  LOCKING… LOCKING… LOCKING…

  …

  HEAT SIGNATURE ACQUIRED.

  There was an audible clicking from the launcher that sounded like a Geiger counter in the middle of Chicago. A moment later, a motor inside whirred to life as a small light next to the screen flashed from red to yellow. The motor inside spun even faster, the hum ramping up to a high-pitched whine.

  The Vulture banked hard and dumped its chaff as the yellow light flipped green.

  “Rocket out!” Hagan yelled.

  The whine morphed into a scream when Hagan mashed down on the trigger, releasing the rocket like an angry beast from a cage. The explosive device raced up into the sky, orienting itself toward the massive hybrid helicopter. Detecting the chaff, the rocket flashed brightly, and the housing separated as six smaller rockets inside split off, each one igniting and spiraling away to carve its own path to the target. The chaff did its job and stopped four of the smaller rockets from reaching the aircraft. But the remaining two quickly found their target: the starboard engine.

  There was a quick flash of fire and a puff of dark smoke before the engine exploded violently, its deadly boom thumping Hagan in the chest. A piece of the propeller punched straight through the fuselage as the aircraft rocked forcefully to the right, dropping altitude at a nauseating rate. Thick, black
smoke trailed behind what remained of the engine as the damaged Vulture fought to maintain its airspeed. Seconds later, the aircraft started to spin, and soon it was completely out of control.

  Hagan watched from the turret as the Vulture swirled ruthlessly to the ground, smashing belly first into an open field with spectacular devastation. A bright, orange fireball rolled up into the hazy sky, quickly turning to a thick, dark plume of smoke as secondary and tertiary explosions continued to blast from the wreckage.

  “Woooooo!” Carrick yelled. “Good shootin’, lad!”

  As the adrenaline wore off, Hagan felt the painful cold on his face and ducked back into the Humvee. He set the RPG down in the case, the fumes of unburned fuel coating the inside of the tube filling the cabin. He climbed back up to the passenger seat and sat down with a hefty oomph. He checked his mirror, expecting to see an entire fleet of Vultures heading their way. But, with the exception of the column of smoke fading further and further into the distance, the skies were devoid of threats. As was the road.

  Finally able to relax, Hagan took a deep breath. “All right, Carrick. I think it’s time you tell me what the hell is going on.”

  Chapter 17

  Carrick remained silent for several seconds, his eyes bouncing from one mirror to the other like pinballs. He drew a long, deep breath and let it pass out through tightened lips. He seemed lost in thought, as if choosing his next words very carefully.

  “Spill it Irishman, or I’ll make you,” Hagan said, his voice lacking any form of humor. “I really don’t like it when I get into bed with people I don’t know. I made an exception for your sister, given the circumstances, but that ends now. You either tell me what’s going on, or I promise, neither you nor the Ruskie back there make it to our destination.”

  Hagan expected to see contempt on Carrick’s face from the threatening words, but to his surprise, there was understanding. “Aye. Me sister will tear me a new arse for this, but I cannot blame a man for wanting to know who he’s working with.”