The Suicide King (The Grave Diggers Book 2)

by Chris Fritschi

  “Yes, Top,” said Fulton.

  “Nobody here’s got a problem with killing Vix, but if killing a human being crosses a line, there’s the door.” Tate deliberately locked his gaze on each person in the room. He wanted them to feel uncomfortable, exposed and crumble any self-delusions keeping them here when they knew, in reality, they weren’t cut out for this.

  The future of everyone’s lives rested one those who decided to remain in this room. Tate let the silence drag on, giving time for their fears and doubts to work on them, locking them in a mental isolation chamber, forced to face their demons.

  No one dared show weakness by looking at Tate. All they would have seen was indifference. His cool demeanor betrayed the brutality of his own thoughts. He was unflinchingly yanking his own fears and doubts out of the shadows and facing a possible future where someone on the team turned traitor, or became a threat.

  Kaiden was very good at reading people, and he could have asked her thoughts, but the consequences demanded that the responsibility rest entirely on his shoulders.

  Stripping ideals of friendship, sympathy, or sentiment down to the bone, he forged his resolve to kill anyone who betrayed them. His decision was an unwavering, cold-blooded commitment that he shackled deep in the darkness of his mind. Only betrayal would set it free, but once off the chain he wouldn’t stop it.

  Tate came out of the black well of his own thoughts. He looked up and scanned the room for vacated seats. There were none. Except for Kaiden, who was smiling at him in that unnerving way of hers, each member of the team were looking at him, gaze fixed on his, backs straight with an attitude of determined resolve.

  Without preamble, Tate got started. “We thought the Vix were the only threat to our country. Not long ago I learned that’s a lie.”

  He explained the origins behind the formation of their unit, when he’d learned about the true threat to the country, and how he’d decided to use the Grave Diggers against the real enemy.

  The morning sun had cleared the horizon when everything was said and questions answered.

  When it was over, each left the room with a renewed sense of purpose, but seeing the world and people around them in a different light.

  Kaiden smiled at Tate as he slumped against the desk, mentally and physically exhausted.

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he said at the rare compliment.

  “Not how I would have done it, but not bad,” said Kaiden.

  Tate put up his hand in weak protest. “Please,” he said, “you’re going to make me blush.”

  “I thought you were going to tell them the whole truth,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “I said I wasn’t going to lie. They don’t need to know about The Ring, the kind of people in it, or that Colonel Hewett is involved.”

  “For their safety?” she asked.

  “Come on, Kaiden,” he said. “I’m too tired for your mental games. They understand the threat to our country and how dangerous our missions will be. They accept they’ll likely kill bad guys and they’re going to get shot at. Everything else is way outside their need to know.”

  “What’s next?” asked Kaiden, as she stretched the stiffness from her arms.

  Tate fished San Roman’s gate-drive out of his pocket. “I contact the guy who knows about the Suicide King and tell him I took out the gas station,” he said. “Then he gives me what intel he’s got.”

  “Does that square you up?” she asked. “Or are you still under his thumb?”

  “It’s not a perfect arrangement,” he said, “but he’s useful.”

  Kaiden arched an eyebrow. “I was going to say psychotic, but sure, useful works.”

  * * *

  “Like I said,” explained Tate, “it went like clockwork. We found the abandoned gas station exactly where you said it would be.”

  “Huh,” said San Roman, puzzled. “And you took it out, like, just walked in and blew it up?”

  Using the number on the gate-drive, Tate had called San Roman. That San Roman had someone smart enough to know how to convert and piggy-back a cell phone signal onto a microwave satellite was a reminder not to underestimate him. He was a cocky prick, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have resources.

  In spite of the static and poor connection, Tate could hear San Roman’s confusion. He’d decided he wasn’t going to tell him anything about the ambush. If someone had told San Roman about the ambush, he now had to wonder who was telling him the truth, his source, or Tate. It was a small head-game, but Tate would exploit any opportunity to use against him.

  “Yeah,” said Tate. “Is something wrong?”

  “Uh, no,” said San Roman. “It’s all good.”

  “All right,” said Tate. “Tell me about the Suicide King.”

  San Roman laughed. “Oh, that dude is a serious combination of dangerous and loco,” he said. “See, this guy has always hated Americans, not like me. You got them badass dudes like Clint Eastwood and Bruce Lee, right? How bad can America be? But the Suicide King, oh, man.” San Roman laughed again. “When you yankees walked into South America, like you owned the place… and don’t give me that mierda about the United Nations. We never voted on that.”

  Tate ignored San Roman’s objections and tried to get him back on topic. “You said the guy hated Americans,” he said.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” said San Roman. “I don’t know how, but what I heard was he thought America was going to come here and help save the country. The general, you know, the Suicide King, right? He’s thinking maybe America’s okay after all, but then he finds out you guys just announced you were taking over the country, holy crap. He about lost his mind.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Tate, losing interest in the history lesson. “I hear it all the time. Everyone hates America. That’s why they were jumping the borders to get here. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Oh,” said San Roman. “Okay, gilipollas. Here’s something you don’t know. He put together an army to fight, like a guerrilla war against you, but he didn’t have enough men, or equipment, or something. But then he gets this idea, an’ it wasn’t me, but he decides to get into the cocaine business, but not to make money. He makes bigger and bigger shipments into the US, waiting until his product is being sold all over the country, right? That’s the just cheese for the trap.”

  “That’s his revenge?” asked Tate. “He’s going to get the entire country addicted?”

  “No estupido,”laughed San Roman. “He’s going to ship poisoned cocaine all over your country. All those walled-off cities where everyone thinks they’re safe from Vix, then BAM. Drug addicts all over town die from his stuff and before anyone knows what’s going on, you got Vix run’n all over the place, killing, making more Vix. You sure did piss off the wrong guy.”

  Tate sat, unblinking, feeling steel bands squeezing his chest at mental images of Vix rampaging through unsuspecting cities. The potential carnage would be devastating, but the aftermath would be more destructive. It could be months before people could be convinced it was safe to go out. They’d be terrified another outbreak was happening; they wouldn’t leave their homes. There’d be hardly anyone to maintain power plants, hospitals, utilities, even things as simple as grocery stores and gas stations would shut down.

  “Hey, Tate,” said San Roman. “You still there?”

  “When?” said Tate, feeling numb.

  “I bet you’re pissing yourself, right?” chuckled San Roman. “I don’t know when, but I got something might be helpful. I know where the Suicide King’s making his poison coke.”

  Tate caught himself, gripping the phone with white fingers. Rage flared through him at the thought of San Roman playing with him, withholding the location until Tate ran more missions for him.

  He wanted to reach through the phone and crush his throat, but as fast as his anger surged to life it was gone as San Roman began speaking.

  “It’s located on the Isla Cascajal,” he said.r />
  “How do you know so much about this guy?” asked Tate.

  “Only a fool ignores the competition,” said San Roman.

  “And you’re hoping I cut down on your competition?” probed Tate.

  San Roman burst out laughing and it felt like he was laughing at Tate. “Oh man,” he said. “You think you’re some kind of badass dude, don’t you? No, that’s good, you got balls, but you take out the Suicide King? You’re small time, soldier boy. He’s got enough men and guns to chew you up and spit you out. No, I’m telling you about him because we had a deal and this is me keeping my part. You try going up against him and he’ll swat you like a fat, green bug.”

  “Anything else?” asked Tate, ignoring the jab.

  “That’s it,” said San Roman.

  Tate broke the connection and put down the sat-phone. He had a heavy, steel ball that twisted his gut as he tried to get his head around the size and gravity of what loomed in front of him.

  * * *

  The Blackhawk banked as it passed over the wide plains below. Dotted here and there, thick stands of trees broke the shallow, rolling terrain.

  Tate’s gloved finger pointed to the plastic-covered map in his hand. “We insert here,” he said into his headset. “Sector Echo twelve. From there it’s Sergeant Wesson’s show.”

  The day before, an air patrol had spotted a group of survivors holed up in a small city and after returning to base had posted it on the mission board. Tate had upped the squad’s combat training, but there was no better school than experience.

  He put Wesson in charge of planning the operation and, although it was a low threat mission, Tate told her to simulate an infiltration of hostile territory.

  “The city is a klick north west from there,” said Wesson. “There’s a four-story building in grid seven. We position on the roof and recon from there. The area is active with Vix, so we go in with weapons hot. Once we spot the survivors, we’ll move to their location, secure and chopper them out. After that, we’ll set up some fire and move drills.”

  Tate smirked at the general groan of the squad. He caught Kaiden’s eye and nodded to her radio. He switched the channel selector on his radio and she did the same.

  “You copy?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I hear you,” she said. “You’ve been thinking about what to do with the Suicide King.”

  “Stop doing that,” he said with a wry smile. “I think you spend more time in other people’s heads than your own.”

  “I’m too boring,” said Kaiden.

  Tate almost laughed at her lie. Tate had known Kaiden for years, during which they’d gone on countless missions, and she was still a mystery to him. When she wanted, she was a closed book, yet he called her a friend. He knew none of the typical things people share with each other; childhood, parents, where they grew up, etc. He did know she was always thinking, very calculating, brave, but shockingly ruthless to her enemies.

  He’d told Kaiden everything he’d learned from San Roman about general Guillermo Rojas and his plan to import poisoned coke. She told Tate if he wanted her help, she’d dust off some old contacts and see what came of it.

  “You still considering telling Colonel Hewett about this?” she asked.

  “I’m keeping the option open,” he said. “I don’t know what we’d be going up against, but it’s a sure thing the Suicide King can bring a lot more firepower to the party than I can. With Hewett’s authorization, I could change that.”

  “Not exactly staying under the radar,” said Kaiden. “Hewett will want to know how you know so much about the Suicide King. The more he realizes you’ve been operating behind his back, the more suspicious he’s going to be of you. He says he wants to take down The Ring from the inside, but he could be one of them, using you until you’re too much of a threat.”

  “It’s a huge risk,” he admitted, “but I can’t sit back while the Suicide King unleashes holy hell on hundreds of people.”

  “Thousands,” she corrected.

  Tate was about to say something when a green light began flashing in the cabin. He switched his radio to the helicopter’s open channel.

  “The LZ’s in sight,” said the pilot. “Get your people prepped for a quick dismount.”

  Vix were confirmed in the town, but the surrounding area was an unknown. The less time the pilot spent on the ground, or even near it, the better he liked it. The gunner leaned over his machine gun as he looked out of his window for any threats and the pilot made a circle around the LZ.

  “Zero contacts,” said the gunner over the radio.

  “Copy that,” said the pilot. “We’re going in.”

  As they neared the ground it disappeared in the prop-wash of dirt and debris. The squad pulled bandanas over their noses and mouths. The crew chief hung to the door frame as he looked down and called out their estimated distance to the ground.

  “Hold,” said the crew chief and the Blackhawk came to a hover a couple of feet off the ground. “Good to go,” he said.

  Tate was letting Wesson run this op and she didn’t need to be told twice. “Grave Diggers out,” said Wesson. “Spread out and set up a defensive perimeter.”

  Their extra training showed as each member of the squad deployed and took up a defensive position without a stumble or getting tangled up with their gear. Tate couldn’t help but be reminded of doing the same thing with his old outfit, the Night Devils. He shook the memories from his thoughts and leapt out of the helicopter instantly taking a knee and bringing up his weapon. Tate’s shoulders sagged under the downforce from the Blackhawk as it increased power and rose into the air.

  They stayed in position and Tate glanced at Wesson wondering why she hadn’t given the order to move when a blur of motion caught the corner of his eye. A Vix broke from the tree line at a full sprint. The sound of the helicopter must have attracted it because it wasn’t running at the squad.

  Tate would have shot it, but was stopped by Wesson. “Everyone hold,” said Wesson over the radio. A moment later a swarm of Vix burst from the same place the first one came from. The first Vix never slowed, but kept racing in the same direction giving no interest in the squad crouched sixty feet to its left. “Nobody move,” hissed Wesson. Nobody did. The knot of Vix mimicked the first and disappeared into the woods a few hundred yards away. Tate’s knee was beginning to gripe as it pressed most of his weight into the course ground. He inwardly cursed himself for hundredth time. I used to be a forged in steel, throat punching nightmare of death. Now I can’t …

  “Squad, move out,” said Wesson.

  Tate rose with a stifled grunt and the squad headed towards the city. He was pleased and impressed with the way Wesson had handled their insertion. If he’d seen her face he would have known she had been nearly frozen with fear. It was all she could do to will herself to stand knowing that each step she took would bring her closer to the Vix. Unchecked her fear would easily bloom into panic. She bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood. The pain cleared the turmoil in her mind and she could function again.

  The Grave Diggers had run several patrols into towns and villages, but this was their first city. The number of Vix was unknown, but the potential entered into the thousands. Anyone could have run this rescue, but Tate had been increasing the difficulty of their missions in order to condition the team operate under progressively greater stress. If they could keep their heads and operate in a high threat environment like this it would build their confidence and bring them closer as a team. Had he known Wesson’s battle with herself he’d have left her back at base, or maybe kicked her from the team. In every operation there was a potential moment when everyone’s lives would depend on the actions of one team member. That was the absolute worst time to discover their breaking point.

  The edge of the city cut abruptly through a flat range of grass and scrub. The team entered through an industrial park of office bungalows and warehouses. The mission report had the survivors two klicks from their position. A two-s
tory building had been selected nearby as an observation point where the team would assess the situation and route their approach to the survivors.

  Staying close to the buildings, the team followed the paved road carefully looking around every corner and intersection before moving on. Unless something triggered the Vix to move the team didn’t expect to see them roaming around. According to the lab-coats who were studying the Vix, after a long period of no stimulation the Vix would stop moving. Stationary, they either had no equilibrium or made no effort to remain standing and would fall over making a dormant Vix indistinguishable from a real corpse. That is, until something like a noise, or vibration threw their start button. Then the next thing you knew they were falling out of the woodwork and charging you like an Olympic sprinter.

  What made this a prime choice for their observation point was the roof could be accessed from exterior stairs. This eliminated having to clear the interior building. The top of the building was a covered patio and the shade was a welcome relief from the unrelenting sun.

  “Rosse,” said Wesson, “watch the stairs and let me know if you see any Vix coming in our direction. Don’t shoot without my okay. Everyone else keep your heads down. We don’t want our movement to draw unwanted attention.”

  Tate and Kaiden joined Wesson at the low wall of the patio and checked the map against their position. Looking through her binoculars, Wesson peeked over the wall, scanning the area then looked at the map. She pointed at to a corner building the next street over.

  “They’re here in this liquor store,” said Wesson. “They’ve thrown a sheet, or something white, on the roof as a signal.”

  Tate looked over the wall and easily saw the white material contrasting with the red roof. From their vantage point they could see the front of the building and adjoining street. Behind the security bars, faded posters of models holding bottles of beer and cigarettes filled the windows. Except for a few cars there was nothing else in the street.