by Jim Heskett
Contents
Copyright
Format
PART III - ANARCHY
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
PART IV - INFINITY
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Note to Readers
Bibliography
About The Author
Dedication
Afterword
Five Suns Saga: Part Two
By
Jim Heskett
Copyright © 2015 by Jim Heskett. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Royal Arch Books
www.RoyalArchBooks.com
Please consider leaving a review once you have finished this book. Didn’t read part 1? Click here to get it.
THE FIVE SUNS SAGA II
Five Suns of Anarchy (novella)
Against the Infinity (novella)
PART III
ANARCHY
1
Coyle stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, mesmerized by the ripples of the reflecting pool as hazy light bounced and twisted off the surface of the water. He coughed, then sighed at the husk of the Washington Monument in the distance, which angled against the ground like the leaning tower of Pisa. Used to be such a proud thing.
“Thank you for coming,” said a quiet voice behind him.
Without bothering to turn, Coyle waved the man forward and sat on the steps. “When I got your letter, I couldn’t believe it.”
“Couldn’t believe what?” Williams said, taking a seat next to him.
“That you were still alive, for one. And second that you knew how to find me, and third that you think I’d be interested in a job as half-cocked as this one.”
Williams took a manila folder from inside his coat and hefted a suitcase on the step below. “If you’re not interested, then I have to wonder why you bothered to show up.”
Coyle sighed. “Yeah, I figured you would ask me that.”
“Long trip to get here?”
“Two weeks, give or take. I had a pass to enter the Eastern territories, but it’s one way.”
Williams opened the manila folder. “I’ve anticipated that. You’ll need to go to Chicago to acquire a two-way pass. I’ve recruited some people to assist along the way, and that’s been no small undertaking, let me tell you.”
“So, is the old group resurrected, or something like that?”
“Not quite. We have a special benefactor who’s interested in seeing this to the end.”
Coyle examined Williams’ wizened and pale features. The old man had added a few new wrinkles around the eyes since they had last met. “And who would that be?”
Williams chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds. “Ian Rappaport. And you now knowing that is ultra-privileged information, I might add.”
“I heard it from a reliable source that he died in Atlanta. I suppose he’s back from the dead, then?”
A light breeze picked up and Williams’ coat ruffled. “He and his family have been in hiding, or an approximation of it. Surfaced three months ago, and we set this whole thing in motion.” He dropped the envelope in Coyle’s lap.
Coyle flipped through the first few documents inside. “What am I looking at?”
“Dossiers on Anders, LaVey, and Castillo. We believe most of the other core players are dead, or have been missing long enough they can be presumed dead.”
“LaVey is still alive too? Everyone’s trying to pull a Lazarus these days, then.”
“We’re not honestly sure if he’s alive or not, but if he is, he’s with Anders. Your first contact is here in DC, in the metro. I’ve formed an alliance with some people stationed there who can assist. It’s all documented.”
Coyle flipped through the rest of the pages. The patchy beard of Hector Castillo caught his attention. They’d photographed him in grainy black and white, shaking hands with a woman in an alley between two tall buildings.
“You know,” Williams said, “you didn’t answer my question.”
“What question is that?”
“About why you’re agreeing to take this job.”
Coyle sighed, coughed, and winced as the sun peeked through the clouds for a few seconds.
“Well,” Coyle said, but he never got to finish the sentence, because a whiff of sound split the air and Williams fell to his side.
Hole in his temple, leaking blood.
Coyle wiped blood out of his eyes and launched to his feet in time to see a man on top of the Lincoln Memorial pick up a sniper rifle.
2
Peter Anders stood on the non-functioning moving walkway between gate B12 and B13 at Denver International Airport. He gripped the rubber side rail until his hands ached, then released it, then repeated the process several times as a way to diffuse the tension in his body. Closing his eyes for a few seconds, he tried to forget that everything had gone to shit, and it was all that bitch’s fault.
On a cot at B12, his boss and former US Senator Edward LaVey was trying to nap, but Anders could see it wasn’t going well. LaVey tossed and turned, groaned, yawned, and began the cycle again.
LaVey opened his eyes and glared at Anders.
“What?” Anders said.
“I can’t sleep.”
“I can see that. Maybe if you slept at night, you wouldn’t need these naps during the day when you could otherwise be doing something productive.”
LaVey stood, licked his hands, then smoothed his hair. At one time, he’d looked convincingly presidential with his perfectly-coiffed salt and pepper Ivy League haircut. But over the last couple years, he’d let it grow shaggy and unkempt, and barely bothered to style it.
LaVey walked to the massive window overlooking the tarmac and put his hands in the air to stretch.
Anders joined him next to the window, the vast expanse of plains east of Denver looking back at them, and the mountains further west as ripples on the earth. On the runway, several of Castillo’s Eighteeners were running combat drills through an obstacle course. But no longer Eighteener gang bangers, Anders reminded himself. They were now America’s army, or the newest incarnation of it, since most of their original troops had fled or died.
“It’s difficult to believe this is what I’m really seeing,” LaVey said.
“We knew the road would be bumpy. Castillo’s men are raw, but they have high potential.”
LaVey flashed fire in his eyes. “Damn it Pete, quit trying to sugar-coat everything.”
“No one could have foreseen Beth doing what she did. Considering the circumstances, I think things are going rather well. We’re poised to make significant advances in training regimen, according to Castillo, and we’ll be back on track soon.”
“Then you must be looking at a diff
erent America than I’m looking at,” LaVey said. “Because we were supposed to be in Washington by now, enacting policy and fixing this whole mess. I’m tired of making sacrifices.”
“We’re not strong enough yet. You know this. There’s no sense in rushing a move across the country with what we’re still facing.”
LaVey had no answer to that, so Anders left him and marched through the B concourse to the main terminal of the airport, where the TSA used to conduct security check-ins. The wide-open area underneath the massive skylights now housed a scant two hundred of Castillo’s men. Not nearly enough to take on Chalmers’ people in Chicago, if it came to that.
As he stood by the glass railing above, a few of them turned their faces to him, squinting against the sunlight. Maybe they were waiting for him to say something. But he didn’t have any great words of wisdom to share. These brutes had so far demonstrated they would only listen to Castillo, and they might tear Anders to pieces like wolves circling a bleeding deer if he pushed too hard to assert his authority.
He gave a brief salute to the ones watching him and returned to B concourse.
LaVey was losing hope. That much was clear. Years of promises and assurances had created a tentative structure of faith that was crumbling at the foundation. Maybe a victory over Chalmers would bring him back into the fold and help him refocus his efforts on the ultimate goal.
Or maybe there was no climbing out of the pit LaVey had sunk into.
3
Coyle entered the DC Metro at Farragut West station, with the manila envelope in one hand and the briefcase in the other. He’d had to leave the corpse of his former coworker behind. Williams had been a good man, but Coyle had no choice, as the sniper was trying to relocate to a better position on top of the memorial when Coyle came to his senses and escaped.
His lungs burned. His head swam. Espionage was better suited to the young ones, with their limitless ambition and physical resources. But there weren’t any young agents left. There weren’t any agents at all, as far as Coyle knew.
Years of neglect had turned the Metro station into nothing more than an underground parking lot and occasional shelter from the rain, snow, and sun. The tunnels felt dim and dirty, occupied by abandoned bedrolls and empty cans of food. The stench of curry lingered in the air. For some reason, that was one spice never in short supply.
A page in the envelope told him he was to search the Metro for two men and a woman, codenamed L,D, and I. He could ask their names, and they were free to tell him to piss off, if they wanted.
As he moved deeper into the tunnels and away from the light, he wondered if there might not be a flashlight in the briefcase. He set it on the ground and flipped the latches, but a bottle clinking in the darkness startled him. He froze. Listened to the sound of his breathing.
After ten or fifteen seconds of quiet, he opened the suitcase. Inside, he found a flashlight, a selection of batteries, a few books of matches, several packets of seeds, a liter bottle of what looked like gasoline, a pill bottle labeled AMOXICILLIN, packets of salt and pepper, a 9mm, and a couple boxes of ammunition. Most of that would be goods for trade. The antibiotics alone should be valuable enough to get him across the country and back several times.
He plugged some batteries into the flashlight and stabbed at the on button until it started working. Flicked it around the walls and ceiling and surveyed the emptiness of the corridor. Typical graffiti and waste, but at least no collection of dead bodies that sometimes accumulated in dungeons like this.
Coyle closed the briefcase and pressed on, looking for the first set of stairs down as a sheet from the folder had instructed him. A constant drip of water up ahead synced with his heartbeat as he located the handrail at the edge of the stairs.
He gripped the handrail and peered around, first without the flashlight. Then he clicked it on as he descended step by step. At the bottom, he swung the flashlight left and right, and caught the eyes of three people sitting around a cardboard box, lantern hung from a hook above them. Deck of cards on top of the box.
At first, none of them moved.
“Are you Coyle?” the woman said after a few seconds of silence.
“Yes.”
One of the men, a youngish, scruffy-haired guy, jumped up. “Thank God. We’ve been camped out for days in this hell-hole.” He walked to Coyle and thrust out a hand. “Logan Norris.”
Coyle shook the hand. “I guess you’re ‘L,’ then.”
The man and woman also stood, but didn’t have the same forwardness. They huddled close together, not advancing or offering acceptance.
“Agent Williams said you’d be here later tonight,” the woman said. “Why are you early?”
“Williams took a bullet from a sniper.”
Logan’s face dropped. “Oh, shit. I kinda liked that guy.”
The woman creased her brow and motioned at the briefcase in his hand. “What do you have there?”
“Items for trade. Williams gave them to me.”
The woman turned to her companion. “I don’t trust him.”
“It’s cool, Isabelle, this is the guy,” Logan said. “He’s just like Williams said he would be.”
“If you’re Coyle,” said the unnamed man with the mangled ear, “tell me what color Williams’ eyes are.”
Coyle frowned. “I have no damn idea. I worked with him for fifteen years, but I can’t say that I ever gazed into his eyes.”
Isabelle slipped a hand inside her coat pocket, and Coyle responded by lowering his center of gravity and opening the latches of the briefcase.
“Wait!” Logan shouted, and the noise echoed down the tunnel. “Everybody calm down a little, please? Let’s talk about this before y’all start shooting.”
Isabelle didn’t move.
“Okay, Coyle, why don’t you tell us what you’re doing here?” said the unnamed man.
“Williams wanted me to track down LaVey and bring him back to DC. Said he thinks he’s out west.”
“Why?” Isabelle said.
“Ian Rappaport is trying to make a comeback. Going to resurrect the government, or so Williams said. In order to do that, I need to bring LaVey out of hiding.”
“We’ve heard he’s in Denver, or at least that’s what most of the rumors say,” Logan said.
“Shut up, Logan,” Isabelle said.
“Aw, come on, give it a rest. You can’t pull your gun on everybody we meet. Not everyone is going to rob and kill us, you know.”
Coyle cleared his throat, coughed a bit. “My name is John Coyle, I worked at Central Intelligence for twenty years. I was alongside Harry Williams for fifteen of those years. I was a field agent, and he was one of my handlers. He had a wife named Bonnie, and they were honest, God-fearing people. Williams liked hot dogs with lots of mustard, he preferred his baseball on the radio to TV, but I have no damn idea what color his eyes were. Is that good enough?”
Isabelle removed the hand from her coat and relaxed her shoulders a bit, but she still kept her unblinking eyes on Coyle.
“Okay, if we’re done with that,” Logan said, “what do you need from us?”
“Williams told me you can get me a permit to cross the border in Kansas.”
Isabelle and the unnamed man laughed. “I doubt it,” Isabelle said. “We can get you to her, but getting a permit is like winning the lottery these days.”
Coyle grumbled. “Who is she?”
“Chalmers.”
“She some kind of militia leader?” Coyle said.
“She goes by Boss Chalmers, something like the mayor of Chicago,” Logan said. “Isabelle’s right, though. I don’t know how you even expect to get an audience with the boss, because she’s surrounded by all kinds of guards. We all used to work for her, but she doesn’t make public appearances anymore.”
“You let me worry about that,” Coyle said. “How do I find her?”
“I’ll go with you,” Logan said. “They know me, but if you walk into South Chicago alone with that sc
owl on your face, they’ll shoot you like a Northie and toss you outside the city.”
“Logan, don’t be insane,” Isabelle said. “You’re not going with him.”
“I am. You and Dave can hide out here all you like, but I want to help.”
“That’s not really how I work, kid,” Coyle said.
“You need me,” Logan said. “I can help get you in the city and get around while you’re there.”
Coyle thought about it for a few seconds and realized Logan was probably right, because Coyle hadn’t been to Chicago in years. He had no idea what to expect. “Fine. But you do what I say.”
Dave took a card from his back pocket and handed it to Coyle. “Williams had us steal this for you, and you’ll need it to get past the southern gate. It’s only good until next week, so I’d suggest you hurry.”
“I’m ready,” Logan said. “What’s our first move?”
4
Anders woke from his bed in the lost luggage office at Denver Airport to find a gangly woman with curly black hair and bushy eyebrows standing over him. He lurched upright. “How did you get in here?”
“The door wasn’t locked,” she said. “Are you really Peter Anders?”
“You need to explain yourself, this instant.” He stabbed a finger into the bedsheet to drive his point. “I was trying to sleep and you’re not allowed to be in here without someone from my staff. I could have you tossed out of here with a single word.”
She caught herself, clasped her hands over her chest, with her eyes down to the floor. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t mean to bother you, but I couldn’t find General Castillo and… there’s some commotion down in the troop barracks, sir. They’re doing it again.”
“Doing what again?”
“Fighting.”
Anders rubbed the sleep from his eyes and leaned over the bed to pick up his pants. “Some privacy, please? I’ll be right down.”
She left and he dressed quickly, opting for tennis shoes instead of his dress flats and a sweater instead of the suit and tie he usually wore. He rushed out the door and poked his head around to LaVey’s quarters in the TSA office, but he was snoring in his bunk. Not as if LaVey could be of any help in this situation. Anders let him sleep.
