by S. A. Beck
The Atlantis Guard
Book 6 of the Atlantis Saga
S.A. Beck
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The Atlantis Guard: The Atlantis Saga
Copyright © 2017 by S.A. Beck
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
www.sabeckbooks.com
Contents
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
Chapter 18
About the Author
All Books by S.A. Beck
Excerpt from “The Atlantis Ascent”
Chapter 1
AUGUST 12, 2016, MARRAKECH, MOROCCO
2:30 P.M.
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Brice Dawson, alias Billy Conrad, alias Bill Carson, alias Malcolm Dryden, alias Grunt had been in a lot of bad situations before, but this one looked like it was going to be in the top ten.
He’d been prowling the backstreets of Marrakech, trying to sniff out what had happened to Edward, the computer hacker for the Atlantis Allegiance, and what he had found scared him. All his contacts in the underground—arms dealers, people smugglers, forgers, fences of stolen merchandise—all of them were afraid. In fact, most were so afraid that they wouldn’t talk to him.
The only thing he had learned was that Edward had been snatched. The hotel/safe house Edward had found for them here had been attacked a few days before. The owner, Mohammad el Aoufi, had been gunned down, as had his son and several of the guests. The guests had included an important Italian businessman and a minor prince from the Saudi royal family.
El Aoufi’s house was an underground institution, a supposedly safe refuge for all types of people who needed anonymity, and its destruction had made every criminal this side of the Atlas Mountains paranoid.
Everything had been hushed up. Nothing about the attack had made it into the local press, but no doubt the Moroccan secret police were scouring the medina looking for the culprits.
Grunt hadn’t dared go near the hotel. The entire neighborhood would be filled with prying eyes. Instead, he’d heard all of this from the few people he could get to talk to him, quick whispered conversations at cafés while the contact looked the other way and hid his face behind a newspaper.
The underworld was in an uproar. One of their secrets, one of their safe spaces, had been taken out. The underworld was scared.
That made Grunt scared too.
All his instincts told him to get the hell out of Marrakech and preferably get the hell out of Morocco. Ideally he should get the hell out of Africa.
But he wasn’t going anywhere. He had a duty to find Edward. He wouldn’t leave a fellow soldier behind.
Grunt had one more hope, he thought as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror of the tiny hotel room he’d rented for himself. The arms dealer, Ahmad Chukri, an old contact from his Special Forces days, had sent him a message through a go-between that he’d see him. For a price, of course. Nothing from that guy ever came for free.
First, Grunt had to get ready. He needed a disguise.
Checking into this hotel had been easy enough. This was the kind of place that didn’t require a passport or even a peek behind the kaffiyeh he’d wrapped around his face. All he had to do was fork over some money and, to answer the question of why a foreigner would stay in this dump, buy some heroin from the guy at the front desk. The heroin had gone down the toilet as soon as he had gotten into his room, and the desk clerk had gone onto Grunt’s Official List of People Who Needed Their Asses Kicked.
But that would have to wait for another day. He couldn’t walk these streets without a disguise. Luckily he had that covered.
Grunt unzipped his toiletry bag and took out a tin of what looked like skin moisturizer. In fact it was a special chemical compound he’d learned to brew up.
Stripping to the waist, he dabbed the corner of a towel into the cream and began to rub it on the tribal tattoos that covered his face and neck.
A bit of rubbing and they came right off. Within a few minutes, the tribal tattoos had vanished, and the only ink he had left on him was his one real tattoo—the Special Forces tattoo on his bicep, a relic from an earlier part of his life. At least that was normally hidden by his shirt and couldn’t be used to identify him.
Grunt examined himself in the mirror and smiled. The tribal tattoos were an improved version of the temporary tattoos he used to get in cereal boxes as a kid. While those faded after the first shower, his tattoos were drawn with a special ink that took weeks to fade under normal circumstances. But with his special cleaner, they came off like a charm.
He flexed his muscles and admired his reflection. The wrong side of thirty but still looking good. A faint scar underneath his Special Forces tattoo made him frown. That had been his only other real tattoo. He thought it would be there forever until he stopped being stupid and woke up to reality. Then he’d gotten laser surgery to rid himself of it. The tattoo had been only one word, once the sweetest word in the world and now something he couldn’t say without spitting.
Isadore.
Grunt hurriedly put his shirt back on, so he didn’t have to see the scar. Then he examined his reflection again, turning his head from one side to the other, making sure all trace of his tribal tattoos had vanished.
It was the perfect disguise. If someone has a tattoo on his face, everyone sees the tattoo, not the face. He’d been going around Marrakech with that facial tattoo the last time he was here. He’d bet a thousand bucks that the café idlers and the secret police and the street punks were still talking about the muscular American with the weird marks on his bald head, neck, and one-half of his face. Now he was just a muscular American. They wouldn’t dream that he was the same person.
And that suited him just fine.
He slipped a Bowie knife into his boot and a smaller knife into a belt holster in the small of his back, wishing he’d had time to get a gun. If it looked like he needed to stay in town a while, he’d buy one from Ahmad Chukri.
Grunt closed the rickety door to his hotel room behind him, locked it for all the good that would do, and made his way down the dingy hallway, lit by a single bare bulb on which several dead flies were stuck. A cadaverous young Moroccan passed him in the hall, his hollow eyes barely registering Grunt’s presence. It made the mercenary wince. He’d seen a lot of death and doled out plenty of it himself, but drug addicts had always given him the creeps. How someone could slowly kill themselves like that was something he’d never understand.
That thought made him briefly worry about Otto. How was the pyro doing, anyhow? He needed someone watching over him, and the eggheads weren’t qualified. Vivian could handle the task, but she was too busy watching over Jaxon, which was more than a full-time job. That left Otto unsupervised most of the day, and that could lead to trouble.
The kid was an addict, plain and simple. Just as much of an addict as that junkie who had stopped in the hallway and stared at a couple of doors, obviously havi
ng forgotten which room was his. Otto was addicted to setting fires. Grunt reminded him of that every chance he could get in the hope that he could shame Otto into stopping. Otto cared way too much about what people thought of him, so that just might work. But without someone watching over him, it would be easy for the kid to slip back into his old ways or even worse ways. Addicts could change addictions easily enough, and North Africa offered no shortage of temptations.
Grunt passed down the creaky stairs, nodded to the guy at the front desk who recognized Grunt by his bulk rather than his face, which he now saw for the first time, and walked out into a narrow alley deep in Marrakech’s medina—the medieval city that had stood almost unchanged for centuries.
Grunt took a long, winding route to get to Ahmad’s place of business—visible from the alley only as a blank metal door identical to thousands of other blank metal doors in this private culture. Moroccans did not have windows open to the outside and never left their doors open for a second longer than it took to pass through them. Grunt knocked twice, then three times, then twice again.
A little window opened up in the door, covered on the inside by mesh so someone couldn’t stick the muzzle of a gun through.
“I think you have the wrong place, tourist,” a suspicious voice said in English. It was Muhammad, one of Ahmad’s gunmen.
“Four sixteen,” Grunt replied in Arabic. That was this week’s code word.
Muhammad stared at him for a moment longer, obviously not recognizing him, then opened the door. He kept one hand hidden behind the door, no doubt with a gun in it, glanced each way down the alley, and let Grunt inside. When the door closed, Muhammad leveled a 9mm automatic at Grunt’s stomach.
“Who are you?” Muhammad asked.
“An old friend of Ahmad’s. He told you to expect someone at this time, didn’t he?”
The suspicious look on Muhammad’s face showed he still didn’t recognize him.
“Go ahead,” Muhammad said, gesturing with his pistol down a dark, narrow hallway.
Grunt sauntered down the hall, Muhammad following several steps behind to get a good shot and stay out of reach. Grunt smiled. Ahmad ran a tight ship.
Taking a right, they passed down another short hall and entered a large, brightly lit room with a couple of old couches.
Leaning on the couches and lined up on the tattered rugs on the floor were dozens of guns. Grunt eyed them appreciatively. Besides the usual AK-47 assault rifles, there were a variety of pistols, including tiny hideaway models that could fit in the palm of a hand, plus heavy machine guns from China and Russia.
A voice from the doorway opposite made him look up.
“Malcolm, my friend, how good of you to come visit!”
Ahmad Chukri the arms dealer came sweeping into the room, arms flung wide to make his white djellaba flow around him like some saint in a medieval painting. He paused for just a second when he saw Grunt’s face free of any tattoos then smiled. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised. Ahmad had risen up from a street punk to one of North Africa’s leading arms dealers and had seen a countless variety of tricks, scams, and cons. Nothing surprised him anymore, not even a trick he’d never thought of. He nodded with the appreciation of one professional for another.
“It is good to see you again so soon. Come, let us have some tea.”
Another assistant appeared from the doorway and set down a tray with an elaborate brass teapot and two little colored glasses. After the assistant left and Muhammad returned to his post at the front door, they drank their tea and got down to business.
“Thanks for letting me come over, Ahmad,” Grunt said. “Most of my contacts are acting like I have the bubonic plague.”
Ahmad made a face and shook his head. “Everyone is scared because of the attack on the secret hotel. We were all taken by surprise. Few people know of the place, and those who do appreciate its existence. I myself have put up many of my guests there. We all agreed it was neutral territory. We all benefitted from it, so we all honored its safety.”
“You saying outsiders did this?” Grunt asked. Actually he already knew who did it—the hit had Isadore’s fingerprints all over it—but he wanted local confirmation.
“Witnesses say the leader was a Western woman, but she had local help.”
“What did she look like?”
Ahmad gave a vague but fairly accurate description of Isadore. Grunt nodded.
“And the local help? I thought you said people honored the place.”
“Honored by professional people like you and me, my friend. Not street scum like the boys who did this.”
Grunt reached into his pocket. “I don’t have much time, so let’s cut to the chase. How much for telling me where they are?”
Ahmad smiled. “Nothing, my friend.”
Grunt stared. With Ahmad, everything cost, and cost a lot. The arms dealer chuckled.
“Are you surprised, Malcolm? We need to make an example of them. Come with us while we do this. You can question them and then go after their leader while we take care of the local boys. We cannot have such people ruining business like this.”
“Let me handle the questioning,” Grunt said. What people like Ahmad rarely understood was that torture was a poor way of getting information. The subject ended up telling their captors whatever they wanted to hear.
Ahmad spread out his hands and smiled. “Whatever you think best, my friend. You are a professional. But we get them when you are done. You know they killed a princeling of the Saudi royal family?”
“And you want the reward the Saudis will give.”
Ahmad nodded. The smile on his lips belied by the hard glint in his eyes.
Grunt shifted in his seat. He didn’t want to think what the Saudis would do to those street punks. Maybe he could find a way to save them, if they deserved saving.
“When do we move in?” Grunt asked.
“Right now,” Ahmad said, picking up a pistol from the sofa and handing it to him.
Chapter 2
Muhammad drove them and another gunman to a remote shantytown on the edges of Marrakech. Crumbling concrete houses stood along trash-littered dirt roads filled with potholes. Between the concrete buildings stood smaller shacks made of corrugated iron, wooden crates, even cardboard. Ahmad tut-tutted as he looked out the tinted windows of his car.
“It makes me sad to see my people living like this. The youth grow up with no respect, no culture. It is no surprise they act the way they do.”
“Did you come from a neighborhood like this?” Grunt asked.
“Me? Ha! When I was young, I dreamed of living in a place like this. Look at those wires. There is electricity here, and running water in many houses. I did not have these things. I grew up in the Rif, in a little village that you have never heard of. Oh my friend, people living ten miles away have not heard of my village. I have come far, and I will never go back.”
Grunt shifted in his seat. He sounded like Isadore. When they had first met in the Special Forces, Isadore had still had an Appalachian twang to her voice she desperately tried to hide. One guy made fun of it once, and she decked him. That got Grunt interested. He started hanging out with her, going to the gunnery range and volunteering for missions he knew she’d be on. They admired each other for their skills and their eagerness to learn. Pretty soon they were an item.
At least for a time. Grunt began to find her drive a bit over the top. She constantly complained that the government didn’t pay them enough and how one day she’d go independent and make more money.
“Why do you need money so much?” he had asked. “We get paid pretty good. They give us all we need, and we get to ride around in helicopters and blow stuff up in every part of the world. What else could you want?”
“You wouldn’t understand, rich boy,” she had said dismissively.
“Rich boy?” Grunt had laughed. “My dad was a bricklayer, and my mom was a waitress.”
“You had shoes growing up,” was all that she ha
d said.
Grunt hadn’t figured out a response to that.
In many ways, Isadore had been the ideal lover. She’d had the same sense of fun and was his physical equal. It was hard to find a companion who liked practicing at the gunnery range and parachuting out of low-flying aircraft into the jungle in the middle of the night. But there was a hardness to her, and a hunger. She’d never gotten over those rough early years. She was obsessed with money, even though she didn’t seem to care about the things that money could buy. It was weird to lie in a lean-to made of sticks in the backwoods of some Third World dictatorship listening to her talk about how she was going to have a huge mansion someday, all the while knowing that she was perfectly at home in that lean-to. She was the kind of person who felt comfortable in rough places, just like Grunt did himself. She didn’t want money for the things it could buy or even the security it gave. She wanted it as some form of power. Or maybe as a form of validation.
And that made her greedier than the richest oil baron or the most corrupt hedge-fund manager.
“Here we are.” Ahmad’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.
They stopped at the end of a rutted lane. A broken pipe had flooded a big stretch of it, leaving an oily pool. Several plastic bags floated on top. Ahmad pulled a 9mm automatic from his jacket and checked it. Grunt did the same with his.
“They are armed,” Ahmad told him, “but we are more clever, my friend. We will surprise them,” Ahmad said. He opened up a duffel bag that had been sitting at his feet and took out two police uniforms. After handing one to Muhammad, he began to get changed. “Their house is up there, the last house on the left. You and Mubarak will go along that other street you can see there and work your way around to the back of the house, where you will find another entrance. Keep out of sight and wait. I and Muhammad will simply walk down the street and knock on the front door, demanding entry. When they see us, they will make a break for it out the back door, thinking we are there to bust them for drugs. Then you catch them. Take care, my friend. They may be young, but they are quick and tough.”
