Callsign: King - Book 2 - Underworld (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella)

by Robinson, Jeremy

  His muscles might have remembered what to do, but his body had definitely forgotten about what it would feel like. The silvery mist looked deceptively soft as he jumped, but it simply swirled out of the way as he passed through, traveling at fifty miles an hour. He did his best to curl into a ball, tucking his head against his chest and drawing his arms and legs close to his body, but when he hit the hard rocky ground, any semblance of control went out the window.

  The next few moments were a blur of pain and motion, but through the relentless pummeling and the abrasive scraping, he remembered that there was a cliff ahead, and he tried to extend his extremities spread-eagle to slow his doomward slide.

  It must have worked, because after a few more tumbles, he came to rest, shrouded in mist. He was almost grateful for the pain, because it told him he was still alive.

  40.

  King didn’t get to see the Humvee finish its short unmanned trip. While he was still tumbling, the military vehicle shot past the edge of the crater and sailed out over the mine. It nosed over at the end of the short parabolic arc and plummeted straight down. Deprived of all resistance, the engine revved loudly, spinning the wheels even faster, but it was gravity—not diesel fuel—that increased the truck’s speed, albeit only for about three seconds. Then, it came to a very sudden stop.

  The Humvee slammed into the middle of the transformer station, annihilating the electrical equipment with kinetic energy alone. The truck then exploded in a ball of fire and debris that finished the job.

  As spectacular as the explosion was, it paled alongside the amount of raw power raining down from the sky. And even though the destruction of the transformer instantly shut down the electricity supply to the proton emitter, the storm caused by the anti-matter annihilation in the upper atmosphere did not immediately abate. The lightning continued to hammer down into the collection towers, and because the mechanism for drawing the energy away had been destroyed, the plasma simply pooled at the base of the aerial structures.

  In a matter of only a few seconds, the floor of the mine grew hotter than the surface of the sun. Solid matter—steel, copper, concrete, even a layer of rock some thirty feet thick—instantly flashed into plasma, as Bluelight became a flash of pure white light.

  EPILOGUE

  1044 UTC (3:44 am Local)

  The pain might have been proof that he had survived the tumble from the Humvee, but it wasn’t until the mist receded—almost as if sucked back into the Earth—revealing a dark sky, speckled with stars, that King knew his plan had worked.

  He got gingerly to his feet, and hesitantly checked himself for damage. All things considered, he’d come out of it pretty well. There were a couple of threadbare spots on his jeans, dark with blood oozing from abrasions underneath, but they were mostly intact. The same could not be said for his favorite Elvis shirt, which hung in shreds from his shoulders. Surprisingly, despite a full body tattoo of scrapes and bruises, the only significant injury he’d sustained was the shallow gash across his back, courtesy of Sokoloff’s knife.

  More or less steady on his feet, he ambled forward to the now visible precipice, and stared out into the dark crater where Bluelight had stood only a few moments before.

  There was a sharp odor of burning metal, but the air above the pit was clear. The floor of the mine crater was dark, and King could only make out a faint glow, like the belly of a red hot woodstove, several hundred feet below. Aside from that, there was no visible sign that Bluelight had ever existed.

  There was gasp from behind him. “Oh my God.”

  King turned to find Pierce and Nina, both seemingly stunned into paralysis by his appearance. He rushed to them and swept them both into his embrace. “You made it. I didn’t think anyone…” He let go of the pair and took a step back. “The Muggy Monsters? Are they still…?”

  Nina shook her head. “All gone. They left with the mist. Took all the dead with them.”

  King nodded slowly. All the dead. Soldiers and fallen creatures alike. King had managed to save the world, but Bluelight’s promised “free energy” had come at enormous cost.

  “They’re still out there,” Pierce said. “Or I should say ‘under.’ But without that machine to drive them crazy, I think our war with the underworld has entered a ceasefire.”

  “I see you picked up a souvenir.” King tapped the coin, hanging around Pierce’s neck.

  “Yeah. Long story. I’ll tell you about it when we’re somewhere that isn’t here.” Pierce managed a grim smile. “Jack, you look like shit.”

  “You should see the other guy. Speaking of which…” King glanced around and spied a body that had evidently escaped the notice of the retreating Mogollon Monsters. Sokoloff lay where he had fallen, only a few feet from the edge of the cliff.

  Ten million dollars, King thought. That’s what Brainstorm offered him to take me down.

  Had Brainstorm known that he would be drawn to Bluelight? Or had the death bounty been placed merely as an act of revenge for thwarting Brainstorm’s earlier schemes? Either way, King knew that taking down Brainstorm was no longer going to be merely a side project.

  King’s phone suddenly chirped a familiar ringtone. He pulled it out, shocked that the thing still worked at all, and answered. “Aleman?”

  “Guess again,” came Deep Blue’s voice. “What’s your sit rep?”

  “Things got a little…hairy, but we’re okay now. Situation is contained. By the way, this wasn’t a Manifold project, it was Brainstorm. Again. I’ll give you my full report when I get back.”

  “Sounds good,” Deep Blue said. “Just make sure you’re long gone by the time Army reinforcements roll in. The fewer questions we have to answer, the better. I’ll make sure the right people get your intel.”

  King knew that the “right people” were Domenick Boucher, director of the CIA and Deep Blue’s trusted friend, and General Micheal Keasling, who the team had served under while officially part of Delta. They would know how to disseminate the intel.

  “So where were you?” King asked, curious about what had pulled the man away from setting up their new headquarters in New Hampshire.

  Deep Blue laughed. “I,” he said, “was picking up Fiona. She had a camping trip sprung on her and after a few hours in the dark, decided she wanted to come home. She was near tears when she called. Asked me not to tell you about it, but well, sharing secrets with each other is part of our jobs.”

  Fiona was sometimes plagued by nightmares of monsters and stone giants. She was a tough kid, but even the most battle-hardened soldier was sometimes haunted by a touch of post-traumatic stress. That she’d been shanghaied into a camping trip made King angry, but he was glad she felt confident enough to have the former President of the United States come to her rescue. “Next time we’ll trade missions,” King said. “I’ll pick up my kid. You can deal with the monsters.”

  When King hung up the phone, he found Nina smiling at him. “You have a kid?”

  King smiled, thinking about how nice it would be to see Fiona. “In fact, I do.”

  The conversation was interrupted by a familiar buzzing noise. He looked down at the phone in his hand. The cracked screen was blank. The hum repeated…from Sokoloff’s body.

  King rifled through the man’s pockets until he found the Russian’s phone. He tapped the screen to display the message:

  Status report requested.

  King realized that he held in his hand a direct link to Brainstorm. One of the oldest maxims of war was: “Know your enemy,” but King knew nothing about Brainstorm. Was it, as Deep Blue had speculated, an artificially intelligent computer network? Or was it just an ordinary human with extraordinary resources and an ego to match? Sokoloff’s phone was a loose thread on the curtain behind which Brainstorm hid. It was time to pull that thread.

  He quickly scrolled through the archive of messages between the hitman and his employer. Sokoloff’s relationship with Brainstorm went back several weeks. There was no way that the contract could be tie
d to a desire to protect Bluelight, since that problem hadn’t even been recognized until much later. That meant it was personal; Brainstorm was afraid of King.

  It was all there: the plot to use Pierce to lure King into the open, instructions on where to acquire equipment, bank account information and of course, the most important thing, a direct number that led to Brainstorm…or would at least, until it became apparent that the assassin had failed.

  Time to strike the first blow, King thought.

  He tapped out a reply:

  It’s done. King is dead.

  ###

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  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  JEREMY ROBINSON is the author of eleven novels including PULSE, INSTINCT, and THRESHOLD the first three books in his exciting Jack Sigler series. His novels have been translated into nine languages. He is also the director of New Hampshire AuthorFest, a non-profit organization promoting literacy. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and three children.

  Click here for a sample of Robinson’s novel, THE LAST HUNTER

  Visit him on the web, here: www.jeremyrobinsononline.com

  SEAN ELLIS is the author of several novels. He is a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom, and has a Bachelor of Science degree in Natural Resources Policy from Oregon State University. He lives in Arizona, where he divides his time between writing, adventure sports, and trying to figure out how to save the world.

  Click here for a sample of Ellis’s novel, DARK TRINITY - ASCENDENT

  Visit him on the web, here: seanellisthrillers.webs.com

  —SAMPLE—

  THE LAST HUNTER by JEREMY ROBINSON

  Available for $2.99 on Kindle: Click here to buy!

  DESCRIPTION:

  I've been told that the entire continent of Antarctica groaned at the moment of my birth. The howl tore across glaciers, over mountains and deep into the ice. Everyone says so. Except for my father; all he heard was Mother’s sobs. Not of pain, but of joy, so he says. Other than that, the only verifiable fact about the day I was born is that an iceberg the size of Los Angeles broke free from the ice shelf a few miles off the coast. Again, some would have me believe the fracture took place as I entered the world. But all that really matters, according to my parents, is that I, Solomon Ull Vincent, the first child born on Antarctica—the first and only Antarctican—was born on September 2nd, 1974.

  If only someone could have warned me that, upon my return to the continent of my birth thirteen years later, I would be kidnapped, subjected to tortures beyond comprehension and forced to fight...and kill. If only someone had hinted that I'd wind up struggling to survive in a subterranean world full of ancient warriors, strange creatures and supernatural powers.

  Had I been warned I might have lived a normal life. The human race might have remained safe. And the fate of the world might not rest on my shoulders. Had I been warned....

  This is my story—the tale of Solomon Ull Vincent—The Last Hunter.

  EXCERPT:

  12

  My foot rolls on a bone as I kick away from the bodies. There’s so many of them, I can’t make out what I’m seeing. It’s like someone decided to play a game of pick-up sticks with discarded bones. I fall backwards, landing on a lumpy mass. My hands are out, bracing against injury. Rubbery flesh breaks my fall, its coarse hair tickling between my fingers. I haven’t seen the body beneath me, but I know—somehow—that it’s dead.

  Long dead.

  This is little comfort, however. After finding my footing, I stand bolt upright. My chest heaves with each breath. Each draw of air is deep, but the oxygen isn’t getting to my head. I try breathing through my nose, and the rotten stench of old meat and something worse twists my stomach with the violence of a tornado. I drop to one knee, fighting a dry heave.

  “Slow down,” I tell myself. “Breathe.”

  I breathe through my mouth. I can taste the foul air, but I force each breath into my lungs, hold it and then let it out slowly. Just like I learned at soccer practice. I only lasted a few practices before giving up, but at least I came away with something. Calm down. Focus. Breathe.

  My body settles. I’m no longer shaking. But when I look up I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. Stars blink in the darkness, like when you stand up too fast. But they’re not floating around. They’re just tiny points of light, like actual stars, but I get the feeling they’re a lot closer. The brightest of the light points are directly behind me, and to test my theory I reach out for them. My hand strikes a solid wall.

  Stone.

  The points of light are small glowing stones, crystals maybe. I’d be fascinated if I weren’t absolutely terrified.

  My hand yanks away from the cool surface as though repulsed by a magnetic force. For the first time since waking, a rational thought enters my mind.

  Where am I?

  It’s a simple question. Finding the answer will give me focus. I turn my mind to the task while my body works the adrenaline out of its system.

  The dull yellow stars behind me are large, perhaps the size of quarters. They wrap around in both directions, almost vanishing as they shrink with the distance. But I can see them surrounding me with a flow of tiny lights. There is no door. No escape.

  I’m in a pit.

  Full of bodies.

  Long dead bodies, I remind myself as my breathing quickens. It’s like looking at the mummies in The Museum of Fine Arts. They can’t hurt you.

  With my eyes better adjusted to the dim light, I crouch down to look at the bone I stepped on. What I see causes me to hold my breath, but I find myself calming down for two reasons. First, my mind is engaged, and like Spock, my emotions, which can overwhelm me, are being choked out. Second, the bones are not human.

  The nearest limb looks like a femur, but it’s as thick as a cow’s and half the length. I try to picture an animal that would have such thick, short limbs, but nothing comes to mind.

  I scan the field of bones. Most are similar in thickness and size, but many I can’t identify. Whatever these bones belonged to, I’m fairly certain they’re not human. In fact, they don’t belong to any creature I’ve ever seen before.

  Remembering the soft flesh that broke my fall, I turn around and look down. If not for the clumps of rough red hair sticking out of the sheet of white skin, I might have mistaken it for a chunk of rug padding. The skin is thick, perhaps a half inch, and hasn’t decomposed at all despite the bones beneath it being free of flesh.

  A scuff above me turns my head up as dirt and dust fall into my face. Someone is above me.

  “Who’s there?” My voice echoes.

  The only response I get is silence, which makes me angry. I’ve been beaten and kidnapped after all. “Hey! I know you’re there!”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  The sinister scrape of the voice makes my stomach muscles tighten. This is the man who took me.

  “Why?” I ask through clenched teeth, determined not to show this man fear.

  “Because...” I suspect his pause is for dramatic effect. When I feel the sudden urge to pee, I know it’s working. “...you’re not alone.”

  I spin around, forgetting all about my bladder. I can’t see more than ten feet of body-strewn floor. Beyond that it’s just a sea of light flecks. If there is someone down here with me, I’ll never see them.

  Then I do.

  In the same way we detect distant objects moving in space, I see a body shifting to my left, blocking out the small lights.

  “Who is it?” I whisper.

  “Not a who,” answers the voice.

  Not a who? Not a who!

  “What am I supposed to do?” My whisper is urgent, hissing like the man’s voice.

  “Survive. Escape.”

  “How?”

  “That’s up to you.” I hear him shuffling away from the edge. His voice fades as he speaks for the last time. “I will not see you again until you do.”

  A rattle of bones t
urns my attention back to the sneaking shadow. My eyes widen. It’s no longer slinking to the side. It’s growing larger, blocking out more and more stars. That’s when I realize it’s not growing larger, it’s getting closer.

  In the moment before it strikes, I hear it suck in a high pitched whistle of a breath. I duck down to pick up the thick bone that tripped me up. But it’s too late. The thing is upon me.

  13

  I scream.

  I’m too terrified to do anything else. My hands are on my head. I’m pitched forward. My eyes are clenched shut. Every muscle in my body has gone tight, as though clutched in rigor.

  It knocks me back and I spill into a pile of bones and old skin. But I feel no weight on top of me. No gnashing of teeth on my body. The thing has missed its tackle, striking a glancing blow as it passed, but nothing more. Perhaps because I bent down. Perhaps because it can’t see well in the dark. I don’t know. I don’t care.

  I’m alive. For now.

  And I don’t want to die.

  But I’m certain I’m going to and the events of the past few months replay in my mind. I can’t stop it. I can’t control it. And in a flash, I’m back at the beginning. A moment later, my mind returns to the present. I’m still in the pit. Still waiting for death. But I feel different somehow.