Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol

by M. W. Duncan

  One of the team checked for a pulse. “She’s dead.”

  “Move on,” ordered Eric. “Check the windows, they’ve got spotters out there.”

  The team moved forward. More corpses littered the way. Eric squeezed through the narrow corridor, past his team standing two abreast. Williamson moved behind, heading toward the fore of the group. Eric turned and put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  “Forget it, Ben. You’re sticking to the rear.”

  “You’re forgetting who is in charge, Eric. You don’t give the orders.”

  Carter appeared at Williamson’s side. “Eric’s right. If we lose you this whole thing falls apart. They’re looking to cut off the head of Black Aquila, and that’s you. Stay to the rear, take no chances.”

  “Carter, you stay with him.”

  “Damn,” said Ben, letting the men traipse past him.

  “They’re restricted to the ground floor, we clear the second, secure the stairs and move down.”

  Eric moved forward, the team at his back moving silently behind. Events could accelerate into chaotic close combat in the dark. It would be messy, brutal and costly. Eric prayed Black Aquila moving on the offensive happened quicker than they predicted. If they could catch the assailants before they were organised, they might just get through this.

  They passed down the corridor, ignoring the lifts rendered useless by the power cut. Holden’s room lay open, the door slightly ajar. Eric signalled a halt, switched on his tactical light and opened the door fully. He swept in, scanning for a threat. The darkened room stunk of body odour and damp washing. Dirty towels littered the floor, the bed unmade and clothes strewn upon the sheets. He checked the bathroom.

  “He’s not here.” Eric marched out of the room. “Doctor Holden isn’t in his room.”

  “Find him,” barked Williamson. “He’s important to us. He can’t have gone far, probably down to get some food from the canteen.”

  Eric cursed Holden for leaving his room. If it was to get food it fitted his mood of late, creeping about at night to avoid as many people as he could. Eric had rescued him once, now he had to do it a second time.

  They proceeded down the stairs from the third floor to the second. A handful of Black Aquila support staff had been roused by the explosions. Eric directed them up to the third floor, and convinced Carter and Williamson to watch the stairs to make sure no assailants managed to sneak behind and make their way above.

  Eric approached the stairwell and pushed open the door. It creaked, echoing around the void. He stepped in, moved to the rail at the summit and aimed his weapon over the edge, illuminating below with his tactical light. Nothing but retreating shadows. Eric switched to hand signals and waved his team to follow. Their footfall fell impossibly loud, though he knew they were moving as quietly as a heavily armed military team could. Halfway down the stairs, Eric rounded the corner bringing him to the last set of stairs before arriving at the ground floor. He focused on the door, watching for any movement of the handle. He gripped his weapon tight, his shoulders set ready to receive the recoil. He summoned his battle calm to focus every aspect of his mind and body on what lay ahead. Beyond that door, that simple wooden door, a well-equipped military team was slaughtering whoever they found.

  Eric took the last step and moved toward the door. His team split into two, each half taking position against the wall on opposite sides of the door.

  “Breach and clear,” he whispered.

  Brody and Cole approached the door, slipping their weapons down on their slings. Brody knelt by the handle, hand ready. Cole pulled a flash grenade from his pouch. The door opened up to the side of reception, to the right of the main entrance. If they were there in force then Eric and his men would be opening the door to instant battle.

  Cole and Brody counted together. To three. Brody opened the door and stepped back. Cole threw the grenade, and stepped back covering his eyes. The grenade popped, a short dull explosion with an intense flash of light.

  “Go!”

  Cole stepped through the doorway, and into the dark. Eric followed close behind. The air ruptured with the hiss of weapon fire. Cole went down without a sound, riddled with bullets. Eric stepped over his comrade, and hunched his shoulders, bent his knees, making himself as small as possible.

  Eric fired into reception, providing some much needed suppression fire. He rushed to one of the satellite reception desks, pushed his body against the reassuringly thick barrier. He pushed his weapon above the parapet and fired indiscriminately. Empty shells rattled across the tiled floor. More of his team joined him, all pushing themselves down to cover.

  Wood and granite splintered and chipped above their heads where the enemy’s fire ripped the counter apart.

  Eric chanced a look behind. Only Cole lay dead, an arm extended out before him where he fell. Everyone else made it through. They were too close together. A few grenades could end them all.

  “Brody!” Eric yelled over the gunfire. Brody slid over to Eric on hands and knees. “Take four and flank around. We’ll provide covering fire. We can’t get bottlenecked in here.”

  Eric and the remainder of his men popped up from cover and opened up. Shadows, the enemy in dark camouflage, stood resolute in the doorway, firing. Four of them firing MP5s. A handful of others were dotted about the reception area, clinging to whatever cover they could find.

  One by the door fell, his weapon firing wildly before slipping from his grasp. Another screamed as a round cut through his neck. The dim light from outside and the erratic movements of the tactical lights caused a confusing strobe effect.

  Brody and his four men leapt from cover and made a dash toward the lifts and the rooms beyond. They fired as they went and found more cover, an overturned table. The enemy at the door retreated. Good, thought Eric. If they wanted to wipe Black Aquila off the map then they would have to come back through the main entrance.

  Brody and his men shot dead the last of the enemy in reception. Stupid bastards, they were attacked from two different angles. No chance of defending themselves. The reception went quiet for a moment, nothing moved. Eric reloaded and jumped the desk.

  “We’ve pushed them back. Hold here, keep the main entrance secure. If they want us, they’ll have to come and get us,” Eric said to the men who remained with him. “Anything comes through the door, shoot it.”

  Eric walked over shattered glass and empty casings to Brody. The hotel lobby, once modern, warm and welcoming was reduced to a shell. All windows and glass fixings were shattered by stray shots. The searching beams of light turned the scene into a flickering hell. Eric kicked an MP5 free from the hands of one of the slain enemy. More nameless mercenaries, white ghosts like in the forest. There would be hell to pay when the full extent of this confrontation was discovered. The facility they located in the woods may never have been discovered, but this was in the CAF safe zone. An attack would quickly be discovered and investigated.

  That was a problem for the future. The rear rooms still needed to be cleared.

  “Come with me,” said Eric, his voice ringing in his ears. “We’ve not found anyone from the ground floor. They’re either in the rear rooms or they’ve been taken away. There could be more of them out here.”

  “Cole’s dead, Eric. They got him.”

  “I know. We’ll tend to him when we’ve secured this place.”

  Each member of the team formed up, Brody to Eric’s left, AR-15s braced and ready. Eric scanned left and right, the tactical light illuminating the dark recesses as they went. They moved forward, slow, controlled. The winter wind blew in from the shattered entrance. Each room they came to had not been disturbed, the doors either locked or left open. No signs of disturbance.

  Eric waved them on to the cafeteria. The doors were closed. Unusual. They were always open in Eric’s experience. Always staffed, food was offered twenty-four hours a day. No matter the hour, someone was sitting sipping coffee or reading a book.

  Eric broke into a ru
n and reached the door with Brody only a step behind him.

  “I don’t hear anything,” whispered Brody. He directed his tactical torch around the doorway and on the floor.

  “Look, Eric.” A footprint in blood marred the carpet. “Looks like they left. There’s more than one set of prints.”

  “Be ready.”

  Eric levelled a kick against the doors, forcing those inward. They opened to reveal a charnel house beyond. The men stepped over the threshold, into a massacre. Bodies were piled up on the floor, some were shot where they sat. Everyone dead.

  One of the team behind Eric and Brody muttered something to himself. They swung the torches around illuminating the full horror of the situation.

  Eric stepped further into the slaughter. He held his breath as the stench of death hung heavy in the room, choking and oppressive. Spent casings littered the floor, blood and flesh mixed in with them. Eric pieced together what happened from the location of the bodies. A large group, fifteen or so must have been ushered to the corner where they were shot. Each corpse was riddled with bullets. The wall behind showed the scars of the execution. The others in the canteen were killed where they stood or sat. Eric walked around each body, shining a light on them in turn, checking for those he knew, checking for Holden.

  Some he needed to roll over. Eric recognised almost everyone. The executioners were ruthless in their operation. Nobody had been spared. It did not matter if they were data analysts, or field operators. They did not discriminate.

  Brody shouted Eric’s name, and waved him over.

  “It’s Doctor Holden. I think I’ve found him.”

  Eric released the wrist of one of the fallen, a woman in a night robe. Was his hope to discover someone alive futile?

  Eric crossed the distance, and knelt down next to a fallen body. He was facedown, slight of frame. Eric, with the help of Brody turned him over. Even in the dim light provided by the tactical torches Eric knew the dead man was Eugene Holden. The frail doctor’s chest was punctured by three wounds, red gaping holes, the shirt he wore torn in several places. He looked oddly at peace, his face neutral, no hint of pain or fear, both of which would have dominated his final hours. His ever-present glasses sat on top of his head, the lenses cracked.

  Eric reached to Holden’s neck, and pressed two fingers, a forlorn search for a pulse.

  Brody tapped him on the shoulder. “He’s dead, Eric. I checked for a pulse.”

  Eric held on for a moment longer, his fingers pushing into the cold wetness of Holden’s neck. Nothing. No glimmer. He was gone.

  Eric swore as he stood.

  “A lot of our people have died here, Eric. What makes Holden so special?”

  Eric blew out a breath. “Holden could’ve been the key to unlocking this virus. I don’t know anyone with his knowledge or expertise. Losing Eugene puts us back months.”

  Brody shrugged. “Someone else will take his place. That’s one thing they’re not short of, smart people telling us what to do or not to do.”

  In a simplistic way, Brody was right. Perhaps Eric was feeling some personal affinity for Holden. Williamson placed a lot of stock in what Holden could and could not do. The truth was Holden seemed unwilling to take any further part, a broken man who wished to be left alone, that’s what the outbreak had done to him. He hoped wherever he was now, there was some measure of peace.

  “We’re moving out of here. Close it up.”

  They sealed the door behind them, and made their way back to reception and the rest of his men.

  “Report?” Eric moved low until he was behind some cover.

  “No contact since you left. We’ve seen nothing to suggest they’re still outside. We think they’ve disengaged and pulled back. Any survivors back there?”

  “All dead.” Eric wiped his nose. “We need to be sure nobody is left out there. They could be trying to gain access from the rear.”

  “The rear doors were welded closed when we took up residence here. All ground floor windows had bars installed. If they’re trying to gain access, they’d be making a lot of noise. It’s quiet like the grave out there.”

  “Cover me.” Eric readied his AR-15, jumped the reception desk and ran to the doorway. He ignored the cries of his team, urging him to return. Eric stepped out into the blizzard, expecting to feel the hammer fall of bullets. Nothing, only icy wind and incessant snowfall. His team had moved up to cover his mad dash. Of course they have, he thought.

  He scanned with his weapon, alert for the slightest movement. Nothing.

  “They’re gone,” he shouted back.

  “Come back inside.” Brody waved.

  Eric peered into the snow a final time, then returned to the hotel. “Secure the perimeter. Fetch Williamson.”

  ***

  By the time Williamson came down from the third floor, Eric’s men had set up battery-powered floodlights ready to be powered up. His team secured the outside and performed a sweep of the building. No enemy located. Large smoking generators rumbled to life and temporary lights illuminated the battle-scarred hotel. It worried Eric that a military force could strike in the CAF safe zone and then melt away.

  Williamson took stock of the reception area.

  Before Eric could speak, Williamson asked, “Is it true? Is Doctor Holden dead?”

  Eric wiped his face free of perspiration and melted snow. It was not particularly hot inside, but the heat of battle clung to him.

  “Holden is dead, along with a lot of our people. The canteen is a murder scene. These people weren’t looking for anything other than blood.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Three shots to the chest at close range. He would have died instantly.”

  Williamson remained still as a statue, his gaze down, fists curled tight. He seemed on the verge of tears. He whispered something. It was not meant for anyone’s ears.

  “What do we do now? Ben? The men are looking to us for guidance.”

  Williamson sucked in a lungful of air. “We need to identify everyone who was murdered, process the slain attackers and send a runner out to the CAF forces.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  Williamson shrugged. “We’ve no choice. We’re done. Too much has been risked and lost. Black Aquila is ineffective.” He looked up. “Have the men start packing up once the CAF arrives. You’re all going home. Come and see me when all that is arranged. Bring Gemma with you.”

  ***

  Eric was the last to arrive. Williamson and Gemma sat talking. Small candles flickered, throwing meagre light into the room. Eric almost did not notice Carter sitting in the corner, his foot elevated on a low footstool.

  Gemma had been crying. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. She must have been told of Dr. Holden’s death.

  “Eric, good. Close the door.”

  Eric perched himself on the edge of the table.

  “I wanted to bring you here with Carter and Gemma for a reason. It’s fair to say that I took a massive risk with our operations here, some of the decisions I made have put us into direct conflict with The Owls of Athena and that, in conjunction with the outbreak, caused us to suffer catastrophic losses. I’ll have to answer for the course of action I ordered. CAF will likely investigate what happened here. We’re standing down, effective immediately. I will protect all of my operators as much as I can from the fallout that’s to follow.”

  “So that’s the end of it? We’re beaten and sent home?”

  “We’re beaten and you’re being sent home, but it’s not the end of things. The CAF is pursuing a merciless campaign in the city, surged by huge numbers of US and EU troops. There’s little doubt in my mind that in six months the outbreak here will be brought under control. Civilian losses will more than likely be in the tens of thousands. The CAF isn’t putting enough resources into following up leads, seeking to find the source. They’re only treating the effects.”

  “You’re not saying all. Spit it out,” said Carter.

  “What I
’m proposing will either make a difference or it will get us all killed. We could be on borrowed time anyway. Covertly, we take the fight to The Owls of Athena. Seek them out at their source. When we have enough information then we pass on the information to the right military resources. We have a lead.”

  “Brutus,” spat Eric, the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “If we find Brutus then we have a link, a fragile link to The Owls. We need to bring him back onside.”

  “You can’t be serious? Brutus? You know as well as I do what he did to us and you want to try to bring him back? He deserves to die. He’s as guilty as anyone for the deaths of our people.”

  “I know that,” snapped Williamson. “If you don’t have the stomach for this, Eric, then you’re free to go home whenever you like. I just hope that The Owls won’t pursue you or your family.”

  “Don’t you put that on me, Ben.” Eric pushed himself from the table. “I’ve gone above and beyond what you’ve asked of me. What you’re planning won’t work, you have no concrete leads. Not to mention the legalities of this. You’re talking about bringing a private war to the streets of Britain.”

  “It’s better than sitting at home watching the news and waiting to be picked off one at a time,” said Carter, calmly.

  “You too? This is crazy!”

  “If these Owls are that powerful then none of us are safe. If we work together and take it to them, we’re protecting ourselves and our families. It only takes one man with a gun to create a tragedy at home, Eric. Think on that before you answer.”

  “It’s not crazy,” added Williamson. “It is simply adding a contribution to combating the outbreak.”

  “Why not just go to CAF about The Owls, let them deal with it?”

  Carter laughed, a bitter sound. “These Owls are hiding in plain sight, Eric. You think if one of us reported them that anyone would investigate it?”

  “We’ve got proof.”

  “We have rumours and corpses, and there’s already enough of them in Aberdeen. If we do this, we need to do it ourselves, at least in the beginning.”