Helius Legacy

by S Alexander O'keefe

  Caine saw through the evasion. She was spooked. Worse, she suspected that he was a crackpot who was making it up as he went along. He couldn’t blame her. He was a stranger. She had no reason to believe anything he said. Until she was confronted with irrefutable proof, he was wasting his breath.

  “That sounds good. You have my number. Call me anytime, day or night.”

  “Thanks.”

  Just before the call ended, he heard a voice in the background say, “Welcome to the Portman Lodge.”

  San Bernardino, California

  December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 1:30 p.m.

  Caine put the phone down on the seat and stared at the shattered pane of glass covering the GTO’s speedometer. He’d been lucky this time. The next time the probability curve might not be so kind. To turn this thing around, he had to start hunting the hunters. That meant he had to go to Austin. Steinman and the girl were his only leads.

  Caine considered getting a night’s sleep before he flew to Austin, but decided that he couldn’t risk the delay. If Andrea Marenna wasn’t careful, she could end up dead. In fact, she could end up dead even if she was careful.

  Ontario International Airport was about thirty minutes away from the shopping center. If he was lucky, he could catch a flight to Austin later that afternoon. Caine called several airlines on the way to the airport and booked a seat on a 3:30 p.m. flight. He could wash up and buy some clothes, a carry-on bag, and other necessities at one of the malls near the airport.

  That would still leave him without one critical item—a gun. He couldn’t bring the Sig Sauer with him, and it would be difficult to walk into another city and buy a gun off the shelf, with a couple of boxes of ammunition. Caine knew someone who could probably get him what he needed when he landed in Austin, despite the short notice, but it would come with a price. Jaq Maltier would want to join the hunting party.

  Jaq was the only other member of the old Legion unit who lived in the United States. He owned a Caribbean-themed restaurant in Houston, Texas, but the restaurant was only a sideline. Jaq’s primary employment was in the international arms trade. Jaq’s company provided technical support and training to customers of the arms industry all over the world. Although Jaq denied it, Caine suspected that Jaq’s outfit provided more than tech support.

  Caine dialed Jaq’s restaurant and a male baritone answered the phone.

  “River Grill.”

  “Hello, is Jaq there?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Just say an old Legionnaire.”

  There was a silence, and then the unmistakably cultured voice of Jacques Augustus Maltier came on the line.

  “Hello, this is Jacques Maltier.”

  Caine couldn’t help but smile when he heard the voice. “Jaq, it’s John.”

  “Johnny boy? Praise the Almighty. The lost and prodigal son has returned to papa.”

  “It hasn’t been that long, Jaq. I called you last Christmas.”

  “No, mon ami, you wrote me last Christmas, and as I recall it was a one-liner. However, I did enjoy the dagger you made for me. That was an exceptional piece of work, so I will not call you to account for your ill manners.”

  “Jaq, as I recall the great State of Texas has its share of phones.”

  “Oui, but I outrank you.”

  “What? When did you get another stripe?”

  “Last year. I gave it to myself. I decided that I deserved it after putting up with you for all those years.”

  Both men laughed.

  “Jaq, I am going to be visiting Austin tomorrow. I have some personal business there.”

  “Exceptional. When you’re done with your business, hop a plane down to Houston. I’ll lay out the red carpet. We can do some fishing in the Gulf.”

  “I can’t, Jaq. I have a full schedule, but I promise to make it on the next trip. By the way, have you heard any news about anyone taking an interest in the other members of the unit?”

  Jaq’s tone changed. “No. What’s going on, soldier?”

  Caine knew that Jaq would insist on getting involved if he gave him the whole story, and he didn’t want that. This thing was his problem.

  “I think someone may be after me, but I’m not sure who or why. I’m flying into Austin to meet with someone who may be able to help me find out what’s going on. When I get there, I would feel a whole lot safer if I had a decent piece of hardware, like a forty-five, or a nine millimeter.”

  “I have a better idea. I’ll meet you in Austin, and I’ll make sure we both have enough hardware to deal with the problem.”

  “Look, Jaq, I appreciate the offer, but I have to jump on the plane. Believe me, if it gets crazy, I’ll come running to you for help. But right now, I just need to do a little research on my own. Don’t worry, I won’t take any chances. Trust me on this.”

  Jaq answered after a noticeable hesitation. “I’ll get you the hardware, but I want the whole story when you land in Austin. No bullshit, which is what I’m hearing now. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal, Jaq.”

  “Call me when you get in,” Jaq said, and gave him his cell number. “That will get you through to me, day or night.”

  “Done.”

  Caine ended the call to cut off any further demands for information from Jaq. He smiled to himself, picturing the frustration on the Haitian’s roguishly handsome face. Jaq could taste the possibility of a fight and he wanted in.

  Jaq Maltier’s affinity for violence was not something he grew up with. He was born into one of the wealthiest families in Haiti, and this wealth had enabled Jaq to receive the finest education money could buy, including an economics degree from Oxford.

  When Jaq returned to Haiti from Oxford in 1980, he met a girl who was part of a small underground democracy movement that was seeking to undermine the dictatorship of Haiti’s president-for-life, “Baby Doc” Duvalier. Caine suspected that Jaq had been drawn to the group by the danger factor, not the politics. Late one night, the group’s meeting place had been raided by Duvalier’s trained killers, the feared Tonton Macoutes. Three of the six members of the group had been killed during the initial assault, including Jaq’s female friend. A fourth had been fatally wounded. The odds had changed when Jaq, who’d shot competitively since he was twelve years old, wrestled a pistol away from one of the attackers. Three of the attackers had gone down, permanently, with head shots. A fourth crawled out of the building with a chest wound that would later prove fatal. This stunning reversal of fortune convinced the rest of the assault team to wait for backup, giving Jaq and the survivors a chance to escape from the house.

  Although his escape bought Jaq a temporary reprieve, the attacker that he’d wounded had recognized him, putting the young Haitian squarely in the formidable crosshairs of the Duvalier government. Unless he could find a way off the island, it was only a matter of time before they found him. The solution to his problem had been offered by an old friend from Oxford, who worked in the French embassy.

  An officer of the French Foreign Legion was visiting the embassy from Paris, looking for local recruits. The friend suggested that it was unlikely the Legion would turn down an Oxford-educated shooting champion, who was in excellent physical shape and who spoke fluent French. His friend had been right. Although the Legion officer had made Jaq pay four times the going rate for a civilian flight out, as a donation, he’d arranged to get him on a military flight out of the country the next day.

  Caine had met Jaq in the Legion’s basic training program. Despite their cultural and educational differences, the two men had become friends. As an ex-Ranger, Caine helped Jaq to become an elite soldier, and Jaq had helped Caine learn French. After two years in the Legion, the two men had been assigned to an elite parachute regiment. A year later, the two men had been invited to join a newly formed special ops unit under the control of Colonel Etienne Ricard, one of the Legion’s most decorated soldiers. Both men had accepted the invitation.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THRE
E

  Ontario Airport, California

  December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 3:30 p.m.

  The flight to Austin was only about three-quarters full, and thankfully the seat next to Caine was empty. He passed on the drinks offered by the flight attendant, eased back in the seat, and closed his eyes. Talking to Jaq had brought back memories of the other three members of the original unit, Colonel Etienne Ricard, Corporal Joe Vlasky, and Sergeant Danny MacBain. Ricard and Vlasky were still alive, but MacBain, the smiling Scot, had been killed in Africa, in a fight that John Caine had started and couldn’t forget.

  He could almost feel the painful memory easing free of its restraints and flowing, unwanted, into his tired subconscious. The village had been located on a bend in the Congo River, near the Tanzanian border. The locals called the place Shabundo, but the name didn’t appear on any map. Caine had the high position that day. The hill that he was on overlooked the village and gave him a clear view of the eastern approach, which was where the trouble would come from, if it did come.

  The African sun was three hours from the western horizon, but the stifling heat showed no sign of receding. Caine could still remember the feel of the sweat-soaked cammos against his back and the sharp grass pricking his bare forearms as he lay prone on the hilltop above the village. He remembered scanning the jungle on the eastern edge of the village through the scope of his FR-F2 sniper rifle and looking over the silent village. An old man was resting in the shade of a grass-and-mud hut, smoking a cigarette. A dog was lying on the ground beside him.

  One of the local warlords had decided to assert control over the ancestral lands of two other neighboring tribes. When the other tribes resisted, the warlord had exterminated the residents of two villages within a three-days’ march and started to move toward a third, more distant village—Shabundo. Neither the Congolese nor the Tanzanian governments had paid much attention to the threat until it was discovered that a small French missionary group was working in the village. This had changed the politics.

  The Legion unit had been advised that their mission was to evacuate the French nationals. The warlord and the village were the responsibility of a company-strength Congolese force that should have been on site when the Legion unit arrived. When the Legionnaires parachuted into the area the night before, they’d discovered that the French missionaries, oblivious to the approaching threat, had traveled down river to another village the day before. The Congolese force was nowhere to be found. When this information had been communicated back to the commander of the Legion force in Oran, Ricard had been told to await further instructions.

  Later in the afternoon, Caine had spotted movement on a hill to the east through his binoculars. As he watched the distant figures approach the village, the fatigue that had been trying to put him to sleep for the last two hours disappeared. He called in the movement over the radio. Each of the positions had been assigned the name of an American state to celebrate Caine’s birthday that week. Caine’s location was designated Texas, his home state.

  “Texas here. We have movement on the hill due east of my position. There are at least five irregulars in sight and more are coming. They’re armed with guns and machetes.”

  Jaq, who was north of Caine’s position, closer to the village, responded first.

  “Florida here, I see them. It’s the warlord and his band of merry men. I can tell by the markings. They’ll hit the village in about ten minutes.”

  Vlasky, who was to the south of Caine’s position, followed up.

  “This is New York. I got ’em, too. They’re going to march right by my flank. What’s the call, Washington?”

  The question was for Ricard. He and Sergeant MacBain were located at the eastern edge of the village, behind a stand of trees. They were closest to the oncoming force, but couldn’t see them, because they were lower down the hill.

  There was a short hesitation, and then Ricard’s voice came back.

  “Hold. I’ll put a call into command.”

  As Caine listened to the exchange, he watched the women from the village harvesting cassava in a small field notched into the side of the hill. The younger children were with the women. They were unaware of the approaching nightmare. Most of the men were tending animals, or hunting or fishing outside the village.

  Caine watched the rebel scouts scan the village from their cover and then, seeing no threat, wave the balance of the force forward. Within minutes, twenty men were coming out of the jungle and heading toward the crest of the hill. About half of the men were armed with a disparate collection of guns. The rest were carrying machetes. The attackers would reach the women first.

  Caine put down the binoculars, flipped the safety off the FR-F2, and zeroed in on the lead scout. The enemy was about five hundred meters away. The FR-F2 could fire a 7.62x51 millimeter slug seven hundred meters with accuracy in the hands of a skilled sniper. Caine, like every member of the team, was more than skilled.

  Caine forced the memory back into its cage and opened his eyes. He needed to get some rest, not relive a past nightmare. He’d had enough of those for one day.

  Austin, Texas

  December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 9:10 p.m.

  Caine needed to rent a car when he arrived at the airport in Austin. He wanted to avoid using one of the national rental chains if possible, and he also wanted to rent a used car. The cab driver that picked him up outside the airport directed him to a rental outfit about two miles away. The signs on the lot indicated that the owner was primarily in the business of selling cars, but rentals were apparently a part of the mix as well.

  The sixtyish man sitting behind the service counter gave him a friendly nod when he walked in.

  “How can I help you this evening?”

  “I need a rental for three or four days, possibly as long as a week. Something used would be fine. I’d like a midsize or bigger if you have it.”

  “Sure do. Why don’t we take a walk outside and you can pick one out yourself? Everything over on the left side of the lot is available.”

  Caine looked over at the two rows of cars and was going to select a midsize Chevy sedan in the first row, when he saw three pickup trucks parked in the back row. The vehicle would give him a measure of anonymity, the protection of additional mass, and, in a worst-case scenario, a place to sleep. He pointed to a black Ford F-150 with a cover over the flatbed.

  “Is that one available?”

  The man nodded his approval. “Sure is.”

  Caine paid for the car with the Briggs, Ltd. credit card and left the rental place with a full tank of gas and a map of Austin and the surrounding area. Caine pulled into the parking lot of a family restaurant about a mile from the car rental place. It was a good two hours past the prime dinner hour and the restaurant was only about a quarter full. Caine took a booth in the rear and ordered a light dinner, a pot of coffee, and a glass of ice water. While he was waiting for the order, he dialed Jaq’s cell phone. The nearest occupied table was at least twenty feet away and the two women seated there were too engrossed in their own conversation to take any interest in him.

  “Jaq.”

  “It’s Caine. I’m back home in Texas.”

  “Good for you. You should come home more often. You’re not getting any younger.”

  “If I’m getting old, buddy, then you must be bloody ancient.”

  “No way. We Haitians age slower than you white folks. Now, tell me what’s going on and no bullshit this time.”

  “Okay, Jaq, but here’s the deal. It’s my problem right now. You have to let me deal with it my way.”

  “Of course, man, why would I want to get involved in your problems? I have plenty of my own to keep me busy. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  Caine gave Jaq an edited version of what had happened during the last twenty-four hours. He intentionally downplayed the two attacks, hoping to minimize Jaq’s reaction, but the Haitian saw through the effort.

  “What are you doing, man, trying to get yourself kille
d? You’ve got to get your ass—”

  The waitress had showed up with his order.

  “Jaq, wait a minute.”

  Caine pushed the cell phone facedown in the leather bench seat and thanked the waitress. When he picked up the cell phone again, Jaq was still berating him.

  “You need more firepower than what I put in that locker, and you need someone to watch your back. This is complete bull—”

  Caine glanced at his watch. He had to eat and get moving, or he would have to wait until tomorrow morning to try to find Andrea Marenna.

  “Jaq, buddy, I gotta go here. Where do I pick up your present?”

  “You get right back to me. Do you hear me, soldier? We’re going to do this thing together.”

  “I got it, Jaq.”

  Jaq growled, but answered his question.

  “Go to the Amtrak station downtown. Your pickup is in locker 27B. The combination is 4, 4, 4, 4 until twelve tonight. Then it expires. Pick up the package, then call me. I want to know what the plan is.”

  “Right, and thanks, Jaq.”

  The train station was about four miles from the restaurant. Since it was a Sunday night, the station was almost empty. Caine walked over to the lockers against the far wall, and discreetly looked around for police or security before he opened up the locker. The only guard was on the other side of the station and he was engrossed in a conversation with the girl behind the ticket counter.

  Caine typed the lock’s combination into the keypad, and the door opened with a quiet click. A brown shopping bag was the only thing inside the locker. Caine pulled out the bag, closed the locker, and left the station. He opened the bag when he was back in the truck. The gun, a spare magazine, and a box of shells were wrapped in an old towel at the bottom of the bag. Caine flipped open the glove compartment for a moment, allowing the interior light to shine on the weapon. Then he closed it.

  The gun was a Browning Hi-Power Mark III. The Mark III and its predecessor, the Mark II, were standard issue for hundreds of military and law enforcement organizations around the world. Caine had practiced with the Mark II when he was in the Legion.