by Tarah Benner
The Elderon Chronicles
Books 1-3
Tarah Benner
Contents
Also by Tarah Benner
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Colony One
1. Jonah
2. Maggie
3. Maggie
4. Jonah
5. Maggie
6. Maggie
7. Maggie
8. Jonah
9. Maggie
10. Jonah
11. Maggie
12. Maggie
13. Maggie
14. Jonah
15. Maggie
16. Maggie
17. Maggie
18. Jonah
19. Maggie
20. Jonah
21. Maggie
22. Jonah
23. Maggie
24. Jonah
25. Maggie
26. Maggie
27. Jonah
28. Maggie
29. Maggie
30. Maggie
31. Maggie
32. Maggie
33. Jonah
34. Jonah
35. Maggie
Author’s Note
Colony War
1. Jonah
2. Maggie
3. Maggie
4. Jonah
5. Maggie
6. Maggie
7. Maggie
8. Jonah
9. Jonah
10. Maggie
11. Jonah
12. Maggie
13. Jonah
14. Maggie
15. Maggie
16. Maggie
17. Jonah
18. Jonah
19. Maggie
20. Maggie
21. Jonah
22. Maggie
23. Jonah
24. Maggie
25. Maggie
26. Jonah
27. Maggie
28. Jonah
29. Maggie
30. Maggie
31. Jonah
32. Jonah
33. Maggie
Author's Note
Colony Assassin
1. Jonah
2. Maggie
3. Maggie
4. Jonah
5. Jonah
6. Maggie
7. Maggie
8. Maggie
9. Maggie
10. Maggie
11. Jonah
12. Jonah
13. Jonah
14. Jonah
15. Jonah
16. Maggie
17. Maggie
18. Maggie
19. Jonah
20. Maggie
21. Jonah
22. Jonah
23. Maggie
24. Maggie
25. Maggie
26. Maggie
27. Maggie
28. Maggie
29. Jonah
Author’s Note
Elderon Bonus Content
More Books By Tarah
Also by Tarah Benner
Recon
Exposure
Outbreak
Lockdown
Annihilation
Lawless
Lifeless
Ruthless
Dauntless
Bound in Blood
The Defectors
Enemy Inside
The Last Uprising
Digital Edition
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This book is a work of fiction, and any similarities to any person, living or dead, are coincidental and not intentional.
Published by Blue Sky Studio, LLC
Copyright 2019 Tarah Benner
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Colony One
Book One in the Elderon Chronicles
To my husband — for helping me fight the good fight.
“The trouble is not what robots will do to humans, but what humans will do with robots.”
— Benjamin Blum
1
Jonah
Somebody’s gotta exterminate the bad guys. I guess it might as well be us.
We’re deep in the bowels of frigid Siberia, holed up in a portion of the Trans Siberian Tunnel. On the surface, Siberia is just the flip side of hell — twenty-five degrees below zero at noon. On a bad day in January, it can get even colder than Mars.
Venture outside and you might lose your nose. But underground the air is warm. We’re deep in some Russian-made death trap fifty feet beneath the permafrost. It’s a network of tunnels that stretch for miles, where American intel only goes so far.
There’s a saying in the army: hurry up and wait. That’s how we live our lives.
We’re sitting across from each other with our backs against the tunnel: me and Rogers, Jefferson and Lovingood. The other guys are talking and smoking — it’s all you can do when you’re waiting to kill.
A rumpled cigarette is smoldering between Jefferson’s lips as he doles out the cards. He’s got these long brown fingers that seem to move at the speed of light. He’s quick with his hands and even faster with his mouth. He’ll steal the Skittles out of your MRE if you’re not watching.
“What you got?” asks Rogers.
I look up. “Three. You?”
“Three.”
“We’ll go six,” I say to Lovingood.
He writes down our bid on a crumpled scrap of paper.
“What d’you have?” Jefferson asks his partner.
Lovingood takes his sweet-ass time, rumpling his baby face as he scrutinizes his cards. “I got four. You?”
“Three.” Jefferson raises his eyebrows. “Well, lock it up, then. Shit.”
Jefferson is a hustler at cards. He started playing with his granny when he was six years old, but he tends to screw himself when he opens his mouth. That’s why I’d rather partner with Rogers.
Rogers is smart, quiet, and dependable. He wants to be a surgeon.
I throw down a three of hearts, and Lovingood tosses in a five. Rogers puts down an ace with a look of triumph, but Jefferson slaps down a four of spades.
Me and Rogers swear.
“Eat shit, motha fuckaaas!”
Lovingood grins.
“Asshole,” Rogers mumbles.
I shake my head, but before I can say a word, I get an alert on my Optix. It’s timed — I don’t get a signal here. I just have to hope that the other team is in position.
Jefferson’s smart-ass expression disappears instantly, and the rest of the team falls silent. It’s go time.
They stub out their cigarettes, and we throw our cards into the middle. Jefferson scoops them into his pack, and I grab my headlamp tacked up on the ceiling to make sure that the whole team is ready.
We all trained with the green berets in close-quarters combat, but our unit has one specific purpose: We’re pursuing a node of the Bureau for Chaos that’s responsible for hijacking a fleet of self-driving cars. They drove into the crowd after the Yankees won the World Series, killing thirty-two people from five thousand miles away.
Before that, the Bureau hacked the blast furnace at an Ohio steel mill. Six workers were killed, and nine were injured. That node was in China, and we took them out.
The Bureau sp
ans the entire globe, but each cell operates independently. No job is too big or small. In their corner of the dark net, all death and destruction is celebrated equally. And yet we still think technology is our friend.
I check one last time to make sure everyone has all their gear. We won’t be coming back this way.
I meet Rogers’s gaze. We’ve done this before. “Stay alert, stay alive.”
“Stay alive, sarge.”
Once I knock out my headlamp, the darkness is absolute. I can feel the rough walls of the tunnel around me, but that sense of groundedness is dangerous, deceptive. It’s not uncommon to take a route through the tunnels only to find a branch that’s closed off or collapsed.
Stick to the map — that’s the first thing they teach you in training for this. Wandering off course is how operatives get lost, and men who take detours rarely surface again.
As we move, I focus on the sound of boots behind me and the tangy stench of sweat. In total darkness, every other sense is amplified. You learn to see with your ears.
We march through the tunnel for what feels like hours, branching off where the map tells us and trying to memorize our route in case the worst should happen. Without the map, they wouldn’t have to kill us. We would wander these tunnels until we starved.
I know when we’re getting close to the point of contact. The tunnel widens, and the thermal imaging on my Optix detects a body around the corner. He’s big and burly, and he’s alone.
I flash the beacon attached to my pack to signal my team to stop. There are seven of us, including me. We have to work flawlessly from here on out or risk tipping off the entire node. One tiny screwup and they’ll scatter like rats — never to be seen again.
I scuff my feet and watch the guard approach to check out the source of the noise. I’m the closest. I flatten my body against the wall of the tunnel and wait.
When he comes around the corner, I grab him from behind and garrote him with a piece of wire. He struggles — they always struggle — but I dig in my feet and wait for him to die.
The guy is shorter than me but much broader. He’s got a wiry black beard that stinks of sweat and hands the size of baseball mitts. He fights me like a dying hog — a mass of meat and hair and limbs.
Finally, the guard goes limp. I lower him quietly onto the ground and signal the rest to follow me down the tunnel.
As we move, I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of warmth and movement. That guy was probably just the lookout. The real muscle will be farther in.
We round the corner. I see the door. My thermal imaging is picking up three bodies on the other side, but there could easily be more. I signal Rogers to go ahead with the battering ram. My heart is pounding, but it’s the guiding pulse of this mission.
I grip my rifle and prepare for entry. He breaks down the door, and my team pours into the bunker amid a confusing jumble of voices.
The instant I blaze through the door, I realize our intel was off. Instead of the two or three hackers we were expecting, I’m blinded by the glow of two dozen computer monitors.
The blinking server lights give a starry backdrop to the filth and wires. The computers are resting on old doors laid across stacks of cinder blocks, and at least ten hackers are still sitting in front of their screens. They’ve been down here for weeks, by the look of things — sleeping on cardboard pallets among the servers bought and paid for by Russian oligarchs.
I yell out commands in Russian, but it’s too late. The hackers scatter.
Rogers takes out one of the guards, and Jefferson covers me while I slip to the left. I shoot another guard squarely between the eyes and yell for the hackers to get down on the ground.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man raise his rifle. I turn and put a bullet in his brain, but that brief distraction costs me.
A shot meant for me misses by inches, and I turn in time to see the expression of cold shock smack Jefferson across the face as a guard releases a burst of fire.
I watch in slow motion as his brow furrows. I see the pain flash through his eyes before he staggers and falls to the ground.
I shoot at the guard. He goes down. Then a man in a heavy green jacket aims his rifle at Lovingood. I unleash a storm of bullets, but it’s already too late.
Lovingood collapses, and I yell for Rogers and the others to go after the hackers. I dive behind one of the servers and take aim at the man who shot Lovingood. He grunts, but it wasn’t a kill shot. I shoot him again, and this time he’s gone.
I sprint out from my hiding place to get to Lovingood. He’s lying in the dirt in the middle of the bunker. The bluish light of the computer screens gives his boyish face a cold, dead look, and blood is pooling beneath his head.
He’s gone.
I crawl across the bunker to Jefferson, whose chest is heaving with pain. Blood is spewing from the top of his skinny thigh, and I can see the flicker of desperation in his eyes.
I reach around to grab an Israeli bandage from my pack, but his hand shoots up and grips my wrist. “I’m all right . . . Get the kid.”
At first, I don’t know what he’s talking about. He’s not all right. He’s bleeding to death.
Then I see movement in my periphery. I look up just in time to see a lone figure in a hoodie grab something out of one of the computers. I shout out in Russian, and he makes a break for the tunnel.
I take aim and unload six rounds in his back. The hacker freezes and drops to the ground. Something rumbles just above me, but I barely notice.
When I cross the bunker and flip the body over, blood turns to ice in my veins. Two wide brown eyes are staring up at me in surprise, a thin line of blood trickling from his temple. He’s got light-brown hair and a face that’s baby smooth. He can’t be a day over fourteen.
The distant rumble grows louder, and I feel the quake beneath my knees. I look up and realize the walls are starting to crumble. A flash of fear rips through me, and I open my mouth to call out to my team.
A second later, something heavy pummels me in the back of the head, and then everything goes dark.
I come back to life with a gasp of air.
I choke and cough like a dying man, soaked in my own stale sweat. I blink fast in the blinding daylight and try to place where I am.
I’m not in the Siberian tunnel. I’m back in LA. The bedsheets are tangled around my legs, and I’m not wearing any clothes.
There’s a girl perched on the end of my bed who looks as though she just tumbled out of a cologne ad. Her dirty-blond hair is tangled and teased, and her thick nightclub eyeliner is perfectly smudged. She’s got her long legs tucked beneath her — black thong, no bra, and one of my T-shirts.
“Are you okay?” she asks, big sooty eyes wide with concern.
“Fine.” I sit up and instantly feel as though I’m going to be sick.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m fine.”
The dream explains why she’s looking at me like that. I sometimes thrash around in my sleep, which tends to freak girls out. It doesn’t explain my splitting headache, but it isn’t the first time I’ve woken up like this.
I glance around the apartment and see the evidence of last night’s escapades. There’s an empty bottle of tequila on the coffee table and Styrofoam boxes oozing sweet-and-sour pork.
“You hungry?” asks the girl, whose name I don’t remember. “I know a place where we can get —”
“No,” I say, pinching the skin between my eyes. There is no way I’m sharing a meal with this girl. “I’m not hungry.”
I glance at the clock. It’s almost nine fifteen. “Shit.”
I throw off the sheets and jump out of bed, nearly knocking her over on my way to the bathroom. I fly through the doorway and turn on the shower. It takes twenty minutes to get hot water in this place, which means I’m going to be taking a cold one.
I slam the door behind me, but it just bounces off the jamb. My apartment complex is one of six they slapped up with machines in les
s than three months. Everything about them is brand spanking new, but they might as well be made of cardboard and gum.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror. I’ve got deep circles under my red-rimmed eyes and dark hair sticking up all over the place. The shadow of a beard is creeping in along my jawline, and I’m in serious need of a haircut.
“You need to get to work?” calls the girl.
“Yeah,” I yell, grabbing my toothbrush. “I’m late.”
