by Riley Flynn
“Go,” said a voice through the receiver.
Purcell brought the microphone close to his mouth so he could speak quietly.
“We need to meet,” he said. “I think we may have to have to kill our new chief computer tech.”
THAT’S ALL. FOR NOW.
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Prologue
Two Weeks Earlier
Marcus Chase didn’t wake up that morning thinking he would witness the beginning of the end of the world, but that’s what happened.
The satellite phone in his hand was silent, its black screen staring into his soul like a yawning abyss. It was a full ten seconds before the person on the other end of the line responded—ten seconds for Chase’s guts to churn with the knowledge of what he’d done, and what was about to happen.
“You’re sure?” the voice finally asked. It was distorted so that anyone overhearing wouldn’t recognize it. Not that anyone would or could, not in this godforsaken shack on the edge of the Demilitarized Zone.
“Positive.” He ran a shaky hand over his bald pate. “Our people inside have already seen it. It’s ugly.”
“How ugly?”
Chase felt a snarl on his lips. “It’s a genetically altered version of fucking Ebola,” he growled. “How ugly do you think it is? Take that and multiply it by a hundred.”
Another long silence, until: “Did they know?”
“About Eastern Sunset? Don’t worry, it’s still untraceable. From our intelligence, they didn’t even know that this virus—they call it Eko, by the way—was anything but an experiment. Some scientist trying to come up with yet another way for Kim Jong Un to threaten the West.”
“So it’s not a weapon?”
He chuckled bitterly. “No, my friend,” he said. “This was fate lifting its middle finger at America, plain and simple.”
“Not just America,” said The Voice. “The world.”
Jesus, Chase thought as his own words truly hit him. Was this really just one big screw-up? Some insane perfect storm coming together like some horrific grouping of lottery numbers to give the Earth a hellish jackpot? Or was it God punishing us for our sins?
Either way, the results were the same.
Chase massaged his temples with the thumb and middle fingers of his right hand. The headaches had gotten worse the last few days; whether from the tension or from the tumor, he didn’t know. Just as with the fate of the world, the result was the same.
Outside the window of the utility trailer, the lush greenery would have been almost scenic if not for the guard towers and barbed wire which stretched as far as the eye could see. If any of the guards trained their scope on the window he was standing at, they would have fired instantly. The Great Leader’s reward for killing America’s Defense Secretary would be unimaginable, especially given the fact he had entered the Korean DMZ under false pretenses—official accounts said he was bass fishing in the Lake of the Ozarks.
American officials were far from welcome in East Asia at the best of times these days. China had expelled diplomats a dozen times in the last two years alone. That was how they dealt with America these days: no more veiled threats or posturing. They knew they had the upper hand now that the U.S. economy had tanked in the wake of a half-dozen natural disasters across the country. The cost of rebuilding had added an extra zero to the bottom line of the national debt, and driven foreign investment into Asia’s waiting arms.
He couldn’t help but think the news he’d just gotten was the equivalent on kicking an injured man when he was down. In the crotch. With steel-toed boots covered in rusty razor wire.
Americans feared the world was coming to an end back in those days, Chase thought morosely. Little did they know that the real thing was lurking around the corner, waiting patiently to say hello.
The Voice said: “What happens now?”
Chase pulled himself out of his reverie. “Two of our inside people are already in China. They’ll be picked up by a private contractor who’ll take them to Hong Kong, then to Atlanta. The CDC has already been ordered to isolate the virus in their systems and create a vaccine.”
“Are you saying we can get ahead of this? Stop it somehow?”
Chase sighed. “Wouldn’t matter if there was all the time in the world. It’s already leaked out both borders into two of the world’s most densely populated countries. All we can do now is protect as much of our own as we can.”
At least the virus will kill me before the tumor can, he thought absently. He didn’t know then that he would survive, and that his life would in fact end at the hands of a vengeful US Army Special Forces officer. Justice, of a sort.
The Voice paused again, which irritated him.
“We need to move, now,” he snapped. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but we don’t have the luxury of hesitation. Especially with Eastern Sunset doing what it’s doing. I have no clue how long it will be before we start seeing serious problems.”
“You’re right.” The garbled voice sounded almost contrite. “I’ll get on the CDC. You’ll want to deal with Benton, I assume. Will—will you be coming back here?”
“I can’t do any good from the fucking DMZ,” Chase muttered. “Doesn’t matter how many people I infect on the way; it’s not a matter of whether people will die, it’s a matter of when.”
“All right. I’ll see you stateside, then. Any advice in the meantime?”
Chase dropped his lanky frame into an uncomfortable chair and rain a huge palm down his haggard face.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Stay away from people with black hair if you can.”
The Voice surprised him by chuckling. “That’s racist.”
Chase stared out the window at the enemies along the fence line.
“Better be prepared,” he said. “Racism’s not going to be a thing for much longer. Pretty soon there’ll only be two kinds of people: the survivors and the dead.”
Chapter 1
People have plans. Then people get punched in the face.
The words echoed around Alex's skull, each regretful syllable a ricochet that rattled around behind his eyes. Alex did not have a plan. So he ran through the darkness, alone.
A siren screamed. Shots fired on the other side of a wall. Sometimes, he thought, the only sure part of a plan was that it was doomed to fail. Plans were for other people.
And then someone punched Alex in the face.
The concrete floor kissed him on the chin. He felt the skin around his eye about to unfurl into a bruise, the blood already bitter beneath the skin. Even with the mask, the force of the blow caught him off guard. The assailant had stepped out from a dark corridor and laid Alex flat.
Then vanished.
The flicker of the old-style fluorescent lights was no help. All Alex could see were ghosts and shadows, shapes painted on the walls. The inside of the mask began to steam up again.
On the other side of the room, more shots rang out. Another shout. Someone was hit. His gloved fingers scratching on the ground, Alex Early rose to his feet. There was no time to wait, no time to stand still.
Weighing his pistol in his hand, he knew he was short. Always bring more bullets, Timmy had told him. But Timmy said a lot. Alex found an unlit niche and stepped inside.
From here, he could see the room. It was a worn-out warehouse. Spray cans and paint had done their work on the walls. There were surfaces made to seem like corrugated iron, thick plastic mats placed on certain parts of the floor. The lights hung from heavy chains, swaying and unsteady, their yellow light littering and chattering.
Above the lights, the ceiling was far, far above. It was all cloaked in darkness. But there were people up there, waiting and watching. Deep down here in the belly of the machine, Alex was almost alone
.
But he was only wasting his own time standing in the shadows. The gun was light, he knew, but he still had his fists. His elbows. Perhaps his legs, if these thick, heavy pants didn’t weigh him down. They were padded, protective. Restrictive, Alex now realized. But there was no denying that his heart was bellowing up out of his chest and into his mouth. The most excitement he’d felt in years.
The siren screamed again, beckoning Alex toward the end. This place had been a car factory once upon a time. The owners seemed aware of that: they’d left relics and burned-out shells lying around to hinder people’s progress. When it was everyone against everyone, he knew, the only way to progress lay through your opponents. Hidden away for the moment, he began to think.
There were a few essential truths: He needed to get across the room. He didn’t have many bullets. He didn’t know his way around, or how to shoot straight. His head was still reverberating and his mask only made things harder.
Timmy was nowhere to be seen. This wasn’t Virginia. Hell, this wasn’t even Detroit. Not really. But the blood was rushing through his ears and his veins, Alex noticed, and he was actually enjoying himself. So, he thought, time to act.
Alex dipped his head out of the shadows. The layout of the room was clear. He had fixed it in his mind. A wide-open space, about twenty feet across, punctuated by waist-high barriers, the skeletal car wrecks, and darkened corridors leading God knew where. Last time he checked, Timmy had been on the other side. Find Timmy. That seemed like a decent plan. Decent enough, at least.
Bursting out of the darkness, Alex ran to the nearest wall. Ducking down, he heard the siren once again. Time was running out. The light was glowing electric above, finally holding steady for more than a second. He looked up. Opposite him was a steel wall, polished and shiny. A mirror.
Lifting the mask to catch a breath, he could see himself. Six feet on the dot, crouched with his back against a barrier. Beard barely trimmed, though no more than two days old. Black hair short and cropped, anything long on top pushed to the right side but now muddled with sweat. The green of his eyes was being joined by the purple-blue of a bruise swell. It’d be shining bright by morning.
Alex recognized himself, but not the clothes. Combat fatigues, basically. Rugged, rip-proof clothes a far cry from the comfortable jeans and T-shirts that had served him well for so many years. He’d have to get used to this.
But, Alex realized, if he could see himself, then so could his enemies. This was a bad place to be. A more experienced man would have known that instinctively, he thought. Timmy wouldn’t be able to hold the laughter in. Life and its lessons.
Like a rat from a pipe, Alex ran from behind the wall. He ducked down, back flat, and ran across to the car.
A thud, thud, thud clanged near his head.
Someone was shooting. They must have been watching the mirror. Alex felt his breath heat up beneath the mask. But they’d missed.
For now.
Lifting his gun above the hood of the gutted Chevy, he fired a shot, and then another. Alex had no idea where he was aiming. The siren screamed again. What had been minutes was turning into seconds. He fired one more shot, felt the recoil twist his wrist, and heard someone lumbering on the other side of the vehicle.
They were close.
There was no choice. Alex had to run the last fifteen feet. Reach the other side of the room, hope Timmy was near, and get his help. Or give help. Whatever it took to win: to survive.
An idea struck, arriving quietly and making itself heard over the clamor. He needed a distraction. Still crouched behind the car, he felt around in his pockets. Nothing. They’d emptied them. Something to make some noise, to put off the attacker. Anything.
Alex undid the buckle on his mask. It was all steamed up, but at least he’d get some use out of it. He weighed it in his hand. It was light. Plastic and mesh, mostly. Hardly designed to block much. Couldn’t stop a fist. They just gave them out for the sake of it. He held the mask in his hand, scraped it against the side of the Chevy, and then rolled it along the floor, away from the wall.
A flurry of shots followed. They lit up the wall above the mask. But Alex was already running. He was gone, out and away from the car, his legs opening up. It was ten feet. Then seven. Then five. He was almost there, his eyes scanning the wall for any sign of his friend or any place to hide before the siren let out another, final scream.
The man’s shoulder caught him full in the gut. The impact knocked the breath out of him. Alex dropped his gun. Together, the two of them rolled across the plastic floor. Not as hard here. Hard enough to hurt.
They tussled, tangled up, arms and legs locked together. Alex hit out with a fist. It found the man’s mask. Didn’t do much. The man caught a wrist, wrapped one leg around Alex’s neck and leaned back. It was a tight grip.
Choking.
The assailant pulled back hard on the arm, his thighs locked around Alex’s collar and shoulder, squeezing. Every drop of blood began to crawl to a cold stop and he feel the edges of his eyes darken.
He flung his free arm against the man’s shins, against his ankles and legs. Nothing. The man tugged tighter. Alex flailed, twisting and struggling. The man had him in a lock.
It was impossible to escape. There was nothing he could do. He felt around, finding only the floor. Then: there it was. The pistol. Alex’s own. Light on ammo. But enough, maybe.
Alex turned the gun into his grip. He was losing sight. Losing breath.
He lifted the gun up, over his face. He fired. Once. Twice. A third and a fourth time.
But the man would not let go. Alex felt himself falling deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.
His body was light. He fired the gun again. He couldn’t feel anything. Squeezed the trigger again. It was empty.
Nothing left.
That’s it! I hope you liked this sneak preview of Perfect Storm! If you haven’t read the book, then you can get it by clicking here, or by searching “Perfect Storm Riley Flynn” on your Kindle, or the Amazon website!
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Copyright © 2017 by Syndicate Press
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and plot are all either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons – living or dead – is purely coincidental.
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