Nexus

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-54398-155-1 - Ebook

  ISBN 978-1-54398-154-4 – Paperback

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2019 Ryan Aslesen

  Cover layout by Deranged Doctor Design www.derangeddoctordesign.com

  Editing by: Tyler Mathis, Leigh Hogan, and Denise Fortowsky

  © 2019 Ryan Aslesen. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  www.ryanaslesen.com

  Former Marine Raider Max Ahlgren is on a perilous mission for the FBI. He might not live to collect his payment…

  After enduring a hellish ordeal in South America, Max is hunting down one of the men who murdered his family. Desperate for leads, he enlists the help of an old friend from the Corps who is now with the FBI. The favor doesn’t come cheap—Max is tasked with helping a fierce yet inexperienced female FBI agent escort a brilliant computer programmer, his young son, and his AI software Nexus safely across the country. Nexus is the most advanced AI processor in the world, able to access any computer network, no matter how secure.

  But delivering Nexus may be more dangerous than Max imagined. From the neon streets of Vegas to the crumbling facade of Washington DC, Max’s cunning and combat skills are put to the test by foreign agents, contract killers, and rogue operatives who will stop at nothing to steal the technology. He doesn’t have a choice. Nexus is the key to unlocking his dark past and bringing his own brand of justice to his family’s killers.

  They want Nexus. Max is going to give them a war.

  To my sons, Darien and Mason.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank all the talented people who worked behind the scenes in connection with this book. A finished book is a culmination of hundreds of hours of work and a by-product of the collaboration of many talented people. This book would truly not be possible if it wasn’t for their collective efforts.

  Every writer needs an advocate, and I am particularly lucky to have the advice and assistance of my developmental editor, Tyler Mathis, a fellow Marine and brother-in-arms, for all his help and collaboration in producing this story. My stories wouldn’t be what they are without your invaluable input and guidance.

  I would also like to acknowledge the invaluable help given to me by Leigh Hogan in copy editing my manuscript. You are an encyclopedia of knowledge, and your time and effort is greatly appreciated. My work is all the better for it.

  I would also like to thank Denise Fortowsky for her help with the final edit and proofread.

  Any mistakes or shortcomings that remain in this book are mine and mine alone.

  A book isn’t complete without a cover, and I want to thank Kim and Darja with Deranged Doctor Design for the final cover design and marketing materials. You guys have been awesome, and I appreciate the great covers you continue to put together for me.

  A heartfelt thanks also goes out to my readers. I appreciate you purchasing my books and taking the time to experience my stories. And a very special thanks to all of you who have extended kind words of positive support or left reviews and recommendations. It truly means a lot to me and my family. I continue to enjoy this amazing journey, and I’ll keep writing these books as long as you keep buying them or pay me to stop.

  Last, and most importantly, I want to thank my family for all their love and support.

  He conquers who endures.

  — Persius

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Special Agent Margaret Leet, FBI, stared incredulously at the arrivals and departures monitor glowing above the entrance to the concourse at Los Angeles Union Station. Shit, this is not good.

  “First wrench in the works,” said her partner, Don Wagner. He had pasted on an expression of good-natured vexation for the benefit of their two charges. That hardly captured the sinking anxiety he felt in this situation.

  The scientist, Daniel Farber, and his young son, Shai, had already endured trials beyond belief. They’d seen violence the average person could never comprehend. Showing downcast apprehension over the late train departure would only make them worry further. Leet and Wagner needed them to remain calm, optimistic and, above all, patient. They had crossed half the world on their own and would soon reach the safehouse outside of Washington DC with the help of the two FBI agents.

  But they need to believe. They have to trust us. “So much for calling ahead,” Leet said with a shrug and a strained smile.

  Rather than calling, she’d checked the train’s status on the internet before departing the hotel. Amtrak’s eastbound Sunset Limited for New Orleans had been scheduled to depart LA on time at 10:00 pm, but things had changed during the fifteen-minute ride to Union Station. Departure time had been pushed back to 10:45 for some yet unknown reason. Their meticulously timed plan to escape LA—arrive a few minutes before departure, board immediately, and ensconce Farber and Shai in their sleeping car compartments away from watching eyes—had officially been shot to hell by what they could only hope was just shit luck. A shame, for it had been a good plan in Leet’s estimation. LAX would certainly be staked out, along with the other major airports on the West Coast, and likely the Greyhound station as well. Not even driving would be safe according to Wagner. Operatives might be stationed at any number of rest areas and truck stops on the highways radiating from LA.

  The train was Leet’s idea. Her late father had been obsessed with railroads, and though she had no interest in trains herself, she believed rail travel would be the safest mode for beginning their journey. Few people traveled on long-distance trains anymore except for tourists and retirees, people with too much time on their hands. They would ride overnight, get off in El Paso the next afternoon to catch a flight to Atlanta, then switch planes for the final leg into DC. But for now, they would simply have to wait and remain hyper vigilant until they had Farber and son safely aboard the train.

  “The waiting room is no good,” Wagner muttered.

  “Back outside?” Leet asked, though she didn’t like the sound of that either.

  “No. We’ll hole up in here somewhere. It’s a big building.”

  And old. This might work to their advantage. Union Station had been built in the waning days of grandiose American architecture, designed more with form in mind than function. Unlike the typically spare and utilitarian airport, it might offer any number of shady alcoves to hide in, or at least she hoped so.

  “Let’s get looking,” Leet said.

  “A moment, please, Margaret,” said Farber. The agents had instructed Daniel and Shai to use their first names rather than their official titles, as though they were a tourist family on vacation. “Might we have a restroom break first?”
he asked with careful and soft-spoken diction. He spoke English perfectly, without a trace of an Israeli accent, yet his halting manner of speech might have led some to believe he was a bit slow, though nothing could have been further from the truth. In the field of artificial intelligence, Daniel Farber was reputed to be the world’s most gifted and brilliant scientist.

  Leet looked to Wagner, who nodded. The restrooms were close by, down a short hallway to their right. “Sure thing,” Leet said, smiling. “You guys head in; I’ll wait outside with the luggage.”

  They walked the short distance to the restrooms. Leet, who could have used a bathroom break herself, remained in the hallway as Wagner led the way into the men’s room. “Watch it, Don,” she said quietly, keying her radio.

  “You watch yourself, doll,” Wagner responded into her earpiece, his voice dripping its usual confidence.

  With his full head of dark hair, movie-star features and flawlessly fit body, Wagner might have been the poster boy for the ultimate G-man. He was so good looking that some of the older agents referred to him as Robert Wagner. Leet had googled the old-school actor, way before her time, and had to agree that there was a resemblance. With Don by her side, both on and off the job, she knew she couldn’t lose. Leet’s mother never failed to question her daughter regarding the relationship during their biweekly phone conversations, hopefully anticipating the day when Don might propose and give her a litter of grandkids that could find work in soap operas.

  Leet reached beneath her brown leather jacket to loosen the Glock 23 in her shoulder holster, ensuring it would be ready for a quick draw. Digging into her purse, her hand brushed her second pistol, a Glock 27, as she reached for her vape pen. As in most of America, smoking was strictly prohibited in Union Station, probably punishable by drawing and quartering in the state of California, and this included vaping. But rush hour was long past, the station largely deserted. Security also appeared to have gone home, no guards lurking about to give her any shit. She hit the pen, felt the nicotine go to work almost instantaneously, and relaxed slightly.

  As she stood there vaping, Leet watched a gray-bearded, middle-aged man wearing red Doc Martens approach, his tattered denim vest covered with patches and pins advertising punk rock bands that had broken up around the same time as the Soviet Union. She scrutinized him carefully from the corner of her eye, for all the good it did her. Wagner had warned her that this would be their most challenging assignment yet, for there were interests and operatives from several organizations and nations searching for Daniel Farber. His pursuers might be wearing any manner of dress or disguise, yet the old punk rocker only struck her as a legit loser who still thought himself in high school, not the sort to caution Wagner about.

  What the hell is in that briefcase? It was the only piece of their luggage not sitting at her feet; Farber carried the thin metal case with him everywhere. It held the software for the project, of course, but what exactly did that entail? Even her top-secret clearance, capable of opening nearly any door in the halls of government, entitled her to no further information. And even Don, who kept no secrets from her, had declined to comment on the nature of the software. That alone made her think that he was likewise in the dark. Focus, damn it. Leave artificial intelligence to the expert.

  Footsteps clacking on the marble floor drew her attention to a tall older man carrying a leather briefcase, who was apparently headed for the men’s room. His gray hair, fastidiously cut and styled, along with his tailored gray suit and ramrod posture immediately piqued her interest—he looked to be government at a glance. But was he? The suit looked a bit pricy even for a senior alphabet agent, and his cordovan wingtips probably cost more than she brought home in a month. He might be a lawyer or investment banker commuting home on one of the late suburban trains. Leet paid careful attention to his form-fitting suit jacket, looking for the telltale bulge of a pistol in a shoulder holster. Looks clean. Pity I can’t x-ray that briefcase. She shook her head slightly at the futility of trying to catch shit before it hit the metaphorical fan.

  The train departure time couldn’t come soon enough. She checked her watch: 9:58. The PA system crackled as the final boarding call for the Texas Chief, bound for Chicago, was announced. We chose the wrong—

  Sounds of a scuffle emanated from the men’s room. Something went thump, and Wagner’s lone, shouted word cut through the steel bathroom door: “Shit!”

  The vape pen dropped from Leet’s fingers. She drew her piece and charged into the men’s room, small for a railroad station, decorated in a once-colorful display of tiles arranged in a Southwestern motif. She caught a glimpse of the gray-suited man standing at the far end of the room, but before she could react, the aged punk threw her into the wall with a swipe of his arm and bolted from the restroom.

  A single, cracking shot from an unsilenced pistol—Wagner’s—echoed off dingy ceramic tiles, accompanied by the sound of a mirror shattering. He lay on his back, bleeding from the neck as he pointed his pistol upward for another shot at the phony lawyer, who towered over him with a silenced pistol in hand. Farber sprawled next to him on the floor, dazed and bleeding from a laceration on his face, his metal briefcase lying at the older man’s feet. Shai was nowhere to be seen.

  It never crossed Leet’s mind to make an arrest—this mission was strictly shoot to kill. The target stood in profile, just beginning to turn and face her. She raised the Glock and aimed for his head, jerking the trigger in a hasty rush of adrenaline. Her round struck him high in the shoulder of his gun arm; a misty puff of blood spurted forth to airbrush a sink. He grunted, dropped his gun, which Wagner had the presence of mind to knock away with a flailing leg as he sighted in for another shot.

  Showing surprising speed and agility for a man his age, one polished Oxford kicked Wagner in the groin as the man in the gray suit darted toward a stall to take cover. Combined with the pain from his gunshot wound, the agony of the blow knocked Wagner unconscious.

  Leet fired again, a poorly timed shot that struck the wall where the man had been. The ricocheting round pinged about the bathroom like a supersonic pinball.

  The man bent over and grabbed Farber’s metal briefcase, stepped from the stall, and flung it straight at her head. The move caught her completely by surprise and forced her to duck. She saw nothing but expensive gray fabric when she looked up again, gun raised, as he slammed an elbow into her chin, a hit that rattled her teeth, brought stars to her eyes, and put her on the floor.

  Leet shook her head, her grogginess dissipating. She rolled until she saw Farber’s briefcase on the floor not three feet away. The man’s exquisitely manicured right hand seized the carry handle. Leet raised her pistol clumsily. Perhaps his blow had left her more dazed than she realized, for he anticipated that move. When he stomped down hard on her right wrist with the heel of his Italian leather shoe, she cried out in pained surprise. Before she knew it, her fingers clutched only emptiness. He knocked her Glock into a urinal, kicked Leet in the ribs, then turned to depart with his stolen goods.

  Fail! To Margaret Leet the word was unconscionable, always had been, even before the FBI Academy, and from somewhere deep within rose the fortitude to make one last attempt to foil this mysterious and deadly operative. Atop her purse, she couldn’t grab her other gun, so in desperation she flung out both arms and locked her fingers tightly around the briefcase.

  With both hands, the man yanked furiously at the carry handle but only succeeded in lifting Leet’s dead weight. “Get the fuck off!” he spat, lashing out with a kick that narrowly missed her head.

  “How bad do you want it, dick?” She grinned up at him spitefully.

  He responded with a primal growl of frustration through gritted teeth; then he bent over and lifted his trouser leg to expose another pistol in an ankle holster. Leet doubled her efforts and wrenched the briefcase from his left hand.

  But it would all be for naught, she realized when she stared into the seemingly bottomless bore of his back
up pistol. The man’s maniacal eyes, a slightly darker shade of gray than his suit, gleamed over the sights.

  Then they both heard the faint and distant shouts of people panicking from the gunfire. He quickly turned away from Leet, shoved the pistol in his belt holster, and exited the bathroom. A shoulder wound like his would certainly draw unwanted attention. He would be out a side door and gone before security reached the area, vanished like a gray ghost at first light, though she didn’t believe she’d seen the last of him.

  Leet went to Wagner, ignoring Farber as he groaned on the floor next to him. At a glance she could tell that he’d already lost several pints of blood through the wound on his neck, a grazing shot that must have nicked an artery. “Fuck, fuck!” she babbled in panic. Untangling her purse from behind her back, she produced a handkerchief and pressed down hard on the wound. The cloth became saturated and useless within a few seconds. Blood sluiced through her fingers.

  Wagner turned an odd blue-gray, the color of dirty ice. He convulsed for a moment, then opened his eyes.

  “Get a medic in here!” Leet shouted, hoping to be heard over the hubbub that grew closer as the seconds passed.

  “Don’t bother,” Wagner said in the faintest whisper.

  “Jesus, Don, just hold on! Couple of minutes—”

  “No.” He shivered. “Anyone… like… told you.” His eyes closed, the final curtain. “Trust… no one.” With his last breath he uttered his final, unnecessary words.

  It was too much—she could look upon her dead partner and lover no longer. Sobbing, she turned away from the man who had been Special Agent Don Wagner.

  Shai stood before her, clutching the stuffed rabbit that rarely left his hands. Sadness lined his swarthy face beneath unruly locks of black hair, yet he shed no tears. Leet figured he must have hidden in a stall during the battle. Despite her grief, she couldn’t help but marvel at the boy’s composure. To her recollection, never once had he cried out in fear during the ordeal.