Below him, across the street, was a gaunt Jamaican, the upper half of his body bent into a dumpster, refuse flying out behind him as he dug through the mess. At his feet were dozens of empty beer bottles, softly chiming a mournful melody as his bare feet brushed against them. A pathetic-looking cat sat in judgement on the top of the waste container, watching silently, waiting for its chance at scraps.
Gabriel scanned the full length of the street in one direction, then stepped back. Edging to the other side of the window, he repeated the security sweep, weapon at the ready. He switched his left eye to infrared, still wanting to avoid an active scan that may alert another to his presence. Nothing. Just a sad old man, a reflection on the post-Dark Days society in general, had interrupted what may have been his only true sleep in weeks.
He shook his head slowly with a grimace, and moved back to the bed. He checked his neuretics’ passive sensors, and satisfied he was alone, set the safed Heckart on the nightstand. He crawled back into bed, turning the sweat-stained pillow over, and tried desperately to get back into the childhood dream he had woken from.
*****
“Unbelievable, Evan,” said Tyler. “Never saw anything like it. You were like a kid possessed out there.” The sixteen-year-old crunched into another tortilla chip slathered with habanero salsa. “Biggift freakin’ conff I ever faw.” Chunks of tomato tumbled from his mouth onto his lap, then onto the white sand.
Zack chuckled in agreement. “Can’t believe your skinny ass could lift it up from the bottom.” His tortilla was more carefully constructed, just a few pieces of conch ceviche and a spoonful of the spicy salsa.
Tyler laughed, salsa mixed with tortilla crumbs flying from his lips. “Zack, you couldn’t even get past ten feet. How do you even know he got it? Maybe it was me all along, and I’m just giving little Mr. Gabriel the credit. Next time try clearing your ears.”
Evan just listened silently, chewing on conch. He held another skewer of the white meat over the edge of the bonfire the boys had built after beaching the catamaran at their secret family spot, a tiny deserted island just south of Cuba. He smiled to himself. Nice to finally be the center of attention, he thought.
He looked over at his father and uncle, sitting on beach chairs at the waterline with a bucket of iced Carib lagers between them, talking and chuckling in muffled tones. He hadn’t seen his uncle in three years; always off-planet on some secretive Special Forces mission. And his father…well, he hadn’t really been around much either, at least mentally. Ever since Evan’s mother died, his father had been distant, withdrawn. He was glad to see him smiling again.
Maybe my uncle will even let me finish his beer like he did that time when we…
“Hey, Ev, finish your snack and get us some sodas!” yelled Tyler, wiping his hands on his bathing suit.
Zack stood up, knocking Evan’s soda bottle over, the once-cold liquid seeping into the white sand. “Oops, might as well make that three. Go on, little man, time’s a-wasting!”
The two older boys ran towards the water, kicking sand up as they flew by the adults. His uncle flicked a bottle cap at the boys as they ran, laughing. Back to reality, Evan thought, his conch victory long forgotten. He launched himself from his chair towards the water…
*****
There! The sound; the mysterious, unexplained, almost inaudible sound that woke him the first time. His eyes flew open, gun already in hand and tingling, his rigid body heading for the window. Outside, nothing. No old man, no cat, no movement. Something’s wrong, and now that dream’s gone for good. He queried the motion alarms; again all reported back as clean. Padding over to the hotel room door, he heard the stairs outside in the hall creak. He froze, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. Oh-four-thirty, not a time for anyone to be stalking the halls.
The creaking came closer, definitely on his floor. His passive scan didn’t detect anyone - wait, there. Two of them, both hazed in a weak stealth field. He sent out a low-level active scan, and it burned right through the government-issue stealth. His Mindseye system superimposed images across his vision - two bodies, one short, one massive. End of the long hall, 80 feet away, walking slowly in his direction. His scan showed no weapons, not even kinetic or blunt instrument. Nothing more solid on either of them than a pair of glasses on the short one, and a large belt buckle on the larger one.
He pressed his back into the wall next to the doorframe, waiting. The creaks increased in volume, then stopped. They were right outside the door. The gun’s carbotanium was cool on his cheek as his finger brushed absently on the trigger pad. Neuretics on full alert, he waited.
Oddly enough, they knocked. A soft knuckle rap as if they didn’t want to wake anyone. He continued to wait, ready to spring. Another knock, this time slightly louder. “Evan Gabriel?” came a light call, almost falsetto.
Bizarre, he thought. If someone tracked him down, all the way to Jamaica, it couldn’t be a social visit. He had done his very best to erase any evidence of his whereabouts. So why were they knocking and announcing their presence?
“Evan Gabriel, we know you’re in there. Already talked to the night manager, showed him your picture,” came the falsetto voice. After a pause, it continued. “Please, we need to speak. We’ve been traveling all night.”
Now he was beyond puzzlement. Assassins or commandos don’t usually ask politely to chat with their marks before dropping them. He stepped away from the wall a few inches and pressed the barrel of his weapon to the surface of the door, leaning his head across to peer out the peephole. He regretted not having placed any AV bugs in the hall. Laziness will get you killed one of these days, he thought.
Two men stood outside his door, one barely tall enough for his head to be seen through the hole, and one large enough to probably have trouble fitting through the door. Both in business suits, jackets open, both empty handed, and both sweating profusely. The short man waved, peering up at the hole. “Sir, we really need to speak,” came his tiny voice. “You know we’re unarmed, we picked up your scan. Honestly I’m dead tired. Please, just a moment of your time.”
He slid to the other side of the door, changing hands with his pistol, wrestling with the paradox. No one should know he was here, and if someone did, he’d probably be in jail — or dead — by now. And Fat Man and Little Boy outside called him by name without blowing down the door and coming in with a full squad. Can’t live forever…
“Who are you, mon? Who ‘dis Evan you be speaking of? Go ‘way, now, I needa rest,” he tried in his best rasta accent.
He heard a soft snort. “Mr. Gabriel, it’s been a very long day and night for us. This won’t take but a minute. We’ll both turn around and put our hands on the opposite wall. Please, just open the door so we can talk.”
He brought the gun back and ran another scan. His Mindseye image showed that both men had stepped to the side of the hall and were in frisk-me position, hands on the chipped plaster wall, the big man’s nearly touching the ceiling. He sent a disable command to the motion alarms and slowly undid the locks with his left hand. His right hand still gripped the Heckart tightly. He turned the knob.
Pale yellow light from the hallway spilled into the hotel room as he edged into the doorway, fully charged and armed mag pistol trained on the two men. “Slowly turn around to face me, hands on top of your heads,” he said in a low voice. “And I want those shit stealth fields off.”
Fat Man and Little Boy did as instructed; Gabriel’s neuretics confirmed the fields dropped. Little Boy motioned with a downwards nod of his head. “I have an envelope for you, it’s in my right inside pocket.” His eyes never left the muzzle of the pistol, the targeting laser dot placed squarely over his heart.
Gabriel slowly moved the pistol in Fat Man’s direction, the dot jumping from man to man. “You, right hand on top of your head, reach across with your left hand and take out the envelope. And please, it’s been a long night for me as well. Don’t give me a excuse to wake everyone else up with two bodies
hitting the floor.”
Fat Man complied, obviously understanding the danger inherent in the nearly silent and highly lethal 7mm Heckart, and reached over in front of Little Boy, withdrawing a small beige envelope with a red seal from the other’s jacket pocket.
“Toss it over,” Gabriel commanded, weapon still pointed at the men.
Fat Man gave a snap of the wrist, and the envelope dropped neatly at Gabriel’s feet.
“Actual paper, huh? How quaint. What’s in it?” he asked, flicking the gun towards the envelope.
Little Boy sighed. “Commander Evan Gabriel, NAF Naval Special Forces, by order of the Director of Naval Intelligence of the North American Federation, you are hereby recalled to active duty.”
Fat Man grunted, finally speaking. “Something big’s come up. We’re here to take you back home, sir.” He cracked a grin, revealing a missing front tooth. “Whether you like it or not.”
For the first time, Evan Gabriel’s pistol wavered. Of all the places he could have gone to hide out and escape the world, his childhood vacation retreat of Jamaica seemed to be the perfect backwater location — the last place anyone would look for him. And now, it was all over.
“Let me get my shoes.”
<<< END SAMPLE >>>
Excerpts from Books 2 & 3
Scene from Gabriel’s Return - Book 2
The sun was just dipping below Eden’s horizon as Captain Jamar Chaud escorted his team to an unmarked prefab building near the back of the compound. The eight men and women had just returned from another supply raid and were still coming down off an adrenaline high when Chaud had received a call from Prophet’s right hand man, Zeno.
He had mixed emotions after disconnecting the call. He had known Zeno for many years, even before Prophet had taken over leadership of their group, and his voice sounded… distant, almost scared. Prophet had requested the team’s presence for a quick meeting after the supply raid, to “celebrate the success of the university mission” as he had put it. Chaud had known Prophet a few years as well, but certainly wasn’t within the man’s inner circle, so he felt a bit of turmoil about the summons.
His team walked quietly between the smaller huts and tents of the compound. Professionals, every one of them, he thought again with an inner pride. Near-perfect mission the other day, zero casualties on their own side, and successful retrieval of the special package Prophet had asked for. So why the odd feeling in the pit of the stomach?
He reached the building and rapped on the door. His team came to a loose parade rest behind him.
“Come,” a voice answered, muffled behind the plasteel.
Chaud palmed the lockpad and the door hissed open. No one was standing there to greet them, so he walked in, the team following on his heels.
The inside of the building was poorly lit. He considered switching on his IR implant, or calling out, but shook the thought off. No sense in jumping the gun and looking nervous. As his eyes adjusted, he saw he was standing in a large room, no separating walls or furniture, other than a long banquet-style table in the middle, ten chairs around it, and two men seated facing them. Zeno, and Prophet.
Chaud looked at their leader. Prophet had only recently risen to power in the rebel hierarchy, assuming command of the hundred-odd freedom fighters just a few years ago after the untimely assassination of their former head. He was ruthless, Chaud had seen, but not stupid. Able to see both tactically and strategically, Prophet had quickly enabled their group, one of five splintered bands of thieves for the most part, to assimilate the others and grow to their current size. He rewarded the loyal, purged the weak, and brutally eliminated the disloyal. He had been given the name Prophet, Chaud remembered, for a very good reason. No one else could have possibly foreseen how much more powerful a single group could be than a spread-out handful of terrorists. Chaud followed willingly; he had seen his own brother killed at the hands of the fascist Eden government puppets, and swore revenge years ago.
Zeno stood up from his seat alongside Prophet and walked over to Chaud. “Jamar, my friend,“ he said, extending a hand. “I’m so glad to hear of your success. Thank you for bringing your team over so soon after another mission.”
Chaud took the shorter man’s hand in his own and shook it. “Of course, we are honored to be here.” He turned and waved towards his team. “I believe you know everyone?”
Zeno nodded. “Yes. Especially Miss Werth,” he said, casting a longing glance at the team’s sniper. Werth didn’t respond, keeping her eyes fixed on the dim wall above Prophet’s head.
“Anyway,” Zeno continued. “Please, all of you have a seat.” He walked to the table and motioned for the rest to follow him. He pointed each team member one by one to a seat, almost as if they were numbered. He took a few extra seconds to help pull out Werth’s chair for her. He walked around to the other side of the table and took his seat next to Prophet, the portly Zeno a physical antithesis to his slim leader.
Chaud sat down and pulled his chair in a few inches, leaning his elbows on the synthoak table. He was seated directly across from Prophet and stared into his face; he was sure Zeno sat him there for that reason. Prophet, an unassuming man of medium build and average looks, would never have struck fear into the heart of anyone. Until they saw what he was capable of. It was all there behind the emotionless face.
“Captain Chaud,” Prophet said in a low tone. “Thank you very much for your successful mission at the university the other day.” He nodded to Zeno, who stood again and picked up a large decanter of what appeared to be red wine from the center of the table. Just then Chaud noticed there were wine glasses set in front of every person, but no napkins, utensils, or plates. Good thing we ate before walking over, he thought.
Chaud caught the scent of the locally produced merlot as it splashed into his glass. Once the glasses were full, Zeno filled Prophet’s, then his own, and resumed his seat.
Prophet raised his glass. “Congratulations, one and all. We’ve made progress in not only hurting the fascists, but have also acquired a significant asset in our fight towards toppling the governmental system, and the people in power.”
Nine more glasses joined Prophet’s in the air with a chorus of hear, hears.
Chaud took a small sip of the wine, not wanting to appear rude, but not wanting to imbibe too much so soon after combat. He remembered many a mission where he drowned his highs and lows in the bottle afterwards, and the next morning was never pretty. His team, he noticed, didn’t share any of his reservations. Most glasses were set back down on the table with scarcely a drop of red left in them.
“Now I have additional information. You,” Prophet said, motioning around the table with his wine glass, “are my top team. My most trusted team. We have very important people to make happy, and very special guests on their way.”
Maybeck, sitting to Zeno’s right, coughed into his hand. “Sorry, sir,” he said, clearing his throat.
Prophet continued as if he hadn’t heard the man. “Our financial backers, who you folks have so kindly helped out with the mission, will be providing us with significantly more in the way of matériel and supplies in the coming months. The asset we acquired makes that all possible, as our backers have plans far larger than our little civil war.”
Maybeck coughed again. Chaud looked over at the man, whose face had started to turn a lighter shade of white. He gritted his teeth. Idiot, he thought for the second time in the past few days.
“There is a team on their way from Mars, sent to reacquire that asset from us,” Prophet said. “If…no, when. When we eliminate that team, we will be provided with additional personnel, both military and political, by said backers, to once and for all get rid of the status quo, and rebuild Eden the proper way.”
He set his empty glass down on the table with a loud thunk. “However, we cannot afford any missteps. Any at all. Even the smallest ones, with the team I know is coming, could prove fatal to our entire group.”
Maybeck coughed loudly, his
breath now laboring.
Chillemi, seated on Maybeck’s right, leaned over and grabbed his shoulder. “Hey man, you okay?” he asked.
Maybeck gasped, scratching at his throat. Chaud started to rise from the table to find out what was going on with the man, but stopped when he saw Prophet’s look.
“We cannot afford any missteps,” he repeated, staring into Chaud’s eyes.
Chaud sat back in his chair, his mouth coming open a fraction. Prophet continued to stare at him, and a wave of queasiness hit.
“Mister Maybeck,” Prophet said, finally breaking the stare with Chaud to look down at the wheezing man. “Do you know of the jerumba plant?”
Maybeck’s eyes grew wide, and he clawed at his throat. His fingernails left red furrows as he gasped for breath.
“The native jerumba plant, as some of you are probably aware,” Prophet continued, “secretes a highly-lethal toxin from its flower at the very end of its life each year to dissuade predators from eating it before it goes into hibernation. It’s odorless, colorless, and perhaps most deadly, tasteless. Curiously enough, we’ve found it dissolves in wine even faster than in water, and enters the bloodstream much more quickly with alcohol as the catalyst.”
Maybeck struggled to speak. “But…but,” he coughed. “Every…body…had…wine…”
Prophet gave a tired smile. “It was already in your glass.”
Maybeck gasped again, coughing as his airway spasmed. He looked wildly at the others around him; no one wanted to meet his gaze. Chaud watched helplessly as his man struggled to breathe.
Prophet continued. “The toxin acts on the respiratory system of the predator, and constricts air flow. Which is what you’re feeling now.” He looked at Zeno and indicated with a small wave for him to refill his glass, which he hastily did.
“After that, to prevent the predator from continuing to eat the plant, the toxin attacks the nervous system. This effectively paralyzes the animal, which then dies slowly from asphyxiation. However,” he said as he took a sip of the wine, “with humans being larger than the plant’s natural predators, the toxin works much more slowly on the nervous system. So what happens is the predator, in this case you, simply chokes to death, fully aware and cognizant of the situation, able to experience every last painful feeling to its fullest.”
Gabriel: Zero Point (Evan Gabriel Trilogy) Page 8
