Retaliation (The Praegressus Project Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Stormwielder: Prologue

  RETALIATION

  Book III

  of

  The Praegressus Project

  Aaron Hodges

  Written by Aaron Hodges

  Proofread by Tee Ayer and Sara Pinnell

  Cover Art by Christian Bentulan

  The Praegressus Project

  Book 1: Rebirth

  Book 2: Renegades

  Book 3: Retaliation

  Other Series:

  The Sword of Light Trilogy

  Book 1: Stormwielder

  Book 2: Firestorm

  Book 3: Soul Blade

  Copyright © August 2017 Aaron Hodges.

  First Edition

  All rights reserved.

  The National Library of New Zealand

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9941475-4-7

  Aaron Hodges was born in 1989 in the small town of Whakatane, New Zealand. He studied for five years at the University of Auckland, completing a Bachelor’s of Science in Biology and Geography, and a Masters of Environmental Engineering. After working as an environmental consultant for two years, he grew tired of the 9 to 5 and decided to quit his job to travel the world. During his travels he picked up an old draft of a novel he once wrote in High School – titled The Sword of Light – and began to rewrite the story. Six months later he published his first novel – Stormwielder. This book, Retaliation, marks his sixth complete novel.

  Fans of Aaron Hodges can subscribe to his VIP list for a free short story and the chance to receive advanced copies of his coming novels:

  http://www.aaronhodges.co.nz/praegressus-project/

  And of course, you can follow Aaron on Facebook for more frequent updates on his adventures.

  For those in my life.

  That inspire the heroes on my pages.

  Prologue

  Maria Sanders let out a long sigh as the alarm sounded in the darkness. Stretching out an arm, she pressed the snooze button, silencing its shrill buzzing. Somewhere outside a cricket was chirping, but outside the windows the world remained dark. Lying back on her bed, Maria stared up at the ceiling, struggling to find the will to move.

  She had barely slept all night – but then, that was hardly unusual. These days she was lucky to get a few hours sleep, even on a good night. In the darkness, she tried to recall how long it had been since the insomnia began, but she’d long since lost count. All through winter she had struggled on, but even the promise of summer’s return did nothing to ease her suffering.

  Nothing would, not now.

  Her daughter was dead, and she had all but given up hope of seeing her grandson alive again.

  Cursing herself for her weakness, Maria pushed back her despair and willed herself into action. Climbing from the bed, she lugged herself across the room to her dresser. Her joints popped as she moved, stiff with old age and sleep, and she sighed. For all her long life, her body had never let her down. Yet now, when she needed it the most, she found herself trapped in the body of an old woman. If only she were still young, then maybe she could have done something, could have saved them…

  Maria shivered and pushed the thought aside. Cursing under her breath, she struggled into the old uniform she had left folded on the dresser. It was a poor fit – the pants were too baggy, and the shoulders dwarfing her thin frame. But then, it had never been meant for her.

  She closed her eyes and pictured her late husband’s face, forever frozen in his youth. He had always been smiling, his hazel eyes alight with a love of life. How he would rage now, to know what had happened, to hear how they’d treated his daughter. Margaret had been the light of his life, his special girl, his legacy to the world.

  And now she was dead, executed by the very nation Charles had given his life to defend.

  Reaching down, Maria picked up the last piece of the uniform. She held the medal in her hand, remembering the day it had been presented to her. She had stood with the other widows of the American War, and received her husband’s honours. Her chest had swelled with pride as they presented her with the silver cross. Now, her hands shook as she pinned it to her chest.

  My shield.

  She closed her eyes and sent out silent thanks for her husband’s courage. His sacrifice had saved them all – his wife, his child, his nation. He and a thousand others like him had stood together against the wrath of the United States, and won. Even now, Charles protected her still, granting her respect and admiration in a society desperately short on both.

  Moving into the kitchen, Maria prepared herself a pot of oatmeal. Her appetite had gone the same way as her sleep, and food no longer held any pleasure for her. Still, she needed the sustenance. It would be a long day.

  The sun was starting to shine between the curtains as she sat down with her oatmeal. Her thoughts drifted as she ate, and she found herself wondering how everything had gone so wrong. They had started with such noble ideals, this young nation of hers, but somewhere along the line they had lost their way.

  She guessed that was the nature of war. The conflict between the Western Allied States and the United States had been long and bloody, only coming to an end when the WAS ignited a nuclear fuse in Washington, DC. Millions of innocent lives had been lost, but with their leadership shattered, the USA had finally crumbled.

  After almost a decade of war, peace had returned to the American continent. Yet even then, there had been those who questioned whether the cost had been worth the victory.

  Twenty years later, Maria knew the truth. In the end, the WAS had become the very evil it had sought to escape. And now that same evil had come for her family.

  She had been the first to discover the break-in. As she often did, Maria had wandered over to her daughter’s house for breakfast. But instead of a warm greeting, she had found the front door hanging from its hinges, a house in darkness, and a pool of blood in the kitchen. Struggling to control her panic, Maria had stumbled to the phone and dialled the police.

  Yet despite the operator’s reassurance help was on its way, it had been two hours before a single police officer appeared. By then she was struggling to breath from her panic, and a sharp pain was beginning in her chest. She had followed the officer through the house, watching as he made a cursory inspection of the kitchen. She’d been desperate to hear they could find her daughter and grandson, but at the end the man had only shrugged, and told her they would follow up with the appropriate departments.

  Afterwards, Maria returned home in a state of shock, terrified for her family, and unable to understand why the police had treated her so coldly. The next day she had called the station again, then when that failed, her local Elector. She had even tried a private investigator, but after listening politely to her story, they had all given her the same answer – there was nothing they could do.

  It wasn’t until a week later that she finally received her answer. A letter had arrived in the mail, addressed to ‘The parent(s) of Margaret Sanders’. Tearing open the envelope, she’d read the fateful words and then slumped to the floor in despair.

  Guilty of treason.

  Even now, the words continued to ring in her ears. She had tried to petition the government, to convince them of her daughter’s innocence, anything that might clear her name. Their response had been silence. In desperation, she’d begged them to at least spare Chris’s life, to grant him a pardon as they had done for her. Why should she be spared for her age, she had argued, when Chris had barely had a chance to live?

  When even that failed, Maria had begged just to be able to see them, to have one last chance to hold her dau
ghter and grandson in her arms.

  But the next time Maria had seen her daughter was during the New Year’s celebrations. Sitting alone in her lounge, Maria had watched, listless, as the President gave his state of the nation address. At the end, he had read out a string of names. She’d known it was coming, but Maria still winced when she heard her daughter’s name.

  Margaret Sanders.

  Tears had spilled from Maria’s eyes as her daughter walked out onto the stage. Margaret stood bound hand and foot, chained to her fellow prisoners. Her arms and legs were as thin as bone, her face shrunken to a shadow of herself. Her eyes were distant as she stared into the camera, and her hair hung in greasy tuffs, doing little to conceal the purple bruises that marked her face.

  Maria had sank to the floor as the prisoners stopped in front of a line of soldiers. In desperation, she’d clung to the television, as though by will alone she might reach through and pull her daughter to safety. The President was still talking, his voice raised and ringing with passion, but Maria didn’t hear a word of what he said. All she could do was watch as her daughter fell to her knees, as the soldiers lifted their rifles, as the roar of gunfire filled her lounge.

  Groaning, Maria tore herself from the memory. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she stood and placed the half-eaten bowl of oatmeal in the sink. As she scrubbed the dish clean, she forced her mind to other thoughts – to the one hope she had left.

  Chris had escaped. It was all over the news. Men had even come to question her, but she had gleefully told them to go to hell. Even under the threat of arrest she’d refused to speak. They’d torn the house apart searching for him, but in the end they had left her alone.

  No doubt they would be watching her now, but she knew Chris wouldn’t be foolish enough to return here. It just meant she had to be more careful with her own objectionable activities.

  After her daughter’s death, Maria had been consumed by her rage. She had fed it, directed it, allowed it to give her knew purpose. Instead of wallowing in her grief, she had gone looking for others like her, for the relatives of dissidents, the families of those taken by the government. It had been a difficult search. The government’s policy of arresting the immediate family of traitors appeared to have crushed all notions of resistance. It had been weeks before she heard the first whispers of a resistance group.

  The Mad Women.

  Even now, the name made Maria smile. She didn’t know who had coined it, but it could not have been more appropriate. In respect for the generation who had fought in the American War, those over sixty-five were pardoned for the crimes of their relatives – even in the case of treason. In their arrogance, the government no longer saw Maria and her aging generation as a threat.

  One day, Maria hoped to prove them wrong.

  For now, their numbers were small, and they could not risk outright defiance. But they could remind the people of the past, of the war they had fought for their freedom. They could wear the uniforms and commendations of their fallen heroes, could stand in protest against oppression.

  They could march.

  1

  “We are still gathering information, but it is with profound regret that I can now confirm twelve civilians have been killed in the worst terrorist attack our nation has seen in decades.”

  Chris stared at the television, watching the scenes around the courthouse unfold. He barely heard the woman’s words, until the camera flickered back to an image of her. She stood alone on the podium, her face sombre as her hazel eyes stared into the camera. Blonde hair hung down around her ears, untouched by grey. A splash of make-up added colour to her pale cheeks. Prominent cheekbones, a narrow jaw, and mascara around her eyes gave her the look of a predator. Chris shivered as he realised they were now her prey.

  She wore a neatly tailored blue suit and an expensive pearl necklace around her pale throat, but there was nothing else to suggest she was the most powerful woman in the Western Allied States. But then, the Director of Domestic Affairs did not need expensive clothes or jewellery to remind the people of her authority.

  “We can now reveal that, an hour ago, the four renegades we have been hunting launched a treasonous attack against the Supreme Court in San Francisco. Using black-market rifles, they attempted to execute the judges and attorneys they believe responsible for their convictions. Fortunately, the timely arrival of special forces brought an end to their attack. Through the bravery of our soldiers, one of the fugitives was killed. Unfortunately, the remaining three again escaped custody.”

  “Richard,” Jasmine groaned.

  “As a precaution, the President and I have decided to implement a temporary period of martial law while we seek to apprehend these criminals. The army is being brought in to patrol the streets of San Francisco and aid in our search for these fugitives–”

  The television gave an audible clunk as Chris flicked it off and tossed the remote down on the wooden coffee table. It was about the only thing in the room left in one piece. The rest of the apartment had been torn to shreds by the SWAT team that had ambushed them there just a few days ago. The front door had been smashed off its hinges, the kitchen table was missing several legs, and broken glass from the shattered window covered the floor. They had done their best to prop the front door up in its frame, but there was nothing they could do about the cold breeze blowing through the window.

  “What now?” Sam asked in a hollow voice.

  Chris looked around and found him seated on the floor beside the coffee table, his long legs stretched out across the floor. He looked up at Chris with haggard brown eyes, his expression partially concealed by long strands of brown hair. The broad expanse of his copper wings hung limp behind him. His dark skin looked pale, and his muscular frame radiated exhaustion. Of all of them, Chris had expected Sam to be the most optimistic after escaping the clutches of Halt and his guards. But then, Chris could only imagine the horrors his friend must have suffered after Chris and the others had escaped.

  “We go back,” Jasmine replied as she paced the length of the room. “We find him, save him, like we did with you.”

  Her voice trembled, and Chris could sense her rage, lingering just beneath the surface. Fists clenched, Jasmine reached the window and spun to face them, her emerald wings stretching out to either side of her. Her black hair fluttered in the breeze as her brown eyes travelled over each of them, daring them to defy her.

  “Jasmine…” Chris trailed off as she took a step towards him.

  “He’s alive,” she grated the words between clenched teeth.

  Chris flinched back from the fury in her eyes, but another voice rose to meet Jasmine’s challenge.

  “I’m sorry, Jasmine,” Ashley spoke in a voice sucked dry of emotion, “After what Liz saw…he couldn’t have survived.”

  Ashley lay with her head in Sam’s lap, her amber eyes staring up at the ceiling. Her scarlet hair dangled around her face in a dishevelled mess, but her white feathered wings were tucked tightly against her back. She had always been thin, but now she was almost skeletal, her cheekbones standing out in stark relief on her pale skin. In the weeks they’d been separated, she seemed to have shrunk – not just in body, but spirit. The fire in her eyes, the one that had given them all courage on even their darkest days at the facility, was gone.

  Jasmine strode across the room until she stood over Ashley. “You survived.”

  On the ground, Ashley didn’t move. “Barely,” her voice was little more than a whisper, “and sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”

  “There were too many, Jasmine.” Liz moved between the girl and Ashley, forcing her back. After what had happened in the courthouse, no one wanted to get too close to Liz. “I saw him, at the end. They all opened fire. It was too much, even for one of us.”

  Chris nodded his agreement. It had only taken one bullet to knock Ashley from the sky. And despite their enhanced strength and accelerated healing, she had been incapacitated for weeks. Even now she still sported a red mark where the wo
und had almost healed. But from what Liz said, Richard had taken a dozen bullets or more in his final stand. There was no coming back from that.

  Liz and Jasmine stood off against each another, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Liz’s curly black hair matched Jasmine’s, but her eyes were a crystal blue instead of brown. Staring into those eyes, Chris felt a yearning to go to her, to pull her into his arms and run his hands down her black feathers, to lift his fingers to her chin and kiss her. He imagined those big blue eyes staring up at him, alight with passion.

  Then he saw them changing, hardening to grey, and he felt again the agony of her touch. The Chead rage had changed her, turning her lightest touch to agony and death. Shivering, Chris forced himself to look away before she saw his terror.

  “I don’t care,” Jasmine snarled. “He’s one of us, remember. We’re family – that’s what you said. We have to go back for him.”

  “Jasmine…” Liz’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Chris could see her pain.

  Jasmine snorted, her eyes flashing as she looked at Liz. “So that’s how it is,” she shook her head, “I guess he was right. We should never have looked for you. Maybe then he would be here instead of you.”

  With that Jasmine spun on her heel and fled up the corridor. Chris watched her go – flinching as a door slammed – and then turned back to the others. After fleeing the courthouse, they had taken to the sky and disappeared into the winding hills of San Francisco. Their pursuers had never stood a chance of keeping up with them. They had taken refuge here, in Daniella’s apartment, in the hope it would be the last place their hunters would look for them.

  When they’d finally reached the apartment, the six of them had entered cautiously, taking care not to make any noise in case Daniella or her mother were still home. But the house was silent, and it was only when Chris and Sam entered Daniella’s bedroom that they’d discovered what had become of the two women.