Reprobates (The Bohica Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Reprobates

  The Bohica Chronicles™ Book One

  C.J. Fawcett

  Jonathan Brazee

  Michael Anderle

  Reprobates is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2019 C.J. Fawcett, Jonathan Brazee, and Michael Anderle

  Cover Art by Jake @ J Caleb Design

  http://jcalebdesign.com / [email protected]

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First US edition, June 2019

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64202-353-4

  The Zoo Universe (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are Copyright (c) 2018-19 by Michael Anderle and LMBPN Publishing.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Author Notes - Jonathan Brazee

  Connect with The Authors

  Other Zoo Books

  Reprobates Team

  Thanks to our Beta Readers

  Charles Tillman, John Ashmore, and Kelly O'Donnell

  Thanks to the JIT Readers

  Jeff Eaton

  Diane L. Smith

  Dave Hicks

  Peter Manis

  Dorothy Lloyd

  Paul Westman

  If we’ve missed anyone, please let us know!

  Editor

  Skyhunter Editing Team

  Chapter One

  München, Bavaria, Germany, Oktoberfest

  Long canvas tents, rimmed by flapping pennants in red, gold, and black, were full to nearly bursting. Drunken laughter and the comforting swirl of multiple languages bounced off the old cobblestone road and the leaning buildings. It was abnormally balmy for late September and the sun added to the over-all poached feeling of everything. People gladly showed skin, heated by alcohol and the sun.

  Charles Tillman was sitting inside, staring into the deep amber of his beer. He’d looked the bar up online, and it had great ratings from the men at the nearby Army base. He felt more comfortable knowing the swirl of men and women around him was comprised of mostly military personnel.

  A woman, her auburn hair in twin milkmaid braids, her cleavage spilling over her violet dirndl, leaned forward and tapped him on the arm. “Hallo.”

  He angled his broad shoulders slightly toward her. She already displayed a somewhat glassy look that matched the sloppy nature of her smile. “Hey.”

  She giggled and clapped her hands. “Are you American?” she squealed.

  Charles tried not to flinch. “Sure am, sweetheart.”

  She sighed and listed closer to him. “I love American men.”

  His half-smile faded when she hiccupped and tilted even further. She was pretty but he didn’t take advantage of drunk women. “Nice meeting you,” he said, purposefully angling his shoulders away from her.

  He caught her pout in the mirror above the bar. The waitress, who spent most of her time darting in and out from behind the bar, leaned across it. “How very gentlemanly of you. You always have so much control?” Her gaze raked over his tall frame and lingered on the bulging muscles of his biceps and the hint of the edge of a Semper Fi tattoo that peeked from beneath his black t-shirt sleeve.

  Charles shrugged. Drained his beer.

  “I get off at ten,” she said as she scribbled her number on a coaster. She slid it and a fresh beer toward him with a wink. “Just keep that in mind.”

  Before he could reply, a new patron leaned against the bar, sliding into the vacant stool to his left. Charles took in the newcomer quickly—tall, wiry, and a little nerdy, but with an underlying confidence that was intriguing. He had a sort of coiled power in his lanky limbs.

  He turned back to his beer, uninterested.

  “I’ll take a Cuello Negro if you have it, love,” the man said.

  Charles snapped his gaze to the man. He looked him over again. This time, the stranger turned slightly and returned his stare, not unfriendly but not inviting either. “You been to Patagonia?” Charles asked.

  The man cocked his head, sniffed, and ran a finger under his nose. “Yeah. What gave it away?”

  Charles indicated the beer as the waitress slid it across to him.

  “Ah, yes. Afraid I became rather attached to the stuff when I was down there. I prefer cider, but this is the next best thing. Eustace Percival Coddington, Colour Sergeant in the SAS. Well, formerly of the SAS. They call me Booker, though. And you are?”

  The Brit held his hand out and Charles shook it. “Charles Tillman, Lance Corporal, Second Battalion, Fourth Marines. Well, also formerly.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Charles. I’m assuming you’ve been to Patagonia?”

  “Sure have. But not going back there if I can help it. That’s where I got the formerly added to lance corporal.”

  “Let me guess, the riots in Puerto Vara?”

  He huffed out a short laugh. “What else?”

  “I was there. Operation Big Tree. What did you in?”

  “CO was throwing a party for some Chilean top brass. We’d already been working on drinking the town dry, so we had to special-order a shipment of beer. Went into town to pick it up, only to be told it was sold and the town was dry.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Charles looked sideways at Booker. “What?”

  “You know what the truck looked like?”

  “Like every other truck there, I guess. Though this one was pretty dinged on the side, left bumper caved in. Logo of some topless chick on the side.”

  The other man barked out a laugh. “Bleddy hell, I know what happened to your truck. Some of the boys heard your plans for beer. We knew the town was running dry, so we nabbed it. All in good spirit for some good spirits.”

  Charles rose off his bar stool, using his superior height to loom over the Brit. Booker turned to study him, his body loose and eyes wary. But then Charles shook his head, laughing, and sat again.

  “No kidding. That’s what happened?” The American laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a small world, I suppose. Well, at least tell me you enjoyed the beer.”

  “Unfortunately, no such luck. We were getting a little ahead of ourselves celebrating fucking over the Americans something proper when the truck was nabbed from under our noses
. Embarrassing, really. But that’s that. I assume some of the locals retaliating.”

  “If I could just cut in, gents,” a new voice said from farther down the bar. Both men turned to take in the stocky speaker. “I know where that truck ended up, and it sure as hell wasn’t the locals.”

  Booker glared at the stranger, who made his way toward them. “My mates and I found it, stole it from some bloody Brits, made a bit of a profit, and polished off the rest.” He had already been drinking for a while, and his Australian accent was thick.

  “Shut the front door, you didn’t.”

  “Sure did. Truck with a topless bird on the side? Whacked out front bumper? Parked between the cantina and the open-air tourist market?”

  Booker leaned back. “Well, shit, that’s the truck.”

  “What are the odds?” Charles muttered.

  “Hey, just so there aren’t any hard feelings, let me buy you guys a beer. Let you know we blokes from down under aren’t all arseholes.”

  Charles and Booker exchanged a look. The American shrugged. “Why not?”

  “I’m Walker Demopoulis, Australian Army Corporal.”

  The other two men introduced themselves, reciting their ranks and countries of origin.

  “Demopoulis? Isn’t that Greek?” Booker asked.

  “Lot of Greek immigrants in Australia. I’m third-generation. But an Aussie to my core,” Walker fired back and stiffened his spine.

  “Aw, look, little man’s getting upset,” Charles teased. “Don’t upset the baby ʼroo, Booker.”

  The man glared. “Laugh all you want, I’m secure in the knowledge that I could whip both your arses. Not to mention, as it’s been established, I managed to get one up on the both of you.”

  “Whatever you say, ʼroo,” Charles shrugged.

  “What I’m still a little unclear about,” Walker said, ignoring Charles, “is how the riots actually started.”

  Charles shifted on the bar stool.

  “Of course it was the bleddy Americans,” Booker muttered.

  “You started it?” the Australian asked.

  “No. I didn’t start anything,” Charles muttered. “CO demanded his beer, gave the orders, and we followed through. Though obviously not in the way he had intended. We found another truck, some guys got a little pissy about the loss of the previous truck. One thing led to another and there’s brawling in the streets.”

  “I got kicked out of the fuckin’ Army ʼcause of the shit you bastards pulled,” Walker accused belligerently.

  Booker rolled his eyes. “Seems like it was because of the shit you Aussies pulled, but join the club. Why do you think we’re here?”

  The three were silent for a moment, looking into their beers.

  “Well, what’s the next step for you gents?” the Brit asked.

  Charles shrugged. “Don’t know how to do much else besides be a soldier.”

  “I can’t go back home and become a wombat. Man’s gotta have something to do,” Walker said with a gloomy expression.

  “I’m here looking for work,” Booker said.

  “Work?” Charles asked.

  “Mercenary work.” He ran his finger under his nose. “Figured that’s the next best thing.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Walker agreed. “I’ve heard there isn’t much up in these parts, though. Heard you’ve gotta look at warmer climates for that sort of occupation.”

  At that moment, a group of drunken men stumbled into the bar. They were loud, a slurring mix of Dutch and English. They made their way to a table directly behind the three ex-soldiers.

  “Alls I’m sayin’ is I deserve to live a little. What’s the point of making as much money as I do and not spending it on the pleasurable things of life?” one of the drunkest of the group said. He leaned back in his chair and waved a few crumpled bills at one of the waitresses. “Hey! What’s it take to get service in this shithole?”

  Another new man shifted in his seat. He wore an eye patch over his left eye and the edges of a barely healed, pale pink scar peeked from beneath it. He looked around the room with his good eye, his shoulders hunched toward his middle in a protective, closed-off manner. “I don’t know if I want to go back.” He ran a hand through dirty blond hair and produced a dinged-up flask from the hip pocket of his cargo pants and took a deep pull.

  “Stop talking shit. It’s good fucking money. Who’re you to turn your nose up at it?” The loudest drunk scoffed. He gave the waitress a wolf whistle and she flinched but smiled politely. “Let’s have a round of drinks and maybe something to warm my lap, eh?” He gave her a lascivious wink and grabbed her ass. The woman, with years of practice, maneuvered deftly out of reach of his questing hand.

  Walker’s color rose. Booker clamped a hand on his shoulder.

  The drunk was back to his posturing. “The work’s for shit, but the money’s good. But I don’t need to tell you gents that. Gotta love the Zoo.”

  “And here I was thinking they paid zookeepers in barrels of monkey shit and the chance for a roll in the hay with the zebras,” the Aussie muttered. His companions laughed.

  “You’d think they’d run out of money with how much they pay us, but it just keeps coming. You know I got another bonus after the last trip out?” the man slurred.

  The three new drinking companions stilled and exchanged a look between them.

  “Would you shut up, Ivan?” one of the man’s companions grouched at him. He seemed older than the other three—maybe in his early forties—with dark hair and a wicked scar peeking out from under the collar of his shirt.

  Ivan shrugged. “What? Come on, Jonas. I’ve fucking earned it after the last shit we went through. Clyde lost his eye. The least people could do is show a little fucking respect and love for the men standing between them and the goddamn apocalypse.”

  Jonas sneered at the man. “If anyone should be complaining about getting paid more, it’s Clyde.”

  Clyde grimaced. “I don’t give two shits what they’re paying us. I just want out.”

  Ivan rummaged around in the rucksack at his feet. His companions watched him sullenly. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. But are you sure you’re wanting out now, Clyde? You’ve already lost an eye. Why not sweeten your retirement?” He pulled a thick manila envelope from the rucksack and opened it.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Jonas protested, leaning across the table and snagging the envelope from Ivan.

  The man tried to snatch it back, but his movements were too slow, dulled by alcohol. “What? Clyde should know what the next job is gonna be. I’m just going to show him.”

  Clyde’s good eye rolled around in its socket again, darting and suspicious. “Not here,” he stated.

  The waitress returned to the table, her eyes wary as she placed steins of foaming beer down.

  “Did you hear that?” Ivan asked her. “I’m working my ass off keeping you safe and your withholding isn’t any way to show respect.” He reached for her again but she shied away and put the last beer down. She wasn’t fast enough to avoid his wandering hand. He found his mark—right up her skirt.

  Walker acted before Booker and Charles registered the movement. He was on Ivan in a moment, fist first, knocking the larger man out of his seat.

  “Wat verdomme!” Ivan roared as his feet flipped over his head and his seat fell backward.

  The Australian barely had time to shove the waitress out of the way before Jonas and another of their companions jumped him. Walker bent low, headbutting Jonas, following him to the ground with his fists jabbing in short bursts.

  “Okay,” Charles said. He drained the last gulp of his beer, stood and rolled his shoulders, then grabbed one of the men who was trying to pin Walker down by the scruff of his neck and hauled him off.

  Ivan struggled to his feet, but Booker was there to stop him. He stepped in front of the man, shifting his weight to his back foot and then snapping his front leg forward in a devastating front kick that caught his opponent in his sternum.
There was a crunch and the big man went down again.

  Chaos erupted as the other patrons sprinted toward the exits. The waitresses and bartender were all yelling in German, but the brawling men didn’t pay attention.

  Clyde looked hesitant to join the fight. Then he spied the knife strapped to Walker’s thigh—an Ari B’Lilah, practical, heavy-duty, deadly, and custom-made. He went to grab it. Walker, who was busy battering Jonas’ face, didn’t notice until the other man was in his space. The Australian’s elbow whipped back, slamming home in Clyde’s uninjured eye socket. The man reeled back, screaming and clutching his face.

  “Now, that wasn’t playing fair,” Walker grumbled.

  The tell-tale scream of police sirens could be heard from outside.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Booker said, making for a back exit. The other two followed him as the German Polizei came streaming through the front doors of the bar.

  “I wish you’d waited,” Charles said to the Aussie when they were in the clear.

  The man shrugged. “That wanker had it coming. But look what I’ve got.” He held out the manila envelope Ivan had been trying to open when Jonas stopped him. He glanced inside, then opened it further for his companions to see, revealing a loose sheaf of papers and a scanpad.

  The three men sat in the dark corner of another bar. Walker and Booker looked through the papers while Charles fiddled with the scanpad.