The Creed (Book 1): The Hunt Read online

  “Likewise, Ms. O’Connor,” Hagan replied before turning to the door. Before he could step outside, Aileen stopped him.

  “One last thing… You never answered my question about your name,” she said.

  Hagan turned to Aileen, there was a sly smile on his face. “Typhon was one of the most feared monsters in Greek mythology.” He paused for a beat before continuing. “And I’m the monster that the tyrants of Alexandria will fear.”

  Aileen pursed her lips and scrunched her nose. “You do know that Zeus defeated Typhon, and threw him into the underworld, right?”

  Hagan smirked once more before turning to leave. “Yeah, but Zeus never squared off with a sapper.”

  Chapter 3

  The night was long and the temperatures were miserable; a typical late January night in the Midwest. Hagan braced himself as a gust of wind from the Mississippi cut through the rusted-out school bus with ease, assaulting every millimeter of his exposed skin with a combination of sleet and snow. He shivered through the biting cold, reminding himself that he’d suffered worse nights during his time in the service. But he had his youth back then. He didn’t have to worry about his mind being too slow to react or his half-century-old body failing him.

  Simpler times.

  When Hagan wasn’t struggling to keep his eyes open, his mind obsessed over the name on the post-it note:

  Jericho Stevens.

  Was this Jericho guy involved with the attack on Hagan’s village two years ago? Or was he just a random name—a carrot on the stick to manipulate Hagan into working for this mystery man? The situation didn’t sit well with the Army veteran. He had seen such a tactic used too many times. Hell, he’d used it himself on numerous occasions when he needed someone to cooperate just long enough to get what he wanted. Hagan was skeptical at best, but it was the only lead he had. And after eighteen months of stalled progress, he was done chasing after wind.

  But there was nothing to be done about it tonight. The address on the post-it was in the slums just outside St. Louis, and Hagan was over 200 miles to the south in the Outlands—a forty-mile buffer of land surrounding Alexandria that no nation claimed as their own. Jericho Stevens was a problem for tomorrow. Because tonight, Hagan had a ship to hijack.

  Hagan spotted bright lights in the river a few miles downstream and adjusted his M40A5 sniper rifle propped up in a broken window. “Heads up,” Hagan whispered to Solomon, who was sitting a few rows back in the bus, “these might be our boys.”

  Hagan powered on the night vision scope and peered through. Even with the 16-times magnification, the boat was still too far out to identify any of the distinguishing details that Wilford told him about. However, it was the most promising of the eight boats that had trolled past them throughout the night, stacked high with enough shipping containers to carry all that was in the manifest that Hagan read.

  Like the Outlands, the Mississippi River was not owned by any one nation. Recognized as the most important trade route for not only the Texas Alliance and Alexandria, but also the Jefferson Union and even the Dakotas, it was unanimously agreed upon by the former members of the United States that ships traveling on the Mighty Mississippi could not be harassed or boarded by other nations for any reason at all. To do so would be considered an act of aggression. But Hagan didn’t have to play by those rules. He was a man without a nation. His allegiance belonged to God, country, and family, none of which described Alexandria.

  With The Hercules scrawled across the hull, Hagan soon confirmed the approaching ship was their target. As the massive vessel fought against the rushing current of the river, inching closer to the bridge they were staged on, Hagan and Solomon scoured the deck for targets.

  “I’ve got a guard on top of a container. Portside, near the stern,” Hagan said.

  “I see him,” Solomon confirmed. “I spot three more cruising around the deck, and I’m sure they ain’t alone.”

  Hagan grunted as he digested the information. Four confirmed targets. Most likely more. He didn’t like those odds at all. Killing was part of the plan, but it needed to happen after they were boots on the ground—figuratively speaking. If they were spotted during the boarding process, the mission, along with their lives, would be over before it even started.

  The ship was less than a quarter mile away, the drone of its large, powerful motors reaching Hagan’s ears. “Think they’ll hear the shot if I take out the guy up top?” Hagan asked Solomon.

  Solomon shrugged. “The crew inside probably won’t, but it’s hard to guess whether those sentries on the deck will.”

  Suppressors, especially on high-powered rifles, were not as quiet as the movies made them out to be. Though the device would protect his hearing—which was especially important given the tuna can they were hunkered in—the bullet would still travel at supersonic speeds, and there was nothing Hagan could do about that. Whether the men on the deck would hear the sharp crack of the sound barrier breaking over the drum of the ship’s motors was anyone’s guess, but if they did, once again, the mission was over before it started.

  Hagan weighed his options for a moment before cycling the bolt on the rifle, chambering the 7.62x51 cartridge. If the mission was going to be scrubbed, he preferred being alive to fight another day.

  “It’s pretty breezy, brother,” Solomon said, his eye glued to a spotting scope. “I’d guess about ten to twelve miles an hour.”

  Hagan didn’t respond. Instead, he focused on his target through the scope. The heavy, black crosshairs contrasted against the digitally brightened, green-tinted image as Hagan rested the crosshairs on the guard’s chest, then adjusted for distance and wind. It wasn’t ideal conditions, but he’d connected under worse.

  He took the slack out of the trigger before drawing in a cold, deep breath through his nose and letting it out slowly through pursed lips. His already low heartrate decelerated, his mind and body becoming perfectly in sync for the first time all evening. The guard looked right at him, as if he sensed death’s presence in the darkest hour of the night.

  “Night-night, sweetheart,” Hagan said just as he completed the transaction.

  The school bus shook from the concussions of the suppressed blast, a sensation that would have startled Hagan had he not experienced it hundreds of times before. His eye never left the scope lens, but it took him a moment to reacquire the target.

  “Good kill,” Solomon said.

  Immediately swinging his rifle down to the deck, Hagan spotted a pair of guards on the starboard side smoking and talking like nothing was out of the ordinary.

  “They didn’t hear it,” Hagan said, his voice filled with relief.

  “Hmmm. Not so sure about that,” Solomon said as he looked through his spotting scope, “Looks like you might’ve spooked one of the guards on the portside.”

  Hagan pivoted the rifle and saw an apprehensive man walking toward the stern of the ship, his AK-47 raised halfway as his unsteady feet carried him closer to the stack of crates the man had been on.

  Damnit! Hagan fumed in his head. “All right, Saul, go get us set up. We’re gonna have to move fast.”

  Hagan was already lining up the shot by the time Solomon darted out of the bus and onto the bridge. Taking his time was not an option, as the cement wall of the overpass already obscured the lower third of his sight picture. Another five seconds and his shot, along with their element of surprise, was gone.

  The guard reached the tower of containers and looked skyward just as Hagan’s crosshairs settled on his head. He was shouting up to the dead watchman above when Hagan squeezed the trigger.

  POP!

  When Hagan’s vision regained focus, the guard’s body lay motionless on the deck as a dark pool expanded from the wreckage left in the wake of his 147-grain bullet. Hagan pivoted the rifle to the left and saw the two guards on the starboard side of the ship start moving toward the carnage. They weren’t quite alarmed, but like the man he’d just killed, they had heard something.

  D
ropping the rifle in the seat, Hagan sprang up and ran to the front of the bus. He pulled down one of the night vision monoculars fixed to his helmet as his feet planted into the asphalt.

  Hagan sprinted toward Solomon, quickly snatching the rope he offered.

  “You spook any others?” Solomon asked.

  With the digitally enhanced vision of his goggle, Hagan glanced back at the boat. He gave the rope a quick, hard tug, double checking Solomon’s knot around the center column of the car chassis in front of him. “Guess we’re about to find out,” Hagan said as he attached the rope to the carabiner on his harness. “All right, Saul, we’ve got one shot at this. Gotta be on our A-game or else we’re looking at a dark, icy grave.”

  Solomon shook his head and said something in Hebrew that Hagan didn’t understand. “Ain’t no thing, baby. We got this,” he added with a cool and calm demeanor.

  Hagan threw one leg over the ledge just as the bow of the boat broke through the other side of the bridge. Tossing the excess rope down below, Hagan gave the greenlight. “Now!”

  Jumping backwards off the bridge, Hagan made a fast but controlled descent to the boat, landing on top of a shipping container. He detached the rope from his harness just as Solomon’s boots smacked off the metal box a few feet behind.

  “You hear that?” a startled voice from the deck asked.

  Hagan reached for his suppressed Ruger Mark VIII and crept to the edge of the container. Though there were numerous deck lights shining brightly around them, the stacks of freight created a city of shadows, making Hagan and Solomon mere ghosts to the sentries below. Hagan lowered the second monocular, giving both eyes the augmented view of the white phosphorus night vision goggles. Leaning over the side, Hagan leveled the pistol on the two guards and watched as they looked anxiously around for the source of the noise. When Hagan flicked the safety off, both simultaneously froze.

  A half second later, both men were lights out on the deck, the clack of the pistol’s action being the loudest part of the delivery. Twenty-two long rifle was always a gamble on any operation. With the right pistol and silencer, the shot would go virtually unnoticed, especially in a noisier environment such as a moving boat. The tradeoff, however, was power. The cartridge, especially subsonic loads like the ones in Hagan’s pistol, weren’t particularly destructive. Armor of any kind, or even a heavy coat for that matter, could spoil a takedown. And the chance of success dropped with every additional foot from the target. But a well-placed shot to the head from within fifteen to twenty feet would consistently do the trick, as the two bodies on the ground proved.

  “Damn, Matt, save some for the rest of the class,” Solomon grinned as he looked at the carnage below, his eyes obscured by his NODs.

  Hagan press-checked his Heckler & Kock MP5, ensuring it was hot. The 9mm submachinegun, loaded with hollow points, was his fallback weapon. Hanging from a strap over his shoulder and neck, the MP5 was ready to join the fight at a moment’s notice. But until things went kinetic, Hagan would stick with the Ruger.

  Glancing down at the ground, Hagan gestured to the deck. “Ladies first.”

  Solomon mocked the remark before dropping to the deck below, Hagan just a beat behind. They stayed within the cluster of cargo containers, working their way toward the bridge at the bow of the ship. A whooshing howl made the hair on Hagan’s neck go rigid as a strong gust of wind rushed in between the containers towering around them. The snowfall intensified and began accumulating on the steel plates beneath their feet. Hagan kept his pistol at a low ready as they progressed down the never-ending, darkened alley of wood and steel.

  “Half of these things have Cyrillic characters,” Solomon commented as they passed a row of smaller metal crates.

  “That surprises you?” Hagan replied. “We knew the Apollo Group was in bed with the Kremlin long before the civil war. I don’t imagine that changed much once they became their own country.”

  “I know, man,” Solomon said through a sigh. “Just…just don’t sit well with me knowing Commies are operating on our soil. Even if it isn’t technically America, anymore.”

  “Me neither, Saul. But, if it’s any consolation…” Hagan said as he finally reached the end of a row of containers before doing a quick peekaboo around the corner, “we’re about to rob them blind,” he whispered, then pointed in the direction he just looked. He held up his index finger, then said, “You’re up, slugger.”

  Solomon wasted no time rolling around the corner and dispatching the solitary guard patrolling that section of the deck. His shell casing pinged off the corrugated steel beside him, which, again, created more racket than the shot itself. Solomon carried a Ruger .22 pistol as well, but the Mark IX he had been fortunate enough to get before society went belly up was his current weapon of choice. With its Dead Air MASK 22 HD suppressor and custom modifications, the Mark IX’s report was even quieter than Hagan’s, which was crucial for their success—especially once they breached the bridge.

  Neutralizing three additional threats along the way, Hagan and Solomon bounded from cover to cover until they reached a steel hatch at the rear of the bridge. Solomon flanked one side as Hagan spun the wheel on the door. He opened the hatch and juked out of the way as Solomon rushed inside, Hagan hot on his heels.

  The men had been in this situation before. Countless times. Their experience allowed them to work together as if operating as a single entity, each man knowing what the other was thinking without so much as flinching their vocal cords. It was as if they were connected by chip implants in the brain, letting them communicate their next moves nanoseconds after the idea had entered their mind. But that was to be expected after hundreds of operations together. That was why Ground Division was so effective—their instinct, intuition, and most importantly, swift execution made the clandestine group the best in the world.

  Hagan and Solomon moved further into the bridge without making a sound. It was just before 0500 and Hagan suspected that the sleeping deck hands, and remaining security crew would be waking up for their shifts soon. So, when they approached the sleeping quarters, Solomon split off from Hagan to make sure that didn’t happen. Hagan headed for the captain’s deck. He moved deftly down a long, narrow corridor and stopped just short of a doorway at the end. He heard a raspy cough and shuffling plastic before the sound of liquid being poured into a reservoir. Hagan snuck a peek through the door and saw an empty canteen save for one man making a pot of coffee.

  Hagan slipped inside and crept closer, like a lion stalking an oblivious Impala. The man whistled as he dumped the remaining contents of the coffee into the filter, filling it less than halfway.

  “Ah, crap,” he groaned, tossing the empty bag down onto the counter and spinning around to retrieve another bag. Terror filled his features as he turned to face an old-world operator with a pistol aimed at his forehead.

  Hagan pulled the trigger.

  Before the man’s body crumpled to the floor, Hagan darted to the exit on the far side of the room. More hallways led to more stairs before finally coming to a dead end at the captain’s deck. Hagan’s earpiece crackled with Solomon’s voice, but the static was too heavy to discern what he was saying. Shrugging off the radio call, Hagan holstered his pistol and grabbed onto the MP5. He held the SMG with one hand and ratcheted the handle on the door with the other before throwing the door open.

  Hagan’s chest thumped as a thunderous blast from the captain’s Colt Python rattled skulls around the room. The 135-grain hollow point slammed into Hagan’s body armor. He growled through the pain of several ribs cracking. Stumbling backwards he tripped over the knee knocker behind him. Hagan hit the ground with a heavy thud, knocking the wind out of him. Another deafening boom from the captain’s wheel gun forced Hagan to roll to the side, breaking line of sight from the shooter.

  “Go get that son of a bitch!” someone yelled.

  Hagan shook the cobwebs loose, though still slightly dazed, and clenched onto the handle of the MP5. Fueled with adrenaline,
he raised the gun just as a fat man stepped outside the door, an Uzi in his grip. Hagan stitched half-a-magazine’s-worth of bullets across the man’s torso, dropping him before he had a chance to pull the trigger.

  More gunshots from inside the deck caused Hagan to flinch, more from fragmenting copper and ricocheting lead than the sound itself. The shooter quickly blasted four shots before initiating a reload. Hagan climbed back to his feet and stepped over the body so he could take advantage of the man’s empty cylinder. Another guard just inside the door surprised him and immediately opened fire with a submachinegun.

  Hagan bounced back out of sight and reached for the flashbang clipped to his chest rig. “All right, enough of the games,” he said through gritted teeth. He pulled the pin, let the spoon fly and cooked it for a second before blindly tossing it around the corner.

  Even though he was on the other side of the wall, the blast left Hagan’s ears ringing, though, unlike his targets, his vision was unimpaired. Hagan charged through the door and quickly dumped his magazine into the guard holding the SMG. With his MP5 dry, he grabbed the Mark VIII from its holster and transitioned to the captain, who was covering his face with his hands as he wrestled with blindness.

  The man fell back against the ship’s control panel as Hagan dispatched five shots into his chest before falling to the ground. Hagan walked up and fired a sixth shot into the man’s head. He didn’t want any surprises.

  Reeling from the excruciating pain in his chest, Hagan took a moment to swap mags on both guns and to catch his breath. After a short minute, he moved to the radio and dialed in the frequency Wilford had given him the day before.

  “This is Wile E. Coyote, how copy?”

  There was nothing for a moment, then finally, Hagan heard, “Meep, meep. This is ACME, go Coyote.”

  Aileen’s men were professionals, and Hagan appreciated that. The callsigns were their idea, not his. “I’ve got the anvil. Need a drop point. Copy?”

  “Coyote, we are waiting for you at Delta Bravo. Repeat. Delta Bravo.”