The Creed (Book 1): The Hunt Read online

  “Copy that, ACME,” Hagan said, looking down at the ship’s navigation system to get his bearings. “We’ll be there in about thirty mikes.”

  “Roger that. ACME out.”

  Just as the radio clicked off, the sound of quickly approaching footsteps alerted Hagan that someone was behind him. He spun around and leveled the MP5 on the tall, black man coming around the corner of the door.

  “I almost shot your ass,” Hagan said as Solomon ducked under the doorway. “A little heads up next time would be appreciated.”

  Solomon’s usual sarcastic, lighthearted expression was absent. Instead, he wore a look of urgency and confusion. “I think you need to come see this, Matt.”

  Chapter 4

  Anthony Gray chased a few pills down with a snifter of bourbon. He stroked his chin beneath a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard as he sat in the living room chair, waiting for the knock on the door that was coming. He wasn’t told it would come, but he’d been with these people long enough to know how they operated. He would have a lot of explaining to do, and more importantly, a lot of jittery nerves to calm.

  Sleep had evaded him over the last thirty hours, and he expected more of the same in the coming days. As Chief Defense Secretary of Alexandria, it was not only his job to make sure outside threats were kept at bay, but those from within as well. It had been seven years since Alexandria’s last major skirmish with the Texas Alliance, a feather in Gray’s cap that had him receiving praise and accolades from the regime’s council. But in recent months, he faced more defeats than victories, and the increase of insurgent activity had grown to record highs. It had been less than a week since an IED took out a Ramtrack filled with hoplites, and now he had to deal with the mess of a hijacked cargo ship.

  Knuckles rapped off the Mahogany door at the front of the house, the sound echoing off the marble floors of the foyer. Gray stole a glance at his watch before tossing back the remaining bourbon in his glass. He stood from his chair, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the front door. As expected, a driver was waiting patiently next to the back door of the black Lincoln Navigator as his security detail stood at attention on the front porch.

  “Mr. Gray,” a man in sunglasses said, “the Council has requested your—”

  Gray held up a hand, silencing the man. He didn’t say anything, instead just closed the front door, greeted the guards posted on his porch, and walked straight to the SUV waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Gray. It’s good to see you, sir,” the driver said, opening the rear door of the Lincoln.

  “You as well, Victor,” Gray replied before climbing into the spacious back compartment of the vehicle.

  Sunglasses Man got in on the opposite side, while the other armed guard rode up front with Victor. The SUV bolted forward and pulled out of the driveway toward the neighborhood’s exit. The gated community used to house some of the wealthiest people in St. Louis, which included the house the Apollo Group provided for Gray during his frequent consultation visits prior to the civil war. After Alexandria was founded, those appointed to important government roles were relocated to be centralized near the Trident, for both convenience and protection, but Gray refused. He demanded that he remain in the house that he and his late wife, Jasmine, turned into their home. The Council rejected the idea at first, but Shravya Aurora quickly overruled. No one dared to challenge her decision. Shortly after, the once ritzy subdivision was turned into Gray’s private compound, complete with a barracks for the Civil Republican Guards stationed there. They erected a fourteen-foot wall around the entire 200 acres of real estate. They even stationed anti-aircraft missiles in a few strategic places.

  All for one man.

  The Council grumbled with the cost and effort of the undertaking, feeling that Gray was not important enough for such measures. But Shravya, again, disagreed, and put an end to the discussion. Gray would stay put.

  As the SUV reached the compound’s exit, three Humvees fired up their engines. Two of the Humvees pulled out in front of Gray’s vehicle just as a guard opened the gate. The two Humvees took point and Gray’s vehicle followed closely behind. As soon as they cleared the gate, the last Humvee went heavy on the gas to bring up the rear of the convoy, beginning the thirty-two-mile trek to the Trident.

  As the effects of the pills kicked in, Gray’s shoulders dropped and his heartrate lowered, but the angst swirling around his thoughts still gnawed at his mind. He knew what horrors await him if the Council accused him of incompetence. The Council of Alexandria employed some of the harshest punishments imaginable to criminals across the country, especially those charged with treason and conspiracy. But their hatred for failure among their own ranks was an even greater form of sedition, and they had reserved penalties just for those unfortunate enough to fall into such a category. And despite all the many accolades Anthony Gray had accumulated as Chief Defense Secretary of Alexandria, and his years of loyalty to the Apollo Group before that, his failure to wrangle the swelling revolt among a handful of the citizens was slowly overshadowing every other accomplishment.

  The SUV crested a small hill and moved toward a city often called the Acropolis. Near the center of the Acropolis were the three towers of the Trident. Like fingers stretching high into the sky, each tower represented the different branches of Alexandria’s government, with the center—and tallest of the three—the base of operations for the executive branch. About forty miles west of St. Louis, the Trident was the brain of Alexandria, and the nearby Parthenon—Alexandria’s tech hub—the nervous system. The Parthenon permitted Alexandria to become more technologically advanced each day, allowing them to remain in power despite being surrounded by enemy territories. Gray suspected the Acropolis was the most heavily guarded piece of land in the world. The scientists and engineers of Alexandria even managed to overexpose satellite images taken from high above, giving the enemy zero information about the mysterious location where Apollo’s fight for power originated. It was a magnificent sight most days, but for Gray, today, it was like coming upon the gates of Hell.

  Gray swallowed the lump in his throat as the convoy approached the outer checkpoint. His palms were damp, and his nerves began to outmatch the liquor and tranquilizers he’d taken earlier. Gray had personally authorized operations that took tens of thousands of lives during his tenure as Chief Defense Secretary. And though he didn’t view himself in the same light, many of the people of Alexandria saw him as a monster. But as much as the people feared Gray, Gray feared the Council that much more. And if it hadn’t been for Shravya herself, The Council would have already had him publicly executed after months of torture. But, despite their long history, even Shravya seemed to be running out of patience with Anthony Gray.

  The convoy stopped in front of the center tower and the driver opened the door for Gray. With a slight nod to the Defense Secretary, he returned to the driver’s seat where he waited for the meeting to conclude. A pair of Civil Republican Guards escorted Gray straight inside to the elevator, leaving him to ride to the top of the citadel alone. The doors parted, revealing another pair of CRG’s, along with a high-ranking general. They walked shoulder to shoulder with Gray through the long, elegantly decorated hall to a pair of ornate, Oak doors, which opened as soon as the men approached.

  Gray stepped inside, leaving his escorts behind, and confidently stepped into the large, open room. Much like an old-world city council chamber, there were rows of seats toward the back of the room, a few chairs and a podium about halfway to the front. At the head of the room was a long desk on an elevated platform with nine leather chairs, each one with a person waiting for answers.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Gray,” a balding man with glasses in the middle of the table stated loudly.

  “Yes, Mr. Hawkins,” Gray said as he sat down behind a small podium with a microphone and a pitcher of water with some glasses.

  “I’m going to cut right to the chase, Anthony,” Hawkins spoke, throwing formality out t
he window. “We are growing tired of your lack of results…”

  Gray tried to hide the fear he felt, but he knew he was failing. “Mr. Hawkins, I—”

  “I wasn’t finished!” Hawkins raised his voice, causing Gray to recoil for a moment before nodding his apologies. “As I was saying,” the man continued with indignation, “we are tired of you allowing the insurgents to attack us, Anthony, and we cannot allow your blunders to continue to derail our progress. We need results!” The man slammed his fist on the table, working himself up more with each spoken word. “So, I need you to tell us what you are doing to take care of these insurgent rodents.”

  Gray remained motionless for a moment, ensuring that Hawkins was finished speaking. He then cleared his voice and leaned across the podium to speak into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Council, first off, I would like to apologize for my failures. The recent rise of insurgent activity was not entirely unexpected, but was handled poorly, and I accept full responsibility for that.” Gray paused for a moment and poured himself a glass of water. He took a few small sips, buying himself time to formulate a response before continuing. “The attack on our outpost at Flint Hill was very unfortunate, but the loss of life was minimal and—”

  “I don’t give a damn about a couple of our soldiers getting shot by angry farmers, Anthony,” Hawkins interrupted Gray again. “I care about losing vital supplies and technology. I care about those same supplies ending up in the hands of those same, stupid farmers. Or worse, reaching the Texas Alliance, or their allies to the north.” Hawkins sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. He shook his head with frustration before leaning forward again to speak, a stiff finger pointed in Gray’s direction. “How did this happen, Anthony? How did you let this ship fall into the hands of the insurgents?”

  As frightened as Gray was, he was equally angry at the accusations that he was somehow personally responsible for the loss of a merchant ship and its crew outside Alexandria’s borders. But he didn’t dare contend the matter. With nine sets of eyes fixed on him, Gray took another pull from his glass before responding. “Mr. Hawkins, I do not believe the loss of The Hercules was a result of insurgent activity…”

  “No?” Gray said skeptically. “So, who was responsible, then?”

  “I believe Typhon was behind it.”

  There were murmurs amongst the Council. All except Shravya, who remained silent, her gaze locked onto Gray.

  “Typhon?” Hawkins asked. “Isn’t he part of the insurgent movement?”

  “For months, that was our assumption, Mr. Hawkins. His actions seemed to be directed at the government, making us believe that he was working with Cleon and the insurgents. But as we investigated deeper into some of his attacks and interrogated a few of the men from Cleon’s organization, we have strong reason to believe Typhon has no affiliation with the insurgents and is working toward his own agenda.”

  “And what agenda is that?” Hawkins raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m afraid we have yet to uncover those details, sir.”

  “And we still have no idea who this man is?”

  “No, sir. Unfortunately, his identity is as elusive as his motives. In all the known surveillance footage we have of him, his face is either turned away or concealed—at least partially.”

  Hawkins took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes with frustration. He let out a sigh before continuing. “Okay, then. What makes you think this Typhon man was the one to hijack the ship? What makes you think one man could overrun…” Hawkins looked at a piece of paper and squinted his eyes, “Twenty-seven crew, and then offload and transport the most valuable supplies on board?”

  Gray shook his head. “Mr. Hawkins, I said that we do not think he is connected to the insurgents. I did not say he was working alone. In fact, we know him to work with an accomplice regularly. And I agree with you; the logistics do not add up for a single man to take over that vessel. The fact that we recovered three different calibers of shell casings that didn’t match any of the registered weapons on board all but confirms he wasn’t operating alone. So, yes, you’re correct. He had help.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question of why you think it was him.”

  “Our boys picked up a scrambled message over the shortwave a few minutes before we noticed the ship going off course. We were only able to unscramble a few words from the ship’s broadcast, but our forensics team was able to match the voice on the radio with the only confirmed voice sample we have of Typhon.”

  “And you were going to tell us this, when?” A skinny man wearing a turban asked from the end of the long table, his piercing stare forcing Gray to look down.

  “I received confirmation on the voice analysis only an hour before the car arrived to bring me here. I was drafting the letter to the Council when the convoy arrived,” Gray lied. The nine men and women once again leaned away from their microphones and discussed the information among themselves. Now it was Gray’s turn to interrupt. “I understand, ladies and gentlemen, that the loss of equipment and supplies is never acceptable. But what makes this one any different than the other three to four freighters we lose each year to piracy and shipwrecks?”

  “It’s not just supplies that went missing, Mr. Gray,” Shravya spoke, her harsh, cutting tone silencing the room. “There was a foreign national onboard The Hercules. His body was unaccounted for among the dead. It is presumed he was abducted.”

  A foreign national? Gray thought to himself as a tremble roiled through his body. His stomach churned wrathfully as he considered the implications of not being briefed beforehand on such significant information.

  “Why wasn’t I informed of this foreign national?”

  “That’s not important,” Hawkins said.

  “It is if you expect me to do my job effectively.”

  The chambers fell silent, again.

  “It’s not important for us to focus on the past right now, Mr. Gray,” Hawkins continued. “What’s important is that we find Typhon and his accomplices. And that we find and safely extract Pavel Kryuchkov from whoever is holding him.” Hawkins looked at his peers to the left, then the right before back at Gray. “Would you please excuse us for a few minutes, Mr. Gray?” Hawkins said.

  “Of course,” Gray said, standing from the podium and walking out of the chambers. He waited fifteen minutes, agonizing over being cut out of the loop on what was clearly an important matter. If the Council withheld pertinent information from him, that could only mean one thing: he had been queued and would probably find himself staring down the barrel of a rifle in the near future.

  If only my death would be that swift, Gray thought.

  No. He would likely be target practice for artillerymen miles away, or a holiday feast for K-9 units. Perhaps he would be forced to cross a minefield leading to the Outlands wearing nothing but a blindfold. Humiliation was just as important as gruesomeness when it came to executing cadres who had disappointed the regime one too many times. No, Gray’s death would not be swift. It would not be carried out with dignity. And it would not be private. It would be broadcasted for all the citizens of Alexandria to witness and celebrate. They would cheer with great joy over his expiration.

  Gray shook off the terrible thoughts as the doors to the chambers opened. He was called back inside and stood before the impatient Council.

  “After further discussion, Secretary Gray…” Hawkins spoke, his demeanor calm and collected. “We want you to put together a taskforce dedicated to taking down this Typhon son of a bitch. We want him standing here before us by the end of the month, Anthony. Apprehending Typhon is your biggest priority. General Hansen will take over your other duties in the meantime, and Colonel Price will deal with Cleon and his ilk whenever and wherever they surface.”

  “Yes sir. Understood,” Gray said, graciously lowering his head before the Council.

  Hawkins’s eyes narrowed on Gray, as if he was a judge about to sentence a murderer. “Hear me well, Anthony. Do not mistake our
patience for tolerance of your incompetence. Another stumble and the next car to pick you up will not bring you to us. Understood?”

  Gray’s eyes met with Shravya’s for a beat before moving back to Hawkins. “Yes, sir. I will not fail you again. You have my word.”

  Chapter 5

  Hagan sat on the cold, wet sidewalk, his back against the brick façade of a brothel masquerading as a pharmacy. His left hand clutched tightly to a beer bottle he’d been nursing over the last three hours as he kept his hooded head aimed toward the ground. The sight of a drunken hobo with one foot already in the afterlife was a common view in that part of town, making Hagan virtually unnoticeable to the occasional passersby or scanner swarm that drifted through the neighborhood.

  He could remember this part of town prior to the war. An old friend of his used to live just a few miles away, and they would often visit a bar on the very street Hagan was sitting on. It was a different place back then. There were bright lights everywhere, large crowds of smiling people would mill about, hopping from one place to the next as they enjoyed the start to their weekend. On warm summer nights, music and laughter would blare out through propped-open doors, filling the air with the sounds of freedom.

  But now? Now, only the depraved seemed to wander the streets. Looking for their next trick to pull or next score to buy. There was no music, certainly no laughter. It was dark, bleak and depressing. It was the ruins of a failed utopia.

  A few old cars drove by throughout the evening, as well as a Ramtrack full of hoplites. Their presence was merely a deterrent against capital crimes or to root out fugitives. They didn’t actually deal with local crime. The regime didn’t care about the poor districts of Alexandria, allowing crime to become a popular career path among the teens and young adults. A few districts managed to come up with their own form of law and order, which included deputized citizens and even a magistrate to rule over some of the more egregious offenses, but for the most part, districts behaved more like the wild west than a civilized town. An every-man-for-himself type of justice system. If someone wronged you, you either let it go or took justice into your own hands.