LEGACY Book 1: Forgotten Son Read online

  Legacy, Book 1:

  Forgotten Son

  By

  Warren Murphy

  &

  Gerald Welch

  Destroyer Books

  Post Office Box 6357

  Virginia Beach VA 23456

  www.DestroyerBooks.com

  www.warrenmurphy.com

  Legacy, Book 1:

  Forgotten Son

  Warren Murphy & Gerald Welch

  Copyright © 2012 by Warren Murphy and Destroyer Books

  Published by Destroyer Books.

  ISBN-13:978-0615724164 (Destroyer Books)

  Requests for reproduction or interviews should be directed to: [email protected]

  Official website: www.facebook.com/LegacyBookSeries

  Cover and other artwork by Gerald Welch

  This books is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Copyright © 2012 by Destroyer Books

  “For Uncle Benny, my hero, and terror of the world from 90 yards in.”

  -- Warren Murphy

  To Michael Hodges who explained the obvious to the oblivious, and to the unknown teacher, who asked our class to do something that would change our lives forever.

  I did and it changed.

  Thank you.

  -- Jerry Welch

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Prologue

  SINANJU, KOREA: 1612 A.D.

  Nonga’s chest rose defiantly against the deep rattle that had already claimed his lungs. His once powerful body lay still on a small slab of stone in the center of the cave of his ancestors. As was the tradition in the House of Sinanju, candles circled the dying Master’s body to light his way into the Void.

  As his heir — and reigning Master of Sinanju — Kojing stood solemnly at his father’s side. The old man’s ragged breathing told him that Master Nonga did not have long to live, because proper breathing was a Master of Sinanju’s fuel, allowing him to exercise almost superhuman power. Throughout history, it would be recorded how lesser men could sometimes access a small portion of that power and use it to lift an automobile from their loved ones or walk over hot coals without being burnt. But the power had first been created in the tiny Korean village of Sinanju, and only the Masters of Sinanju had such unlimited access to the full strength, speed and reflexes of the human body that they would often be described as gods in ancient texts.

  These masters hired themselves out to pharaohs and kings, emperors and chieftains to feed their poor fishing village in Korea. They conquered armies and overthrew entire empires, shaping history beneath the shadow of their symbol — the slashed trapezoid that appeared in all civilizations.

  For the history of Sinanju was the history of man.

  “My son,” Nonga whispered, fighting for one last breath.

  “Yes, father?” Kojing asked humbly. Despite his blindness,

  Nonga had been a great Master, and over the course of his life had brought enough tribute to feed their village for many years to come.

  “Shiva,” Nonga wheezed. “…our House.”

  Nonga held his breath one last time and looked around. Though blind, his eyes seemed to focus on something in the distance and then he slowly released his breath.

  Kojing extinguished the candles surrounding his father and pulled the sheet over his body. His father’s last cryptic words were puzzling. Kojing had taken over the writing of the scrolls a decade earlier, recording the history of the House of Sinanju as past Masters had for nearly five thousand years. Yet while the last words of all Masters were preserved for posterity, Kojing had never read of a Master calling on the aid of a god.

  And that was who Shiva was — a god whose power reached around the globe. How was he connected to Sinanju?

  The answer would have to wait for another day, another age. For now, the villagers of Sinanju would have time to publicly grieve the passing of their master, and Kojing wanted time to privately grieve the passing of his father. The next twelve days were filled with ceremonies and rituals filling the village with mournings and feasts and lauded speeches boasting the skill and bravery of Master Nonga, who would forever be known as the Blind Master.

  In the years that followed, Kojing himself would go on to become a great Master of Sinanju in his own right, but he never discovered the meaning of his father’s cryptic last words. Nor would his son, Master Sambria, or his son’s son, Master Go.

  That secret was reserved for Kojing’s fellow master, his twin brother Kojong, who had earlier exiled himself to whatever the fates held for him on the other side of the Great Eastern Sea.

  Chapter One: The Present

  Freya Williams sat silently on the hillside, wondering what the fates held for her.

  The setting sun slanted across the vast expanse of the Sonoran desert, bringing out the deep reds and oranges in the low hills and flat Arizona mesa. The hot desert wind stirred the few blond wisps of hair that had escaped her braids. She would have to find another way to hold her hair in place. It did not matter how invisible her Sinanju training allowed her to be if her hair gave her position away.

  Freya watched her half-brother Stone as he slinked into the growing darkness beneath her, unseen by the men pulling a cart through the scrubland to the south, past a signpost that warned them they were leaving Mexico and entering the United States.

  No, Freya thought, correcting herself. While the territory was technically within the boundaries of the United States, this land belonged to the Sinanju tribe. Her tribe. Freya looked down at her bare arms. Unlike the bronze skin of her Sinanju tribesmen, they were an almost porcelain white. She never tanned, nor did she burn. But white or not, this was her land. It was the first stable home she could truly claim in her short fifteen years of life.

  Freya had spent the first eleven years leading a nomadic existence with her mother, the warrior princess known as Jilda of Lakluun. They were wanderers, banned from returning to their native Scandinavian village. Jilda would never speak of Freya’s father, but she had promised the girl that she would explain what happened when Freya was old enough to understand.

  But Jilda was killed before that day had come.

  Freya finally met her father and was brought to the Sinanju reservation. That was when she found out his name was Remo Williams and th
at the curious and deadly art he mastered was called Sinanju. Unlike her mother’s wizardry with the blades, Sinanju used no weapons, favoring only their hands. She only saw her father, Remo, a few times after that, when he had come to the reservation. Each time she meant to ask him about his life with her mother but she never did. Perhaps she was afraid to question anything because she had finally found a place to truly put down roots.

  And now she was worried that she would be uprooted again.

  Her grandfather, Bill Roam, known better as Sunny Joe, the tribe’s protector, had put down his cup that morning at breakfast, clearing his throat.

  “You have a birthday soon, little one.”

  Freya had shrugged. Birthdays meant nothing to her. She smiled each year when they brought out a cake, and enjoyed opening presents, but she did that more because she knew her family enjoyed making her smile. She didn’t need presents to be happy.

  “Next week you turn sixteen, an adult by Sinanju standards.

  Have you thought what you would like to do?”

  “No, grandfather,” she replied, looking down at her breakfast. I’d like to stay here, she thought, and continue helping you and Stone. But she knew that wasn’t what her grandfather wanted to hear.

  “You’ve already graduated the home school programs. Maybe you should think about college.”

  She had promised him she would think it over and let him know before her birthday next week.

  But as she sat, cross-legged, watching her brother track the smugglers below her, she couldn’t bring herself to think about college or even her future. All she could think of was the roots she had found in her long-lost family, her brother Stone, her grandfather Sunny Joe. They needed her and she needed them.

  Stone Smith knew he didn’t need anyone.

  He winced as he shifted his weight. A few pebbles slid down the side of the small hill. He would have to be more silent. At just over six feet tall, it wasn’t easy hiding his large frame, even with the Sinanju techniques he had been learning.

  Stone turned to scan his surroundings. Nobody was around but the illegals heading his way. At least he had managed to ditch his pain in the ass half-sister. He had been a loner all his life, so it surprised him just how protective he had become of her. He had been raised as an orphan, living in boarding schools and military academies, until he joined the Navy SEALs, and he did not have much use for anyone except his grandfather and Freya. But he did not need her here. She had no business patrolling the border with him. It was just too dangerous. Despite her advanced training in Sinanju, Freya was still a kid.

  Stone quietly snorted.

  His SEAL training made him one of the best of the best. He could live in conditions that would kill an ordinary man. He could fieldstrip and reassemble any firearm under combat conditions in total darkness. He could sneak up and disarm a man before that enemy knew what happened.

  As a SEAL, he was the best of the best, the toughest of the toughest, and none of that could even remotely impress a Master of Sinanju like his grandfather Sunny Joe.

  Stone had begun training with his grandfather after arriving at the reservation three years ago, but he still had trouble trusting it. He was raised to believe in physics and punching and grunting when using your muscles; Sinanju reached deadliness through silence.

  The Mexicans advanced to the outcropping Stone was crouched behind. He quietly grabbed a breath and centered himself as he waited for the men to pass him.

  Carlos Martinez was tired of walking. The skinny soldado wiped his forehead with a sweat-stained piece of cloth.

  “Ay! Armando, the wagon. When’s it my turn to ride?”

  “Silencio, ojete,” snapped Armando Ortiz. The leader of the cartel’s expedition, Armando stood above the others, six foot five, with a shaved bullet of a head. “Keep your eyes open and your big mouth shut. This is the valley of muerte.”

  “That’s just talk,” one of the other men spoke up. Two missing front teeth gave his words a sibilant hiss. “Border crossing is always dangerous. This section’s not any worse than anywhere else.”

  “Wrong about that, muchachos!”

  The voice had come from behind them. The men turned as one, hands reaching for guns and rifles. They had not heard anyone approach. A shot rang out. One of the men spent his last breath on a curse and dropped his rifle to the ground moments before he joined it.

  “Nobody move. Keep your hands where I can see them. Slowly now — you first, tall and ugly — no, the one with the tattoo on his neck. No, the one with the scorpion tattoo. Take your machine gun by the stock. Throw it over there; as far as you can throw it.”

  Stone waited until each man had thrown his weapon out of reach.

  “Okay, Uncle Sam says kneel, hands on your head. Slowly, very slowly. I don’t want to start shooting again.”

  When the four men were still, Stone risked gliding over to the wagon they had been pulling. Not taking his eyes off his prisoners, Stone held his gun in one hand while the other reached over to the tarp.

  Then the tarp moved by itself and a large man launched from his hiding place, knocking Stone over. The man grabbed Stone’s arm, pushing it up. Both men fought for the weapon. The other men didn’t waste time looking back.

  They lurched to their feet, running for their weapons.

  Stone head-butted his attacker and felt the man’s nose break. The man cried out in pain. Stone was able to bring the butt of his gun down, cracking the man over the head. The man collapsed to the ground.

  Stone rolled toward the wagon for cover. His heart was racing as he struggled to maintain his breathing.

  Then time seemed to slow down.

  His body jerked hard to the left and then to the right as two bullets passed him. It was as if he was on a violent roller coaster, unable to adjust to the sharp turns of the track.

  His body had reacted on its own as his Sinanju training kicked in to dodge the bullets.

  “Blast it!” he shouted.

  Stone hated the loss of control that went against all his military training. Now behind one of the wheels, he squeezed off four rounds. Two of the men fell. The remaining two men, knowing they were vulnerable in the open, froze in awkward positions.

  Stone rose to his feet, panting.

  “Smart move.” He began to walk over to them. Next time he would bring rope and tie them up first.

  Armando Ortiz felt the first stirrings of real fear. This idioto wasn’t behaving like any Homeland Security agent he had ever heard of. He knew civilians patrolled the border, but they were always organized. They never worked alone and they only warned border crossers away or reported armed men to government officials.

  Armando saw the tarp move again. His last man was only armed with a blade. Needing a distraction, Armando grabbed Carlos from behind and began using him as a shield.

  “Hey, I’ll just shoot through your friend,” Stone said.

  “Armando?” Carlos shouted.

  Armando ignored the pleading voice and snapped Carlos’ neck.

  The distraction worked. A small man had slithered out of the tarp quietly and grabbed a knife from the sheath on his calf. He straightened up, raising the knife. Stone’s back was a large target, mere yards away. But then the knife seemed to develop a life of its own.

  It left his hand.

  He turned.

  A slim white hand was holding it. He had only an instant to see the tall blond woman who appeared out of nowhere, before he didn’t see anything at all. He slid to the ground, dead before his body could feel the pain from the blow to the chest that stopped his heart.

  Stone noticed Armando looking beyond him in fear.

  “Don’t think you can try that old trick, making me turn around,” Stone sneered.

  Then he heard a familiar voice behind him.

  “There was another man in the wagon, Stone.”

  Annoyed, Stone’s head turned of its own accord. How had she found him? He had been so careful.

  Armando
didn’t waste a second. He made a break toward his left, arms reaching for his dropped machine gun. He never saw the knife that sliced through his neck, severing his jugular vein.

  He bled out into the desert sands.

  Stone’s head snapped from Freya to the fallen cartel soldado and back again. Freya had bent down, grabbed the dead man’s knife and swung back up, throwing without seeming to aim.

  “How many times have I told you not to follow me?” Stone yelled.

  “You’re welcome.” Freya said, folding her arms.

  “You have to stop this, Freya. You’re going to get me killed one day.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I had it under control! I was just about to turn and take care of him when you butted in!”

  “You didn’t even know anyone was behind you!” She knew Stone was embarrassed. “You’re good, Stone. But everyone needs help sometimes.”

  “Knock it off,” Stone said. He hated the hurt look that came over Freya’s face. But he had to be a little cruel, if that was the only thing that could get her to stop mothering him. “Go back to the village. Everyone’s dead here. Nobody left to question. If there’s something big brewing, we won’t know it now.”

  Stone looked inside the cart. Except for a few empty snack wrappers, it was empty.

  “The cartels know a lot of their men disappear on this stretch of the border,” Freya said. “They were probably trying to catch you. I can help you clean this up.”

  Stone shook his head. “I’ll take care of it. We’re going to have a talk with Sunny Joe when I get back. Serious, sis, you can’t keep tagging along behind me.”

  “You haven’t told Sunny Joe, have you?” she asked.

  Stone looked at her as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “You got a job offer to be a field agent for some organization, remember?” she reminded him.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I’m your ‘crazy stalker sister’ remember? Besides, you’re not very quiet on the phone.”