Callsign: King II- Underworld (18 page)

The Humvee slammed into the middle of the transformer station, annihilating the electrical equipment with kinetic energy alone. The truck then exploded in a ball of fire and debris that finished the job.

As spectacular as the explosion was, it paled alongside the amount of raw power raining down from the sky. And even though the destruction of the transformer instantly shut down the electricity supply to the proton emitter, the storm caused by the anti-matter annihilation in the upper atmosphere did not immediately abate. The lightning continued to hammer down into the collection towers, and because the mechanism for drawing the energy away had been destroyed, the plasma simply pooled at the base of the aerial structures.

In a matter of only a few seconds, the floor of the mine grew hotter than the surface of the sun. Solid matter—steel, copper, concrete, even a layer of rock some thirty feet thick—instantly flashed into plasma, as Bluelight became a flash of pure white light.

EPILOGUE

1044 UTC (3:44 am Local)

The pain might have been proof that he had survived the tumble from the Humvee, but it wasn’t until the mist receded—almost as if sucked back into the Earth—revealing a dark sky, speckled with stars, that King knew his plan had worked.

He got gingerly to his feet, and hesitantly checked himself for damage. All things considered, he’d come out of it pretty well. There were a couple of threadbare spots on his jeans, dark with blood oozing from abrasions underneath, but they were mostly intact. The same could not be said for his favorite Elvis shirt, which hung in shreds from his shoulders. Surprisingly, despite a full body tattoo of scrapes and bruises, the only significant injury he’d sustained was the shallow gash across his back, courtesy of Sokoloff’s knife.

More or less steady on his feet, he ambled forward to the now visible precipice, and stared out into the dark crater where Bluelight had stood only a few moments before.

There was a sharp odor of burning metal, but the air above the pit was clear. The floor of the mine crater was dark, and King could only make out a faint glow, like the belly of a red hot woodstove, several hundred feet below. Aside from that, there was no visible sign that Bluelight had ever existed.

There was gasp from behind him. “Oh my God.”

King turned to find Pierce and Nina, both seemingly stunned into paralysis by his appearance. He rushed to them and swept them both into his embrace. “You made it. I didn’t think anyone…” He let go of the pair and took a step back. “The Muggy Monsters? Are they still…?”

Nina shook her head. “All gone. They left with the mist. Took all the dead with them.”

King nodded slowly. All the dead. Soldiers and fallen creatures alike. King had managed to save the world, but Bluelight’s promised “free energy” had come at enormous cost.

“They’re still out there,” Pierce said. “Or I should say ‘under.’ But without that machine to drive them crazy, I think our war with the underworld has entered a ceasefire.”

“I see you picked up a souvenir.” King tapped the coin, hanging around Pierce’s neck.

 “Yeah. Long story. I’ll tell you about it when we’re somewhere that isn’t here.” Pierce managed a grim smile. “Jack, you look like shit.”

“You should see the other guy. Speaking of which…” King glanced around and spied a body that had evidently escaped the notice of the retreating Mogollon Monsters. Sokoloff lay where he had fallen, only a few feet from the edge of the cliff.

Ten million dollars
, King thought.
That’s what Brainstorm offered him to take me down
.

Had Brainstorm known that he would be drawn to Bluelight? Or had the death bounty been placed merely as an act of revenge for thwarting Brainstorm’s earlier schemes? Either way, King knew that taking down Brainstorm was no longer going to be merely a side project.

King’s phone suddenly chirped a familiar ringtone. He pulled it out, shocked that the thing still worked at all, and answered. “Aleman?”

“Guess again,” came Deep Blue’s voice. “What’s your sit rep?”

“Things got a little…hairy, but we’re okay now. Situation is contained. By the way, this wasn’t a Manifold project, it was Brainstorm. Again. I’ll give you my full report when I get back.”

“Sounds good,” Deep Blue said. “Just make sure you’re long gone by the time Army reinforcements roll in. The fewer questions we have to answer, the better. I’ll make sure the right people get your intel.”

King knew that the “right people” were Domenick Boucher, director of the CIA and Deep Blue’s trusted friend, and General Micheal Keasling, who the team had served under while officially part of Delta. They would know how to disseminate the intel.

“So where were you?” King asked, curious about what had pulled the man away from setting up their new headquarters in New Hampshire.

Deep Blue laughed. “I,” he said, “was picking up Fiona. She had a camping trip sprung on her and after a few hours in the dark, decided she wanted to come home. She was near tears when she called. Asked me not to tell you about it, but well, sharing secrets with each other is part of our jobs.”

Fiona was sometimes plagued by nightmares of monsters and stone giants. She was a tough kid, but even the most battle-hardened soldier was sometimes haunted by a touch of post-traumatic stress. That she’d been shanghaied into a camping trip made King angry, but he was glad she felt confident enough to have the former President of the United States come to her rescue. “Next time we’ll trade missions,” King said. “I’ll pick up my kid.
You
can deal with the monsters.”

When King hung up the phone, he found Nina smiling at him. “
You
have a kid?”

King smiled, thinking about how nice it would be to see Fiona. “In fact, I do.”

The conversation was interrupted by a familiar buzzing noise. He looked down at the phone in his hand. The cracked screen was blank. The hum repeated…from Sokoloff’s body.

King rifled through the man’s pockets until he found the Russian’s phone. He tapped the screen to display the message:

Status report requested.

King realized that he held in his hand a direct link to Brainstorm. One of the oldest maxims of war was: “Know your enemy,” but King knew nothing about Brainstorm. Was it, as Deep Blue had speculated, an artificially intelligent computer network? Or was it just an ordinary human with extraordinary resources and an ego to match? Sokoloff’s phone was a loose thread on the curtain behind which Brainstorm hid. It was time to pull that thread.

He quickly scrolled through the archive of messages between the hitman and his employer. Sokoloff’s relationship with Brainstorm went back several weeks. There was no way that the contract could be tied to a desire to protect Bluelight, since that problem hadn’t even been recognized until much later. That meant it was personal; Brainstorm was afraid of King.

It was all there: the plot to use Pierce to lure King into the open, instructions on where to acquire equipment, bank account information and of course, the most important thing, a direct number that led to Brainstorm…or would at least, until it became apparent that the assassin had failed.

Time to strike the first blow
, King thought.

He tapped out a reply:

It’s done. King is dead.

###

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

JEREMY ROBINSON
is the author of eleven novels including PULSE, INSTINCT, and THRESHOLD the first three books in his exciting Jack Sigler series. His novels have been translated into nine languages. He is also the director of New Hampshire AuthorFest, a non-profit organization promoting literacy. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and three children.

Click here for a sample of Robinson’s novel, THE LAST HUNTER

Visit him on the web, here:
www.jeremyrobinsononline.com

SEAN ELLIS
is the author of several novels. He is a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom, and has a Bachelor of Science degree in Natural Resources Policy from Oregon State University. He lives in Arizona, where he divides his time between writing, adventure sports, and trying to figure out how to save the world.

Click here for a sample of Ellis’s novel, DARK TRINITY - ASCENDENT

Visit him on the web, here:
seanellisthrillers.webs.com

—SAMPLE—

THE LAST HUNTER by JEREMY ROBINSON

Available for $2.99 on Kindle:
Click here to buy!

DESCRIPTION:

I've been told that the entire continent of Antarctica groaned at the moment of my birth. The howl tore across glaciers, over mountains and deep into the ice. Everyone says so. Except for my father; all he heard was Mother’s sobs. Not of pain, but of joy, so he says. Other than that, the only verifiable fact about the day I was born is that an iceberg the size of Los Angeles broke free from the ice shelf a few miles off the coast. Again, some would have me believe the fracture took place as I entered the world. But all that really matters, according to my parents, is that I, Solomon Ull Vincent, the first child born on Antarctica—the first and only Antarctican—was born on September 2nd, 1974.

If only someone could have warned me that, upon my return to the continent of my birth thirteen years later, I would be kidnapped, subjected to tortures beyond comprehension and forced to fight...and kill. If only someone had hinted that I'd wind up struggling to survive in a subterranean world full of ancient warriors, strange creatures and supernatural powers.

Had I been warned I might have lived a normal life. The human race might have remained safe. And the fate of the world might not rest on my shoulders. Had I been warned....

This is my story—the tale of Solomon Ull Vincent—The Last Hunter.

EXCERPT:

12

My foot rolls on a bone as I kick away from the bodies. There’s so many of them, I can’t make out what I’m seeing. It’s like someone decided to play a game of pick-up sticks with discarded bones. I fall backwards, landing on a lumpy mass. My hands are out, bracing against injury. Rubbery flesh breaks my fall, its coarse hair tickling between my fingers. I haven’t seen the body beneath me, but I know—somehow—that it’s dead.

Long dead.

This is little comfort, however. After finding my footing, I stand bolt upright. My chest heaves with each breath. Each draw of air is deep, but the oxygen isn’t getting to my head. I try breathing through my nose, and the rotten stench of old meat and something worse twists my stomach with the violence of a tornado. I drop to one knee, fighting a dry heave.

“Slow down,” I tell myself. “Breathe.”

I breathe through my mouth. I can
taste
the foul air, but I force each breath into my lungs, hold it and then let it out slowly. Just like I learned at soccer practice. I only lasted a few practices before giving up, but at least I came away with something. Calm down. Focus. Breathe.

My body settles. I’m no longer shaking. But when I look up I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. Stars blink in the darkness, like when you stand up too fast. But they’re not floating around. They’re just tiny points of light, like actual stars, but I get the feeling they’re a lot closer. The brightest of the light points are directly behind me, and to test my theory I reach out for them. My hand strikes a solid wall.

Stone.

The points of light are small glowing stones, crystals maybe. I’d be fascinated if I weren’t absolutely terrified.