Gabriel's Redemption Read online

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Timeline

  Sneak Preview of Gabriel’s Return

  An Independent Author’s Plea

  Gabriel’s Redemption

  by Steve Umstead

  Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Josh Powers & Steve Umstead

  Published by ReactionMass Media, February 2011

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  For more information on the author, visit

  www.SteveUmstead.com

  Chapter 1

  Evan dove into the clear blue water, leaving the safety of the catamaran behind, and swam deep, adjusting his goggles as he kicked. He felt more than heard his older brother Zack hit the water behind him, then a second hollow splash as Tyler followed. Evan knew he was ahead of the other boys, that he’d find his quarry first, but he also knew in the back of his mind he was the youngest and the smallest, and still had to work the hardest.

  As he passed twelve feet, he took a quick peek over his shoulder, pinching his nose and snorting to equalize the pressure. The nearly-transparent Caribbean water allowed him to see that his sixteen-year-old cousin Tyler had already caught and passed fourteen-year-old Zack, another age and size advantage Evan didn’t have.

  At eleven, Evan was fortunate enough to still be able to hang out with the older boys…but today was different. He could feel it, something in the warm salty air. He knew this time he’d be the one telling stories over conch ceviche on the beach, the one who’d be the center of attention once he retrieved the first shell from the white sand bottom. He spotted the perfect candidate, partially buried and barely noticeable. Easily the largest anyone would find today. He kicked hard away from the charging Tyler, reaching out with one hand…

  *****

  Gabriel awoke with a start, jerking his head up from the tattered pillow, and instinctively reached out for his gun. His right hand found it in its customary place, less than two feet from his head, on the peeling laminate of the nightstand. His fingers closed around the Heckart’s worn grip, his neuretic brain implants sending the code to arm and charge the weapon. Every muscle in his body was tensed like steel cord. What the hell woke me up? he thought. Something in the air, some out of the ordinary sound, something over and above the usual Jamaican street buzz.

  He sat up in bed, weapon held tightly. The reassuring tingle in his palm indicating the Heckart was armed and fully charged. He peered around, eyes adjusting to the feeble moonlight leaking in the cracked window. Hotel room just as he left it, window opened less than three inches to combat the stifling Caribbean heat, a heat unusual for December. His neuretics fired off a quick burst, confirming none of his motion alarms had been triggered. What was out of place, what caused the sharp reaction?

  He debated running a somewhat-risky active scan when the sound of clinking glass wafted in from outside and his eyes darted to the window. Muffled laughter, an old man coughing, the screech of a cat, and more clinking as last night’s Red Stripe bottles were kicked over. More coughing, a muttered patois curse towards the cat, then silence.

  He slid noiselessly to the window, staying out of the dust-filled moonbeams piercing the seedy hotel room. Back to the wall, weapon next to his ear, he stole a quick glance outside. His second floor room afforded a sweeping view of the street and its dilapidated buildings. Years ago Jamaica was a tourism mecca, but that had changed drastically since the Dark Days and the ensuing devastation of most lowlying land areas. This Ocho Rios street was a living example of third-world society’s collapse: strewn with garbage, overflowing dumpsters, and countless lost souls looking for the next day’s meal, drink, or narcotic.

  Below him, across the street, was a gaunt Jamaican, the upper half of his body bent into a dumpster, refuse flying out behind him as he dug through the mess. At his feet were dozens of empty beer bottles, softly chiming a mournful melody as his bare feet brushed against them. A pathetic-looking cat sat in judgement on the top of the waste container, watching silently, waiting for its chance at scraps.

  Gabriel scanned the full length of the street in one direction, then stepped back. Edging to the other side of the window, he repeated the security sweep, weapon at the ready. He switched his left eye to infrared, still wanting to avoid an active scan that may alert another to his presence. Nothing. Just a sad old man, a reflection on the post-Dark Days society in general, had interrupted what may have been his only true sleep in weeks.

  He shook his head slowly with a grimace, and moved back to the bed. He checked his neuretics’ passive sensors, and satisfied he was alone, set the safed Heckart on the nightstand. He crawled back into bed, turning the sweat-stained pillow over, and tried desperately to get back into the childhood dream he had woken from.

  *****

  “Unbelievable, Evan,” said Tyler. “Never saw anything like it. You were like a kid possessed out there.” The sixteen-year-old crunched into another tortilla chip slathered with habanero salsa. “Biggift freakin’ conff I ever faw.” Chunks of tomato tumbled from his mouth onto his lap, then onto the white sand.

  Zack chuckled in agreement. “Can’t believe your skinny ass could lift it up from the bottom.” His tortilla was more carefully constructed, just a few pieces of conch ceviche and a spoonful of the spicy salsa.

  Tyler laughed, salsa mixed with tortilla crumbs flying from his lips. “Zack, you couldn’t even get past ten feet. How do you even know he got it? Maybe it was me all along, and I’m just giving little Mr. Gabriel the credit. Next time try clearing your ears.”

  Evan just listened silently, chewing on conch. He held another skewer of the white meat over the edge of the bonfire the boys had built after beaching the catamaran at their secret family spot, a tiny deserted island just south of Cuba. He smiled to himself. Nice to finally be the center of attention, he thought.

  He looked over at his father and uncle, sitting on beach chairs at the waterline with a bucket of iced Carib lagers between them, talking and chuckling in muffled tones. He hadn’t seen his uncle in three years; always off-planet on some secretive Special Forces mission. And his father…well, he hadn’t really been around much either, at least mentally. Ever since Evan’s mother died, his father had been distant, withdrawn. He was glad to see him smiling again.

  Maybe my uncle will even let me finish his beer like he did that time when we…

  “Hey, Ev, finish your snack and get us some sodas!” yelled Tyler, wiping his hands on his bathing suit.

  Zack stood up, knocking Evan’s soda bottle over, the once-cold liquid seeping into the white san
d. “Oops, might as well make that three. Go on, little man, time’s a-wasting!”

  The two older boys ran towards the water, kicking sand up as they flew by the adults. His uncle flicked a bottle cap at the boys as they ran, laughing. Back to reality, Evan thought, his conch victory long forgotten. He launched himself from his chair towards the water…

  *****

  There! The sound; the mysterious, unexplained, almost inaudible sound that woke him the first time. His eyes flew open, gun already in hand and tingling, his rigid body heading for the window. Outside, nothing. No old man, no cat, no movement. Something’s wrong, and now that dream’s gone for good. He queried the motion alarms; again all reported back as clean. Padding over to the hotel room door, he heard the stairs outside in the hall creak. He froze, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. Oh-four-thirty, not a time for anyone to be stalking the halls.

  The creaking came closer, definitely on his floor. His passive scan didn’t detect anyone - wait, there. Two of them, both hazed in a weak stealth field. He sent out a low-level active scan, and it burned right through the government-issue stealth. His Mindseye system superimposed images across his vision - two bodies, one short, one massive. End of the long hall, 80 feet away, walking slowly in his direction. His scan showed no weapons, not even kinetic or blunt instrument. Nothing more solid on either of them than a pair of glasses on the short one, and a large belt buckle on the larger one.

  He pressed his back into the wall next to the doorframe, waiting. The creaks increased in volume, then stopped. They were right outside the door. The gun’s carbotanium was cool on his cheek as his finger brushed absently on the trigger pad. Neuretics on full alert, he waited.

  Oddly enough, they knocked. A soft knuckle rap as if they didn’t want to wake anyone. He continued to wait, ready to spring. Another knock, this time slightly louder. “Evan Gabriel?” came a light call, almost falsetto.

  Bizarre, he thought. If someone tracked him down, all the way to Jamaica, it couldn’t be a social visit. He had done his very best to erase any evidence of his whereabouts. So why were they knocking and announcing their presence?

  “Evan Gabriel, we know you’re in there. Already talked to the night manager, showed him your picture,” came the falsetto voice. After a pause, it continued. “Please, we need to speak. We’ve been traveling all night.”

  Now he was beyond puzzlement. Assassins or commandos don’t usually ask politely to chat with their marks before dropping them. He stepped away from the wall a few inches and pressed the barrel of his weapon to the surface of the door, leaning his head across to peer out the peephole. He regretted not having placed any AV bugs in the hall. Laziness will get you killed one of these days, he thought.

  Two men stood outside his door, one barely tall enough for his head to be seen through the hole, and one large enough to probably have trouble fitting through the door. Both in business suits, jackets open, both empty handed, and both sweating profusely. The short man waved, peering up at the hole. “Sir, we really need to speak,” came his tiny voice. “You know we’re unarmed, we picked up your scan. Honestly I’m dead tired. Please, just a moment of your time.”

  He slid to the other side of the door, changing hands with his pistol, wrestling with the paradox. No one should know he was here, and if someone did, he’d probably be in jail — or dead — by now. And Fat Man and Little Boy outside called him by name without blowing down the door and coming in with a full squad. Can’t live forever…

  “Who are you, mon? Who ‘dis Evan you be speaking of? Go ‘way, now, I needa rest,” he tried in his best rasta accent.

  He heard a soft snort. “Mr. Gabriel, it’s been a very long day and night for us. This won’t take but a minute. We’ll both turn around and put our hands on the opposite wall. Please, just open the door so we can talk.”

  He brought the gun back and ran another scan. His Mindseye image showed that both men had stepped to the side of the hall and were in frisk-me position, hands on the chipped plaster wall, the big man’s nearly touching the ceiling. He sent a disable command to the motion alarms and slowly undid the locks with his left hand. His right hand still gripped the Heckart tightly. He turned the knob.

  Pale yellow light from the hallway spilled into the hotel room as he edged into the doorway, fully charged and armed mag pistol trained on the two men. “Slowly turn around to face me, hands on top of your heads,” he said in a low voice. “And I want those shit stealth fields off.”

  Fat Man and Little Boy did as instructed; Gabriel’s neuretics confirmed the fields dropped. Little Boy motioned with a downwards nod of his head. “I have an envelope for you, it’s in my right inside pocket.” His eyes never left the muzzle of the pistol, the targeting laser dot placed squarely over his heart.

  Gabriel slowly moved the pistol in Fat Man’s direction, the dot jumping from man to man. “You, right hand on top of your head, reach across with your left hand and take out the envelope. And please, it’s been a long night for me as well. Don’t give me a excuse to wake everyone else up with two bodies hitting the floor.”

  Fat Man complied, obviously understanding the danger inherent in the nearly-silent and highly-lethal 7mm Heckart, and reached over in front of Little Boy, withdrawing a small beige envelope with a red seal from the other’s jacket pocket.

  “Toss it over,” Gabriel commanded, weapon still pointed at the men.

  Fat Man gave a snap of the wrist, and the envelope dropped neatly at Gabriel’s feet.

  “Actual paper, huh? How quaint. What’s in it?” he asked, flicking the gun towards the envelope.

  Little Boy sighed. “Commander Evan Gabriel, NAF Naval Special Forces, by order of the Director of Naval Intelligence of the North American Federation, you are hereby recalled to active duty.”

  Fat Man grunted, finally speaking. “Something big’s come up. We’re here to take you back home, sir.” He cracked a grin, revealing a missing front tooth. “Whether you like it or not.”

  For the first time, Evan Gabriel’s pistol wavered. Of all the places he could have gone to hide out and escape the world, his childhood vacation retreat of Jamaica seemed to be the perfect backwater location — the last place anyone would look for him. And now, it was all over.

  “Let me get my shoes.”

  Dozens of small, dark faces pressed against the grimy windows of Sangster International Airport’s main terminal. They stared out, mesmerized, as the tilt-turbine Combat Raven spooled up its engines, squatting on the cracked tarmac like a hungry tiger about to pounce on a gazelle. Dirt and debris scattered from the hot jet wash, peppering a nearby fuel truck with the sound of marbles being dropped onto a tin roof. The children watching murmured amongst themselves. Their eyes widened as the turbines reached a high-pitched whine. The pulsejet engines began to thrum a steady, low beat heard even in the deepest recesses of the dilapidated airport.

  With a final burst of power, the Combat Raven leaped into the air on twin tongues of plasma. Ripples of heat made the tarmac shimmer as the aircraft blasted skyward. The children pointed excitedly as they watched the midnight blue bird of prey speed away over the crumbling cruise ship pier, engine nacelles rotating to horizontal. Within seconds it had shrunken to a tiny dot over the Caribbean.

  Inside the aircraft, Evan Gabriel turned his face away from the viewport and scrunched down into a more comfortable position in the jumpseat. The Combat Raven was the heavily armed and shielded version of the NAF Aerospace Force Raven transport aircraft. Having to make room for the additional weaponry and sensor suites left very little in the way of personal comforts.

  Normally able to seat 40 fully-suited and geared drop troopers in ten rows of four (with a convenient aisle down the middle; not so much for flight attendants to serve beverages as for a 220 pound soldier with his or her 40 pound pack to squeeze down), the Combat Raven stripped those cushioned seats out and replaced them with fold-down nylon webbing and carbotanium frame benches along each side. Down the cen
ter, ostensibly the aisle, rose a hump running the length of the interior, packed with electronic warfare equipment. At the rear was a weapons blister, a small glass bubble revealing the automated turret stashed below the craft, only a few inches protruding above the cabin floor. All the viewports save for two small ones on each side had been replaced for defensive armoring.

  At the very rear, what used to be the restroom area on the transport aircraft, sat rows of consoles for countermeasures and radar/lidar stations; only one operator was present for this trip. The lone ECM tech sat facing away from the cabin with old-fashioned headphones covering his ears. He paid no attention to the additional cargo the Combat Raven had picked up, completely focused on what the sensor suite was giving him via video, audio, and neural input. Gabriel wondered idly what threats could even remotely be present in this backwater area of the Caribbean. Toronto had certainly sent a full package for his retrieval, including the two agents sitting across from him.

  They had introduced themselves on the drive to the airport as Javier (Little Boy) and Hugh (Fat Man), no last names given. They were out of the NAF capitol of Toronto, listed as diplomatic attachés, obviously on the payroll of SpecFor. Javier had prattled on the entire one hour ride about himself; he had been with the government since college, his wife worked in an appliance store selling extended warranties (she had just been promoted from cashier, Javier had said with an odd pride), no kids, no plans other than waiting for his next paycheck.