Killzone: Book 1 of the Shadowkill Trilogy

PROLOGUE

How long as he been like this?

Almost four years, Mr. President.

Four? the President asks. Something else I can tag onto my predecessor. I’m sure the press would love to hear about this one. Not sure what good it would do now. Fox would just report that it’s me blaming Bush for everything. Even MSNBC is starting to follow their lead a bit on that one. I didn’t think you kept them here that long.

Dr. Brian Humphrey folds his hands together. This one is a special case, sir, he says. He saw some intense fighting in Ramadi during the summer of 2006. He and three others were kidnapped by insurgents. Before they were to be executed, he was rescued by a group of Special Forces.

What about the other three?

Executed. He was the only one to survive. He was in the old Walter Reed facility before it was shut down.

Marine?

Yes, Mr. President.

His plan for the day had been simple: visit some troops with Sasha at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, pose for a few pictures to prove he’s a friend of the military, and then play a round of golf. His drive has been getting amiss lately, and has a pro scheduled to help him with it. Then, Sasha had asked about a man wearing restraints.

At first, Dr. Humphrey tried to direct her attention elsewhere, but she was relentless.

Possibly a future President herself. Now that would definitely rock Dr. King’s world.

Dr. Humphrey knelt next to her and said, It’s to protect himself. So he isn’t able to do himself harm.

That’s when he asked how long the young man had been like this.

Barack has one of his Secret Service agents escort his daughter away while he walks over to the young man. He’s black, cleanly-shaven, and at one time probably had a full head of black hair. His hair is light gray, on the verge of being all white.

PTSD, I assume? the President asks.

Dr. Humphrey nods and says, All he talks about are shadows, robots, and aliens.

May I see his chart?

Yes, Mr. President.

Barack scans the chart of Mr. Corey Hickman, from rural Alabama, a Marine Gunnery Sergeant who served a tour in Iraq.

You aren’t the first President to visit Corey. President Bush was here about a year ago. I believe that was his fourth visit to this young man.

Shadows! a sharp voice pierces the air.

The five Secret Service agents behind the President all clamor around him. Then, when they realize the young man is in restraints, three back out into the hallway.

Corey Hickman stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide, jaw gnawing on an imaginary piece of meat.

The President stands beside him. Mr. Hickman, I want to thank you for your years of service to this nation. Is there anything we can do for you?

Shadows, Corey whispers. Beware of the shadows.

Just then, the man blinks and looks over at Barack. He tugs at the restraints, stretching his fingers towards him.

Can you unlock this one restraint? the President asks.

I wouldn’t advise it, sir.

Did he ever shake George’s—er President Bush’s hand?

Dr. Humphrey shakes his head.

Unlock it please.

Yes, Mr. President, Humphrey says, sighing.

Two Secret Service men stand along the other side of the bed. Once the restraint securing his right hand is released, the young man slowly lifts a hand. Barack shakes it and says, Thank you, Mr. Hickman, for your service. It is a true honor to meet you. Is there anything more we can do for you?

Hickman’s breathing starts growing more pronounced. He nods and says, I would . . . I would . . . I would . . .

Yes, Mr. Hickman?

As Barack leans in, so does one of the Secret Service agents. In an instant, Corey reaches up and snatches the agent’s pistol free from the shoulder holster—a feat deemed impossible for the most, but with someone of Corey’s military background, it was all part of the training. Then, before the agent can react, the young man presses the gun underneath his own chin and fires the trigger.

A resonating bang echoes throughout the room and hallway, causing the other agents to storm inside, pistols drawn.

Barack remains frozen, staring at the blood and brain-splattered wall, certain his face and shirt have also been sprayed.

Thanks God Sasha wasn’t here to see this.

* * *

Could you turn that up, please?

The bartender grabs the remote. The green bar along the bottom of the screen, superimposed along the BREAKING NEWS banner, grows with the number. Need a refill, buddy?

The bald man strokes his graying goatee. When he was in the military, he had to shave his face clean every single day. Even though it’s been close to two decades since that time, he’s only grown facial hair within the last six months. He used to have a crewcut too, but, after a brief bout of cancer three years ago where he lost his hair during the intense chemotherapy treatments, he’s loved the cue-ball look ever since. He pushes the near-empty glass forward.

His cell phone rings, his ringtone set on the Star Spangled Banner. He immediately answers it. Been waiting for you to call, sir.

Just have a few more things to get ready, Rex, the man on the other end says.

What about this other thing? Rex asks. It’s all over the news.

How much are they saying?

The usual banter. Democrats are blaming the Republicans for some Gulf War Bush-era bullshit and the Republicans are blaming the Democrats on their lack of leadership within the Secret Service.

Anything about the victim?

They’re not releasing his name, says Rex, but an unnamed source is saying he was a Marine Gulf War vet from ought-six.

That’s it? Not where he was stationed in oh six or that he was rescued by a group of Special Forces?

No.

Let’s hope it stays that way.

The door to the bar in downtown Austin, Texas, opens. In walks a young man who weaves his way over and sits next to Rex.

I’ll have what he’s having, the kid says.

Rex shoves the full glass of beer to the side. He holds the phone away from his mouth. Let’s go with the hard stuff, kid. You’re buying.

The kid flips a twenty onto the bar, and the bartender sets out two shot glasses. He grabs a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from behind the counter and readily fills them up.

As soon as the bottle is out of sight, Rex slams his down. He looks over at the kid. We’re in for a long day.

* * *

The motorcade drives away, the President’s personal limousine only housing one other occupant besides him: the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. His daughter Sasha is riding in the car behind him.

Just need a private moment with someone who may know a little more than what I’ve been told.

How could something like that happen? Barack asks.

The agent, I guess, was a little too close-

I don’t mean what happened today—although I want answers on that too. I mean, how could that young man be in that disparaging condition for so long? I know war can have an affect on people, but . . . to see it in his eyes, one wonders why we even do it. Why we go to war.

There’s evil in the world, Mr. President, the chairman says. There always has been. No one can make it go away. Not even us.

The President nods. I know. The press is going have a field day with the Secret Service. It’ll be worse than the sex scandal they had a few years ago.

The young man was very disturbed, the chairman says. He turns to look outside. I knew him. Corey Hickman. He was a damn fine soldier, Mr. President. It was tragic what happened today, but . . . I honestly think it was the best for him.

How could you say that?

War has an affect on people, just like you said, sir. I don’t think he ever would’ve been released from his own demons. As the buildings fly by in a blur, the chairman says, But there is truth to what he said.

You mean, the aliens and such? You’ve got to be joking.

No, not aliens. He faces Barack, leaning towards him. Shadows, Mr. President.

CHAPTER ONE

Wow, look at all those people, Lucas Simmons said to his friend, Tre Paxton. The long line outside of the Best Buy store in Grand Forks, North Dakota, wrapped around the corner and down along the entire north side of the building. Near the front were small domed tents, with the residents wrapped up in sleeping bags and heavy winter coats. Further to the rear were those with lighter coats and sporting neither hats nor gloves, their hands shoved into pockets. They can’t all be here to get the game.

Tre smiled. What else would it be? Sucks to be them though. Good thing we got the golden tickets. He patted his coat pocket.

Lucas can sympathize with those standing in line, for he would’ve done the same thing if they weren’t guaranteed an advance copy of the latest video game craze since Grand Theft Auto and Halo 2. Heard on the news these stores only have a handful to sell. And once they’re gone, it’ll be two or three months before they get more.

"Wonder if they know that? asked Tre, cocking a thumb towards the crowd. Saw any selling on eBay?"

Of course, said Lucas. I checked last night. You remember how many advance copies they guaranteed?

One hundred, I believe. Or was it five hundred? No, I think it’s one. I wonder if we’ll be the only ones from around here.

"I still think it’s weird we both got one. Almost like it was rigged. But if it was, why us? We’re pretty good, but there are thousands playing their games online. It’s not like we’re MeJabba or Punisher."