Текст книги "Driver Chronicles: Book 1 - The Passenger"

Автор книги: Niall Roche

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 7 страниц)

Chapter 23

Jason pulled his cab up outside the clinic and sat there, waiting for Heller to get out, but nothing happened. He turned around and saw that Heller was just staring out the window, scratching his chin. He was lost in his own thoughts yet again by the look of things.

"Heller, we’re done. It’s time for you to go.”

Heller just sat there silently, but obviously running something over in his mind.

"Do you know what an empath is, Jason?"

Jason paused, checked his mind quickly, and realized that he had no idea. He said as much. "I have absolutely no idea, Heller. None. Why?"

"Because you are one. That's part of your gift. It's the reason you can sense trouble coming. It's the reason you survived the IED (Improvised Explosive Device) blast and no one else in your unit did."

Jason’s blood ran cold again. How the hell could Heller know about that? No one did. He barely even thought about it himself, except during the long nights when his mind kept him awake. What gift was he talking about?

Chapter 24

Jason winced at the thought. Those few minutes of his life were never going to leave him. The flash, a split second of silence, and then the entire world around him being torn apart.

That patrol through Helmand was meant to be a cake walk. They were just meeting up with local militia to make sure there were no major tribal issues going down before they shipped out home. It was a small patrol with a Striker, two Hummers, and a support vehicle – no heavy weapons with them. Their presence was being wound down, so no one saw the need to bring any “artillery” along on this trip. Hindsight is always 20/20 though, isn’t it?

The guys in his unit had been buzzing about getting home and getting out of the asshole of the world that was Helmand Province. Everyone was in a good mood, and even the local militia they were visiting weren't exactly hardcore dudes, just locals trying to defend their own patch of dirt, in the middle of a far bigger patch of dirt.

Jason sat in the back staring out the window as they rounded the corner to the next village on their patrol. Everything looked normal. Kids playing, goats running, and the usual look of apprehension on the faces of the village elders. They’d seen more than one foreign army in their country during their lifetime, and they trusted none of them. He remembered thinking that they'd be done and dusted here in 20 minutes, or maybe less if they were lucky. The entire unit would get to go home intact, and he was grateful for that. They’d led a charmed life so far.

It was a typical day in Afghanistan, hot and tense. They’d been on patrol all morning and the thought of it ending was appealing to everyone inside the hummer they shared. Spirits were high and the banter was good.

The next thing Jason heard was a voice inside his head shouting, "Down. Get down. NOW!"

Without thinking, he hit the floor of the Hummer on instinct, assuming it was an NCO barking an order at him. Questioning orders was either likely to get you killed far too quickly, or not at all. So far, obeying combat orders had kept him alive, so when he heard an order barked, he moved without thinking.

At first, there was a bright flash and then the shockwave hit their vehicle a split second later. It was a big one, too. It blew out Jason's ears, he felt like he'd been shot against a concrete wall by one of those big cannons they shoot circus clowns out of. For those few moments, he existed in a world of noise, pain, and heat, and then everything went quiet.

When he opened his eyes again, most of their Hummer was gone. So was most of his unit. What was left of them was still inside the vehicle though. He was wearing parts of them, and whatever was left was still strapped into their respective seats. The Hajis usually waited for a Striker or Hummer to pass over the IED before setting it off remotely, but the extra armor plating they used defeated most of these. These clever SOBs had mounted the 155mm shell that formed the heart of their IED above ground so it opened the Hummer like a beer can when it detonated.

He'd propped himself up on his elbows, trying to stand but he found that impossible. The best he could manage was kneeling there with blood pouring out of his ears, nose, and mouth, while a loud ringing inside his head meant he could barely think, never mind do anything useful.

Seconds later, the other Hummer crew members were pulling him out of the shredded vehicle he was kneeling in and to safety. The Striker was on station scanning for additional electronic signals and ready to lay down fire on anything that moved.   Combat always seemed to be more about reacting than anything else.

These were always the most dangerous moments after any IED incident, the moment where a careless word or movement was enough to get dozens of people shot to pieces. The villagers knew that anyone even looking at a cell phone was likely to have their ass blown straight to hell, and no one would apologize for it afterward. Most of the locals just stood there looking afraid, waiting for all hell to break loose.

As he watched the scene around him, Jason quickly figured out that he was the sole survivor of his unit. No one else made it, so he couldn't ever be sure who gave the order to get down, or why they didn't try to save themselves, too. They’d obviously seen what was coming and tried to warn everyone else.

A medivac came swooping in less than 30-minutes later, backed up by a pair of gunships. No one had expected this and judging by the way people were looking at him, no one could figure out why Jason Armstrong was still alive. After he was loaded onboard, the medivac chopper pulled up and banked away from the village, but Jason caught glimpses of teams going house-to-house, trying to find the guys behind the IED. No chance of that. Those guys were long gone, and so was whoever pulled the remote trigger. The villagers were never going to give them up either, or they’d be wiped out by the Hajis the same night. This was a lose-lose for everyone involved.

Seeing what was left of his buddies inside that Hummer never left him. Not even for one night. Jason didn't think it ever would.

Chapter 25

Jason snapped back to reality and found himself staring at Heller, but not being able to say anything. His mind was racing but nothing else was happening. This guy knew far too much about his background. He knew stuff about that day no one else did, not even the few close friends Jason still had.

He blurted out, "How the hell do you know about th..", but stopped himself short. This guy obviously had the kind of connections where finding out details about your military record was going to be child's play. This guy had lots of connections. It also confirmed for Jason that Heller wasn’t just some random old guy with a crazy story to tell.

"Heller, I've tried to live with what happened for the last 5 years of my life. I've had the whole vet counseling routine, PTSD treatments, and a couple of years of heavy drinking just so I could forget about it. You're like one of those people you meet in life who leaves a trail of sadness behind them wherever they go."

Jason paused angrily. He didn’t want to talk about conspiracies, “gifts”, or the past for a split second longer. "I've had enough of your shit for one night. Get out.”

Heller slowly opened the door of the taxi after shoving a small bundle of notes into Jason’s hand. He grabbed his small bag and calmly got out onto the sidewalk. Jason could see in his face that he understood just how angry he was, and that pushing this whole thing any further was a bad idea. No matter how dangerous Heller might have been, he was still an old man, and a frail one at that.

"In fact, I have no idea why I should give a damn about anything you've said!" Jason ranted. "Why the hell should I care?"

Heller stopped mid-stride, turned around, and said, "Why the hell should you care, Jason? That's an easy one to answer."

Jason just sat there, waiting.

Heller's eyes narrowed to a slit and with just a hint of a smile, he murmured, "Your father, Jason. That's why."

Bill Heller turned around, stepped inside the front door of the clinic, and disappeared from sight seconds later.

Jason sat very still in the darkness that seemed to be crowding around him.

"My father?"

Jason Armstrong returns in the second book of this series, Driver Chronicles. Book 2 – The Council, which is available right now on Amazon.com. Woohoo!

Amazon US

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00T23PG32/

Amazon UK/Ireland

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00T23PG32/

Amazon Canada

http://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B00T23PG32/

If you want to stay updated on the release dates of future books, please go check out Niall’s Facebook page here -> Niall Roche Books or https://www.facebook.com/niallrochebooks

Alternatively, you can head over to his blog here: http://niallroche.com/ and add your name to his mailing list. At least that way he can email you when new books become available, or bore you senseless with whatever has popped into his that day.

Driver Chronicles – Book 2 – Chapter 1

The first punch woke Jason up like a smack addict waking from a cold-turkey dream. He felt like he'd been drowning inside his own head, caught in the middle of some horrible nightmare, and he'd only just surfaced for air. His mind still wasn't focusing the way he'd like it to, so reality at this point in time was a little bit fuzzy and a whole lot confusing. He knew he'd taken a beating, but he was having a lot of trouble remembering who was beating him, or even why they were doing that.

You see, being punched in real life is pretty much nothing like how it is in the movies. Movie punches are traded in multiples, with no one really getting hurt; you see some guy getting socked in the jaw twenty times, and he gets right back up again. But being punched in real life by some guy, with even just a little bit of anger toward you, is like having a small explosive set off inside your skull. Then, after the explosion comes the dull throbbing as your body tries to cope with the incredible amounts of pain coursing through your nerve endings. You're usually seeing stars and hearing bells shortly after being punched by anyone who knows what they're doing when it comes to actually throwing a punch in the first place. You can always tell the difference, too, by the way.

He wasn't any stranger to brawling, so he knew that whoever was working him over knew what they were doing. He could taste blood in his mouth again; it had that weird coppery taste to it that you can't really understand unless you've ever tasted it. Jason knew he was dealing with at least one complete badass here, and he was anxious to find out who they were and exactly what he'd done to grab so much of their violent attention.

All he could tell by glancing through the fog over his eyes was that he was in a very big room, with a very bright light source hanging over his head. The ache in his wrists also told him that someone had tied him up pretty good, and maybe even used some handcuffs to keep him still. Yup, he could feel them biting into his wrist. Handcuffs also meant these guys weren't amateurs, which wasn't exactly the best news in the entire world.

It's always a tough thing to guess exactly how big a big, dark room is, even if you haven't had your ass repeatedly kicked by a group of strange men just before you go playing that particular guessing game. He listened for anything that might give him a clue to where he was, but all he heard was empty space. Lots and lots of empty space.

Jason filled his lungs and yelled out, "Hello!?" as loudly as he could. This was partly in the hope that someone would answer him, and another part of it was trying to figure out how big this room was. He closed his eyes to listen. Okay...this place was obviously some kind of giant cave based on the fact he heard no real echo. There was also the chance he was in a prepared interrogation room, which meant these guys were professionals.

He suddenly became aware of movement to his right and turned his head quickly enough to see someone's fist slam into the side of his face with just enough force to hurt him, but not actually break his jaw. The same figure then moved silently back into the shadows as quickly as it appeared. His head swam a little from the sucker punch, but he hadn't passed out. Good. He had a feeling he'd passed out several times already though. In fact, he was sure of it.

“He's a tough sonofabitch, I'll give him that,” a voice said from somewhere in the shadows. Another voice seemed to grunt in approval, but that was the end of the conversation between them.

“Who the hell are you? What do you want with me?” Jason asked.

“Who we are isn't important, Mr. Armstrong. We know who we are, and we also know exactly who you are, too.”

Shit, these guys know my name, too. This wasn't just some elaborate mugging or college prank then. This was the real deal. He was officially being tortured, but not beaten to death. He counted his lucky stars for that right now. He was also thanking those same lucky stars that his night vision had taken the time to adjust to the room, allowing his eyes to focus on a single figure standing just within the arc of the light from the overhead lighting. His arms were crossed and a ski mask covered his features. You could tell, even in the dark, this guy was built, and more than capable of taking care of himself. Jason knew the mystery man wasn't alone though, because he could hear other feet shuffling around in the room from time to time.

“Well, if you know so much about me, why the hell are you pounding my face in?” Jason said.

“We need to be certain that you're not holding back. We need to be certain that you're telling us everything you know,” the voice growled.

Jason was having trouble remembering very much right now, so he decided to clarify things a little. “Tell you everything about what? If you keep rattling my brain around inside my skull, pretty soon, I'm going to forget my own name and start pissing my pants when I cough.”

A whisper of feet from behind him and a sharp open-handed slap to the back of his head was accompanied by, “Less of your funny yap-yap, taxi man.” Jason turned to explain how he felt about being slapped like that using very colorful language, but the figure had already disappeared back into the shadows of the room.

“Listen, guys, if you just tell me what you want to know, I'll be on my way, and you can get back to the terrorist clothing and minimalist lighting convention you're running here. How does that sound?”

He was sure he heard a snort of laughter from somewhere in the room. Then again, it might have been inside his own head. That happened sometimes.

“Mr. Armstrong, if you want to walk out of this room in one piece, we want to know every single goddamned thing you know about William Heller,” the main voice said.

The words 'Oh shit, on shit, oh shit' flashed on and off like faulty neon signs inside Jason's mind.

First, the crazy old man, and his stories, and now, these guys.

This had not been a good month. No, sir. Not a good month at all, and it didn't look like it was going to improve any time soon.