Separation Zone Read online

  Wilson Rousseau was the team’s wererat and also tended to attract trouble. If there was something idiotic happening, odds were, Wilson had something to do with it. Normally, he was the start of it all.

  Jon flipped his communications unit back on. He preferred to have it off when possible. With Lance acting as his backup and spotter should he require one, he let Lance be the one who maintained contact with the team. The moment Jon’s comm was on, he heard his teammates laughing.

  “Not funny,” said Wilson through the unit. “I was nearly toast back there.”

  “Burnt rat,” chimed Roi, a hothead who liked to tease his teammates as much as possible. The guy was also second-in-command so he tended to get away with a good deal.

  “I have Wilson,” added Green, the team medic and brainiac. “He smells like burnt flesh and I don’t think it’s his own.”

  “Gross,” said Roi, filling the airways with his banter. “Tell him I prefer my meat rare.”

  Jon glanced at Lance, who was grinning from ear-to-ear. “Hey, be happy we didn’t pull Wilson’s duty. At least we got to stay in one spot far away from overcooked bad guys.”

  “Fair point,” added Jon as he stood, his body longing for the stretch. They’d been in position for hours, and everything on him was stiff and ready to run. His inner beast had enough of lying around and wanted to be able to stretch as well.

  “Anyone hear from Jon?” asked Wilson. “Was his shot good?”

  Jon grunted. “Like they even need to ask.”

  “Protocol,” said Lance with a smirk.

  Jon retrieved one of his two gear packs, knowing his position was secure still, especially with as far out as he’d taken the shot, but old habits die hard. “Let’s go.”

  Lance grabbed Jon’s extra gear and they moved quickly down the side of the grassy ridge. Near the bottom, their team leader stood, looking calm and collected, as always.

  “Let’s roll,” said Lukian. “And I suggest you avoid breathing through your noses for a bit. Wilson smells like bad-guy barbeque.”

  “Do I even want to know why?” asked Jon.

  Lukian shook his head. “No.”

  Jon and Lance moved at a quick pace, following Lukian down another dip and then around a section of rock before cutting through a ravine and finally up a slope to the waiting extraction vehicle. The Humvee was already running, the passengers waiting for them, looking anxious.

  As promised, the vehicle smelled heavily of charred flesh. Lance coughed and shot Wilson a hard look before taking Jon’s pack from him, along with the rifle Jon was rarely without. “I’ll load this. Beats sitting next to the overdone rat.”

  “Taking exception here,” said Wilson with a sad look on his face. “Like I knew the guy wasn’t bluffing when he said he’d rather blow up his lab than let us have any intel.” He sniffed his arm. “Gah, I’m never going to get the smell of burnt egghead out of me.”

  “Now I’m taking exception,” said Green from the front of the Humvee. “I suggest we get a move on it, they’re on my tail.”

  “Agree,” said Lukian, getting in the vehicle.

  “Is it done?” Roi asked, his dark hair looking as unruly as the man. He sat in the front seat, holding a weapon close to him, his gaze darting around.

  “It’s like everyone doubts my skill,” said Jon with a laugh as he took a seat next to Wilson. The guys were right, he smelled horrible at the moment. “Roll the window down.”

  Lukian moved in and sat next to Jon in the back. The driver, Green, glanced back at Jon and said nothing. He knew the toll taking a life had on Jon. And Green knew better than to question him too much on it all. Roi lacked decorum.

  He twisted around. “Did you get ‘em?”

  Lukian grunted. “It’s done.”

  “Cool,” said Wilson before sniffing himself once more. “Seriously, what will take out this smell? Tomato juice?”

  “Douche,” said Roi with a smile. “And I’m not kidding.”

  “Fuck you,” returned Wilson.

  Lance laughed. “He’s being serious. Once I had to use it to get the smell of skunk off me. I was ‘springtime fresh’ for days after.”

  “Fuck you both then,” shot Wilson with a hard stare.

  Jon merely shook his head and glanced out the window, watching as they drove at high speed past what seemed like a serene landscape. Looking at it you’d never be able to tell they’d just uncovered a possible DNA splicing lab that they suspected was attempting to recreate the same project and experiments that brought the Immortal Ops to fruition.

  Wilson motioned to Lance. “I need a beer. Who’s with me?”

  Roi raised his hand. “Me, but not until you shower, or let us take a fire hose to you. Either one will work. Maybe. Shit, we’re gonna need a douche. I elect Lance to buy it. He’ll somehow manage to turn it into a conversation about how he loves the ladies and probably end up shagging the cashier within an hour. Of course, it might be a bit hard to explain why you had to buy every bit of it they had in stock.”

  “I’m good, but I’m not that good,” said Lance with a laugh.

  Jon stared past Lukian out the window, watching as the hillside he’d sniped from faded away in the distance. He could only imagine the chaos surrounding the target. The enemy would hunker down and try to figure out where the kill shot came from. They’d never know.

  “Drinks are on me,” Roi said from the front.

  Everyone glanced at him, surprised he’d offer to foot the tab.

  “What?” Roi asked with a shrug. “I can be a nice guy too.”

  “Since when?” Wilson questioned with a snort.

  Jon’s lips twitched. His brothers-in-arms had become a family to him. The only family he had left. They were bonded in a way others could never understand. Yet he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over him several days back. Change was coming and it wouldn’t be welcomed.

  “I’m hungry for bacon,” said Lance out of nowhere.

  The men glanced at him, each arching a brow.

  He shrugged. “What?”

  Wilson grinned and then paused, seeming very serious all of a sudden. “Life is good, guys. Really good.”

  “Yeah,” said Lance as he laid his head back and closed his eyes. “Doesn’t get much better than this. Well, unless there was bacon here. Then it would be better.”

  “Werd,” said Wilson with a finger gesture that Jon guessed was supposed to look as if Wilson had something in the way of street cred. That in itself was laughable.

  Chapter Two

  Present Day

  Tori Manzo rocked back and forth in one of the many rocking chairs on the front porch of the old farmhouse she’d called home for the past ten plus years. The home, nestled in the small, deep southern town of Nape Field, had all the charms and all the aggravations that came from living in the area. She swatted away another insect and knew it wouldn’t be too much longer before the mosquitoes would start in and pretty much eat her alive. Repellents were nothing more than human marinade to them. If they didn’t get you, the poisonous spiders and snakes or the gators would.

  The South had a way of keeping people on their toes whether or not they wanted to be on them. She wouldn’t change it, though. She’d seen enough other towns and cities to know Nape Field was right for her. It suited her needs for now and she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The people there accepted her, at least for the most part. Some still watched her with curious stares whenever she ventured to town, and others whispered as if she couldn’t hear them¸ but none had tried to run her out with proverbial pitchforks, as had been the case in some towns prior.

  That being said, Tori didn’t exactly love leaving the house or going anywhere public. It was simply easier being home. It was her safe haven.

  She closed her eyes a moment, letting the silence wash over her. No voices. No demands. No one looking for help and thinking she could give it. Just peace and quiet.

  Just the way she liked it. />
  She peeked out long enough to check her painting was still in the shade and that the sun hadn’t moved enough to shine on it before closing her eyes again. She was proud of the painting. Animals weren’t something she normally painted, but the urge to paint a tiger had come over her at some point during the night, and she’d gone with it, forgoing much in the way of sleep in order to appease her muse. The painting was still dark and somewhat haunted, lacking vibrant colors many artists would use to portray a tiger.

  Art was what paid the bills and she loved doing it, so she couldn’t complain. She wouldn’t be parting with the tiger painting, though, no matter how much her agent asked her to.

  Her grandmother would arrive soon. Tori had promised to bake apple pies using her grandmother’s exact recipe, and to see to it the potatoes for dinner were started on time. She smiled, thinking about how much she enjoyed her grandmother’s visits. She’d been coming around since before Tori could remember, and she wasn’t sure what she’d do when the woman finally went whenever or wherever it was she was supposed to be. It didn’t matter where Tori lived or how short a period she lived there—she could always count on her grandmother. Grandma was the only family she had anymore, and without her, Tori would be all alone.

  “You’re not totally alone,” her grandmother’s voice said from behind her.

  The air cooled and static energy built quickly. It always happened when Grandma came. Others didn’t seem to notice it, though. Well, they didn’t notice her grandmother, either. Tori saw many things others didn’t.

  “Because you’re special, child,” Grandma said, her hand coming to rest on Tori’s shoulder. The mere touch brought peace and ease over Tori, as it always had. Grandma had that calming effect on her. “Hmm, a tiger. That is different from your normal doom and gloom.”

  She smiled. Grandma always considered her work on the darker side. “The urge to paint it was sort of all-consuming.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Grandma, saying nothing more on the topic. “You get dinner going?”

  “I did,” said Tori, looking out at the yard. “Tell me again why you’ve started making me prepare a meal for two nightly when you don’t eat. And what is the deal with the pies? Seems like a waste, though I do like having the leftovers for lunch the following day.”

  Tori stood and turned to face the tiny woman who looked like every other person did. But she wasn’t visible to all. Only to those who could see and hear the dead.

  Like Tori.

  Grandmother winked. “If you make it, he will come.”

  Tori groaned. “I see you’ve been sneaking around and watching movies over at Ms. Porter’s again.”

  The old woman shrugged. “Maybe. You should get a satellite. Milly gets all kinds of good channels.”

  “I don’t watch television.”

  “I know. All you do is paint.”

  A fly buzzed by and Tori swatted it at.

  Her grandmother laughed. “With as dead as I am, you’d think I’d draw more of them.”

  “Oh stop,” said Tori with a laugh. She shook her head and looped her arm through her grandmother’s, leading the woman in the direction of the door. “Come on in and see if you approve of the pies.”

  “He loves apple pie,” said Grandma, her eyes crinkling with mirth. “I couldn’t keep the boy full when he was little. I imagine that his appetite has only increased now that he’s a grown man.”

  “What man?” asked Tori.

  Her grandmother winked and said nothing more as Tori opened the door and they entered. The woman was up to something. Tori had known her long enough to spot it. She just wasn’t sure what. An idea came to her and Tori paused, stepping away from her grandmother.

  “You’re not trying to get Oran and me back together, are you?” It would be ironic, since her grandmother was the reason Tori had stopped seeing the man in the first place.

  Her grandmother tsked and waved a hand in the air. “Oh, him? No. I’ve someone else in mind. He’ll be here soon enough.”

  Tori groaned. “Do I get a say in this?”

  “No. And don’t forget we’re going to the memorial tomorrow morning.”

  How could she forget? Her grandmother had done nothing but remind her for weeks. Tori hated leaving the house. It was simply quieter at home.

  Grandma was the only spirit who came to her in the home, and that meant it was a sanctuary for Tori—a place free from the barrage of dead people who often sought her out if she was in areas populated with them. Big cities were bad. Graveyards were worse. And surely a memorial to fallen soldiers would have at least some spirits roaming around.

  She sighed, already feeling the weight of it on her, and she wasn’t even there yet. On a good note, she could eat her feelings away if need be with the two apple pies she had cooling. It wasn’t like anyone else was around to eat them.

  Chapter Three

  Mandatory leave sucked. Seemed like only yesterday that he and his fellow ops were having fun, laughing, and thinking everything in life was great. That had been almost a year ago and a lot had happened in that time. Lance was dead. Wilson nearly died, and all of the men except for Jon had found a mate.

  Jon had pretty much only found the bottom of liquor bottles as he rapidly descended into a pit of despair and self-loathing. Case in point, he had the damn letter in his hands again. The one he only pulled out when he wanted to mess with his head even more, and over the last several decades since he’d originally received it, he’d apparently wanted to mess with his own head a lot.

  He held the worn letter carefully, the ink long faded, the paper now an aged yellow. He’d memorized it decades ago. He knew every word and could even hear the sound of his friend’s voice as if the words were being read aloud. Closing his eyes, Jon tried to get the memory of his childhood friend’s last moments out of his mind, but he couldn’t. They haunted him and were as fresh to him today as when they occurred decades ago.

  The letter slipped through Jon’s fingers, falling to the floor slowly as if the air of the room wanted to cradle it tenderly. Protect it from Jon’s recklessness. The story of his life for the past eight months. He knew as much. Knew he’d fallen into a deep pit of despair. Or rather, he’d drunk himself into one.

  There were empty bottles of Jimmy and Jack next to him, and a half empty bottle of Johnnie. He took hold of it and brought it to his lips, taking several long hits from it. The liquid did little to wash away the cottonmouth he had. A little hair of the dog would help somewhat.

  Not much, though.

  So much had come to a head in such a short time that Jon found himself ill-equipped to emotionally deal with it all. He’d thought himself made of tougher stock. He was mistaken. Apparently, the human side of him held just enough of him to keep him from being able to close his eyes at night and not see all the wrong choices he’d made in his life.

  Choices that had cost him close friends and family members. Choices that nearly cost him even more of his teammates.

  He sighed.

  He couldn’t blame Colonel Brooks or Lukian for forcing him to take leave. They were doing what they had to do. When an operative didn’t have their full focus on the mission, someone could end up dead. And Jon’s head was far from in the game lately.

  Each day closer to the date referred to in the letter on the floor seemed to bring Jon nearer the edge of losing his grip. He’d never shared the contents of the letter with his teammates. He wasn’t sure they’d believe it or even understand it all. There had been a point in his life when Jon had questioned it as well. When he’d thought it was strange yet morbid curiosity that forced him to retain the letter. Then when the acts mentioned in it came to fruition, Jon saw things differently.

  He saw them for what they were.

  Fated.

  He drank more, already knowing it wouldn’t take away the hurt or the pain. It wouldn’t bring his friends back. It wouldn’t change what had been set in motion. In the end, he’d had to do something he didn’t want t
o do. Something he wasn’t sure he would come back from.

  He cracked his neck as he turned his head, lifting his shoulders and trying but failing to work the kinks out. They seemed permanent anymore. Maybe they were.

  Last night, he’d drunk himself into something of a mini-coma, and this morning he was paying the price for it. He felt like a caged beast. He lived for missions and for work. Being forced to take a break and relax wasn’t even something he could wrap his mind around. Take a break? How could he do such a stupid thing when Krauss and the other fucked-up scientists and bad guys out there were still free and roaming around?

  It wasn’t right or fair. Lance was dead because of them and they somehow continued to evade capture. He strongly suspected Krauss had nine lives, and Jon hoped he’d be there when the last one was used up. He wanted the man’s head on a pike. The guy was something more than human, he was sure of it, but he didn’t know what the bastard was, only that the guy was sick and hell-bent on creating some sort of master race of super soldiers.

  From the shit Jon had witnessed over the past eight months, Krauss was doing a great job of achieving his end goal. The hybrids Jon had come across were the stuff of nightmares. He shook his head, unsure how anyone would willingly allow themselves to be turned into such things.

  You let your own government turn you into a monster, he reminded himself. You even talked your best friend into it and look where that got him.

  It seemed like only yesterday he’d entered the top-secret program, wanting to be the best soldier he could. In reality, decades had passed. A lot of good men had joined in, wanting to make a difference, but only a few walked out the other side of the ordeal and lived to recount the tale.

  “Not that they’d ever let us tell anyone about it,” he said, his head still aching from too much booze the night prior. As much as he despised what he’d become, it was all he knew. It was what defined him. And the men he served with were his family now. Without them, he had no one.