Colonel Simon Alexander, a famous African mercenary, languishes away in Black Beach Prison. Failing health makes an unsupported escapeimpossible, and the diplomatic process is failing as fast as his health. In the face of all this, a backer with deep pockets is putting a team together toget him out.Commanding this team is none other than forty-three-year-old Rhys Munroe, a tough and cunning Grey. Composed of one black and one whiteSpecial Forces operator, the Special Operators Unit known as the Greys can go anywhere, kill everything, and disappear into the grey mist. Theircombined skills are far greater than the sum of their own abilities.Armed with massive hardware, ammunition, manpower, and a secret weapon, Munroe and his team concoct a daring master plan to free Simon.Though they are battle-hardened soldiers, they are well aware that the international mission is dangerous and could go awry at any time. But the Greys lived by one very important commandment: Thou shalt not fall.

Grey Redemption

By Scott D. Covey

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Scott D. Covey
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-9637-3

Chapter One

I'm sitting in a run-down working-class bar, looking at the bored faces around me. Tears, unseen or unfelt, seem to fill up the glasses of booze that mark time between us. The tepid boredom grates on us all. You wear it like a robe from a fine hotel, the cloying reality warm and secure across your shoulders. To me it feels like horsehair.

We've been friends since high school; you're a successful man, father of three. I've been to your home and shared many meals with your family. Despite this I want to smash your banal face and destroy the weak, limp mirror of me, which you represent. I feel no ill will toward you, yet my mind reels at your effortless acceptance of this nauseating world: a world of the familiar, built within the shelter of humanity. I want to smash my glass into the side of your neck, and let it tear a gash across your throat and then rip through the truth in which you have wrapped yourself. I want to wake the sleeping masses huddled in this familiar bar with the spray of your blood — using you to do nothing more than to get them to change expression! I feel, at my core, that to do this would be a better use of your life than the path you have chosen.

But I hold myself in check. I'm my own oppressor and jailer of emotions that I desire to feel and roll in. Like a dog with something dead I crave to rub the stink of this safe world from my skin. I yearn for the smell of men voiding their bowels in fear! For that sickly ammonia smell that underlies, and is usually missed; the copper smell of blood. I look at you and for a second can almost smell your flesh burning, the sweet smell of frying of human fat.

My expression must have changed for you turn to look over your shoulder, saying,

"See something you like?"

I pick some young girl my brain had cataloged while I spent time within my own thoughts and reply.

"Blue dress, three from the end."

You nod in acknowledgment of her beauty and I feel my horsehair get a little more uncomfortable. The press of this sheep-like humanity has brought me to the edge of fury and I know I must leave. For a brief moment I fantasize about what it would be like if I let loose the reins of my self-induced oppression. Let the fury and hatred of this banality grip me in ecstasy and love and turn on all of you as a grand display of mortality rendering flesh and bone in a magnificent dance of death and confusion. The "machine" behind my consciousness has cataloged the humans in the bar and knows the fear of this death spectacle would grip them like the sheep they are, allowing me to kill with impunity and precision more than 85 per cent of those here.

You dig for a pill out of your little bottle. An Ativan, no doubt, to ease the anxiety you're feeling.

"What's it like," I wonder?

An anti-depressant to get out of bed to live in the depressing world you chose and created. Then an anti-anxiety one to dumb down your own truth that this is not right.

I sip the remainder of my scotch and think, "Perhaps we have something in common after all? Perhaps my choice of drug is just older and more predictable. Perhaps I should tear out your heart and spare you this slow death, out of friendship?"

"I have to work early tomorrow," is all I say in the place of what I should say and do.

"Need a lift?" I ask.

Thankfully, you decline and I get up. The pain in my back is like a knife, reminding me of the world I was made to live in. I could get it fixed, but like the tattoos on my arms they serve a purpose – a purpose I'm trying hard to hold onto.

As I leave the overheated bar, the cool rainy night air of Vancouver flexes over my skin and I wonder what Sunday is doing. As I often do, I inhale the faint salt air and for a second can almost smell the tang of a lion. I feel him. Sunday, you're thousands of miles away, yet I can feel you sleeping like a coiled spring, wrestling in the shadowy darkness with tomorrow! Will tomorrow be our day to burn brightly like a berserk Nordic death star? An ambulance flies by, lights gleaming and siren wailing, shaking my focus — no doubt to pick up another rotted tree fallen from disease!

I walk toward my car, suddenly aware of the temperature difference between my feet and head.

"Why is 'the machine' still in high gear?" I wonder.

Sensing and probing past normal awareness levels into the damp darkness, scanning, aware and crouching, I see the mouse a second before I sense the approaching alley cat. I feel as though I can hear the static charge building on its fur as it rushes its prey. Its eyes narrowed in tight focus it moves past the dumpster on its killing run, unaware of me till it's almost on the sidewalk.

I can smell its dank fur; this alley tom is obviously an old street predator. I sense a motion as the cat imperceptibly changes its gait to allow its claws to come into the fray. Tail swirling for balance it swings its right paw at the running quarry. In the same instance the tom becomes aware of me. Even though it was only about a foot away on its death trajectory, he swirls and spins, claws grating the concrete like nails on a chalkboard. The sound makes my hackles rise.

I'm certainly down in the zone now. Why?

The cat, sensing an alpha predator, hisses and spits violently as it backs away to the far dumpster. The noise and fury increase as my foot touches the pavement. The howls are of terror and fury — a mask to hide the creature's true instinctual understanding. Froth explodes from the cat's mouth and nose as it involuntarily empties the contents of its stomach. In the same breath I smell the human, no doubt hidden. That's what had "the machine" on high alert!

I spin, turning my attention above the closed dumpster, on the fire escape I see the shooter. He has a long rifle, a Remington 700 with a large tactical scope. He's dressed in semi-military looking gear. My hand drops to the small of my back. There, warm against my back is a butter-soft leather holster, custom designed and worth almost as much as the small Walther PPK pistol it holds.

My thumb touches the back of the slide and my fingers wrap around the familiar grip.

"Slow down," I tell myself, "You're home!"

I reassess my situation. The silhouette has just become aware of me, his focus a tenth of a second ago on the screaming, frothing feline. My pupils blow wide open. Years of operating in the dark have allowed me to increase the pupil dilation ability letting in much more ambient light. Almost to see in the dark! It lets me distinguish the darker shade of black and slightly less reflective area of cloth that clearly says "Police: ERT."

I let my hand drift casually away from my back while raising my left hand in a diversionary wave. The open raised palm an instinctual and universally recognized signal of, if not friendship, then submission. The officer, slightly startled, if his pinched voice was any indication, quietly says,

"Careful, that thing looks rabid; I'd suggest crossing the street, sir. This is the perimeter of a police situation."

I dip my head in acknowledgement and jaywalk across the street.

I cross back at the next corner and make my way toward my car.

I could have parked much closer to the bar, but out of habit I park at least 200 meters from my destination. It allows me to survey my surroundings during the walk over and back. I allow "the machine" to take in the surroundings and mark the changes. As precise as an accountant, it sees everything. Assorted street debris could be a bomb, the dark hotel windows could hold a sniper, and the lady waiting for the bus could be an assassin. Subconsciously, like breathing, "the machine" takes it all in. Nothing. The area is clear of potential threats. There are low-level thugs, drug dealers, and whores, but they ignore me like elephants ignore lions during the daylight hours.

Most have done time in jail and developed that sixth sense that allows them to sense a threat. Probably too dumb to really understand this skill they just know — I'm not a cop.

I'm six-three, with a lean and muscular frame. People often find my presence as intimidating as a cop's. My size and calm demeanour in this seedy neighbourhood might project that. No, they just know I'm not a cop. But they also know I'm not approachable; not a man you would proposition for sex, not a junkie. I make eye contact with some of them as I walk past. Most instinctively break my gaze and look down and right, like mountain gorillas do to the lead silverback. Some of the women search my eyes for some sign of compassion or contact; finding none they scan the oncoming headlights. Others, so broken they use the 100-yard stare of burned-out soldiers with too many hours on point.

I reach my car - one of my few displays of luxury.

It's an Aston Martin Vanquish. Black, with a V12 engine, forged black-and-silver mag rims and red calipers. Inside the leather is black and grey and as soft as a supermodel's inner thigh. I saw my first Aston Martin head on and thought it looked exactly like a sleek black panther I once noticed stalking me in a tree on the African veldt! I walked onto the dealership lot and fell in love. One of the powerful machines was being moved into the work bay as I passed.

The raw power and furious sound of the engine connected with me like no woman ever has. I immediately ordered one – in black –and was amazed to discover it would take almost four months for delivery.

When that day came I was awestruck. Inside and out this was the projection of power and strength! The paint was liquid and flawless. Inside the engine compartment, snuggled over the light and dark power plant, was a plaque stating the car had been hand built in England with a plate indicating it was engine number 556 and that Mark Buller had inspected it. The driver's seat was more like a fighter jet cockpit than a car, the white face gauges and the red start button under the clock true classics. A little gold commemorative inscription on the dash stated the car had been "Hand built for Rhys Munroe." When I acquired it I felt what proud fathers must feel seeing their newborns for the first time!

The security system chirped off from about thirty feet away, the car announcing the happy arrival of its human. The engine sprang to life with a light push of my remote, and this time, like every time, I was pleased there was no accompanying explosion!

I slid in behind the wheel, the gentle vibration only a very quiet indicator of the immense power the vehicle possessed. I immediately felt the world become a little more correct. This vehicle was dangerous and a modest amount of throttle could create an unrecoverable slide. It was not a gentle mistress, more like the sturdy women clad in black leather who punished the flesh of public school Britons in London's classroom "dungeons."

I pulled out onto the dark street and chased the lights toward my home far away in the valley. The tires protested under the extreme torque, the dark shadows that had gripped me earlier lost in the squealing smoke of the punished tires.

I spent the time locked in my thoughts as the freeway disappeared behind me. The cranes that had become the unofficial bird of pre-Olympic Vancouver stood silent, as if in harsh judgment of the unfinished structures. The lights of Vancouver polluted the night sky, erasing any hint of star shine. I hate the city. Not that Vancouver isn't a beautiful city, it is! But the unnatural light and tracks of roads contribute to an inefficient transportation system. The road was clear but at one a.m. this would be expected. However, the speed limit was still 90 kph. It was hard to keep the speed below 100, as the beast wanted much more rein. It idled and ran rough at this slow speed as if it wanted to proclaim its pedigree like some proud stallion made to give trail rides to fat tourists. I itched to give her what she wanted! Another inch into the throttle and she would be rocketing down this wide-open stretch of road. But there would be a cop between here and the Valley.

Even at this late hour the RCMP would be out filling their quota of speeding tickets! Another example of how we have to dumb down the society to the lowest common denominator. The tires under me were worth more than some of the cars I was passing now and a brake job was in the neighbourhood of what these drivers made in a year. Yet they could do the same speed as me? How much safety could be built into a car worth nine grand? Three empty lanes were calling me forward like a seductive lover. But the system included points and at 12 points they can pull your license, so once again I found myself bent double in restraint. If it were a "fine only" system this drive would take forty minutes and not an hour and a half. Even that was pushing the limits a little.

The lights of the Port Mann Bridge over the dark expanse of the majestic Fraser River signaled an increase in the speed limit, now allowing us 100kph. This had originally been a toll bridge and the speed then was 70 mph in the old scale, or 112 kph in the current metric system. As we progress, we take two steps back.

I approach a black Acura, its windows darkly tinted. Right before I overtake it the vehicle strays into my lane. It's obvious the driver is either drunk or distracted by a cell phone, as he doesn't stop.

I brake hard, hitting the horn, and to add insult to stupidity the driver panics and hits the brakes. I swerve into the lane he had just drifted out of, knowing there was no other car there behind me, and tap the accelerator. The Aston leaps forward reminiscent of the cat it reminded me of when I first saw it. I'm past the idiot in less than a second. I glance at the side window as I pass and notice a young man on a cell phone. Being the stellar and courteous driver this poster child for "why we have to do such slow speeds," decides to try and put out the fire of my growing rage with gasoline! He flips his high beams on and then pulls behind me! My fury boils to the top and flows over me like molten lead.

The scenarios run through my mind in an instant. Change lanes and hit the brakes, while lowering the passenger window, and shoot this pathetic egotard in the head? Simply roll my window down and put three rounds, warning like, across his hood? From this distance the specially designed truncated arcane rounds fired from the 10mm Glock secreted under my seat would punch through his engine like hot piss through snow. Floor it and disappear into the night like a sodomized cheetah?

All of these take less than a second and I settle on one. I straddle the two lanes and slow down to 70, and the egotard comes up to ride my ass. I drop two gears using the paddle shifter on the steering wheel and tap the brakes while pushing the throttle to the firewall. The tires take off as easily as if we were on black ice. I shift, keeping the tires going and let off the brake. The tires are tearing at the road, as billowing burnt acrid rubber smoke obscures the car and, in less than four seconds, most of the bridge. I take my foot out of the throttle, ready to be crushed into the seat's back. The tires slow down and find traction, and with that traction, slams me back and rockets down the road like a fighter jet on an aircraft carrier launch. I ease off and look behind me to see only smoke. I'm just past the Department of Highways building by the time I see the annoying Acura lights again. They are back on low beam. I wonder to myself if the egotard driving knows how close he came to oblivion?

Chapter Two

I arrive home without further incident.

Home is a simple Cape Cod house with a gated entry programmed to the car's signal. It's fully open before I turn into the driveway. The lights are on in the basement. My student tenant is still up. I find having a tenant helps keep the place looked lived in while I'm away fulfilling contracts. Pretty good gig for my tenant, too. While I'm gone she gets a 4,000-square-foot house in which to live — as long as she feeds the love of my life, Ruben the cat.

Ruben is a spotted Savanna, weighing in at about 35 pounds, a little fatter than he would have been in the wild. I see the blinds move, indicating he's aware of my arrival. He's a big cat who likes only me, and my tenant Andrea. Everyone else is viewed as an intruder and treated as such. Several friends have suffered wounds needing stitches for forgetting his one rule: Ignore me! As long as the intruder ignores his presence they are safe. To make eye contact is at your own peril!

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Grey Redemptionby Scott D. Covey Copyright © 2011 by Scott D. Covey. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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