The Doppelganger Protocol (The Remnants of War Series, Book 2)

By Patrick Astre

Post 9-11, the CIA began developing "Chupacabra" genetically engineered animals to track and kill insurgents in Afghanistan. Now the program is complete... and in Russian hands.

The first mission: eliminate an undercover agent before he can hand-off secret information. But now every person who came in contact with the body is dying, and the virus is spreading.

When ex-Special Forces operator Richard Daniels is asked by the victim's sister to investigate her brother's gruesome death, she hands Richard an encrypted CD that arrived shortly after her brother's death.

Daniels turns to Chantal Latour, a member of his old army squad in Afghanistan, for help.

While Daniels and Chantal investigate, and the CDC chases after a weaponized strain of the Ebola virus with no known cure, the Russians find and kidnap Chantal's daughter. The ransom: return the CD or witness first-hand what a "Chupacabra" can do.


THE REMNANTS OF WAR, in series order
The Last Operation
The Doppelganger Protocol
The Devil's Eye
Twilight of Demons

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Dec 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781614175087

Book preview

The Doppelganger Protocol

The Remnants of War Series

Book Two

by

Patrick Astre

Award-winning Author

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-508-7

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Post 9-11, the CIA began developing genetically engineered animals to track and kill insurgents. Now the program is complete... and in the wrong hands.

Prologue

San Juan Harbor, Puerto Rico

Present day.

The ship floated on clear azure water like a dark scab on fair skin. Rust covered every inch of her hull and superstructure. She redefined the term tramp steamer to a lower level, and even the lines holding her fast seemed ragged and worn. A sliver of light from a gibbous moon outlined the barely legible name on her hull, Chimera. She was tied at the far side of the harbor, moored to a decrepit dock rarely used and serviced only by an unpaved dirt road ending at the edge of the old San Juan district.

Dr. Immirov stood on the walkway in the outer structure of the bridge. The ship's lights had been turned off. Only the glow of the moon and a single emergency lamp cast any illumination. He looked down into the dark center of the vessel, as if by just staring at the wide cargo cover, he could forestall what he had to do.

He pressed the switch on the remote and the wide steel doors of the cargo hatch slid open in a soft whirl of gears and hydraulics. Looking down into the maw of the cargo room, he saw lights illuminating the interior in contrast to the darkness outside. A big cage stood clearly visible and a huge shadow slithered within. This time Dr. Immirov didn't hesitate, not one second. As he pressed the release knob, he knew one thing with certainty: There was no turning back and nothing would ever be the same again.

* * *

The remote controlled lock released both magnetic latches and the steel door fell away, hitting the deck with a clapping sound that instantly woke her. She extended her front limbs, poured out of the crate and saw him outlined against stars in the opening of the cargo hatch. In one effortless bound she reached the top rail of the hatch, grasping the rail with enough force to kink the steel tubing. He was so close, standing by the rail, and she accepted his touch. He held out something made of cloth like he wore, but bearing another scent. An object was in his other hand. It only took a glance for her to memorize it. He whispered a command, soft as a caress and she shuddered with pleasure as she bounded from the railing into the night air.

* * *

A half hour earlier, inside the ship, Emil Gomez reached the end of the corridor, twisted open the metal latch, stepped inside, and bolted the door closed. The room held the rusty metallic smell of decay as bleak smatterings of light from a large oval opening on the far wall outlined what seemed like a giant python coiled around a massive donut.

He was in the hawser room, the chamber that held the huge chain fastened to the anchor. He felt his way in the gloom until his hand reached the alcove formed by the ship's structural beams. He pulled out the rope he had secreted days before, sturdy, smooth nylon rope wrapped in greased leather at its middle with a lead monkey fist at one end. Now he reached the anchor chain with each link wide as a lawn chair and thick as an automobile tire. He climbed the chain until he reached the opening moved out, and stood on the anchor.

Emil was in a pool of darkness beneath the rake of the bow, some thirty feet above the dock. He saw a trio of guards around the gangway and heard shouted orders on the deck. He straddled the chain, and threw the weighted end of the rope high overhead. The nylon lead arced over the foot-thick line holding the bow of the ship to the dock. Now he had both ends of the rope looped on the overhead line, and he kicked out, launching his body from the hull, riding the bowline down to the ground on the improvised sling. Just before he hit the ground he heard voices shouting, and someone turned on the bridge spotlight, but by then it was too late. He sprinted the thirty or so yards to the tropical vegetation surrounding the dock and disappeared into the blackness of a footpath he had noted earlier.

Emil was in familiar territory, for this end of Puerto Rico was his native soil. The sliver of moon and dusting of stars emitted enough light, and he felt like the wind as he ran toward the glow of the old city and Calle Ocho, steadily increasing the distance from Chimera.

He had done his job, mailed that disc yesterday to his sister, Essie in Florida, with instructions. This night, he had the final proof of the monstrosities in the hold of that dammed ship. Once he reached the San Juan FBI office, the burden would be theirs.

Now he paused in the soft moss and dirt of the dark footpath. He thought he had heard something, but the dozen yards of forest separating him from the beginning of Calle Ocho was still, very still. Even the coquis, the little tree frogs, had ceased their high pitch whistling. He turned his head as something seemed to blot out a section of night sky and branches stirred in the trees above him. More shaking of tree limbs followed, but there's no wind, he thought for a fleeting moment.

Emil sensed a presence, something that stirred the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and made the pit of his stomach fall away. He heard a snorting, snuffling noise that he recognized from the cargo hold. Icy fingers twisted his gut and he heard the pounding of his heart, so loud they must be able to hear it clear to the market square a quarter mile away. He sprinted through the stubby grass, his system flooded with adrenaline; he felt the primitive terror of the hunted as he closed the gap.

He reached a point just a few feet away from the beckoning pool of light ahead when his feet caught a tree limb and he fell. His body hit the ground flat with a soggy grunt. He leapt in a flash, refusing to feel the pain in his limbs and looked into the darkness behind him—nothing. The night filled his world, black as squid-ink, but he sensed the shifting of shadows and a steadily approaching presence.

Emil turned to run the last few feet ahead when he heard the snorting again, this time from directly in front. He felt a fetid gust of air as something blotted out the light and moved toward him at an impossible speed. He tried to turn away, tried to run, but there was no time as the shadow closed in and the scant light made its features visible for an instant. In that moment, he lost all control as his bowels turned to liquid and he knew the old tales, the terrors told around the campfires of the campesinos, were true.

His last thought flashed through his consciousness before the mind-numbing pain snuffed out his life: Chupacabras.

* * *

On Chimera's walkway, the guard pressed his shoulder against the railing as he gripped the twelve-gauge automatic shotgun. Even the fearsome close-in weapon gave him no comfort. For the first time he felt truly frightened, a deep ancestral fright that his four years hunting the murderous bandits in the mountains of Chechnya had failed to produce. He gripped the weapon tighter as the shape blotted out the stars, landing on the railing ten yards from him. It jumped again, and with a lazy graceful arc, descended into the open cargo hold. He thought he recognized Dr. Immirov's voice speaking soothing tones as the hydraulically activated cargo doors slid tightly together.

The guard moved along the rail, one hand on the weapon the other sliding along the steel as if for protection. When he reached the spot where the creature had landed, he felt a syrupy wetness and pulled his hand away with a start. He held his fingers out to the reflected mast light, knowing by the coppery rank smell what he would see. His body moved with an involuntary shudder as he wiped the blood away.

Chapter 1

New York City.

No one noticed the stranger as he changed into his Gi. When he emerged on the mats, he wore no identifying marks on the sleeves to tell other dojo members where he came from. A full Ninja mask covered his face. The practice was allowed, but highly unusual. Instead of wearing a belt with the color denoting his rank, the stranger wore a multicolor sash around his waist. He stepped onto the mat, gave the proper bow to Johnny Rivera as Sensei, teacher and master. Then he gave the signal for Kumite a mock sword battle. Johnny Rivera bowed in consent, eagerly accepting the challenge and the opportunity to put this arrogant stranger in his place.

But it wasn't working out that way.

Who is this guy? Johnny thought, barely avoiding another thrust. Johnny held a third degree black belt, qualifying him as a top Kendo master. So where had this skilled stranger come from?

Johnny noted the ease with which the stranger held the Boken, the wooden practice Kendo sword. The hilt seemed to dance in the man's hand as if it had a life of its own. The movements of the shaft were steady, almost hypnotic, until it vanished in a blazing swing. Johnny managed to parry, and felt the force of the blow throughout the solid wood shaft of the Boken. Now he backed up again, losing ground under the relentless attacks, reduced to a scurrying defense. The guy had to be at least a Fourth Degree Black, perhaps even the rumored Fifth degree.

Johnny saw an opening, the tiniest of leeway. He shouted to release Ki, the central energy of the body, while twirling the Boken in a half arc before leveling it into a vicious horizontal swing. The speed of the blow was dazzling, born of uncounted hours of training and unfettered by conscious thoughts. No Kendo master he ever met could have dodged that blow.

Before Johnny's mind could even begin to register the event, the stranger whirled out of reach and parried, striking Johnny's Boken inches above the hilt guard. The leveraged blow knocked the wood sword out of Johnny's hand, blasting it all the way to the far wall. In that wisp of a second, Johnny's balance faltered, and the stranger crouched with a sweeping kick that knocked Johnny's legs from under him. He crashed on his back and the air blew out of his lungs with an explosive whoosh. The stranger's Boken whistled down, straight as the finger of doom toward Johnny's exposed throat. He had no reaction time, nowhere to go.

Even though the event had taken the barest slice of a second, it seemed to Johnny to have stretched without end. He looked at the wooden blade that had stopped and remained suspended steady as granite, less than an inch above his Adam's apple.

The stranger placed the Boken in his sash and held his hand out. Johnny grasped it and stood. The stranger bowed, walked to the far wall, picked up Johnny's sword, handed it to him and bowed again. Johnny returned the bow. He felt his heart race. His breath came in panting gulps. He stood still as he could manage, while the stranger pulled off his Ninja mask.

Shit, Daniels, I should have known, Johnny whispered.

He became aware of a slight tremor in his hands—nerves after a battle. Serving under Special Forces Captain Richard Daniels could certainly do that to you, he thought. He turned the class over to a senior student and led Daniels into the little office in back of the dojo.

What the fuck was the idea of the Ninja act back there? Johnny said as he shut the door behind them.

Well its good to see you too, replied Daniels, the barest of grins turning up the corners of his mouth. Rivera always thought Daniels looked like a dangerous version of the actor Robert Mitchum in his younger days.

Don't give me that shit Richard. I'm not the point man on your squad anymore and this isn't Kandahar. I'm a detective sergeant in the NYPD and you're a fucking civilian. Couldn't you have just walked in like any normal person and said: Hello Johnny, good to see you again?

Daniels had his back to Johnny, looking at his Kendo trophies in a dusty, crowded case. He turned slowly, as he answered.

Yeah, I could've, but that would never tell me if you still had the edge, or if your spirit had weakened.

I don't know about my spirit, but I'm going to need a new pair of drawers because of your little social call.

It's really not social, I need some help. Is there somewhere we can talk? I'll buy the beers.

"Hell, you're gonna buy more than beers, amigo—you're buying dinner."

Chapter 2

They sat at a corner table in the Casa Del Sol, a little Spanish restaurant right off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Daniels had followed Johnny's instructions, illegally parking the rented car, and leaving one of Johnny's cards under the windshield wiper blade.

Daniels watched his old friend interact with the staff and patrons of the restaurant. Every one seemed to know him by name and greetings flew in Spanish and also in English for Daniels' benefit. All in all, Daniels liked the way his friend had eased back into civilian life after two difficult tours in Afghanistan. Johnny carried himself with confidence, comfortable in his skin, but lacking arrogance, and still holding a boyish touch of happiness. Daniels thought that was quite remarkable for a Special Forces combat veteran and a seasoned NYPD cop as his gaze wandered to Johnny's open jacket and the barely visible handle of the .45 automatic resting in the shoulder holster. Johnny looked up and caught Daniels' eyes.

You carrying? He asked.

Not in New York. My permit doesn't extend past Florida, and you guys are just too strict.

That's a joke, replied Johnny. Every gang-banger, low life and junky is carrying these days. Soon as we put them away, out pops another couple of mutts to take their place. Meanwhile the system is releasing them meaner and leaner. It's like shoveling shit against the tide. I just think about it, I get pissed. Anyway, what's going on with you, how's Kate?

Every scrap of color washed out of Richard Daniels' world, rendered in shades of gray under the weight of his psyche. Clouds of grief that had been pushed back, if only temporarily, by the adrenalin of Kendo, came roiling back. He shook his head, looked away for a moment and locked eyes with Johnny.

She's dead.

Oh shit Richard, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I...

It's alright, you couldn't know. It's been a while now. Sometimes I still can't believe it.

What happened? I mean if you don't want to talk about it, oh shit Richard...

It's okay—got to talk about it sometime. Cancer, by the time they discovered it, it was too late.

Silence hung between them, and for long moments, neither man dared to break it. They ate most of their meal quietly, until slowly, word by word, the conversation and easy friendship of old days returned, at least some of it anyway.

So what brings you here Richard? I don't think you're here officially so I would guess you're about to call in one of the little favors I owe you, like saving my life twice.

I guess you could put it that way. I do need some help.

Hope you don't need anything too illegal. I got limits these days.

Actually, it may be very little, like some information only a New York cop could get: Specifically, a Puerto Rican, New York cop.

"Well, you come to the right place Pendejo. If it ain't too illegal or immoral, I'll be happy to help, and you know what?"

What?

For you I'll make some room on the immoral and illegal. Johnny Rivera, NYPD detective sergeant at your service, my man. What do ya want to know?

Two days ago a man named Emil Gomez was found dead in San Juan, murdered. They notified the next of kin, and it happened to be his sister, Essie Gomez. She used to work for me, did me a few favors. She asked me to help her. Her brother was working some undercover case and the authorities in San Juan told her he was killed by a wild animal. She says they're lying. She asked me to find out what I could for her.

So you took the shuttle from... where the hell is it you're at again?

The Everglades, Florida.

Yeah, Florida. You must owe her quite a favor.

Quite. Sometimes when you do something good for someone, it comes back to you, you know?

Yeah, I can appreciate that. Someday you can tell me about it.

Some day, Daniels said.

After dinner they went to Johnny's office at Street Crimes Division, 89th precinct. Actually it wasn't a real office, just a beat up metal desk jammed against a corner wall and flanked by a dirt-brown filing cabinet with crooked drawers and missing handles. Even though smoking had been banned for years, the place reeked of smoke, dime cigars, ink and sweat. It was late Saturday night, guaranteeing an amazing noise level as cops brought in a variety of busts, all yelling, kicking and screaming. Johnny grinned as he looked at Daniels.

"Welcome to the Saturday night Mardis-Gras at the 89th, Amigo," Johnny said.

So you got any connections in San Juan? asked Daniels.

"Sheeit Hombre, this is Brooklyn. You don't know too much about Brooklyn or Puerto Rico, do you?"

Daniels shook his head as Rivera continued.

"There are more Puerto Ricans in New York than in Puerto Rico. If you scratch deep enough, we're all related. Half the San Juan PD are cousins of mine. We're in constant touch. Some hijo de puta caps somebody over a guapa, or maybe knocks over a 7-11 and thinks he'll get away clean by coming over to the Big Apple from San Juan, or vice versa, and guess what? Surprise, surprise, cousin Paco at NYPD or SJPD knows all about it. They're waiting for him when he gets off the airplane. Hell we should make San Juan a precinct of NYPD."

For the next forty-five minutes Daniels watched the countless little dramas of the 89th as Johnny made back-to-back calls in rapid-fire Spanish. The detective's style was world-class diplomacy. Daniels thought he could teach the State Department a thing or two as Johnny ran the gamut of emotions on the phone. Sometimes soft and easy, other times pleading then suddenly switching to what sounded like curses and threats, but always ending with multitudes of gracias.

Johnny put the phone down, leaned back in the ancient swivel chair, folded his hands behind his neck and looked at Daniels.

So what gives? My Spanish is way too rusty to follow you, Daniels asked.

Not sure. Well actually, it's kinda strange, know what I mean? I get the impression some of these people know a lot but they ain't saying shit. Course I got some pull down there—favors always come back to you don't they?

When Daniels didn't reply, Johnny continued. Nobody wants to talk on the phone but I got some promises of emails at my private address at home—should be interesting. The strangest one is Ol' Manuel.

He's a big wheel with San Juan PD?

"Not exactly, well he's a sergeant, but more important, he's a brujo."

What the hell is that? Like an inspector or something?

"No, my white-bread Anglo friend. A brujo is a witch doctor, a practitioner of supernatural arts. People listen to a brujo. Remember Puerto Rico is a mixture of Indians, Spanish descendants and former slaves. They're all about two steps away from their ancient beliefs. Throughout the countryside, and even in parts of San Juan, the supernatural is believed and feared."

How about you Johnny? You believe in all that?

Johnny Rivera paused, looked down at his notes, and replied. Yeah, sometimes it gets hard to deny its existence. The more you find out, the more you believe. Take spells and curses for instance. Someone who believes he has been cursed gets agitated, anxiety causes the blood pressure to rise, and bingo: A heart attack! The curse worked, see what I mean?

If you say so, replied Daniels. "Personally, I don't really believe that