Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) Read online

  PATRIOT

  A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella

  By Jeremy Robinson

  & J. Kent Holloway

  Description:

  SOMETIMES, THE COST OF IMMORTALITY IS TOO HIGH…

  The year is 1775, and the first rumblings of the American Revolution are only just being felt. But the War for Independence may be over before it even begins. When General George Washington learns of a daring expedition by British troops to discover a place of ultimate power—and the key to immortality itself—he knows that to salvage the war effort, his forces must get there first.

  And to find the legend, Washington must employ a legend. Rumors of an ageless pirate who has haunted the high seas for more than a century abound. General Washington commissions an expedition to find and hire the immortal pirate, Lanme Wa—the Sea King—who has been stretched to the point of breaking, and who wants nothing more than to be left alone.

  Their mission will not be easy. In a Caribbean world filled with voodoo, giant pythons, mischievous spirits and an army of mindless creatures who could live for millennia, the privateers of the Continental Navy might have bitten off more than they can chew.

  Jack Sigler, an immortal Special Ops soldier stuck in the past, forced to live through thousands of years of history to return to his family in the present, is back in this second Continuum thriller from Jeremy Robinson and J. Kent Holloway, who once again boldly re-imagine history.

  PATRIOT

  A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella

  By Jeremy Robinson

  and J. Kent Holloway

  J. Kent Holloway would like to dedicate this book to:

  “...my amazing co-workers and friends at the District 23 Medical Examiner’s office.

  Thank you for your unending patience with me, as I continue my dream of writing.

  You guys continue to amaze me.”

  JACK SIGLER: A MAN OUT OF TIME

  Jack Sigler was a modern soldier. First for the Army, then for the anti-terror Delta unit known as ‘Chess Team’ and finally for Endgame, a black budget organization specializing in fending off strange and otherworldly global threats. After several brutal, yet successful missions, the man known by the callsign: King, found himself torn away from his family and thrust back in time, abandoned in the year 780 BC. But that’s not where his life would end. He was gifted with regenerative powers, making him nearly immortal. He heals quickly. Doesn’t age. And he was nearly 2800 years away from his daughter and fiancée.

  Now, the only way he can return to his own time and his family is to live, fight and sometimes wage war through the oncoming centuries, carrying on Endgame’s mission: to protect the weak, right wrongs and send the world’s monsters back to whatever hell spawned them.

  Patriot, the second tale in the Jack Sigler Continuum series, takes place after King has lived in the past for over twenty-five hundred years…

  1

  Kavo Zile

  The British Caribbean Islands

  1775

  Quartermaster John Greer’s lungs heaved, straining to draw in enough air to continue trudging through the waist-high, algae-filmed water. His boots, already thick with the caked-on jungle muck, felt like lead. He sloshed his way past a forest of cattails, bramble and gnarled trees that grasped at his clothing, as if the land itself was famished for human flesh. Despite the malevolent terrain, however, Greer couldn’t help but feel as though there was something much worse lurking somewhere in the dense jungle. Although neither he, nor his crew, had encountered any signs of life greater than the occasional bird or bird-sized flying insect, his nerves were edged as sharp as a cutlass.

  When he reached the swamp’s shoreline, Greer stopped. He glanced back at the others as they slowly closed the distance toward him. As the second-in-command of the Continental privateer vessel, the Reardon’s Mark, Greer was appalled at the decrepit condition of his crew. Though he, too, was approaching near exhaustion from the half a day’s march they’d made into the Caribbean island’s interior, the others appeared almost ready to collapse.

  This will never do, he thought. Not at all.

  The Mark’s captain, Josiah Reardon, would have never tolerated such lack of discipline in their old Royal Navy days, and Greer was determined to whip his men back into shape, just as soon as they had claimed what they’d come to retrieve from this accursed island.

  Catching his breath, he waited for the men to reach him, and rolled his eyes as the crew parted to make way for the short, rotund man wheezing his way to the front of the group. Greer had experienced an automatic distaste for the older man from the moment they’d met, three weeks before, and his ire had only grown since. The man, Jim Brannan Finkle, was some kind of scientist, and he had commissioned the Reardon’s Mark crew on orders from General Washington. For most of the men, this was reason enough to hold the old man in a state of near worshipping awe, but Greer—being part of the Continental Navy only by happenstance of a slight misunderstanding between himself and a Royal Admiral’s wife—had never held George Washington in great esteem.

  “I say, Greer,” the scientist said, waddling up to the quartermaster while wiping away a stream of sweat from his prodigious forehead. “I could use a few minutes to catch both my breath and my bearings.”

  Greer nodded, and allowed his men to rest, while Finkle fumbled through his leather messenger bag for a tattered waxen map he kept folded among his belongings.

  “I know it’s in here somewhere,” Finkle said, mumbling to himself while pushing his spectacles further onto the hump of his nose. “Ah! Here it is.” With a dramatic flourish, the scientist whipped the map out, unfolded it and placed it carefully on a decaying tree stump to his right. Greer watched silently as the old busybody scanned the yellowing map, and he jerked nervously when Finkle burst out with an excited, “Ha!”

  “What? What did you find?”

  Finkle looked up at the officer, and a smile began to stretch slowly across his face. “According to this, we’re only about five miles from the boneyard. We should make it there well before sundown.”

  “And are you finally going to tell me what you hope to find, once we come to this obviously heathen cemetery?”

  Finkle looked up from the map, and eyed him curiously. He then shrugged the question away, and continued to study the map. “What I don’t understand is this… The legend says that Lanme Wa’s cursed pirate crew guards this island, yet we’ve not seen hide nor hair of any living soul.”

  “Lanme Wa?”

  The old man folded the map, and stuffed it back into his bag before pulling his long graying hair back, and tying it into a pony tail. He then nodded. “Lanme Wa. A famous pirate around the turn of the century. He’s said to reside within the boneyard.”

  “From the turn of the century? We’re looking for the tomb of a pirate that’s been dead since the turn of the century, and you honestly expect to run into his crew?”

  “You know, they say Lanme Wa once had a heated battle with Ed Thatch…um, Blackbeard…and won. Quite impressive.” Finkle chuckled, seemingly oblivious to the quartermaster’s dismay. “And I never said the pirate was dead. I simply said he’s supposed to reside within the boneyard. There’s a difference.”

  Greer stared silently at Finkle for several long seconds, before shaking his head, and shouting at his men. “Nichols! Spratt! Front and center!” A moment later, the two beckoned crewmen hustled up to him with stiff salutes.

  “Aye, Mr. Greer,” Nichols said, still saluting, which wasn’t necessary. As quartermaster of a pirate, or privateer crew, he was second-in-command of the vessel on which they sailed. But the differen
ce between pirates and the Royal Navy was that each of the men in a pirate crew were considered equal partners. Captains and quartermasters were voted into their positions. And they could be voted out, as well. But like Reardon and Greer, Nichols hailed from Royal Navy stock, and old habits could certainly be difficult to overcome.

  Nichols was lean, almost emaciated, and he had an empty socket where one of his eyes had been stabbed with a pen knife, during a card game three years before. He was also the ship’s cook, and he had an exceptional gift for turning even worm-infested potatoes into the most exquisite delicacies.

  “I need you and Spratt to scout ahead,” Greer said. “We’re drawing closer to our destination, and I find this expedition of ours to be unnervingly uneventful. If we’re walking into some type of trap, I’d like to know in advance.”

  Nichols and Spratt glanced nervously at one another, but snapped off another salute, and bounded deeper into the jungle. Once they were no longer visible, Greer turned back to Finkle. It was time to get the answers he’d wanted since their longboats had arrived on Kavo Zile—a Haitian name that meant ‘Island of the Grave.’ “Tell me, who exactly was this Lanme Wa fellow? I’ve not heard of him before.”

  Finkle, now relaxing on the stump, and taking a leisurely pull on his long-stemmed pipe, eyed the quartermaster. There was a gleam in the old man’s eyes that seemed magnified by the thick glass of his strange looking spectacles. After expelling a plume of gray smoke, he sighed. “I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you a little about him, though I’m still not permitted to tell you everything I’ve learned of the man,” he said. “You already know of the mission General Washington has sent us on. I believe Lanme Wa is the key to its success.”

  Greer sat down on the ground, crossing his legs in Indian fashion, and he swatted at a mosquito that alighted on his neck. Even sitting on the ground, his eyes were level with the shorter scientist. “You’re going to have to explain that, sir.”

  Finkle nodded. “Lanme Wa has gone by a few names in the past. But it wasn’t until he and his pirate crew took a slaver ship sailing into Charles Town around 1663 that he was given that name.” Taking a tamper, he packed down the tobacco in the pipe bowl down, and relit it. “It’s Creole, and means ‘Sea King.’ Story goes that upon freeing the slaves, he took them to a port on a beautiful tropical island, off any map. He set them up, and ensured that a supply ship would visit the island every six months, to see to any needs they might have.”

  “How very un-pirate-like.”

  “Quite. But the slaves revered him for the freedom he had granted, and they gave him the name Lanme Wa to show their eternal gratitude toward him. They elevated him to almost god-like reverence, as a matter of fact…which is all the more odd considering the descriptions they gave of his crew.”

  “All right. Color me intrigued,” Greer said. “What did they say about his crew?”

  “That they were damned. Cursed,” Finkle said, a single eyebrow raising high against his forehead. “Said they were creatures black as pitch—which is quite something given the race of those making the claims—and that they would only sail at night. Never by day.”

  “That’s hardly proof that this crew was damned.”

  “They also had strange hungers, very difficult to sate. The most impressive bit is that they, like their master, could not be killed.”

  “Oh, come now, Finkle,” Greer said. “You are supposed to be a man of science! Would you have me believe such ghost stories?”

  Finkle laughed. “Your Britishness is betraying you, sir. Remember, as the Bard once said, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth’…et cetera, et cetera. But as I was saying…”

  The sound of a twig snapping to their left wheeled Greer and his crew around. Muskets and flintlock pistols shot up, pointing in the direction of the noise. The quartermaster, now on his feet and peering into the overgrowth, eased the hammer of his pistol back. “Hello? Nichols? Spratt? Is that you?”

  Another snap sounded in the opposite direction, spinning each man around again. This time, however, Greer noticed old Finkle was brandishing his own pistol as well.

  “Master Greer,” came a deep voice, from the direction of his crew.

  Greer glanced over at them to see a large, bare-chested black man stepping out from behind his men. His head was shaved clean, but his cheeks and chin were flecked with dark patches of hair. Several scars and tattooed dots covered the man’s face from forehead to cheeks, which marked the tribe from which he’d come. If Greer remembered correctly, the man’s name was William. He was the ship’s purser, and the personal slave to Captain Reardon.

  “What is it, William?” Greer had already turned his gaze back to the jungle.

  “We need caution in dis place,” William said, his baritone voice rumbling like a roll of thunder. “Da l’wa are about. Dis land is sacred to dem, and whites ain’t always welcome amongst dem.”

  What in Jehovah’s creation is this simpleton going on about?

  Greer stifled an impulse to berate the purser for his ridiculously superstitious warning. Of course, no one could be a sailor in the New World or have any dealings with the African slaves without having heard of their heathen fantasies. The l’wa, or loa as the English called them, were supposedly spiritual beings that served a greater god of some kind. Depending on the family the loa belonged to, these spirits were either kind or harsh. Brutal even. Greer had seen his fair share of sailors—both legitimate and pirate—succumb to the island superstitions over the years. They took up the practice of Vodou to better their lot in life, or at least to protect themselves from harm on the high seas. However, among his crew, there would be no such nonsense. Greer decided to reprimand William later, once they’d returned to the Mark.

  Gesturing for the man to stay silent, Greer concentrated on locating what had snapped the twig. Taking another step toward the vegetation, he leaned forward. A round yellow object burst out of the jungle’s interior, narrowly missing Greer’s head. He whipped around, tracking the projectile, until it rolled to a stop three feet away.

  Some type of fruit, he thought, stooping to pick up the oblong object. He recognized it as what some local tribes in these parts called the paw-paw. Papaya.

  William hissed, then spat on the ground at the sight of the fruit. “I tell you…da l’wa are angry, and dey warn you now. Dis is Grave Island, home of da Ghede l’wa. Spirits of da dead.”

  “William!” Greer snapped. “You will remain silent, or you will be flogged.” To show his disdain for the superstitious drivel, the quartermaster bit into the sweetly sour fruit, and savored the taste. He then grinned broadly at the slave to reinforce the message.

  “It’s a shame,” came a soft, feminine voice behind him. He twisted around to see a stunning black woman, standing barefoot and wearing a light cotton shift, scandalously see-through, which left her shoulders and legs bare. From her lighter complexion and soft facial features, Greer recognized her instantly as Creole. Her dark black hair exploded in all directions, reminding him of a black lion’s mane. Her emerald green eyes seemed to glimmer in the twilight. Nichols and Spratt stood on either side of her, their muskets ready. “You really should listen to Master William, mon cher. I dare say, he be wiser dan any of you.”

  “Nichols, who, pray tell, is this?” Greer shouted, completely baffled by the presence of a lone female upon the uninhabited island.

  But she continued before the cook could respond to the question. “A word o’ warning, gentlemen. When you come to da boneyard, you’ll be wantin’ to beware da Brave Ghede. He not be likin’ da livin’ amongst da dead.” She then laughed, winked at Greer and folded her arms across her chest defiantly. “But if you like, I’ll take you to see Lanme Wa right now. Makes no nevermind to me.”

  2

  With Nichols and Spratt still leveling their weapons at the Creole woman, Greer and the expedition had continued their trek further into the island’s interior. Fascinated, Finkle walked in step with her, barraging her
with questions concerning her origins and her purpose upon the island.

  “I am a mambo bokor of vodou,” she said with a laugh, the sound of rainwater against a window pane. “I serve da l’wa, just as my mothers and grandmothers did from before I was born. It was da l’wa who brought me here, to serve da house of da Ghede…da l’wa of da Dead.”

  “Fascinating,” Finkle cooed, eyeing the feminine bokor. “Absolutely fascinating. So tell me…”

  “I want to know if it was you who threw that paw-paw fruit at me earlier,” Greer said, catching up to them. “It nearly took my head off.”

  The mambo bokor glanced over at him, her smile stretching coyly up one side of her face. “A paw-paw fruit? Here? On Kavo Zile?”

  “That’s what I said. A paw-paw was hurled only seconds before you appeared. If it was you, I’ll see that you answer for your insolence.”

  “John, come now,” Finkle said. “Don’t be rude to our gracious hostess.”

  “I’m an officer of the Continental Navy.” It wasn’t entirely true. A quartermaster wasn’t considered an officer in the same way as his lieutenant rank while he had been in the Royal Navy. But he knew no one would argue the point. “And I am deserving of a modicum of respect, whether I’m in the official fleet, or on a privateer’s vessel. She will answer the question.”

  “Sir?” The voice came from behind them, and belonged to Nichols. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but it couldn’t ‘ave been her. We found her during our scout, and she was with us until we returned, just after the paw-paw incident. We’d’a seen her throw it.”

  “Besides,” the bokor added, “dere are no paw-paw trees on dis island. Dey do not grow here.”

  Greer stopped walking, causing Spratt to nearly march into the back of him. The quartermaster recovered quickly, and jogged to catch up to the woman and Finkle. “I know what I saw. I tasted it. It was papaya. I have no doubt.”