Extinction Crisis

Chapter 1

Rome, Italy

Ollie Cooper stared at the cloud-grey walls of his cell wondering about fate. Not his own. No, that particular boat had sailed a long time ago. At least what felt to him like a long time.

He caught the slow, deliberate sound of someone approaching. Each footfall seemed to echo in his ears. Fear had a funny habit of stretching things out, didn’t it, making a person feel like they were circling the event horizon of some ravenous black hole. The truth was, in only a handful of days, millions of tons of alien engineering would punch a hole through the upper atmosphere and give the earth the kind of shiner she hadn’t felt since T-Rex roamed the planet. But a lucky few—or unlucky, depending on one’s point of view—would survive the impending cataclysm.

Ollie wondered about Mia, where she was and whether she was safe. The last he’d seen, she’d been thrown into an interrogation room right before he had. After hours of intense questioning interspersed with occasional beatings, Ollie had been tossed into this cell. Judging by the dried blood on his lip he had been here a day, maybe two. But sitting inside a concrete box with less than eight feet of room in either direction, it was hard to be sure of anything.

Three pairs of shoes stopped outside his cell, followed by the echoing clank from a metal latch being turned. The heavy door swung open, bringing with it a painful shaft of light that pierced his eyes and stabbed at his brain. Ollie squinted, blinking with the force of a man trying to crush walnuts with his eyelids.

“It’s about time you lot showed up,” he complained. “I’ll have pasta primavera with a glass of your finest red wine. And hold that sorry excuse for a bread roll you tried to give me yesterday, bloody thing was as hard as a rock with about as much taste.”

Commissario Vicario flashed the hint of a smile. Distinguished and always dapper, he looked less like a cop and more like a pitchman for Black Label or overpriced tequila. Flanking him were two men wearing dark suits and sunglasses. From Ollie’s spot on the floor, they looked like giants, staring down at him with cold, humorless expressions.

“Very sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Cooper,” Vicario said. “We are not here about lunch.”

The two gloved men stepped into the room. Dark suits, shades and matching gloves. Something told Ollie they weren’t there to sell him nonstick skillets or one-piece blankets you could wear as a nighty.

Ollie noticed the corner of a thick yellow envelope poking out of Vicario’s breast pocket.

“I suppose everyone has their price,” the Aussie said, appraising the situation.

Vicario smiled. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve been assured you will not suffer.” His eyes flicked down to the cut on Ollie’s lip and then back up to the bruises ringing his left cheekbone. “At least not any more than you already have.”

“You’re a real sweetheart…” Ollie started to say as one of the men reached into his suit jacket and came out with a silenced pistol. He felt the blood drain from his face.

Distaste flashed across the commander’s face as he pushed the barrel of the man’s pistol down. “Not here. Not like this. The last thing I wanna do is give the cleaning crew another excuse to complain. ‘Commissario,’” he mocked in his heavy Italian accent, “‘there’s blood and brains all over the walls. Do you expect us to get down on our hands and knees and pick itsy-bitsy pieces of skull up off the floor?’” He straightened up, swiping his hands down the front of his finely pressed suit. “I’m telling you, they’re worse than my first wife, God rest her soul.” Vicario reached behind him and came out with a pair of handcuffs. “Take him out of the city and do it there.” His gaze settled back on Ollie, who was grinning. “What the hell are you so happy about?”

“Me? Oh, nothing, mate. It’s just I’ve always loved the country. Seems like a fine place to say goodbye.”

•••

They led Ollie out of the police station and into the back seat of a white Toyota. The men in dark suits got in the front and started the car.

“I’m being driven to my grave in a sedan?” Ollie quipped. “Don’t you think I at least deserve a Maserati?” He caught the driver’s head snap up, eyes piercing him through the rearview mirror. They made their way out of Rome, Ollie eyeing the goon in the front passenger seat as he attempted to work his wrists out of the cuffs. They had thought enough to secure Ollie’s hands behind his back. What they didn’t know was that at thirteen years of age, Ollie had broken his right thumb playing rugby back in Brisbane. The injury had healed, but it had left him with the sickening ability to dislocate the digit completely.

Ollie was in the middle of subtly working the cuff down his wrist when he caught the guy in the passenger seat snort and flick his fingers up the front of his nose. It made a sickening whickering sound, one Ollie recognized all too well. These weren’t Mafioso hitmen or corrupt Italian cops. They were Sentinel agents Ollie recognized from his days in the organization.

“Sean? That you, mate?”

The muscles on the man’s face tensed.

“Sean O’Rourke, you son of a bitch, I thought it was you.” Ollie leaned forward just as the man spun around and slugged him in the face. Ollie was thrown back into place, bouncing around before coming to a stop. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose. He grinned. “You always were an asshole. And a pig, the way you flick that nose of yours. You really should get that checked.”

Outside, they passed a row of trees along a narrow country road, the sun poking out behind a thick blanket of clouds. They couldn’t be far now.

“You had your chance, Cooper, and you blew it,” Sean said, his voice low and filled with contempt.

Ollie continued working the cuffs, shifting gently from side to side, making it look like the bumpy road was tossing him around. “Chance at what? I can already see your future. Soon as that ship hits you boys will be barbeque meat. Least I’m going out the easy way. Bullet to the back of the head.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Sean said, half turning and lowering the rim of his shades. His eyes were grey and bright, like a husky’s. “We’ve got the situation under control.”

“Oh, you mean now that Sentinel has control of the White House? Throw a few nukes into space, that your big plan?”

“Maybe, but I don’t see why it matters, you’ll be dead in the next five minutes.”

They were coming to an intersection, the opposite road lined with a row of stone pine trees. An audible click sounded as Ollie’s hand broke free.

Damn it!

Sean’s head snapped back just in time to feel the heel from Ollie’s boot. The car swerved as the driver reached back with one arm to fight him. Sean reached into his jacket for the silenced pistol. Ollie lunged forward, only dimly aware his seatbelt was still on.

Double damn it!

Sean’s pistol came up right as the impact shattered the driver’s side windows, sending the Toyota rolling into the ditch. Shards of glass hung suspended in midair for a moment as the car tumbled. Ollie caught the sound of twisting metal as the roof caved. A split second later, the car flipped again, ejecting the driver out the broken window, as though he’d been sucked out of an airplane at thirty thousand feet.

An eternity later, the car came to a rest upside down. Ollie was dazed and not entirely sure what had happened or whether or not he was hurt. Nearby, a cow bell sounded. Glancing out the shattered remains of his window, Ollie spotted the animal, which paused and regarded him briefly before going about its business.

Ollie was in the middle of trying to take his seatbelt off when he heard the distinct sound of gunshots. Sean, upside down, struggled to do the same. The assassin’s pistol was lying on the ceiling, a few feet away. Sean reached for it, his fingernails scraping against the grip when the passenger door flew open. Three more shots rang out and Sean went limp. Then it was Ollie’s turn. What was left of his door hung on at a weird angle. A second later it was ripped from its hinges and tossed aside. Ollie stared into the barrel of a rifle, uncertain if the large silhouette before him meant to be a friend or an executioner.

Then the man spoke and the deep and familiar timbre of his voice gave Ollie his answer. “Sven?”