Baptism by Fire: The Unlucky 7 Chronicles: The Complete Season 1

  THE UNLUCKY 7 CHRONICLES

  SEASON 1: BAPTISM BY FIRE

  by

  BK Lyon

  ADVERTISMENT

  LAST BREATH

  The year is 2266 and Earth is at war. Earth heavy cruiser Botany Bay commanded by Captain Tab Nakamura is in the Belt. Underway to secretly deliver a terrifying weapon, Earth government hopes will end a territorial war for the Belt with Mars. But the Martians attack and scuttle the warship. With its mission classified, no one knows all hands have abandoned ship. Leaving the captain of the Botany Bay and her remaining crew stuck struggling to survive stranded over seven days away from Earth with less than five days of oxygen.

  Don’t miss my next stand-alone novel LAST BREATH. It’s FREE.

  “Shed of its alleged glory, a soldier’s job is to kill. Peel away the claptrap of espionage and a spy’s job is to betray.”

  FORMER CIA OPERATIONS OFFICER

  “The only justification a soldier or spy has is the moral worth of the cause they represent.”

  THAT SAME FORMER CIA OPERATIONS OFFICER

  1

  JANUARY 1992

  His heartbeat seemed faster, harder.

  Minutes after sunrise, inside a low high-rise as welcoming as beige concrete can be, a boy climbed upon a wide bed. Propped on his knees, he fixed a stare beyond his apartment’s only window. Dull eyes, a grey-blue—two colors common in this part of the world—held captive by the whiteness before him. Yet he did not smile like his father used to.

  The eight-year-old bit his lower lip, which was the same grey ash as his face.

  Then pressed the flat of his clammy hands against a window damp with moisture. From the other side, twenty degrees below zero reddened boney fingers and tiny palms. Yet his pale hands stayed firm.

  Hours later, with palms still in place, his eyes remained frozen—not on an afternoon sky hidden behind clouds or mountains capped with snow on the horizon, but below—where smoke rose from exhausts of Ladas, Volgas, and Toyotas parked there. Kept running by owners not patient enough to wait until spring to restart them. Leaning into the glass, the boy bowed his head, blinking far too often.

  It would be hours more before a speeding marshrutka skidded to a halt in front his building. When its front passenger door swung open, a woman lurched into the night careful her hair red as blood did not to bump its roof.

  One by one, her boots sank into a street whitened by snow as deep as her ankle. After stuffing a few crumbled rubles and a bottle of slushy vodka three-quarters empty into the driver’s mitts, she tottered towards pavement in need of a sweeping.

  Once upon pavement splotched with snow, ice, and mud, the woman shot a stare at the window where the boy still knelt. He jerked back, yanking his hands from the glass. Then whipped around so his back faced the window.

  Ignoring paint peeling off the chipped concrete walls, his gaze travelled through the room and focused only on the apartment’s main door.

  Soon after, footfalls scuffled to an end in the hallway outside it.

  Something clattered against the lock just before scratching across the outer door. This repeated, and repeated, and repeated, until—

  Knock.

  The boy flinched. After wiping his forehead, wetness dampened the back of his small hand.

  “Da-vid?” A woman’s voice drifted in from the other side of the main door. Her vee stressed, vowels short.

  Pushing back into the window’s sill, the boy’s eyes grew a size or two.

  Knock-knock!

  “David.”

  The main door’s knob rattled, and the boy’s knobby knees drew chin ward while his hands jammed into his armpits.

  A few seconds later, silence returned.

  Then just as quick, the door shuddered after a thump.

  “David!”

  Leaping to the floor, the boy’s footfalls click-clacked like an expert typist attacking keys until hard soles skidded short of the battered door.

  Thump-thump-thump!

  “David!”

  After a few seconds, the lock of the door clicked and David reached for the handle but—

  Reeeeeeeeek.

  The door swung pass him. After that, the woman with fiery hair wobbled as she stumbled in, her ears blue. Every part of her hidden under a large long fur coat, except her head.

  “David,” she said.

  “Mama,” the boy said. His vowels short too.

  Spreading her arms, Mama managed two shaky steps towards him before David backed away.

  Her eyes bowed and wrinkled. “David?”

  The boy bolted into another room. His.

  Where he slid between a tight gap made by the floor and underside of the small narrow bed. Balled up tight, David stayed as still as he could despite his breath bursting in and out.

  Mama followed up to his door.

  “David …” she said.

  * * *

  HOURS LATER, a breeze cold as a witch’s breath woke David. He jerked up. Still huddled beneath his bed, his head bumped the low overhead.

  His ears picked up something around the same time, his nose breathed in beef and cabbage.

  David’s tummy rumbled.

  He rubbed it then gazed through the break, sweeping the floor before edging to the crack where a loud sucking became clear. David tugged his top half from beneath his bed, and stopped for a moment.

  He scanned his room before dragging his lower half out and pulling himself to his feet. With eyes riveted on the open door of his room, he crept towards it and peeked through.

  At a kitchen table barely big enough for two, Mama scraped a huge bowl filled with—David inhaled as deep as he could—Shchi.

  The corners of his mouth lifted.

  After more than a dozen half steps, each one stiff and unsure as the one before, David stopped at the table where his mother put an end to her slurping and studied him standing at the other side behind a wooden chair.

  “David ...” she said. Mama got up and moved beside him.

  When she slid the chair back, its legs to scrap the floor. Next, Mama moved to the stove and dug a ladle into a saucepan. She tilted a brownish liquid into a cup. After which, she sandwiched the steaming soup between crusty bread and a silvery spoon before David.

  A smile flickered on her son’s lips then he stretched for the utensil.

  It had just lifted when David swiveled. Behind him, Mama peered down.

  She frowned. “David,” she said, dragging her vowels even more and David wet himself. Any excess sloshed over the edge of his seat.

  David dropped his spoon causing a clack to spring forth where it struck. For a moment, David turned back at the table then angled back.

  What little color he had drained from his face.

  Mama had vanished.

  Gripping the table, David’s eyes darted about the small room.

  However, seconds later, Mama emerged from the washroom. She came to a standstill, just to his left, clenching a long bath towel, splotched and bare-thin in spots.

  David leaned right.

  Without a word, Mama knelt and David stooped. Locked on her as she sopped up the wet patch yellowing the floor.

  She rose and towered above her son. “David.”

  Mama slid the spoon near his knuckles almost as white as the snow in the streets below. Yet, David remained still as the polar star.

  Mama nudged the spoon closer.

  David met her eyes and she smiled.

  After the briefest of pauses, David reached for the spoon and just as his hand gripped its handle—

  Mama whipped the towel a
round her son’s neck. David’s mouth parted.

  However, a gasp failed in escaping.

  Nonetheless, Mama wrapped the cloth several times and snatched David off his seat. He landed with a thump and his blond hair slowly gained a reddish tinge.

  David’s fingers clawed at his throat prying cotton to no avail. With eyeballs white as eggs, lips blue, David bucked and kicked all the while sobbing in heaving pants.

  Nonetheless, like a workhorse, Mama dragged him into her bedroom, leaving a slick reddish trail behind.

  And then her door slammed shut.

  2

  PARIS, FRANCE

  APRIL 2019 | 15:13 HRS

  “EXCUSE ME, I do not mean to be rude,” the Azerbaijani said hand-over-heart as rock and roll blasted the street from the windows above him and the man whom he addressed. “But I am an admirer.”

  The Azerbaijani looked tired in spite of the smile he flashed at an American outside a bistro whose serviette flapped like a dying fish pinned only by his cutlery.

  Parked outdoors because he insisted on smoking his hand rolled cigarettes the American sipped cheap wine and ate salad. He stuffed a forkful of lettuce into his mouth. “How so?”

  “Alexandra Rodman.”

  The American continued to work his jaw.

  “Sometimes she works for me and ...” The Azerbaijani leaned in. “Even though, you are new to all this, she speaks of you very highly, despite you being the competition.”

  “Really …” the American said as he chewed. “I’m going to have to ask her to stop.”

  “Why? Like you, Alexandra is a true artist. Still, I doubt she will ever possess your gifts of timing and gravitas.”

  The American stuffed more lettuce in his mouth.

  “Hey,” the Azerbaijani said, “perhaps you—No, you would not be interested. Besides it is beneath your talents.”

  Nonetheless, the Azerbaijani went on to tell the man of a profitable adventure that awaited if open to the notion of “rolling some drunken Frenchmen.”

  The American stopped chewing. “How much?” he asked.

  This prompted the offer of lots of money. “… and you are already here in France.”

  “Not worth my while.” The American took a drag on his cigarette and the Azerbaijani turned to leave.

  “Wait a minute.” The American dropped his butt and crushed it. “Just exactly how many Frenchmen, are we talking?”

  The conversation continued for a few more minutes. After which, the two shook hands and the Azerbaijani crossed the street sweeping past a very ordinary looking man in a dark suit who adjusting a pair of shades that had captured the whole encounter.

  3

  MAY 2021

  “NO … NO …. NO …”

  In a room no bigger than a standard cubicle, two people huddled over the only source of light, a screen that sat before them. The man had been swiping left for hours, while the woman’s brain mulled over faces almost as fast as his finger flicked and replaced the images.

  “No … no …. no …” All of a sudden, she tapped the screen. “Him.”

  A tic tugged at the man’s cheek.

  “Positive?” he asked. The woman nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

  The man rose. “That’s who we’re looking for.”

  He rushed to another room and dropped behind a desk where he scratched an earlobe then pulled up the image the woman had identified and checked its timestamp. 28 APRIL 2019.

  “I’d like a coffee.” The room’s AI beeped.

  As a ring-back tone tinkled in the background, the man stared at the image. Two men at a bistro in Paris. The older one on his feet, the younger sitting having a meal, it appeared. He scratched

  Expresso King. An automated voice had replaced the tone. Your order please?

  “Oh, yes …” The man scratched right before his ginger moustache tilted. “One minute.” He flicked through the e-notes on his desktop. Then stopped.

  “Ah …” The man rattled off an alphanumeric phrase. “I’d like a tall skinny latte. Three raw sugars, two shots of soy. And can you make sure it has caramel drizzle on the bottom of the cup? … It cannot wait.”

  How’s tomorrow? 14:25 to 14:30 hours. 19:00 to 19:05 hours. Take your pick.

  “No. I need—”

  Would 11:30 to 11:35 hours. 18:00 to 18:05 hours tomorrow better suit your calendar? Take your pick.

  “You’re not listening. This is urgent. Very urgent.” He scratched behind an ear.

  Everybody says it’s urgent. Now what about—

  “R-E-A-P-E-R,” the man spelt and the call connected a split second later.

  4

  BROOKLYN, NEW YOURK, USA

  APRIL 2021 | 11:45 HOURS

  A SQUIRREL JERKED ONTO ITS HINDS. Then its head darted about before it sprinted up a tall oak, where a sun high in the sky hid it from my searching eyes.

  As I moved through the brush, I tried seeing the world through fresh eyes. It ain’t easy as it sounds but it doesn’t pay to settle in. After all, habits kill.

  “Almost there.” My way out. “Fifteen meters.”

  Just needed to get to the other side.

  Every so often, my forearm snaked out and pushed another thin branch in my way. No real surprise here. From time to time, they cropped up but I shoved them aside making sure not a twig trailed me.

  “Ten meters.”

  As the surrounding thicket whizzed past, my sneaks pounded the dirt like a champion racer’s piston. My breathing, half as fast and slowing.

  “Five …” I ducked the next limb that blocked me, without missing a beat. Still, I was favoring my right over my left so I urged my legs to keep pace. “Quitters never wins.”

  A few strides later, at zero, I downshifted into a trot as I broke through a line of shrubs fencing off a public path. A runner hurried past with her dog trotting beside. Puffing, she gave a friendly nod.

  Bzzzzzzzzz. My smartwatch had vibrated.

  After a glance at who called, I tapped the screen to decline.

  Once clear of the park, I jogged another ten blocks before making a left at the intersection of Prospect and Washington. Trees with leaves, curled and green and just coming in, lined the street. Less than a minute later, I was heading into a renovated tenement, my building—

  Bzzzzzzzzz. I checked the number and grunted.

  A quick dash to the second floor took me to my front door. Unlike most apartments in Brooklyn, which knew were you coming and unlocked, mine only opened for just two thumb prints.

  A scan later, I strolled in and spotted Marion stirring something on the stove. Coils of steam rose from a pot grazing her face and overwhelmed the kitchen with what I guessed were Cajun spices.

  Marion lit up as warm as August when she sighted me. “Hey.” Her Georgia twang always put a smile to my lips. “How was your run?”

  As I rubbed my chin, Marion grabbed the pot and headed straight for me. Once close, she rammed a spoonful of what was in the pot pass my lips.

  “Marion!” It was gumbo and my eyes bulged as liquid hot like lava rolled across my tongue and I fanned my mouth. “Hot, hot, hot.”

  Took a few seconds before I could swallow.

  “Mrs Drew …” I burped. “It’s terrible.”

  Marion slumped and took a taste. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I opened the fridge and hauled out items. “Why’d I go marry the only Southern girl who ain’t a cook? But fear not, there’s still time to whip up my mother’s world famous chicken casserole. Now where is …”

  I had lost my train of thought. Marion slinked towards me. You know … in that way of hers. Deep brown eyes dug into mine, wearing that smile that made my heart beat faster. Hips swaying. Slow and easy as a summer breeze.

  When she came to a halt at my feet, she tippy-toed then draped her arms about my neck, soft like velvet.

  “Well, Mr Drew,” she said. “There are some things this here Southern girl can do much better at than yo’ momma.” She smiled. br />
  Ten minutes later, in bed, we lay gazing into each other’s eyes. Huffing and puffing. Marion rolled on a side and we spooned. My arm around her waist as light as I could, my chin resting on her shoulder. “Thanks for the reminder, Mrs Drew.”

  We chortled so hard the bed shook. “What on for the rest of the day?” I asked.

  “I dunno,” Marion said, “Maybe call Jennie, ask her if she wants to come to service tomorrow. They’ll be a guest pastor. I’ve heard he’s good ... Are you listening?”

  “Uh huh.” I rubbed my nose. “… Jennie.”

  “Or we could just lie here, take it easy.”

  “Un huh, better.”

  “That way I can tell you I’m two months in.”

  “Uh huh, two months in.” I shut my eyes and snuggled. “And what exactly does that mean? You going to night school?”

  Marion laughed with glee. “No silly. Sy, what it means,” she said, “is that you’re gonna be a daddy.”

  “Oh, uh huh …” My eyes snapped open. “Wait ...”

  I shot up. “Did you say …” The words couldn’t come fast enough. “Did say …” My heart nearly stopped.

  Marion raised herself on the bed too, tearing up as she nodded. “A daddy.”

  I hugged her. “Hold up.” I took hold of her arms and pushed her back. “Is it mine?”

  I grinned.

  “Simon Drew.” Marion slapped my chest. “You are neither an officer nor a gentleman. No, you sir, you are a scoundrel.—Oh my god!” She palmed her tummy.

  “Oh my God? ... Oh my God, what? Everything’s OK, right?”

  “Why of course not, Sy. Our child, my child …” Marion said. “It’ll be … half-Yankee.”

  I busted out laughing.

  “Oh, the shame …” she said, “the disrepute. How will my family ever forgive—”

  I kissed her.

  A second later, my smartwatch charging on the night table rang. After a peek, my brow creased.

  “Alexa.” The AI beeped. “CNN, please.” I glanced at Marion. “Mind if I check out what time the game is on?”