Plague

  PLAGUE

  A Logan Reed Thriller – Book 1

  By Matthew James

  Description:

  A strange virus has resurfaced in the Serengeti, not seen since the Second World War, infecting man and beast alike. Its victims soon become violent, viciously attacking anything that wanders into their path.

  Logan Reed, a former Australian Special Forces soldier turned African game warden, is at the front line of this disastrous outbreak. Together with his team, including his sister, a Serengeti Zoologist, Logan searches for clues to the contagion's origin in hopes that knowing where it came from will help them stop it.

  And they'd better hurry.

  It’s spreading…

  Also by Matthew James

  The Logan Reed Thrillers

  Plague

  Evolve

  The Hank Boyd Adventures

  Blood & Sand

  Mayan Darkness

  Babel Found

  Elixir of Life

  The Hank Boyd Origins

  The Cursed Pharaoh

  The Dane Maddock Adventures (w/David Wood)

  Berserk

  Skin & Bones

  Standalone Titles

  Dead Moon

  Beautiful Dragons

  Dark Island (Coming Soon)

  PRAISE FOR “THE HANK BOYD ADVENTURES”

  “BLOOD & SAND takes readers on a spellbindingly treacherous journey that also manages to have fun along the way!”

  —Rick Chesler, Bestselling author of HOTEL MEGALODON

  “The Hank Boyd series has been added to my must-read list!”

  —J.M. LeDuc, Bestselling author of SIN

  “The next Hank Boyd Adventure can’t come soon enough!”

  —David McAfee, Bestselling author of 33 A.D

  PRAISE FOR “BERSERK”

  “What should you expect when you mix adventure, complex and humorous characters, ancient science fiction plot with contemporary consequences, magic weapons, and scary monsters? A great story!”

  —C.K. Phillips, Bestselling author of

  COMES THE AWAKENING

  PRAISE FOR “PLAGUE”

  "PLAGUE erupts from the pages in a steroid-filled tornado of terror and shock!"

  —SUSPENSE MAGAZINE

  “PLAGUE is filled with action, monsters, and our new favorite hero, Logan Reed. Need a cup of coffee and the next book!”

  —THE MR. CAFFEINE SHOW

  "PLAGUE is a monstrously thrilling read!"

  —John Sneeden, Bestselling author of THE SIGNAL

  PRAISE FOR “EVOLVE”

  "A rip-roaring action/adventure that grabs you by the throat and doesn't let go, with compelling characters who will stop at nothing to protect one another. Looking forward to the next installment!"

  —Richard Bard, Bestselling author of BRAINRUSH

  PRAISE FOR “DEAD MOON”

  “DEAD MOON is a high-octane thrill ride filled with action, suspense, sadness, and of course, monsters! An amazing read!”

  —Zach Cole, author of KAIJU EPOCH

  To the men and women fighting for our freedom, I salute you. Thank you dearly for defending my rights and mine and my family’s lives.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is the part of the book where I thank a few people who have helped and/or inspired me along the way. While this is still true, and there are many, I’d really like to take this time and thank my readers. Without your interest, this section wouldn’t exist and I’m truly humbled by that.

  I’d also like to express my gratitude towards the person or persons responsible for recommending my work to you—even if it was a website that may have done it. I’d like to thank the luck (or maybe fate) that was involved when you saw an advertisement for my work somewhere out in cyberspace.

  Here’s to a long and happy friendship!

  PLAGUE

  A Logan Reed Thriller

  By Matthew James

  PROLOGUE

  Egypt, 1944

  Erwin Johannes Eugen Rommel, Field Marshal for the Nazi’s Deutsches Afrikakorps, stood watch as his men marched their recently captured prisoners through the force’s makeshift camp. Known throughout the world as the Wustenfuchs—the Desert Fox—Rommel was an expert in desert warfare. The nickname was a testament to that.

  “Mein Herr,” a voice said behind him, announcing the arrival of one of his troops. Rommel turned, accepting the salute without verbally acknowledging the man. His cool and calm demeanor was renowned, even in the desert’s oppressive heat.

  “Die erfasst werden festgenommen,” the soldier continued, explaining that the recently captured had been successfully detained.

  Rommel nodded his approval, turning back to his post on the small hill overseeing his men. He liked to watch from afar and marvel at his troops’ efficiency and might. They would not give in, not with him leading them. He glanced over towards the prisoners, his face as stoic as ever. He had strict orders from the Fuhrer to eliminate all captives immediately, but he didn’t believe in such treatment. Yes, Rommel was a Nazi, but he was a soldier first and was respected by even his enemies for that reason.

  “Mein Herr?”

  Rommel didn’t acknowledge the other man again. He just wanted to be left in peace. He looked up into the dimming sky, the sun almost touching the horizon now. Closing his eyes, Rommel dreamed of being back home with Lucie and the children, riding his motorcycle. He had it since he was a young boy and enjoyed every moment spent rocketing through his hometown’s winding streets.

  He could feel the warmth on his sunburnt face and welcomed the inevitable coolness that the approaching sunset brought. He dreaded every sunrise, knowing the cruel heat would soon soak his clothes in sweat and—

  “Generalfeldmarschall?”

  He turned at the sound of the soldier’s interruption. The use of his official rank threw him off. It wasn’t required out here, a respect he gave to his men. A simple sir was all that was needed when addressing him. No, it was the questioning tone in the young man’s voice, and when Rommel turned, he saw the soldier wasn’t looking at him. He was looking past him.

  The Desert Fox peered north and saw something that shouldn’t have been there. Barreling through the flattened section of sand, was a convoy of trucks, heading south. They were headed to his camp’s front door.

  He was momentarily perplexed as to why another wave of German forces would be headed this way. They were holed up fine here and had plenty of supplies for another year if needed. It felt like overkill to send this much more support.

  At least a dozen large covered trucks, lined up like chicks following their mother, pulled up to the northern gate. From this distance, he could barely see the driver and the gateman conversing. But after talking for only seconds, the guard quickly lifted the entrance’s long wooden arm, letting them pass.

  He knew this wasn’t right and he needed to find out what was happening. This was his command and he was becoming more and more furious as the seconds ticked by. Not knowing what was going on was unacceptable.

  “Bekommen das auto!” Rommel barked to the young soldier, ordering him to bring around transportation. The private hurried off, finding the first vehicle he could, a Krupp 6x4.

  It screeched to a halt beside Rommel as he hurriedly climbed into the six-wheeled truck’s front passenger seat. The back was a flatbed, perfect for carrying munitions or other equipment, but it was currently empty, having been unloaded earlier that morning. It was one of at least a dozen or so models they had at their disposal here, at the heart of his Afrika Korps’ outpost.

  The “blocking force’s” mission was to shore up the already established Italian defenses in northern Africa. They would supply them with reinforcements against the Allied Forces, consisting of both men and machine, mostl
y Panzer tanks.

  “Schnell!” Rommel ordered as the other man floored the pedal, sending twin rooster tails of sand into the sky. They quickly accelerated, careening towards the approaching herd of elephant-sized vehicles.

  Thirty seconds later, Rommel ordered the vehicle stopped, dead center in the road, hindering the army of Opel Blitz 3-ton cargo trucks from moving any further.

  The convoy didn’t slow.

  The young soldier grabbed at the driver’s side door handle, about to launch himself from the Krupp, but stopped, seeing his commanding officer go to stand. If he fled and Rommel didn’t he’d be seen as a coward, leaving his senior officer behind to die.

  Now beyond enraged, Rommel stood on the seat, raising his hand in protest, shouting for the lead truck’s driver to stop. He would restore order. They would stop, or be tried and convicted for his death.

  Finally, reacting after seeing Rommel for who he was, the driver hit the brakes, stopping the large truck from bulldozing them. The transport vehicle skidded to a halt, coming to a complete stop not ten feet from the general and the now shaking driver.

  Wide-eyed after almost running over Rommel, the Opel’s driver threw the truck into park and leaped out of the driver’s side door. He ran up to the field marshal, a look of remorseful fright in his eyes. He almost single-handedly turned one of the most feared and respected men in all the German military into paste.

  “Ich mich entschuldigen,” the man said apologetically, saluting Rommel. He then went on to explain what he and the other trucks were doing out here and the obvious hurry they were in.

  After hearing the broad version of the driver’s instructions, Rommel still didn’t fathom why the Fuhrer would send a group all the way out here, especially since they weren’t here as reinforcements. That was now apparent. They were here for some other reason...

  Rommel was about to ask—when a passenger climbed out and marched over to him, joining him and the driver. Turning his attention to the newcomer, Rommel noticed two things. First, the man was clean cut and had a hardened look in his eyes. It was a look that could only come from fighting on the front lines, but the freshly shaved face was a sign that he hadn’t recently. Secondly, the symbol on his chest gave Rommel a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Both men wore the emblem of the Schutzstaffel—the Armanen runes of Himmler’s SS.

  The twin lightning bolts told him this was no ordinary visit. “Was—” Rommel was about to question, but the second man cut him off, handing him an envelope.

  He quickly took it and reached into his pocket. He procured a small pocket knife, unfolding it, sliding the blade under the pasted flap, tearing it open. He hurriedly read the script. It was addressed directly to him and was not to be opened or read by anyone else. This didn’t mean anything, though. He was the general after all, and he got plenty of classified documents all the time, mostly communiques from the offices of the Fuhrer—only… This particular dispatch wasn’t from the Fuhrer… It was from Himmler himself.

  After rereading the body of the message twice, Rommel still didn’t understand why the SS’s commander would send this to him. The Afrika Korps and the Schutzstaffel, while both parts of the Nazi’s military arm…they weren’t exactly in communication with each other on a regular basis. Their jobs were completely different. His was war. Theirs was… His thoughts immediately went to Himmler. Was he up to something—something the Fuhrer didn’t know about?

  It's then Rommel noticed a third man exiting the truck’s cab. He was of average height like himself but carried himself differently. This man was no ordinary soldier—if one at all.

  The third man stepped up to Rommel, face hidden by a wide-brimmed fedora. He was about to reprimand the man for not removing it and introducing himself, but the visitor did eventually take it off, finally revealing his face to him.

  Normally unscathed by everything the world brought to his doorstep, Rommel’s face went white. He couldn’t believe who was standing in front of him. It was a man who was responsible for countless deaths, many by his hand.

  Rommel looked into the sinister eyes of Auschwitz’s Angel of Death himself, Dr. Josef Mengele.

  DISCOVERY

  “If we can teach people about wildlife they will be touched. Share my wildlife with me. Because humans want to save things that they love.”

  ~Steve Irwin

  “Nothing is more important to human society than preserving its natural capital. Nature does not need people. People need nature.”

  ~Harrison Ford

  1

  Iraq, 2007

  “Dammit, don’t!” he grumbled in a shouted whisper, staring through the scope of his sniper rifle. “Don’t do it, kid!”

  The driver was already dead, a bullet had torn through his chest in a spout of blood and gore. Their job was to take out these particular weapons dealers and then incinerate the truck and its contents. They just couldn’t prepare themselves for the ages of two of the smugglers.

  “The bloody wankers are just kids, Captain,” another man said. “What do we do?”

  Captain Logan Reed of Australia’s elite Special Air Service looked down from his team’s perch atop a cliff. He watched as one of the two boys bent over to reacquire a recently felled AK-47. The SAS was the Australian Army’s Special Forces division and was world renowned for their abilities—abilities that Logan had honed to a T over the last seven years of service. He was one of the best—if not the best—at what he did… Target elimination.

  Sweating heavily now, Logan readjusted his aim, firing at the only other clear threat in his sights, another middle-aged man. This one held a Rocket Propelled Grenade launcher—an RPG. The powerful rifle bucked silently, the round coughing like a man with a sore throat. It was, in reality, a whispered, thwap, silenced by a state-of-the-art sound suppressor attached to his rifle’s barrel. The bullet hit the man dead center in his chest, knocking him off his feet, splattering the white truck’s siding with the known terrorist’s blood. Any higher and the large caliber round would have taken the man’s head clean off. Now that the real threat was over with, Logan was ready to let the kids walk away.

  “What are they, thirteen?” one of the other operators asked. Even Logan was still bewildered at the age of some of the men this part of the world used as soldiers.

  “Fourteen at most,” Logan replied through gritted teeth. He groaned as the other boy ambled over to the fallen man’s RPG.

  For God’s sake.

  Logan breathed in deep and then out hard, steadying his nerves if only a little. He calmly pulled the trigger of his Barrett M82 .50 caliber sniper rifle again. The round found its target, the passenger side window of the truck. He fired it straight between the two teens, hoping a closer shot would scare them off.

  It didn’t.

  The second kid, maybe even younger than the first, shouldered the RPG, looking for the source of the gunfire. He didn’t find it, but his buddy did, letting loose a few rounds unsuccessfully towards Logan’s strike team. Thankfully, they were safely concealed from the bullets.

  But not the RPG, he thought.

  Their luck was about to run out.

  It was then the younger child turned his attention towards them, aiming the RPG in their general direction, towards the outcrop of rocks that concealed Logan’s team.

  “Um… Captain? If that kid gets off a lucky shot, we’re boned. What’s the call?”

  Logan knew his teammate was right and he knew what they had to do. He repositioned the scope in front of his right eye and breathed in heavily again. He wasn’t what you would call a religious person, but even Logan found himself praying to whoever was listening for forgiveness. What he was about to do would surely block him from any kind of entry into Saint Peter’s Pearly Gates, but maybe asking for forgiveness would help, if only a little.

  “On my mark.”

  A single tear started to drip from his eye. If it did, it would surely blur his vision. He quickly blinked it away and reacquired the boy with
the more dangerous weapon. It wouldn’t have mattered if the salty liquid found his eye, however, they weren’t that far away, and he was a really, really good shot. His sight could be partially impaired due to injury, or in this case salinity, and he’d still hit his target.

  “Three…” he said, beginning the countdown with a shaky voice. He again saw the boy pointing up towards their roost, his aim finally steadying a little more. They obviously had very little, if any, practice with the awkward armament.

  “Two…” Logan’s forehead started sweating profusely now, even more than the last couple of hours while they waited for the transport truck to show. The desert heat had nothing on this current situation.

  “One…”

  As he squeezed the trigger to his M82, Logan knew he had just given an order that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  * * *

  That was almost ten years ago and dozens of useless therapy sessions later. Logan saw four different psychiatrists including a specialist who dealt with a lot of soldiers returning from active combat completely mentally screwed…like him. But they all wanted to drug him and make him feel like a Woodstock patron. He didn’t need meds, Logan just wanted to know what was wrong with him and the proper way to deal with it.

  He was eventually diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—or PTSD—which was, unfortunately, a very common condition with soldiers still overseas and also those coming home. It was a debilitating psychological condition and affected those who suffered from it differently. Some were just severely depressed, but others became psychotic, and some even became suicidal.