Asher's War (Asher Benson #3) Read online

  Asher's War

  Asher Benson, Volume 3

  Jason Brant

  Copyright © 2016 Jason Brant

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from Jason Brant, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editing Services Provided by Cynthia Shepp

  www.CynthiaShepp.com

  Cover Created by Phycel Designs

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also by Jason Brant

  Newsletter

  1 – Tube of Terror

  2 – A Visit from Mr. Clean

  3 – Slinging Iron

  4 – Freaking Out

  5 – I Don’t Smell Like Shit

  6 – Needing Answers

  7 – Testing Shizzle Out

  8 – Whirlwind

  9 – Alpha of Alphas

  10 – Curiosity Killed the Christie

  11 – Dropping Knowledge

  12 – A Woman-Child

  13 – Thinking Hurts

  14 – Hashtag

  15 – Passed Out

  16 – Stressed

  17 – Team Asher Benson

  18 – Falling Apart

  19 – Hornet's Nest

  20 – Officer Down

  21 – Have Some Fun

  22 – Shot Through the Hart

  23 – Go Time

  24 – Asshole Down

  25 – Bureaucratic Incompetence

  26 – Ouchie

  27 – Handy

  28 – Trapped

  29 – Dildos

  30 – Escape

  31 – In the Buff

  32 – Licking Wounds

  33 – Eating Lightning

  34 – Digital Wizardry

  35 – Who is the Queen?

  36 – Todd

  37 – Just a Touch of Treason

  38 – Rationalization

  39 – Woodsland

  40 – My Ass Burns

  41 – Engage

  42 – A Little Upset

  43 – Weapons Free

  44 – Skewed

  45 – Jamie

  46 – Party Poopers

  47 – Cover

  48 – Security

  49 – Rescue Party

  50 – Cut and Run

  51 – The Man in Black

  52 – Smith

  53 – Shrinkage

  54 – Ferris

  55 – Alone

  Epilogue

  Thanks for reading!

  Also by Jason Brant

  Further Reading: Devoured

  About the Author

  Also by Jason Brant

  Asher Benson

  Ash (FREE)

  The Perfect Crime

  Madness

  Asher's War

  The Hunger

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  Lotion

  Consumed

  Ravaged

  The Hunger Omnibus Edition

  West of Hell

  Gehenna (FREE)

  Tartarus

  Sheol

  West of Hell Omnibus Edition

  Standalone

  The Dark

  The Gate

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  1 – Tube of Terror

  Grime coated Christie’s fingers as she grabbed hold of the handle hanging in the middle of the subway car. She winced and jerked her hand back as if a snake had latched onto it. Though she couldn’t see anything untoward on her palm, she imagined the plethora of germs rooting their way into her pores.

  Christie didn’t have a paralyzing fear of bacteria, but she’d seen one too many weird people vomit on the floor of the subway or wipe their nose with their fingers before grabbing ahold of the pole in front of them.

  D.C.’s rail system had plenty of crazies on it at all times, but an army of the bizarre attacked during the late-night hours when Christie commuted home. Her shift at the bar ended at eleven, and she rarely got out of there until closer to midnight.

  The crowds in the stations had thinned by then, replaced by a string of weirdos who ogled her legs and made profane comments. Her work uniform consisted of a form-fitting white shirt that buttoned up the front and a short, black skirt.

  She hated the outfit, but she loved the tips it brought in. A little thigh and cleavage action always coerced a couple of extra bucks out of the pockets of a few drunks by the end of the night.

  What she really loathed were the coos and caws the uniform attracted on the damned subway. Christie normally brought leggings in her purse to pull on before heading home, but she’d slept through her alarm and had forgotten to pack her essentials.

  She hadn’t even remembered to put on deodorant before she’d sprinted out the door.

  Without something to hold onto, the lurch of the train rolling out of the station made her stumble back a step. She bumped into something soft and turned around, coming face to face with a man standing just in front of the rear door of the car.

  A three-day beard covered his cheeks and double chin.

  His breath reeked of alcohol.

  A sweaty sheen made his skin look unhealthy, and his musk was unbearable.

  “There’s more where that came from.” The man grinned at her, revealing an uneven row of yellowed teeth. “You can rub on me on all you want, honey.”

  Christie tried to do two things—hide her grimace and fight against the bile worming its way up her throat.

  She only managed to keep from vomiting.

  The man’s grin faltered. “Don’t pretend you didn’t dig that.”

  Christie had learned several years ago not to engage with the crazies. No matter what she said, they would take her words as an invitation to keep talking.

  Spinning on her heel without a word, she marched to the middle of the train.

  The fat man called after her, but she refused to turn around and acknowledge him again.

  A man wretched to her right as Christie walked by, so she kept going. Nights like tonight made her want to cry the entire way back to her apartment. She’d thought of leaving the city dozens of times, but she still had six months left on her lease and didn’t have the money to buy a car to avoid the madness of late-night public transportation. Besides, the cost of paying for parking in the garage under her building would bleed her dry inside of a few weeks.

  After finding an empty spot at the other end, Christie examined the seat for vomit, shit, blood, jizz, or anything else that might have come out of a human body.

  The coast was clear.

  Christie eased into the seat, shivering as the cool plastic touched her bare legs. Her head lowered until her chin rested on her chest. She mumbled, “I hate this so much.”

  “What’s that, sweetheart?”

  Christie looked up and saw a middle-aged woman with a prodigious belly sitting across from her. Her skin had the sallow, thin look of a drug addict. The unfocused gleam in her eyes confirmed it.


  A sleeping man slouched beside her, his balding, pasty head resting on the woman’s shoulder. Quiet snores escaped his open mouth, a line of spittle slowly descending to the woman’s soiled T-shirt.

  “Nothing,” Christie murmured.

  The woman nodded and appraised Christie’s legs. “You a hottie.”

  Christie said nothing.

  “Yeah, you be smoking.” The woman grinned at her, revealing a missing incisor. “You could make some paper with a body like that. I know a guy, if you interested.”

  Over the years, Christie had heard a lot of lewd comments about her appearance. Several men had offered to have sex with her right there in the aisle. She’d been offered cocaine, heroin, and untold bottles of booze secured in paper bags in exchange for a handy.

  But she had never been offered what sounded like a full-time job as a prostitute before. The idea was so preposterous that she struggled not to laugh.

  Oblivious to the way Christie’s mouth trembled as she fought against a giggle, the woman nodded her head as if she’d said something profound. “Yeah, you be some high-priced snatch, that’s for sure.”

  Christie didn’t find it so funny anymore.

  The woman shrugged her shoulder, jostling the man’s head. “Right, Willie?”

  The man’s eyes fluttered, and then opened. “Whazzit?” The drool hanging from the corner of his mouth plastered against his chin, though he didn’t seem to notice. “What you wake me up for, bitch?”

  “Ain’t she a hottie?”

  Christie didn’t like the direction things were moving so she got up, intending to walk back to the other end of the car, when she spotted the fat man still undressing her with his eyes.

  Willie finally wiped the spit from his face as he stared at Christie’s legs. “I’d hit that.”

  Without a word, Christie turned around and headed for the door opposite the obese man. She’d never actually walked between subway cars before, and a pang of fear settled in her stomach as she reached for the handle.

  Saliva Boy said something about her ass as she opened the door and stepped through.

  The experience was much less terrifying than she’d expected.

  A blast of wind.

  Some noise.

  And then she was through, opening the next door and stepping inside another car, escaping the cesspool of humanity behind her. Only three people inhabited it, all spaced out and quiet, minding their own business.

  Christie let out a small sigh of relief and walked forward, thankful the rest of her relatively short commute would be uneventful.

  A couple in their early twenties looked up as she stepped near, each giving her a small nod. They shared a few whispers and laughed before turning their attention to their intertwined hands.

  The image made Christie smile. She hadn’t gone on a date in a long time, but she always got a warm feeling at the sight of young love. Love was a concept that had recently begun to feel foreign to her. Although she was only thirty, her job at the bar made her feel much older as she watched twenty-one-year-old kids drink themselves stupid before disappearing into the bathrooms to grope each other in the filthy stalls.

  Just seeing a couple hold hands made her momentarily feel a bit better about the state of the human race.

  Taking a seat toward the middle, Christie took a deep breath and crossed her arms over her chest. She held a small purse in her left hand, which housed only a handful of the dollar bills she had on her.

  After a mugging last year, she’d learned not to carry more than twenty bucks in her purse after leaving the bar. Her job meant that she always had cash on her as she went home, so she’d begun hiding a fold of bills in her bra. Considering how meager her bank account was nowadays, she couldn’t afford to have some junkie take what little she had.

  Just in case one of the heathens from the other car followed her, Christie pulled her cell phone, along with a pair of noise-cancelling earbuds, from her purse. She often wore these on her way home because it blotted out the bustle of the city and helped her unwind.

  She found some Black Stone Cherry on her playlist and cranked up the volume. Guitar riffs smothered the drone of the subway, the clacking of the rails.

  A burly man sat across from her, two seats down. Tangles of disheveled, black hair stood out sporadically around his head. A thick, unkempt beard covered his cheeks and neck. He wore jogging pants and a hooded sweatshirt that only partially hid what appeared to be a muscular physique.

  His eyes cut left, and then right, constantly scanning both ends of the subway car.

  Sweat covered his forehead.

  A small, silver cylinder passed between the fingers of his right hand, rotating and flipping in a practiced rhythm.

  Christie averted her eyes, not wanting the man to see she’d been watching him. He was obviously either very nervous or very high. She didn’t care to find out which one it was.

  But her gaze crept back to his hand, her curiosity getting the best of her.

  The small object tumbled and rolled, its frenetic movement never slowing.

  The man glanced at her, caught her staring. He held her gaze for several seconds before looking back to the rear of the car. Christie didn’t see the dull, hazy look of someone on a bender. His eyes were clear and sharp.

  He was nervous.

  Alert.

  Christie didn’t want to know what had him on edge. The subway would reach her stop in a few moments. After, she could put the evening behind her and curl up in her warm, sagging bed.

  She considered getting up yet again and moving to another seat. The crazy man across the aisle wasn’t bothering her, but his nervous state proved infectious. She clutched her purse tight, preparing to stand when the train stopped at the next station.

  The man turned around and glanced out the window at the platform behind him.

  All of his muscles tensed.

  Even though the hour was late, at least forty people dotted the station, waiting for the doors of the train to open. Christie followed the man’s gaze as best she could, sifting through the crowd ambling toward the edge of the platform. Most of the commuters had sagging shoulders and groggy expressions, their long days finally playing out as they traveled home.

  But a handful of men stood out.

  They stood in the middle, intently scanning the gaggle of commuters. Four of them wore gray suits. The man in front donned a black suit and tie with a white shirt. He stood a few inches taller than the rest, his scowl carved a few millimeters deeper. Small plugs jutted slightly from each of their ears.

  The doors slid open.

  The crowd surged forward.

  And when the man in black spotted the burly dude sitting in the train, all hell broke loose.

  The man across the aisle from Christie whirled around and dropped to the floor. He mouthed something at her, but she couldn’t read lips adeptly beyond the names of drinks and four-letter words.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  Instead of responding, the bearded man reached behind him and pulled a black pistol from his waistband.

  “Oh God!” Christie exploded to her feet as the first commuters filed into the subway car. Her eyes darted to the besuited men, hoping for help.

  Instead, she saw them pointing guns in her direction.

  An iron grip grabbed hold of her wrist and yanked her down.

  She collapsed to the sticky aisle, banging her knees and palms on the floor.

  Gunshots exploded from the platform, overpowering her noise-cancelling earbuds.

  The window behind the bearded man shattered. Christie ducked her head as glass showered over them. Bits of it clung in her hair and stabbed at her exposed legs.

  Pandemonium broke out in the train and station. People ran in all directions, some fleeing the cars, others entering them, pushing and shoving at one another in panic. Several people were shoved down in the aisles and doors, creating logjams that kept most of the crowd from escaping.

  The
bearded man waited until the gunfire stopped, then popped up and shot through the hole where the window had been. He ripped off four rounds and ducked back down as the men in suits returned fire.

  Christie screamed as the bullets punched holes in the seat above her. She flattened herself in the aisle, small fragments of glass cutting into her arms and legs. Ignoring the pain, Christie pressed herself under the seats as best she could.

  Southern rock music continued to blare in her ears.

  More of the commuters followed her lead, diving under the seats and pressing themselves below the windows. A young blonde woman wrapped her arms around a pole, squeezing her eyes shut as if that would somehow protect her.

  The bearded man slid two feet to the right and sprang up again. He fired once before hunkering down in front of Christie. He looked left and then right, his jaw setting.

  He turned his attention to her.

  Christie tried to push further under the seat, wanting, needing to get away from him.

  He reached toward her face.

  She flinched away, swatting at his hand.

  His fingers wrapped around the audio cable running to her left earbud. He yanked it out, leaned toward her, and spoke directly into her ear. “Listen to me!”

  “Stay away!” Christie shoved against his chest, but he barely budged.

  “Stop.” He grabbed her left hand and wrenched it around so the palm faced up. “No matter what happens, you have to get this to Detective Andrew Lloyd.”

  The bearded man placed the small cylinder in her palm, closing her fingers around it. The metal was warm and slicked with sweat.

  “Wh-what?” Christie stared at the object. She’d expected him to take her hostage, not to give her something.

  “Detective Andrew Lloyd!”

  “I don’t underst—”

  One of the gray-suited men appeared in the door ten feet from their right, fighting against the panicked crowd. People saw the gun in his hand and shrieked even louder as they scrambled to get out of his way. He scowled down at the man with the beard as he shoved a silver-haired woman aside.

  Raised his pistol.

  His first shot punched a hole in the floor just beside Christie’s left hand.