Free The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) by J. Steven Butler

ride down a narrow elevator into the bowels of the
fortress, deeper than I've been before. I clench my teeth and fists to assuage
the pent up anger and malice that threaten to boil over inside of me. Damian
stands beside me, his arms folded and head held high. If it weren’t for
the fact that I absolutely believe he is the only one capable of fixing Mira, I
might give serious thought to killing him instead of Archer, father or not.
I've made it this far without having a real dad, and the one I have now is
certainly not a role model or someone I care to have around.
    After the initial shock of his request set in, I've
felt nothing but growing, seething hatred for the man. It’s palpable,
like an animal inside of me clawing to get out and sink its teeth into him.
    He eyes me carefully from the corner of the elevator,
as if he can read my thoughts, which only infuriates me more. But I mash
down the loathing and anger, determined to control it. No matter how nasty the
situation, I won't risk Mira's life for the sake of this freak.
    “This is best,” he says. “In the end, you'll
understand. Archer is too dangerous to leave alive.”
    “What's that supposed to mean?” I snap. “I know what a
creep Archer is, but what's it to you? Right now, I don't see how you're any
better than he is.”
    Damian just shrugs off my comment unaffected.
    “And what if I don't succeed?” I say. “What if I
can't find him, or he's too deep? What if something goes wrong? What guarantees
do I have from you?”
    “My dear boy, I have the utmost confidence in your
abilities.”
    Before I can come up with a sarcastic retort, the
elevator comes to an abrupt halt and the doors slide open with a squeak to
reveal one of the most unbelievable things I've seen here yet.
    In front of me is a hangar. A massive one. Several jets
sit off to the sides, each looking pristine under the glaring overhead lights.
Fighters sit alongside several small private jets. A long, sloping runway leads
off into the distance. Landing lights are placed along the length of it,
but they’re not on, and I can’t see where the runway ends.
    After a few moments they flash on, perhaps in response
to Damian’s presence like everything else around here. There’s a deep
rumble and I see a glaring white line appear and grow as a behemoth-sized
hangar door cranks open. With the lighting and open door, I can now see
that the runway is roughly a half mile long and doesn’t extend beyond the
hangar door. To take off from here would require pinpoint precision.
    Damian walks forward, and I follow as he strides to the
left of the enormous place, around a cargo plane, and towards a small group of
men servicing a jet fighter.
    I shake my head in disbelief. He actually has an A-25
Wraith. This was a beast of a jet fighter back in the day. The military's last
manufactured fighter before The Virus outbreak, the Wraith took everything that
was great about what came before and improved on it. With a top speed of 1800
miles-per-hour, stealth technology, and a price tag of 170 million dollars
each, the Wraith was state-of-the-art.
    He says something I can't hear to one of the servicemen
and then turns to me, a big smile on his face.
    “Beautiful, isn't she?” he says.
    I confess I'm dumbfounded, looking at the ultra-sleek,
midnight-black aircraft in front of me, but he's acting like a proud dad who's
not currently holding my girlfriend's life ransom. I guess he thinks better of
it because his smile fades.
    “Anyway,” he says. “She's in perfect working condition
and she'll provide you with good cover against radar due to her stealth
qualities.”
    “How on earth did you get this?” If it weren't for my
circumstances, I would actually be looking forward to the opportunity to fly
such an amazing piece of military hardware.
    “I used to have friends who were very well connected,”
he says, as if that explains it all perfectly. “I trust you can fly it?”
    “I'll manage,” I say.