Supercritical
Supercritical
By Shawn Kupfer
Siberia, 2021
As global tensions escalate, China attacks New York City, wiping out its entire population. Marine ex-con Nick Morrow and his team of convicts, dubbed 47 Echo, are sent on a deadly mission—to infiltrate Shanghai and shut down its computer network. Given virtually no weaponry, the crew must rely on themselves as they trek across the dangerous countryside, crawling with enemies.
As they head toward almost certain death, Nick struggles to not lose his ever-thinning thread of control. Though the convict soldiers outnumber their own military counterparts, they’re looked down upon as human shields. But to Nick, they’re friends. The team needs him—hell, the world needs him. The stakes are higher than ever before. This will be the ultimate battle, and the consequences will test everything Nick is and will become.
82,000 words
Dear Reader,
June is a good month for us here at Carina Press. Why? Because it’s the month we first started publishing books! This June marks our two-year anniversary of publishing books, and to celebrate, we’re featuring only return Carina Press authors throughout the month. Each author with a June release is one who has published with us previously, and who we’re thrilled to have return with another book!
In addition to featuring only return authors, we’re offering two volumes of Editor’s Choice collections. Volume I contains novellas from three of our rising stars in their respective romance subgenres: Shannon Stacey with contemporary romance novella Slow Summer Kisses, Cindy Spencer Pape with steampunk romance Kilts & Kraken, and Adrienne Giordano with romantic suspense novella Negotiating Point.
From the non-romance genres comes Editor’s Choice Volume II, and four fantastic novellas: paranormal mystery Dance of Flames by Janni Nell, science-fiction Pyro Canyon by Robert Appleton, humorous action-adventure No Money Down by Julie Moffett, and Dead Calm, a mystery novella from Shirley Wells.
Later in June, those collections are joined by a selection of genres designed to highlight the diversity of Carina Press books. Janis Susan May returns with another horror suspense novel, Timeless Innocents, following up her fantastic horror debut, Lure of the Mummy. Mystery author Jean Harrington offers up The Monet Murders, the next installment in her Murders By Design series. And the wait is over for fans of Shawn Kupfer’s debut science-fiction thriller, 47 Echo, with the release of the sequel, Supercritical. Rounding out the offerings for mystery fans, W. Soliman offers up Risky Business, the next novel in The Hunter Files.
Romance fans need not dismay, we have plenty more to offer you as well, starting with The Pirate’s Lady, a captivating fantasy romance from author Julia Knight. Coleen Kwan pens a captivating steampunk romance in Asher’s Invention, and fans of m/m will be invested in Alex Beecroft’s emotional historical novella His Heart’s Obsession.
If it’s a little naughty time you’re longing for, be sure to check out Lilly Cain’s Undercover Alliance, a sizzling science-fiction erotic romance.
We’re proud to showcase these returning authors, and the amazing books they’ve written. We hope you’ll join us as we move into our third year of publishing, and continue to bring you stories, characters and authors you can love!
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to generalinquiries@carinapress.com. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
www.carinapress.com
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Dedication
To my wife, Lisa, who tolerates the nocturnal writer lifestyle and supports the insomniac living it.
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t have come together without the help of some very smart people—my brother, Brian Kupfer, who knows way more about Russian air power than any man probably should; my friend, Trace, formerly of the 75th Ranger Regiment; my parents, Ron and Peggy, for bringing me up as a military brat and dragging me all over the world; Michael Valsted, who justly wields the copy-editing hammer; and of course, my outstanding editor, Rhonda Helms, who uses word-alchemy to make it appear as if I can actually write.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Violent World
The holding cell Nick Morrow landed in was already standing-room only.
It was only a twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot room to start with—Los Angeles’ Parker Center Jail was hardly known for its spacious accommodations. Benches lined the walls on three sides, and all of those were occupied when Nick arrived. A cluster of men stood in the middle of the room, trying not to look at anyone in particular.
Of course, everyone looked at Nick when he came in. It wasn’t just the bloody clothes or the bruises and cuts on his face, though a couple of guys in the holding cell had those, too. Still, the way he looked attracted a lot of attention these days. Nick was half-Chinese, and it wasn’t as though he could hide it.
“Well, look at that. Guards threw us a Chink to play with,” someone rumbled from the back of the cell.
Nick looked up to see a white male, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves haphazardly cut off, stand. He was big, sweaty and had a beer gut that almost made him look pregnant. Still, Nick could see that the guy was strong—his arms looked like they were spun from thick, industrial steel cabling.
Nick watched the big man slowly crack his knuckles and start moving toward him. In seconds, there were two more prisoners behind him. He’d been expecting something like this, but not before he’d even gotten to his feet after the policeman’s rough shove sent him tumbling into the cell. It was almost a given, as he looked to most people like one of the North Koreans who’d set off a nuclear device in Los Angeles months before, or like one of the Chinese they saw taking over more and more of Russia every day on the news.
Nick took a deep breath through his nose and pushed it out through his gritted teeth. He forced his heart rate to slow down, concentrating on controlling the muscles of his face.
They’re like animals, he thought. One whiff of fear, and you’re done.
“Howdy, gents,” Nick said, standing and cracking a smile. “Lovely night outside, right?”
“You know, with that new law they passed, they’re sending us all over to fucking kill your kind if we get convicted,” a short, muscular
Hispanic man said from Nick’s left.
Nick slowly backed up until he could feel the holding cell’s thick steel door at his back. It was the safest position for him to be in, unless the cop outside decided to reach through the bars and hold him there. Much as Nick would like to, he couldn’t rule out that possibility.
“Hey, that’s true!” the redneck with the beer gut said, snapping his fingers for effect. “The, what was it, Convict Conscript Act.”
A few of the men in the cell murmured affirmatives.
Calm down. Wait for them to make the first move. It was all just talk so far, not the clichéd “what are you in for” the movies had prepared him for. It would get violent soon, he knew, but he had to pick his moment. When it happens, move fast and keep moving.
“I guess the guards want us to get a head start with this guy,” the man on the redneck’s right said. He was a young white guy, all muscles and tattoos, with a shaved head and one eye swollen half-shut. Nick marked the tattooed man’s position in the room, adding it to a rough blueprint in his head.
“Come on, gents. You don’t want to do that. Get my blood all over yourselves,” Nick said, keeping his smile pasted on.
“Maybe we do. Maybe we can be convinced not to, though,” the pot-bellied redneck said, shrugging.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Start with those shoes, Chink. Those are nice. I think you should give them to me,” the tattooed guy said.
Nick’s heart rate was regular and slow now, his hands steady at his sides. He took a deep breath in through his nose before speaking, feeling himself instinctively shift his left foot back a half step. “Nah. They wouldn’t fit you. You have feet smaller than a little girl’s.”
The redneck and his two buddies came even closer. Nick could feel the Hispanic gangbanger on his left breathing on his shoulder. The man was that close. Nick could even smell his breath, the stink of stale, bargain-basement light beer.
“Heh. Of course, if you want them,” Nick said sheepishly, putting up his hands.
“That’s more like it, Chink,” Tattoo said, smiling and showing broken, nicotine-stained teeth.
“All yours,” Nick said, suddenly spinning into motion, his right leg cutting a clean, quick arc through the air and smashing into Tattoo’s jaw.
He crashed into his pot-bellied redneck buddy, sending them both sprawling to the concrete floor.
Nick felt more than saw the Hispanic gangbanger next to him move. He dodged his head to the side and saw the young man’s fist sail by. Before the gangbanger could draw his arm back, Nick grabbed the wrist with his left hand, ramming his right palm into the point of the man’s elbow. The crack of snapping bone echoed off the concrete-block walls, and the young Hispanic hit the floor screaming.
The pot-bellied redneck extricated himself from under his unconscious tattooed friend just in time to catch Nick’s left foot directly below his right eye. He joined his friend in a heap on the floor.
Nick’s hands were shaking again, though this time, fear had nothing to do with it. His adrenal glands were spooled up and firing like mad.
“Come on, motherfuckers,” he growled. “Who’s next?”
As one, the entire holding cell—at least, those men in it still conscious—rushed at him.
* * *
“Boss. Wake up, man,” Gabriel Martinez said.
Nick’s eyes snapped open. He blinked rapidly, as if that would clear the disorientation from his brain. His right hand was balled into a tight fist, but he relaxed it as his eyes focused. He tried to tell himself he hadn’t been about to punch his young squadmate, but he wasn’t so sure.
“Shit. I didn’t think I’d fallen asleep,” Nick said, looking around.
It took him a second to remember where he was. Not in the Parker Center jail in the summer of 2019—no, it was now the spring of 2021. He was in Siberia, he was in command of convict unit 47 Echo SRF, and he was at war. Disorientation on waking had been a minor problem of late. Nick realized it was probably because he rarely slept these days, and his brain didn’t even know how to handle it anymore when he did catch a few hours of rest.
He was inside a Razor heavy assault vehicle, moving along rough ground. From the dim red lights inside the cabin, the huge vehicle was traveling in stealth mode.
“Yeah, my fault. I slipped a mild sedative into your water,” Gabriel admitted, standing up as much as the cramped quarters in the Razor would let him. The young man was huge. He was the only member of Nick’s crew who couldn’t stand to his full height inside the vehicle. Though he was the youngest member of the group—only nineteen—he was also the strongest by far, his tattooed arms straining the fabric of his BDU coat. He looked like a super-soldier, all except for his face, his acne-marked skin and thin, wispy stubble showing his youth.
“That’s not cool, Gabe,” Nick grumbled, pulling himself out of his chair and rolling his head around. His neck cracked audibly. The chairs in the center of the Razor’s crew compartment weren’t exactly endorsed by the American Chiropractic Association.
“Hey, blame Chris, man. He put me up to it. Said he couldn’t remember the last time you slept. And he kinda outranks me.”
“Hey, Chris!” Nick shouted toward the front of the Razor. He saw his second-in-command, Christopher Lee, turn around in the Razor’s passenger seat. Two years ago, the tall 29-year-old had been a hustler and a thief in South Florida. But now, he was Nick’s right-hand man and best friend. Unlike Gabriel, Christopher didn’t look much like a soldier—he was lean, wiry, and his dark hair was definitely longer than military regulations would allow. The hair on his face had crossed the line from “stubble” to “beard” days ago.
“Afraid that’s true, boss. I told Gabe to knock you out. I would say you could demote me but, you know, us convicts don’t have any rank. So I guess you’ll just have to be ineffectually pissed at me.”
“Nah, who could stay mad at you?” Nick said, grinning. “Do that again, though, and I’ll punch you in the skull.”
“Fair enough.”
“Bryce? We back to friendly territory yet?” Nick asked the short, athletic blond man in the Razor’s driver seat.
“Pretty close. Twenty minutes, barring enemy activity.”
“Good man. Anything on the comms?”
“All quiet over here, boss,” Anthony Rice reported from the vehicle’s communication station. “Picked up some Chinese traffic while you were sleeping. Recorded it for you, but it was broadcast on open frequency, so probably just more of the usual propaganda crap.”
“Gabe, how are our passengers?”
“Stable, but beat up as all hell. Patched up the kid’s bullet wounds. SEAL’s got both legs busted, and the other sailor guy has what looks like a broken back. Pilot’s okay, though. A little underfed, but the bullet didn’t do any real damage. Dude’s solid,” Gabriel said, jerking a thumb at the four sleeping men in the Razor’s fold-down racks.
Nick nodded. Gabriel seemed to be getting the hang of his role as the group’s medic, despite the fact that he had very little training. Up until fifteen months ago, the 19-year-old had been a gangbanger and a car thief in Dallas. Now he was carrying an M4 rifle and patching up bullet wounds as best as he could. They’d all had to adapt after the Convict Conscript Act had forced them into service, Nick figured. None of them would have chosen to be Marines on their own, but the Federal government had chosen for them.
“And how about you?” Nick asked, looking at the blood-soaked bandage on Gabriel’s neck.
“A scratch. I got lucky—it just grazed me. Cracked up one of Mary’s netbooks pretty good, though,” he said, nodding to the small station where the only female member of the team, convict Mary Wells, had a tiny netbook computer disassembled on her desk.
“Any survivors?” Nick asked her.
“Eh, could’ve been worse. Bullet smashed up the screen pretty good, but I’ve been able to save most of the data to the Razor’s on-board,” she said with a shrug, looking up from h
er project. “I don’t think we lost anything crucial.”
“What’s that bring the total to?” Nick asked.
“Let’s see…that’s four computers destroyed by the Chinese, two by North Koreans, five by the Renegade Russians, and one by…well, you, boss. Looks like Russia’s ahead for the moment,” Mary said, grinning.
“Hey, boss,” Daniel Voyer, the group’s sniper, said from the camera station. “Something on up ahead. Truck. Big one.”
Nick walked over to Daniel, looking over his shoulder at the screen. In green and black, the Razor’s night-vision cameras showed the outline of a heavy military 6x6 truck just off the main road, about a half mile ahead of them. A few seconds later, the Razor’s computers identified it as a Ural 4320, a Russian-made multipurpose cargo vehicle.
“I’m not seeing any movement around it,” Nick said.
“Nope. Me either,” Daniel said. He cracked his knuckles and leaned back, and Nick noticed his fingernails were sparkling clean. He didn’t know how the attractive young man managed to look good in a war zone, but the kid always looked like he’d just stepped out of a military-themed fashion show.
“Mary, how’s our stealth holding up?”
“We took a beating back at the beach, boss. Two of the projection panels on top are out. At night, it’s not such a big deal, but I wouldn’t want to be stopped too long. A UAV flying over could probably make us.”
“What’re you thinking, Nick?” Christopher asked, crossing the Razor to stand beside his commanding officer.
“I’m thinking we gotta check it out. Intel says the Renegade Russian forces are using this area to move supplies, and we could sure use some of those.”
“We could just leave it. Mark it with a hand radio set to 1-9 Victor and send someone else out after we get back to base,” Christopher suggested.
“Man, I would love that,” Nick said with a sigh. “Unfortunately, new standing orders are to try and get anything we can use. Salvage or demo. If we can’t have it, the enemy doesn’t get it, either.”
“Comin’ up on it now, boss,” Bryce called from the front seat.
“Daniel?” Christopher asked.