The Immortal Progression

By Rodney Mountain

Bolantine has escaped from his underground prison after over a decade of isolation. He's not happy about his enforced idleness and has decided to push back into the world with research to create more immortals like himself. Funding his project by using reanimated corpses as terrorists for hire, in a short period he has become one of the major players in the terror trade.

Mason Stone and his team were on their way back from a job in Zimbabwe when they first run into Bolantine's terror machine. Narrowly averting disaster on an airplane, they find out that Bolantine has escaped his prison.

Now it's immortal against immortal as Mason Stone opposes the forces built up by Bolantine in a fight for the ages as Mason tries to stop the immortal progression.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rodney Mountain
• Release date: Jun 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458128331

Rodney Mountain

Born in 1977, Rodney Mountain has been writing books for 14 years. Starting with 1998's "The Healy Murders" he has continued writing various novels since then. He is married with two children that have so far failed to drive him completely insane.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Out of Africa

Two years after the second Marden Mine massacre Mason Stone and his companions were still blissfully unaware that Bolantine was back in the wild. The three survivors from the first Marden Mine massacre were not what they looked like from the outside. While they appeared to be two men and a woman in their mid twenties, they were actually medical immortals, much older than they looked. They had been in Africa for two years and had not seen any news from the United States in that time, meaning the massacre had faded out of public memory again.

What in the hell were we thinking? Karen Stone asked her longtime partner, Save Africa, one idiotic war at a time?

How was I to know that all sides were bad? Mason asked rhetorically, There was no luck to be had in that place.

Mason Stone leaned back in his seat, enjoying the comfort that he had not felt in the two years they had been working in Africa. He stretched his six-foot two-inch body in the Ethiopian Airlines seat and touched Karen's arm. She smiled at him, despite the annoyance she felt over the near miss they had just endured in Zimbabwe.

I'll settle for going somewhere I can get a good piece of… Jim Entragian said, stopping himself before Karen could reach over and slap him, Pie. I want some pie.

Right, Mason chuckled, You did ok when we were in South Africa, Jim.

That resort rocked, Jim agreed, Too bad we had to go inland. That was hell.

I've learned my lesson, Mason said, No way am I going to get us into that type of fight again.

Your heart was in the right place, Karen reminded him, It was your common sense that was lacking. We barely made it out of that country without being strung up as witches.

Spawn of the devil, Jim laughed, Isn't that what they were yelling in that weird language they had there?

That had nothing to do with being immortal, Jim, Mason told him, They just didn't like us very much.

It's over now, Karen said, We should hit DeGaulle in a few hours. From there we take a short flight to Berlin and we can sever the last links to our African misadventures.

Don't want to stay in Paris? Jim asked Karen.

I'd rather be shot, Karen growled, I may speak French fluently, but I still dislike Paris. Especially after what happened last time.

What exactly did happen? Mason wondered, I remember walking through that big museum, the Louvre or something like that, and suddenly I heard screaming.

Then Karen running and cursing, Jim nodded, What was up with that?

Prick tried to molest me, Karen said, When I didn't take that bait he tried to rob me. I just drove his balls up into his torso.

That explains the quick escape, Mason nodded, It's only been two years on that, so we definitely don't want to spend much time in Paris. I'm thinking it might be time to head back to the States. We haven't been there since working the Sleeping Beauty murder case seven years ago.

Do we have the cash? Jim asked them.

I made sure we had a couple million in Berlin, Mason nodded, We're on the last of our throwaway identification sets, but I think we left a couple sets there.

If not we can get a set there, Karen agreed, We just have to make it through DeGaulle.

I still want a night with a hooker in Berlin, Jim grinned, It's legal there and if we're going to the States it may be my last chance.

Mason nodded and leaned back in his seat. He was used to Jim Entragian's proclivities when it came to employing ladies of the night. Being the odd man out and being immortal was a bad combination. Despite the danger and bad example Entragian set with his actions, Mason was glad he got that energy out of him in a way that caused fewer internal problems in their group.

How quick is our exit from Paris? Karen asked Mason, I'm still worried about running into that prick from last time.

I got a message from that guy we helped out of Zimbabwe, Mason said, That lieutenant is chasing after two Americans who shot up the place in a beat up Gremlin last November. He shouldn't be a problem.

Mase, Jim said, looking up the aisle, There's something strange about the guy in the front seat.

What? Mason said, You're looking at the guy? You showing a new proclivity that you've never tried before?

I don't always look at women, Jim said, Look at him. His expression, the way he holds himself…

The way he's looking at the cockpit, Karen nodded, Jim's right. Something strange is going on here, Mase. He doesn't look like a hijacker in the traditional sense.

What tradition? Mason asked her, They all don't look like Saudi terrorists, Karen. The first successful commercial hijacking was in 1948, six pro-communist students took over a Greek Airlines plane to escape Greece and go live in then-communist Yugoslavia.

How do you know this stuff? Karen asked him, I swear, it's like living with Alex Trebek sometimes.

He's German or Swiss, Jim said, The haircut is precise and he does everything in a rhythm. He's fastidious about his appearance adjusting his tie and even his handkerchief every few minutes. No one else in Europe is that fastidious.

Possibly, Mason said, But he could be just another nervous flyer. Hell, with all the crap that Mugabe's government is doing in Zimbabwe he could be just another sickened journalist.

Maybe, Jim agreed, But you've been teaching me for years to believe my guts. Something is wrong here.

Hope for a dry run, Karen sighed, Last thing we need is another mess in France.

We're in France already? Mason asked, That's not good. That means the French cops will be looking all over us.

That's assuming it's a traditional hijacking, Karen reminded them, Remember what happened in New York back in 2001.

I'd prefer to forget that, Mason said, remembering the time they spent at Ground Zero.

Should we say something? Jim asked them.

Keep it quiet, Mason said, We say something now and they know they have observant people on board. We only do something if we have to. It isn't our fight otherwise.

If only you'd said that last year when you suggested we go to Africa, Karen smiled, That's beside the point, though. I trust your instincts, and I agree, let's keep watch.

Jim nodded and sipped on his drink. He watched the nervous man in the front seat. Mason watched as well, Jim's suspicions enough to raise his own hackles. Karen, not wanting to think about it, reclined in her seat and concentrated on the humming of the jet's powerful engines.

Maybe I was wrong, Jim said as the plane flew, I hope.

I don't think so, Mason said, shaking his head, Damn.

The man they had suspected at the front stood up and pulled a package out from under his seat. Mason sighed as the man pulled a heavy-duty pistol out of the box and destroyed what little faith Mason had in the laughable security he'd seen in Zimbabwe.

Mason stayed put, but knew from the surprised sounds that several men were doing the same thing in the back of the plane. The leader, which is what Mason was mentally calling the man from first-class, kicked open the door to the cabin and threatened the pilots.

It took less than five minutes for the hijackers to get in control of the plane. No one fought, and the pilots were smart enough to realize that there was no reason to risk themselves unless the hijackers tried to take the controls, which they didn't try to do. The last thing the leader did was order the first-class passengers to the back of the plane.

What do we do? Jim whispered to Mason.

Obey, Mason said, Quickly.

The three of them were pushed along and their few valuables taken by the terrorists. Mason watched as he walked and took a mental count of the hijackers. He counted five, but knew that there could easily be others out there. What struck him most about them was the difference between their leader, the well-dressed man of European descent, and the other gun toting creatures. The others were African men. This was obvious by their accents, which also showed that they were poorly educated and likely had no business being involved in this.

One primary, Mason mumbled, The rest are eye candy.

Shut up! one of the lower ranking people shouted in bad French, Women on the outside! Small men in the middle. Big men on the outside.

Karen had to translate the French for Mason and Jim as neither one of them had any real ability in the language. Despite their two years in Africa Mason still got by with English, German, and Russian. Jim was lucky to be able to order lunch in a French restaurant.

Mason knew better than to argue. Despite being immortal he was in no mood to get shot, especially since the bullet could easily pass through his body and pierce the shell of the airplane. He just hoped the uneducated flunkies of the Europeans knew enough to keep their weapons safed inside the airplane.

This doesn't make sense, Mason mumbled to Karen and Jim, One well educated and organized European and four uneducated Africans?

That's what it sounds like, Karen said, You were right about the German. The French that the leader speaks is laced with German pronunciation. No one will accuse him of being a Frenchman.

I'd do it just to piss him off, Jim muttered.

So far they are being relatively decent, Karen said, Other than herding us in here like cattle.

I'll wait for their demand list, Mason said, before I came to that conclusion.

He didn't have to wait long. The man from the front of the airplane finally came into the now very crowded coach section of the aircraft. It was very clear now that he was the leader of the whole thing. He finally pulled out a small sheet of paper and took the microphone for the public address system.

Translate, Mason wordlessly instructed Karen when the leader began speaking in French.

Liberation movement, Karen said, A whole lot of noble and clichéd stuff that states he wants the comrades of his African friends freed from the various prisons in several countries. This is insane, really. No one has tried a serious hijacking since the September eleventh attacks, Mase.

Keep translating, Mason hissed.

He claims that if the imperialist dogs in Paris listen to him we will be free in hours, Karen said, None of the others with him seem to realize that he's speaking very badly.

This doesn't add up, Mason said, No government does terrorist negotiation now.

What do we do? Jim asked, There's three of us.

They're armed, Mason said, And if they shoot it may kill one of the passengers, even if they just hit you. They have the wrong weapons for a plane hijacking.

The gun of the closest one looks dirty, Karen noticed, Something badly doesn't add up here.

If a hostage gets shot one of us needs to angle their way to it, Mason said, A bullet won't kill us and getting dragged away might work to our advantage.

The pilots are still alive, Jim said, I can hear them talking.

Mason tried to figure this scenario out. He had done anti terrorism before, and this one was setting off all sorts of alarm bells in his mind. None of it made sense to him. One well-educated man looking nervous and a bunch of uneducated men who didn't know enough but to follow that lunatic.

One thing bugs me about this, Mase, Jim said, I've seen that face before. I just can't for the life of me figure out where.

We saw him coming onto the plane in Zimbabwe, Karen reminded him, He was talking to that tall man in the police uniform…

The other man in first-class, Mason said, He's from a UN fact finding mission. I talked to him in line… He's about to deliver a stinging report on Robert Mugabe to them… Oh boy…

This isn't a hijacking? Karen asked him, Is it?

They're searching bags, Mason said, they want to stop the report. This is a perfect way to cover it up. UN agent dies in a hijacking, Mugabe comes out clean.

Any bets that these chumps with guns belong to Mugabe's opposition? Karen asked them, And the German is the one making sure that blame goes in the idiots' hands. So what do we do?

Try to stop them, Mason said, Now that we've figured out their game we have an advantage. Now, we just wait for them to give us a chance to act on it.

Look across the aisle, Jim suggested, That man up there is about ready to do something stupid.

Not now, Mason groaned, We're not ready to do anything…

What do we do? Karen asked him, Anything at all?

A young British man stood up and demanded that everyone be allowed to go back to their seats. The Brit didn't understand or speak enough French to understand the warnings that the leader was giving him. Mason, knowing that the idiot would get himself killed, jumped up and tried to pull the young man to his seat.

You idiot, Mason hissed, You trying to die?

They can't do this to us! the Brit said, We have rights!

And they have guns, which unless they have a brand-new design of nonlethal guns means they control the game you ninny! Mason exclaimed, Sit down before they shoot us both!

Astute, the Brit said and promptly ignored Mason, Bullshit! You can't do this! This is not Zimbabwe you freak of nature! Let us go!

Are you the reporter? the leader asked in French, The UN reporter guy?

No, the Brit said, I'm an annoyed Englishman who was treated very shabbily by your so called tourist bureau. Then, he tells me I can't bring home my pictures…

He doesn't care, you idiot! Mason hissed, Sit down before he shoots you.

Astute, the leader said, You should have listened to that yourself.

The leader took his pistol and aimed it at the stomach of the young British tourist. Two quick trigger pulls sent bullets flying through the tourist. Mason, being right behind him managed to take the run through shots before they could get to the cabin.

Any last words, American? the leader asked him, Damned do gooder!

Fuck you, Mason said, almost smiling as the leader gave him what he wanted. Two more quick shots fired into his upper torso and another hit his jaw knocking Mason out completely, which let him slump realistically on the floor. His thick jacket and clothing obscured the near instant healing process that began as he was dragged down into the lower sections of the airplane.

Chapter 2 – Take Down

Mason Stone waited until the terrorist left him alone in the baggage area before he sat up and took note of his surroundings. He probed the wounds and grumbled as he felt the bullets still lodged in his back. The only good thing about being immortal was that he didn't have to worry about the results of being shot.

He then pulled off the shirt he was wearing that was covered with blood and tossed it into a corner. He went through the aisles looking for the bag that he checked into the baggage area, finally finding it half-smashed into a corner with a few other bags. Mason growled as he pulled it out.

Gotta love African airliners, Mason mumbled to himself as he pulled the bag out, They don't search baggage worth a damn.

He pulled out his old black skinsuit. He usually discarded these after a while, but liked to keep one around in case he found out about something that's best investigated by a black clad man who could come out of the shadows and scare the hell out of someone. It was a technique that had worked for him numerous times over the years since he became immortal.

Old Mack Bolan would be proud, Mason mumbled as he put it on and discarded his bloody pants as well.

He reflected that he was now using tactics he learned not from a military manual but from a series of adventure novels he'd read when he was in his thirties. Since this was a situation that could only have been envisioned by an adventure writer, Mason felt pretty confident that it had at least a decent chance of working.

He knew that there were four flunkies and a leader in the upper level, but he didn't know enough about their plans. He knew that even the lousy security in the airport in Zimbabwe would have found and confiscated the weapons in the packages. That meant they had to have some inside help or the guards were bought off.

Mason thought about this logically. This was an old fashioned hijacking in a new world. He thought that the flunkies weren't educated enough to realize in how much danger they were in, but the boss was. He oozed sophistication and planning. But, what were they planning…

Mason walked around the lower sections a bit to see if any of the terrorists were down there. None of them were. The leader had obviously thought that both he and the Englishman were dead, so there was no need to guard corpses. Mason was glad for their logic in that regard.

He went to the front of the plane's storage area and found something rather odd in the cargo area. He then knew what was odd about this hijacking. He found the weapons cache but also found several parachutes and an electronic programming device that he recognized but had no way to use.

Jim needs to look at this, Mason said quietly, But in the meantime…

Mason took a look through the weapons. It looked like the weapons were smuggled on through a food bin, the remains of which were still sitting to the side of the weapon cache. This meant there was at least one sleeper among the crew, seeing that none of the terrorists would have been able to get down to the lower level unnoticed.

This stuff is crap, Mason grumbled as he continued looking, I wouldn't use this to hold up a blind street vendor.

He finally chose one of the weapons, a South African Vektor SP1 9mm with enough stopping power to stop a terrorist but small enough that it wasn't as likely to go through the terrorist and kill another passenger or depressurize the plane. It took him a few minutes to clean it up to the point he was willing to risk firing it.

Better than nothing, Mason said, Now if we can quiet it…

There were no silencers in the box, but Mason managed to craft a simple one out of steel wool and a soda bottle. It would only be good for one, maybe two shots, but it beat blasting loudly on the first shot. Once Mason was satisfied with his work, he put everything back where it was when he started (aside from the pieces he took) and made his way slowly to the cockpit area.

Mason listened carefully and then opened up the access panel to the cockpit when he heard the leader disappear. The pilot looked down and was surprised but smart enough to not say anything loud enough for the leader to hear it. Mason hoped that they spoke a language he understood, as he still couldn't speak enough French to order a croissant.

Sprechen Sie meine Sprache? Mason asked, using German as he knew it well and it was more likely they spoke German than Russian, his other major European language.

Ja, the man said slowly.

How many? Mason asked in German, And where are they?

Close, the pilot said, Two in first-class. Others in back.

Mason growled. He didn't want to take on two at once. He nodded at the pilot and headed back down to the galley. He picked up a butcher knife and weighed it in his hand. It was solid enough to throw, but he hadn't thrown a knife in years.

He went back up and looked at the pilot who was trembling visibly. He knew from the look that someone was in the cabin with him. Mason used the shiny knife as a mirror and saw the shoddy footwear of one of the young men. This was an opportunity that Mason couldn't afford to pass up. He tapped the pilot on the right foot. The pilot moved his leg, and Mason threw the knife at the young fool's throat, scoring a perfect shot.

Push him this way, Mason grunted