Asher's War: Asher Benson, #3

By Jason Brant

Asher Benson has been living on the outskirts of society for years. After surviving a devastating terrorist attack in the mountains of West Virginia, he abandons a life of solitude to rejoin a fight he thought was long behind him. Drowning in survivor's guilt and plagued by the death and destruction that always follows him, Ash dedicates himself to finding the terrorists responsible for destroying an entire town.

When a new threat arises in Washington D.C., the entire nation descends into chaos. With a team assembled from retired Special Forces warriors, the snarky Nami, and the ever-vigilant Drew, Ash goes in search of the man who brought the country to its knees.

*Asher's War is the third book in the Asher Benson series of novels full of sarcastic humor and non-stop action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Brant
• Release date: May 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533719775

Jason Brant

"JASON BRANT" is an anagram for Bas Trojann, a former Bigfoot hunter who, after being abducted (and subsequently returned) by aliens, decided to hang up his ghillie suit and enter the world of professional arm wrestling. Despite back-to-back first place finishes in the South Dakota World Championship League, Bas receded from athletics to invent cheese and give Al Gore the initiative to create the internet. Nearly a decade after writing the bestselling self-help series, Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese (Cut into Four Pieces) for the Soul, Bas has left his life of notoriety and critical acclaim behind him to write existential, erotic poetry. His wife washes their clothing on his abs.

Book preview

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.

She jerked it back with a cry and twisted under the seat, hoping to all but disappear from his view.

The din of screams around them reached ear-piercing levels.

The bearded man shot him twice in the chest.

Red stains appeared in his white shirt as he slammed back into the seat behind him. He landed atop a horrified man of forty.

The man in the suit tried to raise his gun arm again, though the movement was sluggish, as if the pistol weighed fifty pounds. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth, curving around his chin.

Another gunshot cracked beside Christie, the sound thunderous in the confines of the subway car. Her ears rang, nostrils burning from the smell of the fired round.

A third hole blossomed in his chest.

He stared at the bearded man for a moment before his eyes fell to the floor, and he remained still. The commuter underneath him squirmed and screamed as he attempted to extricate himself from the dead man atop him.

Christie felt her gorge rise, bile stinging the back of her throat.

A dry heave racked her stomach.

More gunfire erupted as she fought against the urge to vomit.

The man beside her peeked through the window before ducking down again.

"Freeze!" a booming voice called from somewhere on the platform.

Christie prayed it was the police. She promised herself that she would work harder to better herself if she could just make it out of the damned subway alive. There was so much she hadn’t done. The idea of dying while wearing her slutty bar outfit made her want to throw up all over again.

The bearded man peered over the bottom of the window for several seconds. Shit.

Christie could barely make out what he said over the squealing passengers and the croon of Chris Robertson in her ear.

"Drop your weapons!"

The man spun and knelt in front of her. Put your other earpiece in and get ready to run.

What? Christie tried to look him in the eyes, but couldn’t hold his gaze. She was scared shitless of him. Instead, she stared at the gun in his hand. Her throat clenched at the sight of it.

We don’t have time for this. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her out from under the seat.

Glass lacerated her thighs.

Christie attempted to wrench her arm free, but his vice-like grip held firm. Let go of me!

I’m trying to save your life, you moron. He released her wrist, grabbing the earbud dangling by her stomach. Put this in your ear. When I start to run, you follow. Don’t stop no matter what happens next. Do you understand?

"This is your last warning! Drop your weapons!"

Christie gaped at the man, but she didn’t do as he said. She couldn’t understand what listening to music had to do with him shooting the place up. Not being able to hear what was going on around them seemed impossibly stupid.

And dangerous.

He jammed the bud into her ear and grabbed her wrist again. She winced against the pain from him shoving the earpiece in too far, but she didn’t dare pull it out. The crazed look in his eyes demanded her compliance.

The music blared in both ears, adding a surreal layer to the madness around Christie. She felt like she was stuck in the middle of a movie with a bad sound mix, where the film score blotted the action out.

The bearded man dragged her behind him as he hustled down the aisle in a crouched position. They stopped by the open door that had finally cleared of fleeing pedestrians. Most of the people in the car were now squirming themselves into and under the chairs. They retreated even further as Christie and the man approached.

Her captor looked through the door and grunted.

He moved past it, pulling Christie along.

Stopped in front of the dead man.

He plucked the earplugs from the dead guy’s ears and jammed them into his own.

Even though Christie had fallen into a full-blown panic, she still felt repulsed at the idea of the two men mixing earwax.

They paused there, both kneeling down, the man watching out the door.

Christie looked over his shoulder. She spotted a handful of police officers at the far end of the platform, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the street above. The cops aimed at the men in the suits ten meters in front of them.

The man in black was the only one who wasn’t aiming a pistol back at the officers. Instead, he held up a device that was utterly foreign to Christie. She squinted at it, hoping to get a better look.

It was a black box only a few inches wide and tall, but that was all she could make out.

A high-pitched sound blared throughout the platform and subway car.

Christie couldn’t make it out because of the rock music hammering in her ears. She reached up to pull one of her earbuds out, but the man in front of her swatted her hand away. He stared into her eyes, vigorously shaking his head.

More confused and frightened than ever, Christie would have ignored him and done it anyway, but the reaction of everyone around them held her hand.

The fifty or so people standing, lying, kneeling, and hiding all stiffened.

Their faces fell slack.

Shoulders slumped.

Mouths drooped open.

Eyes went vacant.

Even the cops stood there with slack expressions, their guns dangling down by their hips.

The bearded man burst forward, hauling Christie behind him. They stayed low, moving quickly, weaving their way through the motionless crowd on the platform. The people gaped at nothing, as if they were entranced by the high-pitched sound they’d heard.

Christie looked up at them as the man pulled her along. She stared into their vacant faces, terror overwhelming her. She’d heard of this happening once before.

The Massacre at Arthur’s Creek.

And God help them all, it was happening right now.

The men in the suits were on Christie’s left, their attention focused on the cops.

The man in the black suit spotted them as they crossed the halfway point of the platform. He lowered the box in his left hand and raised a pistol in his right.

The cronies standing behind him followed suit, all taking aim.

Christie screamed.

They fired.

Bullets impacted the floor at her feet just as she moved behind a large, red-haired man who stood ramrod straight. The barrage of gunfire impacted his body, shielding Christie.

Blood misted onto her face and hair.

Her screams hit another octave, her throat burning.

The bearded man who pulled her forward jerked violently, and then canted sideways, landing on his shoulder. His grip wrenched even tighter, sending bolts of pain into her forearm and up her bicep.

He grunted, rolled to his back.

Stared up at her.

The gunfire subsided just as he released his grip.

Run, he grunted. Crimson spittle burst from between his lips. Run!

Christie looked to the armed men. Two of them were reloading. The rest glared at her for a moment. The man in the black suit stalked forward, eyes locked on the bearded man.

Run, you fool! The dying man’s voice was little more than a breath. His muscles relaxed, head lowering until it touched the floor.

Christie backed away as Black Suit reached the bearded man and knelt in front of him. She moved faster, passing the police officers who still stood in place, their expressions dormant.

The man in black ran his hands over the bearded man’s body, searching his pockets and waistband. The scowl on his face deepened. His head snapped around, gaze locking on Christie.

One of the cops in front of her twitched.

Like a ripple in a puddle, the other people around them moved in similar spasms.

The man in black stood up quickly and walked backward to his men, his eyes locked onto Christie. He didn’t speak, merely glared at her.

And then the spell encapsulating those on the platform broke. Their eyes cleared. Mouths snapped shut. Growls escaped the throats of two women standing between Christie and the stairwell. They glowered at her, madness in their stares.

The armed men moved away from the train, putting distance between them and everyone else. Their backs approached another set of stairs at the far end of the platform.

Their movement drew the attention of the officers, who now wore sadistic grins.

Christie used the distraction to her advantage and spun around, sprinting for the stairs.

Pistols barked behind her.

She kept going, struggling to keep her wits. Her shoulder slammed against one of the women at the bottom of the stairwell. The collision sent the crazed woman sprawling to the floor.

The other reached out, snatched a handful of Christie’s hair. Where you going, slut?

Christie cried out as the woman yanked harder, spinning her around. She faced her attacker, barely able to keep from shrieking in terror. The woman had short, light brown hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses. She was short and had a touch of gray at her temples. Christie would have guessed her to be at least fifty years old.

The armed men reached the other set of stairs. They were still walking backward, firing at the oncoming crowd.

Hang around for a while, the woman hissed, pulling Christie closer. Play with us.

The woman’s free hand lashed out, her nails raking across Christie’s cheek and nose.

More of the insane commuters stormed across the platform, heading for the stairs, for Christie. They would be on her within seconds