Azrael

By J.S. Frankel

Milt Edwards, survivor of an incident that almost took his life six months previously, is back. He and his girlfriend, Roberta (Robbie) Jones, both suffer from PTSD as a result of their ordeal, and they attend counseling sessions in order to help them work through their mental anguish.

Nothing helps, but then a friend of Milt’s is killed, ostensibly by the same person who designed the Undernet—Azrael. Galvanized into action, Milt once again joins forces with the FBI in order to find out who Azrael truly is, and he is paired with a rookie agent, Nasraana Shaksy, an American Muslim who has her own battles to fight.

Together, they stumble upon a child trafficking ring, and Milt comes face to face with monsters of the worst kind—those who walk around in everyday society. The mystery of who Azrael is deepens, and Milt desperately searches for the truth. The only question is, when he discovers who is behind it all, if he will survive it.

Disclaimer: This book contains adult material of child sexual abuse investigations and may not be suitable for anyone under the age of 18.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Apr 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781487419226

Book preview

In the depths of the Undernet, finding the light is an almost impossible task.

Milt Edwards, survivor of an incident that almost took his life six months previously, is back. He and his girlfriend, Roberta (Robbie) Jones, both suffer from PTSD as a result of their ordeal, and they attend counseling sessions in order to help them work through their mental anguish.

Nothing helps, but then a friend of Milt’s is killed, ostensibly by the same person who designed the Undernet—Azrael. Galvanized into action, Milt once again joins forces with the FBI in order to find out who Azrael truly is, and he is paired with a rookie agent, Nasraana Shaksy, an American Muslim who has her own battles to fight.

Together, they stumble upon a child trafficking ring, and Milt comes face to face with monsters of the worst kind—those who walk around in everyday society. The mystery of who Azrael is deepens, and Milt desperately searches for the truth. The only question is, when he discovers who is behind it all, if he will survive it.

Disclaimer: This book contains adult material of child sexual abuse investigations and may not be suitable for anyone under the age of 18.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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

Azrael

Copyright © 2018 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-1922-6

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

Look for us online at:

www.eXtasybooks.com or www.devinedestinies.com

Smashwords Edition

Azrael

The Undernet Book 2

By

J.S. Frankel

Dedication

To Safa, Eva, Mirren, Sara Beth and Harlowe Rose, Lyra, Martha, Caleb, Beth, Leonard, and too many more people to name—thank you for your support.

And to my sister, Nancy Frankel, for never doubting me.

Prologue

The floor was hard and lumpy, and it smelled of dried feces and urine. I couldn’t see it, for it was pitch dark, but I could feel it, smell it, and was scared by it, not just the floor, but by who’d died here. Their deaths had been neither quick nor painless.

Kids, kids like me, young, naïve, and trusting—and stupid. They’d been lured in by the prospect of gaming, the prospect of winning yet another cyber-battle against an unknown opponent—the possibility of victory.

Ultimately, the concept of victory was moot. It didn’t matter how many soldiers you commanded in Legions of the Undead Martians. It wouldn’t get you a fulltime or even a part-time job if you bragged that you’d built your city on the plains of Mardon Eleven. It wouldn’t win you any friends in real life.

That was because it wasn’t real. The games, they were all fantasy, and I’d been no different than the thousands if not millions of naïve, trusting gamers out there, hoping for recognition. The only recognition I’d ever get would be if I entered a contest.

Include me in the ranks of naïve, trusting gamer. Add moron to the list as well. I’d gone searching for clues as to why Simon Smith, my best friend, had been murdered.

I’d gone into the Darknet first, checking and asking questions and relying on my gut instinct, and yet, after all was said and done, I’d been suckered in the same way the others had, and now I was here, so forget about the recognition. I probably wouldn’t even see the sun again.

A noise sounded off to my right, something scratching the dirt. I felt my way around in the darkness, and my hand encountered something soft and furry, and an angry squeal sounded. Rat—it had wandered in here, probably in search of a meal. Fearful of getting bitten, I jerked my hand away and continued my search.

No other sounds came, and I moved right and then left, gently patting the ground, looking for a starting point. My hand then brushed up against something hard and metallic, and putting both hands on it I ran my forefinger over the top. From the size and shape, it was a chair, but putting my hands to wear the seat was, I stabbed my fingers on a sharp piece of metal.

"Damn it."

The curses came from my mouth, but softly, as someone could be listening. Carefully patting the chair, I found more spikes. Oh, holy God, it was a Judas chair. An instrument of torture, the victim was forced to sit in it. The torturer would then turn a handle and spikes would then pierce the victim’s skin and go through their body. If the pain and shock didn’t kill them, the blood loss would.

Not good. I got to my feet, putting my arms out, feeling the empty space around me. While doing so, another smell hit me, the smell of fresh blood. Not my own, no, someone else’s. Thick and coppery, it lay heavily upon the air, making me gag.

I had to get out of here.

Blindly running, I hit something hard and big and metallic, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Robot?

No, it was a chamber, a vessel, and my hands told me it had the shape of a sarcophagus. It was open, and it had more spikes.

This was the Iron Maiden a horrid instrument of pain and damnation, built to rip someone apart slowly. Jesus Christ...

There! Up ahead was a sliver of light. Squinting, my eyes made out the shape of a door. Oh, thank God, there was a way out of this hellhole after all! I ran toward it, heedless of anything or anyone that might be there, watching me, waiting for me.

However, just as I got within a foot of freedom, the door exploded open, revealing a cloaked figure carrying an impossibly long sword. Even in the semidarkness, the metal glittered with lethality. Although the man’s face was shrouded, his eyes burned like coals. You, he said. Tell me your name.

"Milt... Milt Edwards."

"Where do you think you’re going?"

My throat suddenly shriveled, and my body just as suddenly grew roots. The figure, perhaps six-five or more, shoved me back, and I stumbled over the Judas chair. His form, almost as wide as it was tall, seemed to block out most of the light, and with that loss of sunlight came despair. You’re not going anywhere, he said.

His voice rang with finality, and with it, my hopes for salvation were dashed. What do you want?

The answer came an instant later. "To take everything you have, everything that is important to you, and to extinguish any and all hope you have.

"I want your life."

And then, in a swift, sure move, he raised his sword and brought it down, the blade slicing into my skull...

Chapter One: An Evil Returns

Lincoln, Nebraska, December sixth, early morning.

Jesus!

I sat up, sweat pouring down my face. With trembling hands, I felt around the area, and my fingers encountered damp sheets. I wasn’t in that basement torture chamber, after all. I was at my home in Lincoln, Nebraska, and the feeling of the material under me gave me a sense of surety. Heart hammering, limbs trembling, I felt myself all over, hoping not to find any injuries. Outside of my rapid breathing and overall feeling of crap-my-shorts dread, all seemed well.

No, it wasn’t well, and would never be. The door to my room opened, but instead of the Angel of Death, it was my mother, wearing a bathrobe and slippers. She shuffled inside, flicking the light switch on as she did so. The sudden influx of bright light to my retinas made me wince, and I put my hand up to shield my eyes. Mom, do you mind?

Milt, you were shouting, she responded in a worried tone. It’s two in the morning, and I was concerned.

If you were so concerned, you wouldn’t have spent so much time in San Diego. My mother worked in sales and often traveled. My father had died long ago, and since we didn’t have much money, she slaved away to get me what I needed.

All I’d ever needed, then as now, was someone to listen to me. She hadn’t been around, and only Robbie had been there for me. My girlfriend, Roberta Jones, my one and only, she and I had been through hell... and we had survived.

My mother came in and sat beside me. Look at you. You’re sweating and shaking all over. She patted the side of my face. The dreams, they came again?

Now, she was a mind reader, but since this had happened before...

Yeah.

Well, there’s your counseling session tomorrow, er, today. Robbie’s going, and you can talk to Colin.

Colin Muller was okay, but he was into games, and I was definitely not into them, not anymore. I used to be, but that was six months, an imprisonment, and a torture session ago, and I was not anxious to revisit those memories. The problem was, those memories loved to visit me, and they’d made my life hell.

Try and get some rest, my mother said, and gave me a hug. It wasn’t often that we hugged, and since I was on the latter side of eighteen, it made me feel like a little kid all over again. Nevertheless, I returned it. I needed some assurance that things would be okay.

My mother exited the room, and I went to the bathroom to wash my face off. Once done, I stared at myself in the mirror. My body hadn’t changed much in six months. Still five-nine and slender, same narrow face, same mop of brown hair, same brown eyes, but there was a smudge of black in them.

It was the black from seeing the horrid sins of mankind that I’d found in the Undernet. It was the black from seeing the stains of greed, rage, and violence in others. That black would never fade.

Tired from the horrors of the nightly visions, I made my way back to bed. It was still dark, and the damp sheets were uncomfortable, but after putting a thick towel over top of them, it was bearable. Even though the mattress was soft, it didn’t help to dispel the dreams that would most certainly come again. And with those dreams came damned memories...

Game on, Black Knight?

You’re on, Red Dragon.

Those were the words Simon Smith had said to me. Outside of my girlfriend, Robbie Jones, Simon was my best friend. A gamer supreme just like me, he called himself Red Dragon. We often competed against others online, and we never lost.

Simon was always into acquiring new software, and he’d heard about something called the Undernet, a place to get the best in game-ware. He’d gone after it, but something, or rather, someone, had been out there, a killer, a family of killers. The Larsen’s... they’d somehow gotten into the Undernet, a new system developed by a person named Azrael.

Azrael, the biblical Angel of Death, could have been American. He could have been Canadian, Australian, German, or anyone. And he could have been anywhere—such was the reach of the Undernet.

The FBI had tried to find him. They couldn’t. They’d tried to find the Larsen’s, and only I’d managed to by ingenuity and a stroke of luck, but nearly at the cost of my life. Mr. and Mrs. Larsen, their son and his wife, a family of psychotic murderers, had killed Simon, Jim Kody, another student who’d gone to my old high school, and a number of other unsuspecting victims, all young, all innocent.

Simon, Jim, and the rest, they’d had one thing in common—they’d somehow gotten into the Darknet, a subsystem of the internet. From that point on, they’d met the Larsen’s, and their fate had been gruesome. While the Larsen’s didn’t know much about software, they knew how to torture people. In fact, they were experts at it.

Robbie and I had been captured, taken to their farmhouse in South Dakota, and had only gotten away due to some quick thinking, and the fact that an FBI agent, Larry Caldwell, had shown up in the nick of time.

He hadn’t shown up soon enough, though. Robbie had received numerous cuts on her body, mainly her back and the backs of her arms and legs, courtesy of the Judas Chair. I’d had my own injuries, but I had eventually recuperated, at least in physical terms. Mentally, though, that sordid experience had messed me up, and I knew it.

Screams resounded in my sleep on a nightly basis, the cries of those who’d been imprisoned and who’d been murdered most foul. They’d made it impossible for me to get any kind of work.

PTSD, Doctor Owens said, the counselor who’d been helping me, Robbie, and Colin, another survivor of an unrelated attack. You have to work through it and attack it head-on, if necessary.

Attack it? Screw that. It had almost killed me. As for working through it, I simply wanted to forget my experiences had ever happened, but deep down, I knew that I never could and never would.

Worst of all, the Undernet was still out there.

Thoughts like those and more circulated through my mind for the rest of the night, but at the very least I didn’t wake up until seven. And the sun was shining. One had to be grateful for small miracles.

Noon rolled around, after a morning of me lying in bed and trying to read, but not concentrating on the novel. It had something to do with transgenic people, but I didn’t retain one word. My mother brought up some lunch and said we’d leave at twelve-thirty, so eat up. My session would begin at one-thirty. Thanks, Mom.

That was all, and I ate, not really interested, but had to eat, all the same. My right leg, my bad leg, pained me. Cold weather always aggravated it. It had been shattered in an accident a year earlier. Titanium plates and screws were all that held the bones together. All the physio in the world didn’t take away the fact that I had a limp. I always would, and I cursed the season.

Limbering up with some basic stretching exercises helped, and then my mother called, Milt, it’s time!

It was time. The car ride over took twenty minutes. A light snow had started to fall. While it felt good going out into the cold air, all the same, as my mother drove along the streets in a slow, careful manner, I checked out the surroundings. Houses, buildings, businesses, they all looked so innocent.

However, after going where I’d gone, I knew some of those shiny facades held secrets, and others covered up some very unsavory doings. No, I had no way of knowing, but it had happened...

Job, you’re going to search for one, aren’t you?

What?

My mother’s voice jerked me back to reality. Milt, are you going to look for a job?

I hadn’t thought about it that much. I’d managed to survive the summer, but I hadn’t gotten around to actually looking for work, not when my past came back to haunt me and cause a fit. The one and only time an interview had come my way, I’d broken down in the man’s office after he’d started sharpening a pencil.

End of interview. Since that time, I hadn’t bothered looking around for gainful employment. Shaking, crying, and generally being antisocial didn’t belong on anyone’s résumé. Oh, people said they understood—but they really didn’t. What had happened to me had not happened to them. Cry world.

Milt, are you listening?

My mother’s words cut into my thoughts. Oh, um, yeah, I’m listening. Job... I guess I’ll check the want-ads.

Checking the newspaper was the limit of what I could do. Using a computer made me shake, and even looking at one made me queasy. Losing control of my bowels wasn’t pretty.

After the news of the Undernet had broken, a few of my ex-classmates had asked me about what had happened. They’d wanted the real dope, but I couldn’t tell them, not without breaking down first. Robbie had been with me all the way, but she’d never spoken to anyone about it, save her parents and me.

Those I’d told, said, Fine, we get it. You get your book or movie of the week deal. We get it.

No, just like the prospective employers, they didn’t get it. They never would. Reporters had come around my house to get my side of what had happened. They got a No comment, answer, instead. At that point, repressing the memories was the name of the game. However, after my mother had returned from her business trip and taking care of my aunt, I’d told her the whole story.

She’d been shocked and had begun crying. She then telephoned her office, requesting an immediate leave of absence.

Request granted. I’m sorry that I haven’t been around more, she’d said, wiping away the tears. I’m staying here. The least that I can do is to stay with you. I’ve been away too long.

It helped having her around, but all the same, it hadn’t stopped the nightmares from coming...

We’re here, my mother announced as she pulled up next to the curb.

We’d stopped in front of a white, one-story building. The words Lincoln Counseling Center were boldly stenciled in black on the sign. In spite of the winter weather, people were out shopping, laughing, and enjoying life. I wondered if I would ever be able to do the same thing again.

As I got out of the car, my mother asked, Do you want me to come in with you?

She always asked me that, and I still gave her the same answer. No, I can make it. I’ll bus it back. Thanks.

With a tentative nod, she closed the window and drove off, and I walked inside. The receptionist, a young blonde woman named Carol, waved at me and directed me to the first room on the left. Robbie was standing outside, and she gave me a quick wave and a half-smile that soon faded. You doing okay? I asked, knowing what her response would be.

Making it.

She was almost the same height as me, five-nine, with a head of lustrous black hair, cool, green eyes that flashed when angry, and a body that other dudes would have gone to battle for. Ordinarily, she had a buoyant, vibrant personality, upbeat and decent, but not now. Time and imprisonment and torture had altered her perception of humanity.

Her voice came out flat, without any inflection, and it was a given she’d been having the same nightmares that I’d been having. She’d told me about them—only once—but it was enough. It would take time for her to heal. That was what her parents had told me, and that was what Doctor Owens had said as well.

As luck would have it, the door opened, and our counselor popped his head out. A tall, spare man in his fifties with a head of dark hair and equally dark, probing eyes, he had a calm, gentle voice, and ushered us inside. The only other occupant there was Colin. He was sitting on a chair, hunched over some kind of handheld device, and looked up as we entered, nodded, and then went back to his game.

Colin was what the doctors called withdrawn. There were other psychological terms, but in simple terms, he was messed up. His parents had been less than stellar in their approach to raising him.

Stellar? I’d asked Doctor Owens when he’d mentioned it to me.

They were scum.

Good description. Semi-employed drunks, Colin’s parents had hair-trigger tempers, and he’d grown up in a tightly controlled atmosphere. One slip of the tongue, one mistake, and that earned him a beating. He’d gotten a lot