Freya peeked from behind the table. She never saw the gunman who approached her from behind.

  * * *

  But Stone did.

  * * *

  The moment froze as he weighed his options. He dropped to the floor and hurled himself past the men who were firing on him, taking two of them out as he passed. Stone focused on the gunman who was aiming at Freya. There was no way he could reach Freya or the gunman in time.

  * * *

  As if in slow motion, Stone saw the gunman lift his rifle to his shoulder and pull the trigger. The bullet spiraled towards Freya’s head. Stone knew that while she was uncentered, she could not move out of the way quickly enough.

  LEGACY, Book 4: Trial and Terror

  Gerald Welch

  Warren Murphy

  LEGACY, BOOK 4: Trial and Terrpr

  * * *

  By Gerald Welch & Warren Murphy

  * * *

  © 2014 Warren Murphy Media LLC.

  All Rights Reserved.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ overactive imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  * * *

  All rights reserved including, but not limited to, the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof, in any form or by any manner, with the exception of reviews or as commentary.

  * * *

  Requests for reproduction or interviews should be directed to: destroyerbooks@gmail.com

  * * *

  Official website: www.facebook.com/LegacyBookSeries

  * * *

  Cover and other artwork by Gerald Welch

  * * *

  Published by Destroyer Books/Warren Murphy Media LLC

  Edited by Devin Murphy

  * * *

  First released November 2014

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About the Authors

  For Sarah, the indefatigable.

  — Warren Murphy

  To Leo Aromaa, who cost me five dollars.

  To Tomas Gonzalez, for giving the world a Tomas,

  And to Rob Tankersley, wherever you are.

  — Jerry Welch

  Prologue

  The Island Nation of Nauru

  Marcus Eames was four years old when he first wanted to be a spy. Throughout his childhood, he filled his time with spy movies, spy books and detective training manuals. While his friends dreamed of becoming astronauts and firemen, Marcus told them that one day, he would become the world’s greatest spy.

  His home of Nauru was a tiny island nation barely outside the political influence of Australia. Though small, Nauru was wealthy; its citizens enjoyed the highest per-capita income in the world due to the nation’s overabundance of phosphates. These came from coral rock, limestone, and Nauru’s vast abundance of seabird and bat guano. The droppings were so rich in minerals and other nutrients that they were prized the world over as the finest fertilizer money could buy.

  Marcus’ father was a man grounded in reality. Strip-mining operations were producing fewer phosphates each year, so he began setting aside a portion of his income for his family’s future. He knew of Marcus’ desire to become a spy, but continually tried to dissuade his son.

  “Nauru has no military, and no need for spies,” he told Marcus when his son turned nine. “Your mother and I have sacrificed so that you can earn a comfortable living when the money from the phosphates is gone.”

  Marcus’ mother stood quietly in the background as she always had, lending silent support to her husband.

  “But I want to be a spy!” Marcus explained, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “Marcus, you are becoming too old for this fantasy,” his father said. “You should use your energy to become something sensible, like a doctor or lawyer.”

  “But my teacher says that we can always achieve our goals if we work hard enough.”

  His father grabbed him by the shoulders and squeezed so hard that tears burst from his eyes.

  “Your teacher fills your head with nonsense!”

  “But father…” Marcus started.

  “What country would accept a foreign spy?” his father yelled. “Do you really think that Australia or New Zealand would allow a foreigner access to their greatest secrets?”

  “No, father, but America will,” Marcus replied, hope beaming from his face. “In America, you can become whatever you wish to be!”

  “You watch too much television!” his father shouted, pulling Marcus closer until they were eye-to-eye. “Do you know what a spy’s life is like? Hiding in fear that one day you will be found, always looking over your shoulder lest someone kill you.”

  “That is why I must study very hard,” Marcus said, with a confidence beyond his years. “I shall train my mind and body into a perfect weapon.”

  His father slapped Marcus to the ground. “Who do you think you are? Do you think you’re better than me?” he shouted. “You will never become a spy!”

  Marcus’ father locked him in his room and he never spoke of his dream to his parents again. He realized that if he was to become a spy, he could not count on their support. Marcus began by making a list of all of the skills he would need in order to be a great spy. He checked out every book the library had on becoming a detective, on foreign languages, and on martial arts. He wanted to be Sherlock Holmes and Batman, rolled up in one.

  During his junior year of high school, he found a dusty volume in the back of the Nauru library entitled The Way of the Sinanju. The ancient tome was written by a nineteenth-century monk who had followed a Master of Sinanju for the duration of the Master’s service to his prince. The monk noted with great detail everything he could about the Master.

  The book was written as a historical account of the Master of Sinanju’s great prowess in martial arts, but some of the things mentioned seemed too fantastic to be true. According to the book, Masters of Sinanju were able to perform impossible feats, such as dodging bullets and twisting steel with their hands. The book told of the unarmed Master walking into an ambush. Four men had hidden in the windows above with rifles. Shots rang out, but every bullet missed its mark. The monk noted with great care that the men were crack shots, and insisted that the Master was able to dodge the bullets due to his diet and breathing patterns. It was a very interesting read, but what captured Marcus’ attention was the way the monk said that a Master of Sinanju observed things.

  A Master of Sinanju did not lazily allow information to enter his mind. He sought out details of each new environment he entered. It was not the passive observation that humanity allowed. It was an active scrutiny that scoured the Master’s surroundings for information. It began with changing the way you look at things—to have an active mind, controlling the things you noticed, rather than reacting to things as you came about them. Marcus began practicing immediately, and soon his mind became capable of remembering details most people would have immediately forgotten, or never have noticed in the first place.

  His keen powers of examination allowed him to detect when people were a threat by how they moved. He could tell when they were lying, when they were telling the truth, and when they would strike—giving him a keen edge in his advanced martial-arts classes. Using the Sinanju techniques of observation, he could predict, with a startling accuracy, what move an opponent would make, often before they were able to realize it themselves.

  The final chapter of the book was dedicated to a rare Sinanju ceremony called ‘Sawon Ahm,’ a blood oath between Sinanju and its client. After Sawon Ahm, the Master would be prohibited from ever working for the prince again, but it also assured that Sinanju would not be hired to attack the nation during the life of the prince. Sawon Ahm could only be voided if the client attacked the Master or peoples of Sinanju.

  Marcus checked the book out several times, absorbing as much information as he could. He mimicked the Master of Sinanju’s dietary restrictions and breathing meditations that the monk had recorded, but, to his immense disappointment, was unable to duplicate any of the Master’s superhuman actions. While the monk had written prolifically about each detail he witnessed, several key details were obviously missing.

  During his senior year of high school, the library was making room for new books, and the librarian, knowing how much Marcus loved the book, sold it to him for twenty-five cents.

  Marcus spent the next few years at the University of Melbourne studying political science and criminal psychology. His nights were filled with foreign language tutoring, martial arts lessons, and his continual study of The Way of the Sinanju. Marcus’ observational techniques allowed him to sail through his studies. His professors marveled at his ability to provide detailed explanations for things he had barely seen.

  As a freshman and sophomore, Marcus
was at top of his class. He was on track to be at the top of his junior class until one evening, when he received a devastating call from Nauru’s Chief of Police.

  His parents were missing.

  They had left no note, and there were no signs of foul play. They had, as the Chief said, simply disappeared. Marcus, to his professors’ vast disappointment, took an indefinite leave from his studies and returned home.

  His parents’ clothing, luggage, and passports were still in their home. The small jewelry box containing everything of value that his mother owned remained on her dresser. Their bank account was untouched.

  Despite round-the-clock work on the case, the small Nauru police force was simply not capable to adequately pursue any leads. Their interest soon dwindled, and within a few weeks, stopped their active investigation, calling it an unsolved mystery. Marcus knew that if his parents were still alive, he would have to find them himself.

  He contacted everyone his parents had ever known and traveled around his part of the world, searching for information, but it seemed that no one knew what had happened to the Eames couple. Some were more reluctant to talk than others, and although the people he talked to had all promised Marcus that they would contact him immediately if they heard anything, they never called. Many of them, Marcus sensed, went out of their way to give him intentionally wrong information, but Marcus never gave up his search.

  Finally, four years after his search began, Marcus received his first real lead. An old friend of his father’s claimed to have seen him in Saraburi, a small town north of Bangkok, Thailand. Instead of wasting money on a wild goose chase, Marcus put his talents to work. Saraburi had no street cameras, but it did have an ATM. It was not difficult for Marcus to hack into the camera system, though it took several days to sift through the tens of thousands of grainy images stored in the ATM.

  Marcus had been scanning pictures for days when he saw the first photo of his father. The man in the image was barely recognizable. A long, scraggly beard and unkempt hair hid most of his features, but the mole over his eyebrow was as distinct and recognizable as a fingerprint. His father had obviously spent a considerable amount of time in the sun. Deep wrinkles were carved in his father’s forehead where none had been before, but it was definitely his father.

  The face of the woman beside him was mostly out of the frame of the picture, but Marcus could tell that it was his mother. He looked closely at the picture of his parents. They did not look as if they were in danger, much less worried about their only child. They looked as if they were a happy couple on vacation.

  Marcus sold their house and emptied the money from his trust fund and traveled to Thailand. It took almost as many boats as cars to get to Saraburi. After three days of searching, he found his father at a local market. The man Marcus was trailing was no longer the confident man that he remembered. His father still possessed a powerful frame, but his face was gaunt and his hair had become thin, gray, and patchy in the back. He looked much older than his years. When Marcus approached him, he ran as if he had seen the Devil himself.

  Marcus gave chase. What possible terror could make a father flee from his only child? Marcus cut off his father before he reached his car, but as he went to greet him, his father struck him hard in the side of the head, knocking Marcus to the ground.

  “You idiot!” his father screeched.

  “Father, why did you hit me?” Marcus asked, staggering to his feet. “Why did you leave me?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “You should never have left Nauru! You were safe there!”

  “Safe from what? From spies…spies like you, father?”

  Marcus’ father was stunned. His mouth flopped open uselessly before he was able to find words. “How did you know? We never said a word!”

  “At first, I thought you and mother had an accident. But when I began investigating your disappearance, I noted several other disappearances that you had been covering over the years. Entire periods of your life were just…blank. So, I turned my investigation back to our home.”

  “You couldn’t have found anything there. I left nothing behind!”

  “That is not true,” Marcus said coldly. “You left me. All I had to do was put together the events of my childhood journal with the few records I could find about you. Then I compared them to local and international news stories. After I found your hidden bank deposits, the rest was easy.”

  “You don’t understand,” his father growled, sticking his finger in Marcus’ face. “I crossed the wrong people and they found me. I took your mother and chartered a small plane. We crashed the plane to establish new identities!”

  Marcus looked long and hard at his father. “But what about me?”

  “The people following us never knew we had a son. You were safe.”

  “But…why would you leave me?” Marcus asked.

  His father grunted and shook his head.

  “You just wouldn’t let it go, would you? Others gave up their childhood fantasies…but not you. I followed up on your library account. You were reading some heavy material.”

  “Because I was serious about my goals. I still am.”

  “Your mother and I hoped that you would use your trust fund money to become something respectable, Marcus. Something safe. Something…unlike the path we chose.”

  Marcus stood to his feet. For the first time, his father noticed that Marcus was two full inches taller than him.

  “Once I discovered who you really were, I found out why you fled,” Marcus said. “And then I hunted down the people you were running from.”

  Marcus produced a newspaper clip detailing a freak explosion at a Chinese mansion which killed everyone inside and handed it to his father. “They had an accident.”

  His father stared at him wide-eyed. “You…you fool! You don’t know who you’re dealing with! They’ll just send more people—they won’t let this go!”

  Marcus’ father swung again, but this time, Marcus was prepared. He easily parried the blow and struck his father in the side of the head.

  “I don’t care who you are,” Marcus said coldly. “You will not hit me again. And I did use the money to better myself. That’s what this was really about, isn’t it? You were afraid that I would become a better spy than you. You were right to be afraid.”

  Marcus’ father charged, but Marcus easily stepped to the side and turned, kicking his father in the head, sending him sprawling into the dirt. When his father tried to respond, Marcus landed blow after blow until his father did not get back up. Marcus heard a soft moan escape from his father’s lips.

  “I was hoping that this would have gone better,” Marcus said, straightening his sleeves. “Don’t worry about anyone following you. I deleted your identity—something that you failed to do. You are free to live your lives.”

  “How?” his father asked.

  “You gave me life, so we are even,” Marcus said. “I don’t ever want to see either of you again. Tell mother I said goodbye.”

  Marcus’ father lay bloody and dazed on the cold ground and watched his son walk away.

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  Ben Cole floored the tiny sedan, cursing himself for not renting something faster on his honeymoon. The only reason he had managed to keep up with the black sports car they were chasing was Nauru’s winding and narrow roads. He grabbed the steering wheel tightly while his new bride Sarah, contacted base. The smell of burnt oil escaped the tiny four-cylinder engine as Ben pushed it far past its manufacturer’s limits. He knew that it was just a matter of time before the car burnt out from beneath him. Sarah entered the six-digit passcode and they heard the familiar beep over the car radio as they connected to their Mossad commander.