Captain Moxley and the Embers of the Empire Read online

  PRAISE FOR DAN HANKS

  “A big, fun, action-packed genre blender of pitfalls, monsters, damned Nazis, and good companions.”

  S. A. Sidor, author of The Institute for Singular Activities series

  “Author Dan Hanks sets his war-weary protagonist on a pulp-paced adventure – cunning traps, ancient maps, and brutal scraps...semi-retired Nazis and aggressive corpses.”

  R.W.W. Greene, author of The Light Years

  “Move over Indiana Jones. Captain Moxley has arrived and she won’t ask you twice! A globetrotting adventure that fans of The Mummy and Captain America will love!”

  Amanda Bridgeman, author of The Subjugate

  ANGRY ROBOT

  An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd

  Unit 11, Shepperton House

  89 Shepperton Road

  London N1 3DF

  UK

  angryrobotbooks.com

  twitter.com/angryrobotbooks

  Ashes of the gods

  An Angry Robot paperback original, 2020

  Copyright © Dan Hanks 2020

  Cover by Daniel Stranger

  Edited by Eleanor Teasdale and Andrew Hook

  Set in Adobe Garamond

  All rights reserved. Dan Hanks asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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

  Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  Angry Robot and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.

  ISBN 978 0 85766 872 1

  Ebook ISBN 978 0 85766 873 8

  Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by TJ International.

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Mum and Dad for their unwavering love and support, but also for taking me to see whip-cracking adventurers punching bad guys, melting faces, and jumping out of planes in life rafts when I was at a young, impressionable age. This book is your fault.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Normandy, 1945

  The troop of British soldiers sat around the fire, nestled safely in the grassy dunes of the beach. Their laughing was undercut by the lapping of waves against the nearby shore and the whip of a harsh wind overhead, threatening an extended winter.

  In the distance, headlights split the darkness of the forest to the east. Twin sealed beams, the best that money could buy – or at least that’s what Lieutenant Jeffries figured was still the case back in the real world.

  He’d been over here in this wet, shitty place fighting the Nazis for over a year now. Who knew what kind of technologies were changing the car industry back home? Likely giving his grandfather even more reason to spit and curse as he sweat his days away in their family’s East End London garage. If the bloody garage was still there, of course, and the Luftwaffe bastards hadn’t wiped it from the face of the earth.

  The car grew closer. It wasn’t long before Jeffries could make out the distinct shape of a Hudson Commodore, crouched low like a bullet skimming the ground.

  Military, perhaps? That was his first thought. But it was one unsettled by a feeling he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  The car pulled up close to the dunes and four figures emerged.

  Suits, not uniforms. Two up front tall and thin, like bankers or businessmen. Two behind like Goliaths, so large they’d been veritably poured into their shirts until their buttons were ready to burst. Each appeared to be carrying at least one sidearm.

  Not military, Jeffries decided. Government.

  “So then I turn around and they’re all dead. I mean all of them. Bits of Nazis everywhere, like bloody confetti after the world’s worst wedding. I’d barely blinked, man, and she’d destroyed them all.”

  To his left, the stocky, balding Peterson shook his head, lost deep in the memories of the scene he was replaying for the boys. He blew out his cheeks and ran a hand through the remnants of his greasy hair.

  Jeffries knew what his friend was picturing in his head. He hadn’t been able to shake the images of those bullet-ridden bodies for weeks. But such was his life now. And the fact that he and his troops were able to tell these stories meant that they weren’t one of the bodies lying in tatters on the floor. A definite plus.

  Stocks Macgill cackled like a hyena into the night. “That’s nothing, Peterson you pussy. You haven’t been here since the beginning. You don’t know what she did after she discovered her own bloody air force gave her up for dead. A compound of flesh confetti is nothing compared to the shit she pulled last year down at–”

  His pale, pockmarked grin stopped short. He’d seen the stooges arrive.

  “Government,” Peterson muttered, instinctively reaching for his rifle propped against the log he’d been sitting on.

  “Soiling their shoes on enemy turf?” Stocks hissed quietly. “I don’t think so.”

  The inappropriately named Duke, all badly fitting clothes and as ugly as sin, got to his feet and gazed nervously between his best friend Stocks and the approaching men. “It’s like I keep telling you. Haven’t you heard the stories? Some kind of secret agency is over here hunting treasure or some shit. Racing the Germans for it. That’s what they’re saying…”

  His ragged voice tailed off as the visitors reached the bonfire.

  Jeffries watched as three suited figures spread out around them, before the fourth – chiselled face lurking behind horn-rimmed glasses – stepped forward to address them.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” Clearly American, with a slight southern lilt. His voice quiet, but firm enough to mark him as the leader of his little band. The man took his grey fedora off, revealing neatly trimmed hair, and ran a careful hand through it. Definitely government. Nobody else in this bloody war gave a shit about how their hair looked.

  Peterson and Jeffries glanced at each other. Then Peterson stepped forward, keeping the rifle handy at his side.

  “Can we help you… sir?”

  The government official seemed satisfied by the formality. He nodded and flashed a badge on the inside of his made-to-measure jacket.


  “You can call me Agent Taylor, son. And, as it happens, I’m looking for someone.”

  Stocks laughed nervously and punched Duke in the arm. “We’re all looking for someone, ain’t that right Duke? Keep us warm on these cold French nights.” He sniffed. “Ain’t that easy to find round here though.”

  “Speak fer yourself,” drawled Simpkins from where he was lying back against the giant log, digging his feet further into the sand beside his treasured cowboy boots. He pointed his cigarette in the air towards the distant hills inland, every bit the lazy cowboy he had idolised throughout his childhood in Manchester. “Why only last night I found myself a quaint ol’ farmer’s daughter in the town up there on the–”

  “Stop.” The smile had faded from Agent Taylor’s face. “I’d rather not have the graphic details of what you boys get up to when you’re not slaughtering the enemy, if you don’t mind. The person I need was last reported working with a group of wayward soldiers such as yours.” His hair hadn’t moved a jot, despite the wind, yet he ran his fingers through it again before replacing his fedora. “Captain Sam Moxley is the pilot’s name. Reported missing, presumed dead, by the RAF two years ago, but alleged to have been fighting on the continent with the French Resistance and other parties ever since. Causing some havoc for our Nazi friends too, from everything we’ve seen and heard.” His eyes roamed the troop, looking for an in. “Did you know the enemy has taken a bounty out on the dear Captain, boys? Impressive sum of money too. All of which means that he’s now become a person of significant interest for the American Government. It’s imperative we speak with him quickly, if you please.”

  Jeffries knew Peterson had turned to look at him for guidance. But he kept his eyes on the agent. Nazi friends? The turn of phrase made him want to spit. Nobody who had been here fighting the bastards, who knew what they were capable of, would have used those two words together. Ever.

  He glanced around, quickly weighing up the hierarchy of control on their little patch of beach. Did American government agencies have jurisdiction over them here? Exactly how much did they have to help these men? If it came to a fight, who would win?

  Agent Taylor must have read his thoughts. His hand moved to his hip and pulled back his jacket just enough to show that he was armed too.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” he said. “I’ve got no issue with you and your men, and in fact I’ve enjoyed your work. Hell, we all have back home, boys! But right now I don’t have time to argue the point, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to make this go a little quicker.”

  He raised his hand and the three other agents immediately reached into their jackets.

  Jeffries stepped back, but realised he was too far from his rifle to get it in time. The others in the group were similarly blindsided. Only Peterson was able to lift his weapon and train it on Agent Taylor –

  – at the exact moment they all realised the agents were not reaching for guns, but rather for cartons of cigarettes, packets of chocolate, and other luxury items the men hadn’t seen in forever.

  “Let’s call it a reward for being such helpful chaps,” Agent Taylor said, with a hint of a smile as he watched the soldiers react to the stack of goods being piled onto a log at the base of one of the dunes. There was instantly a flood of saliva filling Jeffries’ mouth as he imagined tearing back the wax paper on one of those smooth, dark slabs of Fry’s chocolate and taking a bite.

  “Reward, bribe, whatever it’s called, I’m up for it,” Stocks said. He didn’t even wait for the agents to finish stacking up the goods, he dove straight in, grabbed two tins of condensed milk, and pointed over his shoulder. “The Captain is over that dune, down by the water. Has been for the last two hours, in fact. Not one for company tonight. But I’m sure he would just love to have a chinwag with you Yank fellas.”

  Duke stifled a laugh. Even Peterson twitched. But neither of them said a word to correct Stocks.

  Agent Taylor tipped his hat. “Then I shall go and speak with him.”

  Without further ado, he led his men towards the beach. Behind him, six of the eight soldiers started divvying up the goods they’d just been offered.

  “Should we tell them?” Jeffries asked quietly, as Peterson joined him, watching the Americans in their fancy black shoes trudge through the sandy dunes.

  “Nah,” Peterson replied. “Not our fault their intel is shite. Let them discover Captain Samantha Moxley for themselves.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lady Liberty

  New York, 1952

  Shards of moonlight cut through broken windows, bathing the hidden warehouse beneath the Statue of Liberty in an eerie glow.

  Rows of wooden boxes marked “Authorised Personnel Only” filled the shadowy interior. Crates in their hundreds, stacked from the cold, tiled floor to the ceiling. All neatly arranged. All quietly waiting for their turn to be shipped off-site to destinations as yet unknown.

  All except the crate that suddenly exploded into splinters of pine.

  A man burst through it headfirst and fell to the floor in a bloody heap, his once immaculate grey suit in tatters.

  His fedora rolled to a stop in front of him.

  “I already told you–” he muttered, blindly searching the floor for something. His hat? A gun? Whatever it was, he didn’t find it in time.

  A dusty brown boot connected with his stomach. He doubled over again, coughing and wheezing like the last gasp of a Spitfire running out of fuel. He had to spit the final few words out, along with several globs of blood.

  “– I don’t know where she is.”

  The figure standing over him paused for the briefest of seconds. Head tilted, as though contemplating the merciful option.

  Then Captain Samantha Moxley stepped into the light and kicked the man in the face.

  I don’t believe him.

  He began to crawl his way back across the chipped black and white tiles, leaving a bloody smear in his wake.

  Why would I?

  She began to follow slowly, keeping a deliberate distance between them. Enough to make him expect another attack. Enough not to be caught by a trick up his sleeve.

  I know he’s been trained to tell me. How to manoeuvre the conversation around until I’m not sure what’s up and what’s down. How to make me doubt what I know to be true. He and his friends are masters of spin and bullshit, twisting perceptions to suit their agenda.

  Reaching a stack of crates, the man pulled himself until he was sat up. He looked tired and beaten. She knew how that felt.

  I know, because I used to be just like him.

  He coughed and more blood splattered his shirt. Yet a surprising sound issued forth from his broken mouth now. Filling the cavernous warehouse with an exhalation of pain and laughter. Had she broken him already? Cracked his facade?

  Well, that hadn’t taken long at all.

  He smiled through shattered teeth, knowing his guise of innocence wasn’t going to delay the inevitable any longer.

  Sam put a boot on his shin bone and crouched down, taking care to dig her heel in just enough to make him realise she could break him further.

  Her fingers reached out for his tie and straightened it. Then she slipped the knot right up to his windpipe and leaned in close.

  “Last chance, Agent. Tell me where she is and I might just let you live.”

  He gave a whispered laugh.

  “It no longer matters. You’ll never reach your sister in time. The Nine are not to be refused, you know that. I guess you should have done what we wanted when you had the chance?”

  Sam nodded and let the cheap, charcoal tie fall to his chest.

  “So should you,” she said.

  She reached into her pocket for the silver disk she always carried in case of emergencies. An experimental piece of weaponry that she’d been given when she used to work alongside people like this. About the size of a dollar coin. Small and unthreatening.

  Unless you knew what it did.

  The man’s eyes widened
as he saw it. His lips started protesting weakly. But she didn’t hear him now. Her boot held down his chest and she bent down to slam the gadget onto his exposed neck. There was a sharp THWACK as the hooks on the back fixed tightly to his skin.

  She pressed the button in the centre.

  5…

  He grasped for the disk, but she punched him in the face. Hard enough to buy her time to rifle through his suit pockets.

  4…

  Her fingers found a folded piece of paper. She pulled it out quickly and glanced at what it said, as he groggily struggled beneath her.

  3…

  Yep, this was it. Exactly what she had come here to find.

  2…

  “Best of luck,” she said. “I believe you’ll need it.”

  1…

  She lifted her boot. Just as a shimmer of purply black light silhouetted the man. And pulled him screaming into another dimension.

  The heavy metal door to the warehouse slammed shut as Sam strode into the cool October night beneath Lady Liberty herself. The young pilot who had been waiting for her – no more than eighteen or so, with grease smudged across his white, freckled cheeks – was doing his best to appear casual as he leaned on the railing and stared out at the city lights beyond. He dropped his barely smoked cigarette, scuffed it underfoot in a scatter of autumn leaves, and raced over.

  “What’s with all that screaming in there?” Charlie asked. “Sounded like a fella. You okay, Miss?”

  His boyish face, half-hidden beneath an oversized cap, showed genuine concern as he handed back her brown pilot’s jacket and battered Smith and Wesson Victory. Sam holstered the revolver and slipped into the jacket, trying to hide her wry amusement as she discreetly pocketed the flyer she’d just retrieved.

  “I’m fine, thank you, Charlie,” she said. “And, don’t worry, there won’t be any more screaming from that gentleman for a while. I’ve just packed him off on a small trip. We all set?”

  “Uh, yeah. Good to go whenever you are.” His gaze wandered across the bloody smears on her ripped shirt and his head tilted. “You can tell me to get lost, because this might not be any of my business… but you know the war’s over, right?”

  “If only that were so,” she sighed. The concept of there being peace in our time wasn’t one that had borne much fruit in her life. She’d left the battlefields of Europe only to find herself in a war of a different kind. And now this? Wasn’t this America? What happened to that quintessential American dream of finding a quiet part of the world to call her own, free from being knee-deep in other people’s shit?