BOOKS BY GEOFFREY SAIGN
Jack Steel Thrillers
Steel Trust
(free on website)
Steel Force
Steel Assassin
Alex Sight Thrillers
Kill Sight
For Mom and Dad…
Copyright © 2019 by Geoffrey Saign
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Books by Geoffrey Saign
PART 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART 2
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
PART 3
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
PART 4
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Excerpt from Steel Assassin
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“If you have men who will exclude any of God’s creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who deal likewise with their fellow men.”
~ St. Francis of Assisi ~
(1182-1226)
PART 1
OP: KOMODO
CHAPTER 1
Komodo: 2200 hours
Major Jack Steel clenched his jaw as the plane splashed down on the quiet waters of the lake. He pulled the black Lycra hood at the back of his neck over his head so only his eyes and mouth were visible. Even though his black fatigues were vented, he still sweated profusely.
Stepping out from behind the massive kapok tree, he waited. He would finally get answers. Everyone at the site was to be terminated, but he hadn’t signed on to murder unarmed civilians.
The twin-engine King Air Beechcraft was almost impossible to see except as a dark shape moving against the far tree line. Painted all black and gutted for weight so it could carry extra fuel, it also had no registration numbers on it.
The aircraft angled over to the shore, the engine noise overwhelming the rainforest sounds until it was cut. A side cargo door slid open with a rasp and a rope was tossed out.
Steel caught it and pulled the aircraft into the shore, securing the line around a tree. Picking up his silenced SIG Sauer MCX Rattler, he gripped it with both hands. The folding stock made the rifle-caliber machine gun easy to conceal and it had little recoil.
A large hooded figure jumped out of the plane into a few inches of water, also holding a Rattler. Steel recognized the height of the man. Colonel Danker.
Danker nodded, using Steel’s call sign for this mission; “PR,” which stood for point & recon. The call sign wasn’t very inventive, but Danker had assigned it.
Heavily muscled with a gravelly voice, at six-five Danker had three inches on Steel.
“Good to see you, BB.” Steel heaved a silent breath, finally relaxing. Danker was U.S. Army and always did things by the book, thus his call sign of BB. Steel trusted him.
Everyone else on the Op worked for Blackhood, the private security contractor that signed their checks. But Danker would know all their profiles and made sure they had excellent skill sets for the Op.
Over a year and a half ago Steel had been asked to resign from the Army to join the secret Blackhood Ops program to target terrorists. The missions had been named Blackhood Ops to further distance the U.S. military and put the private military contractor on the hook for responsibility. Except for Danker, the U.S. government wanted no ties to these missions.
Four more hooded men exited the plane, one of them its pilot. Steel didn’t know their identities, and they didn’t know his—another precaution to maintain Blackhood mission secrecy.
He led them a dozen yards from the shoreline vegetation into the trees, where they squatted in a tight circle.
Each man was equipped with a Rattler, Glock 19, fixed blade knife, and a belt pouch that contained a night monocular scope, first aid, and a GPS tracking unit should things go bad. They also all had small wireless radios, earpieces, and throat microphones. The guns all had their identification numbers erased.
In addition, Steel had a Benchmade 3300BK Infidel auto OTF blade in a small, horizontal belt-sheath built into the inside back of his belt. For his fixed blade he carried a seven-inch Ka-Bar—he liked the leather handle. A small sling bag on his back held rations, a soft-sided canteen, and some first aid supplies.
He looked at Danker. “There are unarmed civilians at the building.”
Danker nodded. “Brief us.”
From his pouch Steel brought out a piece of white folded pla
stic and an iridescent red marker. He marked off the position of the site and guard positions.
Glancing around the circle, he said, “Two guards on the roof, two at each of the building’s two entrances, four more in the jungle. We’ll be coming in due east of the objective. The building has two main wings. Our target will be in the south wing.”
He showed them the position he would lead them to, then made quick suggestions on how to take out the guards and secure the area and building. Finding optimal strategies was one of his specialties and he didn’t expect any objections.
“All civilians should be inside at this time of night.” He looked up at Danker.
The colonel said softly, “No warm bodies. No one leaves the site. I’ll take care of the primary target. Radio silent unless you’re in trouble.”
Steel’s neck stiffened. He stared at Danker, but the colonel was already upright, waiting. Standing, he whispered, “There are at least four noncombatants at the site, including a Franciscan friar.”
Danker spoke matter-of-factly: “Orders stand.”
Glancing at the other four sets of eyes, Steel saw only acceptance. “Our drones will record it.”
Danker shook his head. “No drones tonight. Take point, PR.”
Fifteen years of following orders compelled Steel to nod and move past the others as he returned the plastic and marker to his pouch.
Leading them at a brisk pace through the rainforest, he walked up the gently sloped mountain. The heat produced rivulets of sweat over his torso. He clenched his jaw. Civilian casualties were unavoidable in any conflict, but his job was to protect them, not actively target them. That view had inspired his entire military career. It was the cornerstone of his life.
Current U.S. military command accepted more civilian casualties in certain scenarios, but this wasn’t a bombing run. Here they could control the outcome.
He had no problem killing armed guards to get to a terrorist, but he trained to avoid civilian casualties. Danker hadn’t even asked how many nonmilitary personnel were on the premises. The colonel didn’t care.
Danker had more intel than he did about the Op and the terrorist. Still, Steel had enough missions under his belt to recognize the difference between uninvolved civilians and those supporting terrorists. The female cook and maid were pushing fifty and were never armed. Like the driver and friar, they didn’t act, talk, or move like terrorists in hiding worried about an attack.
His trust in the mission evaporated. Danker was following orders, but Steel questioned the motive of whoever gave them.
He gripped his gun. No warm bodies. This wasn’t a planned assassination of a known terrorist. It was going to be a massacre.
CHAPTER 2
Komodo: 2230 hours
The fluorescent needlepoint of Steel’s wrist compass guided him, but he didn’t need it. He had traversed this same trail for two nights in a row to make sure he could do it with speed when the time came. Blackhood intel indicated the terrorist would be here for five days.
A laughing falcon gave its intense ha-ha-ha-guaco call in the distance. From much closer came the low-pitched guttural rumbling of a gray-bellied night monkey. Insects buzzed and hummed everywhere.
Normally Steel would drink in the teeming life that enveloped his senses. He had a deep abiding love of nature, however now it just reminded him of home and brought a lump to his throat. Light rain pattered his shoulders and head, mixing with the sweat running down his face.
He wondered where they were. To protect Op secrecy, Blackhood operatives were never given mission locations or terrorist names. Even the GPS unit was rigged so it didn’t show numerical coordinates, but they could track him. Real-time tracking via satellites wasn’t used on Blackhood Ops to avoid any record and to minimize the number of personnel aware of the Ops.
Over the last three days he heard the guards speak Spanish but couldn’t place the dialect. Thus, except for seeing a photograph of the primary target, he knew next to nothing about Komodo Op. And the high canopy and the overcast sky prevented any fix on location using star sites.
When he considered the current conflicts and problems, and everyone in power in Central and South America, he concluded they might be in Venezuela. Nicolas Maduro and his predecessor, Hugo Chávez, had supported Hezbollah and Al Qaeda. Their embassy had even sold passports to operatives of ISIS. Chávez had openly sided with North Korea, Iran, and Syria, and had accelerated his efforts to create a coalition against the U.S. Maduro had continued his legacy. The current mess in Venezuela and U.S. interference might favor terrorist support.
Maybe Blackhood Ops had decided to take out someone in Venezuela’s armed forces that interfaced with terrorists.
That might explain Danker’s orders of no warm bodies. Even though ISIS had been routed from Iraq, they still had a web presence and there were splinter groups. This might be a preemptive strike to give anyone in the Venezuelan government with terrorist connections a warning: We can hit you anywhere we want, even in your own country.
Maybe one of the civilians was related to someone in the Venezuelan government—Komodo Op might be a personal message to that person. If so, Steel still didn’t like being used for an agenda he hadn’t signed up for.
Holding up a hand, he stopped behind a tree, listening for anything beyond the pattering of rain and sounds of insects. None of the other men spoke. In moments he continued on.
During reconnaissance he had assumed they had decided not to use a missile drone to avoid civilian casualties. Now he knew they just didn’t want this Op traced back to the U.S.
It was the presence of the Franciscan friar that had first triggered his concerns. The diminutive man wore short hair and a brown ankle-length habit with a hood. An image out of the Middle Ages. The friar’s simple robe had a waist rope with three knots in the hanging end, signifying vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, and that he was a Franciscan friar.
Every evening the friar took a walk in the forest, often stopping to pray. Once during the day, the friar had taken a stroll with the target, who dressed in civilian clothing. Neither were armed. The guards had remained in their positions, seemingly unconcerned about the target’s increased vulnerability. That also didn’t fit a terrorist camp under heightened security.
In some countries, like Iran, religious leaders sponsored terrorism. Steel wouldn’t hesitate to treat them as criminals. But why would a Franciscan friar associate with terrorists? And this friar seemed to have an affinity for the rainforest and wildlife. Birds flocked into trees near the friar. Steel had even witnessed a songbird landing on the man’s shoulder. Amazing.
His own affinity for nature probably created a bias on his part, making him feel protective toward the friar. Maybe that was misguided. Yet there was also something familiar about the man that Steel couldn’t quite grasp.
When he considered his choices, he had to work to remain relaxed. If he showed resistance, he would be prosecuted. Blackhood operatives were under military jurisdiction and could face court-martial. Or maybe Danker would shoot him. He wouldn’t put it past the colonel.
Even though he trained obsessively with his virtual reality program back home, the other four men accompanying him were elite soldiers. He couldn’t manipulate them, and he couldn’t stop this mission. That made his hands sweat.
His feet made no sound on the forest floor as he tried to think of some way to avoid what was coming. His improvisational skills, usually something he could rely on, didn’t produce a solution that seemed satisfactory.
He started to withdraw. Just like at home when he faced Carol’s anger and depression. He swallowed. He didn’t want to lose her. And he didn’t feel loved by her. An unequal balance of power that he felt helpless to change. He exhaled and let it go.
As he walked down an incline he leaned back, looking for anything out of place amid the trees—many of which were supported b
y three-to-five-foot-high buttress roots that kept the trunks vertical in shallow soil.
A lone howler monkey gave an eerie bellow from the valley below. Most likely to protect its territory or mating rights.
Stopping, he braced his palms and torso against a hollow strangler fig tree, scanning the terrain ahead. Intuition, something he relied on in everything he did, tightened his gut. Nothing felt right.
Still he didn’t believe in the Kobayashi Maru principle. He trained in his virtual reality simulations under the belief that there was always a way out of even seemingly impossible situations. He focused on his own motto for when a plan blew up: Stay calm, assess options, look for a solution.
The others watched and waited.
He signaled left and right. The men spread out, Danker to his right. Taking the middle left, Steel crouched and stepped carefully over the soil. The others would circle around to the back and sides of the building.
In a few minutes Steel stopped behind a large tree. Using the carry strap, he positioned the Rattler against his back and lowered himself to his knees, and then his belly. Motionless, he looked ahead for any signs of movement. Crawling around the buttresses, snakelike, he pressed his hands and arms into the thick detritus. A rich brew of earth filled his nostrils.
He had practiced this part of his plan each day he was here, visualizing the enemy in a position similar to what the guard held now. This was also a maneuver he had repeated a hundred times in his VR sims. Using one foot and arm at a time, he quietly pushed and pulled himself forward. In minutes he spotted the faint outline of the guard sitting on one of the waist-high tree buttresses of a hundred-foot fig tree.
Moving at an angle, he kept crawling until the tree hid him from view.
All the guards wore nondescript tan uniforms and they never changed their nightly positions. Their lack of caution felt amateurish, supporting his doubts about the mission.
He paused at the back of the gnarled tree. No sounds. Methodically he drew himself to his knees, then his feet. Moisture and sweat beaded his face and hands, and the light rainfall patter disguised the quiet whispers of his movements.
Drawing his fixed blade knife, he gripped the handle and slipped over each buttress in turn until only one separated him from the guard. He checked his watch: twenty-three-hundred.
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