“I’ve got news. Big news,” he said, wondering how to broach his revelation without scaring her. She had to know the truth. Somebody other than him had to know.
She smiled with mischief. “I bet it’s not as big as my news.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that—”
“I’m pregnant!” she blurted before he could say another word.
Simon’s first emotion was confusion. Then excitement. And then possibility. He felt every emotion in under a minute, leaving him giddy. “That’s fantastic Casey! Wait, but I thought you couldn’t get pregnant?”
“So did I, but it’s been twelve weeks now. Everything about her is healthy.”
“‘Her’?” he asked.
She nodded with a smile.
“You didn’t tell me until now?”
Casey looked away, ashamed. “I wasn’t ready to get my hopes up, only to lose her.”
Simon felt hot, overcome with emotions he hadn’t felt since the birth of Rebecca and Katie. He would be a father again. This time, he wasn’t going anywhere.
“How do you know it’s a girl?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
Casey winked and kissed him. “Just a feeling Simon. You excited?”
“Very,” he responded. “Very excited. I just…”
“Weren’t expecting it?”
He nodded.
Casey said, “Remember Peri and the anti-malaria drugs, and how quickly your body mended after your wounds in the Shatterhand Fortress?”
He nodded understanding her meaning. People weren’t getting sick anymore. “I guess you’re right. Anything is possible now.”
“Everything good is possible now.” She kissed him again. He sensed that she wanted to take him inside and make love to him on their bed for many hours. He had no problem with that at all.
“There was something you wanted to tell me?” she asked.
The first stars were twinkling in the evening skies. A satellite glided by, navigating the Earth and watching over them. Beyond, the entire Milky Way Galaxy beckoned. It wouldn’t be long before GhostKnife/Shatterhand was sending women and men out into the stars transforming humanity into an interstellar species, because that was all possible now too. Casey was right, as usual. Everything good was now possible. Why ruin their moment with a revelation that might not even be true?
“Simon?” she asked again.
“Nothing important,” he said with a grin, knowing that nothing would separate them again. He was happy and content now because of the certainty of knowing that one absolute truth.
#
Here ends Strike Matrix and The Shatterhand Code series.
If you’ve enjoyed this series, read on for an exclusive sneak peak of Aiden L Bailey’s forthcoming new series, The Trigger Man, with an excerpt from the first book out soon.
Join my mailing list to be amongst the first to read this new book when it is released.
THE TRIGGER MAN: CHAPTER 1
Sahel, Mali
With his AK-47 assault rifle raised and ready, Scott Pierce pushed through the sandstorm. Visibility was poor even with the blue turban wrapped tight around his head. Sand cut through his loose clothing and bit at his flesh. Yet Pierce remained alert, scanned the semi-desert of the Sahel through squinting eyes.
He was expecting trouble.
He soon found it.
Three CIA operatives, their deaths ignoble. Corpses little more than ragged strips of meat. Their body parts resembled game kill after hyenas had finished picking at their carcasses — though hyenas had not killed them. There were no hyenas in the Sahel.
Pierce stepped closer. Sand covered much of the brutal crime scene and kept the flies away, but the smell remained putrid.
He replayed the incident in his mind. The CIA’s four-wheel drive had hit a landmine. The vehicle had catapulted into the skies. Flipped at least once before the chassis tore into three discernable pieces, then crashed back onto the earth. The war torn West African nation of Mali did that with strangers, defeated them with random acts of brutality. Their path to death wasn’t unusual.
Pierce sighed. He considered if he should pity these Central Intelligence Agency men. Their deaths at least had been quick. An ending without pain. There were far more horrific and agonizing fates they might have faced as field operatives for the Clandestine Service, and now never would.
Pierce was almost jealous.
The wind picked up, howled like angry ghosts reminding Pierce he didn’t belong. His clothes beat against him as if fighting each other. The sun rippling in the boiling skies resembled an all-seeing eye focused only on him.
Ignoring his discomforts, Pierce stared down through the sights of his AK-47 assault rifle scanning the horizon despite the dust clouds. Took his time to complete a full circle reconnaissance but saw only a few hundred meters in any direction. The Sahel — as they called these sub-Saharan lands — was a flat, desolate landscape with no discernable geographical features. The dividing zone between the lifeless Saharan dunes of the north and the lusher southern savannas. Nothing here but rare acacia trees, scrub patches, worn rock and stretches of sand.
And there were no ghosts despite the eerie sensation he was not alone. Pierce didn’t believe in them.
He instead believed in the worst of humanity.
That was why he scanned for movement. Bad actors roamed northern Mali spoiling for a fight. Enemies ready to murder him for his water, his guns and his four-wheel drive. Crazy jihadists prowled these lands like computer-coded zombies in post-apocalyptic first-person shooter games. Fanatics who’d murder him for no reason. Al Qaeda and Islamic State wannabes looking to prove their fanaticism with an easy kill.
Mali was the new ground zero on the War on Terror.
Mali was now the most dangerous country on the planet.
For eleven months, Mali had been Pierce’s theater of operation.
It was common to spot thin ebony-skinned men on motorcycles plowing dust trails from one isolated village to the next. Sometimes he spied women carrying fuel on their heads with tiny children kilometers from the nearest settlement. Horsemen or camel riders were often Tuareg nomads who may or may not be in league or at war with Al Qaeda or Islamic State, or a dozen other ideological-based groups with a fondness for murder. So many factions warring in Mali it was near impossible to keep track of who was who. He’d treat any people he encountered in the Sahel as hostile. No exceptions. If they got too close, he’d first shoot to scare away. The second shot would be to kill.
The alternative was to end as dismembered meat like his CIA peers.
Pierce waited until the wind dropped and visibility improved. When convinced he was alone, Pierce slung his AK-47 and undid the blue turban covering his face and head. He dressed as a Tuareg, one of the many local nomadic people of this region, because of the practicality of their garb but more so because of its effective disguise. Along with his turban he wore a medium-length cotton shirt over his cargo pants, t-shirt and tactical armor-plated vest. Tuareg men by tradition never showed their faces. A perfect cover to mask his privileged Americanness. Anyone who saw him from a distance wouldn’t presume he was a foreign devil.
He grabbed his satellite phone and dialed Langley, Virginia.
“Code in please?” a friendly but firm response from the other side of the planet. Female. American. Accent West Coast. She sounded young, perhaps late twenties or early thirties. College graduate because of her clear annunciation.
He both missed and detested the familiarity.
“Three, one, Delta, one, Echo, nine, Bravo.”
Pierce heard her breathing over the otherwise silent line.
“ID confirmed,” she said after a few seconds. “Go ahead Trigger Man.”
“Weather is clear… I repeat, weather is clear.” The report was a fake. This was a code confirming he wasn’t under duress.
“Good to hear Trigger Man. Patching you through now.”
“Thanks.”
The line fell
silent. His hearing turned to the winds whistling across the flat plains. He blinked away sand particles that got in his eyes.
“Scott Pierce?”
A man’s voice. Pierce pictured mid-forties, Caucasian and Ivy League educated. Accent? Pierce wasn’t sure, but he sounded New England. Maybe Boston.
“Yes sir,” Pierce spoke with respect, even though he didn’t yet know if this CIA case officer deserved Pierce’s deference. They had never met, never talked before today. “I take it you’re Idris Walsh? Head of Special Ops, North Africa Desk?”
Walsh chuckled without humor or joy. “I’m told you’re the closest operative to my boys. Did you find them?”
“Yes, sir.” Pierce considered offering further intel, but he hadn’t warmed to the man’s gruff tone. He’d leave it to Walsh to ask direct questions while Pierce got a read on the man.
“Are they… dead?”
“Yes sir,” Pierce answered without emotion. “Three men. All dead.”
Walsh groaned. “What the hell happened?”
“Landmine. You can guess the rest.”
“And the money?”
“Money?” Pierce asked. There had been no mention of missing funds during his mission brief.
“Eleven million dollars, Pierce. Is it there?”
Pierce frowned. If eleven million dollars blew to pieces along with the men and their vehicle there would have been signs. Burned bills littering the earth or falling like snowflakes out of the sky. Legal tender spread far and wide across the Sahel.
“No sir. No money.”
“And the hostages?”
“Hostages?” Again, this was news to Pierce. He considered how much the CIA had not told him.
He decided he didn’t respect Walsh. No CIA operations officer with a shred of integrity sent men into the field without sharing all intel in their possession. Pierce’s blood boiled knowing he was alone with no understanding of what was transpiring. In the spy game, good intel was often the difference between a successful mission and ending up dead. The CAI agent’s cause of death was becoming clearer.
Walsh cleared his throat. “Yes, hostages? Five, snatched off the streets of Timbuktu yesterday. They dead too?”
Pierce recounted the body parts. Six arms. Six legs. All male. All white. Enough to build three corpses. “That’s a negative, sir.”
“Fuck!”
Pierce scanned the clearing horizon not the dust storm was settling. He sensed something wasn’t right. Or was he sensing Walsh’s bullshit? Regardless, there was nothing out here. His situation appeared secure for the moment. “When were you intending on reading me in, Walsh?”
Not, sir. No respect anymore. It was Pierce operating way outside the wire, in the heart of insurgent controlled territory with no realistic backup. From his cushy corner office in Langley, it should be Walsh looking after Pierce.
“I don’t like the tone Pierce.”
“I don’t like missions where you withhold information critical for my survival.”
Walsh growled again. He almost blustered further insults when he instead took a deep breath and slowed his breathing. “Okay. You’ve made your point Trigger Man. I’ve lost three good men. I’m fucking angry about that right now.”
“They’re dead. Nothing we can do. But I’m not dead. If you want my help, brief me.”
“Okay! Okay!”
“What was the purpose of the eleven million dollars?”
Walsh sighed. “That was for a hostage exchange. Al Qaeda affiliated group holding a bad actor with intel that could shift the political and military landscape in Central Asia. We planned a Timbuktu exchange. Then a third party snatched the hostage before we could.”
“A bad actor? From Iran?” Pierce asked.
“How the fuck did you know?”
“I didn’t. Iran was a guess.” He raised his AK-47, looked down the iron sights. A new dust cloud grew on the horizon. The haze might be the abating sandstorm, but Pierce thought it unlikely.
“It better be a lucky guess, Pierce.”
He watched the rising dust for a good long count to ten. The cloud grew in size and it was moving towards him.
“Sir, no offense, but I’m in the middle of insurgent-controlled territory. I’ve just identified an unknown number of potential hostiles approaching my position. Is a drone watching? Do you know who they are? What might connect them with your botched operation?”
Walsh blustered, “No drones available, Pierce. That’s why I sent you.”
It was Pierce’s turn to growl. He could die here because of Walsh’s incompetence. “Perhaps you could get a drone here ASAP, sir? Predator or Reaper preferably. Hellfire missile ready?”
“No can do I’m afraid. Committed to other operations.”
Pierce identified several technicals in the dust cloud. ‘Technical’ was military terminology for Utes, four-by-fours and pickup trucks fitted with tripod-mounted machine guns, rocket launchers and flamethrowers. At least five of the rusted, battered vehicles plowed through the gravelly desert towards him. Whoever these people were, they wouldn’t be friendly.
“Sir, we’re done talking. I’ll extract myself from this situation — if I can. If I make it back to Gao, I’m returning to my original mission. You’re on your own—”
“That’s a negative Trigger Man,” Walsh raised his voice. “Extract yourself, then call back. I’ve reassigned you to my team—”
Pierce ended the call. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries or sign-offs. The technicals numbered seven and were less than a kilometer from him. He could clamber into his battered Toyota Hilux and try to outrun them, but he didn’t like his chances.
Instead, he scanned the dusty road ahead, searching until his eyes spotted the glint of metal he hoped would be there.
His tactic was risky, but when he looked up again and saw how close his enemy was, he no longer had a choice.
THE TRIGGER MAN: CHAPTER 2
Pierce steadied his AK-47 and sighted the approaching convoy of armed technicals. Sweat beaded on his skin. His odds of survival weren’t good. He had to keep his cool to survive the impending minutes.
The men in the trays wore dark or khaki desert clothes covering their bodies and faces. A few vehicles displayed black flags with the Shahada Islamic creed scribed in white Arabic letters. Words pronounced There is no god but God. Muhammad is the messenger of God.
Pierce sighed. Only fanatics flew these flags.
As the seven technicals decelerated, Pierce steadied himself. He checked for shaking but for the moment he was in control. He slowed his breathing and heart rate.
The first brutal strike never came.
Not yet. The insurgents didn’t comprehend what lay at their feet…
Men and guns weighed down each vehicle. The convoy comprised of four Toyota Land Cruisers, two Ford Rangers and one Mitsubishi Triton. The crew were a mixture of fairer Arabs and dark-skinned Africans, with the Arabs carrying the largest weapons and acting as drivers. AK-47s were their most common small arms. Mounted armaments included five DhsK Soviet Union Era heavy machine guns while two technicals featured SPG-9 Kopye 73-millimeter recoilless guns. The Kopyes no doubt fired high explosive anti-tank or HEAT rounds. A single direct hit would reduce Pierce to smaller meat fragments than his deceased CIA peers.
The Triton stopped closest. The insurgent behind the tripod-mounted Kopye recovered from the rough drive and now pointed the deadly recoilless gun at Pierce’s heart.
Pierce kept his AK-47 raised and ready. It was an ineffective weapon against the shear firepower aimed in his general direction, but Pierce knew a secret these fanatics did not. With their reckless driving it was only by luck they hadn’t already killed themselves.
“As-salamu alaykum,” called the insurgent behind the wheel of the Triton. ‘Peace be upon you’ was the universal greeting of both fanatic and moderate Islamists.
“Alaykumu s-salam,” Pierce responded in the traditional manner. ‘And peace be upon you too.’
It was positive they were conversing. He might still negotiate himself from this predicament, but he doubted it.
The driver stepped onto the gravelly desert. He drew a 9mm Beretta semi-automatic pistol from his cracked leather belt and waved the muzzle in the air. His other hand unraveled his khaki turban revealing a thick and oily beard. The whites of his eyes encircled his irises and looked ready to pop out of their sockets. “Brother? Do you pledge allegiance to Allah, the one true God?”
Pierce took another slow, deep breath and responded in Arabic. “I humbly serve the one true God. May Allah give me strength to continue to serve him.”
The words brought a smile to the insurgent’s face. “No reason to point your Kalashnikov at me, brother. If you are true to the faith, you need not fear us.”
Pierce kept his AK-47 raised. He wasn’t religious in any sense and supported no ideology that proclaimed itself as the single source or truth or righteousness, but he’d pretend if it appeased these fanatics and kept him alive. Either way, he wasn’t ready to surrender his assault rifle.
“Why are you not at home with your wife and children?” asked the wide-eyed insurgent.
Pierce sensed the man was itching for a kill. Searching for signs Pierce was not as devout to Sharia law as he claimed.
“Did you pray to Allah this morning?” the insurgent asked.
Pierce sighed. The conversation was pointless as expected, and he wasn’t in the mood to hear further dogma. His eyes motioned to the crumpled chassis of the CIA four-by-four, surprised that the fanatics hadn’t yet taken an interest in the earlier violent confrontation. His glance produced the desired effect. The leader turned noticing the wreck.
“You did this?” the Ansar Dine insurgent demanded.
Pierce nodded. “Foreign American devils. They deserved it.”
“Perhaps you are one of us after all. Who taught you how to fight?”
Pierce said nothing.
“My problem, brother, is that we came to meet these men. They had an important prisoner in their custody. We came to claim him, but now… You seem to have ruined our plans…”
Strike Matrix Page 36
