The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  Atcho continued walking toward the building, his mind and body weary. He stopped near the back end of an ambulance to see what was being done. Rescue workers carried a stretcher across the street, aided by dust-covered civilians. They struggled over the road surface made slippery by the thick dust.

  Atcho sought to help but saw that the situation was handled and knew he would be in the way. He sat against a concrete planter on the side of the street and leaned his head back into the hedge, his mind descending into blankness.

  A few feet away, the rescue volunteers continued to load the victim into the ambulance.

  “Watch her hand,” a female volunteer called to the others in a hoarse voice. “It’s bleeding badly.”

  The volunteer’s voice caught Atcho’s attention. He raised his head and looked toward the ambulance. She was coated in dust, the color of her hair indistinguishable. Her clothes, too, were colorless, her shoulders hunched, and she moved as though in pain. She helped load the stretcher into the ambulance and then stepped back. When she did, she turned, and Atcho saw her face, her features obscured by matted dust and streaks of blood.

  “We’re good,” she called to the drivers. “You can take her away.”

  That voice. Atcho marveled that the voice he knew so well came from this ghostly creature standing hunched in the street only a few yards from him.

  He pushed himself upright and started toward her. “Sofia?” he called.

  The woman did not hear him.

  He tried again, still stumbling to close the few remaining feet. “Sofia?”

  She turned and stood still, eyeing him as he continued toward her, ragged and dirty. Her lower jaw dropped, and her tired eyes widened and then filled with tears that streaked down her dust-covered cheeks. Then she flung her arms up and, ignoring the pain, hobbled over to meet him in an embrace.

  Epilogue

  “I’ll always be haunted by the notion that I could have stopped the explosion,” Sofia said. “I was right there. I could have pulled the fuses.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Atcho replied gently. “You were beat up, you didn’t know where you were, and you couldn’t see through the smoke. If you had tried, you might have jostled one of those buckets of nitro and blown yourself up along with everyone else. Best to get that notion out of your head.”

  Sofia nodded absently and sipped her coffee.

  “I’m just glad you made it,” Atcho said.

  Sofia nodded again, her mind still grappling with the surreal moments before the blast, now remembered only in bits and pieces. The acrid smoke had stirred her awake, and she sensed danger more than understood what it was. She was on the floor at the back of the van. Her survival instinct had kicked in, and she found the inside latch and grappled with it until it opened before she slid out onto the garage floor. Seeing an exit sign, she hobbled past it and then increased her speed as she remembered the nature of the danger. Reaching the street, she had just ducked down between some bushes and the outside wall when the explosion blew.

  “I’ll have survivor’s guilt for years to come,” she murmured.

  They sat next to each other in a swing on the Montana ranch house’s front porch, taking in the view. Two weeks had passed since the attack on the World Trade Center. Bob, Isabel, and Kattrina had stayed in Montana to be with the family while Sofia recovered.

  “It’s good the investigators found the van wreckage that first day,” Atcho mused. “They managed to lift the VIN, and that led to the rental agency, so they caught one of the terrorists right away—a guy called Salameh. They must have been rough on him—he gave up information fast. Can you believe that idiot tried to get his rental deposit back? He claimed that the van had been stolen.” Atcho gave a small laugh. “He needed the money to fly out of the country. I’d love to have seen his face when he walked out of the rental office and found himself surrounded by the FBI.”

  “He’s the one who came after me in the workshop,” Sofia growled. “He should be put away forever. If I ever get a chance at him…” She left the sentence unfinished. “At least they got enough information from him to catch the limo driver and stop the release of the bomb technician who was already in jail.”

  “How about the way that technician was able to help Ramzi?” Atcho said. “He would call one of Ramzi’s men, who would conference Ramzi in and hang up. Then Ramzi could ask him whatever questions he wanted with no phone records tracing to him.” He shook his head. “Unreal.”

  “And Ramzi got away,” Sofia said glumly. “He was on an airplane out of New York City within a couple of hours.” She snuggled Atcho. “I still can’t believe I’m alive.”

  “I can't either.” Atcho kissed her on the forehead. “You were in as bad of shape as the people you helped,” he said reprovingly. “You should have gone to the hospital yourself.”

  “I’m resilient,” Sofia replied with a small smile. “I heal fast. They needed the help more than I did.” She sighed. “Any news on the wounded FBI agent?”

  “I heard from Dude this morning,” Atcho said. “The agent is back on his feet and expected to make a full recovery.”

  “What about the bomb? Any word on why it didn’t detonate?”

  Atcho chuckled. “Klaus modified the bomb to fit in the toolbox in order to get it through security. It was longer and narrower than the suitcase.” He shook his head. “To do that required that he move some components closer to each other and others farther away. What he didn’t know, because he wasn’t a technician, is that amps required at each component would change. He sent enough electricity through the system for the test diodes to indicate positively, but not enough to set the reaction in motion. He outsmarted himself.”

  Sofia considered Atcho’s words. “So otherwise, it would have been a viable bomb.”

  Atcho nodded. “We think so.”

  Sofia remained silent a moment. “What did they do with him?”

  Atcho shook his head and pursed his lips. “A good guess is that he was dropped into a very deep ocean.”

  “And what about the remaining bombs? Do we know where they are?”

  “No,” Atcho said grimly. “At least two of them are out there loose somewhere.”

  Sofia gazed out across the serene landscape, then rose stiffly and limped to the front of the porch. There she watched Kattrina and Jameson making snowballs in the front yard.

  Isabel emerged from the house and climbed down the stairs to play with the children. Atcho moved next to Sofia and put an arm around her waist while they both watched the peaceful scene.

  “Maybe it’s time we stopped this,” Sofia said after a while.

  “Stop what?” Atcho asked, genuinely puzzled. He took in his daughter at the bottom of the stairs, his granddaughter and son playing in the snow, and the mountains on the horizon far across the prairie. “I like what I’m seeing.”

  “You know what I mean,” Sofia said with a slight edge to her voice. “You can’t keep going out to save humanity. I need you at home. Your daughter needs peace of mind. Your granddaughter needs her grandfather, and Jameson needs his father.”

  “We all need you, too,” Atcho groused. “Time for you to get serious about your gardening club.” He was quiet for a moment. “Our kids can’t grow up always believing in tooth fairies, and the bad guys won’t quit because you and I are growing gray hair. When we’re threatened, I’ll meet it.”

  Sofia leaned her head against Atcho’s shoulder and squeezed his arm.

  Behind them, the front door closed, and Bob came to stand beside them. “Good speech,” he told Atcho. “You’re my hero.” He laughed good-naturedly, slapped Atcho on the back, and headed down the porch stairs.

  Sofia struggled down the stairs behind him. “You’re right,” she called over her shoulder to Atcho. “I’m with you.”

  “What do you mean?” Atcho called after her, a look of concern crossing his face.

  Sofia waved him off.

  “Bob, what did she mean?” Atcho called
again.

  Bob stopped on the stairs and turned toward Atcho.

  “Think about it,” he said, and chuckled. “She’s your wife.”

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  THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN

  The cold war is in its twilight hour.

  But Soviet spymasters have a bold plan to defeat America.

  After Eduardo's daughter is taken hostage by the Russians, the former West Point graduate is forced to become a KGB sleeper agent. If he resists, his daughter will be killed.

  His handlers have orchestrated Eduardo's rise into the elite social circles of Washington DC. There he must navigate a labyrinth of conspiracy and betrayal. Spying for a nation he despises. All the while, working to turn the tables on his KGB masters.

  But when the Russians command him to assassinate a head of state, he is forced to make an impossible choice:

  Save his daughter...

  Or ignite the next World War.

  "Splendid! Damned fine read. A real page-turner." —Joe Galloway, NYT Bestselling Author of We Were Soldiers Once...and Young

  Click here to purchase THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN now

  Turn the page to read a sample —>

  THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Prologue

  Havana, New Year’s Eve, 1959

  Cuban President Fulgencio Baptista flees the country in the face of an armed insurrection. Five days later, Fidel Castro enters Havana with Ché Guevara, and seizes power. Though he is initially greeted with an outpouring of popular support, Cubans soon learn that they have traded one dictator for another. Hailed as a liberator, Castro demonstrates cruelty and tyranny that eclipses any known before on this island. Within a year, resistance groups spring up around Cuba. They are led by patriots who are largely inexperienced but fearless in the cause of restoring freedom to Cuba.

  One of these patriots is a man of unusual qualifications. The few who know him call him Atcho.

  THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Chapter 1

  Cuba, December 1960

  Atcho slouched against a wall, alone in a small plaza illuminated by the dim yellow light of a single street lamp. His eyes probed the surrounding darkness. His fine, aristocratic features were hidden behind a week’s growth of unkempt beard, while his normally well-groomed hair fell in shaggy brown locks below his ears.

  Since state security police, the milicianos, had never seen Atcho, at least not as himself, they knew him only by reputation. Tonight, they expected his messenger.

  Atcho’s ears strained for sounds of approach. His powerful frame ached to be released from its tense stance.

  In the light of the streetlamp, his silhouette stood out, an easy target. From behind a nearby wall, the first glimmer of the moon tinged the edge of the sky as it began its ascent. Soon, it would cast its ghostly glow about the square.

  Screeching tires broke the silence. Atcho shrank further into his loose-fitting clothes. He checked the inside of his left calf for the razor-sharp hunting knife strapped there. His face melted into dull callowness. His eyes became vacuous. He looked like a crude country peasant, nothing more.

  His mind raced as two Jeeps drove into view and stopped several yards away, spotting him in their headlights. Muscles tensed. Keep control. His heart pounded, and his temples pulsed. He felt adrenaline surge, but his face showed no expression.

  The driver of the first Jeep opened his door and stepped out. “Are you José?”

  Atcho shuffled away from the wall and moved forward, shoulders drooping. “Yes. I am José.” They spoke in Spanish.

  “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Do you have a package for me?”

  The driver shoved him. “Just tell me the message.”

  “My boss says I have to get a package first.”

  The driver delivered a brutal punch directly into Atcho’s belly. Atcho rolled with the blow and sank to the ground in pain. “Why did you do that? I’ll be happy tell you. But my boss will kill me if I don’t get the package.”

  The driver’s boot connected with Atcho’s chin, sprawling him across the ground between the Jeeps. He squatted by Atcho’s head. “You are going to tell us, or …” Leaving the threat unspoken, he grabbed Atcho by the hair and jerked his face close.

  “I’m dead if I don’t bring the boss what I came for.”

  “What’s in the package?”

  “He says I’ll know it when I see it.”

  The driver studied him, and then motioned with his hand. Two men stepped from the first Jeep. The driver conferred with one, a lieutenant, while the other stood guard over Atcho. When they parted, the driver squatted next to Atcho’s head while the lieutenant moved back toward the second Jeep. “Soften him up a bit while I speak to the captain.”

  Atcho’s guards relished their task. They pistol-whipped him, threw him to the ground, and pounded his head and body with kicks. Then, they stood him up, and while one held him from the rear, the other punched his face over and over. Pain seared as more blows fell, first to his face, then to his stomach. When he dropped to the ground, they continued kicking.

  Atcho offered no resistance.

  The passenger door opened. The man from the first Jeep leaned inside, talking to the captain.

  Through eyes swollen nearly shut, Atcho watched a glow of a cigarette from deep within the dark interior. Lying spread-eagle in the dust, he was unable to make out anything else.

  Dogs in the neighborhood, hearing the sounds of violence, barked madly. Nearby doors creaked on their hinges, and then softly thumped as they closed. The people are afraid.

  The moon had risen high into the sky and bathed the area in cold, white light, sharply contrasting buildings against their own shadows. Atcho craned his pain-racked head to watch the second vehicle. The G-2 milicianos spoke quietly by the Jeep.

  Apparitions floated before Atcho’s eyes. Columns of cadets in gray uniforms marched by. His wife appeared, arms outstretched, eyes longing for the child she would never see. Then, dancing flames in cold moonlight consumed the pale figures of his parents.

  He felt himself waning and shook his head, fighting to stay awake. Cruel visions continued, immersing him in waves of grief.

  Pain reminded him of his mission. He concentrated his attention on the second Jeep. The glow from inside was again visible. Occasionally, a ghost of a face peered through the windshield, then faded into the black interior.

  Voices murmured, low and undulating. The shorter, sharper responses of the man next to the Jeep indicated the authority of the man inside. Believing Atcho incapacitated, the guards ignored him.

  Atcho reached alongside his leg. The knife was there, cold and hard, the leather sheath pressing against his skin. He edged the knife from its sheath with his fingertips and inched it up under his body.

  A noise halted his movement. The Jeep door swung open. The dark figure of the captain emerged. He was tall and wore a dark civilian ove
rcoat and slouch hat. He strode toward Atcho, grabbed a lock of hair, and yanked Atcho’s head into the light, staring into Atcho’s beaten eyes. Then, he dropped Atcho’s face into the dirt.

  Barely conscious, Atcho could not see the captain’s features. He watched the officer walk back to the vehicle and swing into the passenger’s seat, hissing to the lieutenant too low to make out the words. Then the Jeep door closed, and the engine cranked to life.

  Atcho’s heart pounded. He fought desperately to sit up.

  The lieutenant moved toward him. “You are fortunate.” He spoke in menacing tones. “Captain Govorov let you live. For a while. You get to enjoy our company—until you tell us what we want to know.”

  “I’ll tell you.” Atcho gasped. “Right now. Please don’t hurt me again.” He watched the lieutenant, who waved his hand. The Jeep’s engine cut off.

  Silence settled over the night. The moon looked down, uncaring.

  “All right, coward,” the lieutenant said. “Tell us.”

  “Give me the package. Atcho will think I lied if I don’t bring it to him. He’ll kill me. You’ll have nothing.”

  At the mention of the name, the lieutenant’s face became hard. His mocking tone ebbed. “How will you know it’s the right package?”