Vengeance Calling: An Action Thriller Novel (David Rivers Book 4)

by Jason Kasper

  Vengeance Calling

  The David Rivers Series, Book 4

  Jason Kasper

  Regiment Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by Jason Kasper.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, brands, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For information contact:

  Jason@Jason-Kasper.com

  Jason-Kasper.com

  Contents

  The David Rivers Series

  DESTINY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  SOLITUDE

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  DAMNED

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  VICTORY

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  RESURRECTION

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  YOUR FREE DAVID RIVERS PREQUEL

  About the Author

  The David Rivers Series Continues

  Also by Jason Kasper

  The David Rivers Series

  1: Greatest Enemy

  2: Offer of Revenge

  3: Dark Redemption

  4: Vengeance Calling

  David Rivers Book 5 - Spring 2019

  Join the Reader List at Jason-Kasper.com

  To Joel

  Escendo Evinco

  DESTINY

  Alea iacta est

  -The die is cast

  1

  January 5, 2009

  The Mist Palace

  Undisclosed Location, North America

  “You’ve tried to kill me once, David Rivers.” A smile twisted the Handler’s lips. “I need you to try it again.”

  His salt-and-pepper hair crowned a gaunt face marred by the crooked skew of his Roman nose. I wondered how it had been broken in the past, then distantly wished I could reproduce the injury before slitting his throat.

  Instead I remained immobile, strapped to a chair in the clandestine, mist-soaked North American compound belonging to the international crime leader currently taunting me. I had been shot in three places at the conclusion of a twenty-four-hour bloodbath in the streets and slums of Rio de Janeiro, my humerus shattered by a near point-blank bullet impact, blood-soaked medical dressings freshly applied during the transcontinental flight. I stepped off the plane in North America with a concealed pistol in the splint of my injured arm, fully intent on assassinating the Handler the moment I saw him.

  I cleared my throat, unapologetically meeting his eyes. “What makes you think I’ll be more successful on my second attempt at ending your life?”

  He grinned again, amused, and understandably so—upon approaching him with my hidden pistol, I’d found my friend Ian bound and kneeling at his feet. A single-minded desire for vengeance had driven me toward that meeting; I’d killed many people to get close to the Handler, and would have killed many more.

  But never Ian.

  He and I were the sole survivors from a mercenary team containing our closest friends, the only family I had. Our combined efforts to avenge them had just been thwarted by an enemy who had known of our plans the entire time. Now Ian was a prisoner, and I was a slave to the Handler’s will after he threatened to brutally torture and kill my last living friend if I didn’t obey.

  The Handler’s grin vanished as he straightened to his standing height of a rangy six feet plus. A tremor passed over him, his head shuddering slightly before the serene exterior returned.

  “I suspect that an irreplaceable asset in the highest levels of my inner circle is being disloyal.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, amber eyes focused on me intently. “If I am correct, they are currently plotting my death.”

  “I can empathize.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he continued in the same patiently measured cadence of speech. “You will conduct a choreographed assassination attempt in front of this individual. Afterwards, I will give you to them for immediate interrogation and execution. If they betray my order in any way, you will report back to me.”

  “I imagine the outcome would be relatively obvious,” I pointed out, swallowing hard against a growing lump in my throat. “Why would you need me to tell you about it?”

  He turned his back, observing the wall behind his desk before addressing me over his shoulder. “The drawback of employing the most brilliant and ruthless of the enlightened caste is their effectiveness at deception—if they execute a conspiracy, it will not be as detectable as yours and Ian’s. I must provide the smallest window of opportunity during a routine task for them to betray me. Any greater risks a successful deception, and while I have my own means of verifying the outcome, you are my failsafe.”

  “And if I survive, and report back?”

  The Handler spun to face me, his tone forceful and assured. “I eliminate the traitor. You are granted a conditional pardon, and will be returned to the ranks of my mercenary army.”

  “If I return to the Outfit, I want to be sent to fight in South America.”

  “I anticipated you would. My war there is commencing as we speak. If you survive this endeavor, you will immediately be assigned to combat.”

  I kept my eyes on his, trying to sound undaunted despite a growing feeling of dread spreading within my chest. “What about Ian?”

  “In either event, Ian will be safe.”

  “Then I want him freed, not working for you as a captive.”

  He leaned down, his expression brimming with fury as he brought his face close to mine and spoke quickly. “Ian will remain employed and under my control. But he will be alive, and your agreement to these terms is the only provision under which he remains so after his several attempts on my life.” He drew a sharp breath and hissed, “If you do not agree to my terms, your existence—and his— will be reduced to three days of continuous torture, ending when I deliver you both to the chamber—”

  “Enough,” I interjected, condemning myself to the status of dead man walking in the span of one word. “I’ll play your game, as long as Ian lives.”

  The Handler’s expression cooled to its normal state of composure. “Wise decision, David.”

  “And who among your merry band of criminal misfits do you suspect of having the balls required to betray you? Present company excluded, of course.”

  The Handler raised a messianic palm to silence me, then turned in a slow, graceful arc toward his desk. He leaned over and lifted a colossal fountain pen wrapped with a gleaming gold oriental dragon carving.

  He gracefully carved the pen’s nib through an unseen script. Half a minute passed before he paused, capped the pen, and lifted a single piece of paper to the light.

  The Handler blew softly across the surface of the sheet with a subtle grin, as if admiring his handiwork, or the order he’d just drafted, or both. Then he laid the paper flat on the desk, folded it into thirds, and slid it into an envelope.

  Lifting a blood-red candle from the desk, he lit the wick and let the wax drip onto the envelope flap before impressing a metal stamp onto it for several seconds. As the Handler whisked the sealed envelope up between a thumb and forefinger, he remained
stationary as the sudden, neat heel-click of an unseen witness sounded behind me.

  I spun my head to the side, taking in the individual who was previously standing behind my chair. He was a runt-sized man in a navy suit, the crown of his head bearing a black yarmulke. He stopped before the desk to accept the envelope.

  The Handler ordered, “At the Executive Karoga in three weeks’ time.”

  The Jewish man nodded deeply, saying nothing as he spun on his heels and approached me, the sealed envelope clutched in one hand. His face was a balding oval, and oil-spot eyes peered out from behind rimless glasses. The glance he shot me was little more than an appraisal, gathering data as if I were binary code.

  Committing my face to memory in the span of half a breath, he turned from me and stepped out of sight, his exit swallowed by the sound of doors closing to my rear.

  I looked back to the Handler, opening my mouth to question who he suspected of betraying him. But he silenced me with a wave of one hand as he used the other to hold a phone receiver to his sunken cheek.

  He spoke tersely into the phone. “Schedule the full and immediate medical treatment of David Rivers.”

  2

  Three Weeks Later

  January 28, 2009

  A man’s voice said, “David Rivers by direct request. Negative metal, confirmed by 513.”

  The scrape of metal and a heavy door swinging open were followed by my blacked-out goggles being removed as I blinked to clear my vision. We stood before a room-sized building whose wood siding bore a single door. Two armed guards defended it, wearing plate carriers over civilian clothes and holding compact M4 assault rifles. A black forest surrounded us, and buildings were only visible in glimpses between trees. The trails weaving through the forest were illuminated by dim solar lighting, causing the interlocking treetops to appear phantasmal amid a billowing ceiling of fog. A snowless winter, damp and foggy, punctuated by glimpses of chain link fence and barbed wire lurking in whispers among the forest.

  I was no longer required to wear handcuffs within the Mist Palace, a gracious concession given that my left arm was now pinned to my side by a black sling against a wedge of foam, my left hand holding a red rubber squeeze ball for rehabilitation. My fractured humerus had been surgically fixed by titanium plates, and my other two muscle wounds were likewise treated as a complimentary medical service in exchange for getting shot three times for the Organization in Brazil. Healthcare within the Handler’s international crime syndicate was effective and immediate…but it came at a much greater cost, one that I was about to pay in full.

  Beside me, Ishway slid my blacked-out goggles into his overcoat pocket as naturally as if he were putting away a cigarette case.

  Between his height, carved Asian features, and the long hair swept back into a low bun, there was nothing particularly commanding about Ishway’s appearance. Yet in the weeks since he escorted me off the return flight from Rio and into the confrontation that would change the tide of my destiny—and Ian’s—I increasingly wondered about Ishway’s exact role in the Organization. Always dressed head to toe in lavish business attire, he glided through the halls in sartorial aplomb, usually toting a leather-bound ledger and always to the great deference of the guard force.

  Ishway said, “Enjoy, Mr. Rivers. I will transport you back to your room upon the conclusion of dinner.”

  “You’re not among the anointed ones dining here tonight?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s a shame,” I quipped, looking around to see that two more members of the guard force had trailed me and now stood patiently waiting for Ishway’s order to depart. They were clad with the same plate carriers and assault rifles as the guards on duty outside the building, one of whom now held open the lone door for me.

  What was all this security for, in the end? The compound was very remote, with only a few select pilots knowing the exact coordinates to reach the airfield. Yet visitors like myself were still required to wear blacked-out goggles when escorted through the Handler’s inner layers of security. What kind of attack could they possibly be expecting?

  I returned my gaze to Ishway’s unsettlingly tranquil face.

  “Well,” I concluded, “I’ll be breathlessly awaiting our next reunion, Ishway.”

  Without waiting for a response, I strode past the guards and into the building, finding myself in a large cooking and dining area.

  In place of a roof was an elevated overhang designed to prevent surveillance from above. While it was close to freezing outside, free-standing air heaters around the long dining table generated a cozy humming sound and a comfortable warmth in a room dominated by the smell of extravagantly seasoned food.

  Four guards maintained their stoic vigil in the corners, hands clutching silenced submachine guns, automatic pistols holstered on their waists. They were clean-cut, freshly shaven, and armed for precision shooting inside a room: the Secret Service minus any need for professional discretion. Their eyes were fixed on me with thinly veiled contempt, though they were probably equally irritated by any newcomer who disrupted their established security routine.

  But within the next few minutes, both the face and name of David Rivers would be burned into their psyche for the rest of their careers.

  One wall of the room held a row of charcoal-burning stoves being serviced by an older man who turned as I entered. The Handler’s personal bodyguard stood behind the head of the table, where three other men were already seated: the Handler, a fashionably handsome man with silver hair I’d never seen before, and the slight man in the yarmulke.

  My eyes faltered on the Jewish man before I forced my gaze to the head of the table, where the Handler was watching me. The amber glint of his eyes was clear even from across the room, his gaze that of a wolf languidly watching prey because it knew the rest of the pack was already in place for the kill.

  “Our guest of honor,” the Handler said, wielding a hand to the seat beside him. “Please, join us.”

  I rounded the dining table toward them. The silver-haired man stood and offered his hand. He was easily in his sixties, with movie-star looks, a stylish, perfectly combed haircut, and an easy, broad smile revealing neat rows of white teeth. The top few buttons of his dress shirt were casually undone, a pitch-perfect Hollywood vision in all ways except one: the upper left side of his face was marred by what appeared to be claw marks streaking downward from forehead to cheekbone, narrowly missing the intervening eye.

  He shook my hand briskly as he spoke with a gruff Boston accent. “Watts. Chief Vicar of Defense. Well done in Rio, David.” He was grinning broadly, facial scars contorted with genuine enthusiasm—he truly didn’t know the reason for my attendance this evening, I decided. I briefly pondered the title of “vicar,” a word used by religious officials, not governments. “How’re you recovering from your injuries?”

  “Quite well.” I nodded to the red squeeze ball held limply in my left hand. “This sling is a great conversation starter, but I’m a little disappointed the Organization doesn’t have a Purple Heart equivalent. Would’ve gone great with my vanity plate, probably save me a few speeding tickets.”

  “Medals are overrated, any vet will tell you that—but money? That’s fair remuneration, much more suited for our line of work.” Watts didn’t break eye contact to investigate the sling on my arm until our handshake was complete, and then he twisted his facial scar toward the man in the yarmulke, who remained seated. “Allow me to introduce our Chief Vicar of Intelligence, Yosef.”

  The Jewish man remained completely immobile save the slightest hint of a nod. Short, thin, nearly a dwarf, he was again clad in a resplendent navy suit and said nothing. He didn’t need to—he and I shared an understanding independent of everyone in the room other than the Handler himself.

  “No need to get up,” I said to Yosef. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

  Watts gave a scoff of amusement. “Don’t take it personally, David. He’s a man of few words.”

  �
�Must be a real hit at parties.”

  “That’s what our chef is for. David, meet Omari.”

  The portly chef intercepted the introduction, wiping a hand on his apron and extending it to shake mine eagerly. While his dark skin and thick black mustache gave him the appearance of an Indian, he spoke with an African accent.

  “Omari. Your chef for this evening.”

  Watts added, “He also holds a minor position in the executive staff.”

  “Details.” Omari dismissed Watts’s words with a wave of his hand. “As Chief Vicar of Finance, I am replaceable. As karoga chef, I am one-of-a-kind. Perhaps in all of North America. You are about to dine like you’ve never dined before, my friend.”

  The Handler picked up an elegant bottle of scotch from the table. “Now that our guest of honor is here, we shall start the karoga.”

  Pulling out the cork, he dropped it before crushing it with the heel of his shoe. “This means we will finish the bottle, David. The first drink is reserved for those lost on the journey, that they might nonetheless join us here.”

  He tipped the bottle downward with the toast, “For the earth,” and a shot of scotch splattered against the concrete floor. Then he took a sip before handing the bottle to Watts. I was next, accepting the sculpted glass bottle and appraising the label: Macallan 1926.