by Brent Towns
“Dead.”
“Who did it?”
“You can let Reardon know that Reaper put a bullet in the face of the man who took his son and ordered his wife killed.”
“He’ll be happy to hear that.”
“Now for the bad news,” Thurston said, not bothering with a smooth segue.
Traynor took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “I’m ready,” he said, steeling himself for the dreaded words that would see him terminated from Team Reaper.
“I need you on a mission.”
That was not what he had expected to hear. “Can you repeat that?”
Thurston quickly brought him up to speed, including Sanchez’s suspected connection with the terrorists, then said, “We think Johnny Jihad is holed up on a houseboat over in New Jersey. Slick is sending the intel to your phone as we speak. Rendezvous with Brick at JFK. I’ll arrange for a chopper to get you to New Jersey ASAP so you can go find this son of a bitch.”
“Are you sure about this?” Traynor asked. “Me and Reaper, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”
“I’m aware,” Thurston replied. “But unless you know something I don’t, Reaper hasn’t actually fired you yet, so for now you are still a part of this team, which means I can still activate you. But if you want to keep babysitting, just say the word.”
Traynor knew he didn’t have a choice. It had nothing to do with Team Reaper. It had to do with who he was as a man. As a warrior. Johnny Jihad had slaughtered thousands of people in just two short days. He had to be stopped, crushed like a bug, and Traynor had just been asked to do the stomping. He couldn’t say no. So instead he said, “I’ll be there.”
“Good man,” Thurston said. “You need to get moving, and I mean right now. Johnny threatened another attack today so every second counts.”
“Copy that,” he said. “And General?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.” He left it at that.
She didn’t. “The prodigal son returns,” she said, her voice a bit softer than usual. “Welcome home and happy hunting.”
Traynor quickly wrote a note for Reardon. He kept it vague, knowing a nurse or doctor might see it first, but Mike would be able to read between the lines and understand why he had to go. He knew his friend wouldn’t hold it against him because Reardon wasn’t that kind of man. Traynor set the note on the nightstand and gently patted Reardon’s shoulder. “Gotta take care of some business, Mike. I’ll be back before you know it.”
He left the room with a brisk stride and a grim set to his jaw, a gun-slinging crusader ready to crush an unholy jihad.
Here I come, Johnny-boy.
Colombia
The exfiltration from Sanchez’s villa back to the SOC-R proved uneventful. They left the Land Rover near the smoldering remains of the processing plant and hiked the rest of the way to the boat. The journey back upriver went off without a hitch as well.
Axe patted the minigun the way someone would pat a loyal dog, a look of regret on his face. “With this much firepower to play with, it’s almost a shame we didn’t get to use it.”
“Enjoy the easy times,” Ferrero said. “God knows we don’t get many of ’em.”
“Ain’t that the fucking truth,” Cara muttered.
“Language,” Ferrero scolded. “We’ve got a kid with us.”
“Yeah,” Kane grinned. “You’d think a mom would know better.”
Cara smiled back, but Kane caught the flicker of pain just beneath the surface and knew she was thinking about her son Jimmy. Cara was born for combat, never more fully alive than when she faced down death, but she missed her boy. Team Reaper kept her busy, which meant she didn’t get a chance to visit him as often as she would like, and Kane knew that sometimes she struggled with guilt. Truth was, he knew exactly how she felt. His sister Melanie might be in a coma, but he knew he should still visit her more often. Maybe when this mission was all wrapped up, he and Cara could take a road trip to visit their loved ones.
“It’s okay, ma’am,” Jeremy reassured her. “I’ve heard f-bombs before.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as if the jungle had ears and he didn’t want it to hear what he was about to say. “Once, I even called a bully at school a fucking peckerhead right before I kicked him in the privates. But don’t tell my dad.”
They all enjoyed a good laugh and Axe said, “Don’t worry, kid, your secret’s safe with us.”
But when the laughter died, Kane had a sobering thought—the poor kid didn’t know his mother was gone. Didn’t know that her loving arms wouldn’t be there to welcome him when he got home. And it wasn’t their place to tell him. He had survived one hell, but he still had one more to go through.
It made Kane wish he could bring Sanchez back from the dead just so he could kill him all over again.
The rest of the boat ride passed in silence save for the thrum of the engine. They beached the SOC-R at the trail to the airstrip, then Kane toggled his com. “Reaper Three, Bravo Three. This is Reaper One. Copy?”
It took a minute, but Teller’s voice came through. “Bravo Three to Reaper One, we copy. Be advised, we have relocated to the hangar.”
“Copy that, Bravo Three.”
“Do you have the package?”
“Ten-four. A little banged up, but otherwise safe and sound.”
“Glad to hear it. Casualties?”
“Negative.”
“Copy that. See you in a few. Bravo Three out.”
They double-timed it back to the hangar and found Arenas propped up on an old sofa while Teller and Oswald sat at a rickety table. Somewhere a generator was running, and strategically-placed fans tried—and mostly failed—to take the edge off the already oppressive mid-morning heat.
Oswald treated them to an ear-to-ear grin. He looked genuinely glad to see them. “Well, I’ll be buggered, but I really didn’t expect all you blokes to make it back in one piece.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Kane said.
“Oh, don’t be a tool, mate. Just ’cause I didn’t expect it doesn’t mean I ain’t happy it went down that way.” Oswald jerked his chin toward Jeremy. “Looks like you got what you came for.”
“Sure did.”
The Aussie mercenary gestured toward Arenas. “Heard all the shooting after you left, so I took a stroll to check it out and found your boys.” He pointed at Teller. “That big bruiser nearly blew my head off with his twitchy trigger finger.”
“Make some damn noise next time, for god’s sake,” Teller snapped. He looked at Kane. “The guy’s quieter than a barefoot Apache walking on cotton.”
“Anyway,” Oswald said, ignoring Teller’s complaint, “I figured they’d be more comfortable waiting for you here than hanging out under a tree waiting for a monkey to crap on their noggins.” He slapped Kane on the shoulder. “No extra charge, mate.”
“Appreciate that,” Kane said. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an injured man to get to the hospital and a little boy to get back to his father, so I’d like to be wheels-up ASAP.”
“Roger that,” the pilot said. He spun on his heel and exited the hangar to make pre-flight preparations.
Twenty minutes later they were airborne and heading home. Kane felt the weariness sink into his bones. As he watched the jungle canopy whisk by beneath them, Kane silently hoped he never had to come back to Colombia.
He also knew that particular hope was a waste of time.
For every Sanchez they put down for a dirt nap, another one sprang up to take his place and fill in the void. The tentacles of the narcotics hydra were legion; you could spend your whole life chopping them off and never run out of targets. The best they could hope for was to keep wounding the beast and make it bleed.
Blood and thunder, hell yeah.
That was the Reaper way.
Chapter 14
New Jersey
The terrorist mastermind known to the world as Johnny Jihad lived in a houseboat on the Hudson River at a marina in n
orthern New Jersey. Not a chintzy houseboat either, Traynor saw. Looked like some of the $3 million the cartel had funneled to the rebirthed Al-Qaeda cell had been used to set up their leader quite nicely. No living in squalor, sacrificing wealth and comfort for the cause. Not for Johnny boy.
Then again, maybe the houseboat hadn’t been purchased with drug money. Maybe Johnny had a lucrative side business writing unicorn-on-sasquatch BDSM erotica under a pen name. Wherever the funding had originated, the boat clearly had cost some serious cash.
Traynor wondered if the insurance covered bullet holes.
The strike would have been easier under the cover of darkness instead of the sunny glare of late morning, but they couldn’t wait for nightfall while the most wanted terrorist on the planet sat in his houseboat and plotted more destruction. He had to be taken down, and it had to happen now.
Traynor and Brick had briefly considered an underwater assault, using scuba gear to approach the boat from below, but had discarded the idea in favor of a faster, more direct approach.
They went undercover.
Instead of fatigues, combat boots, and tactical vests, they donned cargo shorts, sneakers, and loose, untucked, button-down shirts. They blended right in with all the other boat owners walking around the marina, and the baggy shirts helped hide the suppressed Sig M17s riding in hip holsters.
As they strolled down the docks, drawing nearer to Johnny’s boat, Traynor noted the bodyguards on the upper deck of the vessel. Granted, they didn’t look like sentries, but that’s exactly what they were. They watched everything a little too closely and their hands never strayed far from their waistbands, where you could detect the tell-tale bulge of a pistol if you knew what to look for.
Brick and Traynor knew what to look for.
“Shit,” Brick muttered as they walked. “We’ve got to take out those guards.”
“Wonderful,” Traynor said. “We’re about to start a firefight at a public marina in the middle of the damn day.”
“Want to abort?”
“Not an option,” Traynor replied. “This guy has already killed thousands, and he’s promised to kill even more today.”
“His dogs open fire, some innocents might die.”
“If we walk away, lots of innocents might die.”
“Rock and a hard place, man.”
“You know it,” Traynor said. “So, let’s get it done.”
He hated the thought of innocent civilians getting caught in the crossfire, but there was no other way. He just hoped God, luck, fate, or whatever you wanted to call it was on their side today.
As for the guards, they were protecting the man pulling the strings on mass murder. As far as Traynor was concerned, they were guilty as sin. Which meant him and Brick would be going with the lethal option. Put ’em down for the count and make sure they stayed there.
They brazenly strolled down the dock which led to Johnny’s houseboat. They banked on the fact that the guards would be reluctant to engage and bring attention to the fact that the most wanted man in the world was hunkered below deck. The guards would let them get too close, at which time Traynor and Brick would make them pay for their mistake.
As they approached, the sentries eyed them with hard stares. As they drew alongside the boat, one of the men leaned over the railing and waved them off. “Hey, this isn’t a tourist attraction. Drag your asses somewhere else before I come down there and make you.”
What an idiot, Traynor thought. The guy should have been pulling his pistol and filling them full of holes, not flapping his gums with smack-talk like a high-school locker room. Johnny might have bought himself a really nice boat, but he should have skimped on some upgrades and hired some better security specialists instead.
Traynor flipped back his shirt, drew his Sig, and fired with a speed that caught the sentry completely off guard. The guy didn’t even make a move toward his pistol before the 9mm slug ripped into his neck. The sentry staggered back, blood spraying from a clipped artery. His brain finally got the message that he was dead and dumped him on the deck.
Peters took out the second guard, putting a bullet under the target’s jaw that burrowed up into his brain and killed him instantly.
Then the whole thing went right to hell.
Another guard materialized on the upper deck. But unlike the first two, this one was more than ready to fight and didn’t care how much noise he made. He leaned over the polished brass railing and cut loose with an Ingram MAC-10, spraying a stream of .45 caliber slugs. The sub-gun sported no suppressor, so the crackling brrrrrppp! of the full-auto fusillade reverberated across the marina waters. People who had been standing on the docks or on their boats now frantically dove for cover. At least two people leaped into the river with cries of alarm and loud splashes. There were screams, but they were overpowered by the MAC-10’s rat-a-tat-tat roar.
Traynor and Brick threw themselves onto the boat and rolled, evading the tracking line of auto-fire that pounded the deck just inches from their vulnerable flesh. Splinters exploded into the air all around them.
Johnny Jackass knows we’re here now, Traynor thought as his survival instincts kicked into high gear. He kept a tight grip on his gun as he rolled. He had no doubt Brick was doing the same. They both knew the MAC-10 would burn through its magazine in a few short seconds. They just had to dodge the bullets for another heartbeat.
The gunfire abruptly ceased as the sentry’s weapon ran dry. Traynor and Brick halted their rolls at the same time, stopping on their backs with the Sigs filling their fists. The sentry tried to pull back from the railing but was a half-second too late. The pistols bucked. Brick’s bullet bounced off the brass railing. Traynor’s shot blew the man’s face off. He flipped backward and crashed down in a twitching pile of blood-splattered death.
The Reaper warriors climbed to their feet and moved toward the wheelhouse. Another guard appeared, and a fresh line of auto-fire sizzled toward them. Traynor winced as a bullet scorched a raw trench across his ribs and put holes in a perfectly good shirt. The sudden flare of pain fueled his fury. He whipped up his Sig, but Brick had already punched the man a one-way ticket to hell, putting a round through his right eyeball. The guard corkscrewed to the ground.
Traynor almost put another bullet in the corpse for good measure but decided that would be unprofessional. That didn’t stop him from giving the dead guy a good kick in the ribs when he walked by though.
Guards neutralized, Traynor and Brick descended below deck, hunting for Johnny. They kept their fingers tight on the triggers, ready to turn the terrorist into maggot food. They usually took no particular pleasure in their kills, but this time they might make an exception.
Senses taut, ready to unleash violence, they edged down a narrow passageway. To the right was a kitchenette; to the left, a bathroom. Which meant the door at the end of the passage must lead to the bedroom. Assuming he hadn’t already rabbited, that was where they expected to find their prey.
In the lead, Traynor reached the door first. Brick hugged the bulkhead to the left and nodded to signal he was ready.
Traynor delivered a powerful kick that smashed the door open like balsa wood. He immediately saw Johnny Jihad standing at the back of the bedroom, legs spread wide in an almost comically exaggerated action pose. The terrorist had an RPG-7 raised, the back-blast scorching the wall behind him as he sent the warhead rocketing toward the intruders.
An RPG? Traynor thought. Are you kidding me?
He heard Johnny screaming something about death to infidels, but he was too busy shouting, “Get down!” as he shoved Brick into the bathroom nook.
The grenade sizzled past his head, close enough for him to hear the fin stabilizers pop open. He threw himself in the opposite direction, toward Johnny, as the grenade slammed into the stairs at the far end of the hallway and detonated on impact.
As he landed on his chest, the shockwave from the blast propelled him into a power-skid across the floor. He rolled onto his back as he slid to a h
alt right between Johnny’s spread feet.
Before the Bin Laden-wannabe could leap away, Traynor jammed the muzzle of the Sig right up between Johnny’s legs and started pulling the trigger as fast as possible. Blood spurted all over him as he dumped half a magazine at point blank range. The bullets shattered bone and ripped up through Johnny’s guts.
With his groin shot to shit, the terrorist mastermind crashed to the floor. Traynor managed to roll out of the way just before getting crushed beneath the mortally wounded man.
The boat started to cant. The grenade had blown a hole in the hull and water poured in.
Brick emerged from the bathroom. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “Was that an RPG?”
Traynor fixed a cold stare on the terrorist. Johnny shuddered in pain, eyes burning with both hate and agony. “I need to know where the next attack is,” Traynor said. “Tell me that, and I’ll end your pain. If not, you can sit there and think about dying hard and slow.”
Johnny’s face twisted into a snarl. “Allah will save me.”
“Oh yeah?” Traynor waved the Sig in front of the man’s face. “Where was Allah when I was blowing your balls off, huh?”
“You will die for your blasphemy.”
“Maybe, but you get to go first.”
Traynor glanced around the room, shifting his balance to compensate for the slowly-tilting deck. To his right hung the slashed, blood-splattered American flag Johnny had used in all his videos. He went over and ripped it down. On the wall behind it was a white dry-erase board. It only had six things written on it.
Ship
Jet
Park
Church
Bridge
1 PP
He looked at the last line and felt a cold chill shiver down his backbone.
He muttered a curse as he went back over to the gut-shot terrorist. Stepping close, he pressed the tip of the Sig’s suppressor to the bridge of Johnny’s nose. “Different question, same offer,” he said. “Tell me about the attack on One Police Plaza.”
Johnny just smiled at him with chattering, blood-flecked teeth.
