Deadly Intent

by Brent Towns

Feeling the tears start to well in her eyes, Cara turned away. She went to speak, and her voice caught in her throat. Then she tried again. “Bravo? Reaper Two. Target secure.”

  “Copy, Reaper Two. Good job.”

  New York City, Same time

  When the grenade blew, it lifted the heavy, armored Humvee off the floor at least six inches. Flames and metal shards shot out from under it across the floor in all directions. Kane and the others hugged the floor, praying that none would find any vulnerable spots on their person.

  The BOOM! of the explosion bounced off the thick walls and threatened to burst eardrums. Kane winced as his ears rang from the blast and for a moment his vision blurred. Through the dust of the disturbance, he saw Montoya stumble out the hole in the wall. Reaper came to his feet, staggered, then brought up his 416 and fired a sustained burst. More from frustration than anything.

  “Shit! Zero, Montoya is squirting out through the old subway, over.”

  “Copy, Reaper. If you lose him in there, he could emerge anywhere within two city blocks.”

  “I’d best not lose him then.”

  Kane lurched across to Arenas who was trying to regain his feet. Grabbing him by the arm, he helped him up. Arenas smiled, or rather grimaced, at him. “Thank you, amigo,” he shouted above the ringing in his ears.

  Behind them, Traynor limped across. “Are you OK?” Kane asked.

  “Hit my fucking knee when I dived on the floor.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Bring up Miller. Carlos and I’ll go after Montoya.”

  Kane and Arenas started towards the hole in the wall. The room was filling up with thick, choking smoke from the Humvee. A shooter leaned around the jagged edge of the opening and fired a burst. Instead of diving for cover, Kane had had enough. He fired a shot from the 416, and the shooter disappeared.

  “I wish I had a flashbang about now,” Reaper said to Arenas.

  “Fuck it, amigo. Let’s do this.”

  Arenas led the way. He dived through the opening, spraying rounds as he went. He figured if there was anyone on the other side, they would be one of the bad guys. Safe bet.

  But there was no one. The open space of the platform was empty. “Reaper One to Zero. Copy?”

  The radio crackled, and Kane said, “Say again, Zero.”

  Then, “Copy, Reaper.”

  “This place is lit up like a Christmas tree, Luis. Any idea where we can cut the power to it?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m damned sure. It’s almost damned well blinding me.”

  “Sorry, Reaper. I wasn’t talking to you. Wait one.”

  “While you’re at it, might pay to try and divert some assets to cover some of the exits.”

  “Already done. About that power, I’m surprised it’s on, that place has been shut up for years.”

  Kane ignored him and waved to Arenas. He’d seen the boot prints in the years of built-up dust and grime on the floor. They lead along the platform straight ahead.

  “Reaper, you copy?”

  Kane signaled Arenas to follow him. He raised his 416 to shoulder height, and they started along the platform. They passed two large columns and then an old garbage bin sitting on a short pole base.

  “Reaper …? Zero … you…”

  Kane turned his comms off.

  The trail continued along the edge of the drop off that led down to the tracks. Thirty meters further along, they disappeared where Montoya and his man had jumped onto the tracks below.

  Kane and Arenas climbed down, the gravel crunching under their boots. The ex-special forces commander walked across to the platform on the other side. He checked to see if anyone had climbed out there but found nothing. Crossing back over to Kane, he said, “There is nothing. They must have kept going along the tracks.”

  Staring along the darkened tunnel, there was no sound nor sign that anyone had gone that way. Kane said, “They can’t have gone too far, not carrying bags of money.”

  “They could be waiting to see if we follow,” Arenas pointed out.

  “Well, shit,” Kane snorted, lowering his NVGs into position. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

  Arenas followed suit, and together they walked into the luminous green tunnel. As they did so, both men turned on their laser sights, the red lines reaching out through the space and into oblivion.

  Kane worked his way across to the right side of the tunnel, while Arenas worked the left. As the pair moved further in, the smell of damp earth and mildew became stronger. Ahead on their left was a maintenance door, and it was open.

  “There,” Kane said, lighting it with his laser sight. “They went that way.”

  The two team men climbed from the tracks and passed through the doorway. Ahead of them was a narrow, concrete tunnel, graffitied on both sides with numerous tags. At the end of the passage was a set of stairs going up.

  Kane and Arenas made their way to the top and stopped at the narrow twin doors. They lifted their NVGs and Kane tried the left side door. It swung open. There was no one on the other side. The entrance to the system had been well camouflaged down the end of a debris-strewn alley…

  … and disappearing from the mouth and onto the street was a white van.

  “That’s them!” Kane snapped. “Come on.”

  The two men started to jog along the alley. Kane switched his comms on and said, “Zero, copy?”

  “Where the hell have you been, Reaper?” Ferrero growled.

  “No time. We’re back above ground and Montoya is getting away in a white van. He’s just turned left onto … shit, I don’t know. Don’t even have a damn idea where we are. We’re in pursuit.”

  “That’s OK. I’ll see if we can pick you up.”

  Reaching the end of the alley, Kane searched for a signpost. He found what he wanted and said, “Hudson Street! He turned left onto Hudson.”

  Suddenly both men became aware of the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. Or the lack of it. Many of the people had stopped completely and were staring at the two men in their tactical gear. Some had started to back off, while others, a sign of the times, started filming with cell phones.

  “There!” Arenas cried out, pointing at the van stopped at lights in the distance.

  “We’ve got the van you’re after, Reaper,” Ferrero said over the comms. “We think so, anyway. It’s currently stopped at lights on West Houston.”

  “Copy, Zero. That’s the one. We currently have eyes on. Shit, he’s turning left.”

  Kane and Arenas jogged along the sidewalk. The pedestrians in front of them seemed to peel to either side at the sight of the armed men running towards them.

  “This way,” Arenas said when they reached King Street. “I think I know where he’s going.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’ll need to get out of the city fast before they shut it down, right? They’ll do that because of the bomb?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The only way to do that is by air.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, he’ll need somewhere big enough to put a helicopter down. It’s the only option.”

  “Pier Forty.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Zero, we think he’s headed for Pier Forty. Check the area for any inbound air traffic.”

  “Copy.”

  They ran along the pavement to the end of King Street, then took their lives into their own hands and ran out onto Greenwich Street without hesitation. Car tires screeched, and horns honked as drivers jammed on their brakes. One vehicle stopped an inch short of Kane, and the driver cursed at him as he disappeared behind a truck.

  “Reaper, Slick has just informed me that …”

  The rest was lost in the noise of a helicopter flying overhead.

  “Got it, Zero,” Kane snapped as he turned right to run along Washington Street. “Looks like you were right, Carlos.”

  “Let’s hope we can get th
ere before he takes off.”

  Once the pair reached West Houston, they were starting to labor from running so far under the weight of their tactical gear. Their hearts were pounding, and their lungs seemed like they were about to burst. But still, they pushed on. Turning left, they reached the six-lane carriageway which consisted of West Street and Westside Highway. On the far side, the helicopter was now visible as it came to a hover above the green football field encapsulated by the Pier 40 structure. It was an Agusta Westland AW169.

  Digging deep once more, Kane and Arenas continued running. Amid the blare of car horns, they traversed the last paved obstacle before reaching the white van parked outside the entrance.

  Kane brought up the 416 and checked the van. The back was empty as was the front. “Zero, we’ve found the van empty. Proceeding inside.”

  “Copy, Reaper One. Backup is on the way. DEA has agents enroute.”

  When they broke out onto the football field, the helicopter had almost touched down. Waiting impatiently for it were two men. One was tall, with a shaved head, and the other was Montoya, gesticulating wildly with his left hand.

  The big man seemed to sense their presence and whirled about. On seeing them, he brought up his M4 and let loose with a sustained burst.

  Angry lead hornets filled the air surrounding Kane and Arenas. Both men dropped to their knees and returned fire. They scored hits to the shooter’s chest, but his vest took the full force of the bullets.

  Any day of the week, such impacts would floor a normal man. But Hall was far from normal. Instead of dropping, he staggered, shook the blows off, and fired more rounds from the M4.

  “Headshot,” Kane snapped.

  He and Arenas squeezed their triggers at the same time. Two 5.56 rounds slammed into Hall’s head. One just above the bridge of his nose, the second high on his forehead. Blood sprayed from the back of his bald pate and was whipped away in the downdraft from the chopper.

  Montoya was now on his own. He was about to climb aboard the helicopter when Kane sprayed it with gunfire. The pilot reflexively yanked on the cyclic, and the helicopter pitched up and across to the right. It careened out of control across the field and slammed into the side near the top carpark. A great fireball erupted as the fuel tank ruptured on impact and the highly-volatile Avgas ignited. Black smoke billowed up into the sky above.

  The cartel boss was flung from his feet, his not so white suit now with grass-stains.

  Kane and Arenas never even flinched. They walked forward, 416s raised to cover their target. Montoya recovered himself and fought to bring the MAC-11 around. A bullet from Reaper punched into his gun arm, and the MAC fell from nerveless fingers.

  Montoya’s snarl was filled with pain and rage. “Come on, you fucking puta. Do your best.”

  Both Kane and Arenas closed in on the cartel boss. “Looks like we got us our fish, amigo,” Kane said.

  “He doesn’t look like the big fishy in the pond anymore,” Arenas said. “More like the little one that gets thrown back.”

  “What now?” Montoya sneered. “Prison? Your jails cannot hold me. And when I get out this time, I will kill you, your families. Follaré a tus esposas y les cortaré la garganta!”

  Kane glanced at Arenas. “Did he just say something about having sex with our wives and murdering them?”

  Arenas nodded. “Sí. In his own special way.”

  “Uh huh,” Kane nodded and shot Montoya in the head.

  “Zero? Reaper One. Target is down, I say again, the target is down.”

  He stared at Arenas. “You got a problem with that?”

  The former Mexican special forces commander shrugged his shoulders. “It saved me from doing it.”

  Epilogue

  Team Reaper HQ

  El Paso, Texas

  Thurston stared hard at the team gathered before her in the briefing room. “The president has asked me to pass on his gratitude for neutralizing the Montoya threat and for taking out Collins and his mercenaries. He wants all of you to go to Washington so he can parade you in front of the nation’s media.”

  “You’re shitting me,” Axe growled.

  Thurston shook her head. “No, it’s what he wants. However, I told General Jones that it wouldn’t be possible. Doing something like that would have you all compromised. Yes, it is inevitable that one day your faces will all hit the television screens or front pages of newspapers. But until then, I would like to do everything I can to not have you all exposed.”

  The general paused before continuing. “I have to say, for our first time out together, I am impressed at the way you all operate. Now we’ll find out how good you all are at paperwork. I want reports on my desk by the end of the week.”

  Teller held up his sling and smiled. “I may have a problem.”

  “Did you get shot in the tongue?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then tell someone else your report, and they can type it for you.”

  “Ha!” Axe guffawed loudly.

  Thurston shifted her gaze to him. “And Axe just volunteered.”

  “What?”

  “Reaper, Cara, my office,” Thurston snapped.

  They followed the general out of the briefing room and into her office. She sat behind her desk and stared at them both. “I’m impressed by the way you both lead your team.”

  “Ma’am,” they both said together. Then Kane added, “We’re glad to have you on board too. Don’t get me wrong, Luis is a great operational leader, but he doesn’t have your clout.”

  “Thank you. I also wanted to ask if you would like your family moved closer? Maine is a long way away. I thought closer would be more convenient.”

  Kane shook his head. “No thank you, ma’am. The further my sister is away from me, the better. Even with what happened, I still think she’s better off.”

  “My thoughts too, ma’am,” Cara said.

  “OK. It was just a thought. One last thing. The new man, Brick Peters. How did he go all up?”

  “I’ve no problem, ma’am,” Cara said. “He’s more than capable.”

  “And if you keep on giving us these tough assignments, a medic is bound to come in handy,” Kane added.

  “All right. Dismiss.”

  They left the office and stopped outside the door. Kane turned to Cara and asked her, “What do you think?”

  “Beer?”

  “Why not? Get the team together, and we’ll find a bar we can haunt.”

  “What about the reports?”

  Kane smiled. “They’ll wait.”

  A Look At: Termination Order

  A Team Reaper Thriller

  IT IS A FIGHT THAT THE TEAM CANNOT LOSE, FOR TO DO SO MEANS DEATH…

  Strap yourself in while Brent Towns takes you for an action-packed thrill ride in book three of the Team Reaper series.

  It started with two cataclysmic events: the cold-blooded killing of a Pakistani journalist by a CIA special ops team, and the murder of a young woman in Los Angeles.

  From the Mojave Desert to the mean streets of L.A., then on to Europe. Team Reaper finds themselves in a bloody battle with an elite special forces team while trying to save one of their own, who is on a personal crusade of vengeance and has been marked with a termination order.

  The bad news for the other side, they’re about to find out that the “Reaper” is real!

  AVAILABLE NOW FOR PRE-ORDER

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  Thank you for taking the time to read Deadly Intent. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author's best friend and much appreciated.

  Thank you.

  Brent Towns

  About the Author

  A relative newcomer to the world of writing, Brent Towns self-published his first book, a western
, in 2015. Last Stand in Sanctuary took him two years to write. His first hardcover book, a Black Horse Western, was published the following year. Since then, he has written a further 26 western stories, including some in collaboration with British western author, Ben Bridges.

  Also, he has written the novelization to the upcoming 2019 movie from One-Eyed Horse Productions, titled, Bill Tilghman and the Outlaws. Not bad for an Australian author, he thinks.

  He says, “The obvious next step for me was to venture into the world of men’s action/adventure/thriller stories. Thus, Team Reaper was born.”

  A country town in Queensland, Australia, is where Brent lives with his wife and son.

  For more information:

  https://wolfpackpublishing.com/brent-towns/