by Stephen Frey
OTHER NOVELS BY STEPHEN FREY
The Takeover
The Vulture Fund
The Inner Sanctum
The Legacy
The Insider
Trust Fund
The Day Trader
Silent Partner
Shadow Account
The Chairman
The Protégé
The Power Broker
The Successor
The Fourth Order
Forced Out
Hell’s Gate
Heaven’s Fury
Arctic Fire
Red Cell Seven
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Stephen Frey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477825358
ISBN-10: 1477825355
Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014938731
FOR LILY. YOU MADE ALL THIS POSSIBLE. I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
AS A rule, forward operating bases were harrowing posts to defend, even for battle-tested veterans. Deployed deep in hostile territory, occupying FOB forces were able to depend only on each other and the assets at hand. Air support might be just minutes away, but that could be forever at an FOB.
FOB Henry Porter was no exception to the “harrowing” rule. In fact, it was the poster child.
Camp Porter was three clicks north-northeast of Daran, Afghanistan, a tiny, dusty, inconspicuous, sunbaked dot on the sprawling map of Asia. Named for the first American to die there, it was home to Third Battalion, Fourth Marines. A thousand crazy-brave warriors hunkered down behind low walls constructed of loose rock and mud brick that provided only a brittle first line of defense against fanatical indigenous forces.
The majority of a Marine’s time was occupied by combat patrols outside the walls, prepping for those patrols, sentry duty, and short bouts of fitful sleep. The small gymnasium and cramped Internet café were always jammed. So most free time for men not on patrol became a war against boredom—which created an opportunity for enterprising young boys of Daran.
“RAHIM!” PFC Rusty Donovan waved to a dark-haired twelve-year-old who was threading his way through a maze of Humvees waiting for refill at the large gas tanks on FOB Porter’s south side. “Over here.”
Donovan relaxed behind the steering wheel of his Hummer, dressed in his cookie-dough fatigues and a gray T-shirt, one black boot resting on the dash, and his M27 rifle resting on his lap. It was hot as sin during the day, much hotter than it was back in Iowa, and there was no shade here. No sprawling oak trees to seek shelter beneath, along with an ice-cold glass of Mom’s lemonade. Only his cookie-dough cover, which provided little relief from the scorching desert sun.
“Come on, you little bastard, hup, hup!”
“Yes, sir,” Rahim called back respectfully, breaking into a trot despite the heavy load in his arms and the large backpack strapped to his slender shoulders. “Yes, Captain Donovan.”
Donovan grinned. Someday he would be a captain in this mighty Corps, so he saw no need to correct the kid.
“What you got for me?” Donovan demanded when Rahim reached the Humvee and held up his cargo as if offering up a sacrifice. “Better be something good here.”
“Oh, there is good here, Captain Donovan,” Rahim answered, trying to catch his breath after his sprint through the maze. “I think you will like much.”
“We’ll see,” Donovan said, glancing down from the Humvee over the short stack of dog-eared periodicals now lying on his rifle.
Rahim had a charismatic smile between his thin cheeks, a clever glint in his haunting eyes, and a friendly way about him. Despite Donovan’s gruff tone and condescending attitude, he liked the kid. They all did.
But, more important to Donovan and the rest of Second Platoon Charlie, they liked that once a week Rahim got his small, dark-skinned hands on a variety of magazines. Access to the Internet café was severely limited, so physical magazines were still a prized commodity in this desolate corner of the world.
Technically, Rahim wasn’t supposed to be inside the camp. No civilians were to have access to the base without written orders from command. But the brass looked the other way on these deliveries by the kids. They understood the need for entertainment in the middle of all this insanity. The brass wasn’t always out of touch, Donovan figured.
“These things suck,” he muttered, rifling through the stack. “I don’t give a shit about Time or Businessweek. Where’s the People or the Us?”
“But I—”
“Hey, hey!” Donovan interrupted loudly as he tossed most of the stack onto the passenger seat. “Now we’re talking. Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. And a Hustler,” he murmured. “Why, you sly little shit.”
Rahim’s smile beamed brightly through the dusk settling down on the Humvees. “I knew you would like, sir.”
Donovan thumbed quickly through the Hustler, paused to stare wistfully at a long-haired blond staring back with a saucy expression, then glanced down at Rahim again. “You scratch one out looking at her?” he asked with a grave expression as he turned the picture of the nude blond toward Rahim and tapped the image of her huge breasts. “Has this chick seen your little pecker?”
Rahim’s eyes raced for the ground. “What do you mean, Captain?”
“Some of these pages are stuck together.”
The boy shook his head, mortified. “I . . . I still do not understand.”
Donovan’s battle glare evaporated, and he chuckled. He had a younger brother back in Des Moines who was Rahim’s age and was probably hoarding his own stash of porn out in some dark corner of the family’s dairy barn. “Okay, okay, how much you want
?” He rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “Some of my guys actually read Businessweek.”
“Twenty,” Rahim answered.
“Twenty? Bullshit. I’ll give you five for all of them.”
“Fifteen.”
Donovan raised his M27 so the barrel was pointed at Rahim’s narrow chest. “Ten.”
Rahim clenched his jaw but nodded grudgingly after a few seconds. “Okay, ten.”
WITH DONOVAN’S ten-dollar bill clasped tightly in his fingers, Rahim sprinted away, stopping only long enough to drop his backpack beside one of the huge gasoline tanks when he was certain no one was looking. Rahim had just made the most crucial delivery of his young life.
The kid was only thirty feet outside camp walls when the IED inside the backpack ignited with an initial flash, then blew the gas tanks to hell with a scorching secondary blast so massive the force knocked the boy facedown into the sand as he dashed for town. He and his two young friends had built the device using directions copped off the Internet and supplies lifted from the streets.
The blast killed twenty-seven Marines instantly and wounded another forty-two, fourteen critically.
PFC Donovan suffered burns over seventy percent of his body, lost his left leg, most of his left arm, and half his face. He would hold on for thirteen hours but, ultimately, succumb.
COMMANDER MCCOY stole through the darkness into a cluster of mud-brick homes on the north side of Daran. It was a beautiful moonless evening at the edge of the desert, three nights after the bombing at FOB Porter, which, so far, had taken the lives of thirty-six Marines. Four of the wounded were still in critical condition at a hospital in Germany.
McCoy slipped through the shadows until reaching a residence that was half-destroyed, then moved soundlessly into the rubble-strewn yard to a smashed window and peered inside. Rahim and the two boys he’d built the Porter bomb with were crowded around a small table in the trash-strewn dining room of the abandoned home, which had taken a mortar round a week ago. They were staring intently at a laptop sitting on the table, plotting their next move. They were immensely proud of what they’d accomplished three nights ago, and they were hungry for more carnage.
After positively identifying Rahim from a photograph of PFC Donovan and the boy standing beside each other, McCoy slipped soundlessly to the open front door, acquired two of the targets, and tapped the trigger in rapid but calm succession.
So intently were they plotting that only Rahim was ever aware of the assassin. The other two boys were dead before they hit the ground, small hearts ripped to shreds by two expertly aimed hollow-point rounds.
McCoy stared across the room at Rahim, who stared back defiantly in the light from the laptop. Despite the fate of his friends who lay twisted on the floor amidst the rubble, Rahim’s expression remained fierce. His weapon, a 9mm pistol he’d stolen from FOB Porter, lay on the far side of the laptop. It had been a terrible mistake to leave it there. But he showed no fear or regret as he glanced down at the silencer affixed to the near end of McCoy’s weapon.
“Who’s your handler?” McCoy demanded in the local dialect. Slight surprise registered in Rahim’s expression. “You must be getting help from someone. Tell me who it is,” McCoy continued calmly as defiance returned to the young boy’s sharp facial features. “Don’t be stupid. I can make arrangements.”
Throughout history Afghans had gained a reputation as warriors who won a battle or fought to the last man, with no in-between. Three decades ago, Rahim’s relatives had defeated a much larger, much better-equipped Soviet army and sent them home in disgrace, collective tails between their communist legs—with help from a Texas congressman named Charlie Wilson.
This kid wasn’t giving up anything, McCoy realized. It wasn’t in his genes to back down or negotiate.
The boy lunged for his pistol, and McCoy shot him in the head. Blood spouted from the skull gash out onto his dead comrades as the kid finished a short death struggle with an anguished moan and an eerie gurgle. Rahim and the two other boys had murdered thirty-six Marines and wounded another thirty-three. They were guilty; they’d gotten what they deserved; and orders were orders.
Commander McCoy leaned back against the wall, removed her cover, and shook her hair out as she gazed down at Rahim’s contorted death mask. She had no problem carrying out her orders—even this one in which all three targets were barely adolescents. It was her job, and she accepted that without regret or remorse.
She took a deep breath and then exhaled heavily. Still, it was time to get away for a while. There would be that mission to North Korea first, but then she’d get her R&R. And she knew exactly where that would be.
Kodiak Island, Alaska.
CHAPTER 2
“SIR?”
Troy Jensen’s eyes flashed open. He hadn’t actually been asleep, just dozing to conserve energy. He was a light sleeper to begin with, but at this point in such an intense mission he rarely slept until it was done. He could go seventy-two hours without it and still function normally. So far it had been only thirty-nine.
“Yes?”
“The guide’s here,” Jim Bennington called from the other side of the zipped tent flap.
“I’ll be right out.”
Troy lifted up on one elbow and gazed down at the young woman who was lying on her back beside him, naked. She clearly had no problem sleeping, and he took a moment to envy her ignorance as she snored lightly.
It was stiflingly hot and humid in the jungles of eastern Venezuela, especially this late in the afternoon. But he and the woman hadn’t stripped naked to stay cool. Until twenty minutes ago they’d been engaged in quiet but crazy sex, which had gone on nearly uninterrupted for an hour. She’d been impressed with his stamina, gasping so over and over, in between demands for more.
Finally, she’d begged for a break and had quickly fallen into a deep slumber when he granted her request.
Troy rose to his feet, stepped into his comfortable nylon fishing pants, and pulled them up. He loved having sex before battles. It didn’t distract him at all—just the opposite. It got his alpha adrenaline pumping and made him focus on the mission even more when the interlude was over.
He loved Latinas, too. He always had. They were wild and passionate women who screamed every lewd thing they imagined during intercourse as soon as they imagined it, without considering or caring how the words might make them sound—at least, the ones he’d been with had. Troy found that level of uncloaked female passion at the moment of climax incredibly intoxicating.
The beautiful, dark-haired woman asleep on the tent floor had been no different. He’d been forced to cover her mouth with his hand several times so the other men in camp wouldn’t hear all the crazy things—which had turned her on even more. Turned out she liked being restrained.
She’d gotten him off three times in the last hour, the second time so intensely he’d almost yelled out with pleasure himself. Fortunately, he’d been able to stifle it.
He cast another hungry glance at her exotic features, so tempted. They wouldn’t begin the assault until at least midnight, and that was still hours away. But after a few moments he pulled the long-sleeve, bamboo-lined Free Fly shirt over his head and laced his boots up. It was time to focus on the mission.
“This is Pablo,” Bennington informed Troy as he emerged from the tent, gesturing at the dark-skinned man standing beside him. “He’ll lead us to your target. Whatever that is,” Bennington added.
Troy shook Pablo’s hand. He appreciated that the guide had remained closemouthed about the objective—as he’d been strictly ordered to do by Troy’s messenger.
“Pablo came down from Guayana City,” Bennington continued. “He’s sorry he’s late, but the morning storms clogged the roads. Plus, he couldn’t be obvious about what he was doing or where he was going. He’s worried he’s been watched during the last few days. He cl
aims to have visions, and the one he had last night wasn’t good.”
Bennington was short and muscular with a shaved head, probably a Green Beret, Troy figured, though he wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know the man’s rank.
Troy’s uncertainty wasn’t a failure to be diligent. It was by design. Tonight’s mission was being waged against a formidable enemy, a man who had more money and more weapons than most countries. A man who was brutally vindictive and, on top of everything else, lately rumored to be going insane. If anyone in the team was captured, the torture would be extensive and excruciating, so unbearable the victim would surely give up honest answers to anything he was asked. The less the five men on this mission knew about each other, the better.
“How sure are you that the target is at the compound?” Troy asked. It seemed far-fetched that anyone would be watching this man.
“Eighty percent,” Pablo answered in a thick Spanish accent. He was the same height as Bennington but very thin. Gaunt to the point his knuckles and elbows seemed on the verge of piercing his taut, dry-looking skin. “Maybe.”
Eighty percent in this line of work was excellent, even with a hesitant “maybe” thrown in at the end. Anticipation surged through Troy’s body. Daniel Gadanz’s severed head would make one hell of a trophy.
NOISE ON the sprawling First Manhattan trading floor had reached a fever pitch. Men and women shouted into phones and at each other as they gestured wildly, in some cases seemingly to no one in particular. And the sum of their voices created a dull roar in the gigantic room, which overlooked Wall Street from the twenty-seventh story of the firm’s shimmering, glass-encased headquarters.
Minutes ago the Federal Reserve had announced a major shift in monetary policy. A tightening, which had sent interest rates spiraling skyward. Conversely, bond prices were suffering the China Syndrome, burning through every circuit breaker on the plunge down as if the chain reaction couldn’t be stopped.
The Fed hadn’t used a megaphone to shout its strategy shift from the highest peak around—just the opposite. They’d whispered it, as they usually did. This time by subtly and slightly raising the reserve requirement for the nation’s banking system. But that was more than enough to cause the panic.
