Donovan's War: A Military Thriller (A Tommy Donovan Novel Book 1)

by W. J. Lundy

  The sparsely furnished place wasn’t a home to him. It never had been. Even when he first moved here he considered it temporary, just a place to park until he got a job and found something better. There were no photos hung on the wall, no books on the shelves. Most of his things were still in tape-sealed boxes, the way he received them from the moving company years earlier. A badly worn leather chair was positioned in front of a television. It wasn’t even his; it was in the apartment when he moved in.

  He hurried to a hall closet and removed a canvas travel bag, which he took into the bedroom down the hall. After opening the duffel, he went through drawers, grabbing clothing and other items, stuffing them in. He zipped it shut and tossed it down the hall, letting it land in the living room.

  From the closet, he removed a tattered and faded leather jacket. He pulled it on before moving to his nightstand and opening the top drawer. At the bottom, under his socks, was a bundled yellow satchel with a Sig 1911 pistol weighing it down. Ignoring the pistol, Tommy reached for the package and dumped the contents onto his bed. A bound stack of hundred-dollar bills, a pair of clean credit cards, and a passport fell onto the bedspread.

  He snapped a rubber band holding the bundle together and placed the items into the liner pocket of his jacket. It was his get-out-of-jail kit, a reminder of the things he’d done, and a warning from Jack, his oldest friend in the Ground Division. “One day, they’ll forget about the war and why we fought it. But they’ll always remember the things we did over there, the things we did to win. That’s when you’ll have to disappear.”

  Tommy coldly remembered the warning. Years later, after an administration change and the debate over the methods and morality of the war, he found those words hammered home. It was all about the methods. Nobody cared about the results anymore or how many attacks were prevented. Nobody cared how evil the people were that they’d put down. The politicians had lost the stomach for the war and were now steering toward appeasement. Tommy had seen one friend after another charged for the means used to track down and kill the world’s most wanted terrorists. Tommy began to fear prison would ruin his career, but it was a roadside bomb that eventually found him.

  Months after being wounded, he still lay in a hospital bed, steel fragments in his neck and back. Jack visited during his final week there. “This is your out—now use it, Tommy. The world is changing. Take what you’ve earned and start a new life. Nobody cares about a broken soldier; they’ll let you fade away. The division has connections to make sure you are medically retired from the Army with full benefits. Enjoy your pension and leave all of this behind you.”

  “I can still work. I know there is more I can do.”

  “I know that, and I know that they’d willingly give you another shot… they’ll use you until there is nothing left. But Tommy, it’s time to let it go.”

  He didn’t accept it. He tried to argue with his friend, tried to convince him he still had some miles left in him. Fighting was the only thing he knew how to do. Training and going to war was the full extent of his adult life. What else could he do? It’s not like there would be loads of jobs for a trained assassin in the corporate world. Tommy refused to quit. He fought his way into a special rehab program and worked at returning to active duty, but it was not meant to be. It was during Tommy’s time in recovery that he learned of Jack’s death in Yemen. His family was told he’d drowned helping secure a stranded vessel in the Gulf of Aden.

  Tommy knew the truth, another no-name raid in a country nobody cared about. There was no scrolling bar during the local news, no patriotic announcement in the paper. No twenty-one-gun salute at Arlington. He found out late one night via phone call from Papa, the last surviving member of his original team. Papa said he was done, he was hanging it up and returning to his family home in Syria to get away from it all. Life in the Ground Division had gotten too complicated, and it was only a matter of time before the politicians turned on them. He advised Tommy to do the same. Start a new life before he found himself all used up.

  And just like that, all of them were gone, the men he called family vanished as if none of them ever existed. His closest friends nothing more than memories, and he was left alone. He was, once again, that young man who walked out of the orphanage with nothing, with nobody. It was like the last ten years of his life never occurred. Suddenly, Tommy had lost the taste for the business, and after some deep soul searching, he sent in his resignation letter to the Ground Division.

  He’d thought about Jack’s words often now, the warnings. They always came to the forefront of his mind at night before drifting to sleep or sitting in the old chair, watching the news—the congressional hearings, the war crimes investigations. Seeing familiar faces on trial for following orders, for doing what they had been sent to do. Senators behind microphones wanting to forget about the war and the reason they were there.

  When will they come for me?

  Tommy shook off the thoughts and turned to sweep the room with his eyes one last time before heading back into the hall to retrieve his bag. He removed his phone from his pocket and left a brief text message to his landlord, telling her he was going out of town and to collect his mail. The rent would be paid automatically from his pension. He had no pets to feed, no belongings that he cared about. He dialed a phone number and pushed entry keys to a secure voice mailbox.

  “I need you to clear your schedule, just like the weekend at the beach. We’re going on a vacation. I need you to book a flight for D.C. leaving tonight then meet me at Logan. Sorry for the short notice.”

  He flipped the phone over and popped the plastic case then dropped the SIM card and memory stick down the garbage disposal, leaving the phone in the trash. He left the apartment and locked the door behind him before moving down the hallway and out to the street. He avoided eye contact with the car. Turning away from it, he heard the vehicle’s engine start. Their presence didn’t bother him; he would rather know they were there than suspect it without confirmation.

  Winter had settled in on Boston, and even though the sun shone brightly, he could feel the chill through his jacket. Tommy took deep breaths, using the cold air to clear his thoughts. He left his car parked on the street then walked to the corner and ran across a divided one-way street, over a median, and boarded a bus headed in the opposite direction. He swiped his pass and moved down the long aisle, dropping the paid-up bus pass on an old man’s lap before taking an empty seat just as the bus moved ahead. He looked out the window and saw the surveillance vehicle sitting confused in the intersection, not knowing what to do. It would only delay them. Depending on who they were, they’d probably have another team, possibly one on foot or in a second vehicle on a parallel street.

  His thoughts drifted to Sarah. He remembered her as a little girl, only two when his parents passed. She looked up to him as a big brother then, not yet knowing the pain in the world. Back then, Tommy spent more time with her, enjoying her company and the bond they shared, feeling like the big brother and embracing the need to protect her. But over the years, she became an unwanted reminder of what he’d lost. Tommy resented her for it in his own childish way. He ignored her through school and avoided contact with her outside of holidays.

  Sarah called him a time or two after he left the ground service, asking why he wasn’t looking for work. Or why there wasn’t a woman in his life. Sometimes she would stop and check in on him uninvited, or ask a friend to spend time with him, or try to arrange dates for him with women from their school days. They would talk on the phone, but it was usually a one-way conversation that ended with her lecturing him. He cared about her, but he didn’t want her wasting her time on him.

  After the service, Tommy had taken a self-proclaimed “time out”. He protested that he needed some space to breathe, to recover. But really, he just wanted to shut everything out and reboot his life. He drank heavily, trying to drown the memories. He stopped exercising and he got lazy. Originally, he thought it would be for a month, but after he fell
into a simple routine and became content with just existing, the time moved on. He had regular checks to pay his rent and to fill the refrigerator. His single trip to the VA provided him with more drugs than answers. Afraid to get hooked on the pills, he flushed them and never returned.

  He took the random intervention visits from Father Murray as a challenge. He used it as an excuse to not return to the world, a stubbornness to do it in his own time. But now, this was different. Whether he respected it or resented her for it, Sarah was always there for him. Now knowing she wasn’t there, he suddenly felt her absence deep in his chest, and it made him ache in a way he hadn’t felt in years. It brought back the pain of losing his parents and Jack all over again. He remembered the pain of having no control to do anything; how helpless it made him feel. He wouldn’t feel that way again. Tommy made an oath to himself—he would do whatever it took to be there for her. And to punish those who took her.

  The brakes squealed and bled air as the bus lurched to a stop in front of the gray, limestone cathedral. Tommy pulled himself to his feet, working his way to the bus exit, carrying his bag in his left hand. He ducked his chin away from the surveillance camera that he knew was positioned above the driver. Back in the cold, he looked behind him to see he was the only one who exited the bus. The sedan was nowhere to be seen. Tommy turned and navigated the sidewalk to the ancient, stone steps and moved to the heavy, wooden doors. Finding the entrance unlocked, Tommy passed through, pausing just inside.

  He stood in the warmth of the entrance and spotted Father Murray at the far end of the dimly lit nave with a tall man dressed in a tailored black suit. Tommy let the door close hard and loud behind him. The slap of the wood echoed up the chamber, causing Father Murray to look back at him. The man let a soft smile escape his face as he waved Tommy forward. But instead of waiting, the priest moved off to the left with the second man in tow. Tommy had his suspicions as to who the second man might be. He knew the Church had deep pockets and plenty of lawyers; they also had some of the world’s best security people operating behind the scenes.

  Tommy moved down the long aisle, watching Murray slip out of sight in the direction of where he knew the priest’s private office lay. He’d spent plenty of time in the ornate room growing up, taking lectures and listening to the old priest tell stories about his parents. He shook off the thoughts and quickened his pace, moving up the steps and around the corner. Tommy found the office door open, and he stepped inside, knocking on the doorframe while he passed over the threshold.

  The room was dark, draped in red felt-lined curtains and furnished with dark leather and mahogany antiques. He stopped and turned abruptly, spotting the second man, who was now holding a white porcelain teacup. The man, who was clean-shaven with close-cropped hair, had broad shoulders and thick wrists. Tommy could tell by the way the man carried himself he was military or law enforcement. He was a professional, not a hired gun or a slouch cop. He wore a fine, tailored, black suit with a blaze-red tie, so he knew the man was expensive. Tommy let his gaze stick longer than what was appropriate as he scanned and mentally conceived dozens of ways to take the man out. Tommy watched as the stranger’s eyes began to show concern.

  “It’s okay, Tommy. Simon is here to help,” Father Murray said, motioning a hand toward a worn, leather chair. “Please have a seat.”

  Tommy set his bag by the door and moved into the room, stopping just in front of the chair. He looked at the second man again, waiting for him to sit before taking a seat of his own. The man moved uncomfortably into a chair then Tommy dropped into his own chair and crossed his arms in front of him.

  Murray straightened his robe and walked around the desk, pulling a chair close before sitting in front of the two men. “Tommy, this is Simon Arnet, from the Vatican. He is with—”

  “The Swiss Guards. I know, Father. Where are they keeping Sarah?”

  Simon cleared his throat and leaned close. “I’m not sure you understand what we are asking of you, Mr. Donovan. I have your records from Interpol; I understand the work you’ve done and your capabilities, your counter-terror background. Please understand, all we want is to ask you some questions, to use some of your contacts in the region. We won’t require anything else from you.”

  Tommy smiled, knowing there was no way Simon had any idea the extent of his record. If anyone did, they would be trying to have him locked away, not recruited. He shook his head. “No.” A vein popped out on his neck as he shook his head. “None of that will be necessary. Instead, I need you to tell me everything you know. Get me up to speed on the situation. I’ll do what’s necessary to get Sarah back.”

  Simon pursed his lips in frustration. “It’s just not that simple.”

  The man’s brow tightened, and Tommy watched as the agent’s expression soured. He knew this was a person who was used to getting what he wanted. But Tommy didn’t care, he didn’t have time for it.

  Simon took in a deep breath and continued. “These people we are dealing with… it is unclear what their motives are. They’ve never taken an American before. This may have been completely by accident.”

  “Accident? What the hell kind of accident ends in hostages being taken? You said they raided a church and took prisoners.”

  “Yes, prisoners, Mr. Donovan,” Simon answered solemnly. “But an American girl changes everything for them and for your government. It adds to the group’s danger. They may panic and—”

  “Kill her.” Tommy nodded. “I understand, and on the flip side, the last thing the State Department wants is another dead American firing up the public for a response. It’s way easier to just deny her and go on with business as usual. I’ve been there. I know how this story ends.”

  “It’s not that simple, Mr. Donovan.”

  Tommy grunted and cracked his knuckles. “Just tell me this: Do the State Department’s ‘moderate rebels’ have her, or the other guys? Or is there even a difference anymore? And who the hell is following me?”

  Simon shook his head and looked away, refusing to answer.

  Grinning, Tommy turned his focus on Father Murray, who was pressed back in his chair, unsure of how to intervene in the conversation. “I need everything you have on the people holding her. I need dates, times, contact information, everything. I’ll contact you in forty-eight hours once I get in-country,” Tommy said, knowing he wouldn’t get the answers and wouldn’t bother to contact Murray. The request was just a delay, something to make the Vatican people spin while they queried for a solution. Tommy hardened his brow and stood, still looking directly at the old priest.

  “They warned us about contacting you; they said you’d be rash.” Murray leaned back in the chair, confused. His eyes went from Simon and back. “Tommy, you can’t go to Syria,” he muttered.

  Tommy looked up at the ceiling as if searching for something. He paused before turning to his right. “Simon, is it? Listen to me. I have no arrangement with you, no contract with your people. Regardless of that, I’m going to do your job for you. It won’t be discreet, and you won’t want any of it sticking to that fine suit. Do you understand?”

  “Now hold up, Mister Donovan—”

  Tommy raised a hand, pausing the agent. “I suggest you answer Murray’s questions and stay as far from this as you can.”

  Simon leaned forward to protest. Tommy raised his palm, stopping him again. “I have to warn you—if you stand in my way, I’ll hold you responsible if we don’t get Sarah back. If anything happens to her… as you said, you’ve seen my file.”

  “I have. And to be honest, you should be in prison.” The agent eased back after letting the last words leave his mouth.

  Tommy caught every syllable like a slow-pitched softball. He grinned and said, “Let me tell you, as it stands, there is no problem between us. You should want to keep it that way. As far as me going to prison?” Tommy laughed. “That’s only the shit you know about.”

  “Now, Mr. Donovan, be reasonable,” Simon said, standing and taking a step toward
him.

  Tommy turned back and stretched to his full six feet, not intimidated. He turned to the door, retrieving his bag. “Forty-eight hours, Padre, I’ll need details.”

  3

  “Yes, we are doing everything we can to locate them,” Fayed said into the cell phone. “I understand, Mr. Director. Yes, sir, I’ll call you when I know more. Yes, of course… thank you, sir.” He grinned as he disconnected the call and set the phone next to a small cup resting beside a neatly folded newspaper. Fayed enjoyed the finer things in life and had come to expect it. He looked out the window from where he sat in the tiny upscale café located in one of Paris’s finer districts. The Parisian street was nearly empty; it was late morning and most people were already at the office.

  This wasn’t a blue-collar establishment, and tourists stayed away. Most of its patrons were respected businessmen or politicians. Expensive, its menu excluded the riffraff, and that was why Fayed frequented it. He enjoyed his standing at Interpol; his rank came with privileges. He was rarely questioned by his superiors, being thought of as one of the good ones. He was young and bright, tall, dark, and handsome. Not the profile for a terrorist bagman. They respected him and he was a jewel in his department.

  He sipped at the coffee and finished the last of the croissant as he smiled at his own cleverness. He would work both sides until the payment was right, and then he would collect from them both, gaining a percent of the ransom from Abdul and a heavy promotion from his superiors at Interpol. It was a good life he had carved out for himself. If he kept things the way they were, he would soon have a high-level position with unlimited access. Unlike other wars, where his family and ancestry would bring him suspicions, in his current office, he was considered a shining example of what a Western education could bring.