Also by David M. Salkin
Hard Carbon
Deep Black Sea
Dark Tide Rising
The Team Series
Book One: The Team
Book Two: Into the Jungle
Book Three: African Dragon
Book Four: Shadow of Death
Book Five coming in 2017!
A POST HILL PRESS BOOK
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-172-2
Shadow of Death
The Team Book Four
© 2016 by David M. Salkin
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Christian Bentulan
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Post Hill Press
275 Madison Avenue, 14th Floor
New York, NY 10016
https://posthillpress.com
Acknowledgments
Writing The Team series continues to be a labor of love. I feel like I know these imaginary friends, and often meet servicemen and women who emulate some of the finer traits of my fictitious team. While researching for the book, and then having discussions after I finished writing it, I realized that some of what I thought was fiction turns out not to be so. Apparently, some of my imaginary special operations teams and toys actually do exist, which I think is pretty darn awesome.
The world continues to be a dangerous place and appears to grow more violent and hateful every day. While I choose to live my personal life focused on the positive and maintain my optimism, I know I’m only able to do that because so many men and women serving in uniform, or plain clothes, are out doing what needs to be done in dangerous conditions all over the world. As always, I salute those who serve, or have served, this great nation. If nothing else, America continues to prove her resiliency.
To the men and women at SOUTHCOM who run special operations in everything from the war on drugs to counterterrorism, thanks for what you do!
My thanks to friends in uniform who have offered technical assistance in the writing of this book: Cols. Bill Peace, Jeff Cantor, and Kevin White (call sign TK); S/Sgt. Nicole Rosga (call sign Roz); and Cpl. Conor Hamill, USMC. Any mistakes are mine, I can assure you. I just make stuff up . . . these peeps actually DO it. Respect~
As usual, my books contain the names of many friends, always used without their permission or consent . . . which is why you should always be nice to me. My buds for life, Chris Cascaes, Jon Cohen, and Apo Yessayan, all make appearances. Poor Apo . . . his character looks nothing like my handsome friend. Apo’s Armenian history, while not his exact story, does reflect an almost unknown piece of ugly history, and the slaughter of perhaps a million human beings. On behalf of Apo and his family, I bring light to the Armenian genocide out of love and respect for my friend.
My thanks to the folks at Post Hill Press—Anthony Ziccardi, Michael L. Wilson, and all the peeps behind the scenes—who help me live the dream of being a full-time author. One of these days, we’ll all sit together and watch these on the big screen somewhere! And to Jon Ford, an outstanding editor, thank you for your attention to detail and help in making this book better.
Finally, thanks to Big Brother Eric for suggestions and feedback to make this a better book.
Si vis pacem, para bellum
Dedication
This book, as always, is dedicated to family and friends, both here and departed.
For Patty, Rachael, Alex—you’re MY team.
For Tom Antus, who just left us on May 2, 2016, way too soon. Love you, brother.
And, I want you all to remember the number 22.
22.
That’s the average number of veteran suicides in the United States every day. If you see a friend in need, reach out. There are so many phone numbers available. Please, vets, know you’re loved and never alone.
This book is for number 23—the veteran so close to quitting, but recognizing the need for help, and having the strength not to give up. Your family and friends are glad you’re still here. Suicide doesn’t end pain. It just passes it to someone else.
Ruck up, 23. You still have a lot to live for.
Contents
PART I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART II
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
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Epilogue
About the Author
PART I
CHAPTER 1
South of Al-Raqqah, Northern Syria
It was almost midnight. The small group of men smoked Iranian cigarettes and drank strong black coffee. The wood stove kept the room comfortable in the cold night air. The leader of the group, a tall, thin man they all simply referred to as Qassim, stood by the doorway of the remote farmhouse. He had been watching the trucks’ headlights approaching for twenty minutes across the barren, dark desert. The headlights were the only source of light outside the farmhouse for almost a hundred kilometers.
North, up in Al-Raqqah, the ground was fertile and a river ran through the city. Here, further south, the land was a flat, desert wasteland. The trucks they were waiting for were the first vehicles in four hours. With ISIS patrols murdering civilians as they pleased, remote areas like this one were largely off-limits.
Qassim grunted and the men at the table rose and picked up their AK-47 assault rifles. The five of them walked outside the warmth of the cabin and spread out around the small compound. A moment later, the three trucks rolled in. Two pickup trucks, one with an unmanned machine gun mounted in the back, escorted the larger box truck.
Qassim stood and waited for the men to get out of the vehicles. The leader of their group gave Qassim a formal greeting and then introduced one of the men he was transporting. The man extended his hand and said hello in Spanish, introducing himself as Antonio Reynosa. Qassim and the man spoke Spanish for quite a while, surprising the men around them. Qassim’s own people didn’t know he spoke Spanish, and they certainly didn�
�t understand the conversation—except for one man, who spoke seven languages, the first of which was English. That man, who had been using the name Hussam for the purposes of this mission, was equally surprised at the conversation. A deep-cover CIA operative, Hussam was there to gather intelligence on ISIS. He hadn’t anticipated this turn of events.
Hussam feigned disinterest, like his cohorts who didn’t understand what was being said. But Hussam hung on every word. To hear the two men discussing “the deal” between ISIS and Las Zetas had made Hussam’s head spin. He kept his breathing and expression normal, even though the conversation he was eavesdropping on was a game changer.
Qassim ordered his men to guard the trucks, and the visitors were brought into the house to be fed and allowed to sleep for a few hours. Hussam maneuvered himself to guard the door of the house, where he hoped to listen further. The others were happy to sit inside the trucks where it might be a bit warmer. When one of them walked to the rear of the box truck, Qassim barked at him to stay away. He was to guard it—not look inside. Hussam wondered if he’d get the chance to look later if the others fell asleep.
CHAPTER 2
CIA Training Facility
Langley, Virginia
The team had spent almost two months away from HQ and, for the most part, each other. After returning from their mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, it was time for funerals, doctor visits, and soul searching. The mission in Africa had been costly. Ernie and Smitty had died together while fighting a delaying action to allow their team to escape. Jones died in the shantytown firefight. Cory had been double-crossed and set up at a meeting that cost him his life. Lance Woods, Jake Koches, and Eric Hodges had all been wounded seriously enough to require extended hospital stays—whether or not they’d be medically retired remained to be seen. When it was all said and done, the team had been cut in half.
Chris Mackey had said his goodbyes after the last of the funerals and disappeared. Chris Cascaes knew he’d eventually hear from his old friend, but it would most likely take some time. Mack was “headed south to buy a boat.” Whether that meant the Florida Keys, Mexico, or the Caribbean, Cascaes had no idea. Wherever it was, it would be some place quiet with a well-stocked bar. His days in the Company were over, and he’d be missed.
Julia and Cascaes continued their romance after they returned home, but as much as they were in love, they knew their relationship was doomed if things remained as they were. Julia had been CIA and was used to a “quieter” type of operational reality. Cascaes was a SEAL Team leader turned black ops leader and would be traveling with his men in continued combat capacities. There was no way a romance between the two of them could continue if they worked together in the field, and it didn’t look much more promising if they worked separately. Neither of them spoke about it much. Instead, they tried to enjoy perfect days together and ignored the elephant in the room. When it finally came up between them, Cascaes paid Dex a visit.
Dex was seated at his oversized desk behind two computer monitors, with three televisions running silently on the far wall. Fox, CNN, and Al Jazeera news all had crawls running beneath their latest stories. He was reading a briefing when Cascaes was led into the office.
Dex stood up and greeted Chris Cascaes with a firm handshake followed by a big hug. The two of them sat down in chairs near a coffee table.
“Coffee?” asked Dex.
“You buying?”
“Of course.” Dex poured two black coffees that were strong enough to wake up a corpse. They each took a sip and settled back into their chairs, waiting for one of them to start. They hadn’t seen each other since the last funeral and had spoken only briefly when Chris had asked Dex for a meeting.
“Thanks for meeting with me, Dex. I know you’re swamped. Listen—there’s no easy way for me to say it other than to just spit it out. I’m done, boss.”
Dex scowled. Although not shocked, it made him sick to hear it. “Chris—I get it. You’re burnt out. I’ve had you all over the globe. The last mission was too costly. It gets personal, I understand. But you have to understand my position. Mack is out. One of my top operators for decades—gone. If I lose you now, it really jams me up. How about you just take some time off? As much as you need. A leave of absence. Call it whatever you want. Just take some time—but don’t quit. Not now.”
“It’s complicated, Dex. I need to fill you in . . .”
“On you and Julia? Shit, Chris. I’m CIA. You don’t think I know?”
Chris half-smiled. “Yeah. I guess you would.”
Dex leaned forward on his knees, closer to Chris. “Look, Chris—we both know field agents can’t have romances for a million reasons. We also know it happens all the time. We’ll figure something out. We’ll find a work-around. But I can’t have you just quit. Wait—Julia? Is she quitting, too?”
Chris made a grimace. “Sorry, boss. We’ve got something really nice. First time for me, ever. I don’t want . . . we don’t want, to screw it up. I’m sorry.”
“Leave of absence. With pay. As long as you need. Check in with me in one month. I won’t call, I promise. One month. Julia doesn’t need to come in—you just tell her. Then we’ll talk again, okay?”
Chris let out a long, slow sigh. “Dex, I really can’t see changing my mind.”
“One month with pay for both of you. That’s decent money. We owe you that much anyway. If you walk, you keep the money, no harm, no foul. Meeting’s over. We talk in a month.” Dex stood up. The men shook hands and stared at each other for a second, then Chris turned and left.
“I’ll call you in a month—from someplace sunny.”
“You going to tell the team?”
Cascaes sighed again and stared at the ceiling. “I’ll call you from someplace sunny—after I tell my guys.”
CHAPTER 3
Syrian Desert
Twice during the night, Hussam, whose real name was Apo Yessayan—an American of Armenian decent by way of Lebanon—tried to casually move around toward the back of the box truck. The other guards were awake and eyed him suspiciously. Qassim had said no one was to look in the back, period. Apo finally gave up at 0400 and grabbed two hours of sleep. He would have a few big days ahead of him, or they might be his last on this Earth.
At first light, the door to the farmhouse opened and the smell of coffee and bread greeted the tired, cold guards. The men inside went back to their trucks, never exchanging greetings with the guards. They climbed in and started the engines, but remained where they were.
Apo and the others went inside and ate a quick meal of bread and local yogurt. Qassim spoke once they had finished their meal in silence.
“You will escort them west to Aleppo. There are many fighters there, but it isn’t safe from planes or Assad’s troops. In Aleppo, you will receive additional instructions. The truck and those men are your responsibility. Keep them safe. You will make one stop in Maskanah on the way to pick up an additional escort. They’ll be expecting you at the checkpoint outside the city. Keep this with you.” He handed Adnan, his second in command, an envelope. “These are your credentials if you are stopped anywhere along the way.”
Adnan shoved the papers into his bag and walked outside to the trucks, followed by the other three. He looked at Apo. “You drive with me. You two take the other truck.”
Apo climbed up into the driver’s seat and Adnan sat in the passenger seat of the Toyota pickup truck. The other two men took the older version of the same truck. Qassim waved goodbye and returned to the farmhouse to make satellite phone calls as the small convoy rolled out to the roads that led to Maskanah.
Maskanah was approximately seventy kilometers to the west through the arid plains. There were many small farms along the way, but the larger, more lucrative farming was around the town of Maskanah. That town, now with a population of almost fifteen thousand, had managed to survive ISIS occupation by supplying its fighters with locally grown produce and paying their “taxes” on time to the local ISIS warlord
s.
Apo was in the lead vehicle, taking driving directions from Adnan. For the first forty minutes of the drive, the only speaking was Adnan giving occasional directions. As the sun rose, the trucks picked up their pace with the better light. The road was narrow and windy, through rocky terrain. It was mostly brown in every direction, and they settled into their bumpy ride.
“You seemed extremely curious last night,” said Adnan, out of left field.
“How do you mean?” asked Apo.
“You looked like someone who was going to look inside the truck, if I wasn’t there watching.”
“No, sir. I was merely keeping watch. Qassim was very specific about not looking. I was just guarding as instructed.”
Adnan looked at him with a scowl. “Curiosity will get you killed, brother. Remember that.”
Apo said nothing.
They drove for another twenty minutes in silence until they reached the checkpoint outside Maskanah. Numerous black flags bearing the ISIS symbol in white calligraphy flapped in the breeze at the checkpoint. In a large show of force, sandbags had been piled around machine gun installations, and forty ISIS fighters walked about with their AK-47s at the ready. Several guards approached the truck, and Apo and Adnan got out of the vehicle. Adnan pulled his papers out of his bag and handed them to the guard, who barked orders at the other men. He pointed to a building further down the road.
They climbed back inside the truck and drove to a large farm storage building where all of the men got out of the trucks, except those guarding the box truck. The group of them followed Adnan inside to where several more ISIS fighters in black fatigues sat around on broken furniture.
Adnan handed the leader of the group his papers. The man smiled. “Adnan, you will be taking brides to our brothers in Aleppo. It’s good for their fighting spirit. You can get married here if you want, before you go.”
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