RW11 - Violence of Action

by Richard Marcinko

  The Rogue Warrior® series by Richard Marcinko and John Weisman

  Rogue Warrior

  Rogue Warrior: Red Cell

  Rogue Warrior: Green Team

  Rogue Warrior: Task Force Blue

  Rogue Warrior: Designation Gold

  Rogue Warrior: SEAL Force Alpha

  Rogue Warrior: Option Delta

  Rogue Warrior: Echo Platoon

  Rogue Warrior: Detachment Bravo

  Also by Richard Marcinko

  Leadership Secrets of the Rogue Warrior

  The Rogue Warrior’s Strategy for Success

  The Real Team

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Operational details have been altered so as not to betray current SpecWar techniques.

  Copyright © 2002 by Richard Marcinko

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN 13: 978-0-7434-4006-6

  ISBN 10: 0-7434-4006-4

  ATRIA BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  ROGUE WARRIOR is a registered trademark of Richard Marcinko

  Visit us on the Word Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  To the many heroes of September 11th

  Chapter

  1

  “There are occasions when daring and risky operations, boldly executed, can pay great dividends.”

  GENERAL MATHEW B. RIDGEWAY, Soldier, 1956

  The stranger slouched comfortably in the driver’s seat of his rented black Lexus, a new Panasonic DVD player perched in his lap. Outside, a cool mist had descended over the deserted, tree-lined street. Raindrops pattered a soothing rhythm against the car’s roof and windows. The small, yellow flames of the neighborhood’s gas streetlamps flickered weakly against the gloom. Extraordinarily expensive, they’d been selected for their graceful lines, not their usefulness. Waiting patiently, the man welcomed the inclement weather like an old friend who’d showed up unexpectedly on his doorstep. In his business, bad weather was an ally.

  He studied the DVD player’s miniature screen as the image of Samuel Beckstein appeared in a clip from a recent evening news broadcast. Like a conquering hero, Beckstein was vigorously striding down the massive flight of stairs in front of a marble-columned courthouse, coming to a halt before a jackal-like mob of reporters. The camera zoomed in on the civil rights attorney’s face as he pontificated about his latest legal victory. It had to be said, Beckstein was not a handsome man. His weary face was riddled with deep age lines and irregular patches of discolored skin, suggesting years of overexposure to the sun. A shock of longish, ill-kept, iron gray hair sprouted from his oblong skull. For an instant, his eyes, deeply set in cave-like sockets, seemed to stare directly at the man in the car. “You’re a tired old fuck, aren’t you?” the man whispered to himself. The electronic file played through a few other similar video clips and then ended.

  He checked his watch, a simple Swiss Army officer’s model on a stainless-steel band. It was time to move. He’d dressed appropriately for tonight’s occasion in a lightweight black wool suit, a black turtleneck, and hand-sewn black leather lace-up shoes with rubber soles. His powerful hands were encased in a pair of thin, black leather shooting gloves. Soft and supple as a baby’s skin. The overall effect suggested a stylish, modern-day grim reaper. Appropriate indeed.

  His right front coat pocket held a tight fitting assault mask—a black Nomex balaclava. The mask would conceal his most noticeable feature, a nasty scar running dead center across his forehead. The deep channel was the result of an unfortunate encounter with a Russian rocket-propelled grenade during the invasion of Panama.

  He shut off the DVD player, set it on the seat beside him, then slipped an S&W Model 13 .357 Magnum revolver out of the sturdy leather shoulder holster beneath his left armpit. His hand-tailored suit coat concealed the weapon perfectly. The revolver’s blued cylinder was loaded with six rounds, each a 158-grain soft lead, hollow base wadcutter seated backwards inside a shiny brass casing. He’d designed and tested the round himself. Upon contact with soft tissue or bone, it would reliably expand to roughly the size of a .70-caliber projectile. Satisfied his weapon was ready, he returned the revolver to its holster.

  There was no one in sight on the street as he slid from the cozy warmth of the Lexus. He softly closed and locked its door behind him and began the half-block walk through the damp night air to Beckstein’s home. Strolling casually along the wet sidewalk he keyed a pre-programmed number for the lawyer’s private line into his cell phone. After several rings Beckstein answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Samuel? Ed Curry here. Still okay to drop by?”

  “Ed!” exclaimed Beckstein. The lawyer’s voice assumed its nationally famous courtroom drawl. “Wonderful of you to call. Yes, yes of course. You’re close?”

  Closer than you think, cocksucker, the advancing gunman thought to himself. “Yes, Samuel. Just around the corner. Home alone?”

  “Yes,” Beckstein replied. “My bodyguard is off tonight. Fucking some sweet little bitch barely over the legal age, or so I’m told.”

  The man in black smiled. “Some guys have all the fun. See you soon.”

  “I’ll deactivate the security gate,” said Beckstein. “Come straight up to the front door and I’ll let you in.”

  “Shouldn’t be but a minute.” He didn’t wait for a response, but punched the END button on the phone and slid it back into his jacket pocket.

  Reaching the house’s outer perimeter, he took out the ominous black hood and pulled it over his head in one practiced motion. A subtle adjustment here and there ensured a seamless fit. He pushed open the wrought iron security gate just wide enough to slip past it. He stopped, listening and watching for anything unexpected. The rain was falling harder now. Big, fat drops of icy-cold water hammered against the top of the executioner’s hood and soaked into his powerful shoulders. Sensing nothing unusual, he swiftly mounted the short flight of steps leading up to a massive front door of lustrous, dark wood. As his research had indicated, the townhouse’s exquisitely restored Federal façade hadn’t been marred by anything as practical as an exterior security camera, or even a low-tech peephole in the door. Why bother to employ some muscle-bound bodyguard if you couldn’t take the most basic precautions yourself, he wondered? The asshole deserved whatever he got.

  He eased the big Magnum revolver free of its holster and rapped its heavy, 3” barrel against the door. Moments later he heard the deadlock turning from the inside. His every muscle prepared to strike.

  As soon as he felt the door opening his whole body sprang forward hard. His left hand violently pushed the door aside as he exploded into the foyer. The astonished Beckstein stumbled backwards as the inside doorknob flew from his grasp and the masked intruder exploded into his home.

  The man smashed the butt of the revolver into Beckstein’s face, crushing his nose and producing a spray of broken cartilage and rich red blood. As the lawyer’s hands instinctively flew upward to protect his now ruined nose, the gunman raised his revolver level with Beckstein’s gleaming forehead and pulled its custom-tuned trigger. No explanation, no hesitation.

  Beckstein’s face caved in as the lead wadcutter burrowed its way through his forehead and into his cranium. The soft, wide mouth of the bullet began expanding upon contact and reached an impressive .72-caliber in diameter by the time it ruptured the attorney’s brain. It proceeded to punch a mass
ive chunk of bone out of the back of his skull. Sloppy, pinkish-red gobs of pulped brain matter were sucked through the jagged hole as the lead chunk exited, landing with a satisfying splatter on the foyer’s walls and floor.

  Beckstein never knew what—or who—hit him.

  Keeping the Magnum on target, the killer watched as Beckstein’s body slumped to the floor. Then he straddled the fallen figure and fired a second bullet directly into the oozing mass of Beckstein’s face. “If you were ugly in life,” he whispered, “you’re a beautiful motherfucker in death!” Dropping all of his weight onto one knee, he delivered a massive crunch to the center of Beckstein’s chest. The sternum-shattering blow released a harsh spray of foamy red bubbles from the man’s unmoving lips. Holstering the revolver, the killer slipped a microcassette tape from his front pants pocket and placed it next to the dead man’s shattered skull.

  As he rose, the hollow chime of an antique wall clock began to toll midnight. He stepped over the dead attorney like he was stepping over a piece of rotten meat and silently padded through the foyer to a large, lavishly decorated reception room. Moving swiftly across the room’s glistening parquet floors and museum-quality Oriental rugs, he made his way to a side door that opened directly into a corner of the back garden. Slipping past a jumble of patio furniture, he located the rear gate exactly where he’d been told it would be, obscured behind a thick cascade of slippery green ivy. Once through the gate, he was in a long, narrow alleyway that allowed service people discreet access to the grand houses that lined these blocks. He slipped down the dimly lit alley keeping to the shadows, avoiding the garbage cans neatly stacked behind each house he passed. His pace was cautious but even. As he moved steadily away from the night’s killing ground he scanned his flanks and rear for anyone foolish or unlucky enough to follow him, but he was all alone.

  At the end of the long alley, he found the tan Mazda coupe that had been left for him earlier. Before opening the door and slipping into the car he checked its backseat. More than one sorry asshole had found himself mugged by an unexpected visitor with a Slim Jim and sharp knife. Satisfied, he belted himself into the driver’s seat and started the car. He fished the cell phone out of his pocket and punched a speed dial button. After three rings, his call was answered by a clipped New England accent.

  “Yes?”

  “Please inform Mr. Black that I’m on time.”

  “Of course,” replied the voice. “He’ll be pleased.” The line went dead.

  Thirty minutes later, the man in black arrived back at his downtown hotel. Going directly to the luxury suite he’d rented the day before under a false name, he called room service and ordered a Caesar salad and a porterhouse steak, bloody rare. Sipping a glass of excellent cabernet, he stepped out onto the room’s private balcony and took in the breathtaking view of the city’s monuments spread out before him. Once upon a time, the gleaming structures had actually inspired awe in him, but now he could see them only as monuments to a terrible vanity. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Raising his glass, he silently congratulated his men for the night’s success. They’d done well. It had been, as always, a team effort. Samuel Beckstein’s assassination would be the means of delivering their message to the president of the United States and then to the world.

  The doomsday clock had begun its countdown.

  Chapter

  2

  “If I appear to be always ready to reply to everything, it is because, before undertaking anything, I have meditated for a long time—I have foreseen what might happen. It is not a spirit which suddenly reveals to me what I have to say or do in a circumstance unexpected by others: it is reflection, meditation.”

  NAPOLEON (1769–1821)

  “…Twenty-three…twenty-four…twenty-five.” Fuck! With sweat flooding my eyes and my arms quivering in the throes of self-induced fatigue, I willed—more than pushed—the thick Olympic barbell and its 300 pounds of black plate steel back up onto the bench’s twin supports. Gasping for oxygen I swung myself around and sat up. Cocksucker! With a sidelong glance at my watch I saw I’d been in the Manor’s newly refurbished gym for a little over two hours. Pain coursed through my body in sharp electric jolts. I love pain. It reminds me I’m alive. If you can’t handle pain in training you’ll die from it in combat. I know. I’ve seen it happen.

  Before hitting the gym, Trace Dahlgren, Paul Kossens, and I had hauled ass on a three-mile run around my property. By the time we’d sprinted the last 200 meters I felt like I was gonna puke my guts up right then and fucking there. Jogging is for namby-pamby wimp motherfuckers. You accomplish nothing by jogging. When I run I fucking RUN! Bent over and gagging, I tried to focus on my watch face. Twenty-four fucking fast minutes through open country! Damn good for an older but no less tough Rogue Warrior and his two new teammates.

  Yes, dear reader, you heard right. My two new teammates. You see, I’d done what the Rogue does best and raised up a new generation of looters and shooters in my own image. Shit happens, and when it does he who is flexible wins.

  A little history here.

  Once upon a time, Yours Truly created from scratch the purest, most ass-kicking counterterrororist force in the world—SEAL Team SIX. I got to handpick my team from the best of the best and then put them through the most intense and ongoing training in war fighting I could beg, borrow, or steal for them. When I began recruiting shooters for SEAL Team SIX I knew exactly what kind of operator I was looking for. I didn’t give a rat’s ass in Hell what someone had accomplished in his career as a SEAL before he came to me. Yesterday’s successes are fond fucking memories. As soon as you start resting on your laurels, you begin cutting corners and taking shortcuts. You get fat. You get lazy. You want to play it safe. In my business—the business of killing people—the oxygen thieves, corner cutters, shortcut takers, and professional safety experts are the ones who will get you killed. If you’re dead you can’t accomplish your mission. And if the mission isn’t accomplished you have fucking failed!

  I chose men for SIX who weren’t satisfied with yesterday’s accomplishments. Operators who weren’t afraid to risk everything they had for the greater good. SEALs who weren’t afraid to try, come up short, try again, come up short, try again, and keep on trying until they got it right. Shooters who were willing to die if necessary rather than come in second place.

  And I required men who were loyal. Not loyal to an abstract theory or philosophy, or to a faceless, soulless institution. I needed men who would jump out of airplanes from five miles above the earth scared to death—but more scared not to. Who would dive to depths the Navy’s dive tables say are verboten. Who would be willing to kick in a door or board a ship knowing their next step would probably bring a hail of gunfire their way. Such men don’t follow theories, philosophies, or cardboard commanders. They follow leaders. And I am a leader, the Wrathful God of War and Combat. My men knew they’d never find me behind them. They knew it was their job to keep up with me. And you can only keep up with someone when he’s out front running point, taking fire, kicking ass, and collecting enemy dog tags.

  After giving painful birth to SIX, I went on to build and lead another team named Red Cell. My mission there was to evaluate Navy security around the world, finding weak spots that terrorists might exploit. To do this I mustered the best and brightest fence jumpers, lock pickers, electronic wizards, and shooters possible. Red Cell was so successful at finding problems with Navy security that the Navy killed it, then turned its sights on me. It took them 60 million of your tax dollars to railroad me into a federal playpen for a year’s worth of self-evaluation, color TV, and weight lifting. If they thought pumping iron every day at Club Fed was going to break me, turn me into some soft, apologetic former Navy SEAL officer who’d toe the company line, they were wrong as fucking rain.

  Which brings us up to the here and now.

  I still lead from the front. Times (and teams) change. I’ve taken my licks and my losses. Sure, there’s been pain but it’s the pain that
drives me. My enemies—both foreign and domestic—haven’t rolled over and quit. Therefore, neither have I. The threat to your and my country is greater and more cunning than ever. This is no time and no place for spit-shined boots and fat stock portfolios, for old war game vets and their field training exercises where predetermined winners always wear white hats. No, this is the era of the Rogue Warrior. It’s a time for guys and gals who love to kick ass and take names to get busy. My new team and I don’t come bearing bouquets of pink roses. We come bearing black rubber body bags. One size fits all.

  Who’s the solution? I am! Me—and those I’ve molded into mirror images of my Rogue Warrior self—are good for what ails this embattled world. As long as the future holds the potential for natural disasters, political collapse, social disruption and violence without end, it also means I’ve got fucking job security! Through judicious reasoning, careful planning, thorough preparation, and aimed fire, your world and mine is going to be a safer, saner place to live and raise our kids.

  I cannot fail. I will not fail. They will not beat me. They will have to kill me to stop me. Thus saith the original 24K Rogue Warrior. But you know this already good and faithful reader. So who the fuck are Trace Dahlgren and Paul Kossens? Lemme tell you…

  Trace joined the military after graduating from college in New Mexico. She killed her first man at the age of thirteen, when she found a drunken uncle in the process of raping her seven-year-old sister. No charges were filed. Indeed, the reservation police quietly and deeply buried both the rapist and the report to avoid public and governmental attention. Ms. Dahlgren inherited her toughness of spirit from her mother, a full-blooded Chihuahua Apache. At fifteen, Trace convinced one of her tribe’s “Old Ones” to teach her the ways of the Apache warrior. She learned how to fight with blade, spear, revolver, rifle, rope, and stones. At the conclusion of her training she traveled the ancient trails with the Old One and went on to learn the Art of the Apache Mystic.