First Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 1)

by Jack Patterson

  Hawk put his finger to his lips. “Ssshhh.”

  “Seems like you have a—” Moradi gasped for a breath “—problem.”

  Hawk glanced over to see Moradi holding out his wrists after watching Hawk use the last shred of rope to bind the guards. Hawk eyed Moradi closely while he stood. “I prefer to call them challenges, and you won’t like how I’ve solved this one.” He rushed toward Moradi and grabbed him from behind, placing him in a sleeper hold.

  “I don’t work with terrorists,” Hawk said before Moradi’s body finally went limp.

  Moradi wouldn’t be out more than five minutes, but Hawk figured if he couldn’t escape Moradi’s compound during that time, it wouldn’t matter anyway because Hawk would probably be dead.

  Hawk turned his attention to his next challenge—getting through the window that was three meters off the ground. It measured about a meter square, providing plenty of room for him to wriggle through the pane that appeared to slide upward. Hawk grabbed a crate from the corner of the room and stepped on it as he opened the window.

  In the central court of the compound, a flurry of activity took place. Several guards hustled back and forth between two trucks with covered beds, transferring wooden crates. In the far corner, two guards roamed in front of a chain link fence that looked like the main entrance in and out of the grounds. He looked in the other direction and saw a lone guard roaming around the perimeter of presumably the back wall.

  Hawk surveyed the situation for a minute until he saw his opportunity. One of the guards called several of the men over to look at a magazine. Hawk couldn’t quite make out what magazine it was, but he could see that there was a scantily-clad woman on the front. The men smiled and pointed, laughing as they leered at the pictures inside. One of the guards snatched the magazine and then turned it sideways, much to the delight of the other men. With everyone distracted by the magazine, and the transfer activity completed, Hawk slithered through the window and down to the ground. Keeping low, he hustled about ten meters toward the truck and jumped inside. He tucked himself behind a row of wooden crates and waited.

  Less than a few minutes later, the truck roared to life and started to rumble along a dirt road laden with pot holes. After two minutes, the truck moved onto a main road, barreling to some destination. Hawk pried open one of the crates with Moradi’s knife and sifted through the contents—a slew of unarmed IEDs.

  Without hesitating, Hawk cut wire after wire on both ends of the connections, rendering the IEDs useless. They could be repaired, but not without a considerable amount of work. And if he got lucky, the shipment would be to some terrorist who was bigger and badder than Moradi and take offense at an apparent attempt at deception, and they would require restitution. But Hawk wasn’t interested in sticking around to find out.

  The truck lurched forward and jerked to a stop, sending several of the crates sliding. A piece of paper still lodged beneath one of the crates caught his eye. He leaned over and picked it up.

  What’s this?

  Hawk stared, mouth agape, at the piece of paper before folding it up and shoving it in his pocket.

  A few minutes later, he recognized that they were rolling through the heart of Kirkuk. Once the truck stopped at a crowded intersection, he slipped out the back and disappeared.

  Wasting no time, he made his way to a pay phone and called Alex.

  “Hawk?” she said. “You’re alive. I thought we lost you.”

  “Lose me?” he said with a chuckle. “Never. But you won’t believe what I found.”

  CHAPTER 5

  SENATOR BLUNT LUMBERED onto the stage in the large lecture hall at the Elliott School of International Affairs. George Washington University’s reputation as one of the best foreign affairs programs in the nation was bolstered by its easy access to experts on the subject just minutes down the street. Blunt was a regular speaker in the school’s popular Middle East Policy Forum where he often debated weak-kneed politicians who wanted the country to return to a more isolationist policy.

  “What do they think? Al Hasib is going to sit down at a table over a glass of wine, sing ‘Kumbaya’, and solve the world’s problems?” Blunt once groused to Preston after eviscerating a freshman senator on stage. “And to think there were people dumb enough to actually agree with him that diplomacy will work with these nut jobs. The day these millennial snowflakes take over the country, it’s over.”

  That afternoon, Blunt took hold of the lectern, unopposed. And he was about to use his bully pulpit to reiterate what he’d been preaching for the last fifteen years—that until the rest of the world ferreted out and destroyed the Islamic radicals threatening their freedom, the rats were only going to reproduce with each generation, becoming more vicious than the previous one.

  He shuffled his papers, which were little more than a prop. Blunt didn’t need to memorize a speech or even prepare one, for that matter. Eliminating radical groups like Al Hasib was what drove him to push for Firestorm and finagle his way into the leadership role. His ranking of general in the Army qualified him as such, not to mention it made for a less complicated line of communication. Once he traded enough votes with fellow congressional leaders to secure the job, he hired an all-star staff who understood what it took to get the job done. Finding rogue agents to work on black ops missions wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be, and he knew he’d found a couple of jewels with Alex Duncan as a handler and Brady Hawk as his chief reconnaissance officer. Of course, Hawk had other pertinent skills necessary to complete other subsidiary missions.

  On the screen in the background, a stark blue background provided contrast for the bold white letters of his lecture’s title: “Why Diplomacy in the Middle East Fails”. For the next half hour, he offered his standard drumbeat—one that inspired war hawks and angered the peace doves.

  “The biggest problem we make in the West is that we assume the rulers in the Middle East want peace. They don’t. They want war, the kind that—if they win—will lead to world domination guided by a religion that is at odds with almost everything we believe,” Blunt said, pounding the lectern periodically to make an even greater emphasis. “If anything, it stands diametrically opposed to the Constitution and the principles upon which this country was founded. And if we try to appease them, we’re going to wake up one day wondering how these countries managed to find a way to bring the war to U.S. soil. And it’ll be a day where we rue the pacifist doctrines we’ve tried to implement in our foreign policy.”

  Once Blunt concluded his lecture, hands flew up around the room. He shifted his weight from one foot to the next until he decided which student he would call upon first. A young man with a beard and a tie-dyed shirt emblazoned with a peace symbol received Blunt’s permissive nod.

  “You, sir,” Blunt said. “What’s your question?”

  “Isn’t it short-sighted to think that many of the Middle Eastern countries won’t change, and by continuing these aggressive foreign policies, the U.S. government is only perpetrating your ideological stance by making generational enemies?” the young man asked.

  Blunt sighed and shook his head. “If you think the idea of world domination isn’t the end game of these leaders, you need to go back and re-read history. As soon as those countries started gaining wealth and diplomatic power, they began their assault on our freedoms. If you think it’s bad now, it’s going to get much worse—mark my word.”

  The young man stood back up. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Blunt glared at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were only looking for a terse response. So, in short, my answer is no, it’s not short-sighted, and it doesn’t perpetrate anything.”

  He held his hands up as he walked off the stage. “Sorry, that’s all the time I have for questions.”

  The professor who invited Blunt shook his hand and thanked him for coming.

  “I don’t know how you put up with a classroom full of kids who don’t know how to think critically,” Blunt sai
d. “And I thought trying to reason with Congress was a difficult task.”

  Blunt turned toward Preston, who had remained in the wings for the duration of the speech.

  “Good speech, sir,” Preston said.

  “Next time I’ll let you give it. How many times have you heard me give that speech? Ten? Twenty?”

  “I hear it every day.”

  Blunt chuckled. “I wish these little prima donnas would not only hear it but take it to heart. Perhaps if we made a video game where you could only unlock the next level if you understood a basic grasp of the reality of the world we live in—”

  “They’d only look for hacks on the Internet to get to the next level. Your best intentions would be lost on them.”

  Blunt and Preston walked toward a back exit in an effort to avoid a confrontation with one of the students. A few years before, one had tried to entrap Blunt with a question that resulted in a viral video that brought a minor embarrassment to him. Fortunately, it wasn’t during an election year, so it didn’t become an issue. But Blunt vowed to never put himself in such a vulnerable environment again.

  Before they reached the door, a young woman stepped into their path.

  “Excuse me, Senator, but I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time,” she said.

  Blunt side-stepped her as he waved at her dismissively. “Got a country to help run, ma’am. Maybe another time.”

  “So, you don’t want to comment on the secret CIA program, which is the focus of my expose later this month in The Washington Post?”

  He turned around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I would advise you to stop poking around where you don’t belong.”

  She flashed a quick smirk. “Poking around is what I do.”

  “Well, just be careful not to poke the bear.” He turned his back and continued toward the door.

  “My name is Madeline Meissner, Senator. That’s Meissner with two esses. You’ll be hearing from me again.”

  Blunt leaned over and whispered to Preston. “Take care of her, will you?”

  CHAPTER 6

  ALEX DUNCAN BARELY HEARD a word Hawk said as she exhaled, relieved that he not only was still alive, but also out of the hands of terrorists. She hammered away on her keyboard, typing out an email to Blunt with an update.

  “Alex?” A pause. “Alex? Are you listening to me?” Hawk said.

  “Still here. Just preoccupied at the moment.”

  “What can be more important than what I just told you?”

  “Well, the fact that you’re alive, and people want to know. That’s pretty damn important, if you ask me.”

  “Now I know you weren’t listening to me.”

  She sighed. “Okay. I’m listening. What is so much more important than the well-being of this program’s best-placed asset in the field?”

  “I am replaceable, you know.”

  “I doubt that. Now will you please just tell me what you were yammering on about while I was letting my boss know that you’re still alive.”

  “What I said was, ‘You won’t believe what I found’.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense, Hawk. Just out with it already.”

  “Okay, while I was riding in the back of this covered truck, I found a note from Karif Fazil.”

  “The leader of Al Hasib?”

  “The one and only. Apparently, he and Rasul Moradi had a falling out, but it had to be after this note.”

  “Wait. Back up. Rasul Moradi? Am I supposed to know who he is?”

  “He’s the small-time arms dealer that just took me hostage. Look him up. He’s not a big player in the scope of world terrorism, but he’s linked to plenty of terrorists who have blown up their share of buildings.”

  “So, how does that note help us?”

  “It lists the coordinates for where Moradi’s group is supposed to drop off weapons for Al Hasib.”

  “Okay. Give them to me so I can find out what we might be able to do with them.”

  “No drone strikes. Just promise me that.”

  “I’ll make sure I pass the word along.”

  “The last thing we need is to make more terrorists. Besides, I want to do some reconnaissance on these sites.”

  Alex took down the coordinates and forwarded them along to Blunt. Reluctantly, she added Hawk’s plea that there shouldn’t be any drone strikes, but she doubted he’d listen. If Blunt was intent on annihilating something, he would do it and apologize later. It wasn’t as if her boss took too kindly to anybody telling him what to do—not even the President.

  “Check in tomorrow,” Alex said as she typed. “I’ll have your next assignment for you.”

  “Don’t bother. I know what needs to be done. I’m going dark, and I’ll contact you when I resurface.”

  “And where are you going?”

  “To gather more intel on Al Hasib’s hideout in the mountains.”

  “I guess there’s no use in trying to persuade you to wait, is there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Blunt won’t like this.”

  “Screw him. If he wants the best intel available, I can’t sit around waiting for him to tell me what I already know I need to do. I’ve got to move now.”

  “Good luck.”

  After she hung up, she called Blunt, hoping to get some sort of assignment for Hawk so she could create the illusion that Firestorm’s top asset was a team player. Normally, she would just report him and let him twist in the wind. But Brady Hawk wasn’t just an average agent. And if truth be told, she was fond of him—more than she should’ve been as his handler. Besides, it wasn’t like she had any other men in her life that she cared to have any conversations with on a regular basis. Her boss, her landlord. Other than those authority figures—and Cookie—she didn’t really talk to many men. It was her own fault. She was suspicious of men in general, especially after witnessing her mother’s gruesome death at the hands of her father. She didn’t like to talk about it—or even think about it—but it haunted her every day. Each man she saw reminded her of him.

  Perhaps that’s why Hawk was different. She’d never even seen him in person. To her, he was just a deep smooth voice on the other end of the phone or a comlink. When she listened to Hawk speak, she felt like the world would be just fine because he’d take care of everything. It was a fantasy, devoid of a shred of reality. Hawk simply did his job and she doubted he thought twice about her, though he might if he ever saw her.

  Alex’s efforts to reach Blunt resulted in nothing more than a voicemail message. She walked into the restroom before calling it a day. With her green eyes, she stared at herself in the mirror, her brown wavy hair drifting just below her shoulders. She couldn’t deny how tired she looked as bags sagged beneath her eyes. Too many late nights and not enough sleep. But not tonight. She promised herself that she’d go to bed early, treat her body right. In the morning, she’d wake up refreshed and ready to take on the evil terrorists of the world.

  She grabbed her bag and exited the building through the stairwell. After she’d once ended up stuck in an elevator for nearly six hours, she vowed to use the stairs for the rest of her life, no matter how many flights her destination required.

  Once she reached the parking deck, she walked nonchalantly to her car. Since Firestorm was a secret program, and her office was located in a building primarily dominated by an educational non-profit, she didn’t look over her shoulder as she walked toward her car. If she had, she might have seen the man who slipped up behind her.

  In an instant, the man covered Alex’s mouth and forced her against a pillar in the parking garage.

  “Alex, I thought someone should warn you about what’s going on,” the man said. “Now promise me you won’t scream—I’m not going to hurt you.” He lifted his hand off her mouth.

  She withdrew as fast as she could, resting her head against the wall. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything other than to warn you about what you’re involved i
n.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Senator Blunt’s secret program is going to get exposed, and when it does, you’re going to want to be as far away from it as possible.”

  Alex stared him down. “Who are you?”

  He waved at her dismissively. “That’s not important right now. What is important is that you resign and get away from Firestorm. There will be repercussions for everyone involved, and I don’t think you want that.”

  “I asked you a question—who are you?” Alex growled.

  “Perhaps you’re not listening to me,” the man replied.

  But before he could say another word, Alex delivered a quick uppercut to the man’s face and then a swift kick to his stomach. Stunned, the man stumbled backward. She punched him twice in the face, the second hit knocking him out.

  She reached into the man’s pocket and fished out his wallet. “Gordon Jefferson,” she said aloud as she looked at his driver’s license. She smiled and tucked it back in his pocket as she dragged his body out of sight. “I bet you never saw that coming, did you?”

  Alex hustled toward her car and drove away. “Gordon Jefferson?” she said. “You’re going to wish you’d never messed with me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE NEXT MORNING, Hawk slipped into an alleyway and knocked on a wooden door. After a few moments, a peep hole slid open and the man on the other side—Sabo Jaziri—recognized Hawk and welcomed him inside.

  “Jaziri,” Hawk said as he kissed the man on each cheek. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “And you too,” Jaziri replied. “I see you’re doing well.”

  Hawk furrowed his brow. “What do you see that makes you think that?”