First Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 1)

by Jack Patterson

  Blunt rolled his eyes. “They probably found a few kids on the mountainside and killed them and staged their bodies there for a nice propaganda photo opp.”

  “Regardless, you know you’re going to catch a lot of flack for this.”

  “I’ll happily catch any amount of flack from anyone as long as the end result is weeding out these terrorists.”

  “But isn’t that what Brady Hawk is for, to make sure these things don’t have to happen?”

  Blunt glared at him. “Brady Hawk is for whatever I want him to do. He knew what he was getting himself into. He’ll be fine. And if he isn’t—well, that’s just part of the job.” He paused. “By the way, why haven’t we heard from him yet?”

  CHAPTER 10

  ALEX NEEDED SOMETHING STRONGER than breakfast comfort food from The Golden Egg—something much stronger. She hadn’t spoken with Hawk since he went dark in the Zagros Mountains. And she couldn’t get Blunt to answer her calls after she received a message from a former colleague that some drones targeted a location in western Iraq. She didn’t really need confirmation. After working with Blunt for just a short while, she knew he’d bombed those coordinates she’d given him as sure as she was alive. And she hated herself for ever passing them along—even if it was her job.

  But at that moment, her primary concern was finding out who Gordon Jefferson was.

  She called one of her former colleagues from the CIA to find out if she could help her out.

  “I’m not seeing anything in our database on a Gordon Jefferson that would fit the profile of the guy you described,” said Mallory Kauffman.

  Alex took a deep breath. “Are you sure? I saw his ID.”

  A moment of silence.

  “You still there, Mallory?”

  Another long pause. “I am, and you’re not going to believe what I just found.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Apparently, Gordon Jefferson is a legend for an FBI agent named Joel Cochran. Jefferson was involved in an undercover sting to nail an arms dealer from Kazakhstan.”

  “So, what was he doing talking to me?”

  “Beats me. Maybe he knows something—just wanted to see the innocent people out of the way before the FBI swoops in.”

  “Why would they try to bust Blunt and his special task force? It’s the best thing we’ve got going right now in the way of combatting terrorism.”

  “I still don’t have an answer for you.”

  Alex listened as Mallory typed furiously on her keyboard. “Are you finding anything else?”

  “Nope. Nothing useful anyway. Just a list of Cochran’s exemplary service for the FBI.”

  “And I kicked the crap out of him.”

  “Alex, you can’t beat yourself up for that. You didn’t know. I would’ve done the same thing if some guy approached me like that in a parking garage. In fact, I probably would’ve done something far worse.”

  “I didn’t have my gun on me.”

  “I wouldn’t have needed a gun.”

  Alex forced a chuckle before turning serious again. “So, you’re sure there’s nothing going on that I should know about?”

  “I haven’t heard any chatter about this anywhere. It’s mind boggling, to be honest.”

  “Okay, thanks. Just send me Cochran’s contact information so I can pay him a little visit. I need some answers—fast.”

  Alex hung up and meandered down the sidewalk until she came to her favorite bar, The Luxe. No matter the time of day or night, the place was full of interesting characters. She could mull her fate in relative peace while she observed the odd couples filling the booth benches. The bartender’s mirror was a vital tool in espionage.

  With all that was going on, she didn’t want anyone watching her or following her. She wanted to be the one doing the watching, the one in charge of any surveillance. And whoever Gordon Jefferson—or Joel Cochran—was, she was going to find out.

  Her phone buzzed with a text message from Mallory. It detailed Joel Cochran’s address.

  She looked at her screen and smiled.

  I’m going to have to pay someone a visit—on my terms.

  CHAPTER 11

  HAWK DIDN’T NEED TO WATCH the dramatic explosions behind him to know what was going on. Alex had passed along the coordinates he gave her, and Blunt had lit up the mountainside. It’d be several days before they could confirm any deaths, though Hawk doubted Fazil was dead. Terrorists were worse than weeds, somehow finding a way to thrive in the most adverse conditions.

  He scrambled down the hill and jumped on Kejal’s motorcycle.

  “What are you doing?” Kejal screamed.

  Hawk didn’t turn around then either. There was no point in even acknowledging a man who’d been his fellow goat herder just moments before. Not a chance in hell he’d be back in this part of the world, no matter how much Blunt might have begged. The area was scorched earth, thanks to the senator’s strategy for dealing with terrorism.

  Everything Blunt had done stood in stark contrast to the very reason Firestorm was created. Hawk was supposed to eliminate such blanket bombing, secretly making terrorists vanish while creating a safe environment for the rest of the world. And it’d worked great.

  But Blunt took the first opportunity he got to go after a terrorist without Hawk, strafing a mountainside with his top asset nearby at an undisclosed location. It was reckless and brazen. Perhaps it was what the U.S. needed to win the war on terror, while losing it at the same time. Drone incidents were the reason Blunt offered for starting Firestorm. Since then, Blunt had created his own, all because he could. It sickened him.

  Hawk tore down the hillside on Kejal’s dirt bike and didn’t look back. If one member of Al Hasib escaped and identified Hawk, his journey back to civilization would already be more treacherous than it stood to be. As long as Kejal didn’t nurse a grudge, Hawk would be fine—that and the two grand he planned to leave with the bike would hopefully be enough to guarantee Kejal’s silence.

  Hawk didn’t stop until he hit Rawanduz. He hid the bike and let Jaziri know its whereabouts. Next, he connected with a former Navy Seal colleague who was working in private security there. Hawk abided by some steadfast principles in his operations, chief among them the idea that you never enter a situation without an escape hatch. Carl Delgado was his escape hatch, the man who could make Hawk disappear if the situation necessitated it. He trained with Delgado, who didn’t stay long with the Seals either, but for other reasons.

  The next morning Hawk was part of a convoy headed for Kirkuk for supplies, riding shotgun with one his former colleagues.

  “How’s the good life?” Hawk asked after they cleared the first checkpoint.

  Delgado gazed out the window as if he were deep in thought. “You call living in this dust pit where my life is constantly in danger and I’m far away from my friends and family the good life? This is more like the gates of hell.”

  “I thought the money was good.”

  “Can’t spend it on anything out here. We have to smuggle in good booze. It’s not like I’m buying a house on a golf course here either. The sooner I can get out of here, the better.”

  “So, what’s keeping you?”

  “Hawk, I know you probably don’t know about this, but sometimes people make, well, for lack of a better term, rash decisions—decisions they come to regret.”

  Hawk laughed. “Sarcasm is an art for you, isn’t it?”

  Delgado cracked a faint smile and continued. “Let’s just say I’ve made my share of regrettable decisions. And unfortunately, I have to pay for some of them.”

  “Gambling?”

  Delgado nodded. “I can barely afford to gamble these days—don’t think I would if I could. I’ve learned my lesson, but it’s why I’m still here.”

  Their truck rumbled along as the tire kicked stray rocks up into the wheel well, creating a cacophony in concert with the hum of the large engine and the whine of the tires on the cracked pavement.

  “So, h
ow much longer before you’ve paid off all your debts?”

  “Not much longer. I should be home within a few months, provided I get paid on time.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Only when some blood thirsty general decides to bomb a mountainside, forgetting that there’s a major pipeline flowing through it. If the oil doesn’t flow, the money doesn’t either.”

  “You’ve gotta believe me when I say that wasn’t the plan, and I had no knowledge that was going to happen.”

  Delgado slapped Hawk in the chest playfully. “Don’t worry. I don’t blame you. It’s those nimrods in Washington who shoulder all the blame. There are just some things…” His words trailed off as he peered down the road.

  Hawk strained to see what Delgado was looking at. “What is it?”

  “Looks like an impromptu road block.”

  “Think they’re looking for me?”

  Delgado shook his head. “Just relax and let me handle this.”

  The truck came to a stop and a gunman walked up to the driver’s side window. Delgado started yelling at the man before climbing out of the truck and confronting him on the ground.

  Hawk grew more uneasy the longer the spat continued. One of the other guards eyed him for a few moments before walking over to another guard and whispering in his ear as they both glared at Hawk. Meanwhile, Delgado’s animated conversation with the gunman persisted.

  “What’s going on?” Hawk asked.

  Delgado waved Hawk off without even a glance.

  He watched in awe as their conversation turned amicable before the man handed Delgado a stack of cash. Delgado climbed back into the cab of the truck and fired up the engine.

  “What was that all about?” Hawk asked.

  Delgado smiled. “Looks like I won’t be here much longer.” He thumbed the edge of the bills. He then turned his gaze toward Hawk. “But you will.”

  Delgado pulled his gun and trained it on Hawk. “Keep your hands in the air.”

  Hawk realized what he’d just witnessed—a transaction for him.

  “How could you?”

  Delgado sneered. “Not all of us have Daddy to fall back on and bail us out when we make mistakes. Sometimes you have to be resourceful.”

  “Or a coward and a back-stabbing fool.”

  Hawk held his hands in the air in a posture of surrender. “You really think those fools are going to let you out of here.”

  Delgado shook the money with his free hand. “I’m bettin’ on it. Now get out of the truck.”

  Hawk looked out of his window and saw three gunmen had gathered nearby and were waiting for him.

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Good luck, Hawk.”

  Hawk climbed out and slammed the door behind him. Delgado gave Hawk a mocking wave as he rumbled forward along the road. He choked on the dust kicked up by the truck and offered his hands to the men who surrounded him.

  Nobody said a word as one of the men zip-tied Hawk’s hands behind his back and led him to a jeep a few meters away. Hawk used his elbows on the side of the vehicle to steady himself as he stepped up and inside.

  In the back seat, a man settled next to Hawk and aimed his gun at him. He then gestured toward a black box behind them.

  “Your father makes great weapons,” the man said as he eyed Hawk.

  Hawk glanced at the name—Colton Industries—emblazoned on the side of the box. He looked back at the man, who was grinning. It was the last thing Hawk saw before they blindfolded him.

  The jeep lurched forward as it started to move, spinning around quickly and returning toward Rawanduz.

  “Karif Fazil will be most pleased to see you,” the man said.

  CHAPTER 12

  BLUNT OPENED THE WASHINGTON POST and reveled in the headline that the drone strike had been a success. Twelve members of Al Hasib were dead. Score one for the good guys in the war on terror. It wasn’t quite the good news that he wanted though. Karif Fazil somehow managed to avoid getting killed, not to mention Al Hasib’s chief bomb maker survived as well. And children were allegedly killed in the attack. Then there was the matter of a missing Brady Hawk.

  It had been more than twenty-four hours since Hawk had last checked in with Alex—longer than that since he’d heard personally from his top asset. When he hired Hawk, there was a risk that he’d go rogue and vanish. If Hawk was ticked over how Blunt handled the Al Hasib complex, he could be upset. Upset enough to disappear? Blunt wasn’t sure. But he was sure that of all the special agents he’d ever worked with, Hawk had the best chance at going off the grid and never being heard from again.

  He kicked his feet up on his desk and leaned back, pondering how he would handle the slew of imminent conflicts that would inevitably arise later that day. He had agreed to a meeting with the reporter Madeline Meissner and would follow that up with a budget committee meeting led by Guy Hirschbeck. His evening would conclude at Nationals Park where he’d watch his beloved Houston Astros get pummeled by the hometown team while meeting with oil industry lobbyists who always wanted more than they were worth politically—or even financially.

  Preston knocked on the door and slipped inside after Blunt’s acknowledgement.

  “Sir, I’m sure if you’ve looked at your schedule, you know by now that this is a big day for you,” Preston said, sliding a folder across the desk.

  “Just another day on the Hill,” Blunt said as he picked up the folder and opened it.

  “I’m afraid it’s much more than that.”

  Blunt’s eyebrows shot upward. “Oh?”

  “One of my contacts at The Post told me last night that Meissner has what she needs to take down Firestorm.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. Besides, I have the support of the government and a couple centuries of U.S. foreign policy on my side.”

  Preston held up his index finger. “I’m afraid that’s not how she sees it, and it might not be how the American people see it.”

  “I don’t care how the American people see it. They have no clue what it takes to keep them safe. I’m one of the few people with the stomach to do what needs to be done. That’s why they elected me in the first place.”

  “To help keep them safe?”

  “That and help keep their wallets fat enough that they don’t notice what else is going on in the world. If they’re paying attention to the Kardashians and not global issues, they’ll be happy and keep electing me.”

  “Meanwhile, you get richer and more powerful.”

  Blunt put the folder down and glared at Preston. “Just whose side are you on anyway?”

  “Just stating the obvious.”

  “Exactly. There’s never a need to state the obvious. Now get outta here so I can get prepared for this pesky little reporter.”

  “Very well, sir,” Preston said before exiting the room.

  ***

  AT HALF PAST TEN, Madeline Meissner was introduced formally to Blunt before he offered her a seat in the small sitting area in the corner of his office.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee, Maddie?” Blunt asked. “It is okay if I call you Maddie, isn’t it?”

  “Miss Meissner will suffice, Senator,” she shot back. “And, no, I don’t need any more coffee this morning.”

  “Fair enough,” Blunt said as he interlocked his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “So, I’m assuming you want to continue our brief conversation after my speech the other day.”

  “You’d be correct about that. However, I have a few other things I’d like to cover first.”

  Blunt shrugged. “Go ahead. It’s your show, Maddie.”

  She sneered at him before looking down at her notes and studying them for a moment. “How effective do you feel the American foreign policy is working in these countries that are harboring terrorists?”

  “Our policy has always been to defend American interests, whether at home or on foreign soil. Working in concert with those governments, we’ve been able to achieve grea
t strides in rooting out the terrorists.”

  “Now, the drone program has undergone a tremendous amount of scrutiny recently, especially in the wake of the latest strike that killed young children and—”

  “You know good and well those bodies were planted there,” Blunt snapped. “We’re very strategic in those strikes as we’ve drastically reduced them in recent years. It doesn’t take a trained forensic analyst to look at those kids from the pictures Al Hasib disseminated to realize that those kids weren’t killed by a missile strike. They were shot, point blank. And most likely by Al Hasib operatives.”

  “Can you confirm that?”

  “I can’t comment on specific offensives.”

  “But isn’t that what you just did? It’s no secret that your secret program was involved if you have this much intimate knowledge about that attack in the Zagros Mountains.”

  “I’m not sure where you’re getting your information from, but it’s severely flawed,” he said. “You best be careful what you print for fear that it boomerangs back on you.”

  “You mean like it did with Nancy Goetter?”

  “The journalist who committed suicide by stepping into the path of a moving bus a few weeks ago?”

  “She didn’t commit suicide. She was pushed.”

  Blunt shook his head and sighed. “What did nearby security cameras show?”

  “Only one had the corner view—and the video somehow vanished, recorded over by someone.”

  “Happens every day, especially when businesses have to find ways to cut spending with shrinking budgets. This isn’t some vast conspiracy, no matter how much you allege it to be.”

  “You saying it isn’t, doesn’t make it true.”

  Enraged, Blunt stood and snatched Meissner’s phone off the table in front of her, turning off the recording feature. He slammed it down on the table and glared at her, leaning in close. “Now, I don’t know who you think you are, Miss Meissner, but you listen to me and you listen close. You are dabbling in things of which you truly know nothing about. And if you continue to do this, you’re putting the security of this country at stake—and I won’t allow that to happen.”