First Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 1)

by Jack Patterson

  She gathered up her phone and notebook, stuffing them in her bag. “Are you threatening me, Senator?”

  He cracked a faint smile. “I don’t make threats—I make promises. And you can ask my constituents. I always keep my word.”

  “And what does that mean for me?”

  “I think you can figure it out. Perhaps you could ask Nancy Goetter.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she stared him down. “I think we’re done here.”

  Blunt put his hands on his hips. “Don’t forget about what I said.”

  She slammed the door behind her.

  ***

  MEISSNER HUSTLED OUT of the senator’s office and didn’t stop until she arrived on the steps outside. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her other recording device and turned it off.

  She smiled wryly.

  Always good to a have a backup.

  CHAPTER 13

  KARIF FAZIL TOOK A DEEP BREATH and relaxed in the Al Hasib safe house located in the center of Randawuz. His conflicting emotions made it difficult for him to concentrate on the intelligence reports he’d just received from one of his officers. Rage over losing his secret high-tech compound from a drone attack mixed with pride over his foresight to create an escape hatch in case the Americans ever became so emboldened—he wanted to destroy something and celebrate at the same time.

  He set down the papers and grinned.

  What could be better than celebrating after I destroy something the Americans hold dear?

  After all, that was Fazil’s mission in a roundabout way. Ultimately, Fazil felt compelled to jihad, a term most Westerners misunderstood to mean acts of terrorism. In fact jihad was nothing more than a religious duty all Muslims had to maintain the religion. In the West, the term became synonymous with holy war, but it was far from that in reality. At least to true Muslims, it meant something different entirely.

  Jihad was what his father was doing when U.S. and British forces invaded a school and shot and killed his father. He later learned that it was a school serving as a cover for his father’s involvement with a more liberal section loosely affiliated with the Taliban. For Fazil, that only made the pain sting that much more.

  Ever since he could remember, his father always spoke about the Taliban in hushed tones, explaining that he didn’t agree with their harsh treatment of women. In their part of the world, his father was considered a liberal—even though he rarely discussed it with anyone else. Fazil once found an American magazine hidden beneath his father’s bed that was full of pictures of scantily clad women.

  When he confronted his father about it, he shrugged. “Allah didn’t make woman so we could hide them beneath a tent,” he said.

  That idea molded Fazil into the paradox that he was today—committed to the Quran, but also progressive in his thinking. How his unorthodox view of Islam manifested itself often caught others off guard, but it also drew in many young people who saw portions of their religion as antiquated and misinterpreted.

  “If God didn’t want us to enjoy women, why did he make their bodies so beautiful?” Fazil was often quoted as saying. He knew his father must’ve smiled every time he heard his son repeat more or less what he once said. It was also a popular modern interpretation, one that seemed to be gaining steam within fringe sects of the Islamic community. Fazil concluded that shunning such behavior didn’t seem to deter detestable acts such as rape and sexual abuse, so why not embrace the beautiful contours of a woman’s body beneath the coverings of bulky burkas? His position wasn’t popular with the old guard, but he wasn’t interested in a popularity contest. No, Fazil was interested in recruiting new soldiers to carry the banner into war and strike back hard at the Americans. But even more than that, he was interested in revenge.

  A knock at the door interrupted his brooding.

  “Come in,” he said as he continued to stare at the intelligence reports.

  “Nasim Ghazi is here to see you,” a man said.

  Fazil spun around in his chair and laid eyes on his chief bomb maker. He leapt to his feet and rushed over to greet his most important asset in his personal vendetta against the American government.

  “Nasim!” he shouted before throwing his arms around Ghazi.

  “Karif, my brother,” Ghazi answered, holding the embrace longer than Fazil was used to.

  “It’s time to strike back for what they did to us,” Fazil said.

  “Did they destroy it all?”

  Fazil nodded. “We haven’t been able to get back to the location to confirm it since there are American soldiers throughout the area, but we think so.”

  “Bastards! We must make them pay!”

  Fazil smiled and took a deep breath. “That’s exactly what I was counting on you saying.” He paused and winked at Ghazi. “Ready to get to work?”

  CHAPTER 14

  ALEX TOOK A DEEP BREATH and pressed the button next to Joel Cochran’s apartment number in the lobby of his modest apartment. After a few seconds, a familiar voice came through the speaker.

  “Yes?”

  “Joel Cochran?” Alex said.

  “Who is this?”

  “You paid me a visit the other night, and I want to talk.”

  A slight pause. “You’re finally ready to hear the truth?”

  She pressed the button. “I want to listen to what you have to say.”

  “Very well. Come on up.”

  Alex ascended four flights of stairs until she reached Cochran’s apartment and rapped on his door.

  The door opened just a crack, allowing her to see nothing more than an eyeball and a slither of his face. But she recognized it. For the past day, it was a face that haunted her. Even though she’d managed to subdue him, Alex didn’t like the fact that she’d been ambushed by him.

  She glanced down and noticed a gun in his hand. “Put the weapon down or I walk.”

  Cochran sighed and shrugged, appearing to shove the gun into the back of his pants. “Fine—just promise me you’ll keep a safe distance.” She nodded and he slid the chain lock open. “Come in,” he said, gesturing toward the living area as he opened the door.

  She stepped cautiously inside, the wooden floor creaking beneath her.

  “Please have a seat.” He pointed toward the couch. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks. Hopefully this won’t take too long.”

  He shrugged. “Depends on how much you want to know. I could talk for two days if you’d let me.”

  “I prefer the CliffsNotes version, please.”

  They both settled into small couches opposite each other.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I don’t have time for nuance and lengthy background. Just the facts, please.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Humor me.”

  Cochran took a deep breath and settled back into his seat. “First, I need to apologize for how I treated you the other night. It wasn’t professional, but I felt like I needed to get your attention, and obviously, you found me, like I knew you would.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t break your neck. But I’m a pro at what I do. So, go on.”

  “There’s an investigation going on regarding Blunt and his pet project, and it’s not good. Everyone affiliated with it is likely to get blackballed from working with any military group in the future.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Already happened with me, which explains why I’m working with Blunt in the first place.”

  “Well, this isn’t like getting the cold shoulder from the CIA—this is like getting thrown behind bars by the feds. What Blunt is doing is illegal, and he knows it, or at least he should. Firestorm is under strict scrutiny right now, and it’s going to get shut down. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “So, why me?”

  “Firestorm isn’t the only black ops program in town.”

  “A fact I’m very well aware of. And?”

  “W
ell, you’re someone who is savvy enough to know what’s going on here.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You have a position for me? What, as long as I do the heavy lifting and collect all the dirty laundry on Blunt and Firestorm? Is that what you’re hinting at?”

  He shrugged. “Dirty laundry or illegal activity—it makes no difference to me how you categorize it. The truth is something needs to be done to put a stop to what’s transpiring with Firestorm.”

  “Oh, now I get what’s going on. You’ve got nothing on Blunt, but somebody wants him shut down. And the only way you can do that is from someone on the inside.” She waved at him dismissively. “Well, good luck with that.”

  “I’m afraid you misunderstand, Miss Duncan. We have the ability to create—how should I say this—uncomfortable pressure points.”

  She clasped her hands together as her face tightened. “What you fail to understand is that the only reason we’re involved in Firestorm is because we have no pressure points. We’re all luckless losers and loners who can’t be intimidated or threatened. As one of my friends likes to say, ‘You can’t get my goat if I don’t have a goat to get’.” She stood. “So, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going. I can see this was a colossal waste of time, just like your pathetic attempt to intimidate me into betraying an organization full of this country’s finest to keeping Americans safe.”

  “Be careful, Miss Duncan. Not everyone in your organization should be considered part of our finest—and when Blunt goes down, you go down with him.”

  She strode toward the door before grabbing the handle and stopping. Spinning around, she stared at him. “Better think twice about approaching me again. Next time, I might not feel so generous in how I handle the situation.”

  Alex exited the apartment, slamming the door behind her. She dug into her purse and fished out her emergency burner phone. Blunt gave it to her when she first started working for him and warned her only to use it when she felt in danger. And while she felt no one was about to sneak up behind her, she certainly felt like someone might be listening, particularly someone like Joel Cochran—whoever he was.

  She waited until she reached the street to dial Blunt’s number.

  “Sir, I think we have a problem,” she said as soon as he answered.

  “Is it Hawk? Please tell me he didn’t get captured.”

  “I still haven’t heard from him, but I’m afraid it’s much worse than that.”

  “What could be worse than losing Hawk?”

  “I had a G-man attack me in the parking garage and tell me that they were watching Firestorm, and it wouldn’t be long before the program would be shut down and everyone involved would be going to prison.”

  Blunt broke into a hearty laugh. “That’ll be the day.”

  “There’s still more.”

  “Go on.”

  “I found out his name after I kicked his ass, and then I paid him a visit to find out what was really going down. The truth was whoever he was working for has nothing on us, and they were fishing for someone to feed them information.”

  “I hope you told him where to stick it.”

  “More or less—but it doesn’t change the fact that someone is coming after us.”

  “They’ll rue the day.” Blunt grunted. “Who was the guy who attacked you?”

  “Joel Cochran. Works undercover for the FBI. You ever heard of him?”

  “No, but I’ll take care of him.”

  CHAPTER 15

  HAWK SQUINTED AND TURNED his head to the side as the jeep rumbled along the dirt road. Ever since they’d turned off what sounded like a shoddy cement road, the dust had begun to choke him. He coughed, gasping for a clean breath. It was an exercise in futility.

  He felt the end of a gun barrel pressed hard into his lower back. “Don’t worry. Not much longer now,” the guard said before he broke out into laughter.

  Hawk thought about how much fun it would be to snap the man’s neck and put an end to his mocking. If Hawk had felt so inclined, he could’ve done it in the moment. But he was far more interested in learning about Fazil and Al Hasib. If they were going to drive him straight to one of their secret compounds, he was content to enjoy the ride. Ever since they’d left the scene of his betrayal, he’d been keeping track of every movement, guesstimating the distance with each turn and change in speed. Even with the blindfold, he was confident he’d be able to identify the compound where he was headed. The fact that they kept him conscious while they transported him showed either an extreme level of arrogance or naïveté. Hawk didn’t care what it was. Either way, they were going to regret it.

  In less than a half hour, they arrived at their final destination. One of the guards led Hawk out of the jeep, steadying Hawk by holding him up.

  Hawk cocked his head to one side in an attempt to get a feel for the environment. The relative lack of noise led him to believe that it wasn’t a compound bustling with activity. It was subdued, perhaps by the fact that they’d lost several comrades earlier in the day thanks to some American drones. Whatever the reason, it didn’t seem like a staging area for a high-powered terrorist organization.

  Following the lead of the guard, Hawk shuffled along in darkness. He was led inside a building before the door clanked shut behind him. The ground beneath Hawk’s feet turned from gritty sand to hard concrete. After walking through several more doors, the guard shoved Hawk into a seat in what seemed like a smaller room. Hawk’s suspicions were confirmed when the guard removed Hawk’s blindfold and exited through a door behind him.

  Hawk surveyed his surroundings, his first opportunity to glance at his environment since he arrived in the compound. Stark concrete walls enveloped him, a lone gray door behind him providing the only exit. He studied the plastic blue chair he sat in, something that reminded him of a seat from an elementary school. But this one was weathered, faded through time. How it ended up in a terrorist compound was probably an interesting story in its own right. But Hawk focused on what he could, the tangible reality facing him. If he was going to escape the compound, he needed to process everything he could—as quickly as possible.

  Without the use of his hands, there was only one option left available. He’d use it judiciously, but when the opportunity presented itself, he’d have to act fast.

  After waiting in silence for several moments, the door finally clicked open behind him. Hawk looked over his shoulder to see a man accompanied by two guards.

  “So, this is the infamous Brady Hawk?” said the man who was obviously in charge.

  Hawk was surprised at Fazil’s stature, which was much shorter than Hawk expected. At best, Fazil was five-foot, seven-inches tall. Nothing to be scared of. His wiry frame did little in the way of presenting a commanding presence. But when he spoke, it was evident that he was in charge.

  “Cut him free,” Fazil said.

  One of the guards rushed toward Hawk and slid a sharp blade through the zip tie that held his hands together.

  Hawk rubbed his wrists and took a deep breath, the first opportunity he’d had to do either since he was traded by Delgado. “Some kind of welcoming party,” Hawk said.

  Fazil smirked. “You should see what I do to my enemies.”

  “So, we’re friends?” Hawk asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Fazil snickered. “I’m not sure I’ve ever treated a friend like this, but perhaps we will be—despite the fact that your government just tried to obliterate me.”

  Hawk turned his head to one side and flashed a smile. “I’m sure it was nothing personal.”

  Fazil placed his hands behind his back and circled Hawk. “Perhaps this is all a big misunderstanding, as you Americans like to put it. But I’m not so sure.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  Fazil shrugged. “An apology? Propaganda? An opportunity to show the world that we’re stronger than we’ve been given credit for? I don’t know. There are many reasons I could give you.”

  Hawk took a deep breath and studied Fazil. His
captor had a solid command of the English language due to his extensive time in the U.S. studying at the University of California at Berkley. His eyes turned down, almost sad. And his hair carried a hint of gray to it, already betraying him in his late 20s.

  “I’m far more interested in the truth,” Hawk finally said.

  “The truth?” Fazil said, nodding. “Fine. I’ll give you the truth. We’re going to make a video of you getting your head chopped off. It’ll be fantastic propaganda for Al Hasib.” He paused. “Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Only if it’s the truth.”

  “Lies are the devil’s tools,” Fazil said.

  Hawk chuckled. “If you only knew how that sounded?”

  “What? Do you dare mock me?”

  Before Hawk could answer, he began convulsing. His body shook as he twisted and turned, leaning back in his chair and crashing onto the hard floor. Hawk could sense Fazil’s presence. If Hawk could read Fazil’s thoughts, Hawk knew it’d be something like, “Don’t die yet—I need him alive.”

  “Guards, quick!” Fazil shouted.

  Hawk continued to shake violently on the ground, twisting and turning.

  “Guards!”

  Several seconds later, two guards hoisted Hawk onto their shoulders and carried him out of the room.

  Hawk didn’t stop his charade the entire time they carried him across the compound. He needed to know what he was up against the second he subdued them and avoided capture. If he was going to survive, he needed to know everything he was up against.

  As he glanced around between convulsions, he suppressed a smile.

  Hawk liked what he saw.

  CHAPTER 16

  SENATOR BLUNT LUMBERED into the defense budget meeting and sat down at the head of the table. The room was relatively quiet other than the shuffling of papers or the clicking of thumbs hammering away text messages on cell phones. Blunt surveyed the room and took a deep breath, confident that his pet budget projects would pass.