First Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 1)

by Jack Patterson

  When he regained consciousness, he was careful not to move. He surprisingly didn’t feel any restraints on his arms or legs. It was a far better situation than he imagined. Using his auditory senses, he listened to the ambient noise in the room. His best guess was there were no more than two people watching him. If they were armed or not was simply information he couldn’t yet gather. With two people hovering about him, he had to assume that they were waiting for him to awaken.

  He heard the door open and a familiar voice speak in a language he understood. “Is he awake yet?” the man asked.

  “It won’t be much longer,” came another voice. “I’ll let you know the moment he wakes up.”

  Hawk heard the footfalls in the hallway grow fainter and fainter. After they all but disappeared, he heard the two men speaking softly to one another.

  Here goes nothin’.

  He cracked his eyelids just enough to see the room and scanned it. A small square window in the far corner provided all the light, but it was sufficient even on a cloudy day. In the corner were two men enjoying what appeared to be two cups of tea. One wore a side arm over his shoulder, while the other appeared to be a doctor of some sort with a stethoscope slung around his neck. The room contained medical equipment, including a blood pressure machine and a heart monitor. An oxygen tank sat in the corner of the room along with a machine gun.

  Perfect.

  Hawk’s eyes darted back toward the two men, who continued to converse in the corner. He slowly moved his arms to make sure he was indeed untied. But just as he was about to make his move, he decided to wait as a piece of their conversation arrested his attention. He strained to make out all the details—the words “bomb” along with “Doha” and “Ritz Carlton” were enough. It wasn’t perfect intel, but it’d suffice under the current conditions. And it was time to go.

  In one smooth motion, Hawk leaped off the table, catching both men by surprise. He grabbed the back of their heads and slammed them together, knocking the doctor out and dazing the soldier. Hawk finished him off with two swift uppercuts before snatching the man’s handgun and ripping his machine gun off his body.

  He slung the machine gun over his shoulder and grabbed the oxygen tank. Peering through the slightly opaque window pane, Hawk could see enough to recognize he was on the second floor of the building he’d scoped out while faking his seizure. Presenting another challenge was the lack of a handle to wrench the window open and climb through. He dashed over to the door and cracked it to see a pair of guards at the end of the hall. Fortunately, he’d been quiet enough to avoid drawing their attention, but their presence made drawing unnecessary attention too soon quite problematic. He weighed his options and decided his best plan of attack would be to go out through the window.

  Hawk, who borrowed the soldier’s keffiyeh, hoisted the oxygen tank over his head and smashed the window. Doing his best prairie dog impersonation, he popped his head up quickly and glanced out into the common area to see if he’d attracted much attention. One soldier looked in his direction, but he waved him off dismissively as if to say everything was fine. The soldier shrugged and walked away.

  He surveyed the area and identified an unmanned jeep with a machine gun mounted on top. The jeep was idling a few meters to his left at the base of the building.

  Hawk grinned. That’s my ride.

  He then threw the oxygen tank out of the window, heaving it in front of the jeep and toward the center of the common area. Undaunted by the small shards of glass still in the window frame that dug into his skin, Hawk slithered through the opening and jumped down toward the ground. The same guard, who didn’t seem too bothered by the broken glass a moment before, took a keen interest then and rushed toward Hawk’s position and began yelling.

  Hawk aimed his handgun at the oxygen tank and shot it, ending any dream of a stealthy getaway and replacing it with a sure-fire chaotic escape.

  A layer of white smoke hovered just off the ground, creating a frenzy among the Al Hasib soldiers. Gunshots ripped through the air. Guards screamed. Meanwhile, Hawk covered up his face and drove right through the smoke and toward the compound exit.

  The gate was only partially open, but it was more than enough for Hawk. Slamming his foot on the gas, he downshifted the jeep and barreled toward the opening. Once the two guards at the gate realized what was happening, they began shooting at Hawk. He ducked and continued to plow through the gate and down the dirt late leading to the main road.

  Bullets whizzed past him, several striking the jeep. Hawk slumped down in his seat as much as possible and continued driving. In his rearview mirror, he could see that he’d attracted two initial pursuit vehicles with more certain to follow. He took one hand off the steering wheel and reached back with the other, stretching just far enough to finger the trigger on the machine gun mounted atop his vehicle. He waited until he was clear of any possible collateral damage to other vehicles before he squeezed off a few shots, spraying the roadway behind him. The two vehicles—one jeep and another modified pickup truck—swerved back and forth but maintained their pursuit.

  As the Al Hasib soldiers continued to shoot, Hawk identified a turnoff ahead with a world of possibilities when it came to ridding himself of at least one of the vehicles. Just off the main road was a dirt road that dipped into a rocky canyon. Hawk pulled hard on the steering wheel, catching both vehicles off guard by what he saw in the rearview mirror. He zoomed down the road, creating a suffocating cloud of dust.

  Hawk ripped past several rural homes where goats and chickens roamed freely. More than a couple of men shouted at him with a raised fist. Eyeing the vehicles behind him, they managed to keep pace and peppered his jeep with an occasional round of gunfire.

  Darting up and down hills, Hawk finally saw his opportunity. Up ahead was a cliff, blocked off by a flimsy wooden barrier. With all the dust his jeep was kicking up, he played a hunch that they didn’t know about the looming dropoff. Up ahead and to the left was a craggy mountainside that would have to suffice for his jump.

  Hawk slowed down his jeep just enough to let them get close but not so close that they’d notice the sign. He then stomped on the gas and counted.

  Three … two … one …

  He threw the jeep into neutral and jumped out with about a second before the vehicle reached the barrier. Slamming into the rock face hard, he grabbed a pair of hand holds and looked over his shoulder in time to see the two vehicles soar off the cliff after his vehicle. Once they cleared the cliff, he wandered near the edge to see how far they’d fallen. All three vehicles hadn’t stopped tumbling and flipping down the steep embankment.

  Hawk let out a sigh of relief. He’d done nothing more than buy himself some time. If he thought it was challenging to get out of Rawanduz before, it was going to be a near impossible feat now—especially without a vehicle.

  He turned around and saw a boy gawking. Hawk caught himself gawking as well but not at the boy. He was staring at the kid’s motorcycle.

  “How much?” Hawk asked in his best Sorani as he pointed at the bike.

  The boy scowled, acting as if he was insulted by the suggestion.

  “How much?” Hawk asked again, wondering if the boy didn’t understand.

  “It’s not for sale,” he said.

  Hawk dug into his shoe and pulled out his emergency money. He was careful not to pull it all out. He glanced down at what he’d fished out. “Fifteen hundred U.S. dollars? Is that enough?”

  The boy’s face lit up. Hawk knew it was enough to buy three beat-up motorcycles plus put plenty of food on the boy’s family’s table for several months.

  Without delay, the boy rushed over and snatched the money from Hawk’s hands. “She’s yours,” he said.

  Hawk smiled and nodded in appreciation. He wasted no time in spinning the bike around and tearing back down the same route he’d come.

  Once he reached the main road, he headed toward town in search of a pay phone. He had to let Alex know what he’d heard about
the bomb at the Ritz Carlton in Doha. Without the benefit of knowing when it would happen, Hawk realized it was unreliable intel, but at the very least it might save a few hundred lives if due diligence was enacted at the hotel.

  After he found a pay phone, Hawk parked his bike and followed protocol. He couldn’t call Alex’s cell phone since he didn’t have a secure line. And he didn’t have one on the landline either, but his time was dwindling, and he’d have to take a chance.

  Hawk dialed her number and prayed she answered.

  Voicemail.

  “Where are you?” Hawk said. “I need to speak to you urgently. I’m alive, but there’s a code red going on. A bomb has been planted—or will be planted—at the Ritz-Carlton in Doha.”

  He resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to try later to share any other extraneous details he picked up. But how much later, he didn’t know. Not with Al Hasib agents hunting him, and him being a few hundred miles away from safety.

  Hawk stared down the street and sighed. This assignment was testing all his skills, forcing him to harken back to his training. Nothing was going to be easy.

  A man tapped him on the shoulder, and Hawk spun around.

  “Are you Brady Hawk?” the man asked.

  Hawk eyed him closely. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend. You need to come with me right now before you wind up dead on the street.”

  Hawk went against his training and followed the man, saying another short prayer under his breath.

  CHAPTER 20

  INSTEAD OF STAYING AWAKE to hear the results of the committee’s final vote, Blunt decided to go home and drink until he fell asleep or passed out—whichever came first. It made no difference to him. Just get the day over with and maybe the next. He’d enjoyed controlling everything for a few months and hoped for more, but it appeared as if all the characters in his life were about to control him—quite possibly for a long time.

  He awoke to a throbbing headache and a cold bed. For the past several years, he’d been used to both. It’s what happened when a woman walks in on her husband with his scantily clad twenty-something assistant going over more than just the next day’s schedule. Blunt managed to weather that storm with his constituents as well, calling it another way his foes tried to distract the voting public from his stellar record. While Blunt would’ve preferred to take credit for that line, Preston was the one who created such a masterful spin that Blunt won re-election by the biggest margin he’d ever had during his tenure.

  After he got out of the shower, his phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. It was the only man he’d answer the phone in the nude for.

  “Mornin’, Preston,” Blunt grumbled.

  “Good morning, indeed, sir,” Preston replied in a chipper voice. “I assume you saw the results of the committee’s vote from last night?”

  Blunt grunted. “I already have a hangover to start my day—I’m not a sadist.”

  “Then you’ll want to hear this—Firestorm is still on. In fact, they increased fifty million to two hundred million dollars.”

  “Who got the shaft?”

  “James. She had a pet project pegged at two hundred million for upstate New York for some worthless testing facility that one of the other committee members pointed out. Poof. It’s now gone forever.”

  Blunt wiped the mirror and for a moment stared at himself, mouth agape. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “Nope. And it gets even better.”

  “Better?” His voice rose another octave.

  “Yeah. A little birdie delivered an email last night to The Washington Post editor with proof of a little plagiarizing that some reporter on his staff had done.”

  “Madeline?”

  Preston chuckled. “Yep. Before her editor had an opportunity to properly investigate those claims, a few other organizations got the tip, too. And now she’s no longer employed by The Post.”

  Blunt rubbed his hands together. “Is it December 25th?”

  “Well, there’s still the little hiccup of Metro reopening the Nancy Goetter case.”

  “I trust that won’t be a problem, will it?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m already working on it.”

  “Excellent,” Blunt said. “You know, Preston, I think my headache is gone.”

  “If I could only bottle my magic and sell it to others—”

  Blunt broke into a hearty laugh. “I’m a greedy bastard, Preston, and I need all that magic for myself. You got that? Don’t be spreadin’ this around to anyone else.”

  “See you in the office, sir.”

  Blunt hung up and whistled a cheerful tune as he started getting dressed.

  With fifty million more dollars, I can have a whole company of Hawks. We’ll pound those terrorists back into the sand.

  The thought of Hawk jogged his memory that he still hadn’t heard from his top agent in the field. No doubt his decision to call in a drone attack on the Al Hasib base was not popular with Hawk. But Blunt didn’t imagine it would send him off the grid—not for so long. Three days was twice as long as he’d ever gone without hearing from Hawk.

  Blunt could handle getting chewed up by the press, but the idea that Hawk might be harboring a grudge was unbearable. Ever since Tom Colton first made a sizable donation to Blunt’s campaign, he had been going over to Colton’s house and mingling with him and his family.

  On Hawk’s tenth birthday, Blunt attended a dove shoot that Colton held for several political power brokers on his land in east Texas. Blunt brought Hawk a baseball signed by Nolan Ryan and a special playoff football signed by Emmitt Smith.

  “For me?” Hawk said as he stared slack-jawed at the gifts.

  Blunt nodded and smiled, tousling Hawk’s hair.

  “Thanks!” Hawk said as he continued to stare at his new prized possession. Then he looked up after a moment. “Can I call you Uncle J.D.?”

  Blunt swelled with pride since he and Carolyn didn’t have any kids of their own at the time and not a single nephew. “Of course you can. Call me whatever you like.”

  “I think Uncle J.D. suits you best,” the young boy said before scrambling upstairs to his bedroom.

  Though they’d had their share of run-ins over the years, Blunt was always confident that Hawk wouldn’t forget their special bond. It’s why, as happy as Blunt was over Preston’s Problems-Be-Gone Elixir, Blunt still had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right with Hawk.

  Blunt picked up his phone and called Alex, hoping that she could give him an update. As the phone rang, he remembered that she told him she’d call him the second she heard something. And she’d be uncharacteristically silent.

  When she didn’t answer, he called the man who was supposedly running Firestorm.

  “General Johnson speaking,” the man answered.

  “This is Blunt. Have you seen Alex Duncan lately?”

  “She’s been in and out lately, but she’s been here.”

  “Has she made contact yet with Hawk?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir, but you know I’m not always privy to some of the more sensitive missions you coordinate with them.”

  “I know that can be irksome sometimes, but it’s how we protect ourselves.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  Blunt sighed. “Very well. The minute you see her, would you please ask her to give me a call. I have something important I need to discuss with her.”

  “I’ll make it happen,” Johnson said before hanging up.

  Blunt sat back down on the end of his bed and rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. Firestorm had only three agents in the field, but his best one was missing. He felt his headache returning.

  CHAPTER 21

  FAZIL PEERED OVER THE CLIFF above the smoldering wreckage caused by Brady Hawk. It was disheartening enough that the American had escaped and killed several good soldiers in the process. But what angered Fazil the most was the fact that the second Al Hasib compound in a few days had been comprom
ised. He suspected they might have two hours tops before the Americans unleashed another drone attack. An immediate evacuation needed to commence—something he didn’t have time for as he prepared an attack that would demand the world’s attention.

  He kicked at the ground near the edge, sending a spray of rocks and sand into the cavern below. Frightened, Jafar fluttered in the air for a few moments before alighting back onto Fazil’s shoulder. Turning toward one of his lieutenants, Fazil snapped his fingers. “Send a team of men down there to get their bodies. They’re all heroes, and we must celebrate them as such.”

  He strode back toward his jeep and climbed into the passenger side. With all that was going on, he’d forgotten he was supposed to talk with Nasim Ghazi to ensure that everything was running smoothly. He pulled out his phone and dialed Ghazi’s number.

  “Is everything ready?” Fazil asked.

  “I’m walking to the hotel right now.”

  “Excellent. Wait for my mark.”

  He hung up and suppressed a smile. With such a big victory so close for Al Hasib, it was cause to celebrate. But he learned long ago that a triumph wasn’t so until it was.

  During the fledgling years of Al Hasib, Fazil and Ghazi were working on a plot to blow up an international boarding school in Abu Dhabi. They’d identified six high-profile public figures from the U.S. and Europe who sent their children there. And since it was far easier for them to penetrate the school’s security than it was to attack a dignitary shielded by multiple layers of protection, they opted for the plan that had a higher chance of success. Yet the mere conception of the plan would’ve been almost impossible without Ghazi’s vast array of skills.

  While Fazil positioned himself as the mastermind of the group, he conceded—only to himself—that Ghazi was the only reason Al Hasib hadn’t remained a feckless terror organization. On the surface, it seemed like a perfect match, but in truth, it was a union borne out of both happenstance and intentional plotting.