by Tom Abrahams
“I don’t understand.” Matti shook her head. “Where’s the mutual benefit?”
“You and Brandon have already faced the dragon and won.” Kurk crossed one leg over the other and adjusted his tie as he leaned back in the chair. “We believe you could do it again. And again.”
Matti stiffened. “I don’t—”
“Listen, Matti,” Brandon interrupted her, his hand on her knee. “Let him finish.”
“You’re not safe, Matilda Harrold,” Kurk said. “Flat out. Not safe. Neither is Brandon here, despite his tactical military skill. You’re both targets. You can’t expect to live long lives, even with the help of these rent-a-cops.”
The security guard scowled at the characterization but said nothing. He cleared his throat and cracked his neck sideways.
“We can provide you with new identities,” Kurk offered. “Both of you. You’d start new lives working for us, working for the benefit of a free world. You and Brandon might go two or three years without hearing from us. Then, when the right job comes along, we’ll put you in play.”
“So we say goodbye to our old lives?” she asked, the flames from the pit reflecting in the tears welling in her eyes. “That’s it. No more Matti? No more Brandon?”
“Correct.”
“What about my father?”
“We’d afford you an opportunity to say goodbye.”
“Brandon?” Matti reached for his hand and squeezed it.
“I’m in only if you are,” he said, rubbing her knee. “If you say no, I say no.”
Matti bit her lower lip, considering the lose-lose scenario. Either way, her life wasn’t hers anymore. She looked over at Holt. He appeared unfazed by the revelation of this secret global security force and the idea that a dark, ancient institution was bent on world dominance.
“What about you?” she asked Holt. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here because I already work for Kurk,” he said. “I’m one of his new operatives.”
“Really?” Matti chuckled. “I’m a certified genius who can break codes. Brandon is ex-Special Forces with ridiculous diplomatic experience. What do you bring to the table other than sarcasm and a salacious appetite for women?”
Holt laughed, without a hint of offense.
“Dillinger Holt,” Kurk offered, “is a world-class survivor with a penchant for gathering human intelligence. It takes all types to save the world, Ms. Harrold.”
Matti’s smirk disappeared. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine,” Holt cut in, “you didn’t say anything I wasn’t thinking when Kurk approached me.”
“I’ll give you some time to think about it,” Kurk said, standing. “I know it’s a difficult decision.”
“I don’t need any time,” Matti said. “The decision is black and white. I’m in.”
THE END
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EXCERPT FROM ALLEGIANCE: A JACKSON QUICK ADVENTURE
The sniper never missed. Never.
The job was always simple: target, breathe, pull, kill.
No emotion. No second thoughts.
This target, this place, this job, though, were different.
The mark was not some nameless insurgent or foreign ally turned enemy. He was one of the wealthiest men in the world.
The location wasn’t a frozen mountain perch on the Afghani-Pakistani border or the humid, tangled jungles of Central America. This was on US soil.
There was no payment on the other end of the bullet. This was a favor, a freebie the sniper didn’t typically grant.
All of it was irregular.
The sniper lay belly down on the roof of the George R. Brown Convention Center in downtown Houston, Texas. The crowd on the grassy area below was small. The sky was clear. The wind was slight and from the south.
It was the loud rush of traffic on Highway 59 from behind that was distracting. The sniper slipped in a pair of earbuds and pressed play on a black iPod.
AC/DC always helped clear the sniper’s mind and focus on the task ahead.
The sniper thumbed the volume up a click and took a deep breath. Eyes closed, the sniper didn’t see the figure to the left approaching with purpose.
A large man, his muscular frame was hidden by the gray ghillie suit used to disguise his presence on the convention center’s roof. His dark, polarized sunglasses hid his eyes, and his muscles flexed as he crouched low, moving to the shooter.
The sniper spun as the man approached.
“Where have you been?” whispered the shooter, pulling out the earbuds.
“Checking the escape route.” The man was the sniper’s spotter. He was the senior, more experienced member of the team. “You want coffee?” He nodded at a large stainless canister to the sniper’s left.
“Thanks.”
“You set?” The spotter inched onto his belly next to the sniper. “Crowd’s beginning to fill in.”
The sniper took a sip of the coffee without making a sound.
“That road noise sucks.” The spotter nodded his head back toward the highway behind and below them.
“That’s why I’m amping up with music. Helps me focus.”
“This I know.” The spotter smiled. The pair had been through a lot in their time together: Parachinar, Al Fashir, Benque Ceiba, Tampico. They were always in and out. They always hit their mark. They knew each other as well as they knew themselves. Hours, or days, in a snowdrift or mud hole had accelerated their personal learning curves.
“‘Shoot To Thrill’? AC/DC?”
“You know it,” the sniper said, feeling the wind shift.
“Trite.” The spotter adjusted his elbows.
Another silent sip from the cup.
The spotter rolled his eyes, reached into a gray sack, and pulled out a scope. “Okay, time to get serious. I see the car approaching.”
“Roger that.” The sniper set the coffee to the side and scanned the crowd, which now numbered at least two hundred people.
High above the target, the sniper team quietly pressed forward with their pre-shot routine, despite using a new weapon given to them for this assignment.
The M110 rifle was longer and heavier than the sniper’s weapon of choice, the thirty-six-inch, nine-pound CSASS. Still, it would do. There was, after all, no such thing as a single best sniper rifle. Any rifle in the hand of a sniper was equally effective.
The spotter put his eye to his adjustable power scope. He zoomed in to 45x and spun it back to 20x, giving him a wide field of view and the ability to trace the bullet once fired. Scanning left, he saw the target getting out of a vehicle.
“Target spotted,” he whispered above the swoosh of the traffic. “Dark suit, near intersection three. Waving hands. Smiling.”
“Roger,” answered the shooter. “Got him.” The sniper moved the rifle from right to left, following the target. “Now approaching intersection one.”
The target shook hands with a handful of men and women lining the path to the hurriedly assembled stage. He looked at the skyline to his right and extended his arms as if to embrace the city. He turned to the crowd, clapped his hands, and bounded up the steps to the lectern. Every move was choreographed.
The spotter checked his range finder. He lifted his head and looked, without aid, at the scene below them. “That intersection is 350 meters. I laze him at 351 meters. Come up to six plus four.”
“Roger that.” The sniper adjusted again. “Elevation six plus four.”
“We have right-to-left wind now. Come right 1.3 MOA.” The spotter looked at the flags blowing to either side of the target. The gusts were slight, but they’d switched from south to north.
“Roger that.” The sniper made the adjustment. “Right 1.3 MOA.”
The crowd below them was cheering. They were waving signs. The target was r
elatively still. He was in a single spot, not working the crowd as he normally did.
Through their scopes, the team saw the target remove his dark suit jacket and tug his tie. He was wearing a white shirt, making the mark increasingly visible against the reflective glass and steel of the downtown buildings behind him.
The spotter and sniper exchanged knowing looks. The two were telepathic, almost. They were ready.
“Spotter up.” The spotter shifted on his elbows. He’d done this countless times before. With each one, the moment before the shot, he felt the adrenaline course through his body. He was anxious, ready to pull the trigger himself and see the extraordinary result of his godforsaken skill. He was the eyes, not the muscle. He looked to his right at his partner’s hand on the trigger and returned to the scope.
The target had his finger to his lips, quieting the chanting crowd.
The shooter exhaled and settled in for the pull. Everything around the target blurred. Concentration was critical. One last breath before the shot.
“Aaaahhhhh,” the sniper exhaled audibly, signaling the spotter.
“Send it.” The data was good. The target was there.
At that moment, the sniper pulled the trigger, which, in turn, engaged the sear. Instantly, the sear released the firing pin, which struck the back of the bullet primer. A small, internal explosion propelled the 7.62 x 51 millimeter bullet down the barrel and into the air toward the mark.
Traveling at 2600 feet per second, the bullet tore through the flesh, muscle, and bone of the target before the sniper released the pressure on the trigger.
“One o’clock, three inches,” the sniper said softly.
“Roger that.” The spotter confirmed with the scope. “Target hit.”
The sniper chambered another round as the spotter scanned the field one last time. Both were motionless until the spotter, out of habit, picked up the brass casing to his right and dropped it into his bag. It was still hot.
By the time the target’s blood began pooling around him on the stage, the sniper and the spotter were off the roof. Within minutes they’d easily merged into the whirring traffic on Highway 59.
The M110 was in a dumpster on the rear loading dock of the convention center. It was wiped clean and dropped onto a stack of corrugated cardboard, the team making no effort to hide it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My never-ending thank yous begin with my wife, Courtney, and our children, Samantha and Luke. They are a daily source of inspiration and encouragement. They make me laugh. They make me proud. They make me a better writer with every effort.
Felicia A. Sullivan, editor-in-chief, you’re invaluable. Thanks for another killer job.
Pauline Nolet, thanks for catching the things most everyone else would miss. You’re a pro.
Hristo Kovatliev, again you’ve mastered the cover art. I’m honored to work with you.
Gina Graff, Tim Heller, Mike Harnage, Steven Konkoly, and Curt Sullivant, I appreciate your critical eyes and willingness to be brutally honest. Additional thanks to Curt for his aviation expertise and to Mike for his knowledge of weaponry. Thanks also to a source within the US Marshal’s Office for your help and to defense attorney Guy Womack for your insight into the criminal justice system.
To my parents, Sanders and Jeanne Abrahams; my sister, Penny Rogers; brother, Steven Abrahams; my in-laws, Don and Linda Eaker; thanks for your support and belief in my work.
Finally, thanks to the readers who share with me their love of the characters I create and without whom these stories wouldn’t find life.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
PART ONE: LIGHTNING BOLT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
PART TWO: ALL-SEEING EYE
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
PART THREE: ETERNAL FLAME
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
