Hard Man to Kill (Dark Horse Guardian Series Book 4)

by Armstrong, Ava

  All she could think of was Ben whenever she scanned the sea; he loved it so. It was such a part of his life. She was facing west and the sun had already set. The strangest feeling crept over her that Ben was somewhere near the ocean, suffering and perspiring, nearly suffocating from the heat. Why she felt that, she couldn’t say. It was a fleeting image.

  She turned to her guests. “Okay, who wants to play a couple of hands of poker?”

  Lara broke out the card table. When she took her seat, she slid her gun into her lap as inconspicuously as possible. The poker game ensued. Don made a few mistakes leaving him wide open for Monique to clean up the table. Olivia started teasing him as they played a few more hands. Before long, tears streamed down their faces as they snorted and giggled. It felt good to lose control for a little while with people you loved and trusted.

  Even though Lara was laughing, she couldn’t shake the apprehension that lurked in the corner of her mind. She hoped that Ben was safe and sound and that the black Mustang was gone. But as she glanced at her phone, the flashing dot remained. Underneath the table she sent a text to Officer Simpson. He’d given her his phone number if anything funny happened and this fit that description. She figured the squad car would cruise by and spook the Mustang. Or, at least she hoped that’s what would happen. In the safety of her home, she was behind several reinforced doors, and locks that rivaled the security of a bank vault.

  She continued playing cards, but couldn’t stop thinking about Ben. Hunting terrorists was much more dangerous than any real-life safari. She knew the CIA only sent him after the most dangerous men, hell-bent on destroying her husband. The images that ran through her mind constantly were horrific. Although Ben wore disguises and spoke the dialect, there was always the chance he could be captured and killed. She imagined how the U.S. government would disavow even knowing who he was if he was paraded on YouTube for a beheading video. There would be no cavalry to save her husband if that situation developed. She pushed the image away and tried to focus on the game and the people in front of her.

  Don and Olivia were chuckling. Monique was, too. The poker game was a silly distraction and she allowed herself to be swept away in the craziness of it for a while longer. She couldn’t stop living, although she felt she couldn’t exhale until Ben returned. And the evil thoughts intruded at the most inconvenient times.

  “I’ve got to take the dog outside,” Lara announced. Don insisted on going with her. They stood side by side as Einstein wandered in the yard, the security lights highlighted his dark body against the white snow. Lara glanced at her phone and the flashing dot remained. “Back inside.” Lara spoke to Einstein and he trotted through the doorway with her. Although it was early, everyone was tired. Lara hugged Don and Olivia and watched as they got into Don’s truck and drove away. The red dot on her phone remained stationary as her guests drove away.

  Lara glanced at Monique in the kitchen. “Hot cocoa would be good right now.”

  “A big one, with marshmallow?” Monique asked.

  “Yes. And I have a good movie to watch, we’ll turn out the lights.” Lara started making the hot chocolate they both loved. Einstein wagged his tail. “And, a treat for you, buddy! “ Lara handed him a brand new chew toy with a squeaker and Einstein was in heaven.

  “He loves those things,” Monique observed.

  “Oh yes, he keeps chewing it until the squeaker doesn’t work.” Lara laughed.

  “He’s a lot of company for you, isn’t he?” Monique sat on the sofa.

  “He’s Ben’s dog. I feel like Ben is here with me just a little bit when I have Einstein here.” Lara confessed. She rubbed her hand over his egg-shaped bull-dog head.

  “I love dogs.” Monique said plaintively.

  “Let’s visit some breeders in the next few days. What type of dog do you want?” Lara suggested.

  “I had a Golden Retriever when I was a kid, but she died. Her name was Brandy.” Monique said.

  “Well, let’s find some Golden Retriever puppies. It would be so much fun.” Lara smiled.

  “Yes.” Monique agreed. “Let’s do it.”

  The sound outside that initially sounded like firecrackers startled Lara. She grabbed Monique, and the two women hit the floor in the kitchen as the dog cowered beneath the table.

  “Damn it.” Lara muttered. “That’s gunfire. Don’t move off this floor.”

  Lara’s phone rang and it was Officer Simpson. “Mrs. Keegan...” He paused, as though he was out of breath. “It’s me, Simpson. I’m right … outside your door.” As Lara opened the door, Officer Simpson fell forward onto the floor of her kitchen.

  “Oh God, he’s been shot!” Monique screamed.

  Lara drew her Glock in a two-handed stance and dropped to one knee, staring out into the night. She cautiously reached up to turn off the kitchen light so she wouldn't be backlit. “Monique, bring him inside!”

  Monique crawled forward on her belly. She grabbed Simpson's arm and pulled, using her legs to push off against the doorframe, giving her enough leverage to bring him further inside. Lara reached down to slide Simpson's legs out of the way just enough to close the door. Her eyes never left the darkness.

  Instinctively, Lara tried to render aid to the fallen officer. “Call 911, get an ambulance!” she said to Monique. Simpson was bleeding profusely on the floor. The shot was straight through his back. She knew it hit his heart or lungs. After a few frantic minutes the sound of Simpson’s labored breathing stopped and his eyes became lifeless. He was gone. Lara crawled to Ben’s office and watched the security screens for better detail. When she saw nothing there, she looked at her phone. The flashing dot had left the vicinity and was moving rapidly north. Bastards! They’d killed Simpson and now they were getting away.

  She called the police station, gave her name, address, Simpson's badge number, and said, “Shots fired. Officer down at my location. The shooters are at the intersection of Route 9 and Route 111 right now!”

  “Ma'am, how are you—”

  “Don’t ask me how I know, I’m tracking them. Just get them!”

  “Stay on the line.”

  Monique was crying softly as she cradled Officer Simpson’s head in her lap. Einstein was shivering under the table. Lara felt helpless and angry in the same moment. She wanted more than ever to jump into her Mercedes and track them down and kill them herself, but then realized that’s exactly what they wanted her to do. No. She had to be calculating with her next move. They needed to come to her. She began to formulate a plan.

  Lara chastised herself silently. She had been arrogant and bold, not making a formal police report. She didn’t want to tip off the bastards following her. Because of her actions, she felt responsible for the events that played out. Officer Simpson had paid the ultimate price. She was going to rectify that as best she could. She watched the red flashing dot on her phone while incredible frustration consumed her.

  Rusty was trying to call her and she toggled off the police station call to answer. “Lara, I’ve got some answers for you…can you talk?”

  “Actually, I’m on the phone with the police right now. They’re in pursuit of the Mustang. The bastards shot a young police officer though the back. He’s lying here dead in my kitchen. I’ll call you back.” Her finger shook as she picked up the police call. “They’ve turned North onto Route 111.” She gave the police an accurate account of the vehicle’s movements, hoping they could catch them.

  The police lagged far behind the Mustang. The flashing red dot was moving at a high rate of speed. The dot took a northerly route onto unpaved roads, and plunged deeper into the wooded wilderness. Then, something strange happened – the red dot disappeared. The device could have been hit with force by a flying rock or somehow detached from the Mustang. But the end result was: they got away. She felt sick to her stomach as she dialed Rusty back. “Yeah, I’m here. They got away. What do you have?”

  “Details. Aaron Brown is working for a terrorist by the name of Abdul Rahman Sha
fir. The NSA has extensive Twitter conversations between the two. It looks like this guy is part of a sleeper cell here in the states. And, here’s the really bad part: his mission is to find Ben Keegan and capture or kill him. If he can’t find Keegan, he was ordered to find his wife or another family member and hold them. Lara this isn’t good.”

  While Rusty was talking, Lara clutched her stomach, ran to the sink and vomited. The police were at the door with Monique. Several first responders arrived. Lara watched as they lovingly carried Officer Simpson’s lifeless body out to the waiting van.

  “Lara, are you there?”

  Rusty had been talking the entire time, but she felt as if she was in some surreal horror movie.

  “Yes, I’m here. I’m enraged. Why weren’t we informed of this by the feds? Oh God, Rusty…if I hadn’t called the police, that bullet in Simpson would’ve been in me.” She closed her eyes as Monique put her arm around her shoulder.

  “They’ve been stalking you, waiting for the opportunity to snatch you up.” Rusty continued. “You’ve got to get out of there. They know where you live. It’s time to take a short trip.”

  Lara took several deep breaths as she watched the police take Simpson's body away and process the scene. Her eyes narrowed, and her breathing sped up a little. She felt the rage return. The rage she felt since she was first raped. Her response to being helpless again. Whenever someone wanted to take away her choices, her freedom, her future, her first response was to lash out.

  And she wanted these men dead at her feet.

  But one thing at a time.

  “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s set them up. I want to capture them. They probably have a wealth of information.”

  “Too dangerous.” Rusty murmured. “But, they can follow your vehicle and someone in it who looks like you. I’m coming over and bringing a friend with me. Sit tight.”

  Guatemala

  ~ Ben ~

  The five terrorists Ben hunted in Guatemala were not living in any five-star resorts. Each target was in a different location, two of them had disappeared. The team would split off and lie in wait to quietly pick off bodyguards and then get each target. At least that was the plan. By daybreak, the men were sorted into pairs. Then up-armored Jeeps took them for a five hour ride on bumpy back roads.

  The Dark Horse Guardians were impossible to distinguish from the general populace. If anyone stopped them, they looked Guatemalan and were armed to the teeth. It was unlikely that they would be stopped, however, because the men had beards and dressed in old Nike shirts with body armor beneath and cargo pants. They did not look like Navy SEALs, or Americans, for that matter. With dark glasses and bandannas tied around their heads, they resembled runners in the narco trade. They would be given a wide berth if they were stopped by police. Ben already knew what to say to move the authorities off their trail, if it came to that. Each man had thousands of pesos rolled up in his backpack, and plenty of gold coins, just in case. Greasing the palm of a police officer in this part of the world was common practice, actually expected, as a tip would be to a waiter.

  During the day, they used their regular coms, commonly called Tactical Ears, miniscule devices that were invisible in the ear canal with a tiny clip inside the collar of their shirts. But at night they’d use the G’s. Constant contact was critical in coordinating each hit. Ben and Elvis were paired and riding in the Jeep heading for the rendezvous point, a decrepit inn called The Cabana on the main street of the town of El Chulupa.

  Ben had spent time there during work-ups between tours, so he had seen the place up close and personal, and none of it was pretty. Third-world poverty prevailed. The streets were crowded with open markets, donkey carts, cars, and scooters for those at the top of the food chain. It never ceased to amaze him how corruption ruled this sector of the planet. The war on drugs was called a war, but there were no battle lines drawn in this parched wilderness. Similarly, the war on terrorism wasn’t officially called a war, but the president was killing terrorists with drones and the CIA was hiring black-ops off the books to kill bad guys.

  Damn it. Why didn’t the United States know when to declare a real war? Those running the country he loved were making a mockery of it. Misusing the word war had become a joke, like The War on Drugs or The War on Women. What was taking place in Guatemala was being run the same way as the fake War on Terror. Similar to Afghanistan, it didn’t take long before he realized he was in a no man’s land where the dead piled up in silence and the living had nothing to say. Hordes of beggars and gang members roamed the area seeking food, money or young women to rape. Life was cheap. People were killed for a pair of shoes or a handful of pills.

  Ben knew that half of the problem was that wars were not formally declared on people, or organizations. The standard declaration of war was against a nation. No one had the brains to update an act of war against a group of individuals. Then again, even the concept of a massive non-governmental entity like al-Qaeda or the Islamic State wasn't around when the rules for declaring war were written. In his opinion, it was high time to formally declare war on the factions and ideologies they were up against. This wasn’t 1935, when war wasn’t declared on Fascism or Nazism, but on Italy and Germany. Changing the concept of war, updating the landscape of the battlefield to include everywhere wasn’t exactly a concept most politicians understood. And, as a result, Islamofascism continued its march unfettered, while politicians who knew nothing about the battle sat in air-conditioned rooms and worried about getting reelected more than protecting the United States.

  The other half of the problem was a distinct lack of military knowledge and balls.

  Once they reached their destination, Ben and Elvis went inside the inn and were greeted by Paco. The inn was a safe house and Paco led them to the back rooms that looked out onto an alley. A team of twelve human intel personnel had been living in the buildings facing the alley for six months. Malarial mosquitoes, fecal flies, fire ants and numerous other insects competed to set up shop on his body as he stepped outside. The HUMINT men and women worked and lived amongst the people, blending in. Their description of the place had been accurate, he could say that much.

  Paco, a young energetic man with dark brown hair spoke in a soft voice, “I’m the innkeeper and you are new tenants, on a narco errand, passing through.” Ben swept Paco with his eyes, taking in every detail about him. He appeared alert, energetic, and kind as he handed Ben and Elvis a bottle of fresh water. “Here, drink this bottled water. Everything here is foul. We’ve got plenty of beer, too.” He smiled and his white teeth looked bright against his sweaty tanned skin. He seemed to read Ben’s mind as he mopped his forehead, and batted the flies away. Paco chuckled, “You’ll get used to the heat after a few days. The flies, not so much.”

  Ben smiled back, “Hopefully, we will only be here a few days. So, tell me, what’s going on?”

  Paco recounted the latest skirmish, “Twenty-nine farm workers were decapitated and their heads were strewn across a field a few nights ago, but when I asked questions of the residents, they gave me blank looks and shrugged as if it didn’t happen. Two well-known peasant leaders were killed in separate incidents as if by ghosts. It took place in broad daylight, but no witnesses. The people of the community are reluctant to admit it even happened.”

  Paco continued, “Six Mexicans were shot in the house next door a week ago. A mystery man took away the bodies and the homeowner scrubbed the blood before police arrived. The police decided nothing happened. You need to watch your back here, man, and take plenty of extra ammo in your backpack. It’s bad – I mean really bad.”

  Ben had expected as much. El Chulupa was a sun-blistered one-street town on Guatemala’s boundary with Honduras, once in the middle of nowhere, now in the middle of Latin America’s drug war. Mexico’s drug-fuelled battle left 58,000 dead in the past four years, and continued leaving a trail of bodies in Guatemala and across much of Central America.

  Mexico’s crackdown pushed some narcos so
uth. In particular, the Zetas, a brutal band of thugs who sought to eliminate rivals and anyone who stood in the way of their business dealings, especially those who attempted to investigate their brutal murders. The Zetas were particularly brutal in that their membership roster involved a heavy presence of former Mexican soldiers. The pay was better – they had started by being paid by the narcos, and then they decided that they would make much better money if they were the narcos.

  Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador were already world renown for murder due to poverty, gangs and government corruption. Alarm bells rang in Ben’s mind. General Peter Frost, head of U.S. SOCOM, had briefed them on Central America’s gravest threat, and how the cartels were being welcomed to cross the border into the United States along with terrorists released from Gitmo.

  Come one, come all. As if the United States needed any more problems than it already had. There were times he wondered just how corrupt his own government was, especially allowing the breach of the U.S. border so willingly. Ben was painfully aware the commander-in-chief’s first responsibility was to protect and defend the United States, but he was seeing first-hand the results of ignoring that all-important duty.

  On the fly-in, Ben observed dozens of long, cut-outs in the jungle canopy: airstrips for cocaine-filled planes. The aircraft, worth a small fraction of the cargo’s street value, were often abandoned and there was an entire cemetery of them, a sort of aviation boneyard. Street children picked over the parts and sold them to anyone who would buy them. On the ground you could travel for days without seeing another soul, but when the forest gave way to pasture and bony cattle it meant a town was coming up. El Chulupa was a five-hour bumpy drive from Soto Cano. It reeked of fear.

  Paco warned him, “There are eyes and ears everywhere. Be careful who you talk with. The phones are tapped, so people speak in codes. Terror is palpable when people know they can be killed and there are no consequences.”