Brady Hawk Box Set

by R. J. Patterson

  “Well, you better figure it out—and fast. As long as you’re working with me, I need all of you, not just a piece of you. I need Alex Duncan on my side one hundred percent. After all, do you really think you’re going to find a bigger fan of Bollywood movies at Searchlight than me?”

  “That’s a valid point, though I’m not sure I’ll ever get to watch them if I adhere to General Johnson’s no-contact policy.”

  “We’ll do a dead drop, like real spies. Plus, it’ll be like we’re trolling Searchlight. What could be more fun than that?”

  Alex laughed. “Okay, okay. I’ll think about it.”

  “Think about it? I just made the decision for you. If that’s not enough to keep you with Firestorm, I’m not sure anything will be.”

  “I just need more time.”

  “Alex, we’re the only special ops group fighting terrorism at its core. This isn’t some fly-by-night operation. I don’t know about you, but I’m serious about stamping out these pukes and making the world safe again for everyone, no matter where they live—or what they believe.”

  “All right. I get it. You want me.”

  “No. I need you.” Hawk paused. “Contact me on my comlink if you figure out anything else. I’m only my way to The Palace Hotel.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Alex hung up and threw her phone onto her bed. She didn’t anticipate the decision being so difficult, much less anticipate that she needed to make a decision at all. But the allure of Searchlight felt stronger than she imagined. Hawk was easy to work with, but she wasn’t sure that was enough to secure her loyalty. A good work environment was important, but half a million dollars?

  The Searchlight offer hung out there like a still piñata, waiting for her to bash it with a baseball bat. All Alex had to do was recoil and swing.

  But she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE ENTOURAGE OF VEHICLES headed for The Palace Hotel just off New Montgomery Street seemed better suited for a Colton Industries demonstration video than a Sunday drive through marginal San Francisco traffic. Tom Colton relaxed in the third of seven SUVs while he reviewed his notes. His vehicle came to a stop as traffic on Highway 101 slowed to a crawl.

  “What’s going on up there?” Colton asked the driver.

  “Nothing to worry about. Looks like a wreck and a bunch of rubberneckers.”

  Colton glanced out the window and shook his head. He didn’t really care what was happening outside the four doors of the heavily armored Escalade he rode in. But if it became a factor in why he might be tardy, he cared.

  “Are we going to be late?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry, sir. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  Colton leaned back in his seat and exhaled. On the hierarchy of things he hated, being late was just below terrorists. He detested employees who slid into their seats at a conference table even moments after it began—and he usually found a way to fire them.

  “Are you sure?” Colton asked again.

  “I’ve got you covered, sir. Just relax and get ready for your speech.”

  Colton didn’t share the driver’s confidence. Regular visits to Atlanta and Los Angeles turned him into quite the cynic when it came to on-time arrivals. Promptness was what he aspired to, but he understood the reality of metro cities’ traffic issues—and he was just as hard on himself as he was on his employees.

  However, what Colton understood as well as or better than anybody else were the needs of soldiers entrenched in battle. Whenever U.S. military brass extended him an invitation to visit with troops in the Middle East, Colton eagerly accepted. He remained an entrepreneur at heart, but he’d slowly shifted his motivation from solely a large cash grab to a profitable venture that resulted in a reduction of American casualties. After his first trip to Qatar to visit with U.S. Armed Forces, Colton was so rattled by what he heard that he nearly closed his company. In his mind, he’d all but started the paperwork to shutter Colton Industries as he prepared to step onto the military transport plane and leave the desert. But one general—a General Johnson—grabbed him by the arm and thanked him with a firm handshake.

  “It’s because of your incredible technology that we haven’t lost more men,” the general began. “Keep equipping American soldiers with cutting edge weaponry, and we’ll keep beating back these forces who threaten our freedom.”

  In an instant, Colton changed his mind about shutting down the company—and he forged a new direction for it as well. If Colton Industries was going to spend one cent on research and development, they were going to direct every last one toward weapons that could strike with precision, weapons that could be carried and operated by one man but do the work of twenty soldiers. His latest project was the culmination of years of research and testing, a prototype weapon that could turn U.S. soldiers into complete wrecking crews. And it was all using ultrasonic technology.

  The Personal Ultrasonic Blaster-47—or PUB-47 for short—was at the forefront of the latest wave in individual warfare weaponry. Around the same size as a rocket launcher but half the weight and without the additional artillery, the PUB-47 was ideal for soldiers on covert missions. The weapon’s accuracy was unmatched, and its power was twice that of any other hand-held device. While a soldier with a rocket launcher would have limited targeting capability due to the weight of the artillery, a soldier utilizing the PUB-47 could inflict far more damage as long as the power pack had time to recharge after as many as a dozen uses in a 15-minute time frame. Once his company released the PUB-47 to the U.S. military and its allies, Colton planned to construct a much larger stationary model that he surmised would make U.S. naval ships virtually impossible to stop. But first things first: Colton needed to win approval to receive funding to mass produce the prototype.

  With a private demonstration set to take place in two weeks, he looked forward to the adulation he’d likely earn for such an innovative weapon. However, his most immediate concern was going over his speech that he was sure would wow the attendees at the conference schedule for The Palace Hotel. Everything else would happen in due time—that much he was sure of.

  Colton glanced at the copy of Time magazine on the seat next to him. The headline read on the cover America’s Greatest Hope or Hoax? which was just above a picture of him posing confidently on an artillery crate.

  That smile certainly appears genuine.

  That fact alone shocked Colton since it was as forced of a grin as he could muster. He knew the Time article on him would try to paint him in a bad light since he’d taken over the reins as the liberals’ number one enemy and replaced Halliburton as the poster child of what they perceived was wrong with America. But Colton knew better. In his mind, he was everything that was right with America, using his technology to keep even those bleeding-heart types safe in their sanctuary cities as they unfurled welcome mats for terrorists of all types from every country.

  If it wasn’t for Colton Industries, you’d all be dead.

  Colton adjusted his tie and gazed out at the water. He watched the choppy waves—destined to crash onto some small strip of waterfront property—rock their way toward a date with the land. It was an exercise in futility for the salty liquid as its efforts to advance would be thwarted by the rocks and sand awaiting its arrival. For all the talk of California one day dropping off into the Pacific Ocean, the land of sun and fun held fast against a relentless assault.

  Colton could relate, more than he wished. He withstood a constant beating from the press and self-righteous commenters on social media. Despite the detractors, he pressed forward in his pursuit of protecting the country he loved. And he couldn’t wait to show off what he’d created to a group of people who could truly appreciate Colton Industries’ latest innovation.

  Skimming his notes once more, he muttered the key points to himself. He was more than ready to deliver his speech. In his mind, he could almost hear the applause.

  The limo lurched forward before jerking back as it grou
nd to a sudden halt.

  “Is everything all right up there?” Colton asked.

  No response.

  “What is it?” Colton asked.

  Still no answer.

  Then Colton looked through the front windshield where a masked man donning a suicide vest stood resolutely in front of the car.

  Colton swallowed hard and dialed 9-1-1.

  “No one can save you now, Mr. Colton,” the suicide bomber said as he spoke into a bullhorn. “You have fifteen seconds to get out of the car and come with us.”

  CHAPTER 18

  HABEEB COULD FEEL HIS PULSE QUICKEN and his throat go dry as he dropped the bullhorn. It clanked onto the blacktop, while faint echoes bounced off the surrounding vehicles. Everything slowed down. In his ear, he could hear Laman barking out orders to the men.

  Habeeb hoped the American businessman would simply go without a fight.

  Just get out of the car.

  Habeeb clutched the detonator in his right hand. Sweat from his brow trickled into the corner of his eyes. After blinking hard to wash out the salty liquid that burned, he then peered through the car in front of him and waited. The seconds ticked past like hours.

  Laman had been clear: If Colton didn’t comply, Laman was to blow up the car directly in front of him. Fifteen seconds was the time limit Laman had set.

  Each second dripped past, feeling more likes days to Habeeb than hours. In his hand, he clutched the trigger, which was equipped with a failsafe. If a sniper or other armed guard tried to take him out, it wouldn’t matter. The car and everything around it in a 10-meter radius would be annihilated.

  Colton’s car door didn’t swing open when the count hit fifteen.

  “Do it, Habeeb,” Laman said over the comlinks.

  Habeeb froze. The idea of sacrificing his life always seemed so noble, yet when it came down to the moment of truth, he felt like a fraud. He couldn’t go through with it.

  “Come on, Habeeb,” Laman said. “Don’t let your lasting legacy be that of a coward and a liar. If you said you would do it, you better do it.” A brief pause. “Or I’ll shoot you myself.”

  Habeeb knew when he slipped on the suicide vest and Laman handed him the fail-safe trigger it was over. If he tried to take it off without Laman’s help, the vest would explode. If Habeeb took his finger off the trigger, the vest would explode. If he did his job, the vest would explode. Yet Habeeb hesitated and wondered if there was still any other option for him.

  He looked down at his hand as it started to shake. Moving his thumb gently on top of the detonator button, Habeeb muttered a prayer before he heard a noise that sounded like angels to him.

  The click of a car door opening.

  Habeeb looked up to see Colton’s door swing open and Colton step out onto the bridge with both hands raised in the air. Looking upward, Habeeb shouted a prayer of thanksgiving and spun back toward the makeshift bunker the Al Hasib cell was working from.

  Before he could take a full stride, Habeeb heard Laman say one word over the comlinks: “Coward.”

  That was only a split second before a bullet whistled through the air and exploded into Habeeb’s head. He staggered to the ground and fell face first, still clutching the detonator. The pavement felt hot against his cheeks. The world started to fade.

  In the distance, Habeeb could hear shouting and screaming. The footsteps on the road reverberated loudly in his ear as his field of vision grew dimmer and dimmer. He caught a glimpse of combat boots rushing toward a hesitant Colton. The guards hurriedly dragged him away.

  Habeeb noticed the blood pooling around him. He felt the warm liquid oozing past him and gathering near his head. For a moment, he wondered where it was coming from—then he realized it was his own blood. He almost passed out, but not before he saw Habeeb drop the detonator and he and his vest exploded, creating a a violent blast that engulfed the car that had been in front of him into flames.

  ***

  MAHMOD exhaled but didn’t have time to mourn the loss of a friend. Habeeb wasn’t just any friend; he was a friend who’d made the ultimate sacrifice, not only for their cause but also for Mahmod personally. Nevertheless, tears would have to wait. They had taken possession of the target, and if Habeeb’s life wasn’t going to be in vain, Mahmod needed to move quickly.

  Mahmod tugged on the tie used to bind Colton’s hands behind his back and shoved the prisoner into the waiting white Suburban SUV. Mahmod followed Colton, jamming a gun to the scared American’s head.

  “Now you will help us atone for all the blood you’ve shed among our people,” Mahmod whispered.

  Wide-eyed, Colton turned toward him. He appeared as if he were going to say something, but no words came out.

  “Let’s go,” Laman commanded once he climbed inside and reached to shut the door behind him. “We don’t have much time.”

  Mahmod then spit in Colton’s face before drawing back and striking him in the head to knock him unconscious.

  “Easy, Mahmod,” Laman said. “We still need him—for the time being.”

  Mahmod flew back in his seat as the SUV roared forward. They needed to escape to safety or else they were all destined to suffer a fate worse than Habeeb.

  Mahmod didn’t want to waste his life, especially when he was given a second chance at it because of Habeeb’s sacrifice. Mahmod was going to make it count for the both of them.

  CHAPTER 19

  HAWK GREW CONCERNED when Colton’s entourage was ten minutes late from when the schedule stated he would arrive at The Palace Hotel. He became worried when he heard a bomb blast rip through the breezy air outside the building. When phones began ringing on every security personnel milling around the entrance, Hawk knew what had happened.

  Those bastards found out his route and beat us to the punch.

  He raced to his car and tried to hail Alex on the coms.

  “What is it, Hawk?” she asked.

  “I need your help, and I need it right now.”

  “Did something happen? Is Colton okay?”

  “I’m not sure about your second question, but something happened. What? I don’t know yet. I just know Colton was supposed to be here about fifteen minutes ago. He’s hardly ever late. Then I heard an explosion in the distance and saw about a dozen security guards’ phones start ringing like it was the end of the world.”

  “Well, it very well may be.”

  “May be what?” Hawk asked.

  “The end of the world.” She took a short breath. “I’m getting a report here that Colton was taken by terrorists somewhere off I-80 near South Beach.”

  “South Beach? That was bold. I don’t see how they’ll get very far.”

  “They’re still on the run, according to the police scanner I just brought up online.”

  Hawk headed for the Interstate.

  “Can you access any closed circuit feeds?” he asked.

  “Already on it.”

  “Let me know when you see something. I’m trying to determine which way they might have gone.”

  “Mmm. Based on this map, they’d be fools to attempt crossing the bay. They can’t control anything there.”

  “Yeah, these guys are too smart to do something that foolish.”

  “Hold on a second,” she said. “I think I’ve got something.”

  Hawk heard a smack in his ear.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. “They headed south on 80.”

  “Turning south now,” Hawk said, pressing hard on the gas pedal and wheeling his car around.

  “Are you near 80?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “Don’t get it on it—not yet anyway.”

  Hawk took a deep breath. “I’m coming up on Exit 3. Would that be okay?”

  “Okay, yes, that’s fine. I just didn’t want you running into the parking lot around Exit 2. That must’ve been where they took him.”

  “Are you still tracking the car?”

  “I am,” Alex said. “Looks like he exited and got off on som
e surface street. He went under a bridge and—”

  “And what? Talk to me, Alex.”

  “And … they’re gone.”

  “What do you mean, they’re gone?”

  “I mean, they’ve vanished from the feed.”

  “How can that happen?”

  I don’t know. I’m watching every angle. Nothing.”

  Hawk quit talking and started running calculations in his head. He glanced at the clock, aware that the man he’d called father his entire life was in dire need of his help.

  Hawk felt strangely sympathetic toward Colton. With all that Hawk had learned about him recently, he figured he’d have a dismissive attitude about it all. After all, Colton wasn’t Hawk’s father—not even close to it other than the fact that the man once had an affair with Hawk’s mother, though he wasn’t entirely sure that actually happened either. Colton’s playboy lifestyle in his early years was well documented, if not by the press, then on social media years later. For a while, it seemed like every week meant the revelation of another embarrassing photo of Tom Colton.

  But that too passed. The shame morphed into pride for Colton. He’d gotten around in his younger days, and now there was proof shared on the Internet for generations to come. His legacy as a womanizer was firmly intact. Yet Hawk didn’t care about any of that at the moment. All he wanted to do was extract Colton to safety. And without a current location for Colton, Hawk gritted his teeth, knowing his task proved to be a daunting one.

  “Come on, Alex,” Hawk said. “If I’m going to have any chance of finding him, these next few minutes are critical.”

  “Working on it,” she said as Hawk heard the rat-a-tat-tat on her keyboard in the background.

  Hawk tried to process his emotions, a mix between deep-rooted feelings for Colton that couldn’t be easily ejected and a gesture of goodwill for people he’d never met or ever would meet. Once the level of connection hit Hawk, he realized not even the local authorities or FBI could approach the situation like he could. They’d all be focused on the mitigation of casualties. Instead of trying to capture these men, law enforcement would try to force them into a depopulated area before employing a tactic that would suppress the number of potential casualties, ignoring Colton’s presence.