Closure
Page 1
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The Story
Covert operative Javin Pierce will avenge his betrayal or die trying . . .
Wounded, off the grid, and needing to rescue his partner from a Saudi jail ... Javin Pierce wants to settle the score with the traitor who double-crossed him. With time short and options few, Javin strikes a shaky deal with sworn enemies. But before long, alliances crumble, and Javin's rogue team is surrounded on every side. Now, desperate to rescue his partner and exact retribution with no one to trust, can Javin survive the deadliest mission of his life?
CLOSURE
THE JAVIN PIERCE SERIES -
BOOK THREE
ETHAN JONES
To God and my family.
Table of Contents
Front Page
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Epilogue
Bonus - The Iranian Incident
Retrieval Chapter One
Retrieval Chapter Two
Retrieval Chapter Three
Retrieval Chapter Four
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Chapter One
Al-Abawia, fifteen miles southwest of Najaf
Southern Iraq
The young fighter aligned his machine gun sights with the small whitish Toyota sedan heading toward him. It was still about half a mile away, but the weapon—a Russian-made DShK 12.7mm anti-aircraft, heavy machine gun—could still fire its powerful rounds through the car’s windshield and blow off the driver’s head. If the fighter so chose, he could drop the rifle’s aim an inch and tap the twin triggers. The bullets would destroy the Toyota’s engine, and stop the car.
The Iranian-backed Shiite fighters controlling the area had clear and precise orders: Do not engage. The Canadian operative is coming in peace.
The young fighter’s trained fingers remained close to the triggers. In the last couple of months, he had seen very little combat action. The Shiite militia group called the People’s Freedom Army, or PFA, in collaboration with the Iraqi army, had pushed back the Kurdish fighters who had controlled the area. The militia had restored order in most of the small towns and villages, but there were still a few pockets of resistance. The fate of Najaf, the largest city in the area with close to a million and a half people, was still undecided. The clouds of war were gathering, and the storm was about to hit at any moment.
“What do you think is his purpose?” the second fighter, who sported a thin line of a mustache, asked the first one, still leaning over the machine gun.
“I don’t know, but I can assume he’s here with some important information. We wouldn’t let anyone cross through these lands, especially a Western spy.”
“Canadian.”
“That’s what I said: Canada is in the west.”
“North, North America.”
“We don’t call them ‘Westerners’?”
The second fighter shook his head. “No, just Canadian.”
The first fighter shrugged. “Well, whatever he’s called, he’s brave to venture so deep inside Iraq alone.”
“I thought he would at least come with a partner.”
“No, he’s by himself. No partner, no back-up team.”
“Yes, and I heard he came up from Saudi Arabia.”
“He did?”
“That’s what the rumors say.”
“What did he ... Wait, was this guy involved in the plot to assassinate Prince Al-Hamad?”
“I’m not sure. That was over a week ago, and it was the work of Al-Qaeda. The men shot by the prince’s security and the police were all Al-Qaeda operatives.”
“But I read somewhere that there was suspicion of involvement of Mossad and other foreign secret agencies.”
The second fighter shook his head. “I thin
k we give those Zionist pigs more credit than they deserve. The Saudis may claim there was foreign involvement to draw attention away from Al-Qaeda. The truth is, those butchers are spreading like cancer across the kingdom.”
The first fighter glanced through the weapon’s sights.
The Toyota was taking the last few turns on the narrow dirt road snaking around a couple of low sand dunes. A plume of dust trailed behind it.
“He’s getting close,” the first fighter said.
“We’d better go and welcome him.”
The second fighter stepped around their barricaded position to the right of the checkpoint leading into Al-Abawia, the southernmost village in the hands of the PFA. He held his American-made M4 rifle in his hands and gestured at his teammates stationed across the road. The two men standing behind a DShK machine gun waved back.
One of them called, “We have it, Gholam.”
Gholam nodded at them, then waved his rifle up in the air, before pointing it toward the nearing Toyota. He glanced to his right and saw the first fighter a few steps behind. He also had his rifle ready for action.
Gholam gestured with his left hand to the driver to park at the side of the road. It was about fifty yards or so from Gholam. He did not expect the car to be loaded with explosives or the driver to blow up himself. But he had seen that happen once and still had shrapnel in his leg.
The driver followed his order. He stopped the car, then turned off the engine. A moment later, he stepped outside, slowly. He seemed to walk with a slight limp. His left leg was giving him trouble. The driver kept his hands away from his body, not exactly in the air, but it was obvious he did not hold any weapons.
Gholam was taking no chances. “Get your hands up. Up,” he shouted at the driver in Arabic, then repeated his order in English.
The driver nodded and did as he was told. Then he said in a loud, firm voice, “Salam alaikum.” Peace be with you. “I come in peace, looking for Commander Shahriyar Bakhtiar.”
Gholam flinched, surprised at the foreign operative speaking such fluent Arabic. “Eh ... Alaikum wa salam,” he replied almost instinctively. His words meant Peace to you too, but Gholam doubted the man’s arrival would be peaceful. “Are you armed?”
The operative nodded. “Yes, two pistols.” He gestured toward the left side of his waistband. He was wearing desert tan camouflage fatigues, a bulletproof vest, and a chest rig. Then he turned slightly to his side, to show the fighter the pistol in his back holster.
“Drop them to the ground,” Gholam shouted.
The operative cocked his head to the right. “Is this necessary? Commander Bakhtiar is waiting for me, and he knows—”
“You don’t need them anymore; you’re under our protection.” Gholam took a few steps toward the operative, keeping the rifle trained at the man’s head.
The operative grinned. “I don’t quite feel protected. Perhaps it’s that gun pointed at my face.”
Gholam nodded, then lowered his rifle, but only an inch. It was still aimed at the operative’s chest. “Put them on the ground.” He gestured with his hand.
The operative sighed. “We’re just wasting time here.”
Gholam took another few steps. “I’ll make that decision.”
Once both pistols were on the ground, the operative said, “There, happy now?”
Gholam shrugged. “Any other weapons?”
The operative shook his head. “Nothing that can hurt you.”
Gholam glanced at the other fighter. “Watch him carefully.”
The fighter nodded and tightened the grip around his rifle.
Gholam hurried to the operative. When they were about six feet away from each other, Gholam’s eyes noticed the ring of a grenade sticking out from one of the operative’s chest pouches. “You said you have no weapons. You lied.” He raised his rifle.
“Relax,” the operative said in a calm voice. “It still has the pin. It’s not gonna hurt you.”
“But I asked you if you had weapons.”
The operative shrugged. “We’re both fighters. We’re armed to our teeth.” He gestured toward Gholam, who was wearing a flak vest and had a pistol strapped to his thigh.
Gholam shook his head. “I don’t like liars.”
The operative said, “Me neither. Let’s go, shall we?”
Gholam stepped closer to the operative and gave him a thorough pat-down. He removed two grenades, a radio, assault rifle magazines, then he stopped. “Let’s just get the entire chest rig off. And the bulletproof vest.”
The operative gave Gholam a sideways glance. “Pants off too?”
“Ankle pistol?”
“No.”
“Knife?”
“Yes.”
“Well, take it off.”
The operative removed his Ka-Bar knife and tossed it with the rest of the weapons. Then he dropped the chest rig and the vest. “Can we go now?”
Gholam gave the operative a last measuring glance, then nodded. “Sure. But first, what’s your name?”
The operative grinned. Isn’t it a bit late for that? “It’s Javin Pierce.”
Gholam nodded again. “Walk in front of me, Pierce. And make no sudden moves.”
“Got it.”
He walked at a hurried pace.
“Where did you learn Arabic?”
“School.”
“You speak well.”
“Thanks.”
When they reached the checkpoint, the other fighter joined them.
Gholam said, “He’s clean.”
The other fighter said, “Let’s take him to Bakhtiar.”
“Sure.” Gholam gestured with his hand and a silver Nissan truck pulled up from beyond the checkpoint. Then he said to the other fighter, “Blindfold.”
“Do we have to—”
Javin’s words were cut off by a black sack placed roughly over his head.
Chapter Two
Al-Abawia, fifteen miles southwest of Najaf
Southern Iraq
The harsh fabric scratched his face. The black sack had the repulsive stench of sweat. Javin drew in small breaths, trying almost not to breathe in the dirty air. He could feel the bumps on the road and assumed the Nissan had entered the village.
Two men were sitting next to him. Javin could hear the heavy breathing of the man on the right. The other one had jammed the butt of his weapon against Javin’s side. He was thankful it was not his right side. The gunshot wound he had suffered eight days ago during his operation in Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia, was healing well, but a hard pressure like that would have caused a ripple of pain.
Javin Pierce was a covert operative with the Canadian Intelligence Service, or the CIS. He worked as a “corrector,” dispatched to the field to fix other teams’ errors. His mission to the Saudi kingdom had gone severely sideways, with no hope of being salvaged by Javin or anyone else. He had come to these terrorist-infested lawless lands of Iraq with the objective of saving his life and that of his partner, Claudia Aquarone, languishing in a Saudi prison.
As thoughts of the near past flooded his mind, Javin drew in a deep breath. He realized his mistake, but it was too late. The stench overpowered him, and Javin began to cough.
“Hey, you’re not going to die back there, are you?” called one of the men in the truck.
Javin’s sharp ears placed the sound as coming from the front passenger’s seat. It was one of the two fighters who had first met Javin.
He shook his head, then said, “No, just enjoying the ride. The view has never changed, though.”
A grunt came from the left side. “You’re funny, you know that?”
“Yeah, should have become a comedian. But then, you can’t shoot the hecklers.”
The man to Javin’s right said, “We’re almost there.”
Javin had not heard the other fighter’s voice. He must be in the driver’s seat.
Another minute of the bumpy ride, and the truck slowed down. Javin felt the men shift in thei
r seats, then heard the clanging of weapons. A moment later, the truck stopped.
The man to Javin’s left opened the door, then pulled him by the arm. “Let’s go.”
Javin shuffled slowly on the uneven ground. The blindfold was thick, but not enough to completely stop the bright sun. He turned his head around, trying to make sense of the situation.
Another rough arm grabbed him from the other side.
“C’mon,” he said. “I’m blindfolded and unarmed. What am I going to do?”
“You have a bad rep, Pierce. You’re uncuffed. You can cause a lot of harm,” said the fighter whose voice Javin had not heard the entire ride. “This way.”
“Gholam, you’re late, and Bakhtiar is getting worried,” a new voice said.
Oh, so the driver’s name is Gholam. “Hey, Gholam, I told you we’d be late.”
“You arrived late, so it’s your fault.” Gholam’s gruff voice came strong near Javin’s right ear. “Now, move it.” He gave Javin a hard shove.
The tip of his boot caught on a rock jutting out of the ground, and Javin tripped. He almost fell, but Gholam and the other man held Javin on his feet. But the abrupt move sent a jolt of pain through his side. He flinched and kept going.
A few moments later, his foot bumped something that felt like a staircase.
It was.
Javin began to climb slowly, one step at a time. He counted them. Five. The screech of a door opening, then people exchanging greetings.
Javin was ushered into a house. The floor was flat and hard, then soft. He was turned to the right, then left. Another set of stairs, but these were narrower. One of the men, probably Gholam, stepped in front of Javin. The other man kept his hand on Javin’s left arm.
Fifteen stairs, then Gholam said, “Stay here.”
He knocked on a door, which opened with a low squeak.
A few moments of tense pause followed.
Javin wondered if Gholam was receiving a tongue-lashing or if Bakhtiar was occupied with another time-sensitive matter. He was a high-level commander of the Quds Force, the elite force of Pasdaran. Pasdaran was the Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guard—the dreaded and all-influential force defending Iran’s Islamic Republic system. The Quds Force was heavily involved in the Iraq and Syria wars, under the guise of protecting “their brothers,” the Shiite minority. In reality, a fierce power struggle and proxy war was taking place, pitting Iran, Syria, and Russia on one hand against Iraq and Saudi Arabia, along with other Arab countries, supported by the West, on the other.