Retribution Read online

  Retribution

  A Team Reaper Thriller

  Brent Towns

  Contents

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  Other Team Reaper Thrillers

  Untitled

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  A Look At: Deadly Intent

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  About the Author

  Retribution is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Brent Towns

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Wolfpack Publishing, Las Vegas.

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  wolfpackpublishing.com

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-64119-513-3

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-64119-514-0

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  Other Team Reaper Thrillers

  Deadly Intent

  Retribution

  Retribution

  (rɛtrɪˈbjuːʃən)

  noun

  1. the act of punishing or taking vengeance for wrongdoing, sin, or injury

  2. punishment or vengeance

  Collins English Dictionary.

  “Judges, lawyers, and politicians have a license to steal. We don't need one.”

  – Carlo Gambino

  “I never lie because I don't fear anyone. You only lie when you're afraid.”

  – John Gotti

  “Sometimes I feel like God…when I order someone killed – they die the same day.”

  – Pablo Escobar

  Chapter 1

  The Motorola buzzed in his coat pocket. Reaching in, the man retrieved it and looked at the backlit screen. It said: Private.

  He raised it to his ear. “Hello?”

  A gravelly voice asked, “Are they there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  The line went dead.

  West Virginia

  They came out of the dark with military precision, like wraiths from a dense mist. Dressed in black, armed with suppressed SA 80s out of Great Britain, loaded with 5.56mm NATO rounds.

  Professionals. A three-man splinter, part of a team of six with special skills. They each wore tactical vests and night vision.

  The point-man took to his knee beside a large maple. He paused and brought the SA 80 up to his shoulder and sighted through the night scope, and the weapon coughed once.

  He felt the light pressure of the second man’s hand on his left shoulder. Then he was up and continuing his stealthy advance on the caretaker’s cottage. Their target.

  The second team had the house. The initial task was to cut the phone and power before entry. In and out. No noise, no fuss, no survivors. All in a night’s work.

  “Sure as shit beats Columbia, huh, Reaper?” Chip Roberts commented as he watched the second Yankee batter go down swinging in the bottom of the 6th inning.

  Thirty-two-year-old John ‘Reaper’ Kane nodded. He’d hated Columbia. A green hellhole filled with snakes, bugs, and unbearable heat, not to mention the revolutionaries and drug cartels.

  He and Chip had spent three weeks down there as part of a four-man team of Force Recon Marines (MARSOC). Their mission objective was to interrupt the supply of drugs being sent north to the States, without getting caught, by the cartels or the Columbian government. It was one of many they’d been on over the years.

  When they’d returned Stateside, Chip took on the catch-phrase, ‘Better than Columbia’.

  Shit! Anywhere was better than Columbia.

  But that had been four years ago. Now they were out of the service and working as personal security experts for the Gilbert Foundation.

  The Foundation was run by Mike Gilbert, out of Charleston. A one-time marine colonel, Gilbert had gone into the private security business after leaving the corps.

  The current job had the two friends watching over a husband and wife in a large house out in the West Virginia countryside. It was a foundation house used by them on previous protection details. The ‘protectees’ were upstairs asleep.

  This time around, Mike Gilbert was doing a favor for an old friend in the marshal service. Kane and Chip’s subjects were witnesses in the trial of a notorious mobster out of New York.

  Both men had been out there for a week and were bored with the inaction of the job. Two more days, and it would be over.

  “What you think, Reaper?” Chip asked. He gave his friend a wide, toothy grin.

  “I think it’s time for another coffee,” Kane said, and hauled himself to his feet from the sofa, beside Chip.

  Kane was six-four in his socks, broad-shouldered, and powerful. When he stood up, it felt as though every inch had a kink in it. He ran a hand through his black hair and started to make towards the kitchen.

  “You want to get me one while you’re there?”

  “Sure.”

  Out in the kitchen, Kane picked up their cups from the draining rack and turned them over, ready to take the bitter, black liquid. Reaching across the counter to pull the sugar bowl towards him, his jacket fell open far enough to reveal a shoulder holster with the Heckler and Koch USP nestled in it. He changed his mind and pushed the bowl away.

  Once he’d finished pouring their brews, Kane paused and stared out the large kitchen window, his pale-blue eyes taking in the state of darkness. It was hard to see past his reflection, but he was aware of the line of large Sugar Maples lurking beyond the yard.

  Kane returned to the living room with the coffees and passed one to Chip. The red-head blew a cooling breath across it first before he took a sip. He screwed up his face and grumbled, “Fuck, man. Are you trying to kill me? Where’s the damned sugar?”

  Kane smiled. “You’re getting too soft, Chip. Toughen up.”

  “Haven’t you heard? We ain’t in the corps no more, buddy. I get some comforts.”

  Kane turned to look at the television. “What’s the score?”

  “Yankees up by two.”

  Kane sat back down, careful not to spill his coffee, then sipped at the steaming liquid. “Damn it. You’re right. This stuff is getting worse every time I taste it.”

  “I told you.”

  “Yeah.”

  Kane froze. “What was that?”

  “What?” Chip asked, not taking his eyes from the television.

  “I heard a noise.”

  Chip muted the television.

  “There,” Kane said.

  “It was one of the horses,” Chip said. “Bennett will take care of it. After all, it’s his job.”

  Chip turned the volume back up.

  He was probably right, Kane thought; Bennett would see to it. Besides, the safe house was a horse ranch. And Bennett was the caretaker.

  Kane settled b
ack on the sofa and took another sip of coffee. It had to be nothing. No one knew where they were.

  When the horses in the corral made a fuss, Randall Bennett was reading all about how some energy company had set up a huge solar panel field in the Namib Desert, and how it would supply half the country’s power once it came online sometime in the next year.

  They had a picture of it spread over two pages in the technology magazine he’d picked up at the local store earlier in the day.

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Christ, what next?”

  Hearing the disturbance with the horses, he paused for a moment, laying the periodical in his lap, and looking up, focused his eyes on the far, white-painted wall of the cottage. He raised his glasses to the top of his head and waited.

  The horses made more noise.

  Bennett leaned forward and laid the magazine on the glass-topped coffee table. Beside it was a 9mm Smith and Wesson M&P semi-automatic handgun which he scooped up and then rose to his feet.

  From habit, Bennett dropped out the magazine to check it, then slapped it back home. Before he’d joined the Gilbert Foundation, he’d been an MP for the U.S. Army. Now in his late fifties, he saw this as semi-retirement. A job that put a roof over his head, without all the dangers the other had offered. All he had to do was look after the place and the horses.

  Just because the job was more laid back didn’t mean he wasn’t ready if trouble came calling. Why last week he’d had to unblock the latrine. Not a pretty job at all.

  Bennett walked across to the doorway, flicked on the light-switch for outside, and opened the heavy, timber door. The handgun was held down beside his thigh as he walked out onto the veranda and stared into the blackness beyond.

  The corral was over by a huge double barn near the stables. He could just make out the animals as they milled within it.

  Practiced brown eyes scanned the darkness as he sought the cause of the horses’ angst.

  “Can’t see shit in this light,” he growled and stepped down onto the gravel driveway.

  He began to walk towards the corral when he realized the dog wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  “Rory?” he called in a low voice.

  Nothing.

  He frowned. The dog was always around. First thing of a morning, or last thing of a night. It didn’t matter. The black lab would be there.

  Bennett’s grip tightened on the Smith and Wesson. “Rory?”

  Nothing.

  He stopped when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Bennett was half-way between the corral and the cottage. Something wasn’t right. Maybe he should walk over to the house and find Kane and Chip.

  “Stop being a baby,” he muttered and kept going.

  By the time Bennett reached the corral, the horses had quietened down. He took a quick look around but found nothing out of the ordinary.

  It wasn’t until he had started back that he almost fell over the dog. He bent down and felt the animal, noting the dampness of its coat. Bennett’s hand came away tacky.

  The realization hit him like a runaway train. “Christ, Randall, you’re screwed.”

  He came to his feet and brought the Smith and Wesson up to the firing position. No sooner had he done so when a suppressed SA 80 coughed twice.

  Bennett was slammed back by the twin hammer-blows and fell in an untidy heap beside the dog.

  A shadow appeared out of the darkness, stood over the fallen man and placed another bullet in Bennett’s head.

  “Target down.”

  Everything went black! Lights, television, everything.

  “Reaper!” there was urgency in Chip’s voice.

  Kane was already off the sofa as his military training kicked in. “Yep. We got trouble. Cover the front door. I’ll take the back. Nobody gets up those stairs.”

  “They’ll have NVGs,” Chip pointed out as he took off his coat and withdrew his Para P14-45 and worked the slide for a .45 caliber round to be rammed home into the breach.

  “We’ll wait for them to get inside before we spring our little surprise.”

  “Roger that.”

  The surprise was the backup power supply, made for just such an event. Night vision goggles weren’t worth shit when the lights were on. In fact, the glare would blind the wearers.

  The difference between the normal power and the backup system was that when the switch was turned on, every light in the house lit up.

  Chip took up position behind the sofa while Kane went back into the kitchen where he waited within arm’s reach of the backup switch. He just hoped the bastards wouldn’t use flashbangs.

  With his H&K in his right hand, Kane reached into his pants pocket with his left and took out a company issue cell. He hit speed-dial one and put it up to his ear.

  “I’m sorry, but the number you have dialed has been disconnected.”

  “Fuck!”

  He stuffed the phone back into his pocket and waited.

  Kane figured they’d breach at the same time. That’s what he’d do. Hell, he’d use the damned flashbangs too.

  He thought about going for one of the M4 Colts in the gun safe but dismissed the idea. The space within the house was too confined, so the handguns would have to do.

  The back door opened in a smooth, silent sweep. Kane hugged the wall and waited. A shadow filled the dark void of the doorway, stepped inside, and swept the room looking for targets.

  Come on, another step.

  The intruder obliged and took it.

  Kane flicked the switch.

  “Arghh!” the intruder shouted, blinded by the sudden flare of light.

  Kane stepped away from the wall and shot the man twice in the chest. The sound almost deafened him in the enclosed area of the kitchen as the report bounced off the tiled surfaces.

  The man in the combat gear lurched back, and Kane saw that he was wearing a tactical vest. There was no way the .45 caliber rounds from his handgun would pierce that.

  He shifted his aim and fired twice more. Both bullets punched into the man’s face just below the NVGs. With a spray of bright red blood, the intruder went down and didn’t move.

  Behind him, Kane heard Chip’s weapon bark twice, and then twice more.

  There was more movement at the back door, and another figure appeared. This one had discarded the NVGs and started to blaze away with his SA 80 as soon as a target came into view.

  Bullets riddled the kitchen. They punched into walls, shattered tiles, cups, and plates, smashed into the fridge and splintered the bench behind which Kane had taken cover.

  Debris rained all over the tiled floor. Kane leaned around the end of the counter and fired twice at the gunman. His shots flew wide and plowed into the door frame behind the shooter.

  Meanwhile, the sound of automatic fire sounded from the living room where Chip was heavily engaged with those who’d come via the front door. Bullets smashed through the drywall and sprayed plaster chips and dust across the kitchen.

  The sofa that Chip had hidden behind was riddled with holes, much of the stuffing seeming to float through the air as it was blown out.

  Chip rose and fired three shots at the nearest intruder and then dropped back down. He heard the man shout and took satisfaction in knowing he’d hit his target.

  Chip fired twice more. He’d tried for three, but the Para was empty.

  Before he’d even dropped back down, the empty magazine had been released, and another clip rammed home. An instant later Chip was back in the fight.

  The sofa was once again sprayed with a hail of bullets and Chip felt one tug at his shirt. He responded with a barrage of four shots. He hit another of the intruders, but an additional two had forced their way inside.

  “Damn it!” he cursed out loud as the sofa jumped under further heavy impacts.

  A burning sensation seared Chip’s right leg. He looked down and saw the red stain already starting to appear on his pants. Another scored his ribs, while a third opened a deep gouge in his left forearm.
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  “Reaper, I’m hit! I’m pinned down!”

  Kane heard the shout. “Hang on, buddy; I’m coming!” He added in a low voice, “Just as soon as I kill this son of a bitch.”

  He heard Chip’s Para fire more shots and then his voice again as it shouted, “Reaper! I’ve got an asshole who’s made it up the stairs!”

  Kane bit back a curse and loosed a couple of shots at the gunman in the kitchen. His response was another storm of lead from the SA 80.

  “I’ve had about enough of this shit!” Kane grated and stood up from behind the counter.

  With a bellow, he emptied the magazine at the man before him. Six shots. Two hit the man’s body armor, another the gun in his hands, a fourth drove through the upper part of the right arm, and the last two tore a gruesome wound through his throat that spurted arterial blood across the damaged walls.

  Kane dropped the second clip out of the H&K and rammed home his third and final one. Twelve rounds and that was it.

  Suppressed gunfire sounded from upstairs followed by a woman’s scream.

  “Damn it!” Kane snarled and hurried forward.

  He picked up an SA 80 and dropped the magazine out and checked the loads. He slammed it back in and brought the weapon to his shoulder.

  As he passed through the living room, he sprayed the last intruder with what was left in the weapon’s magazine.