Hunting Ghosts Read online

  Hunting Ghosts: A Team Reaper Thriller

  The Cabal: Book 3

  Brent Towns

  Hunting Ghosts

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2021 Brent Towns

  Wolfpack Publishing

  5130 S. Fort Apache Rd. 215-380

  Las Vegas, NV 89148

  wolfpackpublishing.com

  This book 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.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-64734-640-9

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-64734-733-8

  Other Team Reaper Thrillers

  Retribution

  Deadly Intent

  Termination Order

  Blood Rush

  Kill Count

  Relentless

  Lethal Tender

  Empty Quiver

  Barracuda!

  Kill Theory

  Danger Close

  Collateral Damage

  The Death Bringers

  Fear The Reaper

  Kane: Tooth & Nail

  Kane: Center Mass

  Kane: Darkness Upon Us

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  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Kane: Tooth & Nail (Fear the Reaper Book 1)

  Get your FREE copy of Eugowra Gold

  About the Author

  For Sheila Nolan,

  proof that tough women like tough books.

  And as always, for Sam and Jacob.

  Hunting Ghosts: A Team Reaper Thriller

  Prologue

  Mosul, Iraq, 2016

  Attired to blend with every other Muslim male in the city, Raymond “Knocker” Jensen’s beard contributed to his overall appearance, under the guise of a native. The solid-looking SAS sergeant from 22 Squadron was, however, a far cry from being local. Hand-picked for the mission to Mosul, the seat of ISIS in the north of Iraq, the big man was there with one thing in mind: to assassinate a Jihadi named English Eddie, the man responsible for more than fifteen beheadings within the past four months. Two of that count had been British reporters; another a British SAS soldier lost in a raid while advising Iraqi soldiers.

  With those deaths at the forefront of Knocker’s thoughts, a grim determination that the bastard’s days—correction, hours—were numbered overcame the wily Brit.

  After insertion by a helicopter the previous evening some five miles from the city, Knocker had proceeded on foot into the hotbed of chaos, the ISIS stronghold, under the cover of darkness. He was armed only with a Glock 19 and his personal combat knife, and both weapons were concealed beneath his clothing. Now the wait began, watching for confirmation that his target was on-site.

  “Mother, this is Scalpel, over,” Knocker murmured into his comms.

  “Read you loud and clear, Scalpel,” a woman’s voice replied in his ear.

  “I need a sitrep, Mother. I’ve got at least three gentlemen here starting to take an interest in me, over.”

  “Sitrep is still the same, Scalpel,” Ellen Grayson replied.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Knocker growled. “I’m sitting out here like a honeymooner’s dick. Find out where this cock is, or I’m pulling the pin.”

  “Hold your position, Scalpel. That’s an order.”

  “Your order is fucked.”

  “The UAV is reading three heat signatures in the house opposite where you are, Scalpel. We think the target is one of them, but we need confirmation.”

  “Is the team on standby, Mother?”

  “They’re holding in the desert six klicks out, Scalpel. Once you have confirmation and terminate the subject, they will come and get you.”

  “Oh, shit,” Knocker mumbled.

  “What is it?”

  “One of those cocks has decided to come over for a chat.”

  “Then get rid of him.”

  “How do you propose I do that, Mother? I’m in the middle of a fucking city where every second fighting-age male is armed with a bloody AK. I do something stupid, and the bastards will cut off my frigging head and put it on a pole.” The hissed retort conveyed his frustration with the situation.

  “Work it out, Knocker. That’s why you were chosen.”

  “Fine, I’ll work it out.”

  With the distance between them closing, the man addressed him briefly. Getting no response from Knocker, the man frowned, and the tone of his voice changed, becoming more insistent. That was the point when the SAS man knew he was in trouble. He said in a low voice, “Mother, Scalpel.”

  “Go ahead, Scalpel.”

  “Get that fucking team in the air now.”

  Realizing that the barely audible utterances were in English, the man stopped dead, frozen momentarily, providing Knocker with the edge he needed. The Glock came up, and he shot the man in the chest.

  “What are you doing, Scalpel?”

  Knocker started to walk forward and said, “I’m getting your sodding confirmation.”

  On the other side of the street, two men, startled by the sudden eruption of gunfire, swung their weapons around to shoot the SAS man. Due to his superior training, Knocker shot them both before they brought their guns to bear.

  As he walked past them, he bent down, picked up an AK, and kicked the door open. It slammed back, and Knocker walked inside.

  Vauxhall, London

  Ellen Grayson was seething. She’d worked day and night to put this op together, and it appeared as though a damned rogue operator was going to stuff it up royally. Not on my watch. “What the hell is he up to?” she hissed.

  Shrugging his shoulders, the man seated at the console beside her said, “Looks like he’s breaching, ma’am.”

  “I can bloody see that!” she snapped.

  “Will I alert the team?” the man asked.

  “Not yet. It seems that he wants to screw this op up, so I think he should be made to deal with the shit he causes.”

  The man looked up at her, concerned. “Ma’am?”

  “You heard me, Rogers. Leave him there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Colonel?” a fair-haired console operator from across the room called to her.

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve got at least seven tangos starting to move toward the building.”

  “Understood.”

  Grayson stared at the split screens before her. One showed the immediate vicinity outside the target house, the next a heat map of the building. A third screen cast a wider net around the area, while a fourth was linked to the backup SAS team and the helicopter.

  “Where is that bastard?” she growled.

  “He’s gone inside, ma’am.”

  “Christ. What about the targets?�
��

  “Two are moving to meet him. The third seems to be seated,” Rogers explained. He frowned. “Ma’am, the third guy isn’t moving. I’m zooming in.”

  The heat signature grew larger, but for a moment, Grayson wasn’t sure what she was looking at. It finally came to her. The person was seated, more than likely tied to a chair. “Shit. Get the fucking helicopter up now.”

  Mosul, Iraq

  The inside of the house was sparsely furnished. Mostly it had mats on a dirt floor as well as a couple of chairs. Stacked in the corner of the first room Knocker entered were half a dozen AKs, two RPG launchers, some rocket-propelled grenades, and what looked to be body armor.

  He hurriedly swept the room before starting for a doorway in front of him. He’d taken two steps when an urgent voice said into his comms, “Two tangos coming at you, Scalpel.”

  They burst through the doorway, both armed. Knocker fired the AK he had picked up and watched as both would-be killers fell to the floor.

  Without hesitation, he stepped over them and into the next room. It was clear.

  “Scalpel, this is Mother.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “There should be a doorway to your right. Do you see it?”

  “I see it.”

  “There is an unknown inside that room. They look to be a hostage, copy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Showing some caution, Knocker stepped into the room, sweeping it briefly before turning his attention to the figure in the chair. It was a well-lit space, with a single bulb hanging from the dirty ceiling. Dressed in filthy rage, the man beneath the light sat slumped over. Knocker hurried to him and, grabbing a handful of hair, lifted his face to the light so he could get a better look.

  The man had been knocked about over some time, the dried blood, old bruises, and crusted scabs testament to the torture he had withstood. He was filthy and unshaven, and Knocker dug into his pocket to get his encrypted cell. “Who are you, cock?” he asked.

  The man stared at him as though he were an apparition. He blinked when the flash of the cell’s camera almost blinded him but remained silent.

  “Come on, mate, tell me who you are,” Knocker said as he untied the man’s arms and checked them for identifying marks.

  As he slid up the sleeve of the flaccid right arm, he found a tattoo. He froze and stared at the man’s face again, trying to get a closer look. “Mother, this is Scalpel, over.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Ma’am, looks like we’ve got one of ours here.”

  “Say again, Scalpel.”

  “This guy is SBS. From the looks of him, he’s been in captivity for a long time. I’ve just sent you a picture.”

  “Did you get a name?” Grayson asked as the picture flashed onto a large screen in front of her.

  “No, ma’am,” Knocker replied.

  “Is there any sign of the target, Scalpel?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Rogers said, “Scalpel, you’re about to get visitors real soon. You’ve got tangos converging on your position.”

  “What’s the ETA on the evac?”

  “Ten mikes.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Knocker snarled. “What the fuck happened?”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Grayson interrupted. “In the meantime, you need to hold the fort, as they say, until help arrives.”

  “Great.” Knocker groaned and signed off.

  He looked at the man before him. “I don’t know if you can understand me, mate, but I need to get ready for the party. Wait here.”

  Knocker did a quick recon of the rear of the house but found no entries. “Thank God for small mercies.”

  Making his way to the front of the building, he took off his robes along the way, revealing the pants and T-Shirt he wore beneath. He grabbed a vest from the corner stack, placed it over his head, and secured it before moving to the front door, where he glanced each way along the street.

  “Mother, what’s the update on the tangos?” A burst of gunfire erupted, and bullets hissed and snapped all around the SAS man. “Shit. Disregard my last, Mother.”

  He ducked back into the relative safety of the house and waited for the firing to drop off, then opened up with his own weapon. He broke cover and fired at one man who was standing in the middle of the street. The man dropped and hadn’t even stopped moving before Knocker was looking for another target.

  More gunfire came his way, smashing chunks out of the external wall. The SAS man returned fire once more, swearing when the slide stayed back, indicating he’d run out of ammo. Throwing the AK on the floor, Knocker hurried across to grab one from the pile in the corner. He slid the slide back to check it, cursing once more. Hurriedly going through the rest of the piled weapons, he checked each but came up with the same result. “Of all the useless fucking…great bloody terrorists you lot are. I guess there’s only one thing for it.”

  He picked up an RPG launcher and some grenades and headed for the doorway.

  Vauxhall, London

  “Ma’am, I have an ID on the prisoner,” a thin woman in a black blouse and skirt called to Grayson from her workstation.

  “Don’t keep me hanging, Harris,” Grayson said curtly.

  “Lieutenant Dan Best went missing a little over twelve months ago when the SBS raided a pirate camp on the Somali coast. Their team was looking for prisoners at the time and liberated six but lost one of their own. He just vanished. Once the team rescued the hostages, they went back to search for Best. They were on the ground for a week but failed to find any trace.”

  “And here he is,” Grayson said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Inform RM Poole we’ve found their man.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A large explosion registered on the screen, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “What was that?” Grayson asked.

  “An explosion,” Rogers replied.

  “Yes, but what blew up?”

  Rogers said into his comms. “Scalpel, sitrep, over.”

  “I’m still alive if that’s what you’re worried about,” Knocker said. “But if that evac doesn’t happen soon, I might as well kiss my ass goodbye.”

  “It’s coming, Scalpel.”

  “So is fucking Christmas,” Knocker said drily.

  “Hang in there, Knocker.”

  Mosul, Iraq

  Knocker fired another rocket-propelled grenade across the street at a building where two shooters had taken up position. One tango had a light machine gun and was laying down heavy fire. The SAS man was at risk of being pinned down while others assaulted his position.

  The explosive streaked across the short distance and exploded with a roar. A large hole appeared in the side of the building, and dust and debris were strewn everywhere. The objective, however, was achieved since the machine gun fell silent.

  Loading another grenade, Knocker prepared himself mentally for his next move. The dust was starting to clear, but a fusillade of bullets winged their way toward his position. He waited until there was a brief lull, then fired again. This time his target was a vehicle farther down the street. It was a white Landcruiser that provided scant cover for the two shooters who had taken shelter there.

  The impact was devastating. The vehicle blew, engulfed in an orange fireball. One of the shooters, his clothes aflame, staggered screaming into the street before finally collapsing to the ground.

  Knocker was preparing to reload when his comms crackled to life. “Scalpel, this is Black Knight One-One. Copy?”

  Knocker frowned. The callsign for the Chinook was Chicken Hawk Three-Two. “Copy, Black Knight. Good to hear your voice, mate.”

  “We’re about to do a sweep over your location. Keep your head down, over.”

  “Roger, Black Knight. Ready when you are.”

  At first, he heard nothing of the approaching machine, then the whop-whop of the rotor blades increased in volume. A few moments later, dust and debris began swirling, and the street ou
tside lit up as an M230 chain gun ripped it apart. Knocker smiled. Someone had scraped up an Apache attack helicopter for support.

  The helicopter roared low, the rotor wash continuing to whip up the street’s grit. The pilot pulled up and put distance between himself and his target before turning his aircraft around.

  “Scalpel? Black Knight. Over.”

  “Copy, Black Knight.”

  “We’re about to hit these buggers hard for you. Make them think again.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Knocker asked.

  “We’ve got a Hellfire, which should knock a few of them arse over bollocks for you.”

  “Ready when you are,” Knocker replied.

  “Roger. Black Knight cleared hot.”

  Knocker hurriedly made his way back through the house to the room where he’d left the prisoner. The man was now lying on his side with his knees drawn up to his chest. The SAS man knelt beside him. “Hang in there, cock. The cavalry is on the way.”

  The man looked at Knocker for the first time, acknowledging he was there. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the git who’s getting you out of here,” Knocker told him. “Just keep—”

  There was a tremendous explosion outside as a Hellfire from the Apache exploded a block down the street. The noise died, and Knocker spoke again. “Can you walk, mate?”