Kill Count Page 3

  The attacks today were on a level not seen since the September 11, 2001 devastation. Once he claimed the strikes in the name of Al-Qaeda, the news channels would pick it up and put it on twenty-four-hour rotation for the next several days. Damn near every television set in the U.S. would be tuned in. Newscasters, morning show hosts, analysts, and talking heads of all types and persuasion would spend countless hours debating the old attacks versus the new. There would be graphs and archived footage and endless comparisons. And with every utterance of the terrorist organization’s name, Al-Qaeda would seep—or rather, be sledgehammered—into America’s consciousness. ISIS’ name wouldn’t be heard for months, maybe even years, or even never again if Johnny had his way.

  Those ISIS bastards were bush league. Nothing more than amateurs with AKs and hyperactive bloodlust. Al-Qaeda was the true chosen warrior of Allah, and Johnny intended to ram that truth down America’s throat once again. The New Babylon would fall to her knees before Johnny Jihad and his holy fighters.

  His real name wasn’t Johnny Jihad, of course. Hell, it wasn’t even Johnny, for that matter. But he refused to even think about the name his fundamentalist Christian parents had given him. Johnny Jihad was the avatar he had created when he started frequenting Al-Qaeda message boards on the dark web, and it had stuck. He had to admit it had a nice ring to it, rolling off the tongue slick and smooth, yet laced with jagged danger.

  He had been fifteen when the towers crumbled. Rather than weep and wail and cry out to a God who clearly didn’t give a crap, he had been awestruck by the power Al-Qaeda wielded. He soon rejected his Christian faith—and was in turn rejected and thrown out of the house by his parents, who exhibited Jehovah’s love and grace by declaring no heathen Muslim was welcome under their roof—and converted to Islam.

  But not the tame, modernized, non-offensive version of Islam. He had no interest in that fluffy fake crap. He went full-on, radicalized militant, embracing a message of violence as the path forward for the faith. He was consumed by a righteous fire that made him want to slay the unbelievers. Leave the mercy and compassion and love-thy-enemies crap to Jesus and the hypocritical pricks who rode a pew on Sunday and sinned like Satan the rest of the week. As far as Johnny was concerned, the only thing Allah cared about was infidel blood. Paradise was the reward, and the way there was red rivers of slaughter.

  His violent online rhetoric eventually caught the attention of Al-Qaeda bigwigs in Pakistan. They tutored him, molded him, taught him not just the ways of their faith, but the ways of a warrior, of a jihadi. After he spent four months in a Pakistani training camp, followed by a two-month stint at a training camp in Mexico, they tasked him with forming a sleeper cell in New York City.

  Johnny knew damn well how rare it was for a white, American, formerly Christian man to be trusted with such a task. Rarer than finding diamonds in dog shit. But he had the good looks of an underwear model, the high-wattage charisma of a snake-oil TV evangelist, the kind of natural magnetism that made people want to join his cause, and a near-genius ability to use social media savvy to build his flock. He was everything Al-Qaeda could have hoped for, and the leaders praised Allah for guiding him to their cause.

  In just a few short years, he amassed a small army of loyal zealots, fellow militants, ready to do whatever he asked of them, including giving their lives. Sacrificial lambs, willing to die for the faith.

  But then his handlers told him to just sit and wait.

  Johnny remembered thinking, Are you kidding me?

  He gave it a couple of years, but when nothing happened, and they just kept telling him to be patient, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He was meant for more than just sitting in a cramped room with his keyboard, spewing jihadist jargon into cyberspace.

  He had drafted a bold plan, then forged the necessary alliances to put the plan into action, and now enjoyed the financial backing he needed to bring the country to its knees once again. Money was power, and he had both. The attacks would continue until America renounced its false gods. The whores and sinners of the New Babylon would once again face the wrath of the true believers. It would start in New York City but then spread across the nation like an apocalyptic virus.

  Al-Qaeda would be resurrected.

  America would burn in a righteous conflagration.

  And Johnny Jihad would dance in the holy flames.

  Chapter 3

  Team Reaper Headquarters

  El Paso, Texas

  The Team Reaper headquarters were nothing special to look at. Just a converted warehouse retrofitted with some offices, a briefing room, showers, bunks, etc. In the back of the warehouse were an indoor pistol range and an armory. Despite possessing state-of-the-art equipment and weaponry, the team didn’t feel the need for a high-tech base of operations. They were all about hitting hard and fast, taking the battle to the enemy, and they didn’t need anything slick and fancy for that.

  Once Thurston got back from doing damage control in New York City, she headed for the bunks, scheduling a briefing for 1200 hours. Kane was chomping at the bit to get moving on this mission and find the kid, but he knew the importance of rest. They could all bull their way through sleep deprivation when necessary, but it dulled the senses, clouded the mind. Thurston would be a better, sharper commander after she grabbed some shuteye.

  The team assembled in the briefing room at noon, most of them slugging down some sort of caffeinated beverage, be it coffee or soda. When Brooke Reynolds, the team’s UAV operator showed up with bags full of takeout burgers, she was hailed a hero. Everybody grabbed one, and when Richard ‘Brick’ Peters stopped complaining about pickle juice soaking into his bun, they buckled down to business.

  Thurston recapped the previous night’s events for those not in the know, bringing everyone up to speed, then finished up by saying, “We are absolutely taking this mission. No way in hell can we turn a blind eye to an alliance between rogue DEA agents and the cartels. That’s some seriously bad news, and we’re going to put a stop to it. And while we’re at it, we are going to get Jeremy Reardon back to his father.”

  Assuming he’s still alive, Kane thought but kept it to himself.

  “And avenge his mother,” Traynor said. “There has to be payback for that.”

  “That’s fine,” said Thurston, “but taking down this alliance is our first priority, and rescuing the boy is our second priority.” Her dark eyes swept the room, making sure she had everyone’s attention. “Vengeance is a distant third.”

  “As long as it’s on the list,” Traynor muttered. “Somebody ordered that hit, and I want them dead.”

  Thurston’s gaze bored into him. “You knew Becky Reardon personally. If that’s messing with your head, do the right thing and say so now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Traynor asked.

  “Can you stay professional or do you need me to pull you off this assignment?”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”

  Kane was leaning against the wall, arms folded. “It’s a legitimate question, Pete. Answer it. She needs to know.”

  “She already knows.”

  “She needs to hear you say it.”

  Traynor met Thurston’s gaze and said, “I’m cool. You don’t need to pull me off.”

  She looked at him long and hard, then nodded curtly. “Fine… for now. But if I think your desire for payback is compromising this mission, I’ll yank your ass so fast you’ll be riding the bench before you even realize you’re out of the game.”

  Traynor nodded. “Message received, loud and clear.”

  Kane pushed away from the wall. “So how do we want to play this?”

  “That’s your call to make,” Thurston replied. “Got any suggestions?”

  “A street blitz,” Kane said. “Identify some targets, kick some ass, and ask some hard questions until someone coughs up the answers we need.”

  He had given it a lot of thought on the flight back to Texas. According to Re
ardon, some renegade DEA boys had stuck their dirty fingers into a narcotics pipeline. But pipelines came with one major weakness: they have a beginning, and they have an end and therefore can be run to ground by someone with the balls for the job. And Team Reaper definitely had the balls.

  And the firepower.

  Kane reckoned it was time to invade the savage world of white death and start pumping lead into poison-peddlers until someone spilled their guts about a DEA-cartel alliance. Then they could scorch their way up the pipeline until it was nothing but smoking ash and Jeremy Reardon was back in his father’s arms.

  “So where do we start?” Cara Billings asked. The team’s armorer looked like she hadn’t slept much. Kane secretly wished he was the reason she had been up all night, but the reality was, they probably wouldn’t share a bed again anytime soon. They had both agreed it was for the best. But sometimes he wasn’t so sure.

  “I can access the DEA’s database and supply you with a couple of suspected targets to hit in the NYC area,” Sam ‘Slick’ Swift answered He was the team’s resident computer genius, the man with the golden fingers. The current rumor floating around was that he had once belonged to the notorious hacker group Anonymous, but he would neither confirm nor deny. When asked, he would just smirk, shake his head, and ignore the question.

  Kane looked over at Thurston. “Has Jones signed off on this?” General Hank Jones was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, an ex-Ranger who had served in ’Nam, and the man overseeing the World Wide Drug Initiative. Reaper answered to Thurston, Thurston answered to General Jones, and Jones answered to the President.

  She nodded. “I called him on the flight. He said best of luck, handle it as we see fit, let him know if we need anything, and he would keep the President informed.”

  “That’s what he always says.”

  “Do you want him to say something different?”

  Kane grinned. “He could say kick ass and kill ’em all. That’d work for me.”

  Thurston gave a little smile. “Isn’t that what you do anyway? I wasn’t aware you were waiting for permission.”

  “Hey, I let that son of a bitch Montoya live after our first go-round, and it turned into a royal clusterfuck.” He shook his head. “Hit ’em hard, put ’em down, and make damn sure they don’t get back up.”

  “Great motto,” Cara said. “I want it on a bumper sticker.”

  “So, when do we start kicking doors?” asked Axel ‘Axe’ Burton, sounding as eager as a kid begging to visit the candy store. The rough, tough ex-recon marine sniper loved the rush of combat almost as much as he loved the ladies. He was all about the bullets and babes. Getting wounded on the team’s first mission in Guatemala hadn’t tempered his enthusiasm—for war or women—either. He was happiest with a gun in one hand and a hot chick in the other.

  “Give me thirty minutes, and I should have a target for you,” said Swift, cracking his knuckles. “Just need to let my fingers work their magic.”

  “That sounds like one of Axe’s lines,” Cara said with a grin.

  As everyone chuckled, Thurston called out, “You heard the man. Take a break and be back here in thirty.”

  As the briefing broke up, Kane watched with a smirk as Axe and Reynolds peeled off and headed for the bunks. Nothing like a pre-combat quickie to calm the nerves. They pretended to be discreet, but everyone knew the two operators were having a casual relationship. It was an on again/off again thing with them since Axe wasn’t the kind of man to let himself be tied down to just one woman. Kane wasn’t exactly sure how Reynolds felt about that, but the couple seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company when they were together. Kane’s policy was not to interfere in team members’ personal business as long as they did their jobs.

  He headed to the indoor shooting range for some 9mm therapy. Some people practiced yoga to relax, some indulged in a hot bath and a good book, but he preferred to punch holes in paper targets. He had cooked three magazines through his Sig when he sensed someone behind him. He had a good guess who it was.

  He turned his head, his peripheral vision picking up Cara leaning against the wall. Her pose caused one hip to thrust out, making her look sexier than she probably realized. Or hell, maybe she knew exactly how she looked.

  He put down the pistol and pulled off his ear protection. “Hey,” he greeted. “How was Maine?”

  Her teenaged son Jimmy, along with Kane’s comatose sister Melanie, were hidden away in Maine for their protection. Cara and Kane visited them as often as they could, but it was never enough to ease their guilty consciences. Their jobs, the team, the missions, kept them away from their loved ones longer than either wanted. Cara had spent the last few days there, before being summoned back to headquarters.

  “It was a good visit,” she said. “Too short, of course, but they always are.”

  “How’s Jimmy?”

  “Doing good. He’s got that teenage sarcasm and eye-roll down to a science.” She paused. “I checked on Melanie too. She’s doing… well, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Kane said, with just a trace of bitterness. “She’s doing okay for being in a coma.”

  “You can’t give up hope, Reaper.”

  “I’m not,” he replied. “When it comes to my sister, hope is all I’m holding onto.”

  A long silence followed as they shared a quiet moment, each understanding the other’s emotional pain, the internal struggle, the burden of sacrifice.

  Finally, Kane asked, “So what brings you down here?”

  “Just thought maybe we should talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me, Reaper. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything left to say, Cara.”

  She looked him in the eye, and he glimpsed the longing there, a scarcely-visible flame that flickered with conflicted desire. “Just tell me you miss it sometimes,” she said. “Tell me you miss me. You miss us.”

  “We both agreed it was for the best. You change your mind on that?”

  “No.” She said it too quickly, then added in a much softer voice, “Sometimes.”

  Kane stepped in close to her, near enough to feel the magnetic heat between them. He wondered if their mutual attraction would ever fade. In some ways, it would make things so much simpler. Then again, matters of the heart were never simple.

  He reached up and gently caressed her cheek, then let his hand drift down to settle on her shoulder. She didn’t move away from his touch, nor did she move toward him. “No matter what, Cara, I promise I’ll always be there for you. You call, I’ll come running.”

  Her pretty face stared up at him. “Friends, then.”

  “Yeah, friends,” he echoed, then grinned. “Just without benefits.”

  She grinned back and gave him a wink. “Says who? Why should Axe and Reynolds have all the fun?”

  Kane walked over and patted the shooting bench, brushing away the spent cartridges. “So hop your sweet stuff on up here and let’s get down to business. You know I shoot better when I get some.”

  She laughed, pushed away from the wall, and sauntered toward the door. “Nice try, hotshot. See you back in the briefing room.”

  Kane watched her—well, watched her backside, and he knew damn well she was giving it some extra sway on purpose—until she disappeared. He felt his body respond and call him a fool for letting her get away. With a deep sigh, he donned his ear protection, threw up a fresh target, and dumped six more magazines downrange. As a stress reliever, it wasn’t quite as good as getting naked with Cara, but it got the job done.

  When he walked back into the briefing room, several of the monitors had been activated, tuned to various news channels. The team members watched information regarding the terrorist attacks stream in, horror and anger etched on their faces. Nobody even teased Axe and Reynolds about being freshly showered.

  “My God,” Brick said in shock. “It’s nine-eleven all over again.”

  As if on cue, a talk
ing head appeared on one of the screens to announce that the triple-pronged strike was the worst attack on American soil since the 2001 tragedy. A multicolored bar graph comparing the death tolls appeared.

  Kane glanced at Thurston. Her mouth was set in a grim line as she watched the news footage. “We getting involved with this?” he asked.

  “Negative,” she replied. “You know the rules of the game. Unless it’s got cartel fingerprints on it, we don’t touch it.”

  “In other words, stay in our lane,” Axe grumbled.

  “I’d make an exception to go hunt the assholes who did that,” Kane said, pointing at the screen where footage of the debris from the cruise ship massacre was playing over a reporter’s remarks that recovery efforts were difficult due to the amount of sharks in the water, drawn there by the thousands of corpses. Another channel ran a shaky cell phone recording of the Central Park slaughter. If there was a video of the jet explosion, nobody had released it yet.

  “I think we all would,” Thurston replied, “but our mission remains unchanged. We need to take down this DEA-cartel alliance and get that little boy back.”

  “Doing a blitz is going to be little dicey now,” Kane said. “The city is going to be on edge after getting hit by three terror strikes in a row.”

  “Dicey or not,” Thurston said, “it has to be done. If you get jammed up by the locals or the alphabet soup agencies, we’ll get things cleared up.”

  Kane grinned. “You mean you’re not going to disavow any knowledge of our existence?”

  “You watch too many movies,” Thurston said.

  Axe started humming the Mission Impossible theme.

  With a little smile and a roll of her eyes, Thurston turned to their computer wizard. “What did you come up with, Slick? You identify a target for us yet?”

  “Well, yeah, of course,” Swift replied, “I only needed three minutes for that. I just wanted to give Axe and Reynolds enough time to finish.”