by Brent Towns
The prisoner shook his head. “No. My feet.”
Knocker nodded and moved to look. “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Dan Best. SBS.”
The SAS man looked at Best’s feet and saw the horrible scars just above his heels. The SBS man said, “I tried to escape a month after I was captured. The bastards cut my Achilles tendons on both sides.”
“Shit,” Knocker said, climbing to his feet. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“As if.”
Knocker moved back to the front room and said into his comms, “Chicken Hawk Three-Two, copy?”
“Read you, Scalpel.”
“ETA?”
“We’re almost there, but there’s a problem, Scalpel,” the pilot informed him.
“You’d better not be giving me bad news, Chicken Hawk.”
“I’m sorry, Knocker, but there is no clear LZ for at least a couple of blocks. You’re going to have to DIY to the landing zone.”
“Fuck!” Knocker exclaimed vehemently.
“Wait one, Chicken Hawk,” the SAS man replied. “Mother, this is Scalpel.”
“Go ahead, Scalpel.”
“Ma’am, the prisoner is non-ambulatory. I need that fucking Chinook to put down on target.”
“What do you mean, non-ambulatory, Scalpel?”
“I mean, the bastards crippled him, and he can’t walk.”
“Wait one, Scalpel. We’ll assess the situation from here. Standby.”
Vauxhall, London
“What do we have that’s close?” Grayson asked Rogers.
“You heard the pilot of the Chinook, ma’am. There is nothing closer.”
“There must be something. Find it.”
Rogers began scanning the satellite feed they were hooked into while Grayson watched the feed on the screens. The street containing the target house was starting to resemble a war zone.
Smoke drifted skyward from various fires, and the heat signatures of gathering terrorists were appearing everywhere. If Jensen didn’t get out of there soon, he’d be overrun. “Scalpel, this is Mother, over.”
“Copy, Mother.”
“You need to get out of there now.”
“Repeat your last, Mother.”
“You heard me, Knocker. Get the hell out of there. We can’t get to you if you stay there.”
“I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, Mother. Did you say to get out? Over.”
“You damn well know I did, Scalpel.”
“And what am I meant to do about our friend, Mother? Please advise.”
Keenly aware of the scrutiny of Rogers as well as several others who were listening in on the feed, Grayson said, “Confirm he’s non-ambulatory, Scalpel.”
“Affirmative, Mother.”
“You’ll have to leave him behind, Scalpel.”
Silence.
“Confirm my last transmission, Scalpel,” Grayson’s voice was granite.
Her orders were confirmed when Knocker’s voice came back over the comms. “Fuck you, Mother.”
Mosul, Iraq
Knocker hurried over to the doorway and looked out. He was livid, not only at the issued order but because he could see no way around it. For the moment everything seemed to be clear, but he held no illusions that it would remain that way for long. The pall of black smoke drifting across the street offered good cover, but he needed to go now.
The SAS man hurried back inside. He crouched by Best and said, “The helicopter can’t touch down here, so I’m going to have to carry you out.”
“How far?” Best asked.
“A couple of blocks. Not far at all.”
“You can’t do that,” Best said. “You won’t make it twenty meters before they drop you.”
“I guess we’re about to find out,” Knocker told him.
“What did your boss say?”
“What?”
“Come on, cock. You were never here for me. You were after that other dobber. The one that’s been cutting the heads off hostages like me.”
Knocker’s expression gave it away. “Sorry, Best.”
“Just do one thing before you go,” the SBS man said. “Don’t leave me alive for that bastard to cut my head off for the world to see.”
“Shit!”
“Do it. You and I know it’s the only way.”
“Mother, this is Scalpel. Tell me you found something.”
“Situation is still the same, Scalpel. Get out now.”
“Fucking bollocks.” The pressure of the situation caused momentary indecision.
“Do it, mate. You have to.”
Knocker rose to his feet. Best fixed his gaze on him. Knocker felt numerous emotions rising within him: guilt, regret, anger. “Don’t look at me, damn it.”
Best dropped his gaze, and Knocker raised his Glock. He almost choked on the words as they came out. “I’m sorry.”
“Mother, I’m moving.”
“Roger, Scalpel.”
Knocker had his Glock up and ready as he exited the house.
“Scalpel,” Rogers said into his ear, “you need to turn right and make your way to the alley behind the building. Be careful. ISR shows a tango taking shelter there.”
“Copy,” Knocker said in a low voice.
He moved swiftly and turned into the alley, taking the shooter by surprise. The SAS man shot him at close range, pushing him out of the way as he fell.
“Right,” Rogers said in a calm voice. “Once you reach the end of the alley, turn left and walk for one block. At that point, the street is clear.”
“Roger.”
Following the directions, Knocker turned left onto the dusty street. Behind him, farther down the thoroughfare, a vehicle with armed men in the back of it roared across an intersection. Knocker ignored its passage, relying on the intelligence in his ear and keeping his eyes focused on what lay ahead.
“Scalpel, once you reach the next intersection, turn right.”
After acknowledging the instruction, Knocker followed it when he reached the turn. Halfway along the street, however, Rogers spoke urgently in his ear, “Danger close, Scalpel. Danger close. You have three tangos about to turn onto your street.”
Remaining calm, Knocker glanced about, searching for a place to take cover. He noticed something suitable across the street.
Jogging over to the recessed doorway, he took shelter inside, controlling his breathing while waiting. Listening to their excited voices approach, Knocker frowned. They were speaking English.
“Mother,” he whispered, “can I have confirmation that these guys play for the other team?”
“What’s wrong, Scalpel?”
“They’re speaking fucking English.”
After a brief period of silence, he heard, “Scalpel, you are clear to engage.”
Stepping out of the doorway, Knocker shot the first man twice in the chest. His aim shifted, and he repeated his actions for a similar outcome. Both men fell silently to the ground, their weapons leaving their hands. The third man dropped his weapon and threw his hands above shoulder height, calling, “Don’t shoot!”
“I don’t have time for this shit,” Knocker muttered. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Tom. Tom Wiltshire.”
“Where you from, Smeg?”
“Bournemouth.”
“You should have stayed there. Turn around and start walking. You do anything stupid, I’ll put one in the back of your head.”
The young man started walking along the street. In his earpiece, Knocker heard, “What are you doing, Scalpel?”
It was Grayson.
“Bringing home a prisoner, Mother.”
“Put a bullet in his head and get out of there.”
“You’re breaking up, ma’am.”
“That’s an order, Jensen,” Grayson growled.
“Fuck you.”
“Knocker, damn it—”
“Scalpel, out.”
They continued along the street, and once they reached the inte
rsection, Rogers said, “Turn left. Halfway along the street is a large square where the helicopter can put down. Good luck.”
Knocker heard a distant helicopter on approach, the sound quickly growing louder. He said into his comms. “Chicken Hawk Three-Two, copy?”
“Roger, Scalpel.”
“I’m about one mike out from the LZ, over.”
“Roger, Scalpel. We’ll see you there.”
Knocker pushed the young man along in front of him. “Where are you taking me?”
“Back to where you belong,” Knocker told him. “Keep moving.”
Reaching the square, Knocker pushed the young man to his knees to wait. “Chicken Hawk, we’re on-site. Northeast corner of the square, over.”
“Roger. We’ll be there in three…two…one—”
The Chinook appeared above them with a loud roar. Dust violently kicked up from the square as the rotor wash stirred it. Knocker grabbed his young prisoner, hauled him to his feet, and shoved him toward the back ramp of the Chinook just as it touched down.
They were almost there when the young man stumbled and fell. Knocker tried to get him up, but he wouldn’t respond. He rolled him over and saw the patch of blood on his chest. He’d been shot.
The SAS man looked at the top of the helicopter’s ramp and saw one of the two SAS snipers standing there, his rifle cradled in his arms.
“Bastard,” he hissed. “Fucking bastard.”
Knocker ran the rest of the way to the helicopter and up the ramp and didn’t stop until he’d crashed into the SAS operator. He felt the Chinook lift and bank to the left, but at that point, he didn’t care. He was too busy beating the shit out of the shooter for killing his prisoner.
It took a further twelve months for an SAS hunter-killer team to nail the Jihadi dubbed English Eddie. Twelve solid months of sifting through thousands of pages of intel and keeping agents on the ground. After the assassination attempt in Mosul, he just disappeared. Then a thread appeared, one mentioning an Englishman and Mogadishu.
British Intelligence investigated and came up with two pictures. Both were of a heavily bearded man who always wore sunglasses and robes.
Soon after that, they got lucky. A third photo was snapped, this one showing a partially exposed right forearm with a portion of a tattoo. English Eddie had tattoos, three of them. One on his right forearm. The intelligence guys analyzed the shit out of the thing until they were almost certain the man they had recently dubbed Tatt Man was indeed English Eddie.
Hereford was on standby, and within twenty-four hours, a six-man team from 22 SAS Squadron was in the air.
Dropped on target with aircover on standby should it be required, the mission went off without a hitch. The team was extracted with the DNA evidence needed to identify the dead terrorist.
Two years after that, in 2019, another terrorist rose to the top of the most-wanted list. The intelligence community was calling him The Ghost. No one had seen him, hence there were no pictures on record. Rumor had it that he was a Westerner, but no one could prove it. The only proof they did have was the pile of bodies that continued to climb. Journalists, aid volunteers, military personnel, civilian contractors. Even prominent politicians.
His movements were tracked from Africa to Europe and Iraq. Once, he was even in Syria. By the time any Western intelligence agencies got a lead on him, he was gone. The Ghost certainly lived up to his name.
Then it all changed.
Chapter 1
Pablo’s Bar, El Paso, Texas
Present Day
“Oh, motherfu—”
“You okay, Knocker?” John “Reaper” Kane asked the former SAS man as he writhed in pain on the floor.
“She kneed me in the bloody bollocks, Reaper,” he moaned, gasping for breath.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have tried your British charm on her,” Kane opined with a grin.
Knocker looked up into the face of the Team Reaper leader. Kane was a solidly built man who stood six-four and had short black hair. His nickname originated from the large tattoo of the Grim Reaper on his back. Reaper leaned down and put a hand out for Knocker to take. “Here.”
He dragged the former SAS man to his feet and said, “You look a little green.”
Knocker breathed deeply, composing himself, then said, “Give me another beer and I’ll wash it away.”
“Did I miss all the fun?” Cara Billings asked as she approached their table, placing their beers on cardboard coasters. Once a Marine Corp lieutenant as well as a deputy sheriff, she now was the Team Reaper second in command, armorer, and sniper.
In her mid-thirties, she worked out daily to maintain her slim, muscular figure in peak condition.
Kane laughed. “Knocker tried one of his never-fail British pickup lines and got kneed in his balls.”
Cara smiled.
“It’s not bloody funny,” Knocker said. “It hurts.”
“You need someone to rub it better for you?” Cara suggested jovially.
“Are you volunteering?”
She held up both hands. “No. You never know what I might catch. That thing of yours is probably as bad as Axe’s.”
“Ease up,” he said indignantly. “Nothing is that bad.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I apologize.”
“Speaking of our illustrious comrade,” Kane said, “have you seen him?”
Knocker nodded toward the corner of the room where the tall, bearded former Recon Marine sniper stood talking to a couple of ladies. “Looks like he’s working on his next tattoo.”
“Don’t say that,” Kane said with a shake of his head. “Don’t even think it. You know what he’s like.”
“I see Axe is working on his next tattoo,” Richard “Brick” Peters said as he joined them.
Kane glared at the former Navy SEAL with the shaved head and said, “Don’t you frigging start.”
Brick rubbed his beard. “What did I say?”
“Reaper’s just jealous that Axe is getting his Bell End in more than him,” Knocker replied.
Cara looked at him incredulously. “That’s a new one. Why haven’t I heard that before?”
“Because I’m a gentleman.”
“And you’re full of shit.” Cara laughed as she took a sip of beer, then licked froth from her top lip.
“I’m hurt,” said Kane, taking a pull of his own drink.
Brick looked at Axe and his lady friends. “You want I should go over there and give him something to knock him out?”
Brick was the team’s combat medic and a damn fine one. His skills had been called into action on more than one occasion.
Kane shook his head. “Not yet. But if he starts toward the door with either one of those ladies, I’ll knock the bastard out myself.”
“Is Axe working on his next tattoo?” a female voice asked, causing those around the table to erupt in laughter. Everyone, that is, except for Kane.
General Mary Thurston looked confused. “Did I miss something?”
Cara smiled broadly. “No, ma’am. Not yet anyway.”
Kane stared at the commander of the Worldwide Drug Initiative. For a woman in her early forties, she looked mighty good. Her long dark hair, normally worn tied back, was loose today. It hung past her shoulders, accentuating her face and brown eyes. Apart from Cara, she was one of the most aerobically fit in the organization.
“Can I get you a beer, ma’am?” Brick asked.
Thurston shook her head. “I’m here to see Knocker, actually. Luis said you were all here winding down from the training exercise today.”
“What did I do now?”
She smiled at him. “Nothing. However, you and I are flying to Virginia tomorrow for a meeting with the CIA director.”
“Do we know why?” he inquired.
“No, we don’t know why.”
“I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”
Thurston’s face was deadpan. “It can’t be good.”
“You’re right.”
>
“Don’t look now, but Casanova is coming this way with some arm candy,” Brick said out of the corner of his mouth.
They all turned to glance at the couple heading in their direction. Axe was grinning from ear to ear, while the dark-haired lady on his arm appeared to be apprehensive.
“Hey, everyone,” Axe said. “I’d…whoops! Hi, General.”
“Axel.”
Axe glanced at Kane. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Whew. When she called me Axel, I thought for a moment I might have fu…I mean, stuffed up.” He shot an apologetic look at his companion.
“Nope.”
“I’m right here, Axel,” Thurston said. “You know that, yes?”
Axe gave her a big grin. “Yes, ma’am. And looking splendid, as always.”
“Are you taking the lady to Bedfordshire or the tattoo parlor?” Knocker asked.
Kane gave Knocker a perplexed stare.
Axe shot him a what-the-fuck look, but his lady friend spoke up. “No, he’s not taking me to bed, and I know nothing about any tattoo parlor.”
Her accent was heavy. Knocker smiled. “West Country?”
She nodded.
Axe smiled. “She talks better than you do, ya git. And she’s a doctor.”
Cara reached across the table. “I’m Cara. Take no notice of these apes.”
“Gwen,”
“I’m Mary,” Thurston said, introducing herself.
“You’re the Iron Lady,” Gwen said.
Thurston looked at Axe, who dropped his gaze and cleared his throat. “Anyone want a beer?”
“Where are you a doctor, Gwen?” Thurston asked, not taking her eyes off Axe.
“I’m at El Paso Municipal. I work in the ER.”
Knocker threw back the last of his beer and said, “I’d love to stay, but apparently I have a plane to catch in the morning, so it’s time for me to skive off. Nice to have met you, Gwen. Just be aware the big guy is a bit of a poser.”
Gwen’s smile broadened. “You’re no friend.”
He winked at her. “Goodnight, everyone.”