Rex Dalton Thrillers: Books 1-3 (The Rex Dalton Series Boxset Book 1)

by JC Ryan

  He also understood that to do so, he was going to have to operate on his own. The mission parameters had been clear: observe, report, and nothing else.

  Rex was a good soldier, and his superiors noticed that early in his military career. Before joining CRC, he’d gone through Marine boot camp. On the day of his graduation, he’d been virtually kidnapped by the Army and shoved unceremoniously into Delta Force candidacy and training. He didn’t care – it was a faster route to his goal in joining the military in the first place. He wanted to kill terrorists, the more the better. That was his life's mission.

  That mission was rooted in the horrifying deaths of his family in a terror bombing in Barcelona in 2004. He’d spent a year wallowing in his sorrow and hate, and then, in a flash of insight, discovered his mission in life. He abandoned all plans he had to join the Foreign Service and instead joined the Marines immediately, leaving behind the woman who would have been his wife and mother of their children by now if his parents, and younger siblings, a brother and a sister, hadn’t been killed that day. He and his girlfriend had been spared that day only because they’d left the station for a coffee shop a couple of blocks away.

  As he walked across the compound on this early June morning, his thoughts bounced from one place to another, reflecting on how he’d gotten here and what he’d done so far. But as soon as he got to the building that held the Phoenix operations offices, his focus grew sharper. He’d given it a full twenty-four hours. Unless he was badly mistaken, there’d be chatter on the Deep Web.

  If there was, he’d trace the routes the chatter took. With luck, it would lead him back to the person or group that held the ultimate power over the opium trade, at least in this part of the world. Maybe South American production was related, maybe not. That wasn’t his concern. He was here to shut down the Afghani opium trade, and he was getting damn tired of whoever wasn’t holding up their end of the bargain. That ended, as soon as he had the people who held the strings in his sights.

  ***

  IN THE RESIDENCE, the former home of a ‘businessman’ – i.e. drug lord that Frank Millard, Phoenix’s CEO, had converted to apartments for his team, Trevor Madigan had another hour to sleep before starting his day. Trevor was former Australian SAS, and inseparable from his war dog, Digger. Like all Frank’s other employees, Trevor had served honorably in his Special Operations career.

  Digger was one of the most intelligent dogs Trevor ever worked with. He’d not only excelled in every aspect of his training, but he constantly surprised Trevor by teaching himself useful new skills, like climbing trees. As far as Trevor was concerned, Digger was a better ‘human’ than many of the real humans he’d met.

  Trevor and Digger had played a covert part in Rex’s escapades until recently, when Frank had admitted to Rex that he knew and approved of what they were doing. Night before last, they’d been involved in Rex’s spectacular demolition of a major heroin lab and warehouse. Fifty tons of heroin rendered to dust particles and dispersed into the mountain air where a few goat herders and their goats might have gotten a short kick out of it.

  Today, Trevor knew that Rex expected to be called home. If he was, then there’d be a company-wide goodbye feast before someone took Rex to his secret extraction point. Trevor wanted to get some training and reward time in with Digger beforehand so he could volunteer to drive Rex to the rendezvous. He’d miss his mate, that he would. And damn it if he could keep his eyes closed. At four-thirty, he gave up and got up.

  Digger opened one eye and then made his opinion known by yawning hugely, a squeak of protest escaping as he did. He had as keen a sense of time as anyone, and he knew this was sleep time, unless they were working. He had three times of day: sleep time, eat time, and work/play time. And he enjoyed them all equally. Like most dogs, Digger lived in the moment. Unlike many, he also had a fine sense of humor. After Trevor got up and got dressed, activities that Digger showed no interest in, he urged Digger to ‘rise and shine’. Digger pretended not to hear him, keeping both eyes closed and his tail still.

  “Come on, Digger, up and at ‘em. Let’s work.”

  Digger considered that. It was still sleep time, but he liked to work. Acting put-upon, he got to his feet and went to his bowls. Finding no food, he gave Trevor a reproachful look. As if to say, “What’s with this, no food in my bowl?”

  “Oh, you want chow first? Then you should get up when I tell you to, instead of pretending you’re deaf.”

  Digger opened his mouth, which pulled the corners up and let his tongue hang out. It was his version of a smile, and he’d learned it disarmed almost anyone, the local people outside the walls and Trevor’s friend Rex the exceptions. Digger didn’t care about the other people, but Rex’s attitude troubled him. Trevor said he was a friend, part of the pack even. Digger acted as if he wasn’t so sure. But Trevor was the alpha male of the pack, so Digger pretended to put up with Rex.

  Trevor accepted Digger’s smiling apology and filled his bowl with kibble. Later, after work, there might be a treat in the toy. Digger never expected it but accepted with joy when it happened. He made short work of the kibble and went to the door to let Trevor know he was ready to work.

  ***

  At 5:00 a.m., Frank’s internal alarm woke him. He hadn’t needed an artificial alarm since Marine boot camp, where he’d first met Rex Dalton. As he opened his eyes, he was instantly alert, and the first thought that came to mind was he was going to miss that SOB, Dalton. He’d played host to his buddy since Dalton turned up almost a year before.

  As a private military contractor, he and his teams provided logistics and supplies support to several agencies, including the military and the CIA who had hired him to handle Dalton’s needs. He’d thought Dalton was working for Delta Force when he first arrived, but it didn’t add up. He knew better than to dig any deeper. It soon became evident that Dalton clearly had undergone spook training somewhere, so Frank concluded it was somehow one of, or linked to one of, the top-secret alphabet-soup agencies. And that was already more than he needed to know.

  Dalton had only confided a little about it in him within the past week, when he’d finally let on he knew about Trevor Madigan’s exploits. A former SEAL himself, Frank didn’t let much moss grow on his brain, either. He was okay with it. Trevor had done everything else on his own time, except for the last raid, which was with Frank’s full blessing. And he’d given it knowing it might mean there could be reprisals if the involvement of his men became known.

  He’d lost track of his old buddy for close to eight years. He hoped it wouldn’t be another eight before their paths crossed again.

  ***

  BY NOON, A bit irritated, Rex knew he wouldn’t get the recall order today. It was midnight, twelve hours behind Kabul time, in Arizona. He swallowed his disappointment and told Frank he was out of there for the rest of the day. He was going to make his rounds in the market, see what else he could learn. But he didn’t have much hope that anything new would happen until the harvest was well under way and the new labs began to produce their poison again.

  It incensed him to think that he’d have to start all over again, but the greater concern was that his time was running out. Sooner or later, someone would put it together, he’d be discovered, and his head would be literally on the chopping block. The only thing he could do now, until he was recalled, was to make such a nuisance of himself that Brandt had no choice but to pull him out.

  Chapter Two

  Kabul, Afghanistan June 2014

  REX HAD SUSPECTED for a while that his mission was merely window-dressing. The more he learned about how the networks thrived, the more he was convinced he was right. The Holy Grail, or perhaps it was the grayly hole, whatever it was, the answer to ending the Afghan drug trade was seated in America. That’s where he had to be. Meanwhile, he’d spent a year in Afghanistan, chasing mirages. Not all of it was wasted though. He now possessed an intimate knowledge of the industry, from producer to consumer and everyone in between.
And it was those who were in between who he wanted to focus on now. They were the enablers, they had to go. No doubt he’d given a few small farmers a bellyache, but it had been a drop in the proverbial bucket. Destroying small labs didn’t disrupt the major leagues for even a day.

  The waste of time and resources frustrated him to no end, but even worse was the fact that it was prolonging the war and wasting even more time, resources, and the lives of young American soldiers who don’t even know they’re being used as pawns in a game of political chess.

  He’d had enough. He was a logical man – black and white – squares and circles. The drug trade was the heart of the problem. Destroy it and the war ends. No one else wanted to do it, so he was going to do it. The destruction of the massive warehouse night before last was just the beginning. No longer concerned about protecting his cover or conserving his sources, he plotted a new assault. Beginning today, he’d be more proactive, less cautious about asking questions.

  He’d take out stockpiles of last year’s product and labs for new product whenever and wherever he found them. And he’d have the full support of Frank Millard and the resources available to him. Frank had been a friend back in boot camp. Until Rex began this mission, they hadn’t seen each other for eight years, but the friendship remained.

  His other buddy, Trevor – ex-Australian SAS and dog handler – along with Trevor’s Dutch shepherd, would be his allies, since CRC was under the CIA’s thumb, and the CIA was a dysfunctional bureaucracy, not worthy of his concern.

  Before he approached Frank with his plan, he needed to identify a few targets. This afternoon’s work would net at least one or two, or so he hoped.

  He dressed in his cover attire, the loose serwal trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, slit on both sides below the waist. If he’d been pressed for an opinion, he’d have had to admit that these man-jammies, as he liked to call them, were marginally cooler than his Western civilian clothing, usually khaki cargo shorts and a Polo-style shirt. It was definitely cooler than the fatigues he wore when posing as a member of the US military. The loosely-woven, white fabric of the traditional Middle Eastern garb both reflected the sun and let in any breezes that occasionally rose, even in summer.

  Rex also valued the concealing nature of the clothing, because his body revealed more about him than he wished known while he was passing for an Afghani man. Instead of the lean but soft muscles of the indolent poor he hung out with, his were corded and well-defined, betraying a strenuous workout regimen one would not expect to find with a lowly peasant on the streets of Kabul. The loose-fitting clothes, of course, also helped to conceal handguns and knives, or whatever lethal surprises he might be carrying. Not that he needed any weapons at all. Expert in martial arts, especially Krav Maga, which he’d practiced since before adulthood, his skills were all he needed most of the time.

  His black hair, dark brown eyes, and skin browned by years in sunny environments, the native dress and demeanor, all helped him to blend in. The only other features he needed to pass for native were to adopt the posture and gait of the locals, which looked more like a saunter than a purposeful stride. And of course, the flawless accent and fluent command of Arabic. In the latter, he was fortunate to have a savant-like quirk that allowed him to achieve fluency quickly and speak with the accent of either his tutor or the people he surrounded himself with daily.

  He’d begun to learn Arabic while in college, preparing himself for a career in the Foreign Service. By the time he’d been given this assignment, he could pass as a native speaker. A year into the assignment, he had the accent and idiom of the chronically unemployed who frequented the market looking for work down cold.

  His regular ‘beat’ was a coffee shop, actually more of an open-air stall than a shop, on the fringes of the busiest blocks in the market district. For the past year, he’d been coming here, making friends, keeping his ears open, and professing to look for work. On occasion, he’d taken odd jobs, but none were long term, and that suited him fine. He had to be free to follow up on leads.

  Previously, he’d avoided referring to the opium trade when putting out feelers for work. Now, with a new purpose, he grew bolder. His companions gossiped. There was no other word for it. Previously, references to opium were oblique, and he’d had to read between the lines. Today, he spoke frankly, claiming to need more money and inquiring whether his friends knew of anyone needing a worker with the skills to extract morphine from raw opium.

  They looked at him with new respect. It was a better résumé than any of them could present. Perhaps it would benefit them to know someone of his stature. One admitted he might have a contact. Abdul – as Rex was known to them – should come by the coffee shop later in the evening, about ten o’clock, to meet someone who knew someone who might know of a job for him.

  Rex had eight hours to wait, so he continued to the next knot of gossip-mongers with the same request, and when that proved fruitless, on to the next. He earned three afghani, less than four US cents, not even enough for his next cup of coffee, helping to load a truck in the late afternoon. By early evening, the streets were beginning to empty.

  Though curfews had been imposed off and on over the years since 2002, when the 24-year prohibition of being on the streets after midnight was lifted, the locals had learned that it wasn’t safe after dark in any case. A few hardy souls frequented restaurants and other gathering places, most notably ex-pats who unaccountably lived in Kabul despite the war or civilians who were employed because of the war – reporters, for example.

  Rex, however, didn’t break character. Those civilians weren’t his priority. They’d chosen to be here.

  In the hours between seven and ten p.m., he picked up enough leads to keep him busy for the rest of the night.

  Chapter Three

  The Phoenix Compound, Kabul, Afghanistan June 2014

  DIGGER USUALLY SLEPT when his alpha, Trevor, did. If he’d had his way, he’d have slept a lot more than he did. But even when he was asleep, part of his brain was on alert for danger to Trevor or the pack. He opened his eyes and pitched his ears using all his senses to assess if it was a threat approaching or not, more than five seconds before any human would have heard the light tap on Trevor’s door.

  It was full dark, but he could sense Trevor stirring. Digger got up and padded to the door, putting his nose to the opening near the floor. Rex was outside. Digger growled softly and waited by the door until Trevor got up and opened it.

  “Ready for some action?” Rex asked.

  Digger smelled the adrenaline and recognized the excitement in Rex’s manner. Humans used a lot of noises that had no meaning in between their words. He went to the shelf where his harness and other gear were stored, picked up the mess of straps in his mouth, and took them to Trevor.

  “Good boy,” Trevor said. He was pulling on his clothes, so Digger sat, haunches down and front legs straight, waiting for his turn.

  Rex shook his head, “Now how the hell did he know to do that?”

  “I told you he understands what we’re saying.”

  While Trevor sorted out the straps and put Digger’s harness on him, fixing the camera to it securely, Rex talked some more. Digger understood only some of the words, but even Trevor would have been surprised at how many. Digger knew the names of objects, even those that didn’t figure in his commands. He understood that ‘Rex’ meant his alpha’s friend, who was afraid of him. He understood that ‘Trevor’ meant both alpha and leader, and he knew the human words for those canine concepts. He understood numbers to a certain point, though ‘dozen’, ‘hundred’, and more just meant ‘many’ to him.

  Digger didn’t get the opportunity to meet many others of his kind, so he identified more with the humans in his life than the dogs he met in passing. He couldn’t have expressed it, but his world consisted of ‘pack’ and ‘not pack’. Of the people and animals that were not pack, there were those who were simply not pack and harmless, and there were enemies. The words for enemies were ‘t
arget’, ‘tango’, ‘haji’ and a few others, and many times he could smell and sense evil without the alpha having to name them.

  Some of the other words were confusing. ‘Bastard’, for example, sometimes meant enemy, and sometimes not, if Trevor called a pack member that. Digger tended to ignore that one, unless a command was part of what he heard. Like ‘get that bastard’.

  Digger’s eyes moved back and forth, his gaze intent on Trevor when he was speaking, and Rex when he spoke. Digger waited. He would get his commands when it was time.

  ***

  Rex eyed Digger nervously while he was talking. Sometimes it seemed like the dog understood everything he was saying. Trevor always told him Digger was smart. Claimed he had a vocabulary of a thousand or so words. Freakin’ crazy. But he’d seen the dog in action, and he couldn’t argue with his effectiveness.

  Digger was a Dutch shepherd, a big bruiser – sixty-six pounds, over two feet tall when on all fours, and black with shaggy hair and a variety of facial expressions that looked for all the world like human ones. Rex knew for a fact that the dog smiled. No other explanation for it. He was certain Digger knew he felt fear, not just dislike, in his presence. He’d once seen a cat do the same thing to his little sister, who feared cats as much as he feared dogs, though as far as he knew she didn’t have as good a reason. The cat walked up in front of his sister, Quinn, fixed its eyes on hers, sat down and just stared until Quinn had burst into tears and run from the room.

  He wasn’t about to burst into tears, but he was almost sure the damn dog was getting some kicks out of teasing him that way by sitting there staring at him, mouth open, tongue lolled out, and his teeth showing. Rex didn’t like it when Digger did that to him, but he loved it when the dog helped that way with an interrogation. The hajis thought the dog was a demon. They called him ‘djinn’ or ‘Alshaytan’, and he scared the truth out of them every time.