by Chase Austin
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Wicked Hunter
A High Octane Action Thriller
About Wicked Hunter
The Taliban have abducted a CIA agent. No one knows where he is being kept. Time is running out. Can he be saved?
Task Force-77 (TF-77) is a black ops team of NSA and the US Military. This is the team the U.S. government calls when it needs to get people out of the most dangerous places on earth.
Sam Wick is TF-77’s best. A Master Extractor. A Deadly Assassin. Where the government cannot—and will not—go, he will.
His mission: Extract Josh Fletcher, a CIA operative, from a Taliban stronghold.
Deadline: Less than twelve hours.
Can Wick outrun death?
Chapter 1
Walter Raborn watched as Sophie, his eighteen-year-old daughter, savored her birthday cake.
“Dad, stop looking at me like that! You’re making me self-conscious.” She turned his face away with a cake-soiled hand.
Raborn grinned at her gesture. How soon kids grew up. He picked up a tissue to wipe his cheek.
“What next?” she asked, beaming.
“How about a movie? Raborn said.
“Dad, Gone with the Wind is not running in theaters anymore, and I don’t want to spend the rest of the evening sitting in a cramped, smelly seat.”
“So, you think the movie I watched last was Gone with the Wind?”
Sophie waved his indignation away. “I’m thinking along the lines of a vacation.”
“Vacation?”
“Yes, it’s been years since you, me and Mom went anywhere.”
“Your Mom and I getting anywhere within fifty yards of each other is always a bad idea.”
“Ah...Dad, you guys look so good together! If you ask me, you should give each other one more chance.”
“Your mom and I are happy the way we are.”
“I don’t see you happy.”
“Maybe because you don’t see me very often.”
“If you stayed with us, I would see you more often.”
“I heard you’re going back to Columbia next week,” Raborn said, attempting to change the topic.
“I am, but I’m not going forever, am I? Dad, I hate having to shuttle between your place and Mom’s, to see you both.”
“I don’t know, kiddo. Your mom and I separated on a bad note. Even our fond moments are colored with bitterness.”
Raborn’s tone had an unstated sadness that Sophie understood. So, it was she who changed the topic this time. “You spoke to Mr. Helms about my internship?” William Helms was the director of the NSA and arguably one of the most respected men in the intelligence community.
The expression on her father’s face told her everything she needed to know. After a short pause, Raborn said, “I will ask him, but you still haven’t told me why you want to do an internship at the NSA.”
“I told you I’m considering a career as a cryptocurrency analyst. What better place than the NSA for someone like me after Columbia?”
“I thought you were just trying to scare me off by choosing an agency like NSA.”
“Dad, it’s just a desk job, playing with the computer, nothing scary.”
“Maybe.” The real reason for Raborn’s hesitation was NSA’s lower billing against CIA, but he decided not to voice his opinion.
“The director of the CIA should not say such things.”
“Why don’t you come and see if something in the CIA interests you?”
“Dad, we have already discussed this.”
“Okay, fine.” Raborn raised his hand to signal for the check.
“Sir.” The head of Raborn’s security detail stepped up to the table, cell phone in hand. “Roy is on the line. He says it’s urgent.”
Raborn looked at him with a neutral expression and then checked his own cell. Three missed calls. He had put the phone on mute for the dinner date with his daughter.
“Tell Roy I’ll call him,” Raborn said.
Sophie noticed the sudden change in her father’s tone. “Dad, everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine. I just need to take this call.” Raborn rose from his chair and went to a secluded corner before dialing Roy’s secure line. Roy picked up before the second ring.
“Roy.”
“Sir, this is about Josh Fletcher.”
Raborn knew Josh Fletcher, an old CIA hand who was currently in Afghanistan, operating undercover as a CNN reporter, to track the Taliban’s activities.
“I’m listening.” Raborn maintained his composure.
“He has been incommunicado for the last five hours. We tracked the location of his commlink device to the Helmand Province, near the Afghanistan–Pakistan border. The location is deep in Taliban territory, so chances are that they might have got suspicious. We’re already tracking any unusual movement at their known hideouts, but there’s nothing noteworthy till now.”
Raborn listened without interrupting. His ambition to carve out a successful political career in DC had just faced its first test, and he did not know how much damage the test would inflict before it would end. His mind raced.
“Which of our assets are nearest to Helmand? Check all databases, not only the CIA’s,” he instructed Roy.
“I already have the names of two operatives who can be mobilized quickly. There’s Peter Adams of the CIA, and there’s this guy called Sam Wick.”
“Sam Wick?”
“Yes, sir.” The recognition in Raborn’s tone surprised Roy. The fact that his boss knew the name of a lowly field operative who wasn’t a CIA asset was unusual.
Raborn nodded. He knew now what he had to do. “Connect me to William Helms in five minutes.” He disconnected and returned to his table to bid Sophie goodbye.
Chapter 2
William Helms was at the dinner table. Martha, his wife of forty years sat on his left, and Chloe, his daughter, was to his right. But William’s attention was on the midterm election debate raging on TV, that he was watching surreptitiously from the corner of his eye.
The panel featured three reporters and the special guest, Secretary of Defense Patrick Mattis, sitting in a semicircle, around a horseshoe news desk.
“Secretary Mattis, this week has been extremely difficult for the government here in the nation’s capital… probably more so for you than most. President Hancock’s proposed amendment to withdraw the American troops from Afghanistan, bringing a sudden end to a military campaign that largely vanquished the Taliban and ceding a strategically vital country to China and Russia, has not met with a positive response. Many political pundits, and of course the Democrats, have criticized the move, calling it immature. How do you see the events of the last several days and how will they affect the US president’s approval ratings?”
Mattis shifted in his chair. “To call the last few days difficult is an understatement. But what most people don’t understand is how certain decisions need to be made despite what popular opinion says. We hope that the Democrats will see reason and support our armed forces. President Hancock is a very strong leader, and under his able leadership we will move forward and get back to the business of governing this country.”
Helms could clearly see how uncomfortable Mattis was on camera. Despite being a politician, he wasn’t a very good liar,
and this was clearly visible under studio lights. The truth was that not only had President Hancock overruled his generals and civilian advisers to fulfill his frequently expressed desire to bring home American forces from a messy foreign entanglement, but his decision, conveyed via his own social media handle on Wednesday, had plunged the administration’s Afghanistan strategy into disarray, rattling allies like Britain and Israel, who were faithful partners in fighting the Taliban.
The abrupt, chaotic nature of the move—and the opposition it immediately provoked on Capitol Hill and beyond—raised questions about how the President would follow through with the full withdrawal. Even after the President’s announcement, officials said, the Pentagon and State Department were still trying to talk him out of it.
Helms tried to stay calm, though the bridge of his nose crinkled with tension. He asked himself once again, “What in hell is he up to?”
“Bill, you’re doing it again,” Martha said, her disapproval evident in her tone. “Sometimes, it’s better to switch off from what is happening around the world, and just enjoy the moment.”
“I know, I know.” He raised his hands in surrender.
Chloe picked up the remote and switched off the television, laughing. Helms gave her a look of mock anger but knew better than to protest. He turned his attention to the food.
“What’s this for?” he asked, forking his steak.
“We’re celebrating, Dad.”
“Celebrating?”
“For your taking a day off in a decade,” Martha said with a smile.
“I have taken days off now and then,” Helms protested.
“Not under our watch,” Chloe said, firmly.
Helms decided not to contest this claim and focused on the steak. It seemed juicy and tender.
“How is it?” Martha asked.
“A little different today but, like always, the best,” Helms replied, dabbing his mouth with a tissue.
“It’s Chloe who should get all the credit for this,” Martha said.
“Really?” Helms was mildly surprised.
“I know it’s not like how Mom makes it—”
“You are right, it’s better.” Helms cut in, making both the ladies chuckle.
They were halfway through their dinner when the phone rang. It was the secure line. Helms instinctively got up, avoiding Martha’s gaze. She hated people leaving the table in the middle of the meal. But, as NSA director, he did not have the luxury of ignoring calls on the secure line that few people had access to. This better be important, he thought grimly as he picked up the receiver, or the caller’s toast.
“Helms speaking.”
“Sir, Walter Raborn wants to talk to you,” the operator chimed in.
“Patch him in,” Helms said after a thoughtful pause. He knew Raborn, but a call at home from the director of the CIA was unusual, to say the least.
“Helms Speaking.”
“Helms, do you know the whereabouts of Sam Wick?”
“Sam Wick?” Wick was the best asset of Task Force 77 or TF-77, currently stationed in Afghanistan. TF-77 was a team of highly skilled operatives. The team was overseen by the NSA and the US military and was equipped to handle anything. The team was capable to execute the toughest missions, penetrate the most dangerous locations, often through means that no government could overtly authorize. No one knew the exact size of this team or how many assets it had, except for a handful of individuals, which did not include even the President of the US. As its custodian, it was Helms’ responsibility to protect this team from the diplomatic circus and that was why Raborn was on the phone with him.
“Yes, we have a problem at the Afghanistan–Pakistan border, and we need someone in the field who is an expert of that terrain. My sources mentioned that Sam is in the region.”
“What kind of problem?” Helms asked, grimly. This wasn’t the first time Raborn had maneuvered him into a position he would rather not have been in.
Raborn gave him a redacted version of the story.
The more Helms listened to Raborn the more his reservations about this untimely call grew. The story didn’t seem convincing. The CIA had agents stationed in the same territory already, Helms knew, and yet they were asking for Sam. Even so, he kept his thoughts to himself as Raborn updated him on the situation. He listened patiently to Raborn’s theories regarding the possible abduction but reserved judgment until he could cross-check them after the call. Instead, he assured Raborn that the inter-agency politics would not get in the way where an agent’s life was concerned. He promised Raborn that he would have an appropriate response within a couple of hours.
Helms looked at Martha and Chloe who were waiting for him to return to the table. “Something’s come up. I’ll finish dinner in my office,” he told them, picking up his plate and striding to his home office.
Martha and Chloe gazed after him, then turned back to their dinner. They had seen this too many times to take offense. And they knew whatever had come up must be of vital importance, if Helms was sacrificing his precious day off.
Helms closed the door of his home office and picked up his Blackberry. He scrolled to the name of Riley Miller—Wick’s handler—and pressed the dial button. Three rings later an alert voice greeted him.
“Riley, I need to talk to Sam. How soon can you patch a secure connection?”
“It’s 0600 hours in Afghanistan so Wick should be in the safe house. It should not take much time, sir,” Riley said.
“Okay, call me on this number as soon as you get a hold on him.”
Chapter 3
TF-77’s Safe House, Afghanistan
Sam Wick had been lying on a bare cot, staring at the rotating ceiling fan for the last four hours. His eyelids were heavy, and he had a splitting headache but even so, he couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried, but the naps never lasted more than fifteen-twenty minutes. Finally, he got up and ambled towards the kitchen, craving some black coffee.
The safe house was located in the Helmand province of Afghanistan and belonged to TF-77. Wick was one of the last draft picks from West Point for TF-77 and no one, not even Helms, who led the TF-77 along with the NSA, had imagined his meteoric rise in such a short time. He had been picked as the backup of the backup of the backup. That didn’t mean he wasn’t good, it simply meant there had been others in his batch who were far better than him when they first joined the TF-77, but over time Wick had doggedly emerged as TF-77’s best asset. His hit rate, hovering at ninety-five percent for the last five years, the best among the current crop of TF-77 assets, spoke of his tenacity.
At 5’11”, his weather-beaten face had a rugged attraction, not least because of his unreadable sea-blue eyes, bright with intelligence. With his slicked-back black hair and athletic build, he seemed like a man on a mission. According to his file, he could speak seventeen languages with a neutral accent, including Arabic, Urdu, and Hindi. This made him an excellent choice for being deployed in countries like Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan.
Till seven months ago, he had considered himself an orphan, but then during a mission in Poland, he had stumbled onto information about the identity of his parents and the possibility that they might still be alive. Since that day, he had been trying to find the missing pieces, but had so far been unsuccessful in finding anything substantial that he could latch on to.
The problem was that he wasn’t completely certain if he wanted to find the people who had abandoned him ages ago. What would he do even if he found them? There wasn’t any kind of emotional connect he felt with them anymore. There was curiosity maybe, but was that enough to invite further complications in his already troubled life?
Wick was about to sit back on his cot with his coffee mug when his comm beeped. He put down the mug on the side table and put on his headset. It was Riley, his handler.
Fifteen minutes later, Helms’ phone rang. It was Riley, along with Wick.
“Thanks, Riley, you can drop off now,” Helms said. It wasn’t a
request.
“Sure, sir.” There was confusion in her voice. Helms ignored it. For what he wanted to discuss with Wick, he needed privacy. There was a click, and they both knew they were the only ones on the call.
“Who else is with you in the safe house?” Helms asked, without preamble.
“I’m alone.”