by Chase Austin
Deadly Force
Task Force Thriller #2
Chase Austin
Thrillverse publishing
Contents
About DEADLY FORCE
YOUR FREE BOOK
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
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
SINGULAR FORCE (TASK FORCE-77 THRILLER #3)
ABOUT WICKED DECEIT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
YOUR FREE BOOK
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
About DEADLY FORCE
Sam Wick's new mission was simple - Infiltrate Iran, find the target and get out. Nothing could have gone wrong, except everything that could go wrong, went wrong.
Sam Wick's most explosive thriller, yet.
Sam Wick. Task Force 77's best. Master Extractor. Perfect Assassin. 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.
For fans of Vince Flynn and Lee Child, a heart-pumping thriller of action, betrayal, split-second decisions and conspiracy by the Breakthrough Author Chase Austin.
What Readers are saying about Sam Wick's Adventures;
★★★★★ "One heck of an entertaining and intense ride... Fast, entertaining, suspenseful and action-packed… you will find yourself flying through and it will be hard to let it go!" - Amazon Review
★★★★★ "Fast paced read with a Kick-Ass hero you can’t help rooting for." - Amazon Review
★★★★★ "Full of awesome action. I can't wait to read the next book" - Amazon Review
★★★★★ " I did not put this book down for any reason other than to eat." - Amazon Review
★★★★★ "Fast paced, lots of thrills. Highly entertaining." - Amazon Review
★★★★★ "I'm ready for Sam’s next assignment." - Amazon Review
YOUR FREE BOOK
Do not forget to download your FREE COPY of WICKED STORM.
Click the link - www.thechaseaustin.com
CHAPTER 1
Tehran, Iran
Dawn was just breaking, and sleepy street dogs were beginning to stir when Sam Wick completed his customary five-mile morning run. This was his third consecutive day in Tehran, the capital city of Iran, but he had been in the country in the past. He knew the place well, having spent a year or so here over the course of three previous missions. Apart from his usual run, he preferred to stay in the safe house the entire day, thinking, planning and honing the nuts and bolts of the plan. He needed the jog to take the edge off all the coffee he consumed during the day.
He checked his satellite phone—his communication line routed directly to the office of William Helms, Director of the NSA and Joint Custodian of Task Force-77, in Maryland, USA. The voice-secure sat phone was Wick’s only direct link to Helms. No one else knew he was in Iran, and no one could. The administration would want complete deniability when the target was captured, even more so if anything went awry.
The safehouse was Task Force-77’s property. Task Force-77, or TF-77, was a black ops team jointly overseen by the NSA and the US Army—an off-the-books team that came into play when diplomatic solutions failed. Powered with US military might across the globe and NSA’s intel, the team was sent on the toughest missions in the most dangerous locations that required the use of means that no government could ever authorize officially. Its multiple assets were spread in sensitive locations across the globe, and Wick was one of the best assets TF-77 had ever produced. He was invariably chosen to undertake the riskiest exfiltration missions, especially in countries where the US could not intervene directly. Countries like Iran.
5’11”. Weather-beaten face. Black hair. Pointed nose. Medium build. Unreadable sea-blue eyes and an unassuming walk. Trained in Krav Maga, Kalarippayattu and Muay Thai fighting styles. Expert in disguise. He’d been born in Kansas, but he could speak and write seventeen languages.
For anyone looking at him closely, he appeared a mass of contradictions. There was subsurface violence, almost always in control, but very much alive. There was also a pensiveness that seemed to stem from pain, yet he rarely gave vent to the anger that pain usually provoked.
Back in the safe house, he waited for the on-ground support team to arrive. To support field operatives during their missions the TF-77 deployed small on-the-ground teams—typically three to four members, depending on mission specifics. Although Wick had mentioned that he didn’t need one for this mission, his bosses insisted that he take one as backup.
Wick had received a message on the TF-77 application on his cell phone. Olivia, Logan and Elijah—his support team—were on their way from Isfahan, a city in central Iran. Based on their travel plans, Wick expected them to reach the safe house in the next few hours.
This was Wick’s first mission with this team. He had read their files, and they appeared competent. That’s all he needed. Olivia would help him handle the logistics if required. The bonus was that she was an expert in a gunfight. Elijah was a former marine with tight credentials. Logan was a tech guy and a non-combatant. Wick had plans for each of them. If they were here, then he was fine to use them as he deemed fit in the overall mix. He had that authority. He knew that. They understood that.
He looked at his unique shopping list lying on the table. He knew where he would find the items. He had contacts in the city to get the things he needed. He grabbed his kurta to get ready. He had to get the items on his list and be back in the safe house before the support team arrived.
CHAPTER 2
On that sunny morning, the air was heavy. The azan echoed from the loudspeakers perched at the top of the watchtower at the market square of one of the city's busiest markets.
Amid all this, Wick moved with purpose. An oversized long kurta, blue rugged jeans, black unkempt hair, and rectangular blue reading glasses gave him the look of a university student. He didn’t need a false wig or eyebrows or beard to blend in with the locals. His blue eyes were the only thing that made him stand out in a place like this, and he was wearing brown contacts to hide them. Wick was aware that his physical characteristics were part of the reason that time and again he was chosen for such missions, but the more important factor was his ability to hit his targets fast and hard. Spending too long planning meant delays, and delays killed momentum. He hated that. His bosses hated that.
In the field, he had the final say. But he knew this power came with a lot of responsibility. One wrong decision could easily jeopardize America’s image and future actions. His strategy was to minimize the factors of coincidence and luck in his missions, and the best way to do that was to do away with unnecessary antics. Keep things simple and uncomplicated. That was easier said than done in high-voltage missions like this which involved so many moving pieces. It had been a long road for him, with lots of ups and downs, to get to this stage where he now had the temperament to focus on just one thing and find the best way to get it without complications. His consistency had earned him the nickname ‘the machine’ from other TF-77 agents. Not that he knew or cared about such
things. He was a loner and rarely spoke with anyone within the agency. There was no one in the world he could truly call his own. It was a tough way to live, but the only way he knew.
Wick walked through the throngs, his eyes carefully soaking in every small detail of his vicinity. His walk was assured yet unpretentious.
He stopped at a nondescript phone booth shop with a signboard that quite unnecessarily announced: “Phone calls”. In the age of cell phones, time seemed to have stood still for paid phone booths like this. People walked past, ignoring the run-down structure and its middle-aged owner. For them, neither existed in this modern world.
Wick was probably the only customer the shop owner had seen in days, maybe even months. Wick asked if he could make a call. The man looked at him and demanded, “You have the money?”
Wick produced a torn piece of a one toman note. The owner glanced at the note, then back at Wick. Then, he reached into his desk drawer, drew out another torn note and laid it down beside the one Wick had produced. The two pieces fit together perfectly. It was an old-school way to determine authenticity in this trade and even in the age of hi-tech gizmos, it still worked like a charm. The shop owner looked at Wick and inclined his head slightly, gesturing for him to go inside.
Wick walked past the man and entered the cramped corridor behind a ragged curtain. A zero-watt bulb dangled before a door at the end of the corridor, dimly illuminating the corridor. Wick paused at the door. It was unlatched. He pushed it open and light spilled out from within. The room was separated into two sections with a long table in the middle. A young man stood on the other side holding a cell phone in his left hand. The shop owner from outside had evidently already informed him about the visitor. As soon as he saw Wick, he pulled a large black canvas bag from the floor and set it down on the table. Wick looked at the boy for a fleeting second and then, without a word, unzipped the bag and made a cursory inspection of its contents. Satisfied, he zipped the bag and lifted it. The weight seemed right too. He drew an envelope from his back pocket and slid it towards the boy. The boy counted the notes within, smiling when he saw the amount was more than that asked. Wick didn’t return the smile. He backed out, without breaking eye contact with the boy. Stepping out of the room, he closed the door and crossed the corridor. In less than thirty seconds, he had left the shop and disappeared into the crowd.
CHAPTER 3
Wick had taken utmost care in traveling to the shop, choosing secluded alleyways and inner streets. Still, the whole business deal had taken less than three hours and he was back in the safe house well in time.
Putting the bag down in the dining area, he checked his watch. In a few hours he would be dropped off as close to the target as they could manage. From there he would be on his own.
He had everything laid out and, for the next half hour, he meticulously analyzed the contents of the bag. This routine, which he followed without fail on every mission, ensured no mistakes. It meant that he would not head into war territory only to find his gun jammed, or his ammunition low, or any of the other thousand possibilities that could occur in the heat of combat. He was always coming up with ways to be more efficient on the battlefield. This line of thinking explained the arsenal he chose for his missions. Operatives of his caliber—of which there were few—often spent hours selecting tailor-made, customized weapons. Not Wick.
He saw nothing but potential problems in guns like that. Most of them were largely untested. He had faced that problem firsthand, ceding control due to a gun malfunctioning during combat and paying dearly for it. He now preferred the toughest, most steadfast arsenal for himself. The weapons that would never in a million years jam on the battlefield.
Over the next thirty minutes, he disassembled all his weapons and checked each part for flaws with extreme patience and care. There was a time for brashness and recklessness, but it wasn’t before the mission began.
Olivia entered the safe house when Wick was in the process of re-assembling the guns. Behind her came Logan and Elijah. They nodded at each other and set about their respective tasks with robotic precision.
Ten minutes later, Wick was standing at the right side of the center table with them. Olivia was going over each detail. They had done this already by video conference but doing it in person was critical. The team was very thorough in this regard. They had planned a concise tactical operation order, breaking down the mission to the last detail. Wick’s experience of working with the Special Forces teams told him that this team had been with one of the military’s elite units.
“We will be out in forty minutes,” Wick stated at the end of the recap.
Then began the standard operating procedure. Before leaving the safe house, all notes had to be burnt. Radio frequencies, escape routes, maps, passwords, codes—everything was committed to memory. Everyone’s fake credentials were placed in flash bags. If things went wrong, all they had to do was pull a string on the bag and its contents would be incinerated instantly.
Everything had been planned and rehearsed multiple times, but Wick didn’t have a good feeling about this one. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason for his unease.
He was reminded of a mission, early in his career, where he had been confident about everything and, by the end of it, more than twenty US soldiers were dead. Ever since then, he had never really felt completely confident about any mission. Still, this feeling was different. Was he losing his edge? Maybe. He was just twenty-seven but over the last few years he had been consistently running head-on into dangerous situations and somehow getting out of them alive; and every time something within him changed.
He had been an angry man for so many years and had always used that anger to sharpen his focus, but now the fury was mellowing. He knew that sooner or later this lost intensity would cost him his life. Luckily, he had had no woman in his life so far; flings, but nothing serious. However, that stance was also changing. Now he wanted to feel something different—maybe something on the opposite pole of hatred. Maybe he wanted to put his life as a TF-77 operative behind him and move on. Maybe.
Elijah removed his headphones and announced, “The first set of guests to the convention have arrived.”
Wick checked his watch. It was twenty minutes to one, about ninety minutes before the strike. It was time to check with Helms one more time. Wick grabbed the COMSAT mobile phone and carried it to the next room.
CHAPTER 4
Maryland, USA
If William Helms had bothered to look outside the large glass window in his office, he would have seen a white-faced Storm-Petrel sitting on the windowsill outside. Unfortunately, times and tides were both working against the USA leaving no space for stopping to admire life’s little pleasures. The weak leadership in Washington and an inconsistent foreign policy had left America on shaky ground—under attack both externally and internally. Russia, China, Iran—all were closing in for the kill.
The fifty-eight-year-old director wasn’t one to be interested in petty Washington politics, but the current situation demanded that he think politically while dispatching his primary responsibility—protecting his motherland.
Personally, he had always kept Washington at an arm’s distance. The town loved drama and politicians loved overacting. Despite multiple warnings in the past, they had all downplayed the foreign threats as temporary blips in the overall picture, but Helms knew that these temporary blips could soon turn into painful scars if not checked in time. He had never let his guard down, even for a minute. He knew no one on Capitol Hill liked him. Many respected him but they all hated his guts. He had no friends here.
Helms was at the top of the intelligence food chain. Every piece of information in the world went through the NSA’s fine net. The agency combed through an unimaginable quantity of e-mails, internet phone calls, photos, videos, file transfers, and social networking data from big internet companies, including Google, Facebook, Apple, Amazon, YouTube, Skype, and Microsoft, besides WeChat, Sina Weibo and Tencent QQ from C
hina; and Paltalk, a video-chat service popular in the Middle East and among Muslims.
No one knew exactly how much Helms knew, and no one wanted to find out. Rumor had it that he already had thick dossiers on everyone who mattered on the global political stage, including the who’s who of Washington.
Helms knew that the politicians couldn’t imagine possessing such valuable information and not using it, but his entire career was built upon only one premise—keeping secrets secret. He also knew that this was of no comfort to those sitting in Washington with a checkered past.