Zero Hour
A Devlin Stone Thriller
by
Keller O’Brien
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2018 Single Bullet Press. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
Version 2012.04.22
Chapter One
New York, New York
Monty Stuart sat at his dining table on a sunny Saturday afternoon and wrote a suicide note.
It was a good note, he decided, after reading over the words. For a man who had come to the end of his rope, he thought he expressed himself quite well, and that nobody would fail to understand why he had ended his own life. There would be pain for those who knew him, but he couldn’t help that. He had his own pain to deal with, and all other options, tried over the decades, had failed.
And after the latest humiliation that had arrived in the mail three days earlier, there was nothing else for him to do except end his life.
Perhaps the sender had counted on that.
Stuart folded the letter neatly, bottom edge to top edge, and placed the paper under a napkin holder in the center of the table.
He opened the patio door and let in the sounds of New York City, horns and rumbling engines and a breeze bouncing between buildings. His balcony overlooked Central Park; citizens and tourists packed the sidewalk below. Usual logjam in the street. He hated to do it this way, but he’d given up his guns long ago.
Thirty floors up.
Stuart grunted and struggled to get his legs over the balcony rail. He wasn’t as young and limber as he once had been, but he accomplished the goal and felt his stomach sink when he realized just how small the ledge below the balcony was and one misstep would send him falling before he was ready. Pigeon poo spotted the ledge; he hoped it was dry so he didn’t slip.
When he set himself, hands behind him on the balcony rail, his eyes on the street below, all sounds vanished. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. There was nothing left to fight for. Nothing else to do but call it a day. Somehow his analytical side didn’t propose any alternative. Mind and body were one.
Monty Stuart had been a big man once. He’d served his country with honor in the military, and continued that service in the covert realms where they didn’t give medals. If you lived and the enemy died, that was all the reward you needed.
But now his greatest victory had become a humiliating defeat. He’d never known until today. After today, he’d no longer be hailed as a hero, but a miserable failure who couldn’t shoot straight.
It was just too much to handle. Along with the rest of the mental junk in his mind.
And Suzy was gone. If she was still beside him every morning, maybe he’d have tried harder.
It didn’t matter anymore.
Monty Stuart didn’t feel the wind.
And when he jumped, he didn’t feel anything else for much longer either.
Somewhere in Central America
Devlin Stone had done nothing but sweat, day and night, for the last three weeks.
Tonight was no different.
The overall heat of the environment and the thick humidity played hell with his camouflage fatigues. The loose-fitting uniform didn’t stick to his body, but beneath the fabric his skin was covered with annoying wetness.
He lay on his belly on the damp earth, the jungle surrounding him thick and unforgiving, full of insects which preyed on the exposed parts of his skin--mostly his neck and face. Gloves covered his hands. Black and green cosmetics covered his face.
He held a SIG-Sauer SG-552 Commando in both hands, the full-auto carbine chambered with the 5.56x45mm NATO cartridge. Derived from the .223 cartridge used by the U.S., the 5.56x45 NATO round had a little more punch, but was familiar enough that he had no trouble handling the SG 552 under full-auto fire. His personal pistol, a SIG-Sauer P225A-1 with its custom checkered wooden grips, rode in a holster on his right hip.
Stone was part of a mercenary force organized by the Eagle Alliance to rid Nuevo Cadiz of a rebel force organizing to defeat a newly-elected government that had pledged to bring democratic freedom to the region. It would be a first for the entire area, but Nuevo Cadiz was surrounded by communist governments who didn’t want the new government to succeed. Stone’s job was to make sure the rebels were stopped, and blowing up a warehouse full of weapons was the first step.
The rest of the squad was spread out around Stone, everybody hidden so well even he didn’t know where they were, but the bugs did. If they didn’t move fast, Stone figured the bugs would do more damage than the enemy.
Stone’s job was to blow up the warehouse. High-explosive time bombs were packed in a satchel on his back. He felt a little funny walking around with enough explosive power to put him on the moon, but in reality, it was just another day at the office.
The Motorolla com unit in his right ear had been quiet for over an hour. The only way to kill time was to study the target.
The wooded area been cleared by the rebel force, several smaller buildings set up as barracks, and the main warehouse toward the back of the compound with a creek running behind it. The rebels figured the creek would provide a little extra security, and they weren’t wrong. The chasm was deep, the water was deep, dark, cold and full of who-knows-what, the foliage overgrown, so approaching from the backside wasn’t an option. They had to go through the front door.
While the rest of his team handled the troops, Stone had to break through the noise to reach the warehouse and plant his bombs. In the front door, out the front door, and all within five minutes.
Their only advantage was the minimal numbers of troops in the compound.
At least that’s what the intelligence report had said.
Stone wasn’t so sure.
Finally, a voice spoke through his com unit. Mike Majors, another Eagle Alliance operative and one of Stone’s friend. He was commanding the strike force. Stone was happy not to have the job.
“We have a problem.”
Stone let out a sigh. He wasn’t the only one to doubt the troops strength they faced.
“We’re counting about twice as many troops as we were told would be here tonight,” Majors said. “I’m thinking we should abort.”
Stone keyed his microphone but kept his voice at a whisper.
“We didn’t come all this way to abort.”
Others chimed in to agree.
“We brought a superior force,” Stone said. “We can handle it.”
“We may be outnumbered,” Majors said.
“So shoot fast and move faster.”
“Wait one.”
Stone watched the compound in the ensuing silence. There were a number of armed troops visible, but he didn’t have the same view as Majors and the command team.
He didn’t have a problem with being cautious, but he also didn’t think they’d have another chance at destroying the warehouse should they abort the mission. An increase of troops only meant one thing, they’d been found out, and a chill certainly not produced by the night’s temperature crawled up Stone’s neck as he realized who had betrayed them. Because nobody else could have.
He’d deal with her later.
Should he survive the raid.
>
Stone was self-aware enough to know that he wasn’t encouraging the continuation of the mission because “they’d come too far”. While that was as good excuse as any, the real reason was that he didn’t want to see the good people of Nuevo Cadiz oppressed by communist assholes who were only pissed off that they were trying to self-govern and not following the so-called rules of the region, where dictatorships were as normal as the wind.
People needed to be free.
Deserved to be free.
Stone enjoyed the freedom he had in the United States, and had fought many secret battles to make sure his fellow citizens didn’t lose their sovereignty despite globalist shills in the United Nations trying to whittle it away. A free mind is a happy mind. Living under the boot of oppression only stifled what God intended to rein free.
Majors came back. “We’re a go, stand by.”
Stone cracked a grin and flicked off the safety on the SG-552 Commando.
He started a countdown timer in his head.
The rebels were about to pay a price, in blood, for their misdeeds.
Any moment now.
A mortar strike and salvos from a pair of heavy machine guns opened the festivities.
The mortar impacts shook the ground as explosions rocked the compound in various spots, striking barracks with resulting blasts that set some of the jungle on fire. The mercenaries stormed the compound, automatic weapons fire crackling, men shouting back and forth, more explosions. The night conspired against Stone as he moved forward toward his objective, tunnel vision clouding his eyes, creating a sense of running through nothing but empty space, as he penetrated the perimeter and joined the fray.
His boots pounded on the soft ground as he ran forward with the SG-552 tucked into his shoulder. Movement right to left. He pivoted to trigger a burst at a running rebel trooper, the burst catching the man mid-stride. The rebel stumbled, fell end-over-end, coming to a stop and no longer moving. A bullet split the air near Stone’s head as he pivoted and dropped to one knee. Aiming in the direction the bullet had come from, he triggered single shots in a right-to-left pattern, blasting at a pair of rebels leap-frogging their way to him. One fell, leaving a bloody mist hanging in the air as he dropped, the other continuing the charge, firing again. Stone dove onto his belly, a bullet parting his hair, the follow-up burst from the SIG carbine splitting open the man’s belly and turning him and his last meal into a grisly pile on the dirt.
The ground churned around Stone. Bullets from above. He looked up, left, right--guard tower! The last one standing, somehow missed by the mortar shelling. Stone raised the SG-552 fired a burst. Too high. He adjusted his aim and fired again. The wooden slats forming a barrier in front of the trooper splintered. Too low. The rebel returned fire and missed. Stone fired another salvo that emptied his magazine, but he scored. The rounds punched through the rebel’s chest and forced him over the barrier behind him, falling from the tower like a rock to strike the ground below.
Stone reloaded on the run, slapping in the fresh mag and breaking into a zig-zag run for the warehouse thirty yards ahead. The battle raged on around him, the gunfire loud and unceasing, the occasional shout breaking through the cacophony. Rebels fired on him from cover. Stone fired back, hitting the ground to roll behind a stack of wooden pallets, more shots chipping at the wood as he burrowed close to the ground. He inched around the side. One burst. Miss. Another. Hit. Rebel down. More rounds hammered the pallets, wooden slivers striking his fatigues, one sharp piece of debris felt as if it were slicing through his exposed neck.
Stone ducked back and plucked a grenade from his chest harness, pulled the pin, and tossed it around the side, angling to the left. The blast send a plume of black smoke and orange fire into the sky, lighting up the area briefly, before the black of night took over once again. Stone popped his head and SG-552 around the side. No more threats. He left the pallets and continuing running, staying close to the wooden buildings now, stopping at each corner to scan for hostiles.
The main fighting force appeared to be in the front of the compound, engaged with the rest of the mercenary force.
Stone pounded up the steps of the warehouse entrance, crashing through the doors, rolling onto the ground to come up in a knee again, scanning the area with the muzzle of the SG-552. Nothing but crates greeted him, most of them sealed, some opened, with protective straw cushioning with automatic rifles. Stone moved up and down the aisles, looking at rifles, grenades, heavy machine guns and other small arms, everything the rebel force needed to overthrow a duly elected government.
Stone keyed his com link. “In the warehouse, setting charges.”
It took a moment but Majors responded.
“Copy. Resistance hot but almost contained.”
The fighting continues, the crackles of automatic weapons fire a little muffled now that he was inside, or mostly due to his hearing being shot to hell. Stone didn’t dwell on the thought. He set his weapon down long enough to get the satchel of explosives off his back. Slinging the SG-552 and carrying the satchel, he placed the charges at each aisle, setting the timers for three minutes, so that by the time he finished with the last he’d have less than one minute to get out of there. With the weight of the bombs off his back, he moved fast, like an Olympic sprinter, as he bounded out of the warehouse and back into the compound shouting over the com link that the bombs would be going off in three … two …
The warehouse explosion sucked all the air out of the compound and Stone felt his feet leave the ground for a moment, only for gravity to reassert its hold and slam him back onto the mud. Debris fell like rain water, some of it on fire, deadly pieces of corrugated metal that showed no mercy.
Flames raged after the initial explosion, more of the jungle on fire now, as Stone battled his way through stray rebel troops to rejoin Majors and the mercenary force as they withdrew the way they’d arrived, out the front door. The dark jungle remained unforgiving as they plowed through the thick foliage, shouting at each other to keep everyone on track. Stone jogged behind Majors, his trigger finger still ready, eyes looking for any hint of enemy movement. Presently they reached the spot where they’d parked their vehicles, Land Rovers, Land Cruisers, and Hummers. Engines fired to life as the mercenary force departed and, appropriately spaced out, made for the main highway.
Stone sat in the back of a Land Rover with Majors, both men catching their breaths, before Majors broke the silence.
“They knew.”
“Yeah.”
“Any ideas?”
“I got a big idea.”
“The woman?”
“Yes, damnit,” Stone said. “The woman.”
The convoy continued on.
Chapter Two
Back at the Eagle Alliance operating base outside the capitol city, Stone ditched his combat clothes for civilian clothes and found a taxi that returned him to his hotel. His white button-down shirt was untucked so as to hide the SIG-Sauer P-225A1 holstered behind his back. The humid evening prevented the wearing of a proper jacket.
The elevator ascended quietly. He rode alone. His mind still flashed on visions of the compound fight and how it might not have been successful if they hadn’t had the numbers they brought. It was the only thing the traitor couldn’t have informed the rebels about. Because she didn’t know the total number of mercenaries the Eagle Alliance had brought along.
The elevator doors opened. He moved down the wood-paneled hallway at a leisurely pace.
Destiny had made Devlin Stone a warrior before he knew what was happening. His father had been a secret operator for the Eagle Alliance when Stone was a teenager, the boy only learning about his work when drug cartel assassins set the family’s vacation cabin on fire. Only Stone survived. Stone finished his education as the adopted son of Brad Preston, now Director of the Alliance, who had had been a close friend of Devlin’s father.
The Eagle Alliance was a paramilitary organization, mostly contracted to the U.S. government for support and speci
al missions around the world. Stone’s Z Section did most of the covert work, the jobs the United States deemed required a higher level of deniability than any of the alphabet soup agencies could muster.
Stone figured he would never track down the people who killed his family, but he could stop other killers before they inflicted any harm. Or annihilate them after the fact, should he be responding rather than attacking.
Tonight, twice now, he was attacking.
The card key fitted easily into the door slot and the locks clicked back.
The hotel room was brightly lighted and the bathroom door open. A gentle splish-splash of water greeted him.
“Is that you, darling?”
Stone shut the door. He paused in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms folded.
“Hello, darling,” the woman in the tub said.
She must have used all the bubble bath on the planet to build the mountain of suds within which she luxuriated.
Lady Maria. That’s the name by which Stone knew her. She sang at the Cabana Club a few blocks from the hotel. That’s where Stone had met her on his second night in-country, after being told by the Minister of Defense that she was their asset, placed within rebel forces to provide the new government with information. And while he thought he’d charmed her with his rugged looks and wit, and gave her an extra key to his room so they could spend nights together, Stone gazed at her now wondering if her whole reaction to him had been a set-up.
Then again, she had been quite good in bed.
The bubbles covered most of her supple body that she showed off every night in a variety of tight cocktail dresses that covered most of the subject but still left plenty to the imagination. She wasn’t a phony in the singing department. She could belt out the tunes. But she also traded on the traits she’d been blessed with.
She used her performances every night to get close to a couple of rebel leaders who frequented the club and told her certain things.
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