by Jake Striker
ICE COLD KILL
An ICEMAN Thriller
JAKE STRIKER
Dedication
This eBook is dedicated to the United States Armed Forces.
1
San Francisco International Airport
Ten minutes past midnight
I leaped from the Black Hawk's open door onto the helipad.
Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. Icy rain slapped my face.
I bolted toward a nearby parking lot and my waiting vehicle.
There was zero time to waste. I had an assault to launch and targets to hit.
My goal was to kill as many hostiles as possible. I had to inflict maximum damage.
I had to blaze a trail of scorched earth.
I was working solo. Like always.
It was a grim and lonely way to fight. But at my core I was a solitary hunter.
I was an expert in search and destroy. Emphasis on destroy.
None of my targets were subject to arrest or trial. They had already been judged and sentenced to death.
They were savages and cannibals. The worst of the worst.
It was a question of justice. A question of revenge.
My determination to exact revenge ran deep. As deep as the jagged shrapnel scar down one side of my face.
As deep as the scars on my soul. Scars of shame and remorse.
Guilt weighed heavy on my shoulders and threatened to crush me.
I could not raise the dead. I could not change the past.
Instead I had to focus on the present. I had to focus on the mission.
Search and destroy. Right.
In truth it was a war I could never win. I was defeated before I fired a single shot.
I admitted there was no true antidote for human evil. There was no lasting cure for cruelty and injustice.
Still I had to try. Doing nothing was unacceptable.
I had to meet the challenge even if it seemed impossible.
Especially if it seemed impossible.
I gritted my teeth and forged on through drizzling darkness. I probed for danger.
I had a Glock 17 slung on my hip. The autopistol was fully loaded and primed for action.
I carried six reload magazines in quick-draw pouches.
That gave me one hundred cartridges to use in combat. One hundred Black Talon hollow-points to ravage my opposition.
My gear bag contained other killing tools.
I would need them all tonight. That was guaranteed.
I reached the parking lot and found my ride for the mission.
It was a stout and brawny SUV. A Jeep Commando 4X4.
It was a modified version of the classic Wrangler model.
I palmed a keyless remote. I unlocked the Jeep and climbed aboard.
I fired its supercharged HEMI. The big engine gave a throaty snarl and a deep metallic rumble.
I glanced in my rearview mirror. I had to make sure no one was sneaking toward the Jeep's rear.
I discovered no immediate danger.
My eyes reflected in the mirror. They were ice-blue and ice-cold.
My eyes gave me my callsign: Iceman.
I scanned again for any sign of an ambush.
My night sight was enhanced by a rare condition. It was called visus pantherae and that meant panther vision.
My pupils narrowed to vertical slits in dim light. Like the eyes of a jungle predator.
I ran a hand through my cropped black hair. I drew a deep breath.
Time to roll.
I pushed the Jeep's shifter into DRIVE and powered out. I found Highway 101 and hit its northbound lane.
I was heading toward the mission safehouse to collect more gear. More tools of righteous vengeance.
I was guided by my GPS. It was programmed with my targets for tonight.
My primary mark was Colonel Zi Zeng Toom. He led the Chinese Mob on American soil.
Toom's crew called themselves the Red Dragon Triad.
They were vicious cutthroats. They were shifting opioids on a massive scale.
They were poisoning American streets from coast-to-coast.
Toom gave the orders and made the plans. He was a master tactician.
According to intel he was ex-Chinese Army. Ex-Special Forces.
He was a black-ops pro and a sworn enemy of the USA.
His father had trained NVA commandos during the Vietnam War. He taught Viet Cong guerrillas to main and kill U.S. troops.
Then a CIA agent shot him dead.
Toom wanted payback for his father.
Absolutely.
He wanted American blood. He was gaining serious loot in the process.
He had arrived in San Francisco with a false ID. Then he seized control of the Red Dragon outfit.
He waged war and crushed all opposition.
A master tactician.
Right.
A savage felon.
The DEA had launched a sting against him. But the DEA's lead agent abruptly disappeared.
Her butchered remains were soon found.
They were stuffed inside an oil drum. It was floating in San Francisco Bay off Alcatraz Island.
Barbarism like that demanded payback and orders were given. There was no other option.
Toom's scheme imperiled countless lives.
It threatened America's future.
Toom did not just want to sustain his empire. He was not looking to maintain the status quo.
That would be too simple. Too passive.
Instead he had an active plan. He meant to spread opioid addiction far beyond current levels.
He would keep expanding supply and fixing prices. All for maximum profit.
An active plan. Right.
An ever-evolving war against America.
The only answer was radical intervention.
I had to pinpoint Toom. And kill him.
Nailing the Triad Boss would settle a mortal debt. It should also disrupt his outfit.
It should rob his troops of direction.
I powered through the night.
Black rage stung every nerve and pierced my soul. Military service focused and channeled that rage.
Likewise military service had saved me from a desperate past.
I was raised in poverty and squalor. Hunger gnawed at my belly and I scavenged for food.
I was orphaned when both parents died from heroin addiction.
They overdosed together with needles stuck in their veins.
I found them naked and frozen in a gruesome embrace. Their eyes bulged blindly.
Their tongues were black and bloated. They had been dead for two days in the Utah heat.
Flies and maggots had set to work. Coyotes were circling their rundown trailer.
There was no time to weep.
I doused their corpses in gasoline. I turned their trailer into a funeral pyre.
I watched the flames cremate their pitiful remains. My eyes stung against smoke and my heart thumped in my chest.
The agony of grief and loss threatened to smother me. It threatened to destroy me.
I was alone. An outcast.
Later I ran from an abusive foster home. I had no choice.
I stabbed the man who abused me. I left him for dead and disappeared into the concrete jungle.
I grew up wild and mean. My life on the streets was endless war.
The answer was to make war my profession. I enlisted in the U.S. Army and braved Special Forces training.
I followed with tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and Syria. Some battles ended in victory and others in defeat.
I led deep recons into Iran and North Korea.
Recons. Yeah.
And covert assassinations.
My squad conducted long-ran
ge strikes behind enemy lines. A hardcore A-Team.
Later there was personal devastation. I lost my wife to a brutal crime.
I blamed myself for leaving her alone. For leaving her vulnerable.
I was gone when she needed me most.
I was fighting a distant war. A violent clash.
I was protecting my country. But I failed to protect my soulmate.
Ava lingered in ICU for nine days before she died.
There was no time for sorrow. There was only time for action.
I meant to gain vengeance. I meant to slash and burn.
I was a punisher.
An executioner.
A destroyer.
I tracked and snared my wife's killers. I gave them the deaths they deserved.
When it was done I drove to Fort Bragg and turned myself in.
I expected the rope. But my commander had other ideas.
He needed a soldier skilled in covert warfare. A warrior prepared to operate beyond the limits of the law.
He laid out a plan to crush extreme criminals and terrorists.
He called his plan Project Brimstone. Like fire and brimstone.
Like God's wrath in the Bible.
I went all in with Brimstone. I delivered justice from the barrel of a gun.
It was more than a mission. It was a personal crusade.
My hunger for revenge was ravenous. It was limitless.
I was cursed to fight everlasting war. Until that war consumed me.
I checked the Jeep's rearview and spotted no opposition.
I found no evident peril. I had to move undetected.
Stealth was vital to success. And survival.
I drove on for another two miles. I was running clear.
I almost grinned. Almost.
LED headlights flared behind me. They cast a dazzling blue-white glare.
I slitted my eyes and rechecked my rearview.
A sleek SUV was closing fast. It was a Lamborghini Urus.
Its black paint gleamed under streetlights.
The Lambo's bi-turbo engine snarled and roared.
A second Lambo pulled alongside it.
I tightened my grip on the Jeep's wheel. I punched my accelerator.
The Lambos surged behind me and kept pace.
I spat a curse. It had to be a Triad chase team.
So much for stealth. The mission had just begun and my cover was already blown.
Colonel Toom had somehow pinned my arrival. Then he had ordered a strike.
Damn. A hard fail.
I breathed deep and braced myself. I had to focus on evasion and survival.
The Triad SUVs filled my mirror.
A third chase car roared up behind them. It was another Lambo.
The lead cars pulled closer. Their LEDs blazed brighter and they ran in tandem.
Passengers dropped their windows.
They leveled weapons and unleashed autofire.
Gun muzzles flashed yellow and red.
Bullets walloped the Jeep's hatchback and fender. They ruptured its spare tire.
I grimaced. The slugs could ignite the fuel lines or the fuel tank.
If the Jeep lit up I would be SOL. I hauled off 101 and veered onto Zulu Road.
The Lambos angled to follow on screeching tires.
I needed to lose them. Fast.
A side street appeared on my left and I saw my chance. I made a silent countdown.
Three.
Two.
One.
Now!
I punched the HEMI and pulled the turn on two wheels. The Jeep rocked into touchdown and cleared the corner.
I checked my mirror.
The Lambos overshot and their drivers slammed their brakes. They reversed on smoking rubber.
That delay gave me a slim lead.
I raced through the city's Dog Patch District. I was heading toward Presidio Park and the Golden Gate Bridge.
I was roaring down steep streets like Steve McQueen in Bullitt. But unlike McQueen I was the hunted and not the hunter.
Too bad.
I checked my rearview and spied the enemy SUVs. They were closing fast and they were back on my trail.
They were tough bastards and no mistake.
I angled onto Revolution Road and veered through the Presidio. I passed Torpedo Wharf and reached the Golden Gate Bridge.
Traffic was thin at this late hour.
That was good.
It should minimize any danger to civilians.
I scanned my rearview and spotted the Lambos in close pursuit.
There was a flash of orange flame. That signaled brand-new gunfire.
A heavy slug drilled the Jeep. It smashed a fist-size hole in the rear windshield.
It grazed my arm and burrowed into the dash.
I mouthed a curse. The hunters would find range soon and hit their mark.
A bullet would shatter my skull or sever my spine.
My scowl darkened and my gut fisted. I had to act fast and I could not falter.
I dropped my window. Then I palmed my Glock and braced it across the windowsill.
I was still on the bridge. I was half-way along its 9,000-foot length.
My plan was a gamble. Sure.
It was against all odds. But I had to try.
The grim alternative was certain disaster.
It was certain death.
I pressed my brake. I let the nearest SUV overtake me on the left.
The Lambo surged and pulled level with my open window. I tightened my trigger finger.
Now!
I loosed the Glock in rapid-fire. Seventeen shots total.
The pistol's hot slide locked back on empty.
Black Talon manglers pummeled the Lambo's cockpit.
A vengeful fusillade.
A 9-millimeter hellstorm.
Men screamed inside the Lambo. The driver lurched and slumped over his wheel.
The unguided SUV slewed on screeching tires. It slammed a safety rail at ninety miles per-hour.
Metal exploded. Flame and smoke gushed.
The Lambo spun off the bridge and plunged toward the bay. A drop of eight hundred feet.
The SUV hit the water in a white splash. It capsized and vanished beneath dark waves.
I checked my mirror.
The other two Lambos surged close behind. They never slowed and never faltered.
I checked my mirror again.
A Triad shotgunner aimed and triggered a hasty blast. Buckshot pellets walloped the Jeep and gashed its metalwork.
I stowed the Glock and grasped my wheel. I reached the end of the bridge and swerved left.
Then I hit Katzendorf Road and followed a straightaway.
I pulled onto a sloping S-curve. That hid me from the Triad gunships.
I cleared another S-curve and gained another straightaway.
Now I was vulnerable again. I kept rolling.
The road climbed sharply toward Wolf Ridge Park. It was a deeply wooded coastal tract that covered 50,000 acres.
On my left the blacktop fell off toward a craggy ravine. A thin safety barrier offered meager protection.
I sped on.
I had lost sight of the Lambos. But they were closing.
That was guaranteed.
All right. I needed a position I could defend.
I needed to stop and hunker down. But where?
I peered ahead and searched.
There!
I pulled onto a dirt trail and braked to a halt. Tall firs surrounded me and made for decent cover.
I killed the Jeep's engine and headlights. I reloaded the Glock and stowed it.
I unzipped my gear bag and palmed an Uzi submachine gun.
The Uzi was loaded with 9-millimeter Scimitar ammunition.
The solid-copper Scimitars tumbled after impact.
They gouged hideous wounds in human flesh.
I grabbed a MOLLE bandoleer that held six spare magazines. I quit the Jeep and pr
epped for deadly action.
LEDs flared downrange and an enemy Lambo roared into view.
I braced my elbows on the Jeep's hood. I swung the Uzi into target acquisition.
I had to make every bullet count. No mistakes.
A quote flashed into my head. Strike fast, strike hard ... and make the bastards pay.
George S. Patton. Of course.
I gripped the Uzi tighter and thumbed off its safety. I clenched my teeth against the coppery taste of raw adrenaline.
The Lambo driver spotted me and registered my weapon. His face twisted in shock.
It was the last emotion he would ever feel.
I triggered the Uzi in blazing autofire. I slitted my eyes against the piercing muzzle flash.
Scimitar bullets hurtled in on target. They cored the Lambo's windshield at 1,700 feet per-second.
The driver screamed and tipped forward. His dead fingers froze on the Lambo's wheel.
The pilotless SUV swerved across the road. It struck a stout fir.
Its grille ruptured and its LEDs went dark. It spun back over the road in a pall of sparks.
Its engine spat flame and died.
There was a moment of stillness. Then the Lambo's doors sprang open.
Two stricken figures lurched out. They staggered like zombies and toppled onto the road.
I braced the Uzi. I stalked toward the SUV and the fallen men.
I sensed motion and swung toward it.
One man shoved upright. His face was marred by an ugly gash and coated in blood.
He raised an assault rifle.
It was a Russian-made AK-47 and that was no surprise. The Triads were known to favor Russian killing gear.
The thug aimed his AK. Too late.
I loosed an Uzi salvo.
Scimitar impacts punched the man off his feet. He thudded against the Lambo and went slack.
Another figure scrambled off the asphalt.
He was dazed and shaken. But uninjured.
He snarled and drew a blacksteel autopistol. It was a Russian-made Tokarev T-77.
He tightened his grip on the Tokarev. But he never got the chance to use it.
Two scimitar bullets drilled him and he dropped without protest.
I kept the Uzi up and stepped across the carcass. I closed on the wrecked SUV.
Its passenger door burst open and another thug staggered out. He clutched a Tokarev and yelled, "Shuzén!"
Scarface.
Yeah. That was me.
The hitman aimed his pistol. Again it was too late.
I triggered the Uzi and its muzzle breathed flame.
Scimitars cored the gunner and he toppled. The Tokarev clattered on the road.