The Messenger - Special Agent Dylan Kane Series 11 (2021)
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THE MESSENGER
A SPECIAL AGENT DYLAN KANE THRILLER
J. ROBERT KENNEDY
About the Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers
"Dylan Kane leaves James bond in his dust!"
Though this book is part of the Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers series, it is written as a standalone novel and can be enjoyed without reading the other installments.
What readers are saying about the Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers Series:
“The action sequences are particularly well-written and exciting, without being overblown.”
“I love how the author explains what's needed but doesn't just ramble on in narrative.”
“Don’t mess with Kane, he takes no prisoners, especially when you target his friends.”
“Fast paced international spy thriller with good old American values among its main characters. I'd like to think we really do have agents like Kane.”
BOOKS BY J. ROBERT KENNEDY
* Also available in audio
The Templar Detective Thrillers
The Templar Detective The Templar Detective and the Parisian Adulteress The Templar Detective and the Sergeant's Secret The Templar Detective and the Unholy Exorcist The Templar Detective and the Code Breaker The Templar Detective and the Black Scourge The Templar Detective and the Lost Children
The James Acton Thrillers
The Protocol *
Brass Monkey *
Broken Dove
The Templar’s Relic Flags of Sin
The Arab Fall
The Circle of Eight The Venice Code Pompeii’s Ghosts Amazon Burning The Riddle
Blood Relics
Sins of the Titanic Saint Peter’s Soldiers The Thirteenth Legion Raging Sun
Wages of Sin
Wrath of the Gods The Templar’s Revenge The Nazi’s Engineer Atlantis Lost
The Cylon Curse The Viking Deception Keepers of the Lost Ark The Tomb of Genghis Khan The Manila Deception The Fourth Bible Embassy of the Empire Armageddon
No Good Deed
The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers
Rogue Operator *
Containment Failure *
Cold Warriors *
Death to America Black Widow
The Agenda
Retribution
State Sanctioned Extraordinary Rendition Red Eagle
The Messenger
The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers
Payback
Infidels
The Lazarus Moment Kill Chain
Forgotten
The Cuban Incident
The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries
Depraved Difference Tick Tock
The Redeemer
The Kriminalinspektor Wolfgang Vogel Mysteries
The Colonel’s Wife Sins of the Child
Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series
The Turned
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Table of Contents
The Novel
Preface
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
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Acknowledgments
Don't Miss Out!
Thank You!
About the Author
Also by the Author
For “the eyes” that didn’t make it,
and those still waiting for a promise to be kept.
“Let believers not take for friends and allies infidels instead of believers. Whoever does this shall have no relationship left with Allah–unless you but guard yourselves against them, taking precautions.”
Koran 3:28
“We cannot allow Afghanistan to be another Saigon.”
Representative Michael McCaul House Foreign Affairs Committee meeting May 18, 2021
PREFACE
America’s response to 9/11 was swift, with members of the CIA’s Special Activities Division inserted into Afghanistan only 15 days later. Tens of thousands of troops would follow, and eventually almost 800,000 tours would be served in the country.
With a renewed hope for their country’s future, approximately 300,000 Afghan citizens risked their lives by working with America and its NATO allies over the course of almost twenty years, including tens of thousands of interpreters, over 300 of whom died alongside foreign forces.
And they all did it with the understanding that when we left, we would take them with us if they so desired.
A promise, as of this writing, yet to be kept.
1 |
Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan
Something wasn’t right. Dax Laurier could feel it in his bones. Three tours in this hellhole had taught him to listen to that inner voice, and right now, it was screaming at him to get the hell out of here. But this wasn’t his mission. He was just a sergeant major. The captain was in charge. Garrick O’Donnell was a good man, but this was his first tour.
At least he was approaching the end of it, so had some experience. The worst was when they came in green, full of ideals, not understanding that you couldn’t trust these people, no matter how many rotting smiles were in the room. They only liked you when you gave them something, and they never believed you could actually protect them. This was war, and America and its allies were the invaders.
He had concluded long ago they should have never come. They should have just bombed the shit out of the place, leveled anything the Taliban or Al-Qaeda had touched, then told whoever was left that if they did it again, we’d be back.
But instead, the powers that be had wanted to create a democracy out of a country that had no concept of it nor any desire for it. And how many had died? 9/11 demanded a response, and he agreed with that response at the time. But that time had long passed. The only way this country could ever be kept secure would be if half a million troops were put within its borders, and they might never be able to leave. The locals they were there to protect would eventually turn against them like many already had. It was a no-win situation, and he had no desire or intention to die here in some shithole on the other side of the planet from where everyone he knew and loved lived.
And today, his Spidey senses were telling him something was off. The smiles of the elders were more forced than usual, their eyes darting about with minimal eye contact made. The body language was all wrong, yet O’Donnell didn’t appear to pick up on it. He glanced at their translator, Harifal, a man he had dealt with many times, and th
ey exchanged a look. There was no doubt he had sensed the same vibe.
Something was wrong, and if this turned into a firefight, some sort of coordinated ambush, they were screwed. There were only six of them and one Humvee with a mounted M134 minigun, which was anything but mini. A drone was monitoring the situation overhead and air support was less than ten minutes away, but a lot can happen in ten minutes. He adjusted the casual grip he held on his M4, moving his hand slightly to cover the safety.
He flicked it off.
Sitting on several rugs laid out on the dirt floor, Captain O’Donnell glanced up at him, making brief eye contact. Dax’s eyes darted toward the door then back at his captain, and the man nodded slightly.
“I won’t take any more of your time today, sir. With your permission, we’ll return in one week with the supplies you asked for.” O’Donnell rose and everyone else in the room scrambled to their feet, the Afghans clearly not pleased with the early departure. O’Donnell bowed then extended a hand as Harifal translated the pleasantries.
Dax headed for the exit, if it could be called that, pushing aside a rug hung over the frame in place of the door that had once sat here, long forgotten. He squinted into the glaring sunlight, his eyes adjusting as he took in the area. They were in a valley, which was always a tactical disadvantage. Their Humvee was only 30 yards from their position. It would protect them against small arms fire, but if they were facing anything truly heavy, they could be in deep shit quick.
One of the elders was still talking to O’Donnell, his voice rapid and excited, but not in a good way. Harifal was translating.
“He seems to really want you to stay a little while longer to have more tea so they can discuss future needs.”
O’Donnell stepped out of the home and Dax lowered his voice. “Sir, something’s not right. We need to get out of here now.”
“Agreed.”
Dax swirled a hand over his head and the four others on the team standing guard around the village center cautiously returned to the vehicle, well aware they were leaving early. Wary eyes were cast at the doorways, the rooftops, and the mountains hemming them in on two sides.
Corporal Crawford pointed toward the mountainside to the west. “I’ve got movement!” He dropped to a knee, raising his M4 and peering through the scope. “Three targets, all armed with AKs!”
“I’ve got movement to the east!” called Specialist Perkins.
“Everybody in the Humvee!” ordered O’Donnell, and the moment he reached for his radio, all hell broke loose.
Jafar lay prone at the cliff’s edge, peering down at the houses below and to his left. The Americans were inside the Imam’s home near the village center, meeting with the local leaders with the weekly offering of bribes. Four of the infidels were positioned outside, watching for any trouble, and he had no doubt expecting none. After all, this was a peaceful area. There hadn’t been trouble here in years.
He followed the road that cut through the valley, coming to a stop just to the south of where the ambush was to take place in fifteen minutes. Behind him, the soldiers of Allah who would be carrying out the attack traveled past him, all at a crouch to avoid being spotted by the Americans below.
“They’re early!” hissed someone behind him.
He adjusted his gaze and cursed as the Americans emerged from the meeting ahead of schedule. He glanced over his shoulder. “Can you get in position in time?”
“No, we have to hit them now.”
He shook his head. “That goes against our agreement.”
“Your agreement is of no concern of mine. I have my orders.”
He sighed. It wasn’t his call to make, and it was too late to back out. He returned to observing what was happening below and cursed. “If you’re going to do something, you better do it now.”
But the suggestion was unnecessary, the warriors already rushing past him, scrambling down the mountainside. Somebody shouted from below, and a moment later gunfire erupted.
Dax Laurier grabbed his captain by the vest and hauled him toward their Humvee as gunfire rained down on them from the hills above. Someone cried out to his left and his head spun to see Corporal Taz Perkins down.
“RPG!” cried Specialist Allen Speck to his right.
Dax threw himself over the captain, still on the radio, as the rocket-propelled grenade whined toward them. It slammed into the opposite side of the Humvee, the din of the impact nothing compared to the shock of the massive vehicle being shoved several feet, flinging them into the open, completely exposed.
Dax lay in the dirt, pain racking his body as his head reeled from a high-pitched sound that threatened to overwhelm him. He struggled to push through the fog, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the cause. Finally, the noise subsided slightly, enough for him to hear the gunfire and shouts surrounding him. Somebody grabbed him, dragging him along the rough ground and he gasped in pain, his ribs afire. Whoever had him let go and he dropped back onto the dirt, his chest heaving. He reached up and pressed a hand against the pain, relieving it somewhat as he forced his eyes open to take in the situation. Captain O’Donnell was on a knee beside him, firing up at the hillside. No one else was near them, which meant O’Donnell had been the one who had dragged him to safety.
“We’re not going to last ten minutes!” shouted O’Donnell into his comms. “I’ve got five down including my interpreter, likely KIA, one wounded, and at least twenty hostiles closing in on our position! Just blow the shit out of anything more than ten meters from my position!” He returned fire as Dax rolled over onto his stomach then pushed to his knees. O’Donnell cursed, clearly not pleased with the reply from Command. “Screw the villagers! They’re in on it! They set us up! I repeat, the villagers set us up!”
Dax unslung his M4 and opened fire at anything that moved on the hillside. He glanced at the Humvee. If it weren’t for the smoke billowing from the far side, it appeared intact, but the RPG had done its job. There’d be no using it to escape. He smiled slightly as he took down one of the attackers, then fired again and another dropped. The distinctive sound of an AK-74 split through the din, small explosions of dirt and rock erupting in front of them as the shooter found his mark.
Dax lunged to his right, shoving O’Donnell out of the way, and cried out as he took a round to the shin. He drew his knee up and grabbed at the wound, wincing in agony as half a dozen gunmen poured into the village center. He rolled into a seated position, raising his weapon and flipping it over to full auto, then squeezed the trigger, sending controlled bursts toward the approaching enemy. Two went down, taking rounds to their stomachs as the rest dove out of the way.
O’Donnell growled. “Looks like we’re on our own. Help won’t be here for another eight minutes. They won’t fire on the village without a visual on the target.”
Dax didn’t say anything as he continued to fire while more hostiles rushed into the village center from all directions. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the home where the meeting had been held. “Get your ass inside there, Captain, and hold a gun to one of the old men’s heads. It might buy you the time you need.”
O’Donnell opened fire at a new group entering from the opposite end of the village center, then glanced over his shoulder at the door only feet away. It was the only hope. If the double-crossing bastards were indeed in on it, then using them as human shields should work.
Yet O’Donnell wasn’t moving.
“Sir, you have to go now, before it’s too late!”
O’Donnell rose, firing his weapon wildly as he grabbed Dax by the back of his vest. “If I go, you go.”
Dax didn’t bother protesting. Instead, he raised his weapon and fired as O’Donnell dragged him. Someone screamed in pain as the butt of the M4 pounded his shoulder with each shot. The door frame revealed itself as he cleared it, and it wasn’t until the scream echoed off the walls inside that he realized it was him. O’Donnell propped him up against the wall and relief swept over him from the peace that still
ness brought.
“Can you cover the door?”
Dax managed a nod, switching out the mostly-spent mag for a fresh one as O’Donnell disappeared behind him. There were shouts and a single gunshot from an M4. Dax glanced over his shoulder and saw several of the elders cowering in a corner. O’Donnell grabbed the imam by the beard and hauled him to his feet. He slung his rifle and drew his sidearm, pressing the barrel against the back of the man’s head. He pushed the old man toward the window at the front of the house, any glass that might have once fit inside the frame long gone, shutters and a threadbare curtain the only protection from the elements.
“I’ve got your imam! You come any closer and he’s dead, you hear me?”
Dax slumped against the wall. He could barely breathe from the broken ribs, and the blood was flowing freely from his shattered shin. Help was still five minutes out, and that was air support. It might stop the attack, but unless he got medical attention soon, he’d be done for.
“We need a damned interpreter!” spat O’Donnell as the gunfire continued. He tore the curtain from the window and shoved the old man’s face through it. He repositioned the weapon so that it was clearly visible, the barrel now pointed down at the top of the man’s head. “If you come any closer, he’s dead!”
No interpreter was needed for the response to be understood. At least half a dozen weapons opened up, several rounds finding the old man. He collapsed to the floor, dead, as hole after hole was torn through the mud and stone walls, shafts of light revealing the trajectories. O’Donnell stepped back from the wall, firing his Glock through the window, his fingers squeezing the trigger slower and slower as the enemy rounds slammed into his body.