by Jim Heskett
A weak spot.
Layne dropped to the floor and put his finger on the M203 grenade launcher trigger attached to his M4. He squeezed it. Unlike a gunshot, the grenade launched with a pop. The projectile sailed through the air and smashed against the window. A few heads traced the grenade zipping across the room.
The window shattered into a million pieces, raining down on the invaders in front of it. They dropped and covered their heads with their hands.
Layne popped up and showered them with bullets. In his hands, the M4 grew hot, but he kept the trigger down until the magazine had emptied. Only took a couple of seconds, but he cut through the line of men near the window several times over.
With everything he had left in him, he sprinted toward the now open window. Berettas up. He shot the three men on either side of it, then he emptied his clip into the single man guarding the barricade. That man twisted under the hail of bullets.
Layne kicked some glass out of the way to leap outside of the building. Fresh air. Sunlight on his face. The helicopter overhead had been drifting away from the building, but it turned in midair. Back toward him.
Layne dropped his guns and waved his hand over the top of the barricade. He tried to push it over, but it was too sturdy. “Here! Come through here! It’s a weak spot.”
Jumping up and down, waving his arms like a maniac, he caught the attention of a few SWAT guys concealed behind the door of a Chevy Suburban. They looked at each other, confused for a second, then they seemed to understand. One of them waved his arm toward the broken glass and the unmanned barricade. A few of them lined up and marched toward Layne’s position.
And then, Layne felt something smack against him. It was like being hit in the back with a lead pipe. He stumbled, unable to stop his forward momentum. Realized he’d been shot.
He twisted as he went horizontal, the back of his head smacking on the cold ground. Had the body armor caught the bullet? As the air whooshed out of him and he struggled to breathe, he couldn’t be sure. He stared up at the blue sky as the barricade shifted to the side and a stream of SWAT team members poured through the opening. Rushing inside the building. Weapons up, gunshots like lightning bolts ejecting from the barrels of their rifles.
Layne lifted his head and made eye contact with a tall, blue-eyed invader. Amid a hail of bullets, the man grinned at him. Their mutual gaze didn’t last long, though, because he took a round in the head, his body snapping sideways. The few other remaining terrorists all fell in a matter of seconds.
The cops immediately swarmed on the hostages, circling them, guns facing out to form a protective circle.
Layne realized he hadn’t seen Red among the invaders in this room.
Where was the leader?
Layne rolled over onto his stomach, heaving to take a breath. He ripped off the body armor and felt around his back. Sore, but no blood. The vest had caught it. Saved his life.
Then he ditched the belt and staggered to his feet. Gulping huge breaths of air, he stepped inside the building, hands raised above his head. He could hardly walk. Every part of his body throbbed. His ears rang worse than the aftereffects of any loud concert he’d ever attended.
A trio of SWAT team members raised their AR-15s at him, shouting. In the chaos, Layne couldn’t hear anything they were saying.
Jasmine was in the basement. Red was unaccounted for.
“Basement!” Layne said, his hands still high. “She’s down in the basement.”
One man, rifle raised, approached Layne. “Did you shoot out the window? Was that you?”
Layne nodded. Woozy, head spinning. Didn’t know if he could stand up much longer. “We need to get into the basement.”
“We’re going to wait right here, sir,” the cop said as he lowered his weapon. “Please have a seat, and we’ll get to you in a moment.”
“No! She’s in danger down there. We need to get into the basement, right now.”
The cop turned to another one, and they shared a look. One of them said something to the other, but Layne missed it. A wave of pain vibrated out from his back, like pins and needles from head to toe.
“What’s in the basement?” the cop said, shouting at Layne.
“One of the hostages. My friend. Please, let me take you to her.”
The cop leaned forward and patted Layne down. Then, shifted his rifle’s strap to his back. “Which way?”
Layne pointed to the elevator, and the cop nodded.
“Follow me, sir.”
Layne limped over to the elevator and pressed the button. A moment later, the doors shifted open. The cop pressed the B button and then frowned when nothing happened. Layne held up a hand, motioning the cop out of his way.
He jimmied the lock mechanism again to send them down to the basement. The pain in Layne’s body threatened to take him off his feet. He had to lean against the wall to stay upright, heaving deep breaths. Had been a long time since he’d been shot.
The elevator landed, and the cop escorted him into the basement. Right away, Layne could tell something was off. He didn’t see her anywhere.
“Jasmine, it’s me.” His voice sounded weak and feeble. Barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat and repeated himself.
The cop took a step further, rifle raised. His eyes tracked down, but Layne didn’t look. He was focused on finding Jasmine.
She came around the corner, holding the knife up. Shaking. The cop pointed his rifle at her, but Layne put out his hands. “No, this is her. She’s one of the hostages.” Then, to Jasmine: “It’s okay. Drop the knife. He’s a cop.” Layne pointed at the large letters SWAT on the man’s body armor. “See? Big, yellow letters.”
She nodded, her hands limp at her sides.
Layne now noticed the form on the floor. Buzzed auburn hair, blood pooling underneath him.
Red, on the floor, not moving. Layne squinted and saw the gash on his neck.
Jasmine’s arms and face were streaked with blood. She dropped the knife and raced across the room. She threw her arms around Layne and he squeezed her back, as hard as he could. Didn’t care about how much it hurt his midsection.
“What happened?” he said.
“He came down here,” she said, speaking right into his ear. “I jumped out and surprised him.”
He wasn’t sure how long the embrace lasted. Maybe fifteen seconds, maybe thirty. And when it was over, he pulled back and put his hands on the sides of her face. He smiled at her, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears and the pounding in his head.
And, through the tears, she smiled back at him.
“I told you I would come back,” he said.
A NOTE TO READERS
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Skip ahead a couple pages to read chapter 1 of the official Layne Parrish book #1, SHADOW SOLDIERS.
A special thanks goes out to Kevin Tumlinson and Nick Thacker, the OGs from the Thriller Cartel.
If you enjoy Layne Parrish’s adventures, you will also like my Micah Reed series. Layne himself appears in several of the books. You can get book 0 in the Micah Reed series absolutely free, and it’s not available for sale ANYWHERE. Get it at www.jimheskett.com
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SHADOW SOLDIERS
Chapter One
If you like this sample chapter, buy this book here.
LAYNE PARRISH ALWAYS loved a good rumpus. Nestled in a cramped bed next to a little girl named Cameron, he flipped to the last page of Where the Wild Things Are.
“Daddy,” she said.
“Yes, little one.”
“Why did Max go home? Why can’t he stay with the wild things?”
“Because he missed h
is family.”
Cameron stared at the page, an illustration of the protagonist sailing across the water toward home. Pale brow creased, her face riddled with confusion. Thinking. Her eyes were kaleidoscopic puddles of blue crystal, glistening under the meager light of the bedside lamp. The young child readjusted herself on the twin bed, and Layne had to pivot his weight to keep from slipping over the side.
“He missed his mommy and daddy?”
Layne nodded. “He did.”
In his pocket, a phone buzzed. He slipped it out to find a call from an unknown number lighting up the screen. Unknown to the phone companies, but Layne had a strong suspicion who was on the line.
The same person who had been calling and texting him relentlessly for the last two days.
“Daddy, put it away. You said no more screens.”
“You’re right,” he said as he jabbed it back into his pocket. “Watching screens after dark makes our eyes cross, right?” He crossed his eyes and let his tongue loll out.
She giggled and poked his chest with a finger not much bigger than a toothpick. “Daddy, stop.”
Cameron traced one of her fingers along his arm, gliding across one particular section of the tattoos that covered it from wrist to shoulder. A cherub in the middle of his forearm, obscuring a gunshot wound from long ago. The cherub now appeared faded and blurry on his forty-year-old arms.
The phone squirmed inside his pocket again, demanding attention. A repeat call. This time, though, he ignored the eager person on the other end of the line.
“It’s time for bed,” he said.
She pondered this for a moment and then frowned. “Are the wild things going to get me?”
“You’re a wild thing,” he said, and his fingers leaped to her belly for a tickle. She cackled, writhing, and he instantly regretted it. Bedtime was supposed to be calm time. But he couldn’t resist torturing such an easy target.
“Okay, okay, little one. Time for bed, for real.”
She pushed out a breath, the remnants of tickle energy fading. Her lids were heavy, her motions thick, like a person wading through swampy water. She was an inch away from sleep. Layne anticipated no bedtime false starts tonight.
“I love you much, Daddy.”
He kissed her forehead as he drew the covers up to her shoulders. “And I love you much, little one.”
He sneaked across the room and rested a hand on the light switch. “I’ll be right downstairs, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Layne flicked out the light and stole one last look at her, a miniature head nestled on a Thomas the Tank Engine pillow. He closed the door behind him as his phone buzzed yet again. Didn’t bother to take it out.
Next, a knock came at the front door, downstairs. He paused for a moment in front of his daughter’s room to make sure she wouldn’t call out. No way she was asleep already, but maybe she hadn’t heard it. The excitement of someone coming to the door would turn bedtime into a circus requiring a whole new set of little kid cooldown routines.
She made no sound. No vibration through the door.
Layne held perfectly still until another knock came. He wasn’t unreachable in this small town, but he almost never had visitors. And never unannounced or after dark. The neighbors knew about bedtime policy and wouldn’t betray Layne’s evening ritual.
He hustled down the stairs, past the fireplace, and through the living room to the front door. Keeping his large body close to the wall, he eased toward the framed art print of a stretch of highway cutting across a Nevada desert. Three motorcycle riders blurred with speed, the stark highway underneath them rippling with heat.
After lifting that off the wall, he accessed the hidden vault behind it. He pressed his thumb against a small pad in the lower left corner. A moment later, it clicked and then opened. Inside were two Glock 19 MOS with Trijicon RMR sights and four extra magazines. He loaded a magazine into each pistol but left them inside the safe.
He inched toward the door and slid open a small cover on the other side, revealing a six-inch LCD panel connected to a video camera concealed above the front door. With squinted eyes, he tapped the screen to wake it. A hefty sigh then escaped his lips. A tall brunette with curly hair posed on his front porch, wrapped in a heavy winter coat. Shivering against the flakes of snow cascading down around her.
He gritted his teeth and shut the wall vault. Rehung the framed poster.
Layne opened the front door. “Hello, Daphne.”
“Let me in?” she said, grimacing. “It’s cold as hell out here.”
“It’s December at eight thousand feet. Obviously it’s cold.”
She strutted inside and hooked a heel to kick the door shut behind her. Spent a couple of seconds unspooling the scarf around her neck like a mummy unwrapping herself. “I don’t know why you insisted on Colorado. And not even somewhere sensible like Denver, but way the hell up here in the backwoods.”
“What can I do for you?”
She let her coat slip off her shoulders and crash to the floor. Layne did not miss the fact that she was wearing a formfitting business suit, one that amplified every one of her curves.
Daphne strutted around the living room, rubbing her hands together and casting narrow eyes at the decor in his house. It wasn’t much, but Layne didn’t care about decorating. He cared more about childproofing the electrical outlets and making sure Cameron had plenty of space for her toys, which littered the floor like grenade shrapnel.
As she glanced into the kitchen, she grinned at his refrigerator. “Still adding to your magnet collection, I see.”
Layne said nothing.
Daphne paused before a framed print of the Denver skyline hanging above the modest television in the living room. “What do you have to drink?”
He shook his head. “We’re not doing that. Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here, so I can politely refuse and send you on your way?”
“Aww, Boy Scout,” she said, mock-pouting, “you really need to work on your conversational skills. I haven’t seen you in so long, and all you have to offer me is hostility and bitterness?”
“You know when you drop a lobster into a cold pot and then slowly turn up the heat so he doesn’t know he’s boiling? That’s how this feels right now.”
Wearing a wry grin, Daphne sashayed across the room and slipped her hands around Layne’s waist. “This is a far cry from how you used to greet me after a long absence. Remember the Radisson in Houston? I thought we were going to break the bed.”
“I just put my daughter down for the night. She sometimes doesn’t sleep well at this altitude, so I would like to sit in my recliner and drink a Fat Tire while I read my book. After that, I’m going to bed, so I can be ready when she wakes up to go potty two or three hours from now. How can I hurry this conversation along so I can get to my alone time faster?”
She removed her arms and stepped away from him. “Fine, dear. I’ll get to the point. You’re needed for something, and it’s important. Give me two minutes, and I can lay it all out for you.”
He shook his head, feeling the familiar burn of a headache ignite behind his eyes.
“You’re not even curious?” she said. “Not even a little?”
“Nope.”
“You have to trust me, Layne. I can tell you most of it now and the rest when we’re at our destination. This operation is something that affects you personally.”
“I’m not interested. I appreciate you coming all this way, but it was a wasted trip.” He pointed up at the ceiling, toward the room where Cameron slept. “That’s the only thing that affects me personally anymore.”
“We don’t have time for this cat-and-mouse foreplay.”
“No cat and mouse. There’s nothing you can say to make me jump back into that life, and whatever is at stake here, you can get your own people to handle it. I’m done.”
Daphne chewed on her lower lip for a second, then sighed. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I can l
ive with that.”
“Hundred percent, this is your final answer?”
He stared, stone-faced. Figured he’d said all he needed to say.
“So be it.” She dropped into a crouch to pick up her coat, slipped it on, and carried the scarf in her hand as she marched toward the door. Layne opened it for her, saying nothing as she exited.
When the door had closed, he stood there watching the LCD screen as she shuffled through the snow toward the street. A brief pang of guilt thumped his chest. That he should have agreed to hear her out, at least. She’d come a long way, and it couldn’t have been for no reason.
But then again, Layne didn’t do this kind of work anymore. He’d left that life behind years ago for something simpler. Something less dangerous.
He continued to study her tiny avatar on the screen as she reached the edge of his yard. Couldn’t see what car she’d arrived in.
As she shucked snow from her shoes, Daphne lifted a phone to her ear. Her head peeked back toward his front door as she mouthed some words into the phone.
He could see it in her eyes.
His finger jabbed the button next to the LCD screen to change the view. First it cycled to the camera at the side of the house, then to the rear porch. At two black-clad shadows, breaking into his back door.
Their footsteps padded across the threshold, into his house.
He spun around as he felt the first pinch. A jab in the side of his stomach, like a heavy-duty mosquito bite. His eyes flicked down to see a stick no longer than a match jutting from his shirt. An instant of wooziness struck him, and his vision filled with stars.
Through his living room, Layne could see two figures slinking into his kitchen from the back laundry room. Both were dressed head-to-toe in black, one man and one woman. The female had an arm extended, a device like a pistol in her hands. Stun dart gun. Layne turned back toward the wall safe next to his front door when the second pinch happened, this one in his back. Like a needle jabbed into his spine.