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“R.J. Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”
- Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS
“Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”
- Richard D., reader
“Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.
- Ray F., reader
DEAD SHOT
“Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer R.J. Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It’s that good.”
-Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS
“You can tell R.J. knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but with Dead Shot, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery.”
- Josh Katzowitz,
NFL writer for CBSSports.com
& author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game
DEAD LINE
“This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. R.J. Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”
- Bob Behler
3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year
and play-by-play voice for Boise State football
DEAD IN THE WATER
“In Dead in the Water, R.J. Patterson accurately captures the action-packed saga of a what could be a real-life college football scandal. The sordid details will leave readers flipping through the pages as fast as a hurry-up offense.”
- Mark Schlabach,
ESPN college sports columnist and
co-author of Called to Coach
Heisman: The Man Behind the Trophy
Other titles by R.J. Patterson
Titus Black series
Behind Enemy Lines
Game of Shadows
Rogue Commander
Line of Fire
Brady Hawk series
First Strike
Deep Cover
Point of Impact
Full Blast
Target Zero
Fury
State of Play
Seige
Seek and Destroy
Into the Shadows
Hard Target
No Way Out
Two Minutes to Midnight
Against All Odds
Any Means Necessary
Vengeance
Code Red
A Deadly Force
Divide and Conquer
Extreme Measures
Final Strike
Cal Murphy Thriller series
Dead Shot
Dead Line
Better off Dead
Dead in the Water
Dead Man's Curve
Dead and Gone
Dead Wrong
Dead Man's Land
Dead Drop
Dead to Rights
Dead End
James Flynn Thriller series
The Warren Omissions
Imminent Threat
The Cooper Affair
Seeds of War
FINAL STRIKE
A Brady Hawk Thriller
R.J. PATTERSON
For Dr. Will Power, an incredible
teacher and professor who cared
deeply for his students and others
CHAPTER 1
Baghran, Afghanistan
BRADY HAWK WIPED sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. September in the scorching heat of the Baba Mountains felt just as hot as east Texas in July. Lying prone in the dust, he eyed his target through the scope on his rifle. The man Hawk had been sent to kill bounced around from one conversation to the next, shaking hands and grinning widely.
This guy has no idea what’s about to hit him.
Hawk checked the wind once more, flinging a pinch of sand in the air. Nothing.
“How is it out there?” Alex asked over the coms.
His wife’s soothing voice always brought a smile to his face. “Like I’m lying on a bed of brimstone.” He paused before continuing in a sing-song tone. “Wish you were here.”
“I’m sure you do,” she said with a chuckle, “because misery loves company.”
“Who said anything about me being miserable?”
“You don’t have to because I know you are,” she said.
“How so?” Hawk asked as he kept the target in his sights.
“Because I’m not there.”
“Your circular logic won’t work on me.”
“Tell me I’m wrong then.”
Hawk chuckled. “This is a game I can’t win, isn’t it?”
“If you’re asking the question, I think you already know the answer.”
“Well, the real answer I want from you is this: Do I have a green light to take the shot?”
Hawk waited as furious clicking sounds came through her mic.
“From what I can see here on the satellite images, you’re safe to shoot,” she said. “There doesn’t appear to be a soul in sight.”
“Thank you,” Hawk said, returning his eye to the scope.
A half-mile away, Tahir Nazari stroked his beard as he listened to another man talk in an animated fashion. With hands waving wildly in the air, the man leaned in close before breaking into a jovial laugh. Nazari slapped the man on the back before draining a wine goblet.
From a distance, Nazari looked nothing like the monster mentioned in several intel reports. In a matter of weeks, Nazari had emerged out of nowhere, rising to a significant threat after being a simple rural goat herder. The story that emerged was that he had inherited a large sum of money from a dead uncle. Instead of investing the cash into his business, he sold all his goats and launched a terrorist faction. Nazari called his men freedom fighters, but he recruited soldiers so quickly and technical experts so effortlessly, that he’d built an organization from the ground up at such break-neck speed that Washington had taken notice. For the last six weeks, the intelligence community had been waving warning flags at everyone who would listen. Yet in the end, nobody wanted to be responsible for eliminating Nazari, at least, no one with official ties to the U.S. government. And Hawk fit the bill, a black ops agent working free from the trappings of military bureaucracy, not to mention he lived for these types of missions.
“This guy looks more like a Baptist pastor greeting his congregation at the door after a Sunday sermon than some brazen terrorist,” Hawk said.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Alex said.
The Baba Mountains cast long shadows on the rural village below, darkening Nazari’s face. While the story of Nazari’s meteoric rise was intriguing, the story of his family history was what Hawk found interesting. Upon learning more about it, Hawk realized Nazari’s path wasn’t so shocking at all. In fact, it should’ve been expected. Washington had seen it played out over and over again:
A relative gets killed in a U.S. military strike, spawning legions of new terrorists. That’s part of the reason why Firestorm and, now, the Phoenix Foundation had been allowed to exist. Targeted strikes against radicals had proven to seed far fewer terrorists. But when Karif Fazil was killed in London, Nazari had plotted not just to take his half-brother’s place, but to supplant whatever he’d built with a stronger militia, one more nimble and capable.
According to all the intel on Nazari, the agrarian lifestyle never seemed to be a problem for him. But overnight, that changed. Now, Nazari had succeeded in his goal, making Fazil’s team look like a rag-tag group of carnival workers in comparison.
Hawk couldn’t help but wonder if Nazari’s inexperience accounted for his lack of awareness. Prancing around in the open was going to get him killed. Hawk was merely seconds away from pulling the trigger and making that happen.
“Still good?” Alex asked again.
“I’ll tell you in about thirty seconds,” Hawk said. “The target is standing on a chair against the wall in the courtyard. I don’t think I’ll ever get a cleaner shot.”
“Then take it,” she said.
Hawk steadied his breathing as he centered the crosshairs on Nazari’s chest.
“Say goodnight, Mr. Nazari,” Hawk said before pulling the trigger.
Hawk waited a couple seconds as the bullet zipped through the air before hitting Nazari in the heart. He staggered backward a few steps before collapsing onto the ground. Hawk watched horror spread across the faces of everyone at the party. Shock turned to panic as people dove for cover.
Hawk rose to his knees before slinging the gun over his shoulder. He crouched low as he navigated through the rocky terrain to his vehicle. However, before he could get inside, bullets peppered the area around him. He cursed as he sought cover.
“What the hell is going on?” Hawk asked over the coms.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Alex said. “I see heat signatures coming from weapons positioned in the ridge above you, but that’s all. And they sure as hell weren’t there a few minutes ago.”
“Where’d they come from?” Hawk asked.
“Beats me,” she said. “Maybe that’s where Nazari’s hideout is … or, was.”
“Can you get me any help?” Hawk asked. “This is starting to look like a kill box to me. I’ve got hostiles on both sides of the ridge.”
“There’s not much I can do at this point,” she said. “Your best bet is to try and drive out of there and beat anyone responding to the main highway.”
“Roger that,” Hawk said as he scrambled behind the wheel, dodging stray bullets. He turned the key, igniting the engine. Jamming the vehicle into drive, Hawk wheeled around and sped back down the primitive road that he took to reach his perch. While he’d assassinated many hardened terrorists before, they never looked quite so surprised. Death came as a welcome relief for some. But Hawk couldn’t shake the image of horror on Nazari’s face, making the American operative wonder if the pre-emptive strike may have happened too early. He assuaged his conscience by telling himself that Hitler probably wasn’t always a psychopath, but if someone had killed him before his rise to power, the world would’ve been spared so much suffering.
Hawk’s mind raced with possibilities of how to handle the potential scenarios. He could abandon his vehicle and fight. He could drive straight toward them in a dangerous game of chicken. Or he could get out and run, taking his chances on foot. Every report he’d read said that Nazari’s men wouldn’t be able to provide a quick response and that the best location to take him out would’ve provided quick access to the main road where it would’ve been easy to blend in again. But that wasn’t the case. Everything felt off from the moment he’d arrived. He should’ve trusted his gut.
“There are two vehicles zipping your way from the mountains behind you,” she said. “I’m guessing they’re Nazari’s men.”
Hawk maneuvered around a couple boulders. “And what do you suggest I do? I’m kind of flying blind here.”
“There aren’t a lot of options,” she said. “How much ammo do you have?”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
She ignored him and continued. “The road takes a sharp right about a mile from where you are. You need to stay on the gas. The other two vehicles shouldn’t catch you before the turnoff. But if you slow down for any reason …”
“What is it, Alex? How many men am I going to have to face? Six? Eight? Ten?”
“I don’t know,” Alex said, her voice quivering. “Just don’t let it get to that.”
“I’ll do my best. Just keep me posted if anything changes.”
“Be careful, Hawk.”
He looked behind him, the dust from the vehicles rising over the ridge. The fear in Alex’s voice made him concerned, as if maybe it was worse than what she was letting on.
“Honey, I’ve got some bad news,” Alex said, breaking the silence after a few seconds.
“That’s not what I need right now,” he said.
“There’s another caravan headed toward you now, too.”
“How many?”
“I count four vehicles. You’re not going to make that sharp curve before they reach you.”
Hawk cursed and slammed on the brakes. After scanning the area, he noticed a farm house with a small barn about fifty meters away. He jumped out of his SUV and searched the ground for a sizable rock.
“What are you doing, Hawk?” Alex asked.
“Giving myself a fighting chance,” he said.
“You need to get out of there.”
“Just trust me, okay? I’ve got this.”
Hawk drove his SUV to a spot about 200 meters from the bend in the road. Based on his best estimate, he figured the caravan coming from Baghran would arrive first. If he wasn’t right, the results would be disastrous.
Hawk calculated the precise moment to set his plan in motion. Affixing the steering wheel with a rope so it couldn’t move, he put the car in drive and then placed the large rock on the accelerator. The SUV sped toward the bend in the winding road, leaving behind a trail of dust. Hawk sprinted toward the barn and kept the door cracked. He whipped out his rifle and started firing in the direction of the oncoming caravan, giving the illusion that he was behind the steering wheel and shooting at them.
Men popped out of the sides of the approaching vehicles, unloading semi-automatic weapons. But Hawk’s SUV hurtled toward them without slowing down. As it drew nearer, the terrorists’ trucks parted, making way for Hawk’s SUV to plummet off the side of the mountain.
For a moment, the move perplexed the men. They skidded to a stop and got out, looking at each other in disbelief. Several men shook their heads as they peered over the edge.
“That was clever,” Alex said.
“Only if they buy it,” Hawk said.
The men from the rear drove up, joining the other group. After a brief discussion, they all fanned out, weapons in hand.
“They’re heading straight toward you,” Alex said.
“Roger that,” Hawk said as he eased back to find a better hiding spot.
He situated himself in the barn and prepared for the long haul.
“You good?” Alex asked.
“Depends,” he replied. “How’s it looking out there?”
“Dammit,” she said. “I just lost my satellite feed. But the last image I saw had at least six men with weapons trained in front of them headed toward you.”
“All right,” Hawk said. “I’m going dark. I’ll contact you when I’m out of here.”
“I love you.”
“You too.”
Hawk scrambled deeper into the back, hiding next to a stack of hay bales. Steadying his breathing, he peeked through a tiny hole to see if his situation had changed.
It hadn’t.
The hostiles continued to march toward him, weapons drawn. Hawk was five miles away from the extraction point without a vehicle and surrounded by gunmen.
Maybe I should’ve tried to fight my way out of this.
Now, he didn’t have a choice.
CHAPTER 2
Moscow, Idaho
J.D. BLUNT FIRMLY SMOOTHED the fake mustache above his upper lip before checking his disguise one final time in the rearview mirror. The new spectacles Mia had given him before he left looked far more sophisticated than any reading glasses he’d ever worn. After getting out of his rental car, he jammed his hands into his coat in response to the chill of late September in northern Idaho.
This ain’t East Texas.
Blunt shuffled up to the entrance of the Corner Club, a small windowless building that appeared lifeless on the outside. He scanned the area before entering the self-proclaimed best sports bar in the small college town. What the drinking establishment lacked in the way of decor on the outside was made up by the atmosphere on the inside. Students stood shoulder to shoulder on one side, while older adults, running the gamut from mid-twenties to men who appeared to be in their eighties, jammed into the other half of the room.
And sitting on a stool at a high, round table was his niece Morgan.
She gave Blunt a friendly wave once their eyes locked and motioned for him to join her. He twisted and turned to navigate past the patrons glued to the football game playing on several televisions plastered against the wall. Morgan’s face broke into a big grin as he sat down.
“If you hadn’t told me what you were wearing, I would've never recognized you,” she said.
“That’s the goal,” Blunt said.
“Actually, I’m glad you came tonight because I’ve been fairly bored other than classes.”
“I know there’s not as much to do here, but I thought you’d at least be able to work on your shooting.”
A faint smile spread across her lips. “I’ve made time for that. Based on what you told me, I ought to be at the top of my class when things start.”
“Yeah, about that,” Blunt said.
“Well, I can’t wait to join you," she said, ignoring his interruption before taking a sip of her beer. “This witness protection program is for the birds.”
Final Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 21) Page 1