Final Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 21)

by R. J. Patterson

  He sighed. “Have you already forgotten what happened to you at the hands of Sinclair’s goons?”

  “I’ll never forget that. And that’s why I want to work to stop these people, just like you do.”

  Blunt shook his head. “Morgan, are you sure you want to do this? I mean, there are so many other things you could do.”

  “Uncle J.D., don’t you think it’s a little hypocritical to try to dissuade me from doing the same thing you are?”

  Blunt slowly surveyed the room. He hadn’t seen anyone enter the bar since he’d come in, but he knew he couldn’t let his guard down. After Morgan’s near death experience at the hands of Obsidian agents, Blunt pulled a few strings to get her into the witness protection program, giving her a new identity.

  “I do this so the ones I love can be safe.”

  “And I appreciate that,” she said. “What’s wrong with me wanting to follow in your footsteps? I have similar concerns for my loved ones too. You can’t do this forever.”

  “You need to be enjoying your time in college, all while being cautious. You never want to let your guard down.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been here for months, and this might be the last place anyone would look for me. Besides, by the time anyone would think to search here, I should be long graduated and working for the CIA by then.”

  Blunt bristled at the mention of the CIA. Her kidnapping a year earlier had resulted in a thorough investigation, which included plenty of interviews with government agents. By the time it was over, she wanted to take her criminal justice degree and put it to good use as a CIA agent. And Blunt was less than thrilled over the prospect of her joining the agency.

  “Look, honey, I have to warn you that some things need to happen before you can begin orientation for the CIA,” Blunt said.

  She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Becoming an agent doesn’t make those who are targeting you magically disappear,” Blunt said. “It’s more than likely to put others at risk.”

  “So, what are you getting at?”

  He took a long pull on his bourbon before answering. “Until Falcon Sinclair is eliminated, you can’t join the CIA.”

  “What? You can’t—how can you …”

  “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I couldn’t let you believe that as soon as your semester ends next spring that you’re going to waltz right into a spot with the agency. The threat against your life is real.”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  Blunt nodded. “I understand, but it’s not a risk the higher-ups will allow.”

  “Then you better take care of that bastard,” she said, “if not for me, for everyone else he’s harmed. You know how much I want this.”

  “I know,” Blunt said. “We’re working on taking him out. Just know that I want you to pursue your dreams, and if this is really what you want, I’ll do whatever I can to help make that happen … but in as safe of a way as possible.”

  “I’m holding you to that,” she said. “Don’t let me down.”

  Blunt held up his drink. “To the agency.”

  “To the agency,” she said before clinking her glass with his.

  They spent the next hour and a half catching up while watching football games, high-fiving strangers, and finishing off two baskets of chili cheese fries.

  Blunt glanced at his watch and then told Morgan he needed to leave so he could get back to Washington. She put her arm around him and walked him to his car.

  “Do you think anyone is watching us?” she asked as they reached his car.

  “If someone recognized me in this disguise, the end will come quickly for me,” Blunt said with a wry grin. “But if one of Sinclair’s goons knew where you were, I doubt either of us would still be standing here right now.”

  As Blunt’s phone buzzed, he fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the name on the screen. His eyebrows shot upward.

  “Who is it?” Morgan asked. “Someone important?”

  “It’s the president,” he said before giving her a quick hug. “Gotta run.”

  “Love you,” she said. “And catch Sinclair soon.”

  Blunt nodded and smiled as he eased behind the wheel of his rental. Moments later, he answered the call. A woman told him to stay on the line for the president. A few seconds later, President Noah Young’s voice boomed over the cell’s speaker.

  “Damn, J.D., your team is absolutely amazing,” Young said. “I ask you to deliver a win, and you don’t waste any time.”

  “With all due respect, sir, we’re patriots first. Everything we do is for the betterment of this country.”

  “And my campaign, too,” Young said. “Every talking head on cable news tonight is singing my praises, so I figure I ought to revel in the moment with the man who made it all happen.”

  Blunt huffed a laugh through his nose. “I’m so amazing, I made it all happen while eating cheese fries at a cozy sports bar in the middle of nowhere Idaho.”

  “Idaho? Should I even ask?”

  “It won’t do you any good because I won’t tell you.”

  “Probably for the best then. Well, anyway, I just wanted to give you my hearty thanks and ask you to pass that congratulations along to your team.”

  “I’ll be happy to do that for you,” Blunt said before his tone took a serious turn. “And since I’ve got you on the line, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “What is it, J.D.? You’re starting to scare me.”

  Blunt drew in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly before continuing. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, sir, but it’s time for me to call it quits and retire.”

  “Retire? But, J.D., you’re still in your prime.”

  Blunt chuckled. “On what planet is being just a few years shy of seventy considered in your prime? I want to know because I want to retire there.”

  “Let’s talk about this when you get back,” Young said. “I don’t want you making any hasty decisions.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve already made up my mind.”

  “Have you told your team?”

  “Not yet, but I will. I’m sure you’ll be able to find competent leadership for them.”

  “That’s something in short supply around Washington. Scrounging up someone who can lead your team won’t be easy.”

  “That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”

  “Well, I might not be happy about this, but you certainly deserve a good retirement for all you’ve done to keep this country safe, all of it without any fanfare.”

  “That’s the way I like it, sir,” Blunt said. “That’s also how I intend for my retirement to go, out of the limelight and disappearing.”

  “You’ve made an art form out of it, so I’d expect nothing less from you. But, are you sure I can’t talk you out of this?”

  “Positive. But I’m not ready to go quite this minute.”

  “Unfinished business?” Young asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Blunt said. “Namely, Falcon Sinclair. I can’t just walk away from this job knowing he’s still free.”

  “That would be a nice parting gift from you. But don’t feel obligated.”

  “I told my niece she couldn’t join the CIA until Sinclair was eliminated. And I’d hate to disappoint her.”

  Young laughed. “You do whatever you need to do, and when you’re finally serious about leaving, you let me know so I can talk you out of it.”

  “Try to talk me out of it,” Blunt said. “You will try … and fail. But I won’t fault you for trying.”

  “Hurry home,” Young said. “There’s still plenty to discuss as well as celebrate.”

  “Of course, sir,” Blunt said before he hung up.

  He zipped along the two-lane road leading to the airport when his phone rang again, this time with a call from Alex Hawk.

  “Alex, nice work,” Blunt said as he answered. “The news is already out. I just hung up with the president and
he sends his congratulations.”

  “I’d hold off on celebrating just yet.”

  He scowled. “What do you mean? Is Hawk okay?”

  “He didn’t make the extraction point,” she said. “He’s still alive, but he’s in a tough spot right now.”

  “Oh, Alex, I’m sorry. I’m sure he’ll—”

  “That’s not what I called to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, there’s something else. It’s worse. Far worse than we could’ve ever imagined.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Baghran, Afghanistan

  HAWK SPIED A MOTORCYCLE tucked behind several seed sacks. He loosened the gas cap to see how much fuel was inside. Not much, but he figured it might be enough to get him out of his current jam.

  Better than being someone’s target practice.

  Hawk hoisted his leg over the seat and took a deep breath. Then he squeezed the clutch while he jammed his foot onto the kickstart. His first three attempts failed as the bike didn’t give any indication that it was inclined to start. But on the fourth try, the engine roared to life. Hawk goosed the gas as he popped the clutch and tore out of the backside of the barn.

  Hawk leaned forward, crouching low to reduce his target size. Bullets peppered the ground all around him as he wove back and forth on the rocky ground. With the road back to town blocked, he needed to navigate the unforgiving terrain to escape the looming threat.

  The men who’d been closing in on him in the barn sprinted toward their vehicles, which were about three hundred meters away. Hawk drove to the edge of the steep mountainside and paused for a second. He didn’t have much time to plot a course, but he couldn’t expect to fly blindly down the embankment. Loose sand, large boulders, and sprawling bushes provided a daunting challenge to reaching the valley floor without crashing and getting hurt. Any leg injury would be a death sentence.

  Bullets pinged nearby, forcing Hawk to choose his path more quickly than he would’ve liked. He took another deep breath and pointed his bike down the hill. The handlebars vibrated while the seat rattled beneath him in a rhythmic fashion. Twisting and turning as he went, he avoided a handful of major boulders.

  Upon reaching a short stretch of smooth dirt, he glanced back up toward the ridge. Some of the terrorists were watching, reporting his movements on their radios, while others sped down the dusty road in an attempt to cut him off. He turned on his coms and tried to reach Alex.

  “Alex, are you there?” Hawk asked.

  Silence.

  “Alex, do you read me?”

  Still nothing.

  He left the channel open, hoping he might hear her. But her voice never came through his ear.

  The route to the valley floor consisted of ripples of hills, creating pockets to hide from the prying eyes overhead. And Hawk needed to pick one fast before the men in pursuit converged on his position. After he went up and over a third rise, he spotted a house with a boy playing in the lone tree nearby.

  As Hawk drew closer, he cut off the engine and coasted to a stop. Upon further examination, he guessed the boy was about twelve years old. He stopped and squinted as Hawk eased to a halt.

  After a friendly wave, Hawk steadied the bike with his feet on the ground. The engine continued to hum as the boy cautiously eyed Hawk. After a quick glance over his shoulder, Hawk sighed in relief. He was hidden from view of the men on the ridge.

  “Do you know how to ride?” Hawk asked the boy in Farsi.

  He nodded.

  Hawk gestured toward the bike. “For you.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “For me?”

  “You can keep it if you like,” Hawk said. “But I need you to do me a favor.”

  “What do you want?” the boy asked.

  “Are your parents home?” Hawk asked as he eyed the adobo home a few meters away.

  The boy shook his head.

  “I need to hide. There are some bad men after me, so please don’t tell anyone I’m here. Can you do that for me?”

  “If I do that, you’ll give me this motorcycle?”

  Hawk nodded. “She’s all yours.”

  “Okay.”

  The boy motioned for Hawk to follow. As they drew near to the house, the boy crouched low and put his index finger to his lips. They eased past an open window, where his mother belted out a song in English that he recognized.

  They listen to Brittany Spears out here? Wait until I tell Alex about this. She’ll never believe me.

  As they rounded the corner, the boy led Hawk into a small room and then gestured under the bed.

  “Don’t tell anyone I’m here,” Hawk said.

  The boy nodded, signaling he understood.

  Hawk scanned the room, noting an open window where he could see a straight shot deeper into a ravine. He slid beneath the bed. Inching his way out of sight, he listened to the mother blare renditions of a few Celine Dion songs followed by a couple Reba McEntire and Billie Eilish tunes.

  What kind of station is this?

  In this distance, he heard his motorcycle engine winding in the distance.

  A half-hour later, a man’s voice bellowed as he entered the house. The wife was interrupted midway through the chorus of Salt ’n Pepper’s “Push It” when presumably her husband turned off the song. A brief argument followed before he asked where his son was.

  Moments later, the motorcycle roared back toward the house.

  Outside, the sun had dipped below the mountains, muting the scant daylight remaining. In the fifteen minutes since that had happened, the temperature had plunged, bringing welcome relief from the heat.

  However, he started to sweat again as the father initiated an inquisition with his son about the arrival of the motorcycle just outside the boy’s window.

  “Where did you get this from?” the father demanded in Farsi. “Did you steal it? You know what we do to thieves, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t steal it,” the boy said. “A man gave it to me.”

  “You expect me to believe that a man just drove up to the house and gave that bike to you?”

  “Yes because that’s what happened.”

  “Did your mother see this man?” the father asked.

  “I don’t think so. She was cooking in the kitchen and singing.”

  The father cursed before muttering a disparaging remark about his wife’s singing. “I’m going to beat you.”

  “I swear, Papa, I’m telling you the truth.”

  “And where did this man go?”

  A few awkward seconds of silence passed before he spoke. “He’s in my room under my bed.”

  Hawk hated that he was about to make the boy look like a liar, but he had no choice. In a flash, Hawk slid out from underneath the bed and darted through the open window. He raced down toward the ravine. When he was sure no one could see him, he looked back over his shoulder to double-check.

  A few minutes later, a handful of terrorists rumbled up to the house. Hawk didn’t stick around to see how the conversation went. He scrambled over the rocky terrain, staying low to remain out of sight as much as possible.

  When he hit town, he pulled his keffiyeh around his face and sauntered along the road.

  Hawk tried to raise Alex again on the coms, but he couldn’t connect. After cursing under his breath, he continued along the shoulder, looking for the right vehicle to transport him to his contact.

  A couple minutes passed before he jumped into the bed of a truck piled high with scraps of wood. He rode along for a few miles until he reached the edge of the village. When he jumped out, he spotted the green van that was supposed to carry him to the extraction point and get him back to civilization.

  The man in the van was hardly recognizable beneath the scarf wrapped around his head. But he gave Hawk the confirmation signal before nodding toward the passenger seat.

  “Rough ride out there?” the man asked in a clipped British accent.

  “Not how I would’ve liked it, but the job is done,” Hawk sa
id.

  “I was about to give up on you.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Hawk said.

  A half-hour later, Hawk was delivered safely to the extraction point, where a helicopter zipped him out of the region. He put on his headphones and asked if someone could patch him through to the Phoenix Foundation offices in Washington, D.C. Before he knew it, he heard Alex’s sweet voice coming through crystal clear.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I made it to the extraction point, and I’m on the way back.”

  She sighed. “I lost you on the satellite feed and was getting really worried.”

  “No need to worry now,” he said with a chuckle.

  There was a long pause.

  “Alex, what is it?” Hawk asked.

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You didn’t kill Tahir Nazari.”

  Hawk furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? I saw his chest explode.”

  “No, you killed someone, just not Nazari.”

  “Then who did I kill?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Great Keppel Island, Australia

  FALCON SINCLAIR NURSED his Bloody Mary as he scanned the wildlife from the deck of his getaway home. Hidden deep within a nature reserve, one he bought for a ghastly sum and then donated to a conservation organization, the estate provided much-needed privacy away from the paparazzi and nosy press. It also gave him the opportunity to plan his next move in peace.

  A kangaroo bounced along the dirt path just beyond the edge of his fence, stopping every few meters to graze for a while on the tall grass sprouting up from the island floor. In the trees surrounding him, the kookaburras sounded their unmistakable laughing call. A cool breeze rushed across his face. Warmer weather was on the horizon, his favorite time of year. But before he could enjoy it, he had important business that demanded his attention.

  “Sir,” a young man said, snapping Sinclair back to reality, “would you like to meet out here this morning?”

  Sinclair didn’t turn around. “Let’s meet inside.”

  He drew in a deep breath of ocean air before following the man back into the house.