by LS Silverii
SABOTAGE: BEGINNINGS
Savage Souls Series
LS Silverii
Dedication
This sixth book in the series is dedicated to my wife. Thank you for allowing me to pursue what drives me wild. Other than you of course!
Acknowledgements
This series allowed the opportunity to incorporate my experiences as an undercover agent as well as what I’ve learned through my studies of human fringe behavior. I appreciate all of my brother and sister law enforcement officers who walk the jagged line daily. Those who keep the faith despite the frayed conditions have my eternal gratitude.
The writing community is amazing for surrounding each other with genuine support. These wonderful people generously support and mentor me without hesitation. I thank you for your time, talent and truth. Liliana Hart, Jean Jenkins and the ARC readers who held nothing back.
Copyright © 2016 by Scott Silverii
Kindle Edition
SilverHart Publishing
“Sabotage: Beginnings”: Savage Souls Series
© 2015 Savage Souls Series by Scott Silverii
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
For information contact SilverHart Publishing
[email protected]
www.silverhartwriters.com
Sabotage: Beginnings
What drives the hearts of men to do heroic feats, while others do horribly unspeakable acts? When the lines between black and white are no longer easily defined, that’s where the true heart of a man is tested.
CIA Operative Justice Boudreaux has served his country behind enemy lines, only to discover that the real enemy is the Agency who sent him there. While his mission is to save, another secret agent is programed to destroy. Ben Ford is a murdering machine with only one thing in his heart – to kill for his country.
When the two warriors collide, there are no nations safe from their ability to complete their missions. But there’s a fine line between good and evil, and the only way to win is to sabotage the other. May the best man win.
NOTE TO READER – This novel is the prequel to SAVAGE SOULS.
Also Check Out BROKEN – It’s FREE and the first book in the series. The final novel in this MC series is HUNTED: The Final Chapter and is due out 01-03-17.
The exciting continuation of St. John and Abigail’s saga is now available for pre-order. Order yours now and make sure you’re the first to have it delivered to you.
HUNTED: The Final Chapter
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Copyright Page
About the Book
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
HUNTED: The Final Chapter
About the Author
Links to my Other Books
Chapter 1
Justice Boudreaux was in a foreign land to kill. Why—because that’s what his government trained him to do. He was good at it. Both he knew and the CIA knew it. The trouble with this whole fucked-up scenario was his target also knew it.
His rubbery sole slipped in the sandy coating that painted everything. Justice paused to scan the hard, jagged region just beyond the border of Pakistan. Mountainous and arid. Unforgiving. He eyed his partner without confidence in her ability to maintain the track.
Sweat flowed from his shaggy beard. Water was scarce, so he didn’t bother wasting it to douse for comfort—it was needed for survival. His partner, chosen without Justice’s consent, had a different purpose for her canteen’s contents. Her glint showed determination, but Justice still doubted Batya Cohen’s abilities. He wagged his head as she sucked from the Camelback water bladder strapped to her backpack.
“You’d think breaching Pakistan without their government’s knowledge would be a bigger problem than you having to work with a woman,” Batya said. She drew from the rubber water tube until liquid gushed between thin lips.
She spit the fine wind-swept sand granules from her mouth, “L’Chayim,” she offered.
“Cheers,” Justice replied.
“Oh, you speak Hebrew?” her lips parted to show bright white teeth.
“My government says I gotta talk the talk, so I do as I’m ordered.” Justice squatted against a clump of boulders. Making himself a small target for the enemy was hard to do at six-feet-six, but he managed to shove his 258-pound frame into a gulch of rock and shade.
She retied the shemagh over her head and neck. Afghans traditionally wore the square cloth, but many soldiers and special operations warriors also adopted use of the versatile garment.
“Justice, please answer this.” Batya snugged the tip of the water hose beneath her desert-colored vest. “Is it because I’m a woman or a Jew?”
“Neither.” He snapped at the implication. “This isn’t Israel’s problem. Why would the Mossad bother dispatching a female to eliminate a rogue American asset? There’s more to it than you’re allowed to tell.”
The olive-and-black checkered scarf was tugged just beneath the razor-slits that barely allowed him to see her cold hazel eyes. “Your country may have created this shaitan, but he has killed many in my country. There’s no tolerance for his return.”
Justice leveled his monocular scope to eye-level. He wafted bats of steaming air through his nostrils while he zeroed upward, toward the ridge of a steep slope of terrain.
“Shaitan—devil, that’s what the Muslims call him. Is that what the Jews call him too?”
“We don’t bother giving him a name. There is nothing other than the one true God. To offer this man a name such as devil, Iblis, or shaitan would conflict with our monotheistic view of only one God.” She knelt about five feet away from him. “Is that another problem you have with me and my people?”
He pocketed the scope into the tactical vest strapped around his torso. Beneath it were light Kevlar panels. Probably not any good for stopping many bullets, but maybe it’d hold his insides together until he scrambled a medi-vac. His gloved finger twirled to signal it was time to move.
“I ain’t got a problem with you being a woman or a Jew. I just thought it’d be ironic for you and the Muslims to agree on something—even if it was a name for the devil.”
Batya leaned her compact frame close to the rock-strewn loam and began the long upward trek toward the unguarded military outpost. “What both of our people do agree on is that your government trained and dispatched this animal to prey on our countrymen.”
He glared at her ass as it moved inches from his dusty face. Justice averted his gaze,
but the smile was glued. Guys never really grew up—they just learned to not be so gross in public.
Maybe she can take care of herself after all.
Both operatives sat at the spear’s tip as far as specialized training was concerned. Justice’s acceptance into Delta Force afforded more training than most of the Army’s soldiers would see in a lifetime. Along with the United States Navy SEAL Team Six, both units were by far the most elite of the Joint Special Operations Command units.
The former LSU football standout had left college athletics to graduate early in order to be of service to his country. He’d grown up in a dysfunctional, backwater bayou brawl-a-thon with his father, but he’d always understood hard work would make up for a fucked up childhood of fishing and alligator hunting.
North Carolina’s Fort Bragg was another world away from Turtle Bayou, Louisiana, but it wasn’t long until he got the call that would take him even further away from his beloved United States Army—the Central Intelligence Agency.
The scrabble of boots against sliding rock pulled him back to the present.
“Hold on sister,” Justice gasped.
His left hand swung out to grab her. He pressed her into the rugged mountainside. Grimacing, he held tight until Batya was able to regain her footing. Below, the small rocks tumbled onto big stones as an avalanche stormed its way down the last three thousand feet of elevation they’d just covered.
“I had it.” She snapped at him in a breathless tone, her face contorted by exhaustion and the early stages of dehydration.
He tried to wink with an eye that had become swollen with crystalline salt and tears. They burned red hot against the reflective rock surface. Nothing to do but to deal with it. The canteen water was for drinking—not rinsing. Batya either didn’t respond to his wink or didn’t recognize his effort. Her expression remained set.
“Sure you did. I just didn’t want to have to go down to get you. It’s a long way straight up to start all over.”
“Zebach sh’lamim,” she quietly offered. Blessings.
“You’re welcome.” He beamed. “We got about another two hundred feet to the ridge. There’s a guard watchtower there. Supposed to be unmanned.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong—though I’m not—but won’t we be in Pakistan?” Fingertips bloodied from the long crawl, she pressed the wounds against her shemagh until the bleeding clotted.
“How do I reply without lying to you?” He whisked out his canteen and slammed down two slugs of warm water. “Officially, I don’t exist. I’m a ghost in Afghanistan or Pakistan. Hell. I’m a ghost back home. So whether it’s the friendlies, or terrorist cells, or the newly liberated country of Afghanis, my government says I don’t exist.”
“So what exactly does that mean?” she asked.
He saw her breathing had settled down, and color returned to her face.
“It means I don’t much care where I am. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the mission accomplished.”
“Americans, and your John Wayne swagger…” She shook her head, but Justice thought he detected an attempt at humor.
“I wish we were riding in on horses. Since we’re more like inchworms than cowboys, let’s get to the ridge and have a look. You got a problem with Pakistan?”
Her dust-covered shemagh scrunched, as if she were making a face. “Inchworm?”
“It’s American—like The Duke.” He bobbed his chin to signal they should move on.
Justice, now in the lead, wormed his way up the remainder of the sheer cliff wall. She trailed close behind. Purposefully shaved by the military, the rock’s smoothed effect prevented enemies from climbing the mountain walls.
They were no typical enemy.
He’d read Batya’s dossier hours before an introduction for the mission. Israeli’s Mossad was their country’s best counter-terrorism unit. Their storied past had its early ups and downs, similar to Justice’s beloved military Special Forces units, but when it came to the craft of killing, no one beat their spies. Batya, like many Jewish operatives, began her career in Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security unit, and then transferred to Aman, their military intelligence division. Her portfolio said she’d worked with both branches before being called to duty as a Mossad covert operative.
Justice held up his left arm. His clenched fist signaled for Batya to freeze where she was. He snaked his long physique across a semi-level landing. The scope was pressed against his right eye. His left eye, almost useless, he pressed closed to minimize the distractions. Laser-focused, he cursed across stretched lips that tried to cheat the hot air for a whiff of a cooler breeze.
“Three bogies.”
“So much for the veracity of your American intelligence,” she huffed.
He looked at the way back down to where their journey began. “It was a drone’s flyover. Just a few hours ago.” Dejected, Justice licked his lips—they felt like sandpaper.
“You Westerners rely upon too much technology. Nothing beats old fashion eyes on target.”
He broke visual contact with the three guards to glare at her. She gave off no emotional indicators. This woman’s bio read like a Sylvester Stallone movie character. She was as real as they came. But could she walk the walk when the shit hit the fan?
“What would you suggest then, Miss-know-it-all?”
“My surname is Cohen, not Knowitall,” she challenged. “Who do those lost souls belong to?”
Justice shrugged.
“You saved me from tumbling a long way down. Let me dispatch these three,” she said with cold confidence. Her light hazel eyes rarely blinked.
Justice eased out a chuckle. His attention was back on their targets. He wasn’t able to detect insignia. They were either rebels or terrorists. He nodded to Batya. His lips curled upward—she understood he was questioning her.
“How deep did you dig into my resume?” she taunted.
“I heard you’re Kidon.”
“Yes, that is correct,” she stated with a matter of fact.
Justice’s first inclination was to laugh. No way was she an infamously covert assassin for the Mossad’s Caesarea. He’d soon find out, but if she was, he was in the presence of greatness. Wouldn’t pay, though, to let her know how he felt.
She leaned deep over the rock formation until her dried, cracked lips almost touched his temple. The warm air from her whispers tingled the fuzzy lobe of his ear. He cracked another smile.
“Once you have had your fill of boyhood giggles, you will do well to pay me proper respect.”
He stopped grinning—insulted by her insolence.
“I can take out two from here without problem. The third one will be the one closest to us. He will panic and flee. You must intercept him.”
Is this woman fucking serious?
“Sorry honey, I’m here to erase Benjamin Franklin Ford, not chase down your runaways.”
Her hard glare ripped off a look that could’ve killed a weaker man. “Honey? I’m about to assassinate two bees from over a thousand yards on the move. I deserve better than that.”
Her stare went back on target—finger on trigger.
Maybe she can walk the walk.
Chapter 2
The Safed Koh mountain range extended further than he could’ve imagined. Ben Ford, the American agent, also realized the tribesmen knew it better than he did. That gave both of them an advantage. They couldn’t escape, and Ben Ford couldn’t call in reinforcements. Actually, Ben could’ve given a shit about calling in help—he was sent by the United States government to perform his duties as he was trained to do—alone.
Six council elders from the Popi Tribe sat on fur pelts atop sunbaked earthen terrain and gnarled tree stumps. Faces of crinkled leather skin, hardened by struggle and war, gave no indication of comprehension as Ben tried to banter from beneath a foliage canopy. They were unimpressed by this Westerner.
Although considered short by U.S. standards, at five-feet-seven, Ben commanded respect. He was adorned in their c
ountry’s traditional salwar kameez, a cotton and polyester tunic that had become his daily attire. In it, he felt more engrained with the culture, though his European features were unmistakable.
Benjamin “Ben” Franklin Ford still had the sense for United States military discipline, but his ultra-secret training by the Central Intelligence Agency had instilled a greater appreciation for adopting the local customs. True to his blue-blooded upbringing and his West Point Academy appointment, he also knew to dress up for occasions. Despite the high temperatures, Ben arrived wearing a dark-colored waistcoat over his beige pajama-like trousers and seamless blouse. Again, the elders didn’t look to be impressed.
“Thank you for meeting with me, elders.” Intensity in his eyes blazed with potential.
The chief elder, known as Al bin Tosk sucked against the hookah. Vaporized mist filled the air with the scent of flavored shisha. “What do you want?”
“I want what you want. Osama bin Laden.” Hollow black eyes ducked behind his wire framed classes. They were ink-dark—black as death, but still intensity glared from his gaze.
“You are mistaken, comrade.” Al bin Tosk laughed.
“Chief Elder, I’ve come a great distance for the honor of your company. Please refrain from inferences of communistic affiliations. I’m one hundred percent American.” Ben’s voice hitched against the back of his throat.
Al bin Tosk sneered. Wrinkles formed in his wooden face until the ancient etchings looked so deep as to touch bone. Purposefully long on his draw and exhale of tobacco smoke, Al bin Tosk muttered something inaudible to the tribal elder on his right side.
“Dumb ass,” the other man said in Dari, the language of Afghan Persian.
Rage surged like whitecaps through Ben’s veins. They could disagree as gentlemen, but there never was a good reason to be insulting.
Al bin Tosk said, “Agreed.”
“Sir, might I ask your name?” Ben spoke in the man’s native tongue.