Collateral Damage: Silent Warrior, Book 1

by J. L. Saint

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I told YOU!”

  “No, YOU didn’t!”

  “Boys!” Too much sugar and too much excitement. “If you’re going to fight you might as well save the presents for tomorrow and go on to sleep tonight. Maybe you’ll enjoy them better in the morning.”

  Matt and Mitch looked at her dumbfounded.

  Before they could burst into tears or rebel, she smiled. “Ah, I don’t hear any more arguing. Good. Then maybe you aren’t too tired after all. So hurry up and change into dry pajamas and then you can open your presents and watch a movie. I’ll even make popcorn.”

  They both nodded. She opened the door and they scrambled inside, immediately going for the stairs and their room. She hurried after them, knowing that she had about two-point-five seconds to get out of her wet clothes before the twins descended.

  Make that less. She was naked in the bathroom when the thunder of their feet came down the hall.

  “Wait on the bed. And no jumping,” she warned as she jerked on sweats.

  She could hear the bed springs squeaking and Sasha and Sam barking. The dogs knew Matt and Mitch weren’t supposed to jump on the bed. She opened the door and the twins plopped onto their butts, hair still flying up and mischief in their eyes. They had their presents clutched in their arms and their pajamas turned about every wrong way possible. Matt had his Thomas the Tank Engine underwear on the outside of his pajama pants.

  Shaking her head, she let it all go. “Okay. Open the boxes!”

  From a shower of Styrofoam peanuts, two Dale Earnhardt, Jr. #88 green racing cars emerged. The boys squealed in excitement and took off racing down the hall, sounding like the Daytona 500. Barking up a storm, the dogs were fast on their heels. Peanuts lay in their wake and Angie was nearly bowled over as she appeared at the top of the stairs.

  It wouldn’t be a quiet evening after all.

  Angie entered the bedroom and plopped down in the peanuts. “What was that? Greased lightning?”

  “No, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. cars courtesy of Bill. He didn’t show but he didn’t forget after all.”

  “Interesting. I talked to Double-D G-string.”

  Lauren sat and blew at a peanut that had somehow landed in her hair. She already knew what she’d hear. Bill and the supermodel were slumming in a million dollar resort, surviving on caviar and champagne. Not that she cared anymore on her own account, but for the boys’ sake she did. “Give it to me straight.”

  “She gave me all of her contact information and I promised to call her when we speak to Bill. He’s a week late for their date.”

  Lauren snagged a red box and checked the postmark. It had been mailed from Sao Paulo, Brazil four days ago. “Maybe he’s dumped her for a Samba dancer.”

  Chapter Four

  Persian Gulf

  Death stalked the darkest hours before dawn, when innocents blissfully slept and even the depraved lowered their guard for a moment’s respite. Tonight was no different, except for the predators slipping like ghostly reapers across sandy ground, carrying a vicarious visitor among their ranks. The cameras embedded in ANVS-9 night vision goggles attached to the operatives’ helmets gave Andreas Miles a clear, green-lit feed of the night and the movements of the black op teams on mission. His black op teams.

  Leaning back, he lifted his Mollard baton, conducting each eerie pulse of Mozart’s Requiem Aetemam. The D minor tones surrounded him in the silvery perfection of a Kondo amp and speakers as he watched his men move with surgical precision; the music perfectly matching his operatives’ movements, a melding of action and sound that united his genius to that of Mozart.

  Andreas’s body tingled as he pointed his baton at one of the screens. Via the live feed, he saw his operative ready a black KA-BAR blade as his man crept silently to an unsuspecting guard. Andreas raised his left hand, palm up, building to a crescendo as his man sliced the guard’s throat. Blood spewed, staining the sand before the man fell to the ground.

  Andreas sighed with pleasure and glanced over at his son watching the show from his own bank of computers. They wore matching gold St. Jude medallions with the words “Pray for Us” emblazoned on them.

  “Tonight we’ll put OPEC’s balls in a vise, eh, mi perfecto hijo.” Andreas smiled at his faithful child. No one could ask for a better helper.

  George nodded. The bright enthusiasm in his dark eyes let Andreas know that his son appreciated his brilliance. He’d originally named him Jorge, but his son had wanted it changed to match the name of his American hero. It fit so well for him that Andreas didn’t mind.

  Andreas tapped his baton on the computer screen as if calling an orchestra to attention. “Ever since I hit America’s oil market, the radicals have been cheering, patting each other on the backs for a job well done. Pero, tonight they will sing a different tune,” he told George, who was probably tired of hearing Andreas’s weeklong rant. But the arrogance of the towel heads was as bad as that of the gluttonous gringos. They didn’t have a clue who had attacked America’s oil reserves and didn’t have the balls to admit it. Instead, the Jihadist had been riding high on his dime for a week now. “How dare they claim victory for my genius, George. Mierda, can you believe it?”

  George shook his head.

  “They will learn their lesson tonight, sí? By dawn they’ll be lamenting in the streets and crying to Allah for Western blood as they face Mecca.”

  George nodded.

  Andreas glanced back at the screen, anticipating the thrill of bringing the world to its economic knees. There was no limit to the havoc he could wreak. He had the money to accomplish the impossible and with the hard-hitting power of his highly specialized Black ops teams—one good thing Bill Collins managed to do—he now had the resources. The clock was already ticking. Shortly, the heart of both Saudi’s Qatif and Qatar’s Dukhan oil production would suffer a major coronary thanks to the US military issue C-4 he’d stolen from Israel. Once detonated, the strategically placed explosives would kill the production of over a million BPD’s (barrels per day) of crude oil. That, combined with the destruction the al-Qaeda signature bombs he’d used to wipe out the Alaskan pipeline, US distribution hubs and SXL’s tank facilities last week, would topple the current power structure ruling the world. By the time he finished his plan and nailed the rest of the targets on his agenda, the ensuing political tit for tat battle between Western ideology and radical Muslim fanaticism would set the stage for Andreas’s ultimate goal, worldwide social and environmental justice—a masterpiece of political manipulation and world domination that would propel him to the ranks of Alexander the Great. He would be the one man to accomplish what all other revolutionaries had failed to do.

  Madre de Dios, but he was a genius. Each blow he’d made had rocked the world beginning with the perfectly orchestrated assassination of Imam Aziz by two of his skilled operatives and a scoped-to-the max L115A3 sniper rifle. The evidence pointing hard fingers at the Allied West had been irrefutable. It was true the kidnapping of Prime Minister Nehemia Shalev’s and Ambassador Owen James’s daughters hadn’t gone as planned, but the results had played well into his hand despite Bill Collins’s idiocy. Bill never should have been on site. They both knew the US had the balls to act if information leaked, so it was his own fault that Delta had nailed him. Covering up Collins’s tracks had been a major nightmare, but Andreas had worked it out. He smiled and winked at his son. “Pero, St. Jude is still looking out for Andreas, eh, George?”

  George smiled, a gaping, open mouth grin that warmed Andreas’s heart. His son would never personally know the pain and the horror of the streets, but he made sure George prayed to St. Jude daily. Beginning the day Andreas had been abandoned at eight, his every prayer had been answered by St. Jude. From a knife to kill the raping bastardo on top of him just before his tenth birthday to everything he needed now to be the one on top of everyone. By the time he finished, he would have accomplished in two months’ time what
political activists and progressives had been trying to achieve for decades, if not centuries—every man and every nation around the world would be on equal footing.

  Only once global social justice was in place would the environment have a prayer of surviving mankind. In an odd way, George had started it all for Andreas—new identity, new life and new purpose. It was through his love for George that he’d become an environmentalist, a passion that had led to his meeting the inventor, Enrique Santos and learned about the man’s algae-based biofuel, GXP. Andreas had become fascinated enough to finance the scientist’s experiments, coming to believe that Santos’s focus on triglycerides and several unique and secret additives from the Amazon rainforest would revolutionize energy. Little did he know at the beginning that he would use it to gain power and revolutionize the world itself.

  “Descanso de su alma a Dio. God rest his soul. You remember Santos, George?”

  George let out a cry, the name still upsetting him even though years had passed. Santos had been a fellow genius, but had made a fatal mistake. He’d struck Andreas with his cane during an argument about the biofuel’s development and George hadn’t liked that. There’d only been pieces of Santos left. Andreas still relished George’s primal show of savage protection as he tore the man limb from limb.

  Mierda, but he wanted to be with the operatives tonight. He wanted to experience his genius first hand. Breathing in the sharp desert air. Running across the shifting sands. Slicing into flesh. He wanted to taste the grit, smell the acrid tang of blood, and feel the pumping power of adrenaline flooding his veins. But that would have chanced exposure and he couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not when he was so close to gaining everything. Maybe it was that thrill that had drawn Bill Collins to the terrorist’s stronghold. Pero, it didn’t matter. All gringos were stupid anyway.

  By dawn the eastern Arabian Peninsula would look like Armageddon had ensued. From Mesaieed’s industrial complexes to Ras Tanura’s refineries, the fires would rage and so would the hearts of all of radical Islamists. Perhaps even all of Islam would stand up and roar against this outrage.

  Andreas would win this game because he knew winning took more than money and might. It took a ruthless disregard for anything that stood in the way. Except for harming George and his kind, no amount of collateral damage was too high. Many drug lords and most terrorists operated on this axiom. Most of the civilized world and especially the United States’s brown-nosing politicians were clueless to this fact. Why else would they keep castrating its military?

  Andreas had no restraints though. The world was now in the hands of a master and his symphonic melody would play until the last note. He was much more than a little boy lost on the streets now. He was a connoisseur of luxury, and, if you will, an audiophile and an environmentalist in their purest essence. All extraneous sounds should be eliminated from any symphonic experience and all unnecessary human life should be eradicated from the world.

  Fewer people equaled less pollution. Many would die in getting him to the top of the world arena and many more would perish to make the world what it needed to be. That wasn’t important though. It would be good for George and his kind and that’s all that mattered.

  A knock sounded at the door. George jumped up to answer it just as the operative on screen six slipped his knife to another guard’s throat and Andreas missed the show as he glanced up at George’s cry. Irritated, Andreas stabbed the button, killing the sounds of Requiem, his orchestrated moments of vicarious pleasure destroyed.

  George didn’t like Andreas’s current assistant and Andreas wasn’t sure he did either. It was his third Fidel in as many years, and the man was proving to be as dysfunctional as the others.

  “¿Qué carajo es?” Whatever the fuck it was, it had better be good. George added an irritated screech as well.

  Fidel gave George a nervous glance. Santos wasn’t the only one George had had a problem with over the years. Andreas knew of the whispers among his staff. Murderous George is what they called his boy—a source of amusement that had Andreas contemplating buying and wearing a yellow hat and suit. George’s favorite bedtime stories were about his hero, Curious George.

  “Señor, Guru has cracked several of Collins’s encrypted computer files.” Fidel wiped his sweaty brow.

  “It’s about time, sí?” Bill Collins had already cost Andreas big time and it was unbelievable that two weeks post mortem the man continued to be a problem.

  “One of them is the formula for the biofuel.”

  Andreas froze, sure Fidel misspoke. “Collins had files about GXP?” he asked slowly.

  “No. He had the formula.”

  Andreas stared hard. Acid poured a burning path into his gut. The personalized Mollard baton in his hand snapped in two. George whimpered and rushed over, laying his head in Andreas’s lap. Andreas brushed his boy’s head, seeking to comfort.

  This new development ruined his plans. He’d have to watch Armageddon from video rather than firsthand from the deck of the ECO-1—the largest of his fleet of watercrafts and what three hundred million could buy in five-hundred-and-seventy-plus feet of nautical luxury. Built by Blohm and Voss in Hamburg and delivered just last year, money and power couldn’t buy better; armor plating, bullet proof glass, radar, laser shield, secret weapons—the works. ECO-1 could easily beat Russian billionaire Roman Abramovich’s Eclipse in a pissing contest and had already dealt the Somali pirates a major blow. Pieces of the bastards were likely still washing ashore in Maakhir. But none of ECO-1 bells and whistles had protected him from an attack within. How had Collins obtained the formula for GXP? And what had the bastard done with it? Rage scraped down Andreas’s back. Death had been too easy for Collins.

  “I want Collins’s body back from Brazil. I want his heart cut out and chopped into pieces. I want the rest of his remains desecrated and displayed to all the employees at BioLogics and at GreenWorld. ¿Comprendes? I want to know how he stole the formula. When he got it and what he did with it. No one betrays me.”

  “B-but the Brazilian authorities found Collins’s body a short time ago,” Fidel stuttered out.

  Just yesterday Andreas had had Bill’s refrigerated corpse flown to Sao Paulo and dumped in a lake where greased palms would guarantee the autopsy results he wanted.

  “Then get it back, idiota,” he whispered. He never raised his voice. Quiet control was so much more effective. But there were times that the stupidity of those around him sorely vexed his patience. In another life, he’d studied every move and mannerism of The Godfather, and had garnered just as magnificent and ruthless a reputation, only he’d always gone to the heart of the matter and cut it from his sobbing enemy’s chest.

  “Then hire a reliable man in Atlanta to bring me Collins’s wife and kids for a little heart-to-heart discussion. George would like to meet them too. Get me answers, Fidel. Ahora. My patience is thin and George’s is even thinner.”

  Fidel’s complexion turned green as he looked at the chimpanzee in Andreas’s lap. Everyone feared Murderous George, Andreas’s adopted son. As well they should.

  Chapter Five

  Atlanta, Georgia

  0200 hours, August 5th

  The jarring ring of the phone woke Lauren and sent her scrambling in the dark for the hand-held unit. The boys used the intercom as walkie-talkies and never left the phones in their bases, so it always ended up being a Marco Polo game to find one. Tonight it was under her antique slipper chair at her vanity. She found it in the record number of six rings.

  “Hello,” she said as breathless as if she’d been dirty dancing between the sheets and not just dreaming about the much-missed deed.

  “Señora Collins, pleeease.”

  The Hispanic accent sent her pulse kicking. “I am Lauren Collins.”

  “This is Eduardo Alvarez with the consulate in Sao Paulo. I must tell you of an unfortunate accident.”

  Lauren closed her eyes and gripped the phone harder. “Bill’s been in an accident? How badly is he hu
rt?”

  “Forgive me, Señora. I did not mean to confuse you with my words. The polícia found your husband’s body in the lake at Paradise Resort tonight.”

  Lauren snapped her eyes open and sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then she shook the sleep from her mind. “What happened to Bill? How?”

  “Forgive me again, pero, I do not have any more details at the moment. I will call back tomorrow once I know more from the polícia and about when we can arrange transportation home for his body after the investigation.”

  “Investigation,” Lauren found herself stupidly repeating.

  “Sí. I promise all will be done to find out what happened. Buenos, I will speak with you mañana?”

  “Yes,” Lauren whispered. “Tomorrow.”

  The blaring dial tone finally penetrated her stupor and she hung up the phone. She looked at the dark shadows surrounding her in the scarce moonlight, and suddenly all of the images she’d blocked out with her hurt came rushing through her mind. Bill’s empty clothes chest was still against the right wall. He never remembered which drawer held what and would always pull them all opened when getting dressed.

  The family picture at the Georgia Aquarium still sat on top of the chest, but now faced the door rather than her bed. The boys often climbed in the chaise lounge next to it and shared stories about that day. It was amazing how much they remembered considering they were only four at the time.

  The door to Bill’s empty closet hung open because the boys had staged a Daytona 500 with their Dale Earnhardt, Jr. cars before bed last night. Her breath caught and her throat tightened as memories and feelings swamped her in a sad, painful wash. It was one thing to be mad at Bill when he was off jet setting and another to realize his life had been cut short, that he’d never walk through the door again and hold Matt and Mitch in his arms.

  Her parents had died when she was sixteen, and now her sons would know that pain. Tears stung her eyes, but wouldn’t flow. They were trapped somewhere between her anger and her hurt. All of his secret activity of late had her wondering if Bill had been involved in something that got him killed. Maybe it wasn’t fair to think that, but she couldn’t help it.