Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 by Brett Godfrey. All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Brett Godfrey

  Black Sunrise is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  ASIN B07S6QF981

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To Julie, my lovely wife, without whom I would be dust in the wind.

  To Marc, for teaching me the way of the samurai author.

  To Wilbur, for friendship from the finest fiction writer in the history of man.

  To all of my teachers, who patiently armored me with knowledge.

  To Kilik, for pulling me across the river.

  And to you—the reader—without whom this book is nothing.

  Chapter 1

  Today we become merciless gods.

  These five words would change Antonio Pessoa’s life forever.

  He chanted the mantra in his mind as he surveyed the crowded lower level of the Cherry Creek Mall, gazing down from the level above. Sunlight poured through glass ceiling panels onto shoppers as they flowed around him like a living river.

  His heart hammered over tranquil music wafting from a nearby shop. He lifted his hands from the railing, noting sweaty handprints left in the chrome. Would they be found later?

  Of course not. Thousands of people touch these railings every day.

  Detesting his fear, he smudged the prints with his forearm and dried his palms on his jeans.

  We will create a new reality.

  The power of Beeman’s words calmed him. He pushed away his hesitation. It was time to break free. Time to become a god.

  His eyes settled on a girl on the level below. His breath caught in his chest as she looked up and locked eyes with him. She was plain, heavy, and her stringy hair seemed pasted to her skull. He grinned awkwardly, repulsed by her splotchy complexion and the blank expression on her face. She looked away and kept walking.

  Another reject.

  But would she remember his face?

  Stop! Thinking fearful thoughts causes fear.

  Okay, then. But the more time he spent just standing around, the more likely he would lose his nerve. He needed to find the right person and get it over with. He’d been trolling the mall for hours. Beeman would be getting impatient, which made Antonio feel—

  He turned to the sound of rich feminine laughter behind him.

  Two young women in white shorts strolled by. He pivoted to watch them pass. Tan, sculpted legs ending in wedge sandals thumped on the tile, an alluring rhythm to their walk. One blonde, one brunette, both pretty. Early twenties. They had the hair, the clothes, the look. Expensive purses and shopping bags dangled from their arms.

  Pampered women leading pampered lives.

  When they were a dozen feet away, he fell into step behind them.

  As he matched their pace, he studied them more carefully, admiring them, stoking his imagination and igniting an inner fire that burned away his anxiety. A completely different kind of energy flowed through him now. It felt good.

  Either would be perfect, but both?

  Would it be possible?

  Antonio felt the Primal Ecstasy pulsing through him, just as Beeman had predicted, and was certain he would approve; he would admire the audacity. Taking both women would exercise Antonio’s appetites, strengthening him proportionately. The shopping bags told him they’d been in the mall for some time. It was just past four p.m., and he figured they’d be leaving before too long.

  If they split up, he’d stick with the brunette. If they headed together to one car, he would—with Beeman’s approval—take both women.

  At that moment, unseen and unknown, the future of every other pretty young woman happening to be in the mall that day was restored, and only Antonio knew it. He controlled so many destinies at once, simply by making this choice.

  Now he was thinking like a god.

  He faded back into the flow of shoppers to follow from a safe distance and texted Beeman to expect precise directions soon.

  shopping done choice made expect directions soon

  Beeman texted back:

  Ready, at west ramp.

  Now they needed some luck. It would help if the girls had parked in the west lot, as Beeman was already there. It could take him too long to circle around to the east lot if the girls moved quickly. They’d need a few minutes away from prying eyes once the action commenced, and Beeman’s SUV would have to be in place before Antonio made his move.

  Antonio texted again:

  sites on pair of perfect ones! probly same car, get both?

  He waited for a reply. Then his phone buzzed in his hand again.

  Interesting. See how it plays out.

  Antonio smiled and kept pace with this new prey. They seemed to be heading to the second-level exit onto the west lot, which was perfect.

  Much later, Christie Jensen would agonize over the irony. She’d marveled at Jackie Dawson’s skill at the art of drawing male attention, and for this, she would later curse her own naïveté. But for now, it was just a fun summer Denver afternoon shared by best friends savoring their last few weeks together before Christie left for Dartmouth to start work on her master’s degree in chemical engineering.

  “What do you mean, ‘When I grow up’?” Jackie’s laughter was infectious. “All I know is, we’re going to San Diego for the weekend. That’s as far ahead as I can think.” Shaking her shoulders, Jackie sent ripples to her chest while tossing her lustrous brown hair over her shoulder, her signature move. “Hotel Del. I’ll really make him forget about the dent.”

  Christie smiled and shook her head, wondering what it would be like to live Jackie’s life. No school, work or career anxiety; just rich men and eventual marriage. And maybe a baby or two. If only life could be so simple. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness through sex with sugar daddies.

  “What are you smiling about, CJ?”

  “Nothing,” Christie said. “Y
ou should tell him, before he sees it.”

  “I know, right? Like, get it behind me. But how do I tell him? Couldn’t we, like, make something up? I mean, this sucks big time.” Jackie sighed. “How pissed will he be?”

  “Don’t know, Jax. But he’s under your spell, that’s for sure.”

  “You think?” Jackie smiled. “Two-way street. And I don’t care what my fosters say. Fuck them—wait, you know I don’t mean that.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s just—the pressure of the whole thing wears me down.”

  Jackie’s biological parents had passed away when she was ten. Foster parents had raised her through her teens, living in a run-down apartment in Lakewood. Her current romance was with Robert Sand, an African American man, which her foster parents did not seem to mind. What made it an outright travesty for them was that at fifty-six, Sand was more than twice Jackie’s age. Christie knew Jackie loved her foster parents and burned at the thought of disappointing them, but her feelings for Robert were strong—at least for now—and Sand was hot. Christie remembered how Jackie had first described him. Tight as a bowstring, gentle as a puppy, a face like Denzel; a bit of gray and a ton of green, hot as black embers and warm as the sun.

  Christie’s upbringing had been much different than Jackie’s. Her father was one of the most successful trial lawyers in the country. He owned several homes and two jets. She’d grown up wanting for nothing.

  “That’s the price you pay to do your own thing,” Christie said. “But the pressure comes from you, Jax. They worry, but they don’t judge.”

  Jackie had moved out of her foster parents’ apartment when she was nineteen to attend Denver University. Living on financial aid and student loans, she’d moved in with Christie, sharing an apartment for two years before dropping out to wait tables in an upscale steakhouse owned by a former NFL quarterback. There she’d met Robert, a regular customer who usually came in later in the evening when things were slower. Flirting turned into conversations, which led to meeting for coffee, dinner dates, and when things got serious, Jackie moved in with him.

  With Robert, Jackie finally had a taste of an affluent lifestyle, but she swore that his money wasn’t what held the relationship together. Christie believed her. She was happy for them, but she wondered if the floor would drop out, leaving Jackie once again adrift.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Christie said. “Get it over with.”

  “Be with me while I tell him?” Jackie asked. “Have dinner with us?”

  Christie moaned. “Bribing me with food?”

  They pushed through the exit doors to the parking garage.

  Antonio followed them onto the dimly lit third level of the west parking lot, whispering into his phone. “Coming out. West lot. Deck 3. Same door I came in. I’m right behind them.”

  There was no response.

  He worked some saliva into his mouth. “I’m ready. I can do this. We might be able to take them right here, snatch and go, like you said. Or we can follow them. Your call. But I don’t see anybody around.”

  Beeman did not respond.

  “Where are you?” Antonio asked.

  After a few more seconds of silence, Beeman’s voice crawled into his ear, “Look to your left.”

  Thirty yards away, Beeman softly revved the engine of their rented SUV.

  Antonio nodded, slipped the phone into his pocket and kept walking.

  Behind the wheel, Beeman shifted his attention to Antonio as he picked up his pace to close on the women, absorbing the whole scene as if through a microscope, studying how predatory life-forms learn to consume prey.

  Beeman did not know that he was, himself, being observed, nor that his watchers were themselves under the scrutiny of others.

  Thirty yards farther down, on the other side of the parking aisle, a sniper in the back of a dark van keyed his throat mike. He aimed the scope of his short-barrel Heckler & Koch PSG1 semiautomatic sniper rifle through one-way optical film that concealed a firing aperture in the van’s armored side panel. His call sign was Skunk Two. He was a GS-12 federal employee, formerly a Hostage Rescue Team assaulter, now assigned to the elite Special Surveillance Group of the JTTF, or Joint Terrorism Task Force. He was part of the so-called Skunk Team, an elite SSG unit tasked with tracking and direct action in the containment of terror cells and foreign espionage on domestic soil. Their legal charter was murky, as they were essentially paramilitary operators functioning contrary to at least the spirit of posse comitatus, a statutory limitation constraining federal military operations other than training on US soil.

  “Skunk Two has glass on the Wallies.”

  Wallies was FBI jargon, based on Wha-lee, Korean slang for a security officer—North Korean agents in this case, three of whom were seated in a small black BMW with darkened windows. They covertly watched Beeman—whom the FBI had assigned the code name Farmer—as he inched quietly forward in a rented Buick SUV, creeping closer to the two women he and Pessoa—code name Dirt Worm—were tracking.

  “Roger, Skunk Two.”

  Against protocol, Skunk Two shifted his scope. “Farmer and Dirt Worm are converging on civilians with hostile intent.”

  “Skunk Two, text intercepts confirm imminent Code Silver.” The commander spoke from a mobile command post out on the street, informing the SSG team to expect a kidnapping or hostage situation. “Do not intervene. The Code Silver is not our mission. We have bigger fish.”

  Skunk Two gripped the stock of his rifle and laid his finger gently on the trigger. “Christ, guys. Are we really going to let this play out?”

  “Skunk Two, you are ten-twelve,” came Skunk One’s terse reply in his earpiece, meaning hold position, take no action pending further orders. “Long game, eyes on the prize.”

  The SSG team’s mission brief stated the only subjects of interest were the North Koreans. Skunk Two should not have moved his scope away from the BMW. Too much was at stake, and it had taken too much work—and luck—to get this close to the Wallies, who might make a move on Beeman under the watchful eyes of the JTTF and the National Security Agency, or NSA.

  Everyone on the SSG team was supposed to operate under specific rules of engagement, which specified that collateral damage was acceptable, particularly if it were the result of purely domestic crimes, such as assault. The women were potential casualty statistics, nothing more. The high-value prizes were the Wallies and Beeman himself. If they could roll up the North Korean, or DPRK spy ring, the intelligence harvest could help keep Kim Jong-un—known at Foggy Bottom as the young’un—behind his fence a little while longer.

  Skunk Two could only engage a target if the Wallies were to spot and assault the SSG surveillance team or make a grab for Beeman, who carried in his head information too valuable and dangerous for them to allow to fall into enemy hands.

  “Roger.” Skunk Two lifted his finger from the trigger and sighed deeply as he refocused his scope on the BMW. This was the overarching tactical plan. National security took priority. He would simply observe unless ordered to engage.

  But Christ, it did suck. He had a daughter of his own.

  Chapter 2

  As the girls approached a gleaming green Jaguar XKE Roadster, Antonio could just make out what they were saying. Slowing his pace, he watched them carefully. The brunette started to get in on the driver’s side but seemed to change her mind. She stepped around to the passenger side and set her shopping bag on the cement behind the car. The blonde did the same and bent down to run her hand across the fender.

  Antonio noticed a dent just above the right-rear wheel well.

  The brunette groaned. “What’s another ding? The whole car has to be repainted, right?”

  “I don’t know,” the blonde responded, feeling the damage with her fingers.

  “Ouch!” Antonio said, startling the girls as he spoke from behind them. “What happened?”

  The girls stood and turned to face him. “Oh, I was backing out of a parking spot,” explained
the brunette, “and this old dude bumped us. Didn’t see him coming. Actually, he was the one who didn’t see me coming. I was backing out to get lined up better.”

  Antonio shrugged and kept smiling. “Happens all the time.” He couldn’t believe how this was landing in his lap. Now he had to play it cool, not try too hard, roll with it and project confidence. He choked down his fear, and an idea came to him.

  Beeman was right. The magic will blossom.

  “Shame! Such a nice car. Vintage. What year?”

  The brunette turned to touch the dent. “It’s a ’67. Think they can fix it?”

  Antonio knew right then how it was going to work. “They? Hell, I can fix it, right here and now, if you want. Paint’s fine—you just need a special tool.”

  A dark green SUV pulled to a stop behind the Jaguar. At the wheel a kindly looking older man smiled and gave a casual wave.

  “That’s my dad. Tools are in the car. You got a few minutes?”

  “You can really fix that?” The brunette asked.

  “Sure. Twenty minutes, tops. You’ll never know it was there. I’ll show you how and explain it before I touch anything.” He held out his hand. “Jimmy Rivers,” he said, nodding toward the SUV. “I work in my dad’s body shop. Should I give it a shot? Do it for free.”

  “What’s the name of the shop?” The blonde asked.

  “Dad’s Body Shop,” Antonio laughed. “That’s my dad, Sam Rivers.”

  The blonde looked uncertain, but the brunette shook his hand. “I’m Jackie and this is Christie, and yeah, that’d be great!”

  “How do you do it?” Christie asked, shifting her purse from one arm to the other so that she too could shake hands. “Don’t you have to take stuff apart to get in behind the dent?”

  “Well, that’s the easy part,” Antonio said. Stepping to the SUV, he lifted the back hatch and unzipped a canvas bag. “We go in through the trunk. The magic is in the equipment.” Antonio lowered his voice slightly. “This is a trade secret. If it got out, we’d be out of business; these tools are so easy to use. See?”