A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2)

by Simon Gervais

  Praise for Simon Gervais’ first Mike Walton thriller, The Thin Black Line:

  “Realistic, vivid, dramatic, this is a story told by someone who knows what he’s talking about. I offer a bow to this exciting debut and to the newest member of the thriller writing community. Make a note: in the years ahead Simon Gervais is a name you’ll be seeing on many more book covers.”

  – Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author

  “When Simon Gervais writes about the world of high-stakes global security, he knows what he’s talking about. His world-class security expertise shines through in The Thin Black Line, a high-speed, break-neck, turbo-charged thriller that takes readers behind the scenes of the war on terrorism.”

  – David Morrell, New York Times bestselling author of The Protector

  “The Thin Black Line is a refreshingly smart and blisteringly original tale that’s equal parts financial thriller and cat-and-mouse game with the survival of the United States economy hanging in the balance. Simon Gervais puts his own law enforcement background to solid use in hitting a home run his first time at the plate. A major debut that places him on the level of Nelson DeMille and Brad Thor.”

  – Jon Land, USA Today bestselling author of Strong Darkness

  “The Thin Black Line takes a fascinating look into Canada’s covert operations, complemented by loveable and heroic characters you will find yourself rooting for. For a thrilling spring read, check out The Thin Black Line!”

  – Ottawa Life

  “With firm echoes of the best from Steve Berry and Christopher Reich, The Thin Black Line leaves its own indelible impression, as well written as it is told while establishing Gervais as a thriller force to be reckoned with.”

  – Providence Journal

  A Red Dotted Line

  Simon Gervais

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Studio Digital CT, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2016 by Simon Gervais

  Cover design by Barbara Aronica-Buck

  Story Plant Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-61188-235-3

  Fiction Studio Books E-book ISBN: 978-1-943486-96-0

  Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by US Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Story Plant Printing: November 2016

  To Lisane, for always being there, no matter what.

  PROLOGUE

  Federal Correctional Institution Otisville

  New York

  Louis Wall wasn’t a patient man, but he was curious. When the guard told him he had a visitor, he didn’t say a word. For the last ten years, no one had cared enough about him to visit, not even his only daughter. He didn’t blame her; his stupid ex-wife had brainwashed her into thinking he was dangerous. He should have killed the woman when he had the chance.

  “You know the drill,” the guard said through the cell’s door. “Turn around.”

  He obeyed and offered his wrists. Seconds later, he felt the cold steel of the handcuffs against his skin. As Wall exited his six-by-eight-foot prison cell, the guard dug his fingers into his bicep while pushing him in the back.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Shut the hell up and stop resisting,” the guard said. To get his point across, he delivered a powerful punch to Wall’s only kidney.

  Wall winced in pain, but not a sound escaped his lips. He didn’t want to give the guard the pleasure of knowing he had hurt him. A few years ago, Wall would have fought back and cracked a skull or two, but with only a few weeks left of his twelve-year sentence for manslaughter and drug trafficking, it was better to take it like a man. Plus, he couldn’t help but wonder who his visitor was.

  To his surprise, the guard didn’t lead him to the regular visitors’ room. Instead, he was escorted to an interview room where a man dressed in a three-piece suit was seated behind a steel table bolted to the floor. Laid open on the table was a yellow file to which Wall’s headshot was stapled. Another file folder, a green one, remained closed.

  “Remove his handcuffs,” the man said.

  The guard didn’t look happy but obeyed nonetheless.

  “You can leave,” the man added.

  Once the guard had closed the door, the man pointed to the single chair across the table. “Please.”

  Wall remained standing. The man seated in front of him didn’t look dangerous. It was hard to say how tall he was. Five and a half feet, he estimated. Maybe less. Dark skin. Slight build. Nothing like Wall’s own muscular six-foot-four-inch frame. But he did have an accent. Russian? It definitely sounded like that. He didn’t like Russians.

  “What do you want?” Wall grunted.

  The man slowly looked up from the file he was reading, his brown eyes locking onto Wall’s.

  “Louis Wall, forty-seven years of age, born in Dickson, Tennessee. Only child of Claire Dolan and Peter Wooley. Attended Dickson County High School before enlisting in the US Army–”

  “Was my jaw supposed to drop?” Wall cut in. “That’s all public knowledge.”

  The man simply continued without acknowledging Wall’s interruption. “You faced your first court martial before the end of basic training after assaulting your drill sergeant. After serving a month in a military prison, you were dishonorably discharged and spent the next two years living off the small inheritance you received after your father’s passing. You met Isabella, your first real girlfriend, at the local tavern on the night of your twenty-first birthday—”

  “What do you want?” Wall said for the second time in less than sixty seconds.

  “Please have a seat,” the man replied.

  Wall shook his head from left to right, then crossed his arms, his biceps threatening to tear apart the fabric of his gray prison suit.

  “I’m here to offer you a second chance.”

  “At what?”

  “Revenge, Louis. Revenge.”

  A picture of his ex-wife hanging at the end of a rope appeared in his mind. “I’m listening.”

  “First you sit,” the man said with an authority that couldn’t be denied.

  Wall sighed, then pulled the chair and sat. “This better be good.”

  “Or what?” the man replied. When he didn’t respond, the man pressed on. “No really. I’m curious. Or what, Louis? What will you do?”

  “I’m on my last stretch here, mister know-it-all. I have no intention of doing anything to fuck that up. Understood?”

  The man cocked his head and looked at him as if he were some kind of undiscovered species. “And what exactly are your plans once you’re out of here?”

  The vision of his ex-wife at the end of a rope reappeared in his mind. “There are a few things I can think of.”

  “Of that I’m sure. But are any of them worth a quarter of a million dollars?”

  That was enough money for Wall to live comfortably in Mexico for a couple of years. Once he’d taken care of his ex-wife, of course. “I’m listening.”

  The man slid the green folder toward him. “Open it.”

  A single picture of a man was attached to a white sheet.
Wall recognized him instantly.

  Mapother. Charles Mapother.

  The bastard had killed his older brother three decades ago.

  “I would have done it for free,” he said.

  CHAPTER 1

  IMSI Headquarters

  New York City, NY

  Zima Bernbaum threw up a little bit in her mouth.

  “Did you hear what I just said, Zima?” Charles Mapother asked.

  Zima met his gaze. Mapother, like a stereotypical Zurich banker, was dressed in a custom-made Armani suit. His deeply tanned skin contrasted with the full head of silver hair he had combed back. His deep blue eyes, she knew, didn’t miss much.

  “Zima? Are you with me?”

  “What do you mean I didn’t make it?” she asked just loud enough to be heard by Mapother. The taste of her own bile in her mouth disgusted her. Get a grip, Zima.

  “I’m sorry; you just weren’t good enough,” Mapother said, reading the final report his trainers had forwarded him the day before. “You missed too many benchmarks.”

  “I left CSIS for this job,” she said, anger creeping into her voice when she thought about the chance she had taken leaving the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. “You know I can’t go back.”

  Mapother closed the report and pushed it back toward the middle of his desk. “You knew the risks involved, Zima. The deal was that you had to go through the same training the others did last year. They were successful; you weren’t.”

  Zima sank back in her chair, frustrated. She had sacrificed so much, had gambled everything. And now she had nothing to show for it.

  Emotionally and physically, the last eight weeks had been the toughest of her life. The first four weeks, eighteen-hour days filled with weapons manipulation drills followed by geopolitics and foreign languages classes, had drained her energy. The next two had nearly killed her. The bruises all over her well-toned, five-foot-seven-inch frame were a testament to the countless hours spent in the dojo with Greg, the in-house Krav Maga expert. But it was the last two weeks—the ones spent learning a dozen ways to kill someone without leaving a trace—that had altered her forever. There was simply no way a sane human being could go through this training without suffering a psychological backlash. Fully aware of the potential repercussions it might have on her life, she had held nothing back and given her all. The worst thing about all of this was that she’d convinced herself that she was doing okay.

  Heck, I thought I was doing great!

  Two months ago, she had left her job as a CSIS operative to join the International Market Stabilization Institute—IMSI—following the successful takedown of a terrorist cell in Edmonton, Canada. As a privately funded organization run by Charles Mapother, the IMSI could do things that government agencies just couldn’t. Her friend Lisa Walton, who was a trained emergency physician, and Lisa’s husband Mike were part of the IMSI. They were field operatives, or “assets” in the IMSI’s jargon. They had gone through the same training she just did.

  They did better than me, obviously.

  It wasn’t difficult to understand why Mike had aced everything. He always did. A former Canadian Special Forces officer and Royal Canadian Mounted Police counterterrorism specialist, Mike was used to these sorts of things. But Lisa? Even though Lisa had done her medical training with the military, Zima didn’t believe Lisa had any real experience handling a gun or shooting at a live target. One that fires back, that is.

  How the hell did she pass the IMSI training? It doesn’t make any sense! How come I failed and she passed? Not that I’m better than her . . . Actually, yes I am. For this type of work, I’m the best.

  Charles Mapother must have known what she was thinking because when she looked at him, he was smiling.

  “Oh, you bastard,” she said, her voice a mixture of frustration and relief.

  “Don’t doubt yourself again, Zima,” Mapother said, rising from his chair. “You passed everything with flying colors. Welcome to the team.”

  She rose, too. They shook hands. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You earned your place, Zima,” Mapother said. “Glad to have you aboard. Now, let’s celebrate.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Grand Central Station, New York

  Mike Walton laughed out loud. His wife Lisa, seated next to him, did the same. So much so that water came out of her nose. That made Mike laugh even harder.

  “I can’t believe you did that to Zima, Charles,” he said, after he had regained control of his breathing.

  “I knew he was kidding,” Zima replied before Mapother could chip in. “I didn’t believe it. Not for a second.”

  Mapother coughed, and then said, “If you say so, Zima.”

  “What are you talking about?” Zima said between sips of her Chardonnay. “I was playing along, that’s all.”

  “Sure you were, dear friend,” added Lisa. “But that doesn’t matter one bit; you’re in now.”

  “Cheers to that,” Mike said, raising his glass. The others did the same.

  When Mike’s eyes met his wife’s, he smiled. So much had changed in the last two years. The tragedy they’d faced should have been enough to tear them apart. And it almost did. But they had regrouped, found a common goal, and moved on. That didn’t mean he didn’t think about the terrorist attacks that had wiped out most of his family.

  Far from it.

  The gentle spirit of his two-year-old daughter Melissa visited his dreams almost every night as a stark reminder. Killing the Sheik, the murderer who’d orchestrated the attacks, was the first thing he thought about every morning. He wouldn’t say that to anyone, not even to his wife, but recently, his thoughts about killing the Sheik weren’t limited to simply putting a bullet in his brain. He aspired to skin him alive. He wanted the Sheik to feel the pain he had inflicted on his family.

  Mapother’s voice brought him back to the present. “Did you decide on your main course?”

  “Not yet,” Mike said, chasing the images of the Sheik out of his mind.

  The four of them were having lunch at the Oyster Bar. Located inside Grand Central Station, it was Mike’s favorite oyster place and the oldest business within the terminal. He had discovered the restaurant years ago while staying at the nearby Grand Hyatt during a training exercise between the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—the Canadian federal police service—and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He loved the Guastavino tile vaults and the old-school charm of the restaurant. It was always buzzing with people, it was loud, and the waiters did their best to provide pleasant and prompt service. The restaurant had a killer clam chowder, and the oysters were always fresh and tasty. Mike made a point of having lunch here at least once a month. Sometimes more. Plus, they had his favorite beer, Chimay Red, a high-end, dark-brown Belgian beer with a sweet and fruity aroma he couldn’t resist.

  A few tables over to their right sat a tall, broad-shouldered black man wearing a tailored gray suit. His name was Sam Turner. Turner was charged with the personal protection of Charles Mapother, and Mike knew him as a loyal and capable operative. Mapother had handpicked Turner, a former member of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, to be his personal bodyguard after Turner had sustained a back injury during an FBI training exercise.

  The waiter, a thirty-something named Chuck, brought their appetizers. He put a huge portion of Cajun-style fried popcorn shrimp in the middle of the table next to a bowl of broiled Blue Point oysters. Chuck took their entrée orders before disappearing again.

  Mike made sure the plates were passed around and that everyone had served themselves before digging in. In his opinion, the smooth and meaty texture of these particular oysters placed them in a category by themselves, but they really became divine with a touch of anchovy butter melted on top. Mike was about to taste his first oyster when his smartphone vibrated inside his jacket pocket. It was Jonathan Sanchez, the IMSI’s newly appoin
ted second-in-command and a longtime friend of Mike’s.

  “This better be good, buddy,” Mike said. “I’m about to indulge . . .”

  “It is,” Sanchez interrupted. “We’ve heard from the Syrians. They have your father.”

  Mike stopped breathing. Dad. The oyster he was holding in his left hand fell onto his lap, soiling his pants. His father, a former Canadian ambassador to Algeria, had been kidnapped by the Sheik three and a half years ago.

  “That’s what Charles told me almost three months ago,” Mike said.

  “I know, brother,” Sanchez replied. “But this time is different. We got this tip directly from the White House.”

  Mike’s mind was spinning with the implications. “You didn’t tell him?” he asked.

  “No, I wanted you to hear it from me first,” Sanchez replied. “I’m calling him now.”

  Mapother had his eyes fixed on Mike. “Everything all right?” he asked, his mouth half-full with popcorn shrimp.

  “Just pick up your phone, Charles,” Mike said.

  Mapother raised an eyebrow when his smartphone started vibrating on the table. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and tried unsuccessfully to remove the grease from his fingers before answering his phone.

  “Okay, we’ll be there shortly,” Mapother finally said before hanging up.

  “Are you still hungry?” he asked Mike.

  “What do you think?” Mike replied, standing up. He left four twenty-dollar bills on the table. “Let’s go.”

  His wife was looking at him, a question mark on her forehead.

  “It’s my father, honey,” Mike said. “Jonathan got a tip from the White House. You guys can stay and enjoy yourselves. I’ll call you if this is serious.”

  But the two women operatives were already grabbing their purses and coats.

  CHAPTER 3

  Grand Central Station, NY.

  Mike’s mind was racing. His phone conversation with Jonathan Sanchez had only lasted a few seconds, and he couldn’t wait to get back to IMSI headquarters to hear the rest of the story. Could this be it? The thought of seeing his father again was overwhelming. How would he react after all these years? So much had changed. For him and for his father.