Betrayal Read online

  As often happened in times like this, time slowed down. Not really, of course. No one could change the passage of time. Instead, sometimes, in high-pressure situations, his brain processed things more quickly. Maybe it was due to more neurons firing than normal. Maybe it was due to a sudden flood of adrenaline. DJ wasn’t sure. While he seemed to have no control over when this happened, he was thankful for the moments it appeared. Right then, it was showing up just in time.

  Distance demanded he take out the three remaining men behind the retaining wall without missing. So, as he stood, he was already pointing, looking through the sights, hyper-focusing on accuracy. The first man died instantly. The target taking too long to draw a bead on DJ. The second one got off a shot a fraction after DJ, the impact of DJ’s 9mm round tearing into the man’s left nostril and causing him to pull his own shot just enough to miss. DJ felt the whiff of the bullet past his ear, so much so, he flinched. The third, perhaps, concluding he had bitten off more than he could chew, ducked out of view.

  He did a one-eighty and focused on the door, waiting for wounded men to come out. He paused for only a second, considering the remaining man behind him, but none from the hallway emerged. He spun again, snatched the Scorpion with his left hand, and charged toward the retaining wall, maneuvering through the steel debris littering his path, searching for the two missing men and waiting for the last one behind the retaining wall to peek again. One of the two missing team members found him first. A bullet impacted the rear of his plate carrier low on his back. He grunted and hunched from the blow, turning and diving left onto his side, dropping the submachine gun to the floor and aiming back the direction he had come. On an elevated walkway, a solitary figure was shooting down at him. Before DJ could get off a shot, a second round impacted the cement floor near his head, sending shards of debris into his face. DJ involuntarily blinked and sputtered from the bits of concrete in his mouth and fired from instinct alone. The round took the man in the hip, and the soldier stumbled. It was enough of a pause for DJ to take a more precise shot, his bullet smashing through the man’s face. He rolled quickly and refocused on the retaining wall just in time to see a face appear. DJ put one between the eyes and scrambled to his feet, gathering up the Scorpion and sprinting for the concrete barrier the others had hidden behind. He hoped to use it for cover as well. He was certain those in the hallway had not all died from his grenade.

  Fourteen rounds in his pistol. One full spare and two partials at his side.

  Hurdling the short wall, DJ was surprised to see the last missing team member laying wounded on the ground beyond. DJ had assumed he was trying to flank. Instead, the man had been wounded by the grenade and was laying bleeding, hoping his friends would take care of the threat. As DJ cleared the wall, the wounded man let loose with a blast of automatic fire. The first two drilled DJ in the chest at point-blank range with all the impact of a mule kick, pushing the breath from his lungs. The third ripped through the top of his left shoulder, sending searing heat and stabbing pain through his arm. The rest of the burst flew past DJ’s head.

  Despite the close range, the shock of being shot threw him off and DJ’s returning shot missed by a mile. He hit the ground awkwardly and racked his elbow on the hard flooring of the facility. MP fell from his tingling fingers. The Scorpion wasn’t an option either, holding it just forward of the ejection port in his left hand. The other man was flat on his back and bringing his rifle over across his chest to have another go. DJ could now see it looked to be the newer Sig Sauer NGSW-R. This spoke to just how well-financed these guys were. It was weird just how much one could process in so short a time.

  Desperate, DJ didn’t scramble for his modified X5 pistol, nor did he try to get a better grip on the Scorpion. There was no time. He dove for the man, locking his left hand around the suppressor, thankful for his gloves shielding him from the heat. He pushed it wide and scrambled on top of the man, smashing down with his right fist like a carpenter with a hammer. Once, twice, three times, four. Stunned, his adversary released the weapon. DJ yanked it free, slammed the butt into the man’s face once more for good measure, got to one knee, reversed the rifle, and shot him through the eye. The impact of such a large caliber round from so close made a bloody mess. Some of it splattering into DJ’s face.

  Grimacing in pain and anger, DJ stood and looked around, daring any others to show their face. He spotted a form coming through the door he had entered, and out of sheer rage, he shouldered the commandeered rifle and let loose with a full-auto blast, emptying the remainder of the mag into the poor man.

  Up till then, DJ had done his best to reign in the fury that bubbled just below the surface, but he could hold it back no more. He had been lied to by someone who was supposed to represent the good of his country. He had been infiltrated by a two-faced traitor who had murdered a member of his team and nearly killed another. Brett, his best friend, had suffered so much in such a short few years because he had chosen to follow DJ into this life. Divorce had ripped his friend in two. He lost the use of his legs simply because he was DJ’s friend. He had nearly been killed in a Saudi Arabian prison in an ambush. Right then, the only person besides Abbi who seemed to understand him and accept DJ’s brokenness was clinging to life from a bullet hole in his heart. DJ knew that giving himself over to emotion was a sure-fire way to get yourself killed, but he had had enough. It was all too much. The dam burst. His rage erupted in a volcano of hate.

  DJ threw the empty rifle as far as he could, and shouted at the top of his lungs, straining his vocal cords. “Who’s next? Come on! I’ll take you all!”

  As if in answer to his challenge, a new group slithered through the black, ducking and advancing across the assembly floor. DJ crouched, hot-swapped the mag in MP, holstered it, grabbed the dropped Scorpion, and ran at them. Teeth gritted, snarl on his lips, he went after them. With complete disregard for tactics or safety, he went after them. “Kill you all!” DJ growled.

  DJ waded into battle, a grim visage of a modern-day gladiator. There was no drumbeat or theme song playing in the background. There was only death and rage.

  __________

  Agent Ali moved as fast as he could, maneuvering his way through the building on his way back to DJ. He had secured Sara in the van they arrived in, leaving Cash to watch her and protect Carbon. They had almost come to blows over who would go back after their lunatic friend. In the end, Ali had pulled a gun on the determined Cash and threatened him. Ali was sure he would suffer for that later.

  He followed the sound of explosions and muffled gunfire, looking for bad guys and DJ, hoping his friend wouldn’t accidentally shoot him in the process. He had once before fought with the man in the middle of a Russian wilderness. He knew of DJ’s skill and drive. It had been no use to try and stop the man, pleading wisdom at falling back and escaping with their witness. The look in DJ’s eye had said it would have been a wasted effort.

  He followed the noises of battle and dead bodies through the complex like a morbid series of connect the dots. After a few minutes, he noticed only silence, and Ali grew even more cautious. The fight was over, but what did that mean? DJ was either dead or captured. But which one was more likely? A dead DJ Slaughter, for sure, he concluded.

  Stepping over a pile of ruined bodies, Ali entered a large two-story room. It looked to be the manufacturing floor of what was left of the building. The smell of burned gunpowder and an eerie silence hung in the air. He caught a whiff of movement to his left. Ali swung his rifle around, a borrowed .300 blackout AR from the arsenal at the farm and crouched. The move was blocked, and a fist hammered him in the side of the head, sending him staggering. “Stand down!” the familiar voice of DJ ordered.

  Ali recovered and stood, staring at his friend. “Did you need to hit me?”

  DJ shrugged. “Seemed the thing to do. Thought you might counter by shooting me with your pistol. I’ve been shot enough for one day. Let’s go. They’re all dead.”

  Ali was silent for a moment
and glanced around, not sure if he believed DJ. “Seriously?”

  DJ entered the hallway, heading back the way they had come. “I said, let’s go.”

  Ali stared after him a moment before proceeding, wondering if he should tell DJ his new information now, or wait until the man had time to calm down. He elected for the latter. It wouldn’t make a difference right then anyway. They would get clear of here before he told DJ he recognized some of the dead as active members of the CIA. He wondered what DJ’s reaction would be when the man learned these dead bodies didn’t belong to hired guns, but rather the CIA’s own private army. Probably not too good, he mused.

  Before coming here, Ali considered all of this a challenge. Right then, Ali knew they were well past that. They were neck-deep in trouble.

  Chapter 13: Sam Kenny

  Sam Kenny disembarked from the twin-engine Cessna, his hand on the weapon hidden under his shirt, and his pack over one shoulder. He had already tossed the AR he had carried with him. It was big, bulky, and hard to conceal.

  He didn’t trust the two men waiting for him in front of the lifted truck with knobby tires. They didn’t appear to be armed, but of course, they were. He paused by the doorway and took a careful look around. There were several hangars around the public airstrip. Parked planes and shadowy corners provided plenty of avenues for a sniper to set up shop. The truth was, if the men in front of him wanted Sam dead, there was little he could do to stop it. Still, the order he received while flying to the east coast said these two would have everything he needed to kill Slaughter. And since the person on the other end of that call wanted the money on the hard drive that Sam had hidden, they were obligated to give in to his demands. Of course, they could always resort to tazing him until he wet himself and then torture the location out of him, but they had a vested interest in seeing Slaughter dead as well. There was more to this for them than a big payday. They had to ensure a very stubborn and resolved DJ Slaughter didn’t pursue them until he had killed every last one of them.

  Sam had been shocked when the voice had told him that there was far more money on that hidden drive than what Agent Seymour had promised. He had been informed of the real amount simply to ensure that Sam was aware of the great lengths that would be taken to hunt him down if he tried to run with it. In response, Sam had politely asked for a small pay increase and an assist in taking out Slaughter. The voice on the other end accepted easily and Sam turned the plane around to head back west.

  Sam mentally crossed his fingers that this wasn’t a setup, and approached the two by the truck. Both were dressed like average civilians for this part of the world. One wore faded jeans, the other was in cargo shorts. Both dressed in old t-shirts under long-sleeved flannel printed shirts with the cuffs rolled up a few times, likely to conceal whatever sidearm they carried. Both wore ratted-out baseball caps with frayed edges. One was emblazoned with a baseball team. The other, the brand for a popular sports clothing company. One wore shades, the cheap kind found in gas stations. The other, none at all. The untrained eye might have considered them to be the average Joe, but Sam could see the deliberate nature they had taken to blend in.

  Sam walked up and the guy in the shades smiled. “You must be Sam. Got what you requested in the back seat of the truck.” The truck was a four-door, late model with about a three or four-inch lift added and some beefy tires. It was dirty and looked well used but seemed to be in good condition. It was exactly what Sam had asked for.

  Sam nodded, pointing to the back of the truck. “That’s good. Now unload it and put it on the tailgate.” Both looked at each other and back, not moving. Sam sighed. This was looking like it was going to be one of those days. “No way I’m going to turn my back on you two. So, put it on the tailgate where I can keep an eye on you both.”

  The one without the sunglasses spoke, his brow furrowed. “Dude, if we was gonna kill you, you'd be dead right now.”

  Sam smiled, his hand resting on the butt of his handgun under his shirt. “Humor me, homey.” Neither one moved, their hard faces a stark defiance to his request. Sam shrugged. “I guess I could kill you both and then take a look, but it’s your choice.”

  Shades spoke next. “You’re not that good. And what makes you think we don’t have a sniper pointing at you right now?”

  Sam nodded. “Maybe you do. But they won’t shoot, no matter what happens to you two. Your boss wants what’s in my head. Besides, you’ll still be dead. Unless, as you said, you don’t think I’m good enough.” There was a hesitation in the two. Both clearly wanted to see if Sam was just boasting. Shooters like the men in front of him never liked playing a game of chicken and losing. Sam prepared to follow up on his promise, but just before he pulled, the one with the sunglasses turned and opened the back door of the truck. He removed a large duffle with one hand, and a soft case for a rifle in the other. Sam stayed where he was until the man dropped the tailgate and rested both on top.

  Sam pointed at a spot on the tarmac. “Both of you stand right there until I’m satisfied. Move funny and I’ll shoot you in the knee just for fun.” They begrudgingly did as ordered and Sam had a look at what was in the rifle bag first. He liked what he saw. Inside was a Savage Model 12 FTR chambered in .308 Winchester. In the world of ballistics, there were better rounds out there with flatter shooting performance. It was a veritable Howitzer shell with a deep arc, dropping thirty feet at a thousand yards. But Sam cut his teeth on this weapon. It was specifically designed for competitive shooting from the prone position at targets a thousand yards away. With this weapon, Sam could put every round within a five-inch circle at that distance all day long.

  DJ Slaughter was a dead man. Sam had only to wait for the idiot to walk into position.

  Sam went through the other bag to verify the contents, then backed away and pointed at Shades. “Good deal. Now load it back up.” Shades wasn’t happy. Sam could tell the man really wanted to shoot him. If not shoot, then punch. Certainly, the boss wouldn’t be too upset if he decked Sam in the mouth. When the man turned from the truck after loading the bags, Sam thought the man was going to go for it. Surprisingly, Shades exercised some self-control and refrained from following through on the temptation. Don’t worry, Shades, Sam said to himself. You’ll get your chance.

  Next, Sam pointed to the driver’s door. “Now get in. You’re driving me out of here.” Shades looked at Sam like he had lost his mind. Before Shades could protest, Sam drew his weapon and stepped in, pressing the gun into the man’s waist. “It wasn’t a request,” Sam smiled, inches from the man’s nose. With his left hand, he removed the man’s gun. Next, Sam reached up and removed the sunglasses, placing them on his own face instead.

  There was no more hesitation from Shades. He simply turned and climbed into the driver’s seat. Sam entered the back seat and instructed him to leave the airport. From there, Sam consulted his phone for navigation and relayed commands on when to turn. The whole time, he checked for a tail but spotted none. Of course, a drone could be tracking them, but he had to hope for the best. About ten miles outside of town, Sam directed Shades off the beaten path and down a winding back road. Comfortable they were isolated enough, he ordered his driver to pull over, kill the truck, and get out. Sam exited at the same time.

  Shades stood next to the truck and looked at Sam with hard eyes. With venom dripping from his lips, Shades asked, “You’re just gonna leave me out here to figure my way back?”

  Sam smiled. “First things first. Raise your arms high and turn around. Shades sighed and did an about-face. Sam stepped in and placed the man’s weapon back in the holster. He stepped back a few paces to give the guy some room, then reholstered his own, pulling the shirt back over the top. “Lower your hands and turn back around.”

  Sam could see understanding in his adversary’s eyes. Shades knew what was coming next: a good old-fashioned showdown. He was going to be goaded into trying to outdraw Sam to see who was better. Sam confirmed the man’s suspicions with a nod. “You’ve be
en wanting to shoot me since we first met. It was all over your fa-” he never got the chance to finish the sentence. Shades went for his gun.

  Sam had to admit, the move caught him off guard. He lost precious time just in figuring out the man was going to try and gain as much advantage as he could, getting the jump on the draw. He also had to credit Shades for being as fast as he was. The man had certainly spent time behind his weapon of choice. Still, it wasn’t enough. If shooting were considered an art form, Sam was something of a Rembrandt. Shades barely cleared his holster before Sam shot him right between his smug, condescending eyes.

  Sam grinned down at the dead body. “Well, that was fun. Appreciate it, Shades. I’ve been needing to let off some steam for a while now. That should hold me over.”

  Next, Sam went into his pack and pulled out a small device. It checked for radio frequencies. He did a slow walk around the vehicle, holding the stubby antennae close to the paint. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. Sure enough, they had tagged the truck with a transponder. It took him only a moment to remove it and smash it to pieces.

  Sam took over the driver’s seat, turned the truck around, and headed to his ultimate destination. He hoped the voice on the other end of that phone call had been right about this. If not, Sam would have to take it out on them. He might just keep all of that money after he killed them, too. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, of course. He liked to keep every agreement. Sam had always been a man of his word.

  Chapter 14: Paradise Bound

  Sara Anderson was in trouble. Not because she had been shot, although that surely did really suck. But, by and large, it was a flesh wound. The maniac in charge of this group had put the bullet right through a part of her leg that meant nothing permanent or internally damaging. She would recover. She could limp around on it quite nicely as it was. No, she was in trouble because she knew what came next.