Firestorm

Book 2: Garrett Kohl

by Taylor Moore

Genres: Action & Adventure; Crime Fiction; Mystery; Political Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

DEA Special Agent Garrett Kohl must rescue a CIA officer when she’s kidnapped in Texas by a nefarious band of criminals in this pulse-pounding thriller for fans of C. J. Box.

Special Agent Garrett Kohl has just taken down a dangerous and deadly cartel boss when he finds trouble brewing back on his family’s homestead. A powerful energy consortium, Talon Corporation, has started an aggressive mining operation that threatens to destroy Garrett’s land, his family’s way of life, and everything they hold dear. To achieve its goals, Talon is flouting the law, bribing public officials, and meeting anyone who challenges it with physical violence. When the Kohls themselves are attacked by Talon guards, Garrett goes on the offensive, embarking on an investigation that he hopes will rid the Texas High Plains of the intruders once and for all.

Garrett soon discovers that the company has origins in the dark hinterlands of countries across the globe. Using coercion and assassination levied by men from former Russian special operations forces, Talon is working on a highly secretive scheme to commandeer precious U.S. resources. The tit for tat exchange between Talon and the Kohls erupts into a full-scale war when Russian spy, Alexi Orlov, kidnaps Garrett’s friend and ally, CIA operative Kim Manning. While Talon may be accustomed to getting its way in many places around the world, they have yet to encounter this rare breed of warrior down in Texas—a man who will fight to the death to protect those that he loves.       

Release date: August 16, 2022

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 352

Sample

1

Garrett Kohl had spent the better part of his DEA and special operations career taking a series of calculated risks, but he’d never done anything quite as stupid as this. Blasting across the lake through the foggy darkness in a Super Air Nautique G25 Paragon, he pondered everything that could go wrong, which was a hell of lot to consider in a place run by the Garza Cartel.

With the sudden thought of slamming into a limestone jetty at thirty-five knots, Garrett yanked the throttle, killed the motor, and let the wake boat drift to a lazy stop. With no wind, the stagnant fishy air hung heavy like a soggy sponge. It was a smell that normally put this avid angler in the best of moods, but tonight there was simply way too much at stake.

As a seasoned combat veteran from the U.S. Army’s 10^th Special Forces Group, Garrett was no stranger to being behind enemy lines, but this rendition assignment with his task force partners in the Texas Rangers and CIA had jacked the pucker factor up to eleven. Breaking more international laws than he cared to count, Garrett shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind and focused on something he could control—finding the drug lord they were supposed to meet.

Garrett raised out of his seat and glanced up at the moon and stars, which had pierced the clouds and bathed the shoreline of thick carrizo cane in a soft amber glow. Lifting the 4X night vision binoculars to his eyes, he panned the reed-covered beach in the green glow of his optics, spotting a dry creek bed about fifty yards out. But for a prowling bobcat and an overturned jon boat there was really nothing to see. No pier. No fishing village. And no murderous cartel boss with a duffel bag full of cash.

Looking down at his map, Garrett clicked on a penlight and aimed the beam at the upper-right corner. According to his GPS, they were right where they were supposed to be, an isolated cove near an old rural community called Rancho Culebra. The plan was for him and 

his mission accomplice, Texas Ranger Cade Malek, to meet up with their confidential informant (CI) Ray Smitty and a drug kingpin named Emilio Garza.

Had he not been in dangerous country on assignment, Garrett would’ve longed to explore the area around Lake Amistad. The sixty-five-thousand-acre body of water on the Rio Grande was a desert oasis, with rugged terrain not unlike the arid ranchland where he grew up on the Texas High Plains. It was tabletop flat in places and scarred by deep ravines and jagged cliffs in others—wild, remote, and lonesome—just the kind of land he loved.

Garrett eased back into the driver’s seat and looked around. More fisher than skier, he wouldn’t have traded his own Skeeter bass boat for the Nautique, but it was perfect cover for two ne’er-do-well ranchers out looking to make a deal with the devil. According to their fabricated backstory, Garrett and his brother, played by Malek, had a penchant for whiskey, wild women, and worldly possessions.

Despite having a hangar full of vintage muscle cars and a fleet of helicopters they used for hunting feral hogs, their entertainment cup was sadly only half full. They’d burned through a chunk of their daddy’s oil fortune, and as a result, the old man had put his foot down. Despite giving them an allowance fit for a Saudi sheik, they wanted more. And they wanted it however they could get it.

Garrett only hoped Garza didn’t notice that he and Malek looked nothing alike. The ranger was tall and lanky, a short-shorn towhead, while Garrett was just below six feet, with long dark hair, a bronzed complexion, and athletic build. But whatever similarities they lacked in looks they made up for in banter. The ball-breaking between the two came off as natural, as if they’d been tormenting each other since the playpen.

Malek, wearing a burnt palm cowboy hat and coyote-colored hunting shirt, was sitting up on the bow, keeping a close watch on the dark horizon. “Helluva good night for fishing, ain’t it.”

“Good as it gets.” Garrett gave a nod. “Quiet too.” But for the occasional small wave lapping against the hull, it was dead silent. “Probably got a few minutes until showtime if you wanna throw in a line.”

Malek gave a slow shake of his head as he scanned the shoreline. “Don’t think I’d enjoy it too much given what we got on our plate.”

The ranger sounded a bit anxious, and Garrett knew why. Aside from the obvious danger, the operation to capture a Mexican drug lord was an opportunity of a lifetime. It could make or break their careers. Of course, that was assuming they weren’t killed in the process.

“This thing will be done before you know it.” Garrett let out an easy chuckle. “Hell, I lay you odds we’ll all be having margaritas over in Del Rio before noon.”

Malek swiveled around. “Think so, huh?”

Damn sure hope so. As a former Green Beret, Garrett never took odds on high-risk operations. Too many variables. Also, it was bad luck. He’d cussed more than his share of soldiers for doing just that. But Garrett needed Malek calm and collected so he doubled down on

the lie. “Oh yeah, I can taste the huevos rancheros, pinto beans, and corn tortillas right now.”

Malek shot a glare. “Corn, did you say?” Disgusted, he turned back and raised his binoculars. “Knew something was off about you, Kohl.”

Feeling as though he was living out the lyrics of a Lyle Lovett song, Garrett had to laugh. Apparently, Malek was a flour tortilla man. For some Texans, that was a personal conviction of the highest sort. Garrett was about to connect his partner’s dislike of sweet tea to latent communist leanings when the ranger perked up.

Malek lowered his voice. “See some lights up there.” He pointed to a spot about a hundred yards west where there was a break in the fog. “Think that’s the village?”

Garrett turned the key in the ignition and the six-hundred-horsepower motor rumbled to life. He clicked the throttle forward and the motor grumbled into a grind. As they eased through the mist, he followed the halogen lights to a rusted gas pump where a couple of turquoise rowboats were tied to the rickety pier. Behind the dock were five cinderblock shacks. The ragged curtains danced in the windows, making the place look more haunted than abandoned.

Knowing it’d be a great setup for a cartel ambush, Garrett reached back to secure the Nighthawk Double Agent pistol tucked into the back of his belt. He’d swapped his DEA-issued Glock 17 for the 1911 before the cross-border trip. Deep cover officers are all about the details and carrying his service weapon just wouldn’t do. It was the same reason he’d altered his appearance from rodeo rogue to well-to-do land baron.

The shift in disguise had required a barber visit and a slight trim to his thick beard, taking him from ruffian to rancher in a matter of minutes. But Garrett didn’t hide the sleeve tattoos of death skulls, tomahawks, and screaming Comanche warriors atop galloping mustangs. With his faded Wranglers, Twisted X moccasins, and untucked Howler Brothers pearl snap, his look fell somewhere between cowboy and frat boy.

Garrett turned his black Lone Star Dry Goods trucker hat backward, raised up in his seat, and took in the village. Other than the wafting stench of fish guts from the pier and some freshly burnt trash, there were no signs of human activity. He nosed the Nautique up to the dock, yanked back on the throttle, and drifted up to the far end beneath a halo of yellow lamplight.

Malek reached for the gnarled wood piling that jutted up from the planks and brought the wake boat to a halt. After tethering it to the dock, he turned back. “Right on time and exactly where we’re supposed to be.” The ranger’s voice still held a nervous edge. “But something doesn’t feel right.”

Garrett felt the same but wasn’t going to give in to any bad juju. At least not until he had a good reason. “Remember, man, we’re holding a good hand of cards here. Garza wouldn’t take the risk to meet us in person otherwise. So, just play it easy. And play it loose. Like a couple

of drunk bubbas about to spend ten million dollars on trashy women, Caribbean fishing trips, and big-game hunts in Alaska. Got it?”

Malek, a confirmed bachelor and avid outdoorsman, seemed to drink in the idea. “Already there, man.” The toothpick in the corner of his mouth raised with his wide grin.

Although Garrett hated to admit it, he was a little nervy too. For the first time in a long time, he had a lot to lose. And most of it had to do with an orphan from Afghanistan he’d brought home to the ranch on a protective custody assignment. Garrett thought of the boy as his own son and wanted to adopt him, but all those plans were hinged on repaying a debt to the CIA.

In exchange for covering up past transgressions, Garrett was conscripted as an off-the-books black-bag operator. And his first assignment began with the cross-border snatch and grab involving Garza, who had become public enemy number one after torturing and murdering a Texas Ranger and sending a hit team after Garrett’s own family.

Tempted to get riled at the thought of it, he kept calm by going over his cover story—poking any holes yet to be poked. And the biggest hole out there was their CI Smitty, a two-time loser in the Texas prison system and a low-level crook who had started running drugs for Garza. Smitty could either rat out the drug lord or spend the rest of his life in prison.

Despite his shortcomings, which were many, the former convict had a brilliant scheme. His idea was to lure Garza into a meeting with two brothers, Garrett and Malek, who owned a large ranch contiguous to Mexico. But the land itself wasn’t the real draw, it was the gas pipeline crossing the border that got the drug lord’s attention. Smitty had devised a plan to use what was known in the energy industry as a “pig,” a maintenance device that travels the length of pipelines for cleaning and inspection. Retrofitted, they’d been used in the past to transport drugs and cash. If there was a better way to smuggle contraband across the border, Garrett had yet to see it.

At the sound of an inbound motor, Garrett turned, just as he heard the uh-oh from Malek. Through a break in the mist, he saw two sets of lights, which meant Garza had broken the deal and brought his thugs along for the meeting. Garrett and his partner might be holding a good hand, but the drug lord had stacked the deck. And worst of all, the whole damn operation hinged on Smitty, who wasn’t even a joker. He was the Uno card that had somehow slipped  into the box.