Harm's Way

Book 15: Jonathan Grave Thriller

by John Gilstrap

Genres: Political Thrillers; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers; Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

"Gilstrap pushes every thriller button." —San Francisco Chronicle



Unstoppable Jonathan Grave uncovers a major threat to American security in the latest action-packed adventure in the long-running, bestselling black-ops series.



Henchmen of a vicious drug syndicate have snatched ten missionaries in a remote area of Venezuela and are holding them for ransom. The high-priority rescue op comes as a personal plea from FBI Director Irene Rivers, who has a very special interest in one of the hostages. The mission is strictly off the books, and there can be no international incident. Just get in and get out—and keep the precious cargo safe.



With his key operatives Gunslinger and Boxers, Grave infiltrates the enemy camp. Right away, the rescue mission morphs into something far more dangerous—not just to Jonathan and his team, but to the whole world.



"[Gilstrap's] greatest strength is the ability to blend breathtaking action with deep emotion regarding the characters." —Jeffery Deaver



"A great hero, a really exciting series." —Joseph Finder

Release date: August 22, 2023

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Max Greenwich never should have let his baby brother talk him into this bullshit. He had enough problems in his own life without traveling a couple thousand miles to dig in the dirt to help strangers solve their problems. From what he could tell, the locals never asked for help, and even after help arrived, they weren’t particularly appreciative.

Here he was, pretending to be a devout Baptist when he wasn’t a devout anything, hunched over a hand-powered well auger while a cluster of locals watched, their faces showing a combination of confusion and amusement.

Max only went along with this goody-goody mission because his brother Mikey felt a need to hurt himself—to perform a physical act of contrition to get past the accident that killed their friend Charlie. It wasn’t that Max didn’t feel bad about everything that happened back in the summer, but come on. They were in their twenties, for God’s sake. Not all decisions were smart, and sometimes people got hurt. Sometimes people got killed.

Charlie Mathias drowned. He was as dead five minutes after he fell into the water as he still would be five hundred years from now. Nobody poured the bourbon down his throat, and nobody forced him to do that stupid-ass monkey climb up the mast. When you joust with gravity, sometimes gravity wins.

And digging holes for wells that people didn’t seem to want didn’t change anything.

A few feet away, the missionaries’ self-appointed leader, Janson McFee—a forty-something zealot who loved to give orders for people to work hard while he assessed their efforts—was lecturing five young men from the village of Sonrisa de Dios—Smile of God—who had formed a rough circle around the missionary team, on how to drill a well for water and wean themselves away from drinking and bathing in the river. Aged from fifteen to twenty-five, the men at least pretended to listen, while never asking why their village had been invaded by ten missionaries from the New World Baptist Ministry in Dallas, Texas.

“You see,” Janson explained in flawless Colombian-accented Spanish, “each turn of the T-handle digs the hole a little deeper and closer to the water.” He motioned for Max to lift the auger shaft out of the well. The blades were filled with dripping mud, so Max knocked them against a rock to break it free, and then he lowered the shaft back into the hole.

“You cannot expect us to drink that,” said Lupe, the youngest in the group. “That’s just mud.”

“We need to drill down farther than this,” Janson said. “You are correct. This is mud, but somewhere down in the ground, deeper than this, we will reach a sand layer, and that is the layer from which we will extract the water.”

“How deep?” asked Domingo, the oldest of the group—at least by appearance.

“We won’t know until we get there,” Janson said.

“But the river is on the surface. Doesn’t require digging,” said Eduardo.

They were all dressed more or less identically, including Max and the other missionaries. Chino shorts in various states of disrepair, T-shirts, and sandals.

Max smiled as Janson explained that surface water was inherently dangerous, contaminated with all manner of pollutants from farm chemicals to human waste. He explained about bacteria and viruses, but he never touched on what Max assumed to be the common unasked question: Why should we listen to a guy from Texas who presumes to be smarter than we are?

Max understood the underlying cynicism of the mission if only because he prided himself in being a master cynic. Janson McFee couldn’t say aloud that the real point of invading Venezuela was to wean these uneducated people away from their reliance on their strange mix of Catholicism, superstition, and paganism and to enjoy the embrace of the Lord God and His son, Jesus. Neither the US nor Venezuelan governments would tolerate purely religious interactions with indigenous peoples. Thus the ruse of well drilling to improve hygiene and provide lessons in first aid.

“We have talked about this,” Janson said. “Surface water can hurt you.”

“We have been using that for many generations,” said Miguel, whom Max believed to be Lupe’s older brother. “This is a lot of hard work.”

“You got that right,” Max said, earning himself a stern look from Janson. Thanks to a childhood spent as the token Anglos in a Hispanic neighborhood, Max and Mikey both spoke perfect Spanish.

“But it is the kind of hard work that makes the future better for you and your families,” Janson said. “When you are done learning from us, you will then be able to spread these skills to others. Imagine how wonderful—”

The growl of motors approaching through the rain forest stole the words from Janson’s mouth. They sounded far away at first but grew quickly in volume. Everything about the demeanor of the missionaries-in-training changed, their barely masked boredom replaced with obvious fear.

“What is that?” Janson asked.

“Motorbikes,” Lupe said. “The enforcers.”

“Whose enforcers?”

“Los Muertos,” Miguel clarified, while, in fact, clarifying nothing.

“Cocaine criminals,” Domingo said.

“Oh, shit,” Max said. He reached out and pulled Mikey closer. His spine burned with a sense of dread. The entire crew of missionaries pulled into a close bunch, and as the group got tighter, Max made sure that he and Mikey remained on the outer ring. If bad things happened, he wanted to be able to make a dash for the trees.

Over the course of the past two or three decades, Venezuela’s once-promising economy had devolved into a kind of socialist hell that had devalued their currency, the bolivar, to essentially zero value. Runaway inflation, combined with—some would say triggered by—government seizure of private assets had created a nightmare of poverty across all but the political class. The police had essentially joined forces with the drug cartels to turn the country into a narco-state, where human life meant little.

These were all reasons why the US State Department advised against travel to Venezuela, making clear to all who declined the advice that the American government under President Tony Darmond would do little to help if things went badly for the travelers.

Max had tried to explain these things to Mikey in an effort to get him to shift the focus of his penance, but his brother wouldn’t listen. This religious mission had seemed really important, so Max had backed off and gone along.

“Don’t worry,” Janson said through a quivering voice. “The Lord will protect us.”

“Amen to that,” Max mumbled.

Max surveyed the frightened faces that surrounded him. They were all men because, according to Janson McFee, celibacy was an important component of the personal growth that they all sought through this mission, and they aged in range from early twenties to old. The oldest guy was an overweight lawyerly-looking guy who was old enough to be Max and Mikey’s grandpa. His name was Donny something, and while he sweated buckets as he worked, his efforts didn’t seem to accomplish much.

Early on, McFee had made it clear that the missionaries were not to push their comrades for information dealing with their life situations—that’s what he’d called them. Everybody was escaping something, blah, blah, blah.

And that was fine with Max. Only two days into this nightmare, he knew that these were not going to be folks he’d hang out with in the future.

“What do the people on the bikes want?” Janson asked Domingo.

“Something we cannot give them.”

“Really?” Max said. “We’re speaking in riddles?”

“I’ve got this,” McFee said. “You keep your mouth shut.”

The first of the motorbikes emerged from the forest. Five more followed and surrounded everyone, villagers and missionaries alike. Each biker wore a T-shirt and blue jeans, though there was nothing uniform about them other than the matching black assault rifles and gunmetal gray ballistic vests, which were packed with extra ammunition. Two wore helmets, four did not.

Constructed of metal tubing and sporting comically fat tires, the motorbikes reminded Max of the cheap trail bikes that he used to ride as a kid. As such vehicles went, he was sure that they weighed almost nothing, making them simple to un-mire if they got stuck in the mud. As the riders brought their bikes to a halt, they unslung their rifles and pointed them at the group.

“Are they going to shoot?” Mikey whispered.

Max stepped in front of his brother to serve as a shield.

One of the helmeted riders dismounted, engaged the kickstand, and walked to Janson, whom he poked in the chest with the muzzle of his rifle. “You,” he said in Spanish. “You are American.”

“Yes, we are,” Janson replied, likewise in Spanish. “We are religious men on a missionary pilgrimage.”

The bikers all laughed at a joke that Max didn’t understand. “You are bringing God to the people of Sonrisa de Dios?” Another laugh. To Domingo, he said, “I thought you were friends with Satan.”

Domingo and the other villagers moved closer together. They looked terrified.

The leader turned to his gang and said, “Keep your eye on the gringos. If they try to run, shoot them.” He leaned in closer to Janson, till only a few inches separated their noses. “Do all of your religious friends understand enough Spanish to know what I just said?”

Janson looked terrified. He nodded quickly—more of a twitch, actually.

“It’s important that they do. Because I am speaking the truth.”

“I understand,” Janson squeaked.

“What are we going to do?” Mikey asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Max replied.

The biker shifted his attention to Domingo. “We tried to pick up the items you promised,” the biker said. “But nothing was there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Domingo said.

The biker moved with startling speed as he shifted his rifle and fired without aiming, blowing a hole through Lupe’s skinny thigh. The boy howled in pain as the leg folded at the site of his shattered femur and he fell to the forest floor. Miguel yelled something that wasn’t a word and dropped to the ground to help the boy.

Reflexively, Max spun to run away with Mikey, but they hadn’t taken a step before he saw the other men’s rifles rise to their shoulders and he jerked them to a stop.

“Do you know what I’m talking about now?” the leader asked the villagers.

Color had drained from Domingo’s face. He looked like he might pass out.

Beyond him, Eduardo stood with his hands high over his head, his fingers splayed. As Lupe writhed on the ground crying and struggling to control massive bleeding, Eduardo said, “We don’t handle the deliveries. That is not our job. We are not permitted to do that job.”

“I see,” the gunman said. “Whose job is it if it is not yours?”

Eduardo started to answer but stopped himself.

“I can shoot his other leg.”

“No!” Miguel yelled. “Please no. That business is run by the men of the village.”

“Your fathers, perhaps?”

“Not ours,” Miguel said.

“Oh, no, not yours. Of course. How about yours?” That question went to Eduardo, who still stood tongue-tied.

Back to Miguel. “Are these fathers at the village now?”

“Some are.”

“Very good. Then I don’t need you, do I?” This time, he brought the rifle to his shoulder as he fired a bullet through Miguel’s face. Four seconds and as three bullets later, all of the villagers Janson had been training lay dead or wounded as blood puddled in the mulchy forest floor.

Max winced against the pressure of Mikey’s grip on his arm.

“Miguel!” Lupe wailed. “You killed Miguel!”

“And you, too,” the biker said. He fired into Lupe’s chest and the boy fell silent.

Max couldn’t comprehend the display of violence. He’d heard of such callousness, of course, but he’d never dreamed of witnessing it. He realized that all moisture had evaporated from his mouth and that his heart was racing at a suicidal rate. Two of the other missionaries had dropped to their knees and were covering their heads with their arms.

The gunman moved with what looked to be deliberate slowness as he turned his back on the carnage he’d created and addressed McFee. The man slung his rifle over his shoulder and removed his motorcycle helmet by spreading the sides with his thumbs and lifting the plastic away, revealing an unruly mat of black hair that he rubbed vigorously.

“Now, what do we do with you?” he asked. Incongruously, he offered Janson a handshake. “My name is Roberto Zamora. And yours is?”

McFee stared at the proffered hand but didn’t reach for it.

Zamora pulled the hand back and then offered it again. “It is an offer of friendship,” he said. With a glance at the bleeding bodies, he added, “I think you can see that it is better to be my friend than my enemy.”

McFee’s fingers trembled as he shook Zamora’s hand. “My name is Janson McFee. These other people are—”

“I don’t care who the others are,” Zamora said. “I won’t remember the names, anyway. Now, the question is, What do we do with you?”

“P-please don’t kill us,” McFee said. None of the other missionaries seemed interested in speaking for themselves. Max wasn’t sure that his voice would even work if he tried to use it.

“I am not a murderer,” Zamora said. “I am a businessman. And it is a business that sometimes brings uncomfortable consequences. I pray that you don’t become one of those.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” McFee said. “I promise. We promise, right?”

While some of the missionaries nodded, most just stared as Max did.

“Do not embarrass yourself like that,” Zamora said. “You are whining like a woman. If you do not cause me problems, I will present no problems to you.” He looked past McFee to his gathered posse. “Diego, use the paracord to tie these gentlemen’s hands. Izzy, I want you and Ramos to watch the road to make sure that we are not ambushed.”

None of this made sense to Max. Who would ambush them? And why? What was it that they tried to pick up? Was it drugs? In this part of the world, drugs were always a good guess, but not necessarily the correct one.

“What do we do?” Mikey asked.

“Exactly what they say,” Max replied. As the words left his lips, he sensed they were a mistake, but at this point, he didn’t see any other option. So, he stood still, slightly bent at the waist with his wrists crossed behind him as Zamora’s henchman used a length of thin cord to bind his wrists together.

“This is not too tight, is it?” the terrorist asked.

“No, it’s fine,” Max said. His captor did a thorough job with the bonds. While Max couldn’t see the details of what he was doing, he felt the cord pass around his wrists horizontally and then vertically. In five minutes, they were done.

“What now?” asked one of the posse.

“We take them with us as we conduct business.”

“And afterward?”

Roberto scowled as he considered the question. “And afterward, we will have decisions to make.”

The gunmen herded the missionaries into a tight group and marched them down the narrow road that led back to Sonrisa de Dios. Already, Max’s shoulders were beginning to ache from the tension of having his hands bound behind him, and his fingers had begun to swell. Perhaps the bonds were too tight, after all.

Max had no idea how old the village was and had never had reason to care. Most of the residents lived outside the village center in shacks constructed of what looked like leftovers from other construction sites. Corrugated metal roofs sat atop plywood walls, many of which had been painted in the pastels that were so common in Latin America. Doors and window coverings didn’t exist for most of the structures, those chores being covered by some variety of blankets, bed linens, and plastic. The hovels lined both sides of the road that led to the village center, where a squat adobe church marked the location of the town square.

Given the worthlessness of the bolivar and the expense of the US dollar, the real currency in the village was barter. The señora needing eggs might get them in trade for textiles or a trinket.

The bikers moved slowly for the benefit of their prisoners, but faster than Max was comfortable with. He’d been thirsty before this ordeal began. Now he felt parched, and the case of bottled water remained back at the well site. When someone got around to offering him water from the river, he’d have to choose between dehydration by water starvation or dehydration by intestinal catastrophe.

Zamora’s instructions to the missionaries had been specific and clear: They were to keep up and say nothing. He’d given no indication of what the upcoming activity might entail, but given the slaughter of Domingo and the others, Max feared that he knew more than he wanted to.

So did the villagers, it seemed. On a normal day at this hour, the road would be crowded with people heading into or out of the village center and the center itself would be teeming with locals who were engaged in some form of commerce or relaxation. The residents of Sonrisa de Dios were a friendly lot, overall. While they were not exactly welcoming of Janson’s missionaries or their mission to bring modernity to the Stone Age, they had not rejected them, either.

Now, there was not a single nose to be counted. The streets were deserted and the shops were closed.

The bikers herded Max and his colleagues into the square at the front door of the church and told them to sit down on the gravel roadway. The missionaries did exactly as they were told.

“Hello!” Zamora yelled in Spanish. “The empty streets tell me that you know why I am here! The empty streets tell me that all of you want to die, just as the young men named Domingo and Miguel and others decided to die. In one minute, if I do not see the village elder who can produce the products that have been stolen from me, I will kill every one of you that I see and I will burn this village to ashes. Your time starts now.”

Zamora’s demeanor belied the terror of his words. He did not seem angry, nor did he seem anxious. This was a business proposition, a deal in the making.

As the next sixty seconds progressed, Max watched as Zamora and his posse readied their weapons and off-loaded five-gallon saddle cans of what smelled like gasoline. Halfway through, Zamora yelled, “Thirty seconds are left. Understand that when your minute expires, the decision will be made. There will be no going back. In twenty seconds now, your fate will be sealed. Your death sentences will have been passed.”

Max’s heart raced. He heard whimpering among his fellows.

“You don’t think he’s serious, do you?” Mikey asked. “That he will kill everyone?”

Zamora clearly overheard and he turned to address Mikey directly. “Watch and see,” he said.

A few seconds later, Zamora yelled, “Your minute has expired! You are all fools.”

Then he released his terror.

Jonathan Grave always thought that the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle on Rhode Island Avenue in Washington, DC, tipped more toward ugly than pretty. It didn’t even look like a cathedral. Its red earthen tones and rounded shapes printed more as a museum than a place of worship. As he approached from the west, he remembered how much he hated coming downtown. He wasn’t a city guy. Never had been. Now that the crime rate was skyrocketing and businesses were fleeing, what little charm the place once had, had dwindled to Third World levels in places.

The only time he drove into town at all was to attend the annual gala he threw at the Kennedy Center for Resurrection House, the residential school that Jonathan had established for the children of incarcerated parents, or to attend a meeting like the one that lay ahead for him in a few minutes with Irene Rivers, the director of the FBI. A couple of presidential administrations ago, Director Rivers—aka Wolverine in Jonathan’s shop—had converted the Our Lady Chapel just inside St. Matthew’s grand doors to one of the most secure meeting spaces on the planet. The cathedral had been undergoing a renovation at the time, and Wolverine had pumped a couple million dollars of her discretionary fund into acoustic modifications that deadened sound and rendered electronic eavesdropping equipment useless.

The meeting was scheduled for ten, and as Jonathan entered at three minutes after, he knew that she’d be pissed. As he passed from daylight to the darkness of the interior, Jonathan turned to the right and walked toward the two nutcracker impersonators who doubled as the director’s security detail.

The stone-faced agents closed ranks in a kind of pincer movement. The one on the right said, “Sir, you can’t come this way.”

“Down, boy,” Jonathan said. “I’m here to see your master.” Jonathan didn’t have a lot of time for feds in general, and except for Wolverine, had a particular problem with the FBI. Too much ego and bombast from bureaucrats who carried pistols as belt decorations.

The security toad puffed up. “Look, asshole—”

“Let him through, Agent Malone.”

Jonathan would recognize that voice anywhere. So would much of the world. Irene was not only the director, and not only a woman, but she’d also started her career as a field agent. And even though television cameras were not friendly to her, Jonathan found her very attractive in person. They’d worked together for a very long time.

Agent Malone clearly was not pleased by his order, but he made room for Jonathan to pass.

“You need to thank her later,” Jonathan said. “She just saved you from weeks of recovery time.”

Malone puffed up again and Jonathan smiled.

He entered the Our Lady Chapel and found Irene Rivers standing at the threshold, hands at her waist, that look marring her features. Jonathan offered his hand. “You’ve got your mad face on,” he said.

“Why must you pick fights with my detail all the time?” she asked. There was a smirk behind the scowl as she shook his hand with both of hers.

“Because it’s easy and earned,” Jonathan said. “Do you think they practice their badass faces in the mirror every morning?”

“Come have a seat and behave yourself,” Irene said. She led him toward the front of the little chapel, closer to the altar than they usually sat.

Jonathan sensed the approach of bad news, and he straightened up his act. As he helped himself to one of the plain wooden chairs, Irene turned her seat so that they could look at each other from a much closer distance than usual. In the decades that they had known each other, Irene hadn’t changed much. If the strawberry blonde hair came out of a bottle, Jonathan wouldn’t have known anyway, but her eyes remained as hard and sharp as ever, and he’d always thought she had beautiful skin. . . .