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Synopsis
In New York Times best-selling author Brad Taylor's latest heart-stopping thriller, Pike Logan returns with his most dangerous and personal threat yet: a Taskforce operator gone rogue.
For years the extralegal counterterrorist unit known as the Taskforce has worked in the shadows, anticipating and preventing attacks around the globe. Created to deal with a terrorist threat that shuns the civilized rule of law, it abandoned the same, operating outside of the US Constitution. Though wildly successful, it was rooted in a fear that the cure could be worse than the disease. And now that fear has come home.
A Special Forces soldier is killed on an operation in Afghanistan, and complicit in the attack is a government official of an allied nation. While the US administration wants to forget the casualty, one Taskforce member will not. When he sets out to avenge his brother's death, his actions threaten not only to expose the Taskforce's activities but also to destroy a web of alliances against a greater evil.
Pike Logan understands the desire but also the danger. Brought in to eliminate the risk, he's now forced to choose between his friend and the administration he's sworn to protect while, unbeknownst to either of them, the soldier's death is only the beginning....
Release date: December 29, 2015
Publisher: Dutton
Print pages: 400
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The Forgotten Soldier
Brad Taylor
Also by Brad Taylor
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
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
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
The box arrived at the front door like any other delivery. It had nothing on the outside detailing what it held. Nothing to show that what was inside was anything other than an online order. Just a FedEx label on brown cardboard. Maybe a fantasy kit inspired by Fifty Shades of Grey. Or maybe not. Treating this like every other delivery, the FedEx driver ringing the bell had no idea that what it contained were the final vestiges of a man who’d given his life fighting in a land far, far away. A land that most of America had forgotten, precisely because the sacrifices represented by the contents of the box allowed them to do so.
Putting on a plain oxford shirt, Guy George heard the bell and was surprised. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he was more worried about a meeting he had to attend in forty-five minutes. A meeting he knew would be crucial to his future. He didn’t have time for someone selling Girl Scout cookies.
Tucking in his shirt, he padded to the front door in his socks, a little bewildered that someone would bother him here—in his condominium, behind the gate of security at the building’s entrance. He put his eye to the peephole, expecting to see a mother who lived in his tower, a child in tow, exploiting her ability to penetrate security to sell raffle tickets or something else. What he saw was a FedEx man, and he felt his stomach clench.
He knew what the man held. It had arrived days earlier than he expected, but he knew.
Usually, FedEx deliveries were dropped off downstairs, but he’d told the management of the tower he lived in that this box was special and that he would sign for it personally. It wasn’t outside of the ordinary, given his job. At least, given the job the management thought he held. There had been more than one box that came to his door, all having to be signed for personally. It came with the territory, so much so that he knew the FedEx man by name.
He opened the door and said, “Hey, Carl.”
“Got another one for you. You must have some pull. You’re the only apartment they let me up for.”
Guy smiled, feeling ill, and said, “Not really. That’s for me?”
“Yeah. I haven’t had a delivery for your roommate in over a year. He must be on the shit list.”
Carl grinned at his joke, and Guy felt like punching him for no reason whatsoever. It wasn’t Carl’s fault. He couldn’t possibly understand the sore he was poking with that statement, especially today. Truthfully, Guy should have moved out a year ago, precisely to prevent such questions, because Guy’s roommate was dead. Just like the man represented by the contents of the box Carl held.
Carl sensed a shift and said, “Welp, just sign here and it’s yours. Not nearly as heavy as some other stuff I’ve delivered.”
Guy thought about signing his brother’s name. Just as a memory. But didn’t.
Guy waved at Carl and shut the door, grasping the box in his hands as if it held a secret truth. He knew that was stupid. He’d done inventories for the very reasons this box held, more times than he wanted to remember. He just didn’t know, in this case, that the box did hold a truth, and it was dark.
He went back into the living room, glancing at the other bedroom. The empty one. He remembered inventorying everything in it as if he’d done it yesterday. The pictures and notes. The flotsam and jetsam accumulated in life that seemed like trash but took on a special meaning when the person they were attached to never returned.
Putting them all in a box like the one in his hands.
He placed the package reverently on the floor, then glanced at his watch, one eye on the cardboard as if it would do something. He was running out of time, and the boss didn’t take kindly to subordinates being late. But he might for this.
He pulled out an auto-opening knife from the inside of his waistband and flicked it, the black steel of the blade looking for something to bite, the weapon a stark contrast to his business-casual dress. He took a knee. He sliced the tape, the blade moving as easily as if it were touching air. He methodically went through every joint the tape touched, not pulling. Only slicing. Delaying the inevitable. Eventually, there was nothing left to cut.
He sat for a moment, then opened the box.
The first thing he saw was a sterile US Army bureaucratic inventory sheet detailing what was inside. He knew it wouldn’t be accurate, because he’d made a call. He set it aside and saw the MultiCam uniform. He pulled it out and took in the damage. The ragged tears and burned edges. The blood.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for control, wondering if he’d made a mistake in his request.
His brother, Sergeant First Class Timothy George, had been killed in a mechanical ambush in Afghanistan. Hunting a new threat of the Islamic State infiltrating the area, he’d located the leader of the nascent movement and had gained a hard-fought concurrence for a unilateral US mission. Such things were no longer allowed in the Graveyard of Empires, but this threat had been deemed worthy. The Taliban was an Afghan Army mission, but this was something else.
And he’d died, along with most of his team.
When Guy heard of the casualties, he’d made some calls to friends in Special Operations. Telling them, first, not to mail the box to his parents. To mail it to him. And second, not to sterilize the contents. Give him everything.
Ordinarily, when a service member died, the inventory was conducted with one thing in mind: Protect the memory for a grieving family. Give the family everything they deserved, but remove anything that would be embarrassing. Porno magazines, unmailed letters of hatred, evidence of infidelity, or anything else that would cause the family grief was destroyed. First on the list was the uniform the deceased wore the night he died. That was usually burned.
But not this time. And Guy was regretting it.
He put the uniform aside and found his brother’s cell phone. The one Tim had used Apple iMessage to text while he’d been deployed. The same one he’d used to send a last message, talking about his final mission. No specifics, just that he was doing good work and taking it to the enemy.
Only the enemy took it to him.
Guy turned the phone on, surprised to see it had a charge. The screen appeared and he saw the Pandora app. He clicked on it, not wanting to, but wanting to. He found the channel his brother had talked about the night he died, telling him it was the perfect one for the warrior. Kidding him about how Guy’s music tastes had shifted since he’d left the Special Mission Unit. Ribbing Guy for no longer being in the fight.
But his brother didn’t know what Guy did now.
The app engaged and the music softly floated out. Guy shut it off, staring at the screen. Wondering if Pandora understood the significance of a music channel from beyond the grave, his brother working laboriously to thumbs-up and thumbs-down songs until he thought it was perfect.
He put the phone aside and pulled out an armband, not unlike what NFL quarterbacks wore detailing plays. About four inches long, with Velcro straps to cinch it to the forearm, it was the last target his brother had chased. A bit of history that nobody outside of Afghanistan should see.
Four pictures with Arabic names were under the plastic, followed by radio callsigns, medevac frequencies, and other coordination measures. Guy was surprised it had been included. He wanted the essence of his brother, but not what his brother was chasing. He understood operational security. Understood that his brother’s target wasn’t in the equation. Soldiers died all the time. Some valiantly, others because they happened to drive down the wrong road at the wrong time.
And then he found himself staring at the pictures on the armband. Thinking. Wondering.
Hating.
2
Even though he was late, Guy chose to walk the short distance to his office. Inside a building a block long, the only thing indicating what was within was a small brass plaque proclaiming Blaisdell Consulting. Behind those doors was anything but a consulting firm.
He could have driven, as his office building had an underground garage, but that would have taken just as long, if not longer, and he wanted the time to think.
He put in his earbuds and brought up his Pandora app, signing in as his brother. He’d managed to manipulate the login on his brother’s phone and now could listen to the channel on his own device. The music came through, and he began rehearsing his speech. The one he was going to use on his boss.
The meeting was supposed to be for coordination about some ridiculous award he was getting for his actions on a target in Dubrovnik, Croatia, but the request had been a little odd. The boss didn’t usually schedule premeetings for awardees in his office. Everyone knew the awards were bullshit anyway, given out to keep them competitive with their military peers. Men who weren’t buried in an organization so secret it didn’t even have a name.
Guy, like everyone he worked with, lived a dual life. While showing up at Blaisdell Consulting for his real work, he was also, ostensibly, one more military cog in one of Fort Myer’s motor pools, just off Arlington Cemetery in Washington, DC. Which, given he hadn’t served a day there, would be odd if you asked for a reference from the men and women who actually turned wrenches on Fort Myer. Stranger still, his rank was sergeant major. Not really cog material anymore, but he had to be sheep-dipped somewhere, and Fort Myer worked. To maintain the facade, his military records had to show progress, so every once in a while, he—like every other member of the Taskforce—was thrown the bone of an award.
None of the men gave a crap about them, and they understood that—while the Oversight Council presented them proudly—they were really used just to maintain the cover. But Colonel Kurt Hale, the commander of the Taskforce, understood this as well, which made the scheduled meeting odd.
Guy hit Arlington Boulevard in the shadow of the Iwo Jima memorial, the green carpet of Arlington directly behind, speckled with white dots. In the distance he saw a blip of brown against the green, upturned earth from a burial, and recognized it as Section 60, an area of Arlington he knew well. The Global War on Terrorism section. It was where his brother would earn his own pile of brown. The thought brought him up short.
He ignored the honking horns and speeding Washington lobbyists on Arlington Boulevard, all of whom drove by this national treasure every single day, completely oblivious to the sacrifices it held. He fixated on the piece of brown desecrating the expanse of green. He felt a darkness cloak him. A blackness blanketing his soul, and it was unsettling. He’d known many men who were killed in combat, but this was different. This was his blood.
He cranked the volume on his iPhone and began speed-walking down the sidewalk, rehearsing his speech.
3
Clearly irritated, Colonel Kurt Hale looked at his watch and said, “Where the hell is he?”
Johnny, Guy’s team leader, said, “He’s on the way. He just texted.”
Kurt shook his head. “This isn’t helping his case.”
Johnny said, “Sir, he got the box today. Just now. Give him a break.”
Kurt leaned back, taking in the words. “Bad timing. I don’t think it’s a discussion anymore. I no longer want to feel him out. I want him on ice, for at least a month. Get him involved in something operational, here in headquarters, but he’s not deploying with you.”
Axe, the second-in-command of the team, said, “Sir, wait a minute. We need him. We can’t deploy without a teammate. We run bare bones as it is. Just take a look when he gets here.”
Kurt said nothing. Johnny chimed in, “Sir, really, you can’t give him an award and then tell him he’s on ice. What signal is that sending?”
“Spare me. You and I both know how much this award means to him. Jack squat. I can’t have a guy on the edge. Especially where you’re going.”
George Wolffe, Kurt’s deputy commander and an old CIA hand, said, “We all know the stakes, but a blanket statement is a little much. We’ve all lost someone along the way, and we kept fighting. We aren’t talking about a Pike situation here. Let’s feel him out before making a decision.”
Johnny nodded in appreciation. Kurt scowled at his deputy and started to respond, when a shadow passed in the hallway. Guy leaned in, lightly knocking on the doorjamb.
He took in the audience and said, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”
Kurt saw the emotions flit across his face, recognizing who was in the room, and knew Guy understood this was more than a coordination meeting. He said, “Come on in, Guy. Have a seat.”
Guy did so, glancing at his team leader, then at his 2IC. “What’s up? I know this isn’t about some bullshit ceremony. If you thought I was going to embarrass the Taskforce, you wouldn’t have sent me to Croatia to begin with.”
Kurt said, “Yes. It isn’t about the ceremony. You’re due to deploy tomorrow with your team, but I’m not sure you should. Make no mistake, this is my call. The men in this room feel otherwise.”
He saw Guy relax, realizing it wasn’t an ambush.
Guy said, “I’m good. I can operate. I’m on my game.”
Despite what he’d said earlier, George Wolffe went into attack mode. “Good? You took Decoy’s death last year pretty damn hard. You hit the bottle. Don’t tell me you didn’t. You were on the edge then, and you barely pulled out. You’ve done solid work since then, but now you’ve had another sacrifice. There’s no shame in taking a break. None at all.”
Decoy was the name of Guy’s roommate who’d been killed in action on a mission in Istanbul. The death had been hard for everyone, but especially for Guy.
Guy said, “What do you want me to say? That my brother meant nothing? That I’m a robot? People die in combat all the time. Jesus. We’d have never left the Normandy beach if everyone who’d lost a friend was sidelined.”
Kurt said, “This isn’t Normandy, and you know it. We operate in a world without mistakes. Period. You fuck up, and you bring us all down. I need every man at one hundred percent.”
He flicked his head toward Johnny and Axe. “They seem to think you’re okay. I do not. I’m thinking you stay home for this one. Get your head on right. Axe said you weren’t even going to the memorial in Montana, which raises a concern with me.”
Guy said, “Sir, I can’t go to the memorial. All I’ll get is questions like ‘Weren’t you in the military?’ and ‘What do you do now?’ I don’t need to go back to respect my brother. That’s for my family. It has nothing to do with how I feel. Shit, why are you even giving me an award?”
Kurt said, “Don’t go there. You earned it, even if you don’t want it. Don’t make this into something else. This is Taskforce business, not Oversight Council.”
Guy flared. “Those fat fucks have no idea of the sacrifice. None. Fuck them.”
The words settled, the air now still. Guy shifted in his chair, but nobody else moved. Softly, Kurt said, “I think I could use you here in headquarters. Doing research. Our analysts are the best in the world, but they could use an Operator’s touch. Show them what they’re missing. Show them what to look for.”
To Kurt’s surprise, Guy leaned forward and said, “I could do that. If you let me research something specific.”
Kurt looked at George, wondering where this was going. He said, “What?”
Guy pulled out the operational armband and held it up. “This. These are the fucks that killed my brother. And I want them. They’re terrorists, and it is Taskforce business. Look, I know they aren’t something that’ll destroy democracy or cause the downfall of a country. They aren’t high enough as a threat for the usual Taskforce envelope—but they killed my brother. Let me find them.”
Axe leaned forward and took the armband, analyzing the targets on it.
Sensing buy-in of his stand-down order but wary of where it would lead, Kurt held up his hands and said, “Guy, come on. We don’t do overt actions in a war zone. Yeah, you can research them, but we aren’t going to hunt Taliban in Afghanistan.”
Kurt saw Guy’s eyes gleam and knew he’d lanced a boil, the heat coming out like a fervent missionary. Guy wanted to believe. “They aren’t Taliban. Tim was hunting ISIS, and the fuckers in that target package aren’t Pashtun or Uzbek or anything else in Afghanistan. They’re Gulf Arabs, and they’re funding the fight. It’s right up our alley.”
Kurt glanced again at George, his plan of sidelining Guy now taking a different turn. George said, “Guy, okay, you want to use our assets for research, that’s fine. But understand we aren’t going after them. A couple of Arabs in Afghanistan doesn’t rise to our level. That’s an Afghanistan problem. A NATO problem. Not a Taskforce problem.”
Guy simply looked at him. George continued. “You understand that, right? Your brother was killed in combat, but we don’t react to that. We execute actions based on the national threat. Period. We aren’t in the vendetta business.”
Guy said, “I got that loud and clear. I understand. I’ll stand down for a spell and let these guys go have the fun.” He pointed at a wide-screen television behind Kurt’s head, tuned to cable news. “But that fat asshole had better be at my award ceremony.”
Kurt turned and saw Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, exiting a building, followed by a scrum of men dressed in traditional Gulf attire.
He rotated back around and grinned. “Yeah, that ‘fat asshole’ will be there. He’s leaving Qatar tomorrow. He was doing something with investment in Greece. The ceremony isn’t for a week. I’ll make sure he’s here.”
Kurt should have reprimanded Guy for the slur, but Billings was an asshole. Out of the thirteen members in the Oversight Council—the only people read on to Taskforce activities in the entire US government—he was the single sticking point, constantly fighting any operation solely because he was afraid of the exposure. Afraid for his own skin, regardless of the deaths that were saved by Taskforce intervention.
In truth, Kurt understood the reticence. If Taskforce activities were exposed, it would make Watergate’s revelations look like they’d detailed shoplifting at the local 7-Eleven, but Billings constantly erred on the side of caution, preferring that the terrorist attack occur to prevent his own political demise. Kurt lived in the same world, and held the same fear of exposure, but despised Billings for his willingness to sacrifice American lives. It was a fine line, and as far as Kurt was concerned, Billings was always on the wrong side.
Kurt said, “So we’re good? You spend a spell here, and Johnny takes the team without you?”
Guy nodded and Axe said, “Holy shit. Look at the guy behind Billings.”
They turned, seeing a well-manicured Arab wearing traditional Gulf dress, a Rolex on his wrist and a blazing smile. Kurt said, “What about him?”
Axe held up the armband and pointed at a picture. “It’s this guy.”
Guy became agitated, leaning into the TV. He said, “It is him. He’s the one. I knew it wasn’t some fleabag Taliban hit. That guy killed my brother!”
Kurt said, “Hold on. Jesus. Calm down. That guy is Haider al-Attiya. His father is a bigwig with the Qatar Investment Authority. They have nothing to do with any attacks in Afghanistan. Billings is working with them on the Greek euro crisis. The kid is a rich Gulf Arab, with a silver spoon shoved up his ass.”
Guy said, “Look at him. Then look at the picture. It’s him.”
Kurt glanced at George, knowing he needed to stamp out wild conspiracy theories. George said, “Guy. Look at me. You’re giving me worry about your control. The man on TV is a respected member of the Qatari government. Don’t make this into something it’s not from a damn CNN clip. Don’t make me doubt you.”
Guy said nothing, still staring at the screen. Kurt leaned over and took the armband away from Axe. He said, “This man’s name is Abu Kamal.”
A wolf smile spread across Guy’s face. “Yeah, like he’d use his real name in Afghanistan. That’s him. And that’s his picture.”
Kurt balled up the armband and said, “Don’t go all Alex Jones on me here. Keep the conspiracies within the realm of the possible.”
Guy leaned back and said, “All right. Okay. I’m good with sitting out the deployment. I’ll stay and do a little help on the analytical side.”
Kurt said, “I think it would be better if you went home. For the memorial.”
“No. I already told you. Too painful. I’ll help out you guys here. Even if I can’t deploy. I’m good.”
Kurt sized him up, trying to see if Guy was really as even-keeled as he professed. He wasn’t sure, but honestly, it wasn’t like the man had threatened to go postal. And he was a Taskforce Operator. Handpicked by Kurt himself.
Kurt said, “Okay. Then it’s settled. You help on the analytical side and take some time off. But you’ll see the psychs here. No questions asked. You can tell them whatever you want, but you’re seeing them.”
He saw Guy bristle and leaned forward, speaking barely above a whisper. “Guy. Trust me. They can help. I’ve walked your path. Talk to them. I don’t need to lose an Operator over something that can be helped.”
Guy let the words settle, then nodded. Johnny exhaled, glad it was over. He clapped Guy on the back and said, “Hey, if there’s anything to the Qatar thing, Pike will find it. He drew the card for the James Bond mission.”
Guy looked confused, and Johnny snapped back in embarrassment, stealing a glance at Kurt. Speaking of compartmented missions was a nonstarter, and he just had. Kurt waved it off and said, “Pike’s investigating some ties between Brazil and Qatar. Nothing to do with this.”
Kurt saw a wicked grin slip out. Guy said, “Pike’s on it? Oh yeah, if there’s a connection, he’ll find it. That guy’s a trouble magnet.”
4
I caught a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye and froze. This was the time. I was sure of it. Slowly, ever so slowly, I turned my head, looking at our kitchen counter. Sure enough, I saw the enemy, crouched and eating a crumb. The damn bane of my existence. A mouse that had been terrorizing my house with turds and torn-open bread loafs.
I slowly swiveled my head to the front door, listening. I heard nothing. Jennifer had an irrational soft spot for “innocent” foragers, but she was probably a good five minutes behind me on our run. Five minutes to crush the skeevy life out of that damn spawn of Satan, dispose of the carcass where she wouldn’t find it, and then act like I was just doing postworkout stretching. Plenty of time.
My hands and arms rigidly held just as they had been when I heard the noise, I rotated my head back. Like I did on operations, I calculated the available options. The little bastard was on the left side of the sink. He could run right, in which case he’d fall into the stainless-steel basin. Good for me. He could run left, in which case he’d round a corner and hit the plethora of cookbooks Jennifer had stacked on the counter, get behind them, and be gone. Bad. I needed to push him right.
I shuffled ever so slowly. The Satan-mouse continued crunching on his find. I got closer. I leaned over to a drawer and slowly pulled it open. I glanced inside, looking for a weapon. I saw a small mallet. Apparently used for some type of cooking, it had spikes on one side and a flat head on the other. The spikes would do. I pulled it out slowly, like I was playing that old game Operation and afraid to touch the sides of the drawer.
The mouse continued where he was, oblivious.
I inched forward and caught a flash of movement to my right. A blur that jumped to the countertop on the other side of the sink. It was Knuckles, our mange-ridden cat. The same one who for some reason didn’t give a shit about mice, and another rescue by Jennifer when the cat was found digging in our trash can.
I stood with the mallet raised, not daring to breath. The cat began licking her paws. Glancing at me with disdain. I thought very hard about using the mallet on her. I hated the beast, and the feeling was mutual. I was convinced that the only reason the mouse lived was precisely because that damn cat was spiting me. She brought all manner of dead things to my door, but now, with a mouse looking her in the eye five feet away, she does nothing?
I returned to my prey, inching forward ever so slowly. The mouse crept left, taking the bread with it. I analyzed again. It was moving into the corner and wouldn’t escape unless it made the turn behind the cookbooks, although my strike would be exponentially lengthened. The corner was better than nothing.
I advanced, watching the little bastard nibbling away, feeling triumph in my veins. No more would I be awakened worrying about a burglar because of a noise. No more would I find small turds in my shoes.
The front bell rang, and I could hear the door open. I froze, watching the mouse. He didn’t move. I turned around and saw Knuckles, my second-in-command.
What the hell. He isn’t supposed to arrive for three more hours.
He started to talk and I hissed. He shut up, giving me a look of confusion. I pointed the mallet. He grinned.
I crept closer and closer, getting within striking distance. I raised my weapon, about to close the deal, and heard, “Pike! Don’t you dare!”
The damn spawn of Satan escaped behind the cookbooks and I turned, now trying to explain the mallet.
Breathing heavily, having just finished her run and entered the door my traitorous teammate had left open, Jennifer said, “Tell me you weren’t going to bash that defenseless animal. Tell me your word means something.”
I said, “My word is my bond. I would never do such a thing.”
Okay, actually I said, “I . . . uhhh . . . I . . . wasn’t going to hurt it.”
She said, “P
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