Betrayal, p.1
Betrayal, page 1
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The Story
A hero, sent out as a mark. Who’s behind the betrayal?
Spy Master Javin wants to eliminate two terrorist masterminds, but he's not the only one looking for them. When the mission suspiciously goes awry, his team is now forced into a dubious alliance with Mossad and the infamous Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guard.
Pursuing the terrorists deep into hostile Saudi Arabia, they not only discover an assassination plot that could topple the Saudi kingdom, but also suspect a traitor has infiltrated their team. Who is behind this betrayal? With suspicions high and time short, can Javin and Claudia unmask the traitor and stop the assassination plot before the Middle East is plunged into an all-out war?
BETRAYAL
THE JAVIN PIERCE SERIES -
BOOK TWO
ETHAN JONES
To God and my family.
Thank you for your wonderful love.
Table of Contents
Front Page
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Epilogue
Bonus - The Road to Closure
Closure Chapter One
Closure Chapter Two
Closure Chapter Three
Closure Chapter Four
Closure Chapter Five
Closure Chapter Six
Closure Chapter Seven
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Chapter One
Al-Qaeda in Yemen safehouse
Southern Sana, capital of Yemen
The whap-whap-whap of the military helicopter woke Sameer from his troubled sleep. He rolled out of the bed set on the floor and grabbed the trusted US-made M4 assault rifle he always kept next to him. In the dark, he crawled slowly to the window. He did not pull back the heavy curtain. Such a move was guaranteed to draw in a sniper bullet or a volley of rounds from assault rifles. Sameer just listened.
His ears were accustomed to helicopter engine noises. Army troops sent by the corrupt Yemeni government—backed by Saudi Arabia’s hated regime—often flew over and pounded the neighborhood with rocket fire and all kinds of state-of-the-art weaponry bought from infidel Western governments.
But this engine rattle sounded different.
Sameer did not recognize it. I’ve never heard that before.
And that worried him.
It meant the helicopter belonged to one of the government’s foreign allies who had been running operations across southern Yemen. Most of Al-Qaeda in Yemen’s associates were located in that part of the country. Sameer had heard about the International Coalition Force, but had never seen them in action. However, what he had heard was bad news: the ICF was heavily dominated by American and British commandos. They were ruthless, tough, and almost invincible.
Almost.
Sameer cursed the Americans under his breath, then glanced at the other small bed across from his. The man lying there, Sameer’s cousin, not only was still sleeping, but had begun to snore like a camel. Sameer stayed away from the windows and crouched near the cousin’s bed. “Wake up, hey, wake up.” Sameer shook his cousin, who was on his back.
The cousin shook his head, then opened his eyes. “Huh, what? What’s going on?”
“Americans! They’re coming with a helicopter.”
“Americans? You’re sure?”
“Yes, yes. Get up. We’ve got to get out. And fight.”
The cousin blinked to clear the sleep off his eyes, then he rubbed them with the back of his large hairy hands. He yawned, stretched, then sat up and began to fix his hair.
“Come on. We’ve got to run.” Sameer had already put on his black-and-white headdress, had strapped on his chest rig with ammunition, and was slipping on his boots.
His cousin listened. “Do you think that’s a Black Hawk?” He pointed toward the ceiling.
“Does it matter?”
“No, not really. Just wondering.”
“It will start to pour hellfire on us, so let’s take it down.”
“Inshallah,” the cousin said in a solemn tone. If God wills it.
He stretched again, then jumped to his feet. He put on his jacket, then picked up his M4 assault rifle.
Sameer opened the door, then hurried down the hall.
The other six militants who were staying in the safehouse were already on high alert and readying to meet the attackers. Sameer checked the front of the house, but could not see the helicopter hovering over the neighborhood. Then he looked through a side window. Again nothing. And the noise had grown weaker.
The cousin said, “Maybe they left.”
Sameer shook his head. “Is this your first battle?”
“No, of course not. Why?”
“Because you’re acting like it is. Americans don’t fly so close to houses just to wake us up. The helicopter has landed, probably at the soccer field behind the school. Plenty of space there. And the SEAL team is on its way. To here.”
“SEALs? Navy SEALs?”
“Yes, what other kind can it be?” Sameer said with a sigh.
“How do you know it’s the SEALs?” asked another one of the militants.
Sameer shook his head. “Whoever it is, it’s our enemy. Get ready to fight. Cousin, take the RPGs.” He pointed to his left.
His cousin nodded and picked up a bag carrying four rocket-propelled grenades, along with the launcher.
Sameer turned toward the front. “Now, come with me.”
He had taken a couple of steps when the back door opened with its familiar creak. Sameer turned his head and
Before he had a chance to say anything, a quick burst came from the backyard.
Sameer recognized the hollow crack of the AK-74 assault rifle the militant had been carrying. Are the Americans already in the back alley? “Go check what’s going on,” he shouted at his cousin.
“Allahu akbar,” the cousin shouted. God is greater. “Brother, see you in paradise.”
“Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar,” other militants chanted.
Their shouts were cut off by another barrage. One of the militants collapsed to the floor, clutching at his chest.
“Go, go, fight,” Sameer shouted.
He stepped to the side, away from the line of fire and the windows. His instincts, years of training, and many battles with Americans and Western forces in Iraq and Syria had taught Sameer about the enemy’s tactics. He knew another strike team was moving into position near the front or the side of the house.
So he crawled toward the front door, holding his M-4 in front of him. He lay next to a couple of couches and waited for the first American to step through the door.
* * *
Jeremiah “Jerry” Fishbourne stepped cautiously through the safehouse’s front yard. He was the point man of the CIA’s Special Activities Division or SAD, dispatched for such terrorist-hunting missions. Jerry was a veteran of the war against terrorism, having served first in Afghanistan and then in Iraq for over six years. He knew a thing or two about approaching a terrorist safehouse.
Jerry was expecting a torrent of bullets to pour over him and the rest of his team, eight men strong, which was circling the target. The element of surprise had disappeared with the first volley coming from the back yard. If the intelligence was correct, that was one of the militants who had been turned, after being promised he would walk away with his life and a generous reward. The asset would have left the backdoor open, which was going to be the way Jerry’s team breached the safehouse. And as expected, at least some, if not all the militants, would rush to safety through the front exit. They would run right into Jerry’s rifle sight.
But so far, there had been no gunfire on this side of the house and no jihadists barging through the front entrance. They can’t be all dead, Jerry thought. No, they know we’re coming. And they’re waiting for us.
“What’s going on?” Darin, Jerry’s teammate asked, standing a couple of yards behind.
“It’s quiet. They’re getting ready.”
“Ready to meet their virgins.” Darin laughed.
“Ready to blow us up,” Jerry’s voice turned firm and serious.
“Let’s kill them all,” Darin said.
“Oorah,” Norman said from the back alley.
Jerry’s eyes had never left the front entrance. Still there was no sign of anyone moving. While it sounded the battle was raging at the back of the house, its front was still quiet.
“Let’s roll,” Darin said.
Jerry nodded. “Eyes open,” he said.
“Roger,” Darin replied.
“Roger that,” Norman said.
Jerry bolted through the yard toward the small veranda surrounded by a low decorative wall on two sides. He had barely covered half of the distance when a volley erupted from one of the windows.
Jerry felt a couple of rounds hammering against his chest. The bullets’ impact felt like heavy blows. Out of breath, he collapsed onto his back.
“No, no, Jerry,” Darin shouted.
He dashed toward his fallen teammate.
Jerry drew in a shallow breath and felt his lungs burning. He tasted blood in his mouth, then pain shot through his body. He reached for his M4 carbine, which had fallen out of his hands.
“Jerry, Jerry,” Darin said.
“I’m okay, return fire, return fire.”
He had barely finished his words when another volley struck around him.
Darin cursed, then shouted in pain. He fired a quick burst, then slumped next to Jerry.
“Darin, Darin, what—”
Another barrage cut off his words. More bullets thumped around them, kicking up dirt.
Jerry peered through the darkness punctured by muzzle flashes. He turned his rifle and fired a long barrage. Still on his back, he reloaded and fired again.
Then he glanced at Darin, who was bleeding from his shoulder and his neck. “Darin, Darin, don’t you die now.”
He did not reply.
“Darin, Darin!” Jerry shook his teammate.
Darin’s head had fallen to the side, and he gazed at Jerry with pale eyes.
“Medic, medic,” Jerry shouted at Norman.
He hurried toward them as Jerry climbed to his knees. He ignored the stabbing pain coming from his ribcage—where the bullets had fractured or at least bruised his ribs—and fired again at the windows, then at the main door.
Norman grabbed Darin by the shoulders and gently began to carry him to the relative safety of the veranda’s low wall.
Jerry reloaded again, but before he could fire, a round metal object rolled along the veranda and fell next to his feet. His well-trained eyes and mind realized the object was a grenade. And Jerry had perhaps two or three seconds before the grenade erupted and tore up the entire area with its deadly shrapnel.
Chapter Two
Al-Qaeda in Yemen safehouse
Southern Sana, capital of Yemen
Jerry did the only reasonable thing in that situation.
He rolled on the ground, picked up the grenade, and tossed it back.
The grenade bounced over the windowsill, then dropped inside the house. An intense explosion followed just a split second later, shattering whatever glass was left in the first-story windows and the main door. A spiral of dust began to seep out of the gaps.
Jerry kept his head down and behind the veranda’s wall. A spray of shrapnel flew over his head, but too far away to cause any damage. He listened for gunfire or shuffling coming from the house.
Nothing, just Norman attending to Darin’s wounds.
Jerry glanced through the wall’s slits. He swung his rifle left, then right, covering all angles. Seeing nothing, he called at Norman, “Moving in to clear the front.”
“Roger that,” Norman replied. Then he added into his throat mike, “Jerry entering the house. Friendly at the front.”
“Copy that,” came a series of replies from the other teammates.
“How’s everyone?” Jerry asked into his throat mike.
“We’re swell,” said one of the teammates. “Clearing the back.”
“God bless us all,” Jerry muttered and moved toward the door.
He stepped cautiously around the corner, pointing his rifle in all directions. A man in a black-and-white headdress and dark khaki uniform was sprawled just inside the door. Two other men were lying on the floor. The way they were stretched told Jerry they were dead, killed by bullets or shrapnel. But he stepped near them and double-checked, to make sure they presented no threat.
All three were dead. Their faces were unknown to him, but they were bloodstained, and only a faint moonlight lit up the room. Jerry would take another look once the firefight was over.
“Front of the house clear,” he whispered into his mike.
He advanced toward the hall, clearing every corner and checking behind every place where a jihadist might be hidden. He found another body slouched near the kitchen. A bullet had pierced the jihadist’s head, and there was no life left in him.
As Jerry came near the hall’s midpoint, one of his teammates rounded a corner. Jerry nodded at him, then said, “Everything clear?”
“Yes,” the young man replied.
“Targets?” Jerry asked, referring to the Al-Qaeda leaders that were supposed to be in the safehouse.
The young man shook his head. “Negative. No sign of them.”
Jerry cursed out loud. Did we get bad intel? Or did they move houses before our arrival? “Is the back secure?”
“It is.”
“All right. Let’s clean up the place. Gather anything of intel value.”
“Copy that.”
Jerry returned to the room by the main entrance. He switched on the tactical flashlight mounted on his carbine, then studied the faces of the dead jihadists. None of them matched the Al-Qaeda leaders the team was looking for. A week ago, a prisoner exchange had taken place in northern Afghanistan. Local warlords had kidnapped a senior Iranian diplomat during an official visit to Pakistan. They had sold him for an undisclosed amount to Al-Qaeda, who in turn had negotiated for the release of its senior leaders held in Tehran. Another SAD team had interfered with the exchange and had killed some of the terrorists involved. But two of the freed prisoners had escaped. After receiving seemingly trustworthy intelligence, Jerry’s team had been dispatched to finish the job.
