Terms of extraction, p.1
Terms of Extraction, page 1
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The Story
How would you decide the terms of an extraction?
Jack Storm is facing conflicts on all fronts. While trying to bring his family back together, he must deal with a suspicious extraction where the terms are constantly being manipulated. Not knowing who is pulling the strings, Jack has had enough and determines it's time to do this on his own terms...
Find out how Jack pulls off his most politically charged extraction yet.
TERMS OF EXTRACTION
JACK STORM SERIES
BOOK SIX
ETHAN JONES
"Our help is in the name of the Lord, Who made heaven and earth."
Psalm 124:8
And sometimes that help comes in the form of friends.
To my dear friend Tom, a former firearms and tactical training instructor.
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
Epilogue
Bonus - Short Story
Bonus - Book Seven - Final Extraction: Chapter One
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Chapter One
Kuwait City, Kuwait
Jack Storm gasped incredulously as the police SUV stopped in front of the terrorists’ safehouse. He peered for a long moment through the windshield of their stakeout car, then turned to the driver. “What are they doing here?”
The driver shrugged and didn’t look at Jack. “I don’t know,” he said in a low voice with a thick Israeli accent. “Does it matter?”
Jack nodded slowly, stifling the frown that began to wrinkle his forehead. “Yeah, it does. We’re not here to kill cops,” he said in a sharp, warning tone.
“We’ll do whatever it takes to secure the targets,” the driver said.
Jack shifted in his seat and looked over his shoulder at the woman in the backseat. Hodaya Stahl—a former Mossad operative and the team lead of this snatch-and-grab operation—gave Jack a look of indifference. “What he said.” She waved a dismissive hand, which was holding a Jericho II 9mm pistol. “If they interfere, we’ll take them down.”
“That’s not the deal we have with the Kuwaiti security intel,” Jack said in a firm yet disappointed tone. “If we kill cops, we’ll be thrown out of the country. Or worse.”
“Relax, Jack,” Stahl said in a calm voice. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Which one?”
“All of them. We’ll neutralize them without killing them.”
Jack studied Stahl’s face for a long moment, looking for any signs of dishonesty. He didn’t find any, but that didn’t give him much confidence. He had seen Stahl in action. She was fearless and reckless. She would do anything to return to her agency. Everything hung on the success of this operation. If her team was able to nab the man behind the recent wave of terrorists’ attacks hitting Israel, then her career would once again be back on track. Failure, as the proverbial saying went, was not an option.
Jack sighed. He brushed back his scruffy black hair, rubbed his chin, and scratched the left side of his face. It was the itch of a three-day beard growth. He returned his gaze to the yellow-and-black police SUV and mumbled a short prayer for the officers to drive away.
That didn’t happen.
Instead, the driver stepped out. He was a young man dressed in a black uniform. He looked around, his head moving slowly from the left to the right as he cast a sweeping gaze around the area. At one point, the officer looked directly at the silver Volvo staked out kitty-corner from the terrorists’ safehouse on the top floor of a rundown, three-story apartment building. He didn’t seem to pay any particular attention to the car and turned around. He headed toward the apartment building, followed by a second uniformed officer.
Stahl said, “As soon as they’re in, it’s our turn.”
Jack wasn’t sure that was the best course of action. “Shouldn’t we wait for the cops to leave before we attack?”
“No,” Stahl replied. “We don’t know when or if that will happen. Plus, what if the officers are here to warn the militants?”
A group of at least four Islamic extremists was confirmed to be inside the apartment. They belonged to a new jihadist group that had claimed responsibility for one of the bombing attacks that had rocked Jerusalem two weeks ago.
Jack nodded. “It’s possible.”
“We proceed as per our initial plan. We need them alive,” Stahl said in a stern tone.
Jack pulled out his Sig Sauer P229 9mm pistol, cocked it, and held it over his lap. He ran his hand over his chest, checking the straps of the bulletproof vest. Then he looked through the windshield as both officers disappeared inside the apartment building.
“Let’s go,” Stahl said.
Jack stepped out and followed behind her. The night was warm, and the air was filled with dust and the stench of something horrid that almost turned his stomach upside down. Stahl was advancing at a rapid pace, holding her pistol in front of her. The other Mossad operative was bringing up the rear, about six feet behind Jack.
Jack looked at all sides as they crossed the road. The residential area was dimly lit, and there were no vehicles or passersby. It was nearly half past midnight, but some areas of the city were almost always full of life. He was thankful the terrorists had chosen a shabby, low-income area on the outskirts.
When Stahl reached the entrance to the unplastered cinderblock building, she raised her left hand, gesturing for them to stop. They stood next to the wall, and Stahl whispered, “He’ll go first.” She tipped her head toward the Mossad operative.
Jack nodded and said, “I’ll go next—”
“No.” Stahl cut him off. “We’ll stick to the plan.”
Jack shrugged. “You’re the boss,” he said in a slightly disappointed tone.
It wasn’t that he distrusted his teammates’ capabilities or wanted to be a gentleman. This operation was more personal to Jack than his teammates. Based on the success of his mission, and if they found the mastermind behind the terrorist attacks in Israel, Stahl and her vast network would assist Jack in securing the release of his wife. She had been kidnapped by the Saudi intelligence agency, along with his daughter, as a way of pressuring Jack to do their bidding. He had recently freed his daughter, but his wife remained in Saudi custody.
Jack sighed as he followed the pair up the concrete stairs. They were cracked, and chunks were missing, so they had to be careful where they stepped. The hall grew darker the farther they went inside the building. Their boots thudded slowly on the grimy tiled floors as they tried to be as stealthy as possible.
When they came to the third floor, the Mossad operative gestured to the nearest door. It had been painted white at some point, but now it was a dirty gray. The team moved silently, and they were positioned to the sides. The operative and Stahl stood to the left, while Jack stationed himself to the right.
Stahl tapped the operative on the shoulder, the signal for him to proceed. He sighed, then glanced at Jack. A look of uneasiness shone in the operative’s eyes. This was the most dangerous part of the entire mission. He would put himself in a vulnerable, potentially deadly position.
The operative moved closer to the door and knocked on it twice.
Nothing happened at first, then muffled sounds came from the other side of the door, followed by shuffling of feet. A moment later, someone from inside the apartment said something in a language that sounded like Arabic. Jack didn’t understand a word, but the intonation was clear. The man wasn’t pleased with the presence of the uninvited guest at this ungodly hour of the night.
The operative stepped back but remained in front of the door so that the people inside could see his face through the peephole. He replied in Arabic, explaining to them that he had been sent by Rihawi with an urgent message. Rihawi was one of the leaders of the terrorist group, and the team hoped that the mentioning of his name would at least get them a foot inside the door.
A moment of tense pause, then a second man shouted something from inside the apartment. The operative replied in an exasperated tone, then raised up his arms, to prove he wasn’t holding any weapons. He then took a step back and unzipped his black jacket. He had left his pistol with Stahl, so there would be no reason for the extremists to consider him a threat.
Another pause followed.
Jack shook his head. He didn’t think the trick would work. He wanted to gesture to the operative to step away from the door, in case the militants decided to blast him.
They didn’t.
Instead, there was a muted exchange, then the sound of the deadbolt turning.
Stahl handed the operative his pistol. He held it to the side and away from anyone who might be looking through the peephole.
The next instant, the door opened.
Before the men inside had a chance to do anything, the operative raised his pistol. He jammed it into the first militant’s throat and pushed him back inside the apartment. The man swallowed hard and made an odd noise in his throat.
The second man, however, hollered in panic. He aimed his pistol at the operative, who had already turned the militant toward the second man, holding him as a human shield. The second man shouted again, threatening the operative.
Stahl stepped into the opening and fired at the man’s chest. She aimed low, so her bullets would disable the militant but not kill him.
The gunman fell back, and the pistol flew out of his hand.
The operative pushed the militant he was holding deeper inside the apartment. Shouts and heavy footsteps came from the rooms to their left and right. Stahl had already aimed her pistol to the left, waiting for the militants to appear. When one of them materialized, she fired a couple of rounds. They struck the man in his lower abdomen, and he collapsed against the door.
Jack crossed the threshold, covering the right side. As he took a couple of steps, a uniformed police officer emerged into the hall. His pistol was aimed at Stahl, who was looking in the other direction. Jack tapped the trigger, sending a couple of rounds into the man’s left leg. The officer lost his balance and slid to the floor. The pistol was still in his hands, but it wasn’t pointed at anyone.
Jack shouted at the officer, “Drop the gun!” He repeated the words in his best Arabic, then again in English as he stepped closer to the officer.
The young man hesitated for a moment, then realized that surrendering was his best option. He tossed the gun across the hall. Jack kicked it away and looked at Stahl. She had already stepped closer to one of the walls to her left.
A volley erupted from one of the rooms on that side. Someone was firing through the open door—blindly, since none of the rounds struck Stahl, the operative, or Jack. Still, he stepped farther to the left and away from the ricocheting rounds.
The operative was standing near the entrance door to the apartment, securing the two militants and also keeping an eye on the wounded police officer. Jack aimed his pistol to the door on his side, expecting the other officer or a militant to come into view at any moment. “Where’s your friend?” Jack shouted at the officer lying on the carpeted floor. “Where is he?”
Before he could reply, a gunman stepped out of the room on the right. Jack dropped him with a couple of rounds but not before the gunman fired a quick burst. His rounds missed only by a couple of inches. The bullets sounded like angry bees swarming around him.
Jack observed the man sprawled on the floor. He seemed to be very much dead. Jack stepped closer to him and along the wall. He looked at Stahl, who was standing with her back against the other wall and advancing on that side.
When Jack reached the door, he stopped. He listened for movement inside that room, but right then a couple of gunshots came from one of the rooms near the back of the apartment. Jack didn’t swing his weapon in that direction. The hall turned to the left, and he didn’t have a clear line of sight. And neither did whoever was opening fire in panic.
Instead, Jack turned his attention to the door a step away from him. He looked at the dead militant on the floor, then took a step away from the wall. He began to slice the pie—the tactic of clearing a corner slowly and carefully, starting as close as possible to the wall and moving out—as he advanced up the hall and inside the room.
As he entered, he noticed one of the militants sitting cross-legged next to the window. He was a young man, whose thin facial hair was struggling to form a beard, and looked as if he was barely in his twenties. Jack aimed the pistol at the man’s head before realizing that the militant was holding a pistol in his right hand and a grenade in his left hand. The pistol was more or less pointed in Jack’s direction but not exactly aimed at him.
“Don’t do it!” Jack shouted, but didn’t proceed any farther inside the room. If the militant decided to throw the grenade, Jack would still have a chance to dive for cover and, hopefully, escape the deadly wave of shrapnel.
The militant smirked at Jack, but didn’t say anything and didn’t make any move.
“Stay still, very still,” Jack shouted at the militant while keeping his pistol trained on the man’s head at all times. Jack couldn’t tell if the militant had pulled the pin to activate the grenade and was only holding his finger pressed against the lever to make sure it wouldn’t go off yet. Is he bluffing, or is he planning to blow us up?
