Contents
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
FORCED TO KILL
By
Andrew Peterson
© 2011 by Andrew Peterson
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
The loadmaster issued a nod.
USMC Staff Sergeant Erick Ramsland leapt into a moonless night.
Subzero air instantly whipped his jumpsuit. A slow tumble offered him a final look at the C-130J’s black form. Higher than Mount Everest, he stabilized into belly flight as he reached terminal velocity—nearly a football field per second.
He glanced at the backlit GPS device strapped to his wrist, but it didn’t register coordinates. His forward speed hadn’t bled off yet. Ten thousand feet lower, massive cumulus towers awaited his arrival. He’d be penetrating their ghostly forms within the next thirty seconds. They weren’t fully developed, but they’d still pack plenty of punch.
He took another look at the GPS. Good, coordinates were displayed. Using the compass on the opposite wrist, he made a slight course correction to the east, then a finer adjustment due south. On the western horizon, the faint glow from Porlamar foreshadowed the vast city of Caracas beyond.
This wasn’t his first HALO jump, but it could be the most dangerous. His orders were to secure tonight’s target alive and transport him to the extraction point. Using the target’s personal vehicle remained the best option, but he wouldn’t know how to play it until he assessed the situation. Ramsland considered himself a human smart bomb. Nothing more, nothing less. Questioning orders lead to doubt and this mission had no place for it.
Directly below, the wraithlike structure of the clouds looked menacing and cold. He adjusted his flight toward a valley between two immense columns, but knew he’d never make it. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. Here they come!
Ramsland cleaved into total blackness. Eddies bent and twisted his body. He stopped monitoring the GPS and concentrated on keeping his free fall stable. A wet chill penetrated his jumpsuit and the polypropylene thermal undergarment, forcing a shiver.
Things got worse when a violent wind shear jerked him onto his side and propelled him into a vertical spin. Without a horizon as a reference, he couldn’t correct the hideous sensation of cartwheeling out of control. At least there wasn’t hail in here. Being blasted by hailstones—even small ones—at 300 feet per second would definitely ruin his evening. He summoned an image of his wife to calm his mind. He took slow, deep breaths and told himself to relax. Stable air would return any second.
As quickly as it arrived, the turbulence ended and the lights of Tobago snapped on.
With a solid horizon, he arrested the spin, stabilized into controlled free fall, and checked his coordinates and altimeter. Both good.
He remained on target as he tore through 12,000 feet and welcomed the slight increase in temperature. That cloud mass had been freezing. He zeroed in on a large, dark area.
Eleven thousand feet.
He visualized the exterior layout of his mark’s house. Plantation style. A backyard pool and spa occupied a landscaped courtyard.
Ten thousand.
Two security cameras were mounted atop a ten-foot perimeter wall, with two more on the roof observing the rear yard and pool. Another camera eyed the entrance courtyard and driveway. Two Dobermans patrolled the property inside the walls. Three bodyguards were present. Two worked with the dogs, while a third monitored the camera feeds.
Eight thousand.
He stayed on pure oxygen.
Six.
Thicker air now. Five seconds per thousand. Perfect terminal velocity.
Four.
Warm air engulfed him.
Three thousand.…
Two….
Fifteen hundred— now!
The multicell, ram air canopy issued a whoof and burst open at eleven hundred feet.
His body jerked to a relative stop compared to its previous speed. He removed his oxygen mask and goggles and let them dangle around his neck. Next, he unzipped the belly pack, powered up his night vision goggles, and secured them in place on his helmet. He pivoted the device down to his eyes and adjusted the focus. The world turned bright green, resolving into perfect clarity. It felt eerily quiet now with the roar of rushing wind gone. He began a rapid spiral descent toward his LZ, the Mount Irvine Bay Golf Course. At 300 feet AGL, he lined up on a fairway and focused on the exact spot he wanted. Ten feet above the ground, he pulled hard on both toggles, executed a perfect flair, and touched down in a slight run.
Incredible.
Thirty thousand feet to sea level in under three minutes.
***
Juan Montez de Oca peeled his latex gloves and washed his hands in the marble sink. His richly appointed bathroom brought a smile. Ten years. That’s how long it had taken him to rebuild his wealth. The regime change in Nicaragua had stripped his military power and prestige and left him with only the clothes on his back. Literally. He’d barely escaped into Honduras. Only his lifelong devotion to fitness, endurance, and survival skills saved his life during the arduous trek through two hundred miles of jungle. Lesser men would have perished. To make matters worse, all his property and bank accounts had been seized and stolen. Never again, he had vowed. Now, a full decade later, he’d rebuilt his life and his status. One more year and he’d have enough to retire and live a secure life. He didn’t feel guilty about hoarding money. He gave plenty to an orphanage on Trinidad, more than most Tobagonians made in ten years. Having never known his own parents, he had a soft heart for homeless kids.
He removed the elastic band securing his black ponytail and shook his hair out. Hazel eyes complemented a light Hispanic complexion. Nearly fifty, Montez could still turn young women’s heads, and frequently did.
Tonight’s interrogation had concluded with solid results. He’d finally broken his latest subject and gleaned valuable information. In the living room he made an encrypted call, relayed the info he’d just obtained, and scheduled a disposal. The call ended abruptly and left him somewhat irritated. He didn’t like his contact at all. Apparently, no new subject would be forthcoming this week. No matter, he told himself. He’d use the break to do some reading.
Montez retrieved his Heckler & Koch P30 from the study and headed for the upper basement door. At the bottom of the stairs he opened a second door and was assaulted by the noxious smell of blood mixed with a homeless stench. Disgusting, but understan
dable. He didn’t hold it against the man. It wasn’t his fault. Part of breaking a subject involved denying all semblance of hygiene.
He reached inside the concrete chamber and snapped on the light.
The floor, walls, and ceiling were covered with polyurethane plastic, the kind painters used to protect furniture. Spattered blood patterns testified to what his subject had endured over the last three days. He removed his shoes and stepped into a pair of cheap slippers. The remains of a slaughtered animal lay in the corner of the room, its sightless eyes cloudy. A video camera mounted on a tripod loomed in the opposite corner.
Secured in a bloodstained chair, his subject moaned but didn’t open his eyes.
“It is over,” Montez said. “You offered a noble fight and need not feel shame. I am going to unbind you. If you resist or try to attack me, I will bury you with the carcass. You will be forever entombed with it.”
Giving this subject the respect he deserved involved a certain degree of risk. In order for the prayer to be performed properly, the man would have to be freed from the chair, but Montez would not release him without a bodyguard present. Though his captive didn’t seem to have any energy left, Montez always played it safe. Subjects in this condition were unpredictable. Two years ago, he’d dropped his guard with a female captive. The deep oval scar on his left forearm was all the reminder he needed. As punishment, he’d removed all of the vicious woman’s teeth, all of them, with a pair of pliers. Her high-pitched screaming had been hideous, but an example was needed. Many times since, Montez had used the video of the tooth extractions to show his subjects the price of defiance.
“I will return in a few minutes. Prepare yourself.”
***
Ramsland pulled the right toggle to collapse the canopy and knelt on the grass. He adjusted the NV brightness to maximum before conducting a 360-degree scan for any sign he’d been seen. All quiet. No late-night lovers. Or loose dogs. He gathered the black nylon into a ball and hustled over to a massive tree between fairways. Holding perfectly still, he surveyed his surroundings again. Nothing moved.
He shucked off his backpack, removed the ghillie suit, and put it on. Keeping his head up, he stuffed the nylon into the backpack and zipped it closed. The waxed zipper made zero noise. With adrenaline still coursing through his system, he took a moment to settle his thoughts. That high altitude tumble had rattled him more than he cared to admit. He hated being helpless. Now, back on the ground, it was the thought of being captured and tortured that concerned him. He’d long ago decided to take his own life if ever facing that nightmare—assuming he could.
He pivoted his NV goggles up, removed the thermal imager from his waist pack, and swept his position. No warm bodies registered within its range. So far, so good. The sultry ambient temperature didn’t offer the best conditions for a thermal sweep, but it was better than nothing. He switched back to NV and tracked south across the next fairway. He didn’t like being out in the open, but felt confident his insertion hadn’t been detected. He adjusted his heading to take advantage of some smaller trees between fairways. Every fifty feet or so he stopped and swept his six o’clock. Several hundred yards distant a dog barked, followed by its owner yelling something. The dog went silent. Ramsland smelled the air and detected nothing but freshly cut grass and something else, maybe a nitrogen-based fertilizer.
He looked at his watch: 0134. Less than three hours until extraction. If he failed to make the rendezvous down at Grange Bay at the precise time allocated, the SEAL special boat team would leave without him, no questions asked. He’d have to secure his target and wait twenty-four hours for a second attempt. If he missed the second attempt, his orders were to stay put until contacted. He wasn’t worried. Being African-American, he’d have no trouble blending in with the locals and English was the official language here. His backpack also contained a change of clothes, a fake ID and passport, and 2,000 dollars in cash.
He pulled his suppressed Beretta M9A1 from the waist pack, worked his way into the tree line south of the golf course, and began a slight uphill trek toward his destination. His NV goggles allowed him to avoid obstacles and objects that would make noise. Concealed in a ghillie suit at night, he was all but invisible. He advanced in slow, deliberate steps, looking left, right, and behind. He consulted his GPS and made a slight course correction to the southeast.
He should be able to see the residence. There… the perimeter wall. White stucco. Ten feet high. If his intel remained accurate, cameras would be mounted on opposite corners of its fifty-yard length. He slowed his pace to one step every five seconds. A cleared area followed the contour of the wall, similar to a castle’s moat, but without water. He saw what he needed to the east—a tree with several thick branches overhanging the wall. He worked his way over, focused his NV tight on the trunk, and circled it. Good, no ant columns. The smooth trunk didn’t offer an easy climb and the two Dobermans on the other side of the wall remained a concern. His movements weren’t detectable by humans, but they were to dogs.
He used the hollow knob of a broken branch as a foothold and boosted himself up. Hugging the trunk, he held perfectly still. Nothing stirred. The next hold was just out of reach. He needed to jump to his left and grab a branch forking out from the trunk with both hands. If he missed and fell to the ground.… Again, he wasn’t worried about the bodyguards hearing him, only the dogs. He’d climbed dozens of trees, many of them tougher than this. He trusted his training and decided it was an acceptable risk.
Ramsland made the leap and grabbed the branch, but it shuddered more than he anticipated.
He hung for several seconds, listening for any indication the dogs had heard him. Nothing. He swung his leg over the branch and hauled himself up. The waist pack dug into his stomach, so he slid it to his right hip. Lying perfectly still, he scanned the rear yard and pool area. A lavish place, big money for sure. The house beyond was partially obscured behind a stand of mature trees. Several windows on the west wing glowed brightly, but he detected no movement inside. The rear yard looked deserted. Where were the bodyguards and dogs? No intel was ever perfect, but this development didn’t track. Ramsland used the lack of activity to inch his way forward along the branch until he was directly above the wall. The cameras at the corners of the wall were pointed outward and didn’t appear to have pivoting capability.
The dogs’ absence concerned him. He conducted a thermal scan in case they were obscured by the landscaping. Nothing. Where were they?
His answer arrived with the sound of laughter. He watched two men in shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes appear at the far end of the yard with the dogs on leashes. Both men carried handguns in waist holsters. He sized up their movements as they strolled over to the pool, sat down, and freed their companions. One of them lit a cigarette and waved a hand. He couldn’t make out what was said, but they laughed again. These two were sloppy, rank amateurs.
He looked around and formulated a plan. The interior base of the wall offered an opportunity. A box-trimmed hedge followed its entire length with a concrete sidewalk between the hedge and the wall. The hedge shielded the lower third of the wall from view. Gaps in the hedge allowed access up to the pool via fern-lined, flagstone steps.
Using his Predator knife, he cut a chunk from the branch and watched the Dobermans as he dropped it. It landed with a barely audible sound. Two sets of ears perked up simultaneously, but the dogs didn’t approach. The bodyguards seemed clueless to the alerted status of the animals and Ramsland saw why. They were both drinking, exchanging a small liquor flask. He carved bigger piece and let it drop.
That did the trick.
The dogs padded down the steps toward the wall.
He heard bodyguard one call after the dogs. “Hey, where you guys going?”
The other waved a hand. “Probably to take a dump.”
Watching the dogs approach, Ramsland anchored his knife into the branch and leaned left so he could grab the laser-sighted dart pistol from his waist pack. The ti
cking of the dogs’ nails on the concrete grew louder. The first dog sniffed the big sliver of wood and issued a low growl. He toggled the laser, lined up on its back, and fired. The second dog jumped as its companion whined. He opened the breech and loaded another dart. The second dog yelped as the projectile delivered its payload. He exchanged the dart gun for his Beretta.
Bodyguard one looked his direction. “What was that? Did you hear something?”
His partner took another swig from the flask and wiped his mouth. “No, and you didn’t either.”
“Sancha. Teva.”
“Leave ’em be, will ya?”
“Sancha. Teva. Come!”
Bodyguard one cursed and got up. “Come on, we’d better see what they’re up to down there.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“Get off your ass and come with me.”
“Okay, okay. You don’t have to get nasty.”
He watched the guards tread down the steps and turn left at the wall.
The lazy one said, “I can’t see anything. We should’ve brought flashlights.”
“Sancha! Teva!”
Keep coming.…
Bodyguard one tripped over the lead dog and fell onto the second. “What the hell? What’re you guys doing down here?”
In the green NV image, Ramsland saw everything in perfect clarity. He zeroed the laser on top of the lead man’s head and squeezed the trigger. The subsonic round did its work. His mark went stiff for a split second before slumping against the wall.
“Genaro!” The second man reached for his sidearm, but not in time.
The next bullet tore through the top of his scalp and exited under his jaw.
Gravity did the rest.
Ramsland’s Beretta went into the waist pack before securing his Predator knife into its ankle sheath. He lowered himself to the top of the wall, crouched down, and looked toward the house.
He waited thirty seconds.
No movement. All quiet.
To avoid making scuff marks, he kept his boots away from the wall as he lowered himself to a hanging position. Using his knees to make a whisper-quiet landing, he dropped the last two feet. He knelt behind the hedge and pulled the dead bodyguard off of the first dog. He put a gentle hand on its shoulder, removed the dart, and broke its needle off before securing it into his waist pack. He repeated the procedure for the second dog. Both animals would fully recover in a few hours. The guards weren’t so fortunate.