Crusher (Stealth Operations Specialists #3)

Chapter 1

Jack “Crusher” Bailey had exactly fifteen minutes from boots on ground to exfil. Fifteen minutes to get to the compound, past security, extract the asset and get back to the extraction zone where the helicopter would be waiting.

As they neared the drop zone, he went over everything he’d committed to memory since his meeting with his boss, Royce Fontaine, leader of Stealth Operations Specialists.

“Intel we’ve received indicates the site is not heavily guarded,” Royce had briefed.

“The security assigned is there to keep the asset from leaving more than to keep outsiders from getting in. The compound, situated in a remote jungle, deep in the Colombian countryside, is so secret and hard to get to, we guess their thought process is that the fewer people who know of its existence, the less likely it will be compromised.”

“If it’s so secret, how did we come to find out about it?” Crusher had asked.

“Our contact in the State Department got wind of the abduction and, through his informants, discovered its location. He wanted us for this mission.”

Crusher had met Royce’s gaze. “Devon Marsh?”

Royce nodded.

“Stealth Operations Specialists went private to get away from government-sponsored cabal activities,” Crusher reminded his boss.

Royce nodded. “We did. But some operations are necessary. Devon called on us because of our ability to manage and conduct operations under the radar. Your job is to extract the asset, Dr. Marta Hale, quietly, stealthily and without leaving a trace of who initiated the operation. The Colombian government doesn’t want to lose face. ”

“And the US government will deny interference.” Typical, Crusher thought.

“Exactly.”

“Who is this doctor, and why does she need to be extracted? And who abducted her?” Crusher had demanded.

Royce had pushed a file folder across the conference table toward Crusher.

“PhD from Johns Hopkins in Virology and epidemiology. Worked for the CDC Biodefense Division until the current administration gutted the CDC. Had been working for the World Health Organization until she was abducted six weeks ago during a consulting trip to Bogotá. Her captor is a former Colombian military intelligence officer, now cartel kingpin, Colonel Dario Vasquez.”

“Convenient,” Crusher had muttered. “Invite the scientist to visit and make sure she stays. Is the cartel working with the Colombian government to keep Dr. Hale?”

“Possibly, though word through official channels is that the Colombian government wasn’t involved in the abduction and is helping with the investigation and retrieval of the scientist.”

Crusher had snorted softly. “In other words, they’re no help at all.”

“That’s where you come in.” Royce had glanced at his watch. “A private jet leaves in one hour. Next stop, a regional airport outside of Bogotá, where a helicopter will be waiting to take you close to the compound.”

“You told me who the doctor is.” Crusher had pinned Royce with his stare. “Why do they want her?”

Royce’s mouth had tightened into a thin line. “Devon didn’t say. But, based on her credentials and her work with the CDC, I’d venture to guess it’s something to do with bioterrorism.”

Crusher had flipped through the folder, noting the photograph of Dr. Hale and her statistics.

Thirty-one, five feet six inches. Younger than he would have expected.

His gaze returned to her photo. She had dark, auburn hair pulled back from her face and secured at the nape of her neck, and intelligent green eyes.

Not beautiful, but she might be considered pretty if she let her hair down.

Not that Crusher cared. As far as he was concerned, she was the asset.

Being pretty didn’t factor into the mission.

The photograph was enough to give him an idea of who he was looking for.

Under family, he noted she was single, no children, no siblings, and her parents were deceased.

Alone—no family members clamoring for her release.

For a brief second, Crusher’s heart pinched hard in his chest. He shoved that feeling aside and continued his perusal of the dossier.

After studying the information about the asset, he’d focused his attention on a detailed schematic of the compound, memorizing all entrances, corridors and potential dead ends should he get trapped inside.

For a place considered secret, Devon had given them pretty explicit features.

Crusher hoped the information was current and accurate and wondered how Devon had obtained such detailed schematics.

His informant must have been deep in Vasquez’s circle to get his hands on that kind of information.

Because of the nature of the operation, he’d go in without any personal identification, no cell phone, passport or anything that could link him to the US government or his employer.

Royce had outfitted him with a satellite phone that couldn’t be linked to Stealth Operations Specialists or the State Department.

Crusher had tucked it into a pocket of his cargo pants.

If he didn’t make the transfers, he’d be on his own, navigating in a foreign country with the asset.

He’d have to get far enough away to be out of danger before he used the satellite phone.

His jaw hardened as the helicopter slowed, hovered and lowered.

Crusher unbuckled his harness and moved toward the open door of the chopper.

“Fifteen minutes,” the pilot called out, his face obscured by helmet and sunglasses.

He could be anyone. But he was no one to Crusher.

He couldn’t identify him in a line-up, nor could he easily identify Crusher behind his own sunglasses and black ball cap.

They were just two strangers doing their jobs.

Crusher preferred working with people he knew and trusted.

Being alone in a foreign country and relying on strangers didn’t instill confidence.

Still, he had a mission. Get the doctor out of the compound and on the helicopter.

As soon as the craft touched the ground, Crusher leaped out, carrying nothing but his Ka-Bar knife from his days in Delta Force, a sleeve of throwing knives, a flashlight, a roll of duct tape and a wad of US money in various denominations.

Guns were noisy and messy. If the bullet didn’t hit the mark in the first shot, the intended target could raise the alarm.

No. Crusher relied on his hands. They were the most lethal weapon he owned. If all else failed, he’d rely on the strength of the US dollar over the Colombian peso.

The helicopter dropped him in a clearing half a click from the compound on the other side of a ridge that would help to mask the sound of the rotors from anyone listening in the compound. He had exactly five minutes to get over the ridge, assess the situation and make his move.

Two minutes later, he topped the ridge in the cloud forest and peered through the trees. He could just make out the straight edges of a roofline, tucked beneath a tall canopy of trees and partially hidden beneath leaves and camouflage netting.

A minute later, he was halfway down the other side of the ridge, moving close enough to make out two guards standing at the front of a modern building constructed of metal.

Sleek and new. Odd for being out in the jungle.

A dirt road led through the jungle along the base of the ridge, culminating at the front of the building.

The two guards leaned against the structure on either side of what appeared to be the front door, their military-grade rifles aimed downward. One man took a cigarette from his breast pocket and handed it to the other man, then took another out for himself. His partner produced a lighter.

While the two guards smoked, Crusher skirted the clearing, moving quietly in the shadows.

He noted two trucks parked near the side of the building.

There were no windows on the front, side or back of the building.

A third guard stood solo at the back of the building, leaning against a single door, his head drooping as if he were half-asleep.

Crusher moved in on silent feet. The guard didn’t know he was there until it was too late.

No sooner had the man lifted his chin than he was down. Crusher didn’t bother to drag his body away. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes down. Ten to go.

He hurried around the other side of the building, clinging to the shadows. When he arrived at the corner, he used the mirror he kept in his pocket and sneaked a peek at the guards manning the front, still smoking and speaking to each other in Spanish.

Crusher spoke a little Spanish but understood more. They were talking about a football game between rival teams, arguing over which was better.

He didn’t have time to lure them away from the door one at a time. With less than ten minutes remaining, he had to make a move.

Crusher picked up a small rock, weighed it in his palm and returned to the corner. He lobbed the rock in a trajectory that took it over the guards’ heads, where it landed in the shadows among the trees at the edge of the compound.

They stopped talking and frowned, their hands raising their weapons to the ready position. The man closest to him moved toward the trees.

While their attention was on the shadows beneath the trees, Crusher slipped along the wall of the building, moving swiftly.

He was five feet away from them by the time the two men realized he was there.

He was ready, snapping one of his throwing knives at the man closest to him without breaking stride.

The blade hit the target in his neck, severing the guard’s carotid artery.

The man slapped his hand on the knife and removed it before realizing he was about to bleed out.

Crusher performed a flying sidekick, knocking the man and his weapon in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground.