Saint Nick (Stealth Operations Specialists #1)

Chapter 1

His boss and friend, Royce Fontaine, moved on silent feet behind him. As a Stealth Operations Specialist, trained in all forms of warfare, including military operations in urban terrain, Nick understood the necessity of speed and surprise.

This mission wasn’t dictated by the government as it had in the past with the SOS agency. They were the new Sealth Operations Specialists, having disassociated from the US government.

With the new president hellbent on widening the divide between the extreme right and the extreme left and using the military to police cities run by the opposing parties, members of SOS resigned and joined forces with Brotherhood Protectors, led by former Navy SEAL, Hank Patterson.

Keeping the SOS team intact, they’d moved headquarters out of Washington to a little town north of San Antonio, Texas.

It would have been faster and easier to fly from DC to NYC than from San Antonio to NYC.

Thankfully, SOS had access to Brotherhood Protectors’ new private Lear jet which had picked up Nick and Royce at the San Antonio Airport and flown them to a small, general aviation airport in New Jersey.

They’d been met with a private car and transported into New York City.

The late-night flight had been in response to an e-mail message from Royce’s old Army buddy. “Need your help. Life or death. Come now.”

Royce had dropped everything, including an important case regarding death threats against a U.S. senator. He’d grabbed Nick on his way out the door of the SOS offices in Beuer, Texas, shouting for Tazer, one of the very capable female SOS agents, to cover for him while he flew to New York.

When Nick arrived at the door to 12-H, splintered wood didn’t bode well for what might be inside. He pulled the SIG Sauer from the shoulder holster beneath his leather jacket and nodded to Royce. Then he leaned his back against the wall and pushed the door open wider.

The room was a shambles. Every piece of furniture was turned over or ripped. Nothing stirred in the living space, but a noise from a back room alerted Nick that they weren’t alone.

He slipped in first, followed by Royce. In a low crouch, Nick swept his gaze across the room searching for bogeys before he entered the hallway.

A weak moan echoed off the walls in the bathroom to the right.

The sound of glass shattering was followed by a metallic clanging from the room to the left.

Nick pointed at Royce and then to the bathroom.

He then pointed at himself and the room with the clanging noise.

Without waiting for his boss’s response, Nick leaped over scattered clothing, books and tables and burst into a bedroom, weapon at the ready.

Whoever had broken the window was probably down the fire escape by now.

“Not without backup, St. Claire!” Royce hissed behind him.

Nick ignored Royce, not stopping until he reached the window.

He paused beside the broken glass, peering around the wooden frame, careful to limit his exposure to gunfire, not at all anxious to take a bullet.

The clang of feet jumping down the fire escape stairs assured him that whoever was on them was in a hurry to be gone.

Using the barrel of his weapon, Nick swept the jagged window glass to the side and leaned out just in time to catch a glimpse of a broad-shouldered person dressed in black moving down the metal fire escape of the three-story apartment building.

Nick swore. Almost to the ground, the guy would escape into the maze of dark city streets before Nick or Royce could do anything about it.

To hell with that. Nick climbed through the window and descended the steps two at a time.

The noise of his shoes hitting the steel was deafening, but not so bad that he didn’t hear the ominous popping sound of shots being fired or the ping of bullets ricocheting off the brick near his head.

He kept moving. If he stopped, the shooter would have time to make good his aim.

A bullet glanced off the metal railing next to his leg. Another sprayed pieces of masonry over his head.

Nick didn’t slow. Gun ready, he hit the ground feet first and performed a perfect airborne drop and roll, grateful for the thick leather jacket covering his elbows and back. He clambered to his feet and took off in a zigzagging run, bullets flying around him.

The man in black rounded a corner, disappearing out of sight.

Nick stuck to the shadows and ran the length of a building to the same corner. He stopped, poked his head out and saw nothing.

Streetlights shone down on an empty avenue.

The only movement was a lone car heading his way at a slow speed.

Nick ducked back behind the building in case the car contained the assailant.

When it pulled to the curb and shut down, an old man dressed in khaki slacks, a light blue sweater and orthopedic shoes climbed out and reached into the back for a bag of groceries.

He carefully locked the door and headed into the building.

Nick stepped out into the street, tucking his weapon back in the holster under his arm. He kept his hand on the grip, ready for anything.

He walked quickly down the street searching for the man dressed in black. He didn’t see him. Damn, he’d slipped away. Nothing Nick could do about it now but go see if Royce needed help.

Retracing his steps, Nick found his way back to the apartment and entered through the front door, climbing the steps to the third floor.

When Nick entered the destroyed apartment, Royce was on his cell phone to the local police giving enough details to get them started. When he’d completed the call, he ended the call and slipped it into his pocket. “Got away?”

“Yeah.” Nick nodded. “He had a head start.”

“The gunfire. Yours or his?”

“His.” Nick didn’t fire his weapon randomly, especially not in populated urban areas where stray bullets could take innocent lives. “Who was the moaner?”

Royce’s jaw tightened. “Frank Richards.”

“The guy we came to help?”

“Some help we were.” Royce drew in a breath and let it out slowly, his lips forming a tight line. “We were a few minutes too late.”

“Damn. Did he give you a clue as to who might have done it?”

His boss shook his head, a frown drawing his brows together. “He died without uttering another word. But I found this and a pen lying on the bathroom floor close by.” Royce held up a small pad of paper with a page half ripped off. “I think whoever shot him took the message.”

“Let me see that.” Nick took the pad and tipped it back and forth until the light cast enough shadow over where the pen had dented the pages below the missing one. “What does it say?”

“North Pole, AX or AK. Help Santa.”

Nick barked out a mirthless laugh. “The man was clearly delusional. Already in the throes of death.”

“No. He wrote it before he was shot. There’s no blood on the pad or the pen and his fingers had blood on them when he died. I think he means for us to help someone.”

“There is a town in Alaska named North Pole. It’s close to Fairbanks. You suppose that’s what he was talking about?”

“Maybe.”

“Why there? Do you think Santa is a code word for something?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that whoever did this was after something, and I’d bet my reputation they didn’t find it.”

“And they weren’t afraid to kill for it.” Nick stared down at the man lying on the floor, his face pale and tinged gray. “You think our shooter will look in North Pole, Alaska next?”

“Perhaps.” Royce’s gaze fell to the man lying on the floor. He wore a New York Knicks sweatshirt and jeans.

“How do you know Richards?” Nick moved to the living area.

Royce followed, the pad in his hand. “I met Sergeant Major Richards when I was an active duty Navy SEAL. He was a member of the Army Special Forces assigned to participate as a subject matter expert in a joint task force training exercise. We had a few beers after the training and since then, I’ve always kept in touch.

When I’d come up to New York, I made it a point to look him up. ”

A computer sat on a desk in the corner, with several bullet holes in the CPU.

“Look at this.” Nick bent to examine it. “Any reason why a shooter would target a man and his computer?”

“I’ll have Swede look into it.” Royce jerked the cord out of the wall and unhooked the CPU from the monitor. “In the meantime, I want you up in Alaska. If they were after something and didn’t find it, there’s a chance that’s where they’ll look.”

Nick shivered just thinking about the cold. “Couldn’t he have chosen Florida or Texas?”

“Whoever killed Frank might kill in Alaska.” Royce pushed back his shoulders and stared toward the bathroom where his buddy lay. “I want you there ASAP. I’d go with you, but I’ve got another case on the hot plate. Soon as I can, I’ll join you.”

“What am I looking for?”

Royce glanced at the pad. “Start with Santa.”