Execution of Justice E-Book

Patrick Dent

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When three covert operatives are killed while investigating the kidnapping of a congressman's daughter, John Drake is called in.

Driven by personal demons, he is determined to deliver his own brand of justice. As Drake tracks the most powerful enemy he has ever faced, an already tough mission becomes nearly impossible.

His assignment propels him to the fulcrum of a new World War, and a CIA plot to incite conflict between the Muslim oil countries and Israel unfolds. Haunted by trauma from his past, Drake must ultimately confront the most terrifying identity of all - his own.

But can he hunt down the most dangerous man in the world and prevent a war - or will he become the monster he hunts?

Leseprobe

Execution of Justice

Patrick Dent

Copyright (C) 2005 Patrick Dent

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Chapter One

Safi, Morocco

The young American did his best to look casual as he approached the Moroccan bar. His eyes constantly scanned for incongruities – anything more interesting than an infinite expanse of sand and about a dozen rugged four-wheel-drive vehicles. He saw none.

The bar itself looked ancient, having a wooden frame plastered with a tan adobe, making its color indistinguishable from the surrounding desert. The slate roof appeared on the verge of collapse. The windows were arched and glassless, about twenty feet from the ground, with heavy wooden shutters latched open with hasp locks.

Elan had selected attire generic to the region. His tan robes concealed his slightly trembling hands, as well as the Colt .45 automatic in his shoulder holster. Luckily, the desiccating atmosphere evaporated sweat, helping mask his anxiety.

The locals called the bar Shaqra, although it bore no markings either outside or in. Elan grabbed the huge iron ring serving as a doorknob and pulled. The thick wooden door eventually surrendered to his will and swung open with a creak, attracting the attention of some of the locals inside. Rheumy, bloodshot eyes turned toward the offending desert sunlight cutting through the dimly lit room, but quickly lost interest when they saw Elan.

Elan blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The main room was large, with about a thirty-foot ceiling. The only light had to fight its way from the open windows through thick clouds of hashish, opium and tobacco smoke. The air hung motionless. In the center sat a square bar. A solitary bartender cleaned his fingernails with a US Army issue bayonet. No wait staff was visible.

This is it, Elan thought, the next fifteen minutes will decide the course of my career. Elan knew his Arabic heritage was the main reason Major Briggs had selected him for Operation Sierra. Nonetheless, he prided himself on the progress he had made. For the past six months he had worked his way up through the Moroccan black market, establishing contacts and credibility through a series of increasingly larger business deals.

With a little help from Uncle Sam, Elan had been able to produce enormous quantities of valuable merchandise ranging from toilet paper to Soviet AK-47's. Now, he waited to meet the man who ran the most powerful and despicable enterprise in the region. Tartus ran an ancient business, one whose tentacles had only recently infiltrated Western civilization. President Nixon declared Tartus' operation a threat to national security and sanctioned the creation of the Sierra task force. Elan felt honored to be selected as the principle Sierra operative - Sierra One. Men such as Tartus stained the reputation of good Arabs all over the world. Elan would take enormous pleasure in bringing this heinous operation to its knees.

When Elan reached the bar he ordered whiskey in Arabic, with the hint of French accent so common among Moroccans. He had lost his university grammar and enunciation months prior. The bartender gave him a menacing look, but reached below the bar and placed an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. When Elan did not reach for the bottle, the bartender begrudgingly produced a glass of questionable cleanliness, giving Elan a look saying now what; you want me to drink it for you too?

Elan paid the exorbitant price of fifty Dirham - equivalent to about twelve US dollars. Such robbery, commonplace in countries who forbade alcohol, did not surprise Elan. Still standing at the bar, he poured himself two fingers, neat. Just one drink, he vowed, I need my wits about me today more than ever. He took his bottle in hand and began working his way through the crowd; scanning for the red neckerchief Falon told him would identify Tartus.

Falon, perhaps the nastiest man Elan had ever met, frightened Elan despite his training. A calm sadism in the man's eyes distinguished him from Elan's other business contacts. Elan knew Falon would relish killing him at a leisurely pace if he suspected he were an American agent. He repeated the mantra to himself - Remember your training. This is your job. While others wanted American and European creature comforts, Falon shopped for dangerous merchandise – rocket-propelled grenades, anti-tank weapons, heroin, and much, much worse.

In a city where black and brown were the predominant wardrobe choices, Elan had little difficulty spotting the red neckerchief. His pulse quickened. He smelled the fear on his upper lip as he considered the man he prepared to meet. It had taken months of courting Falon to gain an audience with Tartus. Men that cautious were not to be underestimated. He downed his drink in one motion and approached the man who would become the instrument of his destiny.

Elan estimated Tartus was about forty years old. Tartus' face - lean, taught, and weather-beaten from years spent in the desert – carried no expression. Elan felt Tartus' coldness even from a distance. The tables surrounding Tartus were all empty. All Elan's training and months undercover had led to this moment. He braced himself to initiate a conversation with one of the world's most venomous and clever men. Although Falon's treachery made him a local icon, he lacked the fear and respect Tartus enjoyed.

“Hello,” Elan said in Arabic, meeting Tartus' level gaze, “I notice the weather here is much harsher than in the South.”

“But the opportunities are so much better,” Tartus replied, completing the code phrase. “Please, have a seat and let us discuss such matters.”

The cordiality in Tartus' voice belied the brutality and heartlessness Elan knew were the staples of his trade. He forced himself to maintain contact with Tartus' soulless, obsidian eyes. Those eyes evoked primal fears from Elan's genetic memory. Images of alligators and sharks flashed through Elan's mind – ancient predators, machines designed exclusively for killing. Elan, a seasoned combat veteran, felt the first familiar tingling of fear. As always, he tried to let the adrenaline work in his favor.

Elan hoped his training had prepared him for this encounter. Although Elan did not subscribe to the Christian concept of the Devil, Tartus gave him reason to reconsider. Tartus had the presence of some supremely evil denizen of the underworld, visiting Earth in search of souls to steal.

When Elan sat, Tartus immediately began his business. “So, you have gone to a great deal of trouble to talk with me. What makes you think I have any interest in what you have to say?”

Elan calculated that Tartus would respect nothing less than complete candor, and replied, “Well, that you're here, for one thing. And that I have access to merchandise that would bring a much greater price than your normal wares.”

“So Falon told me. And what, exactly, is the source of this wonderful merchandise?”

“America, of course. West coast. California.” Elan paused to let the statement sink in. Tartus' eyes probed Elan, searching for any sign of weakness. “Surely there will be abundant profit for all parties involved.”

“You propose something with great risk.” Tartus' hard eyes bored into Elan's face.

“High risk, high return,” Elan quipped. “Besides, you don't impress me as a man afraid of a little risk.” This statement skirted dangerously close to arrogance, but Elan had to pass himself off as a calloused murderer, a man who knew fear merely as something he saw in the faces of his victims. He behaved as Tartus' equal.

“You should not confuse wisdom with fear, my friend.” Tartus' voice took on an icy, challenging edge. “However, I am still listening.”

“I have a friend who is a travel agent. His operation is a perfect front for moving merchandise of this sensitive nature through American customs.”

Tartus' eyes narrowed to slits. He leaned forward on his elbows until his face nearly touched Elan's. “Just like that? You appear out of nowhere and want to cut me in on your foolproof enterprise?”

Elan forced himself not to back away from Tartus. At this distance, he smelled curry mixed with alcohol on the man's breath. “Tartus, like you, I'm a businessman. I don't have the network you have, and I don't have access to the end users. That's where you come in. We're both familiar with the Brazilian and Philippine crap flooding the marketplace. I propose moving a top-end product into the market, the business opportunity of a lifetime. I can deliver in quantity. How does one unit per month sound?”

Tartus mulled this over for a few seconds that seemed an eternity to Elan before he responded, “You do make a good case. I'll discuss this with some of my high dollar clientele and meet you here tomorrow at the same time with an answer.”

As Elan stared into those reptilian eyes, he kept the most important poker face of his life. Inside, he surged with triumph. He looked at Tartus differently – meaner.

“This conversation is over,” Tartus said. He stood abruptly and walked toward the exit. When he opened the door, an intensely bright light flooded Shaqra, temporarily blinding anyone whose eyes followed him. After exiting the bar, Tartus turned left into the parking lot.

Elan's mind struggled to process what had just transpired. Did he just cut a deal with Tartus after his first meeting? If so, this mission would exceed his wildest imaginings. He couldn't wait to call Major Briggs to arrange the sting. Once they had Tartus in custody, they could begin to dismantle his entire operation, beginning with that beast - Falon.

After waiting an excruciating five minutes, Elan recapped the bottle of Jack Daniels on the table and left. Outside, he squinted against the desert glare and turned left toward the parking lot. As he walked toward his jeep, he began to plan Phase Two. He would need at least two squads from special ops, maybe more. From what he had observed, Tartus would have several layers of security, ranging from well-paid locals in the crowd to short range snipers armed with AK-47s. Tomorrow, he would earn his captain's bars.

Elan's pensive trance twisted into an anguished mask when the garrote unexpectedly snapped his head back. The piano wire cut through his esophagus, trachea, and both carotid arteries before his mind registered that he had grossly miscalculated Tartus' business ethics. As he lay on the ground with his life force rhythmically gushing into the Safi sand, Elan thought of the daughter he would never see again.

* * *

Langley, Virginia

Special Agent Robert Fulton sat at his desk, drumming his fingers as his mind raced. His new assignment exhilarated him. The Director of Central Intelligence had sanctioned him to solve the single biggest economic threat to America's future - the OPEC oil embargo. If successful, Project Crossfire would be the crown jewel of his career with The Agency. This project, right on the heels of his promotion to Director of Middle Eastern Operations, would make him top contender to become the next DCI.

He reflected with pride upon a life of hard work and the commensurate rewards. After his Cum Laude graduation from MIT with a degree in mechanical engineering, he had entered Officer Candidacy School in the Marines. He made Captain by the age of twenty-five, resigned his commission for a detour through the FBI Academy. His six-year career with the Bureau had been stellar in every respect, peaking when his two-year deep cover operation had culminated in the capture and conviction of one of the biggest cocaine dealers in Miami.

Shortly thereafter, his supervisor told him the CIA wanted to talk to him. The DCI commanded an audience. At that point, he knew he would be a player. Robert Fulton would make a difference in this world. Of course, intelligence work was not conducive to glory, at least not the public variety. Fulton's sole glorification would be in his own mind and within a tight group of coworkers. Such was the nature of covert ops. People who required validation from others were speedily identified and expunged from the program for security purposes. Fulton derived his satisfaction from knowing he served the cause of freedom. Project Crossfire, for instance, would shift the balance of power in the civilized world, and no more than a handful of people would ever even know it took place.

The enormous question in his mind was how to bring this multi-billion dollar juggernaut to a grinding halt in the space of a few months. American citizens were waiting in line for hours to purchase their paltry allocations of gasoline. President Nixon had declared the embargo to be a national crisis, urging Americans to conserve power wherever possible. By presidential order, air conditioning units were to be set at seventy-eight degrees during the summer and sixty-eight degrees during winter. While the most powerful nation on the planet shivered and sweltered in their homes, the OPEC nations grew richer by the day.

Fulton ran through recent events, searching for leverage to use. Since the Fourth Arab-Israeli War had begun, tensions were high among the Arab nations. Syria, with support from the Soviet Union, had launched an offensive against Israel during Yom Kippur in 1973, ostensibly over a territorial dispute. The sneak attack on the Jews' holy day was an insult of the highest magnitude to Israel.

The Arab extremists saw the fight with Israel as a Jihad, a holy war bringing religious purity to the Middle East. They referred to the conflict as the Ramadan War, named after the Muslim holy month. The moderate Arabs wanted to avoid conflict with Israel to remain in the good graces of the United Nations. The UN and especially the US were strong supporters of Israel, and the moderates saw no profit in making an enemy of the US. Some of the more liberal Arab factions even entertained the idea of recognizing Israel's status as an independent nation, thereby qualifying the Arab nations for membership in the UN.

Although the Arab nations constantly bickered among themselves on political and religious issues, they presented a united economic front. Every time the Oil Council met, they further reduced production, driving oil prices through the ceiling. They had an economic stranglehold on the West.

The US had begun to drive a wedge between the Arab nations when Anwar Sadat rose to power in Egypt. Sadat appeared all too happy to accept strong economic support from America. However, Egypt carried merely one voice among seven in the Oil Council, and none of the Arab nations would publicly make a stand against the all-powerful Saudis. The President deemed Diplomacy too sticky and slow to resolve this issue in a reasonable timeframe.

The king and prime minister of Saudi Arabia, Fahr al-Azon Al Saud, kept his hand on the lever the Arabs used against the West. Fahr led the Oil Council and was perhaps the only man who could bring an end to the embargo. Fulton had to find a way to get to Fahr.

As he ruminated at his desk, Fulton's face lit up. The answer wasn't to influence Fahr. The answer was to become Fahr. What if the US led the Oil Council? With control over the world's power supply, the US would be politically and economically omnipotent. But, how could such a thing come to pass? Once Fulton knew the right question to ask, the answer became obvious.

Fulton jumped from his seat and began to pace the office, wringing his hands in nervous energy. Would it work? Yes, he believed it would. Could it be covered up? Yes, although doing so would require a certain level of ruthlessness. But, as his father liked to say, if you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.

The details were already beginning to crystallize in his mind. He sat at his desk and began to make notes. He had much to do in an extremely compressed time frame. Special Agent Fulton had a war to start.

Chapter Two

Beaumont, South Carolina

John Drake Jr. secured his place in history during the third game of the District Seven playoffs. At eighteen, John found himself standing at the doorway to adulthood, staring into the vast, undiscovered country lying ahead. At his back he felt the gradually increasing pressure of his parents, pushing him through that porthole into a threatening and unknowable world. As he peered, he saw murky shadows – unfocused images formed not simply by his own desires, but also by those of the people who shaped his life. In those shadows, he saw John the baseball player, John the Game Warden, John the foot soldier in Vietnam, John the employee at Drake Enterprises.

John comforted himself by believing life had a defined set of rules. If I do A, then B will happen. He envisioned the future as a multiple-choice question - a finite set of possibilities that he may select from based on his actions. Today, John would learn the answer to all his questions was 'none of the above'.

History shows that gigantic forces are often balanced on the minuscule events of a single person's life. Such people are the instruments of fate. If John had fully understood the consequences of his actions, he probably would have been paralyzed by indecision. If he had known that millions of lives would be saved or lost based on a split-second decision, he might have acted differently. But, of course, his crystal ball worked no better than anyone else's.

In a typical early summer day in Beaumont, the South Carolina sky cast a white-hot shade of blue, without a cloud in sight to protect the players and fans from the Sun's brutality. A faint, intermittent breeze taunted Beaumont's citizens with the insincere promise of relief from the sweltering heat. The gnats and mosquitoes focused their assaults on every available ear, eye and nose, inexorably drawn to the moisture there. The weather-beaten bleachers were crammed with people fanning themselves, licking ice cream cones, slurping soft drinks, and sweating.

Slick arms rubbed against each other as people squirmed in wasted effort to find comfort. The sole leniency came from the ancient oak and pecan trees, providing afternoon shade to the home side stands. The visitor's bleachers, in the Southern tradition of selective hospitality, were in direct sunlight.

John noticed that his girlfriend Tammy had lucked into a shaded seat. Nonetheless, she periodically used a napkin to blot the sweat from her forehead. She smiled and waved as John caught her eye from his position in front of the dugout. He warmed up by gently swinging a bat weighted at the tip with two batting rings.

Tammy and John had been going steady since tenth grade, and were due to begin the ramp-up toward matrimony. Although he knew Tammy would support him if he attended Clemson University in the Fall, he also knew she feared their bond would wane during the four-year separation. That was why John had proposed that she move to Clemson with him.

In the background, John heard the chants of a few restless children who had mustered enough energy to play their own baseball game behind the stands. Although school had been out just two weeks, it wasn't even a distant memory to them. John admired their ability to live in the moment. As far as they were concerned, this summer day would last forever.

John noted that his father sat as far away from Tammy as possible. John Sr. divided his attention between his son and the talent scout from Clemson. He had made significant contributions to Clemson over the years; so, when he requested they send a scout to this particular game, they could hardly refuse. Although he could easily afford the tuition, he had told John he wanted him to learn to care for himself. John knew his father fully expected him to play for the Atlanta Braves after graduation, but he didn't want to follow his father's dream. He would use baseball if it earned him the degree he would need to become a Game Warden. After that, John planned to resign his bat.

By the dugout, John swung his bat lazily, loosening the powerful muscles in his torso. Not a notable team player, John did enjoy competition for its own sake. The winner of this game didn't matter to him and would be forgotten in time. Unlike his teammates, John did not consider his senior year the pinnacle of his life. While the others would be content to take jobs in the local mills and spend the next forty years reminiscing about the glory days, sucking on Bud long-necks; John considered his life to be just beginning.

In John's mind, sports were the bread and circuses of twentieth century society. The ancient Romans knew how to entertain the masses – give them young warriors to admire and vilify. Varsity sports? Not much different in John's book.

Most people would rather watch than do. Why else would entertainers and athletes attract such crowds? John realized mediocrity offered a cozy bed, and coziness was the cornerstone of Beaumont society.

The crowd stood for the national anthem. The citizens of Beaumont placed their hands on their hearts and gazed with awe at the baseball diamond symbolizing everything they lacked - fame, heroism, and the chance to be noticed.

John sneaked a peek at the coach, who kept him in stitches most of the time with his exaggerated gestures and statements. Coach Stanch sweat profusely. Having run out of dry clothing and appendages for his face, he was merely moving sweat around with his timid-but-macho gestures. His gut protruded comically over his pants, and he spat tobacco juice at regular intervals. The kids got a kick out of his bumper sticker saying, 'Use care passing, driver chews tobacco'. True to the sticker, an indelible brown stain decorated the driver's side of his Datsun 240Z. He waddled over toward John.

“John, I hear there's a recruiter in the stands from Clemson,” Coach said, pushing the brim of his hat up to improve his eye contact with John.

“Hey, Coach, maybe this is your big chance to get into college,” John jibed.

“Look, you wipe that shit eatin' grin off your face. This could mean a scholarship if you pitch good this afternoon.” Coach's gin blossoms grew bright red. The enlarged capillaries in his bulbous nose resembled a poorly done tattoo. “Besides, we ain't won the title in seven years. Your team needs you. Look at 'em.” Coach pointed at the visiting team. “Don't you want to teach these guys a lesson?”

“Last time I checked, I was a student, not a teacher.”

“Well, for your information, you ain't a student no more. You remember that little shindig we had two weeks ago? Well, that was your graduation, in case you didn't notice. As of now, you're no different from the rest of us.”

“Coach, I think I can safely say I'm nothing like the rest of you.” John smiled widely.

“You still think everything's some kind of joke, don't you?” Coach said. “I'm telling you that dog won't hunt in the real world.” The coach's face softened somewhat. “Look, all I'm saying is keep your focus. Think about that scholarship.”

“Focus? What would a pot-bellied loser know about that?”

“You listen to me, you little tick turd.” Coach emphasized each syllable by poking his finger into John's chest. “That attitude is the only thing standing between you and a pro career. I know the training you do, and you got the talent. You're probably the smartest kid to come through this school ever. But out there in the real world, people won't put up with your crap.” Coach spit a well-marinated strand of Beechnut between John's feet to punctuate his sentence. He stomped away to toward the dugout.

John did train heavily, but not for the reasons Coach Stanch thought. John had boundless physical energy that he constantly discharged. Before school each day, he logged in three miles, three hundred push-ups and five hundred sit-ups. After practice, he ran another five miles. He followed this regimen regardless of the sporting season. To John, exercise equaled life. It took him to a place where the world and all its troubles ceased to exist.

John interspersed ample reading with his exercise. As his eyes scanned the page, his mind left his body and traveled to exotic lands of the past, where bad guys acted like bad guys and good guys usually won. In the world of literature, right and wrong were clearly defined for all to see. No one's father vacillated between hero and villain. No one's mother both enabled and welcomed her husband's cruelty. In books, the greatest minds in history had recorded their wisdom for the benefit of future generations. There were only three times John felt completely free – reading, exercising or communing with nature.

By the time the game started, even the most acclimated people were sweating profusely. John, however, stood completely dry in the direct sunlight dowsing the pitcher's mound. He seemed to have a natural immunity to the plagues of the Southern summer. Heat, mosquitoes, even poison ivy did not affect him.

Five foot nine athletes were rare, but his 230 pounds of muscle and unparalleled explosive strength more than compensated for his height. He tucked his shoulder length black hair under his cap as he waited for his mother to throw out the first pitch.

For eight innings, John hurled the white orb across home plate time and time again. His power and accuracy were unwavering as the innings wore on. No sweat corrupted his brow. No fine motor quivering affected his form. A well-oiled and finely tuned machine couldn't have been more consistent. John knew the Clemson scout would want to chat after the game. He had no way of knowing just how irrelevant that thought would become.

At the top of the ninth, John continued working on a shutout. He had talent, no doubt, but he knew his father manipulated him, reliving his youth through John. The John, as his children called him, had been selling him on a pro baseball career for twelve years now.

If John wanted to realize his dream of becoming a Game Warden, he would have to play his father's game - baseball.

As so often happens, John worried about the problems he would be unlikely to face. John's visions of the futures he envisioned had a life expectancy of just over two minutes.

John's best - and really only - pitch was his fastball. As early as tenth grade he had been clocked in the low nineties. Number 12 stepped to the plate in the top of the ninth. John had already struck him out in the fourth, and that had simmered beneath Number 12's skin for the past hour. The boy's face stiffened with concentration. He clenched his teeth and stared directly into John's eyes as he raised his bat. From the pitcher's mound, John saw the muscles in Number 12's jaw flexing. The batter took two violent practice swings, then nodded at John.

John's first pitch flew high and inside. Number 12 fell over backwards, narrowly avoiding a shattered jaw.

“Ball!” called the umpire.

Number 12 regained his stance with anger in his eyes. The muscles in his jaw flexed rhythmically. He spat before saying, “Oh, you wanna play? Come on, punk. Let's get it on!” He raised his bat again, this time crowding the plate.

John had no intention of letting Number 12 get inside his head. He lifted his left leg seemingly to the sky and put his entire weight behind the second pitch. Number 12 nearly ripped himself in half trying to get a piece of it.

“Strike one!”

John adjusted his cap, picking up a bit of pine resin from the brim. With all his strength, he released the pitch that ultimately would impact the balance of power in the Western Hemisphere into the next century. The ball struck Number 12 in the hip. He went down, screaming in anger and pain.

Number 12 rose awkwardly and limped hurriedly towards the mound. The bat still hung in his hand. His gait teetered as he attempted to spare his left hip from the rigors of quick movement. His eyes burned with fury. His teeth bared in a feral snarl.

John became instantly calm. He let his glove drop to the ground. Whether Number 12 kept or dropped the bat did not matter. John could neutralize either scenario quite easily. A heavy implement such as a bat had a fight span of one attack move only. After the first swing, the bat's momentum would throw its user off balance and leave him vulnerable for precious seconds.

Time slowed to a crawl as John's senses were heightened by adrenaline. Two hundred spectators were shouting out their opinions as to what each of the boys should do. John's mind drew into focus, filtering out the din of the crowd. He heard Number 12's cleats digging for purchase as he sprinted. He heard his opponent's lungs wheezing for air with each stride. Coach Stanch already waddled awkwardly toward the plate. Brown spittle ran down the left side of his chin as he gasped in the moist heat. John waited.

Number 12 hurled the bat away fifteen feet before he squared off against John. He had no way of knowing this act would have profound implications.

“You did that on purpose, asshole!” Number 12 spat.

John waited.

“By the time I'm through with you, you'll be crying for your mamma!” Number 12 thrust his chest out, clenching both his hands into fists.

John waited.

Number 12 decided to take the conversation to the next level. John saw the telltale dip in Number 12's right shoulder, indicating the opening roundhouse right. The natural human reaction would have been to back away from the punch, but John ducked forward, letting Number 12's arm pass harmlessly over his head.

The attempted roundhouse told John Number 12 had little fighting experience. He was a showman. A lighter punch, such as a jab or uppercut, would not have been telegraphed and would likely have connected, paving the way for a more powerful follow up. John knew the next punch would be another roundhouse right. He had fought Number 12's type many times. They always overextended themselves and lost balance within the first couple of punches. He straightened and waited for the right moment. By this time, there were dozens of people rushing toward the mound. One way or the other, the fight would be over in seconds.

“Scared to fight?” Number 12 said as he threw a haymaker at John's face. This is it, John thought to himself, taking note of Number 12's posture. He saw Number 12 would lose his balance with this swing. John ducked inside and to the right, assuming a crouching position. When Number 12's arm extended completely, John saw his right foot come off the ground. Number 12 could not stop his spiral momentum. In a split second, he would fall forward and to his left. Instantly, John extended his legs and pumped his right fist directly into Number 12's heart.

Number 12 froze, bent over at a forty-five degree angle, his momentum having been neutralized by John's blow. He quickly found himself in a universe without air. A few seconds later, he fell to the dusty ground beside the pitcher's mound. His muscles were so tight he seemed like a statue that had been toppled by juvenile delinquents. As he lay on the ground, Number 12 felt a tightness in his chest like he had never imagined. His left arm went numb. His jaw tightened. His heart stopped beating. And since no one present had any emergency medical training, it never started back.

Chapter Three

Langley, Virginia

Special Agent Fulton fumed with tension, though it was barely ten a.m. He had already removed his jacket and loosened his tie. He had no time for formalities. These days he arrived anywhere from six to six thirty in the morning and worked until seven or eight at night. Fulton didn't fear hard work. He had just one fear – failure. A successful execution of Project Crossfire would be a career milestone for him. And time worked against him constantly. He had much to do. His secretary buzzed in, “Sir, Mr. Carlton is here.”

“Thanks, Joyce. Please send him in.”

Carlton entered the room with obvious trepidation. As he approached Fulton's desk, he removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped sweat from his shining pate. He wore his typical work clothes – a starched, blue Oxford shirt, pressed khaki pants, and penny loafers. Fulton suspected the penny loafers would be replaced with well-worn boots as soon as Carlton returned to his car.

The two men exchanged greetings, Fulton poured them each a cup of coffee, and after a few minutes of small talk, they got down to business. “Mr. Carlton, first I want to thank you for coming in,” Fulton began. “Second, I'd like to dispel some common misconceptions people have regarding the CIA, if you'll permit me.” Fulton walked around to Carlton's side of the desk and sat on it with one leg, creating a more intimate connection with Carlton. “Most people form their perceptions of the CIA based on Hollywood. They assume the CIA abounds with duplicitous spies, secret agents, assassins, and other nefarious characters.

“The truth is we're predominantly bureaucrats, but bureaucrats who pay well when we put work out for contract. Our specifications are quite demanding, as you will soon see. Few can adhere to them.” Fulton paused before continuing. “I understand you are an excellent metal worker, with a top-notch crew.”

“Well, I've been in the business for twenty-two years, and have over two hundred years experience in my team. I'd say we're pretty much up for any challenge,” Carlton responded. Fulton pleasantly noted Carlton's even voice and his relaxed posture. He took Carlton at his word.

“Mr. Carlton, the job I have in mind will require an extraordinary understanding of metal stresses and strains, as well as heat stability. The tolerances are what I consider 'world class'. You're not likely to encounter limits tighter than ours.”

“What is the project, by the way?” Carlton ventured.

Fulton handed Carlton a schematic representing a small part of a picture that, in its entirety, was known only to Fulton and a handful of technicians. Carlton located a small piece of paper with a large dollar figure stapled to the last page. He only took a quick glance, enough to count the zeros. “I need three sets of cylinders, one hundred forty six each, built to these specifications,” Fulton said.

Carlton studied the schematics for some time. Carlton's expression of shock when he reached the last page made Fulton smile. Carlton finally responded, “Wow, these babies are tough! May I ask what they are to be used for?”

“Mr. Carlton, this is the CIA. We pay well because we require the highest quality in the world. And, as you may have surmised, we strongly dissuade curiosity. Am I making myself clear?” Fulton stared directly into Carlton's eyes for several seconds.

“Yes sir, I understand.”

“Excellent, then. Will you take the job?”

“Mr. Fulton, for what you're offering, I'd be a fool not to.”

“I'm just looking for the word 'yes', Mr. Carlton.”

“Yes,” Carlton replied.

“One other thing, Mr. Carlton,” Fulton said, leaning forward on his elbows, “This project has an extremely aggressive timeline. I'll need the first hundred and forty six units delivered within the next ninety days, with each subsequent set delivered every sixty days.”

Carlton couldn't quite conceal his shock. “Mr. Fulton, I'd have to drop every other project I have, and work my men double time to meet those requirements.”

“Welcome to the CIA, Mr. Carlton. I don't think the math should be difficult. This is not a difficult business decision for you. I suspect you know other contractors who can take over your existing projects.”

After staring at his lap for about a minute, Carlton looked up into Fulton's eyes and said, “It'll take me a week to clear my schedule. Can we agree that the clock starts ticking next Monday?”

“Mr. Carlton, I do believe we have a deal.”

After the contractor left, Fulton felt the knot in his stomach relax, having solidified this critical aspect of Project Crossfire. You'll never know what you've done for your country, he thought. But then, no one would ever know what Fulton had done for America either. At least he knew. That would have to be enough. In his line of work, that would always have to be enough.

* * *

Beaumont, South Carolina

Incarceration differed from John's imagination of it. All his life, he had felt imprisoned by his father's roughshod rule. But his father's prison imposed an intellectual loss of freedom, the knowledge that certain actions carried certain consequences. He still had choices in the Drake household, no matter how unpalatable those choices were. When Sheriff Woodson had slammed that high tensile steel door shut and bolted it, an unnatural claustrophobia enveloped John.

He realized a few things quickly. He would not leave the six by nine room until someone else decided he could leave. He would eat only when someone else decided to feed him. He couldn't take a walk, read a book or magazine or even take an aspirin unless someone else allowed it. How would it feel to spend twenty years like that? He thought about all the animals in zoos around the world and wondered if they lived with this feeling. Even the most comfortable prison was still a prison.

The room sported a stainless-steel toilet with no lid, a sink with cold water only and a cot bolted to the concrete wall with an inch thick gymnastic pad as a mattress. They took his watch, so he had no sense of time. This was his universe until someone else decided to change it.

He lay on the cot and tried to clear his mind. He wondered how the boy he hit felt right then. John's father had taught him to abhor violence by doling it out on a regular basis. Although The John brought out the rebel in him, John remained peaceful at heart. He regretted hitting that boy so hard. He could have held back, but he didn't. Why? Nausea chewed at the lining of his stomach.

At some point, the walls no longer felt as if they were closing in on him. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, but his slumber granted no solace. He dreamed of his father, the man who had taught him the unique skills that would soon make him among the most influential men of the late twentieth century. In his dream, in tenth grade, first session report cards had just come out.

* * *

The John chose a ten-foot bullwhip, truncated to five feet, for behavioral modification. This shortening minimized collateral damage to lamps and other fragile household items. The John was remarkably considerate in such matters.

The smell of whiskey permeated the room, and although John knew the scent well, his kid brother did not register it as he huddled in the corner, crying as silently as possible. John grinned at Perry, giving him a wink to ease the kid's discomfort. More than anything else, John wanted to shield Perry from the scene to follow.

“Get on the bed!” The John bellowed to his son, who, knowing the drill, was already stripping off his shirt.

The first strike from a bullwhip immediately raises a welt roughly the diameter of a small cigar. Whenever a subsequent blow lands across one of these welts, the skin splits and blood spurts out.

The John swung the whip with the fury and passion of a Golden Gloves champion, searching for just one more victory in his life. When he had no adversary to defeat, a poison began to build in The John, slowly at first, but always reaching a crescendo. Every blow, every time his whip permanently reshaped his son's flesh and mind, a little of that poison would drain out of him.

The white scar tissue on John's back helped to ease the pain, but his deepest scars, and the source of all his strength, existed solely in his mind.

The sound of leather skillfully used against human flesh continued. Each lick sounded like something between a firecracker and a rat-tail from a wet towel. The John utilized all the techniques he had learned as a champion boxer and a scratch golfer. Every swing originated from the soles of his feet, initiating a progressive torque throughout his body, culminating in a super-sonic whip velocity.

The John swung as hard as he could, as many times as he could. For a man of 50 years, his effort carried considerable enthusiasm. John did not register the passage of time. He floated outside his body.

The John, bathed in sweat, stood above his son, covered in blood. They looked like gladiators exhausted from battle, but not ready to quit.

When The John's right arm completely gave out, he switched to the left. Though not a southpaw, long years of perfecting his jab and left hook had given him substantial control and power in his left arm. The revolting sound of leather upon flesh resumed.

Finally, The John reached a point where he had his hands on his knees. Doused in sweat and gasping for breath, he glared at John with an unbearable rage. He still had fight left in him. He always had fight left in him.

John turned, staring evenly into The John's hardened eyes. As The John wheezed for oxygen, his eyes stinging with sweat, John smiled and said,

“You can start whenever you're ready.”

* * *

“Breakfast, John.”

John jerked upright, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. He shook his head and squinted at the Sheriff, raising his other hand to block the glare.

Sheriff Woodson resembled a well-fed bear that ate mostly from dumpsters. He weighed in at almost three hundred pounds. His salt and pepper moustache completely concealed his mouth. The hair on his arms formed a thicket. But, when he opened his mouth, the macho illusion evaporated.

A big man, Woodson was cursed with the voice of a Boys Choir soprano. That tiny, high-pitched voice coming out of Woodson's mouth resembled some weird ventriloquist's act. Physically, he could take any of the roughnecks around Beaumont. But instead of respect, he usually got ridicule. They thought he didn't hear them making fun of him, but he heard more than they thought. Over time, this had made him mean.

Woodson slid the traditional Southern breakfast of eggs, grits, toast and sausage through the slot in the bottom of John's cell door. He spoke without looking at John.

“There was this kid I sent to Juvi a few years back. I thought he was basically a good kid, so I kept an eye on him. His name was Mario. He was a tough guy, just like you. In Juvi, he was tough shit - let me tell you. He was in the gang that ran the place. But, two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, he got pinched for grand theft auto. That little stunt landed him in Wallbash.

“Now, here's this kid who's used to being the toughest thing around and suddenly he's just another punk. That's their favorite kind of new guy, by the way. They love the ones who fight back. They love to bring them down a few notches.

“Mario was raped so brutally and so often that his anal sphincter was damaged beyond repair. They had to sew it shut and give him a colostomy bag. Can you imagine wearing one of those for the rest of your life?” Woodson looked at John as if he expected him to answer. When he didn't, Woodson continued. “Well, about a month later, Mario comes into the infirmary again and his colostomy hole is infected. You know what it turned out to be? Gonorrhea. That's the kind of place you're gonna spend the next twenty years in.”

“Twenty years?” John said, “Just for a fist fight?”

“Fist fight?” Woodson said, his face growing purple, “Son, that boy is dead.”

John couldn't respond. This couldn't be true. This couldn't be happening. He had killed only one living thing in his entire life, and that damned dove still haunted him. Now, they were saying he'd killed an innocent man. He wondered if they were right. His hands began to tremble. He felt light headed. There had to be a mistake – mixed up medical records or something. He just punched the guy.

“You're going to be charged with murder, son,” Woodson said.

“Sheriff, I, I mean, I didn't…you know it was an accident. You know I'm not a killer.”

“I don't know any such thing. What I do know is you have a history with this boy. I also know you hit him with that ball on purpose. I've been watching you pitch since seventh grade, and I know the control you have.”

When the Sheriff spoke, John saw his moustache move, but his mouth remained hidden. This unsettling him quietly, John felt his neck and face getting hot. Anger suddenly consumed him for no apparent reason. He responded to Woodson with volcanic rage.

“You don't know shit,” John spat. “You think you're something, don't you, riding around in a squad car, busting kids for drinking beer and smoking pot. 'To protect and serve', huh? Well, who exactly do you protect and serve? That is, besides yourself.”

“You think this is a game? Huh?” Woodson said, “You think this is funny? This ain't high school, where you can shoot your smart mouth off and just get detention. You're an adult, son, and that's the way you're going to be tried. You can play games if you want, but all Parker needs do is convince twelve people you're guilty, and snap - it's slammer-time.

“Let's see how that mouth serves you when you're in prison for the next 25 years to life. I bet those boys in Wallbash will just love your mouth.” The Sheriff made a kissing noise from behind his unkempt moustache.

“I always knew you'd amount to no good. You're in so deep this time, even your daddy won't be able to get you off.” Woodson's gin blossoms were further reddened by his anger. John couldn't guess whose side Woodson would choose. Although The John was officially his friend and political ally, Woodson clearly resented the man's influence and power. “I've just got one question, John. I've seen Clay, Marciano, Louis, all the great heavyweights fight, and I've never seen a person killed with a single punch. How'd you do it?”

“I don't know,” John replied, his tone calmer now. John knew if he got worked up, his cage would feel all the smaller for it, so he tuned Woodson out and closed his eyes. At times like this, when he wanted to speedily shut out the world, John focused his entire mind on a single word, phrase or thought, to the exclusion of all else.

When the Sheriff realized John had tuned him out, he left in a huff. “Yea, they're just gonna love your mouth,” he repeated as he loped away.

After a few minutes, John silently picked up his tray and began his breakfast. He finished everything but the sausage. Having nothing else to occupy him until lunchtime, John stood on the toilet to improve his view to the outside world. Behind the county lockup opened a massive cotton field, an ocean of white swabs extending for over a mile. The field reminded John of the tops of the clouds as seen from above. The John wanted all his children to experience flight at least once, so he arranged for John, at fifteen, to be taken up in a C-130 from the local Air National Guard unit. John remembered every detail of the trip. Possibly his most pleasant father-son memory.

Beyond the cotton field was the edge of an enormous pine forest. John knew that forest well. He had been exploring it since he was six. Over the years he had found several rich veins of petrified wood, two openings to underground streams, the occasional deer or dog skeleton, and his most prized find - a rusted WWII bayonet. The bayonet's handle had been rotten with age, but John had remedied this condition with a thick layer of duct tape.

Doves swarmed overhead, devouring every insect in their paths. Above the cotton field, doves glided and swooped as they gorged themselves on the ample supply of mosquitoes in the Southern air. John had read somewhere that Doves each consumed over two thousand mosquitoes per day. That did involve a lot of eating, but about a million too few by John's reckoning. The doves reminded him of the painful incident that made him a vegetarian.

As the day progressed, he saw the heat waves rising from the cotton. By mid morning, a glimmering mirage overtook the center of the field. It resembled an enormous black pond.

When the Sheriff brought John's lunch, he saw the boy hadn't moved. Woodson noticed that John had not touched his sausage. “Not hungry, Big Boy?”

“I don't like sausage,” John said blandly.