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  Savage Justice

  A Ryan Savage Thriller | Book 2

  Jason Briggs

  Copyright © 2019 by Jason Briggs

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  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

  Author’s Note

  Also by Jason Briggs

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The Middle Eastern night held a chill that had already started to settle into his bones. He really hated the cold. Over the last several years, he had trained in the wet jungles of Brazil, the mountainous forests of Virginia, and the sandy beaches of North Carolina. He didn’t mind those. He didn’t even mind the deserts—in the daytime. It was the fifty-degree loss of temperature overnight that really got to him.

  But tonight wasn’t part of any training exercise. This was the real deal.

  He focused past the irritant of a low mercury and continued to pan the horizon with his night vision binoculars, alternating his gaze between the open desert to his left and the barren ridge above the cliffs to his left.

  The young E-5 Delta Force operator was on overwatch on top of a neutral ridge. His pack lay on the ground in front of him. On it rested the barrel of his Heckler and Koch 416 carbine—designated the M27. The assault rifle was chambered in 5.56 NATO and had a 16.5-inch barrel. With a multi-position telescopic buttstock and proprietary gas piston system, the weapon was incredibly accurate. There was no other frontline battle rifle that compared.

  Above the soldier, a hundred thousand stars twinkled against the black mantel of the desert sky. Two hundred meters downslope his troop lay asleep, tucked into their RON (“remain overnight”) hide along the base of a rising cliff face.

  He had already gotten his sleep for the night. But he still felt unusually tired. When his turn in the rotation came up, it had taken his Sergeant Major two full minutes to wake him. After plenty of prodding, shaking, and cursing it finally took the toe of the ranking soldier's boot in his ribs to wake him from his slumbers.

  That was almost two hours ago. But even now he couldn’t seem to shake the weariness he felt in his eyes and the muddled haziness he was experiencing between his ears. It was like he had taken a sleeping pill and couldn’t shake it off. They had just under an hour before BMNT (“Beginning of morning nautical twilight”)—dawn—when they would pack up and continue on to their final waypoint. Maybe the movement would serve to wake him up.

  He saw a shudder of movement in the distance and zoomed in near where his troop was sleeping. His commander, Major Dennis Archer, was out of his bag. He lay a hand against the face of the cliff and leaned over as though looking at his feet. His mouth suddenly yawed open and the E-5 watched his Major vomit up the contents of his stomach. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and then stumbled along the base of the cliff like a town drunk, his knees buckling, his head moving from side to side. He walked twenty yards into the open and started shaking his head like he was trying to rid his ears of an irritating song.

  What he did next sent an eerie chill down the back of his E-5 on overwatch.

  Major Archer kneeled down on the desert floor beside a rock the size of a small chair. He placed his hands on either side and, with no thought to pain or consequences began to bash his forehead on the top of the rock. Thunk. He did it again. Thunk. Again. Thunk.

  His E-5 flinched and keyed the mic of his multiband inter/intra team radio. “Commander. Commander. What are you doing?”

  Thunk.

  His commander was not responding.

  Thunk.

  “Team 8, this is Crawler. Wake the hell up!”

  Thunk.

  His team was not responding. Everyone was mic'd. Out here you didn’t sleep without your earpiece in. No one, however, was stirring.

  Blood was pouring down the officer’s face. His movements were slower now, and he started to wobble from side to side.

  Another flutter of movement came from the troop’s hide. The operator on overwatch turned his attention to it and watched as his Sergeant Major and the troop’s ranking NCO, Hopper Carlson, stumbled away from the three remaining operators still asleep on the ground. As if viewing a rerun the E-5 watched as his Sergeant Major struggled away from on legs that looked like they were about to give out. He leaned over, set his hands on his knees, and evacuated the contents of his stomach. He wretched for half a minute until there was nothing left to come up. Then he removed his hands from his knees and stood.

  A gunshot rattled across the dark stillness of the desert.

  The Major’s body was sprawled across the rock, the side of his head now displaying a massive hole where the bullet had found its exit.

  The E-5 had a fleeting thought that perhaps this was some kind of hazing. the first mission as a special force warrior, as a full-blown Delta Operator.

  But the hopeful idea quickly faded as he recalled the nature of their mission and the prevalence of known insurgents within the general region. This was not a hazing, it was not a soldier’s version of a collegiate prank. Whatever was happening out there was real. It was nightmarish and real, the scene from a hideous and distasteful horror movie.

  He returned his attention to his Sergeant Major, who had moved five yards from his previous position. He was staring down toward his feet now, unmoving. leaned down and picked up a large rock in both hands. Then he started hitting himself in the face with it.

  “Sergeant Major!” What in God’s name was happening? “Sergeant Major Carlson!

  Thunk.

  Suddenly, Carlson dropped the rock and let out a blood-curdling scream. He grabbed both his ears and shook his head before kicking at the dirt while running in a tight circle.

  “Sergeant Major!”

  Carlson stopped abruptly. He looked up at the stars and blinked. And before his subordinates knew what was happening he withdrew his sidearm, set it to his temple, and pressed the trigger. His head kicked to one side and his body crumbled to the ground.

  The E-5’s hands were trembling now. He had been trained for nearly every possible scenario on the battlefield. But he had been fully unprepared to watch his two superiors suddenly act as if they were possessed and then take their own lives. While on a mission no less. Everyone had seemed fine before they settled in for the night: jokes, quiet laughter, and easy banter.


  He keyed the microphone to his satellite radio. “Eagle Base, this is Crawler 03. Come in.”

  He waited several seconds. “Eagle Base reads Crawler 03. Go ahead.”

  “Eagle we have—have a problem. Streak and Rover are down.”

  There was a pause. “Say again Crawler 03. Did you make enemy contact?”

  “Negative. Streak and Rover are dead. They came out of their bags and—and killed themselves with their own pistols. One—one right after the other.”

  He knew he was speaking with Corporal Robins. The base Lieutenant Colonel would still be asleep, if not just waking.

  “Standby Crawler 03.”

  He waited for what felt like an eternity. He used the uneasy silence to surveyed the carnage below, still unable to believe what his eyes had seen. He looked back to the hide. Still, no one stirred. These were the kind of warriors who would wake if a feather touched down within thirty years of their position. But now two gunshots had gone off in close proximity and yet they continued to sleep.

  Finally, a deep voice pierced the silence–the voice of Colonel Art Dunford. “Crawler 03, this is Solo 1. Please repeat.”

  He recited his previous transmission, telling the officer of the odd and unsettling behavior of his Major and then his Sergeant Major before they took their own lives without a moment’s hesitation.

  “What is your position?”

  “I’m on overwatch. Franks, Colton, and Smith are in their bags in the position relayed to base last night. I can’t get them to wake. They’re not responding to me.”

  Another long pause. “And no enemy contact? Before or after the... events.”

  “No, sir.”

  “A bird is in the air. Twenty-two minutes out. Stay on overwatch for ten and then make your way down and join your troop. Try and rouse them if you can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Eagle, out.”

  He set the mic down and stared off into the distance. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

  A wave of exhaustion washed over him again, causing a mild panic to well up inside. What the hell was going on? He suddenly remembered his gas mask, buried inside his pack. He scrambled to his knees and slid his rifle to the side. Lifting up his pack he tore through it and located the mask. He pulled it out, removed his helmet, and slipped the mask over his face, then pulled the straps taught.

  There were no WMDs in Afghanistan, and he had no explanation for what was going on. But maybe local insurgents had released a toxin or nerve gas the air.

  He kept his eyes downslope and scanned the horizon, trying to avoid looking at the bodies of his dead leaders as he listened to his shaky breaths echoing inside his mask.

  He was no longer thinking about how cold he was.

  Chapter Two

  Nine Months Later

  My lungs burned as my feet shot across the fifth front yard in the last thirty seconds. Up ahead, the greasy-haired man darted between two houses and disappeared from view. I pumped my legs even faster and turned after him, cutting between the houses just in time to see him scramble up a stockade fence and vault over.

  On the other side, a lady screamed.

  Reaching the fence I quickly scaled it and dropped into the grass of yet another backyard. I located the source of the scream. A young, slim lady was sunbathing on a lounge next to her pool. She was sitting bolt upright now and when she saw me she looked more irritated than scared.

  “Sorry,” I called behind me and didn’t take any time to explain. I reached the gate, yanked it open, and cut across the front lawn and back onto another street. He was still a good twenty yards ahead of me, but I was finally gaining on him.

  There’s something about chasing down an elusive fugitive that is supremely satisfying.

  I watched him reach the end of the neighborhood, cross the street, and tear across the front lawn of a preschool, quickly disappearing around the far corner of the building. Within moments he reappeared with a panicked look on his face as he decided where to go next. He locked defiant eyes with me before shooting back across the grass toward a neighboring building that I was fairly certain was a dentist’s office.

  The reason for his sudden change of course appeared from around the corner huffing like an asthmatic teenager. When Brad Pierce—my best friend and agency partner—saw me, he smiled and quit running.

  Great, he was going to let me do all the work.

  I gave him the bird as I ran by and followed Travis Harker to the next building where he was already on the far end of its mostly empty parking lot. From there he charged into a busy street filled with midday traffic speeding by.

  By sheer luck, an SUV missed him by inches, and the driver slammed on his brakes and let the world know his opinion on the matter by laying on his horn for an obnoxiously long period of time.

  Looking both ways I skirted a couple of cars and made it to the other side where Harker was racing down the sidewalk weaving in and out of pedestrians.

  They say it’s the small things in life that count. A young boy—possibly eight or nine—was stepping out of a hobby shop just as Harker risked a glance back at me. The shop’s glass door swung outward and caught Harker’s entire body just as he was turning around.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  The glass shattered, sounding like a small explosion, and the top hinge tore away from the frame as it took the force of the impact. Harker was thrown to the ground amid a thousand pieces of broken safety glass.

  I drew up and my feet crunched over glass as I came and stood over him. His nose was clearly broken; it lay at an unnatural angle. Blood was gushing from it and running freely onto his T-shirt.

  I didn’t know where the boy’s parents were, but he looked down at Harker, then to the handcuffs I’d just taken out, and then back at the broken door. “Cool!” he exclaimed. “This is awesome!”

  A large man appeared behind him wearing an apron and holding an unfinished model airplane. “What’d you do to my door?” he barked.

  I flashed my badge and apologized, then quickly explained what had happened. “I’m sure your insurance will take care of the replacement,” I said. A crowd had started to gather, so I pulled Harker to his feet and forced him into an alley a couple of storefronts down. The boy tried to follow, but I sent him away.

  Once in the alley, I threw Harker back to the ground where he landed with a painful grunt. A moment later Brad appeared beside me. He leaned over and placed his hands on his knees while he tried to regain his breath.

  “Hey,” he said, still wheezing, “you...got him.”

  “You need to lie low on the doughnuts. I can’t keep doing all the work.”

  “I redirected him! You’d still be chasing him if it wasn’t for me.”

  “So you’re an overpaid scarecrow?”

  “No,” he frowned. “I’m not overpaid.”

  Returning my attention to Harker I kneeled down, rolled him onto his stomach, and cuffed him. Harker had been on the loose for the last three months, wanted for hacking into government servers containing information on terrorists aboard.

  I looked at my wristwatch and cursed. “Your little antics are going to make me late for an important party.”

  He coughed and tried to look up at me. “If I—I would have known that I might’ve made you chase me longer.”

  I brought my foot back and sent the toe of my shoe into his ribs. I was pretty sure I cracked a rib or two and he howled out in pain.

  “Let me know if you want to keep being a smartass,” I said. “There’s more where that came from.”

  I tossed my truck keys to Brad. “Bring my truck over. I’ll wait with him here.”

  “What? So now I’m a taxi driver?”

  “Yep. An overpaid taxi driver.”

  Chapter Three

  After getting Harker booked and locked away for the night I drove back to Key Largo, where I kept my houseboat in a permanent slip at Cozy Crawfish Marina. I boarded and took a quick shower before getting out, shaving,
and then combing my black hair with the help of a little pomade. I opened my closet door and located the one suit I owned in the back, then pushed past the long row of T-shirts, polo shirts, and a hand full of button-downs before tugging the suit free.

  I laid it on the bed and examined it. It was a single-breasted, two-button navy blue. I hadn’t worn it in over six months. Not since my boss, Kathleen, was thrown an awards ceremony for her dedicated service to Homeland Security. My daily uniform generally entailed cargo shorts and a T-shirt; a polo shirt on days when an assignment required me to dress up. With most of my investigative work being done in and around the Florida Keys, anything more would only draw attention. Most of the time extra attention was a bad thing, so the suit never came out.

  I donned a white undershirt and then a crisp white dress shirt that I’d picked up from the dry cleaners yesterday. After buttoning up the shirt, I pulled on a pair of nylon blend dress socks before slipping into the suit and donning a pair of brown Oxfords. I finished the ensemble with a bright green tie and a brown belt. Stepping up to the mirror mounted on the bullhead I adjusted the knot on my tie and decided I looked as dapper as I was going to get. After packing a small overnight bag I grabbed my truck keys from a bowl in the galley and stepped back out onto the dock.

  “Well, look at you!” I turned to see Edith Wilson smiling at me from the shade of a wide-brimmed straw hat. She and her husband Rich lived on a catamaran at the other end of the marina. The two of them were like an aunt and uncle to me. At least, what I thought it might be like to have an aunt and uncle—I’ve never had much family to speak of. Edith was holding a leash with a Yorkshire Terrier attached at the other end. “What lucky girl have you been hiding away from us?”