Full Blast (A Brady Hawk novel Book 4) Read online

  Alex slowly shook her head.

  “If you’re not perfect for this job, nobody is.”

  “Plenty of people believe like I do. I’m not unique in that way.”

  She smiled. “But you have the skill set necessary to take the proper action.”

  “I’ve survived so far,” Hawk said with a shrug. “And I’ve got no intention of stopping now.”

  “Well, this is great and all, but I’m not sure I can be of much help. There’s no way I can retrieve any of my gear from my apartment. I’m sure Searchlight is sitting on it now, if they haven’t already gutted it.”

  “Then you’ll need to come with me to Prague.”

  “Doesn’t Blunt frown upon that?”

  “Blunt will frown upon anything, but he won’t care as long as we get results. We’ll get much better results with you in the city helping me than on the other side of the planet.”

  “And you’ll be able to secure the type of equipment I need there? It’s not cheap either.”

  Hawk nodded. “I understand, but I’ve got a former CIA contact there who can help us get what we need. He’s in private security and won’t have a problem getting quick access to all your high-end gadgetry.”

  “And you think you can afford it?”

  “Firestorm is flush with cash. All that money we got from Al Hasib in the Congo will be more than enough.”

  Hawk went to his bedroom and grabbed a small suitcase for Alex. He returned and handed it to her.

  “You’re going to need this. Go to the store and grab a few outfits, some casual ones and maybe a nice one. You never know what the mission might hold. Then meet me at the airfield in two hours. I’ll notify the pilot, and we’ll be wheels up three hours from now.”

  “Two hours for clothes shopping? Have you ever shopped with a woman before?”

  Hawk shook his head. “Why? Is that too much time?”

  Alex rolled her eyes. “Like I said, you’re perfect for this job. However, as a fashion expert . . . not so much.”

  Hawk eyed her cautiously. “I never claimed to be a fashion expert.”

  “Just don’t quit your day job,” Alex said. “Two hours at the airfield. I’ll be ready.”

  CHAPTER 8

  A Countryside Farmhouse

  Třebotov, Czech Republic

  YASEEN ABBADI ADJUSTED his red-and-white shemagh and repositioned the long tassels hanging off the side. He glanced back up at the television where the news commentator explained that a peace summit might result in some traffic delays later during the week. Abbadi stood up and walked around the living area, stopping to look outside at his security detail standing guard around the small farm villa he’d rented for the days leading up to the summit.

  With all the turmoil swirling around him, Abbadi decided he needed to get out of Amman early and clear his head. The only reason he entered politics was for this moment. As long as he could remember, he wanted to live in a world full of peace, devoid of terrorism, both home grown and foreign. His proposed treaty would align several nations and give the region an opportunity to expand, perhaps even experience an economic revolution. For years, the indiscriminate bloodshed was what held everyone back. No business would consider investing in a war-torn area.

  Abbadi’s proposed treaty would soon change all that.

  Terrorists wouldn’t be able to hide any longer. Shared information would help nations policing the hinterlands. Terrorist camps would be forced underground, if they somehow remained existent. Peace would rule again while less inclined nations would attract the miscreants. At least, that was Abbadi’s hope with the signed treaty. There were always plenty of places to hide in the desert, but he wanted to make sure Jordan and his neighbors weren’t among them. Lebanon, Israel, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Iraq—they couldn’t be expected to guarantee the absence of terrorists, but each country could cooperatively strike back against such organizations. It was an unlikely alliance on paper, but Abbadi was close to making it a reality.

  But not everyone liked it.

  He opened his Quran and sought wisdom. It was a tricky proposition. He read: There is no compulsion where the religion is concerned, in V.2:256. Then he kept reading, reaching V.2:190-191: And fight in the Way of Allah those who fight you, but transgress not the limits. Truly, Allah likes not the transgressors. And kill them wherever you find them, and turn them out from where they have turned you out. And Al-Fitnah is worse than killing. And fight not with them at Al-Masjid-al-Haram (the sanctuary at Makkah), unless they (first) fight you there. But if they attack you, then kill them. Such is the recompense of the disbelievers.

  Why must you make it so difficult, Allah?

  Abbadi wished for easy answers, almost as much as he wished for peace. If everything had been more easily explained, perhaps the current situation would’ve never arisen, he mused to himself.

  But wishful thinking wouldn’t help him move forward. However, lamenting past mistakes might help Abbadi—and all the nations involved—avoid similar missteps in the future. They had long since past time for when simple conversations would have had an opportunity to work. Now, action needed to be taken . . . and taken quickly.

  Aside from his long-standing desire to simply live in a peaceful world, Abbadi’s desire to see this deal come to fruition had much to do with the birth of his daughter, Fatima. Over the years, Abbadi had seen countless interviews with grieving mothers who’d lost a young child in a war-like action. A bombing, an air strike, a drone missile. The method varied, but the results remained the same: someone no longer had a child.

  He recalled watching his daughter before she left for an elite boarding school in Prague. Fatima sat at the kitchen table as she sketched a portrait of her best friend. The subtle lines and beautiful shading she mimicked on paper took what could have been little more than a sweet drawing by a friend to a true work of art. She lifted her pencil off the page and smiled. When Fatima turned the paper around to show her friend, she squealed with delight.

  “Can I make this my Facebook profile?” the friend asked.

  Fatima nodded and smiled back, the pride shown all over her face.

  Abbadi remembered the moment and used it as a catalyst to press ahead. Such enduring memories drove him even more to give his daughter a world where she could be free to be whoever she wanted to be and learn whatever she wanted to learn. She didn’t need to be constricted by narrow interpretations of the Quran. An unexplored world was out there just waiting for her . . . and Abbadi couldn’t wait to introduce her to it.

  When he’d first expressed this desire to his wife, she wept. She had adhered to the cultural rules of the time, even though she wanted to do so much more. And when her own husband suggested giving her permission to do things that for generations had been limited to men-only activities, she leapt at the chance.

  Even such generous extensions of grace resulted in a backlash against Abbadi. The old guard wondered how King Talal II had even allowed such a man to serve at the pleasure of the people, elections or not. Abbadi had made every effort to be fair in all his dealings with all people, but he recognized he needed to possess more tact.

  Looking outside the big glass window of his temporary Třebotov farmhouse, Abbadi realized it was only a matter of time before King Talal II removed him, just as Abbadi had seen done before with other prime ministers who didn’t meet the king’s standard.

  An idea struck Abbadi, an idea that provided a way out for him. He’d be able to keep his position, and all while helping the people. And King Talal II would think it was his idea.

  Abbadi smiled and commenced to jotting down on paper what he’d found. He also checked his calendar to see that he had a special lunch date set up with Fatima for the next day. His grin grew even wider.

  But it was a fleeting smile.

  Abbadi’s phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Abbadi,” the man said.

  “Yes,” Abbadi said. “Who is this?”

  “W
ho I am isn’t important,” the man said. “But what is important is that we have your daughter.”

  “Fatima,” Abbadi exclaimed.

  “Our demands are simple,” the man said. “Dissolve the treaty later this week . . . or there will be dire consequences for your daughter. We’ll be watching.”

  Click.

  CHAPTER 9

  Wednesday

  Prague, Czech Republic

  HAWK WATCHED AS A PEEP HOLE slid open and a pair of beady eyes pressed against the slot. A deep scar and an intricate tattoo pattern ran across the bridge of the man’s nose, prompting Hawk to question his decision to reach out to the man for help. Hawk glanced at Alex, who appeared equally disturbed by the man’s appearance.

  “Co chceš?” the man asked.

  Hawk knew enough Czech to get by.

  “Světový mír,” he said, responding with the password Blunt had given him: world peace.

  A series of clicks continued for fifteen seconds until the door finally swung open.

  Hawk looked up at the man, a rare event in his life. In that moment, Hawk also hoped that he never offended the man to the point that it would come to blows.

  “J.D. Blunt sent us,” Hawk said.

  The man gestured for Hawk and Alex to hurry inside before shutting the door and re-securing all the locks. He then turned to his visitors and offered his hand.

  “They call me Tiny,” he said in a broken English accent.

  Hawk tried to stifle a smile. He found the nickname for a man that large humorous, even though it was a practice that extended deep into the annals of history.

  “It’s okay to laugh,” the man bellowed in his deep voice. “I know what it means.”

  Hawk relaxed and looked over at Alex, whose furrowed brow had vanished from her face.

  “What do you need?” Tiny asked.

  “We need some communication devices and a high-powered laptop,” Hawk said. “And Blunt says you’re the man.”

  A wry smile spread across Tiny’s face. “Indeed, I am. Give me a minute.”

  Tiny disappeared into a backroom and re-emerged shortly with a laptop and a set of com links.

  “Scrambling software embedded on this laptop. It will give you at least one hour,” Tiny said, placing the laptop in a bag and handing it to Hawk.

  Tiny proceeded to press the com link set into Hawk’s hand.

  “Coms will last for two days on one charge. Good luck.”

  Hawk nodded. “How much for all this?”

  “I owe Blunt my life. Take it.”

  Taken aback by the statement, Hawk wasn’t sure whether he should have pressed the issue. He decided to try. “Are you sure?” Hawk asked. “I know this wasn’t cheap.”

  “It’s a gift. Good luck.”

  Hawk wanted to find out more about Tiny’s relationship with Blunt, starting with how their paths crossed. But there was another question Hawk knew would be sure to gnaw at him for a few days: How could Blunt have saved this beast of a man? And while Blunt wasn’t a pushover, how was it not Tiny saving Blunt?

  Hawk stopped at the door and looked back at Tiny.

  “I just have one question for you,” Hawk said.

  Tiny shook his head and wagged his finger. “I only provide equipment, no answers.”

  Hawk remained undeterred. “It’s just that—”

  Tiny lumbered toward Hawk. “I can help with your mission, but nothing else. The less we know about each other, the better.”

  “Anything we should know about the Pachtuv Palace Hotel?”

  Tiny shrugged. “Use the front doors to enter; exit through underground tunnels. But be careful. I heard chatter that someone was going to assassinate the prime minister from Jordan.”

  Hawk thanked Tiny again and exited the building. They returned to their car and headed to the Pachtuv Palace Hotel.

  “What did you think about that guy?” Hawk asked.

  “I hope he wasn’t selling us down the river,” Alex said.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know, but I wish Blunt would’ve told you more about him. I hate just having to trust him with my life in situations like these.”

  Hawk slowed the car down as they approached a red light. “It’s situations like these that I implicitly trust Blunt with my life. You don’t need to worry. He’s not going to set some trap for us or send us to someone who might be suspect when we need help.”

  Alex shook her head. “Blunt’s not infallible, you know? Even someone in his own organization, The Chamber, tried to take him out, and he said he had no idea it was coming. Either he’s lying or he’s naïve, or quite possibly both.”

  “Everyone gets blindsided on occasion,” Hawk said with a shrug. “I never would’ve guessed you would even consider leaving Firestorm.”

  “I never technically left.”

  Hawk eased onto the gas as the light turned green. “And Al Capone technically was only guilty of tax evasion.”

  “Okay, okay. You win. But that still doesn’t mean Tiny is who he says he is.”

  “Check out the laptop when we get to the hotel, and if it’s not to your liking, you can resume your suspicion of Tiny. Deal?”

  A half hour later, they pulled into the Pachtuv Palace Hotel, checking in under assumed names as part of the U.S. State Department security team. Alex had an easy enough time hacking the fed’s database to insert their aliases into the system, almost as easy as booting out a pair of guests and taking their rooms when she hacked the hotel’s reservation system.

  “This ought to be a lot of fun,” Alex said as she got out of the car and gazed at the old world architecture of their new home for the next few days.

  Hawk also scanned the area and nodded approvingly. “Yeah, this is a really nice place.” He paused for a moment. “Hopefully we won’t cause any permanent damage.”

  “As long as we keep Abbadi safe,” she said.

  Once they settled into their rooms, Hawk decided to pay the hotel’s security chief a little visit and warn him about what he was up against.

  The nameplate on the edge of the security chief’s desk read Dalek Jelinek, though Hawk wasn’t sure who he was since the person’s face was buried in a newspaper.

  “Hello,” Hawk said.

  The man didn’t move.

  “Hello?” Hawk said again.

  The man dropped the newspaper.

  “Can’t you see I’m reading here?” he said before burying his nose in the paper again.

  Hawk nodded. “Are you Mr. Jelinek?”

  “Who wants to know?” he asked, refusing to move his paper.

  Hawk took a deep breath and introduced himself as his legend, a Mr. Will Roberts, serving as part of the advance security team sent by the U.S. State Department.

  “We need to keep this place safe,” Hawk said. “And I have it on a very good authority that it won’t be unless we can make it that way.”

  “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

  Hawk nodded. “There’s going to be an attack on your grounds, maybe even your entire hotel.”

  “If they come at us, we’ll be ready. We pride ourselves on the tight security we provide. It’s why this place is chosen for such events.” Jelinek waved dismissively at Hawk. “Let me know if you need anything. I can assure you that my team will have this facility completely secure by the time all the dignitaries start arriving.”

  “I’m more concerned about a lurking threat that’s already here,” Hawk said.

  “That’s absurd,” Jelinek said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Roberts, I still have a job to do myself.”

  Hawk walked backward until he reached the doorway, upon which time he stopped and looked back at Jelinek, who’d hoisted his newspaper in front of his face again.

  “It won’t be absurd if you are the one who gets to take all the credit for stopping a major terrorist threat that would’ve ended any possibility of peace.”

  Jelinek didn’t flinch.

&nbs
p; Hawk shook his head as he exited the room. If Jelinek didn’t want to help, there was nothing Hawk could do about it, except put down the threat himself.

  CHAPTER 10

  South Ellwood Offshore Oil Field

  Off the coast of Central California

  BLUNT GRITTED HIS TEETH while navigating his boat closer to the shore. He kept his head down and didn’t move for almost an hour after he was shot other than to apply pressure to his wound. The sniper would’ve likely killed him in any other environment, but Blunt’s premonition and choppy waters resulted in a painful injury instead.

  Once he regained his strength, Blunt did whatever he could to change the appearance of his ship. He swapped out a couple of the flags and applied a special temporary sticker over the spot where Pequod was stenciled onto the side. Now his boat was called the Intrepid. He’d never had to test his craft’s disguise before, but he deemed it a success when he passed a Coast Guard cruiser headed in the same direction where he came from.

  However, Blunt wasn’t satisfied that he’d truly outwitted anyone with his quick makeover. The operation to eliminate him was likely kept quiet, though Blunt figured the Coast Guard crew he passed had been ordered to check on an abandoned boat floating in international waters.

  Blunt looked at his arm and winced at the sight of all the blood still fresh around his wound. He needed some medical attention sooner rather than later, which proved to be a challenge given the fact that his own government was trying to kill him. Once the Coast Guard reported that there was no boat at the coordinates they’d been given, an intense manhunt would commence. FBI agents would search every dock and slip along the California coast all in the name of a conjured up threat to homeland security.

  There was only one place he could find refuge while he dealt with his injury: an oil platform. Many platforms contained a full-time medic to deal with potentially dangerous injuries that could result while working in the water or on the rig itself. Blunt hoped he found a sympathetic medic who could also be discreet. Once his wounds were dressed, Blunt intended to travel to Mexico and find a way to get to a country with no U.S. extradition treaty. It was a simple plan, but one he presumed he could pull off.