American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) (3 page)

And, from somewhere among the sunbaked huts on both sides of the dusty road, Taliban snipers. Two white-turbaned men stepped from behind the roofs and onto their front ledges armed with WWII bolt-action rifles. Several more rushed out from open doorways brandishing some kind of Kalashnikov clones. The weapons were old and cheap; didn’t take a lot of money to start a war.

Boom! A massive explosion with black mushroom plumes of smoke rose to the sky. The lead vehicle had hit a giant IED, one that was too big to have been swept. With a huge crater now in front of them, the following vehicles stopped in their tracks.

More Taliban insurgents poured from the houses and swarmed the vehicles. A young Taliban teenager full of unrepressed excitement charged out like Rambo, firing at anything. Rayna calmly took aim. She fired three bullets, wasting two of them—the kid was dead after the first round.

“Through the huts!” she yelled.
 

The Husky turned and aimed for the closest hut.

Another IED. Boom! But this one had nowhere near the destructive power of the first one, so the vehicle plowed down the hut like a Rocky Marciano fist on the jaw of a featherweight.

“You guys move on. We’ll stay back and draw fire.”

Gerrard saw a blur in the shadows behind one of the carts in the dust. He raised his rifle and followed the silhouette. The blur sprang into the open, revealing a fully grown man in his thirties. Turbaned, gaunt with the leathered skin of someone who lived in the sun, he tossed a white phosphorus grenade at the Quebec native.

BOOM! A billow of fire engulfed Gerrard’s body. He screamed, dropping to the ground. He tried to roll out the flames but no deal—he was being barbecued alive!

BOOM! Gerrard rolled into another IED. His helmet flew into the air. Fragments of flesh and dust filled the air.

Rayna launched into a frenzy. She fired at Gerrard’s assassin relentlessly. He was dead. Dead. Dead. She raced to a cluster of bombed-out cars. Fire burst out at her from the Taliban snipers on the roof.

Still on the move, Rayna chucked a grenade at an insurgent standing on a roof twenty yards from her. “That’s for Gerrard, asshole!” she yelled as a series of huge explosions belching smoke and fire saturated the air. Not only the hut where the sniper stood exploded, but structures on either side blew up with it. Rayna grinned—that hut must have been a storage place for an explosives IED factory.

She began to walk backward. A shot rang by her ear and she dropped to the ground. She looked in the direction the bullet came from—the shooter was Boom Boom.

“What the…!”

“The ground two feet ahead of you, Rayna!” shouted Boom Boom.

Rayna, lying prone, then saw what Boom Boom saw: two wires protruding from a small mound. She gently swept the dirt away. Bomb. She cautiously removed the blasting cap, then gingerly cut the wire leading to it. Carefully, she took the second wire, making absolutely certain it didn’t touch anything metallic, and snipped that, too. She glanced at Boom Boom and gave him a thumbs up. “Family.”

Rayna was about to start on the next wire when Boom Boom shouted, “Don’t move, Rayna. We’ll be dead meat if you do that!”

Rayna looked more closely at the bomb in front of her. Almost hidden were three other bombs daisy-chained together.
Holy shit.
“Thanks, Boom Boom.” Her sure hand cut the wires as if she had done this all her life.

Before anyone had a chance to breathe relief, the village sprang to life. At least fifty people left the huddle of huts—women, children, elderly and MAMs (military-age-males). The Taliban force played its trump card. It was impossible to tell who was a Taliban insurgent and who was not. And every soldier knew there’d be hell to pay if they made a mistake.

“Hold fire,” called Captain Jones, the commanding officer.

A shot rang out.

“I said, ‘Hold fire,’” the captain repeated.

“He’s one of them,” snapped an angry Boom Boom, pointing at a thirty-year-old male. “I recognize him. He shot Danny!”

“He’s unarmed,” said the commander.

“That’s because he tossed the damned rifle. Look at him.” Boom Boom rushed at the insurgent as the commander shouted, “Stop him!”

Two fearful newbies pulled Boomer off the grinning Taliban fighter. “He very bad man,” the man said. “Arrest him. Our village just want peace. We are good people.”

Boom Boom broke free from his captors, yelling, “I’m gonna kill you, asshole. That was my buddy in the lead car.” This time it took four men to restrain him.
 

The sad thing was that everybody knew Boom Boom was right. None of the villagers would dare say anything. If they did, the moment the soldiers left, the Taliban members would be merciless in their revenge. The villagers knew they were signing the death warrants not only of themselves but of their families if they pointed out their enemy.

***

That was the last time Rayna saw Boom Boom before she left Afghanistan. She didn’t ask what happened—she knew. Round pegs didn’t fit into square military holes very well.

But there was one thing about Boom Boom she would never forget—his keen eye saved her life.

Chapter 3
 

Somewhere in Illinois—Present Day

Although Rayna Tan was twenty-six, she had almost never driven. She joined the Canadian Forces full time right after college and, during her general forces and Special Operations tenure, she was always driven by someone else, usually in a most uncomfortable military vehicle. Sometimes it was a Bison, but most often it was a Humvee or light armored vehicle of some kind. When she was in college, she was a typical impoverished student so no car there, either. Besides, public transit in Toronto, just like in New York, was convenient and reliable. In high school, even though she had access to the family car, there was always some classmate, sparring partner, or someone on the church worship team willing to give her a ride anywhere she wanted.
 

Barry Rogers found this out after getting off his private jet. Rayna had made it a “condition” of her joining
Fidelitas
that her first task would be to eliminate the Colombian drug lord who had her
fiancé
murdered. When Barry handed her the keys to a Mercedes G Wagon, she hemmed and hawed, finally admitting, “I can’t drive.”

An expression filled Barry’s face—was this girl from Mars? “You drove from Hope College to the Markland Mall.”
 

“And I felt a heart attack coming on every inch of the way,” admitted Rayna.

“You could take on Chuck Norris in a street fight, you’ve got more kill shots than Chris Kyle, but I have to arrange a chauffeur if I want you to pick up a quart of milk?”

Rayna blushed. “I guess we can add learning to drive to orientation.”

“You think?” Barry asked amusedly. He turned to the jet’s pilot. “Wait for me. I’ll be another few hours.”

Barry and Rayna got into the German vehicle and started along the highway.

“You know everything about me but I know barely anything about you, other than you were at Desert Storm and that you’re wealthier than Midas,” Rayna said.

“The money part is easy. I was born rich and just got richer.”

“There aren’t a whole lot of rich kids in Delta Force. Or the SAS. Or the SEALS. Or Mossad.”

“Or maybe they just don’t tell you. Did you know about Jon?” Barry asked.

“No, that surprised me,” she said.
 

The late Jonathan Rogers was Barry’s son, a Navy SEAL. He was the US leader of a joint mission, with Rayna being the Canadian leader. Jon lost his life and Rayna decided that would be her last military mission. She met Barry at Jon’s funeral. In less than three days, Barry recruited Rayna as a field operative in Fidelitas, a secret private organization. “So you were an assaulter?”

“Not at first. I’ve got an MD.” Barry snickered. “I was the rebel in the family because I decided to go to Harvard instead of Stanford, simply because Harvard had a rowing team and Stanford didn’t.”
 

“Doctor? So that’s where Jon got his brains from.”

“Hardly. Diana, Jon’s mom, is the smart one. My dad was a WWII vet—he was there on D-Day and I decided to join the Army as a doctor. After a year, I knew I wanted to be on the front lines, so I started training again as well as seeing patients. After four years, I got into Delta Force... best and worst times of my life. After Eagle Claw, I just didn’t have the stomach for it anymore and got out as soon as I could.”

“You can’t blame any of the guys for that disaster.”

“No,” he agreed, “but it made me realize there had to be a better way. After I left, I was contacted by Paulina from Fidelitas. Once I said yes, she got me to go back to Harvard to finish an MBA. Like all Harvard MBA grads, especially those of us that were top five, I had my pick of Wall Street. Then I shocked everybody by forming Fidelitas Capital. But that’s what I… no, that’s what Fidelitas needed. A blue chip cover for the area I said we would specialize in: biomedical and health technology. I started with three clients: my family, Paulina and Arthur Yang.”

“The other two board executives of the ‘real’ Fidelitas?”

Barry nodded. “I doubled the money in two years by smart investments... or at least that’s what the world thought. Some good intel from Arthur and Paulina was also able to help push some investments up.”

“Why would you need to do that?”

Barry sighed. “You really don’t know anything, do you, Rayna? Don’t answer. It’s a rhetorical question. It’s for marketing purposes.”

“But Fidelitas has enough money on its own to operate,” protested Rayna. “You don’t need new clients.”

“If our job was solely to make money, you’d be right. But not all of our clients are legit, above-board and upstanding citizens... there’s scum, too.”

“Now you’ve got me really confused. I thought that’s who we were after.”

“We are, but what better way to bring them in than to make them into clients? Very quietly and, of course, unknown to them, we have eliminated parts of their operations. They also introduce us to some of their colleagues. People, companies and organizations you would never suspect. Which is why your training is going to take some changes.”

“You mean I don’t have to spend six months at the Habitat getting the crap kicked out of me? I’m surprised I lasted a week.”

“That’s right. In all other Special Operations Forces, if you’re not on a mission, you’re punishing your body in constant PT. Your focus is very specific. Reflexes, strength and ability to withstand incredible physical hardship is paramount. Artillery, firepower and your body are your weapons... and that’s important, Rayna. But that doesn’t give you longevity in this business. You’ll need to be more well-rounded. Of course, you do need to be at the top of your game physically, but close quarters combat and marksmanship will be the prime emphases.”

“So back to my original question. Does that mean I don’t have to spend six months at the Habitat getting the crap kicked out of me?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Thank God!”

***

“Welcome back, baby doll, and hello, Barry. Didn’t expect to see you today,” said a huge black man who stood in the middle of a gravelly parking lot.

“I didn’t expect to be back here today, either, Chuckie. So I’m sorry; I didn’t bring any presents.”

“No booze? How the hell am I supposed to live?” growled Chuck.

“No worries. You’re gonna teach Rayna how to drive, too. She’ll be happy to run any errands that need a vehicle.”

“You mean...”

“Yes, yes, yes, Chuck,” Rayna said. “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

Chuck cracked a wicked grin at Barry. “She’ll have a great time when we go to the Flats.”

Barry grinned back. “You are truly evil. And that is one hell of an idea.”

“That’s why you hired me, right?” Chuck asked.

***

That afternoon began a new regimen of training for Rayna at the Habitat. It was much different from the introductory crash course she had completed just a couple of weeks prior to her Colombian mission. The purpose of that session was to have her ready as fast as possible to deal with anything regular, malicious, woman-raping, dope dealing criminals might throw at her. Physical and psychological abuse to the extreme.

Now the plan was to make Rayna a better-rounded field operative. Physical and combat training was still integral but, instead of it being twenty-four hours a day, it was only six. And, instead of having sensory deprivation as part of the training—meaning at any time of day or night she might be attacked with a knife, have a grenade thrown at her or have bullets fired—she now could have undisturbed rest.

From 6 a.m. to 12 p.m., Chuck gave Rayna an abbreviated version of his special “special ops” training, tailored to Rayna’s specific needs.
 

While Rayna was an excellent shot using any kind of machine gun or assault rifle, the emphasis turned to smaller weapons: revolvers and pistols. Training included firing on her stomach, falling down sideways, shooting without full motion of limbs and a thousand other ways that Chuck and the ten other trainees could think of. Environments included the forest, the row of kill houses on a replica of a city block, and any number of burned-out vehicles, trashcans and mounds of dirt on the premises.

Likewise, there was no set course or pattern for hand-to-hand combat. For the first day or so, Rayna had an advantage over the trainees. None of them suspected she was a black belt in five disciplines of martial arts. However, after their initial surprise, it was much easier for the others to defeat her. For the most part, each of the men was fifty to a hundred pounds heavier than she was and, despite her lightning-fast moves and reflexes, the guys were able to anticipate her possible actions and behaviors.
 

“Don’t worry about that, Rayna,” said Chuck after one particularly bruising session. “Chances are you’ll never meet any of the enemy more than once. Just make sure you kill them the first time.”

“Right.”

“Just charm the pants off them when you meet, then stab them in the balls,” he added.