Blood Rush

  Blood Rush

  A Team Reaper Thriller

  Brian Drake

  Brent Towns

  Blood Rush is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Brian Drake

  Based on Characters Created by Brent Towns

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Wolfpack Publishing, Las Vegas.

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  wolfpackpublishing.com

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-64119-908-7

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-64119-909-4

  Contents

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  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

  A Look at: Kill Count

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  About the Author

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  Blood Rush

  Chapter 1

  Brussels, Belgium

  The informant was late.

  John “Reaper” Kane leaned in the alcove of a building just off Place des Armateurs, the rippling water of the Brussels-Scheldt Maritime Canal directly across the street. A speed boat waited there, its supercharged motor burbling, SEAL Chief Borden Hunt at the wheel, ready to go full-throttle once Kane jumped on with his informant.

  But the informant was late.

  Kane was in Brussels to collect John Casiano, a minor cartel errand boy who had a tip about cartel players scattered throughout Europe planning some sort of strike back against the US after the capture of Jorge Sanchez, leader of the Chologos drug cartel. The informant had taken up the DEA on its offer of a big payday should anyone have information on the remaining members of the cartel, the back of which had been broken thanks to continued pressure from the DEA and Kane’s own Team Reaper.

  The extraction plan was simple. Pick up Casiano, hop in the speed boat, and race up the canal to the ocean where a Navy submarine waited to collect them. The submarine might have been extreme, but Kane wanted to avoid the obvious traps waiting at an airport or train station. Boat to submarine was the fastest way out of the area, and out of danger.

  It was a quarter past 0400, the street was quiet, and Kane felt like the last man in the world.

  He needed the mission after the previous week’s leave, where he’d spent a day at a facility in Maine where his sister Mel, still in a coma, remained confined to a bed. He held onto the hope that she would wake up and recover, but that hope was on shaky ground. While he’d spent that one day by her bedside, reading out loud anything he could get his hands on, and talking endlessly once he’d exhausted the material, she showed no sign of knowing he was there. He was unwilling to spend too much time there due to the nature of his job and the associated dangers. He really wanted to keep Mel separate from that part of his life, away from any threats.

  But now, Kane was back at work, and putting his mind to things other than the tragedy of his sister’s condition. He was back to doing what he did best.

  He had been on so many missions such as this, waiting in alleys and doorways, that he should have been used to the monotony. His senses always remained on alert, his focus sharp. He liked these jobs because they kept his edge honed. The alcove protected his back; the canal protected his front; his danger scan regularly shifted left and right. So far, everything was clear, and that was the problem.

  Casiano should have arrived at 0330. They should be in the boat and halfway up the canal by now.

  Kane shifted in the alcove, the weight of the SIG-Sauer M17 9mm autoloader under his left arm dragging on his side. His lower back hurt from standing for so long, the three sides of the cold concrete hiding spot unmercifully uncomfortable. His feet were okay thanks to excellent inserts in his shoes. He wanted out of there, fast, with Casiano, but it was beginning to look like maybe cartel assassins had reached him first.

  Unfortunate, because Casiano still had plenty of information inside his head that the DEA wanted very badly.

  Tires screeched. Kane’s eyes snapped right. A car turned the corner, fishtailing, sideswiping a lamppost and almost bringing it crashing down. The car crossed both lanes of the road before settling in a straight line heading for Kane’s position. It screeched to a halt a few feet away from the doorway. The driver’s door swung open and Casiano tumbled onto the sidewalk, letting out a yell as his body hit the pavement. His clothes were a wrinkled mess, but nothing was torn; his face covered in sweat and bloody welts. He struggled to get to his knees.

  Kane raced from the alcove and grabbed an arm to help him to his feet.

  “They almost had me,” Casiano said, gasping for air. Kane checked the man’s body for other wounds but found none. Casiano was in fight-or-flight mode. As close as he had come to getting caught, it had pumped his body full of adrenaline.

  “It’s gonna be fine, let’s go.”

  “It’s the daughter,” Casiano said, coughing. “Sanchez’s daughter!”

  Another car rushed at them from the opposite end of the street, bright halogen lights highlighting Kane and Casiano as they stood in the open. The tires screamed as the driver slammed the brakes. A man leaned out the passenger side window, cradling a short submachine gun, and flame spit from the muzzle, the salvo of gunfire sounding like a buzz-saw.

  “Down!” Kane shouted, violently shoving Casiano to the pavement. The salvo stitched into the car’s metal shell and shattered the front windshield. Shards of glass rained on Kane’s back as he covered Casiano with his body. Kane rolled away, up onto the sidewalk, as Casiano scrambled for the rear of the car.

  Kane came up on his back with the SIG-Sauer in his right hand. Steadying the pistol with a two-hand grip, he sighted on the enemy car. The glow of the Tritium night sights provided a perfect picture. The passenger piled out, jamming a new magazine into his weapon, joined by the driver who raised his own sub gun to shoulder level.

  The SIG spit twice, the muzzle flipping up, Kane’s practiced trigger finger feeling for the trigger reset, firing twice more, the shots so rapid the pistol might have been his own SMG.

  Driver and passenger closed in, and then another weapon joined the fray, Chief Hunt opening fire from the bow of the speed boat with his Heckler & Koch 416 carbine. A stream of 5.56mm slugs jerked the driver off balance and tore into his hip. As he fell, he sprayed more rounds at Kane. Kane’s body tightened as the slugs split the air overhead. He fired again. The 9mm stingers from the hot barrel of the M17 found their mark. Two spurts of blood from the center of the driver’s chest ended his assault, and his body dropped onto the pavement, his sub gun skittering across the pavement.

  Kane triggered more rounds, and so did Hunt, the louder HK
carbine drowning out the SIG pistol. The passenger spun as multiple rounds ripped through his upper body, falling midway between his car and Casiano’s.

  As the echo of the shots faded, Kane’s eyes scanned for further danger. He saw nothing. But that didn’t mean they were home free. There could be another team on the way. They had to move fast.

  Kane jumped up and grabbed the back of Casiano’s shirt, hauling the man to his feet.

  “Come on!”

  Casiano kept pace beside Kane as they ran across the street. He suddenly stopped mid-stride, gasping sharply, but momentum carried him forward. His face hit the pavement with a sharp smack, and then the whip-crack of the sniper shot that brought him down echoed up the street.

  Kane dived and rolled as a second bullet whistled past him. The crack of the shot followed. Hunt, aboard the boat, yelled something, the HK 416 chattering covering fire. Kane jumped up and ran the rest of the way, his shoes landing hard on the road’s surface as he sprinted. No other shots reached him, the sniper likely having vacated his nest after the second shot.

  Kane’s body burned hotly as he leaped, leaving the pavement, clearing the gap of water between the concrete and speedboat. He fell roughly onto the deck, dropping to his knees, lurching back as the speed boat surged forward, the water behind exploding upward as the motor’s twin propellers spun.

  Kane sat up and looked back. The death zone receded quickly, and Kane felt a pang of regret. He hated leaving a man behind. He’d lost informants before, and they were always personal losses. One had to try and remain detached, but in Kane’s experience, that wasn’t always possible. To remain totally detached, one risked losing their humanity. He’d seen other men make that choice, and it had ruined their lives. Kane had too much to live for to take that risk.

  The speed boat jostled over the water. The city rushed by on either side, but the view did not hold his interest. He stood and moved up the narrow boat to the seat beside Hunt and fell heavily onto the wet cushion.

  “Are you hit?” Chief Hunt asked. The SEAL operator eyed Kane with concern.

  “No holes I wasn’t already born with,” Kane said.

  “But we lost our package.”

  “That we did.”

  Hunt faced forward and held course. If he had any other comment, he didn’t share.

  Kane sank against the backrest as if there was a huge weight on his shoulders.

  Sanchez’s daughter? What did Casiano mean? Kane knew of the young woman, but she’d never been part of her father’s organization. Instead, she’d used his money to make the world her playground, part of the new jet set. She’d made no secret of who she was, and that seemed to make her quite popular. But while she’d been on the radar of Team Reaper, the CIA, and the DEA, there’d been no reason to think she engaged in the same activities as her father.

  But Casiano hadn’t mentioned her for no reason. He hadn’t been killed for no reason, either.

  Kane had to get back to the rest of his team. And fast.

  Their mission against what remained of the Chologos cartel wasn’t over by a long shot.

  Three months Team Reaper had worked to smash the cartel’s operations and drag Jorge Sanchez kicking and screaming into a federal court in New York City. Three intense months of blood, sweat, and bullets. And now, the one person who had never appeared to be a threat was apparently becoming exactly that.

  But how?

  There was only one way to find out, Kane decided, as cold water splashed at his cheeks. Hunt held the wheel steady, the experienced Navy man effortlessly guiding the speed boat along the wide canal.

  Time for Team Reaper to get back in the fight and deliver justice where there was none.

  Berlin, Germany

  The rain had stopped hours ago, but not even Diego Moreno’s long coat blocked the 0400 chill that remained. His teeth chattered a little, his body shivering ever so slightly. The streets were still wet with what looked like sweat.

  The cartel terrorist stood just over five feet high. The long black coat stopped around his ankles and a knit cap rode atop his head. The cap wasn’t much of a defense against the cold, either. His pale lips and lack of eyebrows were his most distinguishing features, and his eyes picked out almost every detail around him.

  He leaned against the wall of an alcove at the corner of Poststrabe and Rathaustrabe in Berlin, among darkened cafe fronts, the ghost-like buildings eerily silent. Across from him was a construction zone, half-walls and silent cranes and other equipment waiting for daylight. He didn’t bother to read the signs identifying what the project was. A few stray cars lined the curbs on either end of the street, but no others traveled the roadway at this hour. The Spree River whispered nearby.

  Diego Moreno stood with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his coat, the right pocket bulging a little more because of the Glock-19 9mm pistol he held in his hand, fifteen rounds in the mag and one in the chamber. All hollow-points designed to rip a man apart. He had arranged the meeting at this location, over the telephone, but he also knew the rendezvous might be a trap. If the Americans were coming to get him then he’d go down fighting. Such a day had to arrive eventually. The last three months had proved one thing. Death comes to all, eventually—sometimes a fate worse than death. He was fortunate in that he’d managed to escape the assault on the Chologos Cartel that ended in the capture of his friend and former boss, Jorge Sanchez. But how long would that fortune last?

  A long black car turned the corner up ahead. Its bright headlights flashed across the construction site and caused a glare on the wet pavement. When the lights hit Moreno with the ferocity of a stage spotlight, he couldn’t help but raise his left arm to block the light and pull his Glock-19 with the other. His gloved finger curled around the trigger, fitting easily into the extended trigger guard.

  The big car stopped a few feet away. Mercedes-Benz S600 limousine. Black with silver trim. The headlamps burned brightly. Those same lights flashed twice, stayed off, turned on again and flashed twice more. Moreno put the Glock back in his pocket. As he approached the car, the rear door opened on hydraulic hinges. The figure that opened the door, briefly visible as the interior light spilled onto the sidewalk, slid back as Moreno ducked to enter.

  “You are the last person I expected to see in this car,” Moreno said as he sat. The woman across from him cracked a polished smile showing perfect teeth. Moreno knew for a fact that those teeth had cost Jorge Sanchez a ton of money.

  But he’d never been able to tell his daughter no.

  “Yet here I am,” said Blanca Sanchez.

  The soft bench seats faced each other. Blanca had a rotating flat screen connected to a laptop on her side.

  Track lighting in the roof brightly lit the cabin. There was almost no sense of movement with the lighting and tinted windows. The soundproofing deadened the engine noise to a dull throb. The warmth of the cabin and its plush leather seats might have been a womb.

  Moreno regarded Blanca curiously. He removed the cap on his head as the heat wrapped around him. Blanca looked better than the last time he had seen her. The daughter of cartel boss, Jorge Sanchez had always been a little tubby—a testament to her lifestyle of all-party-no-work, but now she was lean and trim with a sharp line to her jaw and obvious curves under the tight-fitting dress. Her shapely legs crossed at the knees, six-inch heels, stockings, the whole nine yards.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re going to free my father,” Blanca said.

  Moreno laughed. “Your father is on trial in New York City. He’s surrounded by armed federal marshals. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “I have a plan,” she said.

  “I don’t believe you. Your father kept you away from the organization, and all we ever saw of you was a drunken leech who partied away his money.”

  “Not all of it.” Blanca grinned. She had a mischievous gleam in her eye.

  A hot flush crept up Moreno’s neck. Blanca had been a thorn in the flesh for t
oo long for him to take any of this conversation seriously. Her father loved her, yes, but he worried about her, too, and not just for her safety, or the variety of worries that descend upon a father when his daughter is alone out in the big wide world. He worried somebody might use her to get to him. He worried she might say something to somebody who would use the information against him. In general, he worried. And Moreno had not liked seeing his friend worry.

  Moreno and Sanchez had been friends longer than Moreno cared to admit, first as childhood chums, then as adults. But in between, there had been a break as they pursued their own destinies. Sanchez reached the top of the cartel leadership. Moreno fell to the bottom of the barrel. But then Sanchez found him on the street, by chance, and helped him restore his former self when alcohol and drugs were turning him into a dead man.

  And if Jorge’s kid wanted to play games. . .

  “If this is supposed to be some sort of. . .whatever you call it,” Moreno said, “all you’re doing is pissing me off.”

  Blanca held up a hand, her long red nails matching her lipstick. “You’re right. I was everything you accuse me of. Since the U.S. arrested my father, I’ve been doing some soul-searching, and I’ve had a change of heart. Now the least I can do to pay my father back is to free him from captivity, and we’ll start by executing an event that will make the Americans do whatever we ask.”