Mercenary Mission Read online

  Sean Wilson

  Shadow Force Series

  MERCENARY MISSION

  A Mike Ducane Adventure

  Copyright 2016 Sean Wilson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are derived from either the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual person living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About The Author

  By the Same Author

  Chapter 1

  The punch landed hard and fast on the side of his head, a wide swing from behind that was aimed at the sweet spot just below the right ear and intended to knock him clean out. He was expected to drop like a poleaxed steer but he’d turned his head an inch or two as he heard the movement behind him and the punch had narrowly missed its mark. It banged him hard on the bony edge at the back of his skull and though it dazed him, it wasn’t enough to stop him from turning fast on the ball of his right foot and shooting his left leg out behind him and delivering his booted heel into the guy’s groin with the force of a cannon ball. It was a wild kick, an instinctive reaction that brought his head and upper body out of harm’s way as he struck out and delivered a viciously effective heel stamp to whoever was standing behind him. His assailant had been preparing to grapple him to the floor when the heel strike had convincingly delivered the message to the guy’s unsuspecting nuts that the game was over. The attacker sank to his knees, gasping for breath, holding his severely distressed scrotum in his hands and blinded by the tears running down his face as the pain overwhelmed his senses.

  Mike turned fast, fists cocked and ready to unload, balanced in a hunched fighting stance and primed to face anyone else who might be planning to visit evil intent upon his person. But there was no one else in the alley. His attacker had come alone. Probably a major mistake considering Mike’s reputation but a lot of guys suffered from the sin of over-confidence. Mike blamed those martial arts classes. Some guy teaches you some moves, you end up getting a coloured belt or a couple of competition cups and then you began to mistake those fancy choreographed moves in the dojo for something that worked in the real world. Big mistake. Mike had learned unarmed combat in Special Forces. That’s where you were taught to shoot the other guy. Hand to hand was the exception. Not the rule. No amount of kung fu was going to stop a high velocity hollow point when it was making its way to your head to ruin your day and mess up your parting. If you had to hit someone hard and put them down, no amount of formalised Jap slapping was going to pass the test. You needed something that didn’t obey the rules of etiquette.

  Mike stepped forward and grabbed his assailant by the hair, jerking his head up and ready to put his toe cap wherever it might be useful if the guy needed any more persuasion to play nice.

  ‘Hey, jerkoff. You hearing me?’

  The guy nodded as Mike tightened his grip on the knot of hair that was bunched in his fist.

  ‘You don’t have a lot of time so tell me right now - what’s this about?’

  The guy was still finding it difficult to breathe and his was voice was choked and croaky.

  Mike tightened his grip. ‘I can’t hear you. You need to speak up or things are going to get ugly round here and you might have to say goodbye to your nuts forever.’

  The guy whimpered as Mike tapped him in his bruised and swollen nuts with his toe cap.

  ‘I’m running out of patience here.’

  The guy coughed as the pain lanced through his body.

  ‘Danny.’

  There were hot tears in his eyes now, furrows of pain creasing his face, fear in his eyes.

  Danny? Now that was a surprise. There could only be one Danny. Had to be Danny Lubinsky the loan shark and he would’ve sent a couple of his regular guys, pros with a lot more experience than this dumb sap. And Mike certainly didn’t owe money to Danny Lubinsky.

  He tapped his toe cap into the guy’s groin to make sure he had his full attention.

  ‘So you tried to jump me. Then what?’

  ‘Please. Don’t hurt me. Danny said we had to bring you to the docks,’

  ‘We?’ Mike’s toe cap tapped the guy’s balls again. ‘Who’s “we”?’

  The guy was gasping, still struggling to breathe through the pain. ‘Me and a couple of buddies. They’re waiting round the corner in the car.’

  ‘So Danny told you to bounce me and drop me off at the docks?’

  The guy made a small nod, his hair still firmly gripped in Mike’s fist.

  ‘Didn’t you think of asking me first?’

  ‘Danny said we had to grab you, you know? Rough you up a little. Put you to sleep. Get you to the docks.’ Yeah. Like a family pet being dropped off for a farewell visit to the vet’s.

  ‘OK. So now you’re going to give the address of the drop off.’

  It was a warehouse, the kind of place where you probably wouldn’t throw a fancy social event or a surprise party with champagne and canapés. More like the kind of place where you’d interrogate someone with pliers and a blowtorch before dismembering the body and throwing the soggy remains into the black, oily waters at the end of the pier. And Danny Lubinsky had ordered this? Mike was intrigued and also quietly certain that Danny was going to be needing all of his private medical insurance after he’d finished talking with him.

  ‘OK, jerkoff. So how much did Danny pay you for this little night of excitement and adventure?’

  The guy was wheezing after another nudge in the nuts from Mike’s shiny toe cap but he managed to breathe out the words ‘Five hundred each.’

  Five hundred? That was just downright insulting. Five hundred bucks just added insult to injury.

  ‘OK, fuckwit. Stand up!’

  Mike dragged the guy, protesting and unsteady, to his feet. He probably didn’t have much time before the guy’s buddies showed up, maybe armed with more than their obvious stupidity. Time to wrap this up. Mike took a half step back and swung his boot as hard and fast as he could into the guy’s groin. Something burst inside the guy’s shorts and the guy’s eyes rolled up inside his head as he collapsed onto the damp tarmac in the dark alleyway. One down and unlikely to be out on the jogging circuit anytime in the next six months. If he recovered from the surgery.

  There was a light rain and Mike knew that meeting informants in dark alleys wasn’t the way you were supposed to conduct the business of gathering intelligence. But sometimes you had to ignore the rules and meet up with scared individuals in dark, crazy places where they weren’t likely to be seen. It had seemed like a solid tip. A useful lead. And now he was holding his breath as he glimpsed round the corner of the alleyway and spotted the car, glistening in the rain, windscreen partially obscured by an oily film of water. Two guys up front. Mike had obviously been destined for the economy, no frills ride in the trunk.

  He breathed slowly as he slipped a telescopic steel baton out of the holder on the side of his belt. In one fluid movement, he sprang forward towards the car, one snap of his wrist uncoiling and locking the baton and with a wide swing of his arm, he slammed the steel tip of the rod through the shattering explosion of the passenger side window and into the head of the guy on the other side of the door. The guy had been too shocked to react, blasted with shards of broken glass and hammered solidly on the side of his head, his body whiplashing over into the driver. Before the driver could react, Mike’s elbow had cocked back in a flash before driving the steel rod’s hardened tip forwards and through the gap in the
shattered window, lancing past the cut and unconscious passenger and into the driver’s temple. It was all over in a heartbeat. Mike stepped back, breathing deeply, striding round to the driver’s door and checking the area for other unfriendlies or witnesses. There was no one else. He opened the car door and dragged the driver out onto the wet tarmac. Big guy. Muscles but carrying some fat too. Pure amateur. Mike patted the guy down, took out everything he found and crammed the items into his jacket pocket. Left the idiot on the deck where he belonged.

  He repeated the quick pat down with the passenger. No weapons. Just calloused knuckles from hitting a defenceless gym bag. They must’ve forgotten to tell him that gym bags don’t hit back. He was planning to know everything there was to know about these guys but right now he had an appointment at the docks. He brushed the shards of broken glass from the driver’s seat, climbed in and started the engine. Thought seriously for about a second and a half about reversing the car over the legs of his would-be assailants but they were out cold, lying on the wet pavement in an unsavoury part of town and he had their cell phones in his pocket. If one of the local drug gangs just happened to find them – which could easily happen within the next couple of minutes - they’d most likely be hauled off to a damp cellar, stripped naked and tied down whilst most of the neighbourhood took turns to play a rousing game of San Quentin Shower Time. And the game would focus repeatedly on those pale and puckered Caucasian butts. Somehow, it seemed entirely fitting and, for reasons that the Company shrink would fully understand, Mike found the thought highly amusing. He gunned the engine, a swirl of raindrops patterning the seat beside him, and drove off into the night.

  Chapter 2

  The DIA was recruiting experienced soldiers and operatives on an unprecedented scale. Money was flowing, contacts were being signed and the Direct Intelligence Agency was stamping its mark on most of the world’s trouble spots. Their offices in Cyprus were heavily guarded and wired directly into most of the world’s intelligence agencies. Their funding was drawn primarily from the United States’ massive military budget. Governments that wanted to avail themselves of the Agency’s discrete range of services had to be more creative than simply offering suitcases full of cash and the occasional truckload of high-grade cocaine. They had to be prepared to offer unlimited access to their domestic intelligence services and allow the kind of clandestine co-operations on their territory that would undoubtedly cause howls of public outrage - if they happened to suffer the nuisance of a free press.

  Although many of the Private Military Contractors could lay claim to some form of military training, not all of them were seasoned combat soldiers. The troubled areas of the Middle East needed experienced troops who could help to restore something that resembled peace and order. But there were never enough experienced troops on hand to get the job done. In fact, it was widely acknowledged that not all PMCs were really up to the job. In the early days, the lure of tax-free Dollars and very few rules had persuaded barrack-loads of rear echelon supply clerks to offer their services as private contractors. All you had to show were a couple of year’s service and a few weeks training as a bodyguard and you were in. There were snorts of derision when the fabled blanket and bean counters reacted poorly under fire. The DIA had learned the hard way that it had to pay big bucks to attract and recruit the right kind of guys. So it was prepared to pay a premium for the kind of mind-set that only develops in the crucible of frequent combat and fire fights. They needed people who reacted automatically when the situation got noisy and it made a firm decision to enlist operatives and mercenaries who weren’t afraid of loud noises. That shift in recruitment policy raised the average standard of the guys who showed up for interview and gave the DIA access to the kind of highly-trained soldiers who could make a major difference on the ground in all theatres of engagement. It soon became obvious that the PMCs frequently knew a lot more about combat than the officers who’d been tasked with leading patrols. The older guys, not always attired in conventional military uniform, would keep clear of the command and communication vehicles – the first and obvious targets for IEDs and ambushes. They were known for their finely tuned instincts and could often sense a problem before the bad guys punched the trigger and fired off an RPG or a roadside explosion. They had the kind of well-honed tactical appreciation for terrain that more senior officers often lacked. Eyes on the lookout and boots on the ground were still a major contribution to military campaigning. Cornering hostiles in a mud brick compound and ordering up a 500kg bomb drop still required highly trained individuals who knew how to get the job done and still live to enjoy a shower and a cold brew in the evening. They weren’t always popular with the regular troops. They weren’t part of the unit’s traditions. They dressed differently and were often accused of arrogance. There was more than a hint of jealousy. The PMCs were being paid a lot of money and they weren’t dumb enough to take risks for the sake of a medal or a unit citation. They were there to find and kill the enemy, to take prisoners, gather intelligence and add the weight of their experience to any operation’s combat efficiency. And sometimes they were tasked with more unorthodox missions. The DIA had proved itself especially useful at running black ops.

  Mike Ducane hadn’t applied to join the DIA. They’d approached him directly the month he was due to complete his last tour with Special Forces. Suddenly he was faced with the prospect of doing the same kind of work but for a lot more money plus the kind of operational freedom that would probably make his life a lot easier. His Commanding Officer had actually encouraged him to join. It was another way to serve his country and the CO had hinted that he would be taking up a senior position in the upper echelons of the DIA within the year. In other words, with a lazy wink of the eye and a slow nod, the CO made it abundantly clear that he would still be Mike’s boss. And Special Forces people always took care of their own. Mike would be in good hands.

  The interview with the resident DIA shrink had taken place in an anonymous Agency office in Maryland and, if Mike had been applying for any other kind of a job, the psychiatrist would’ve been frantically punching the secret alarm button underneath his shiny desktop and summoning a team of burly assistants and a sturdy strait jacket. It wasn’t simply a question of whether Mike possessed the psychological strength to handle the pressures of his work. He most certainly did. The problem was that he thrived under the stress. He excelled in crisis situations. It was one of the reasons that he sought out the dangerous conditions that most normal human beings would strenuously avoid. And then, the shrink had to admit that the Special Forces files were absolutely correct in their assessments, it was obvious that Mike Ducane actually enjoyed what he did. Out in the field of combat, that was probably a very positive advantage that would preserve his private version of sanity. Back in the real world of mortgages, wives, house plants, children and a nine to five existence, it was probably a recipe for disaster. Mike Ducane would always need a legitimate outlet for his talents. One assessment suggested that he might make a successful career on Wall Street. It also added the cryptic comment that it would provide the ideal place for Mike to make a killing.

  Chapter 3

  Rain beat down harder on the windshield and swept in through the smashed passenger window, pooling on the leather seat and ruining the upholstery. Mike smiled. He was concentrating on the wet road as he drove but thinking about his would-be assailants. Their hides were probably also being ruined - by a sweating line of whooping, drugged-up, tattooed and gold-toothed gang bangers. Christmas had come early in Gangland. Someone might even put the pictures out on the Internet.

  He’d called in the situation and given the names of his attackers, mentioned Danny Lubinsky and confirmed that he was on his way to scope out the dockside warehouse where he was supposed to have been delivered. He felt the comforting pressure of his SIG 226 pistol against the back of his right hip. This was the US. If he’d drawn his weapon and started blasting away at his assailants, the paperwork would’ve buried him for a week. Despi
te what people loved to believe in the Hollywood version of reality, you couldn’t just start blowing civilians away and hope the evidence would disappear in a swirl of smoke and stage magic. He’d dealt with the immediate threat and he hadn’t killed his attackers. They weren’t even armed. All they’d brought along to the kidnap attempt had been a lack of preparation and a bucket load of stupidity. He’d neutralised them for sure but he hadn’t killed them. If they happened to get scooped up by a gang of amphetamine-fuelled psychopaths, who’d happily dismember the bodies when they’d finished with their fun, that was their fault for coming out to play in the middle of the night in a very unsavoury neighbourhood. Mike knew he couldn’t just start shooting civilians on American soil without the Agency’s sanction and approval. Otherwise he’d have thinned the ranks of the ungodly at the local supermarket checkout line on more than a dozen occasions.