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  Copyright © 2022 Wilbur McKesson.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN: 978-0-578-35497-2 (Hardcover)

  ISBN: 978-0-578-35552-8 (eBook)

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Front cover image © Shutterstock.com

  Book design by theBookDesigners

  First printed edition 2022

  Published by Wilbur McKesson

  www.authorwilburmckessoniii.com

  I dedicate this book to my father, Wilbur Andrew McKesson, Jr., who preached that character is the most important attribute in life. Your character is the only thing that follows you wherever you go, never leaves you, and is the only thing people will remember you for.

  Rest In Peace

  PROLOGUE

  The C-130 Hercules reached its maximum ceiling for the early morning HALO jump at thirty-five-thousand feet. Jumping into extremely hostile situations behind enemy lines was one of the Bering Group’s specialties. All six members of the Bering Group trudged to the ramp lowering at the back of the plane. They admired the astounding view of the curvature of the Earth as they waited for the green light to jump. After this, their month-long stint of being stationed covertly in South America would be over.

  The light in the cabin turned green, and the team—dressed in neoprene suits, new state-of-the-art full-face helmets, and tactical equipment—fell forward, dropping like a stack of dominoes into the brisk air above the canopy of the Colombian jungle.

  After ten minutes of falling, their boots touched the ground. They dropped their flight suits, wrapped them inside of their parachutes, added some rocks, and sunk them in the river nearby. Outfitting their gear, loading their weapons, and checking their earpieces, the team trekked four miles to the objective until they were twenty-five yards outside the small compound. By the time they reached their destination, it was just over eight-thirty in the morning—but with the dense canopy, you couldn’t tell.

  Jack Knowles knelt next to a Euterpe precatoria tree and marveled at its large leaves and ability to block the sunlight from reaching the ground. The humidity was unbearable. He closed his eyes for quick relief, thanking himself for bringing more water than usual. He was getting too old for this. He gently grabbed the bill of his withered Washington Nationals baseball cap and placed it on the dirt next to him. His team knelt with their back toward him in a 180-degree formation, their weapons raised and ready to shoot. The old days of Ops-core helmets with lapel microphones attached were gone, at least for them. It was baseball caps and throat microphones, easier to use and less sweaty when trekking through the jungle.

  “Ben, do you see anything?”

  Ben Williamson sat in the back of the C-130, cruising overhead. After all, he wasn’t hired for his hand-to-hand combat skills. Tracking the team with thermal imaging via the satellite made it easy to see through the canopy and play overwatch.

  “Everything looks good,” Ben said. “Good luck, boys, I’ll be here if you need me.”

  Jack nodded in silence along with the rest of the members. “Okay, boys, slow is smooth, smooth is fast.” All five men acknowledged, creeping toward the tents. In the time it took the rest of the team to get into position, Nate, the precision marksman, climbed thirty feet into a Euterpe precatoria tree nearby to find a perfect spot overlooking the compound. The team wasn’t going to move until he gave the final go-ahead.

  “Team two, checking in,” Jack said, as Kyle and Alex sat crouched behind him right outside their tent.

  “Team one, checking in,” Kwame whispered. He and Pete were kneeling on the opposite side of the compound next to the far tent.

  “Roger,” Nate whispered, looking through his scope. “Both teams standby. Team one, hold, there’s two armed guards with AK’s standing next to team two’s entrance.”

  “Do you have a clear shot?” Jack asked. His right thumb nudging the selector lever off safe. His Springfield Armory Saint short barreled rifle was ready to speak clear instructions to anyone on the other end of the silencer attached to it.

  “Yes, standby,” Nate said, slowing his breathing down enough to accurately control his shot. He placed his gloved right finger on the trigger and, pulling it toward him, he felt the recoil of the rifle move through his body. He quickly transitioned to the second target. Both rounds hit their mark. “Tangos down, all teams execute.”

  Lifting his rifle, Jack felt Kyle’s hand squeeze his left shoulder. Jack noticed out of the corner of his eye Kwame and Pete rounding the corner of their tent seventy yards away and lining up at the entrance. With his rifle lowered just below eyesight, Jack felt the hand of Kyle once more, giving him the go-ahead to make entry. Grabbing the tarp with his left hand and keeping a firm grasp of his rifle with his right, he entered the tent and took the path of least resistance. All men cleared their sectors of fire as their muzzles met in the center of the tent.

  Nothing but beds lined both walls, about twenty or so in total. Kyle knelt on the far side of the room and took his backpack off, placing it on the floor. As he set the C4 explosive charges, Alex and Jack conducted a secondary sweep of the room.

  “All clear.” They each had one minute to meet outside the center tent. Just then the earpieces crackled to life.

  “Guys, you have to make this quick!” Ben’s voice was loud with panic.

  Jack slapped his hand over the transmitter to stifle the noise. Kyle and Alex winced and did the same. He took a breath as the men around him galvanized into action, scrambling to get their gear. “Jesus, Ben, do you want them to know we’re here with all that yelling?”

  Breathing a bit calmer now, Ben replied, “I have at least twenty to thirty heat signatures closing in about a mile out. I can’t tell what type of vehicles they have but you can guarantee they’re well-armed.”

  “Shit,” Kyle responded. Placing the last charge, he picked up his backpack and said, “Guess someone must have heard the shots.”

  “How? We didn’t see anyone,” Alex said.

  Walking back toward the entrance, Jack knelt on the ground and moved his hands along the dirt. He saw it before he felt it, a small device with a blinking red light about the size of an old pager. “Fuck,” he said, turning to Alex and Kyle. “They have motion detectors now, should have known they would start to think ahead. Let’s hurry this up, guys, I don’t feel like fighting an army of cartel members. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

  “Popsicles do sound good right now,” Alex said to himself, as the group exited the tent in a quick succession, lining up on the next tent.

  “Nate, can you secure that SUV outside?” Jack asked, now standing in the back of the three-man train.

  “Already on it,” Nate said.

  Jack shouldered his rifle again as team one sat on the other side of the tent waiting to enter. Both teams made entry, but Jack decided not to enter. Hearing a couple of muffled noises, Jack was certain the people who called for backup were hiding inside the center tent.

  Once the all-clear came from the radio, Jack ran over to Nate, who managed to find the keys to the vehicle.

  “Y’all have to move now, they’re half a mile out,” Ben said.

  “Roger,” Jack said. “Nate, get in the driver’s seat.”

  A quick check of his watch showed they had just under two minutes before the complex was going to look lik
e the Fourth of July.

  The flap swung open as the quartet sprinted out toward their SUV. Jack swept his rifle across the clearing one last time as he jumped in the back. Nate didn’t wait for the last door to close before he stomped on the gas and peeled out in a spray of mud and gravel. Kyle, riding shotgun, reached into his backpack and pulled out two detonators. Handing one to Alex, he lifted the safety and radioed to Ben.

  “Hey bud, are we good to blow this joint?” Everyone looked at him with blank faces as if he’d just performed a magic trick. “What? I’ve always wanted to say that,” he said. Just as Nate was going to respond, Ben’s voice interrupted.

  “Standby, only half the army has entered the compound. I’ll let you know when they’re all in place.”

  “Roger.” Not twenty seconds later, Ben came back over the radios and said, “Okay, blow it!”

  As Alex and Kyle pressed their detonators in the same moment, the reaction was immediate. The ground shook. Nate did his best to keep the SUV on the road from the vibrations. Birds flew in all directions. The team hoped this was the last time they had to come down to this humid hellhole of a place.

  “I hope this is truly the last time I ever have to come this far south,” Jack said.

  CHAPTER 1

  Ben Williamson pulled the bright red Nissan Altima into the front of the valet line at the Hilton in downtown San Diego. Opening his door, Ben witnessed the hustle and bustle of the various groups of people laughing and chattering. He handed the valet his ticket, walked behind the car, and grabbed Bri’s hand, his Lucchese boots echoing throughout the tile floor.

  Bri’s Cartier perfume, coupled with her lean five-ten figure, caused men’s eyes to divert from their wives and girlfriends to stare at the odd-looking couple as they passed through the lobby. She was only two inches taller than Ben, but her heels, in addition to her elegant poise, often reminded people of a runway model.

  Rounding a corner and stopping at the elevator, she said, “I’ll be down in ten.” Ben felt his face heating up as her wet lipstick touched his puffy cheeks. Smiling and wiping her lipstick off him, she stepped in the elevator and gave him a soft wave. The doors closed. He was a lucky man.

  He licked his thumb and rubbed it against his large belt buckle. Adjusting his cowboy hat and looking up, he saw the looks of random shock and awe from various patrons in the lobby. He didn’t have to ask why—he already knew. How could a man dressed like he was snag a woman as enthralling as her?

  Walking to the hotel bar in the massive lobby and ordering an Old Fashioned, Ben watched the clock hanging on the wall next to him and started a mental countdown in his head while looking at the Lakers basketball game displayed on multiple television screens. They were up 24-8 against the Clippers, the hooting and hollering from the patrons at the bar echoing throughout the lobby. Fifteen minutes went by before he felt skinny fingers run through his short dark hair.

  “You ready to go, baby?” Bri asked, who no longer looked like a runway model, but was still beautiful with casual clothes on.

  “Fifteen minutes, Bri, I timed you,” Ben said, flagging down the bartender.

  “Aww, look at my little cowboy. So good with keeping track of the time it takes for me to get ready, but not so good with remembering our two-year anniversary,” she said, smiling. Ben ignored the last comment and signed the check.

  “Bri, I brought you to San Diego, isn’t that enough?” He asked. They left the hotel, headed toward Moonshine Flats, one of two country bars within walking distance.

  “Baby, you’re so cute,” Bri said, wrapping her hands in his and kissing him on the cheek again. Her nice blue jeans, low-cut top exposing the tops of her breasts, and heels still displayed a level of beauty about her that caused Ben to smile. It didn’t really matter what she wore.

  Pablo, Santiago, and Matias sat in their SUV one block up from the country bar. Working as a sicario in the Saint Bertrand Cartel had its perks, and these three were some of the deadliest combinations of the many sicarios Alejandro Alvarez had working for him.

  Alejandro was exhausted listening to constant reports of his narco-submarines and various cocaine-processing compounds constantly being burned to the ground in the middle of the rainforest. Smuggling cocaine was a billion-dollar enterprise and he was not going to see his go to waste. The cartel had an infinite supply of funds, and Alejandro exhausted every resource to find who was at the helm of the ship destroying his property. Once he discovered it was a special operations team from the United States using a small abandoned army base in the middle of the rainforest, he knew what had to come next.

  He contacted his lawyer, who in turn contacted a friend who was well oriented in the dark web. Through some backdoor negotiating, he was able to acquire the name of a CIA analyst who specialized in giving out secret information for the right price. Pablo, as per Alejandro’s orders, contacted her and offered a hefty paycheck in return for just a name of one of the operators involved. Once she agreed to the terms, the money was wired and Ben Williamson’s name was supplied.

  “Maricón, these tacos are shit compared to the ones back home,” Santiago said, stuffing his face with the third taco.

  “Yeah? Then stop stuffing your face with them and maybe I’ll believe you, ese,” Matias said from the backseat, who just got back from a food truck close by.

  “Where are these wedo’s?” Pablo asked, reaching back to Matias and motioning for him to give him another soft-shelled taco. Setting it on his lap below the steering wheel, he opened the aluminum foil and poured some of the hot sauce over it.

  “They had better show up at this stupid bar,” Matias said, turning his wrist to look at his watch. Nine o’clock.

  “Mira, they’re coming, okay? Cálmate, I heard them in the clothing store earlier today. Estarán aquí,” Santiago said, grunting as he stuffed his face with another taco. Looking at the different crowds walk past their dark SUV, he spotted their targets.

  “There they are,” Pablo said, nudging his head toward the entrance and swallowing a mouthful of steak.

  Ben grabbed their two cocktails and made his way through the crowd to the back of the bar where Bri was located. Setting their drinks on the table, Ben peeked at his girlfriend.

  “Can you please stop checking your Insta-feed?” Glaring back at him, she responded, “Baby, I’m checking my email from my professor about what’s required for class this semester. But don’t worry, this is graduate school stuff, I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she said with a devilish grin.

  Dropping his jaw, he said, “How do you always have a smart-ass answer? I’m supposed to be that person.”

  She put her phone in her pocket and moved closer to Ben, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her green eyes stared down into his hazel ones as if she were looking into his soul. “Okay, baby, you can be the smart-ass and I’ll just take it.” She winked at him and kissed his lips, sending waves of euphoria throughout his body.

  She pulled away and allowed Ben to grab his drink and take a sip. “This place is pretty slammed for a Wednesday,” he said.

  “Summer is also almost over, so all of us college students have to get our last hurrahs in before school starts up.”

  “Damn, that’s right,” Ben said, taking a bigger sip of his Old Fashioned. Bri was in graduate school to become a lawyer, and he knew that she was way smarter than he could ever be. Besides, with a job like his, why bother going back to school? He had his undergrad degree with a decent-paying job as a tech guru for an off-the-books CIA gig. Life was good.

  The night went on, and when both of their drinks were finished, Ben grabbed them and headed back to order another round. He bobbed and weaved his way to the counter, leaned over, and raised his arm to the stunning redheaded bartender with loads of tattoos. Walking over in her daisy dukes, bright red lipstick, and pigtails, she gave Ben a smile.

  “Same two cocktails, hun?” she asked—clearly a local with no country accent, but just playing the part.

&nbsp
; “You have a pretty good memory with all these other people in here.”

  “Yeah, well, I always remember the handsome ones,” she said, smiling and winking. She turned around to get the next round of drinks. Ben couldn’t help but watch her walk away and at that exact moment as he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder.

  “Amigo!” The Hispanic gentleman in the white Lacoste button-up reeked of cigarettes. The other man who was with him was dressed very similar and walked around to stand on Ben’s other side.

  “Can I help you?” Ben asked, leaning into the man, barely able to understand his heavy accent. He looked down and saw their Lampasas cowboy boots. Whoever they were had great taste.

  “We were about to take these tequila shots, my friend, but our other buddy is taking a piss. We also don’t feel like waiting for him, so we saw you by yourself over here and was wondering if you wanted to take one with us really quick?”

  Looking back at his fiancé through the crowd—still on her phone, he noticed—he couldn’t resist. “Why not,” he said, “I can never turn down a shot!” After serving Ben his two cocktails, the waitress retrieved a bottle of 1800 Tequila from the top shelf and poured three glasses. The man with his hand on Ben’s shoulder introduced himself as Santiago, and Matias did the same. All three men slammed the shots in quick succession as Ben thanked him. He hurried back to Bri with his drinks in hand. After midnight, the crowd started to die down. Bri yawned a couple of times, Ben kissed her, telling her they would walk back after he returned from the restroom.

  Pablo had moved the SUV, parked it off to one side in the alley behind the bar, and stepped out with his suppressed Glock 19 in the small of his back. Dumping his Cohiba cigar embers on the ground, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. “About time,” he said, pressing his finger against the fingerprint scanner to unlock the phone. Reading the text message, he nodded, and shoved the phone back into his pocket. Stomping out the cigar, he looked down the long alleyway. The only witnesses he could think of, or see for that matter, were the ones passing by occasionally on the sidewalk forty or so yards in front of their SUV. Getting back into the driver’s seat, he cranked the engine.