The Cold Hand of Death: A Team Reaper Thriller by Brent Towns

Author:Brent Towns [Towns, Brent]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2023-02-14T00:00:00+00:00

The van was an old blue Mitsubishi, not unlike some Knocker had used for surveillance when he was in the Regiment. His guess would be that he’d find two former Special Forces operators inside monitoring the hotel just as he’d been doing.

He wore ragged clothes and a Yankees baseball cap pulled down low over his face as he walked along the sidewalk, approaching the vehicle from the rear. This too was parked outside the cordon which was guarded by more Sierra Leonean soldiers.

As Knocker drew closer, he stepped off the sidewalk and onto the street, remaining out of sight of the side mirrors. His target was the double doors at the rear of the van.

When he reached them, he held his breath, hoping that the handle wasn’t jammed or locked, and that the door would open smoothly enough. With a hand clamped on his P226, Knocker tried it.

The door swung open with a screech which made the former SAS operator wince.

There were three inside. One in the back. He was the one that Knocker shot first with his suppressed handgun.

The man jerked and slumped sideways before he could even get his weapon out. Knocker then focused on the passenger. More room to move rather than the driver who had to contend with the steering wheel. The P226 centered and spat again. The passenger slumped, too.

The van rocked as the Brit rushed forward. The driver was trying to get his weapon around to aim at the intruder. It was but a futile gesture. Knocker was on top of him well before he could come close.

The Brit hit him hard.

And again.

And again.

The man was stunned, and his head lolled to one side. Knocker turned around and closed the rear doors of the van and then went back to the driver. Pulling him from the driver’s seat and into the cargo space, Knocker zip-tied the man’s hands, and began to question him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“W—what?”

Knocker slapped him. “Come on, fuckface, get with the program. Who are you?”

“Jackson.”

“Where you from, Jackson?”

“Minnesota.”

“No, where are you from? Who sent you?”

“Fuck you.”

The man was starting to gather himself. Knocker said, “Last chance before I start enhanced interrogation. Who sent you?”

“Fuck off.”

“You were warned, mate,” the Brit said and shot him in the leg with the P226. The man screeched but Knocker placed his hand firmly over his mouth. “I did tell you. Now, who do you work for?”

“Jack Harding.”

“Good, now we’re getting somewhere. That wasn’t so hard. How many of you?”

“Thirty.”

“Where?”

“Place north of the city.”

“How many of you are in Freetown?”

“Only us.”

“You checking out the Chinese president?” Knocker asked.

“Who?”

The Brit slammed his hand down on the man’s wounded leg. He convulsed wildly, a scream trapped in his throat when Knocker jabbed him in the neck, cutting it off.

“Come on, mate, no time to fuck around. Both your friends are dead. If you want to join them just keep riding the bike you’re on down this path. Now, the Chinese president?”

“Yes,” he strangled the answer out.

“What’s the plan?”

“The plan?” He hesitated then relented at the pain coursing through his leg.

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