American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) Read online

  Midnight was an unusual time for a beauty salon to be open but two hundred American dollars for a few hours’ work was incentive enough for the hairdresser and esthetician to take on this special client.

  “Welcome, Fatima,” said the hairdresser as the other woman locked the shop’s doors and pulled down all the blinds.

  “Thank you for doing this rush job,” said Aida-cum-Fatima. Fatima took out her smart phone and showed the photos of the nude Sabiya Casey had sent her. “I need to look exactly like her or as close to it as you can.”

  “That will not be a problem.”

  ***

  Four hours later, there was a knock on the salon door. Fatima nodded and the hairdresser opened the door, letting Ahmed into the room.

  Fatima, lying on a table, got off and stood up, exposing her nude body. Ahmed clinically examined his sister, from her haircut to the moles to the scars.

  He nodded his approval. “You are the woman I had tonight.”

  Fatima quickly dressed and they departed. Casey stood outside with a middle-aged man wearing a turban.

  The turbaned man spoke quietly. “By the time you meet the Canadian officials at ten, I will have changed all your Syrian documentation to reflect your fingerprints and photos. I suggest you use this to alter your fingerprints.” He handed her a little tube of clear gel. “It is a temporary solution to remove them.”

  The man took off as Casey, Fatima and Ahmed climbed into the car.

  Chapter 2

  SEVEN YEARS AGO

  I am a soldier. My job is to kill. If you don’t like it, f*** you. Go back. Be a teacher. Pipefitter. Lawyer. Politician. But remember this. Without me, you ain’t shit. And you better hope I do my job well. Because if I don’t kill them, those guys are gonna come after you and rip that f***ing man bun off the back of your f***ing scalp.

  And if you don’t like the way I talk, f*** you. I don’t care because no matter what, YOU OWE ME!

  And one more thing, asshole... Happy Birthday, Greg.

  Twenty-three-year-old Sergeant Gregory “Boom Boom” Henderson, a five-year veteran who had the unfortunate honor of living in Kandahar for, save training, all his military life, slammed the sat phone shut. Boom Boom got the nickname because since he’d been a boy, he loved to play with explosives. He was the life of the party at Halloween and New Year’s and, if the youngster was invited, something was sure to go “Boom Boom.” At least that’s what he told everybody. Truth was, he hated his real name: Chadwick. He joined the forces right after high school. Rumor had it that he was an uncooperative SOB whose advancement in the forces was stymied by his unwillingness to kiss ass or tolerate incompetence.

  He turned and glared at the Asian girl about his age sitting beside him in the Bison Armored Personnel Carrier. “Remember this. Family is everything.”

  Sergeant Rayna Tan gave him a withering look and said with quiet sarcasm, “Hooah, Boom Boom. As long as you’re with me, you’re family and I got your back.”

  Looking at the slender Chinese girl with a helmet, frag vest, tac vest, and carrying an C8 battle rifle, alongside the six-foot, two-hundred-twenty-pound man’s man of a soldier, the family comment was almost too weird for words. Except, in the military, it was true.

  Sergeant Rayna Tan was one of the Canadian military’s bright lights. After finishing university in what seemed a lifetime ago with a Bachelor of Arts degree in psychology and philosophy, Rayna joined Canada’s armed forces. After basic training, like most new soldiers, she was deployed to Kandahar. The army wanted to keep her safe and eventually have her come back to Canada where the attractive young woman might help rebuild the forces’ tarnished image. Rayna would have nothing of that and insisted on being in combat. Over the years, she proved herself to be a fearless and intelligent combat assaulter. She had just learned she had passed the grueling entrance exams and been accepted into Canada’s elite Special Forces Unit, JTF2, and this might be her last mission before she returned to Canada for advanced training. (One of the most secret special forces units in the world, JTF2 is the only foreign special operation unit to be conducted into American Tier 1 ranking, along with Delta and Seal Team 6.)

  Afghanistan was crazy, corrupt and complex. Where the police and army smoked dope, robbed the locals and ran away at the first sniff of the Taliban; where the locals prayed for and preyed on American, British and Canadian Forces that came to protect them; and where, despite their official overthrow in 2001, the Taliban, led by the ruthless one-eyed Mullah Omar, continued to inflict its reign of lethal terror on Afghani civilians.

  The goal of today’s operation was to replenish the supplies of a FOB (forward operating base) being built in the Zhari District of Kandahar, close to where the Taliban called home. FOB Wildcat, like hundreds of FOBs spread throughout Afghanistan, would be primitive but functional. Most important, it would have close proximity to the enemy so vehicle- and foot-borne patrols could control, attack and kill. Until then, the Taliban could openly and defiantly operate almost to the perimeter of Kandahar Air Field. If FOB Wildcat and others like it could gain even the smallest of footholds against Taliban extremism, it would be encouragement to the Afghans to stand up and defend themselves without the need for Coalition forces.

  But that was still a long way off and a mighty big “if.” Right then, there was a more immediate concern. IEDs were a fact of life in Afghanistan. The Taliban was constantly placing new ones on the road between KAF and FOB Wildcat. It was never a question of “if” there would be an incident; it was only a question of “when” and “how big?”

  The previous night, the temporary shelter that housed medical supplies for the fledgling FOB had been attacked and robbed. Six Taliban rebels brazenly entered, shot open the lock and walked out with enough basic medicines and equipment to equip a small infirmary. While they didn’t kill anybody, every one of the eight local Afghani soldiers was either shot or beaten.

  Rayna was given the call to go and the responsibility to lead a section. There were five vehicles dispatched to FOB Wildcat. A bulldozer-like Husky led the convoy. Its job was to detect, dispose and clear any booby traps en route. Following the Husky were two medical and food supply vans carrying everything from peanuts to powdered milk to penicillin. Bringing up the rear was a hulking BV206 Tracked Carrier, large enough to carry a physician, his assistant, three combat assaulters and still bring the injured back to KAF.

  It was insufferably hot. It was the middle of summer and it seemed like the hundred plus degree heat would never end. Combined with the clouds of parched desert dust, air was at a premium. Sweating like a sinner in church, Boom Boom was tempted to remove his helmet; the sauna-like heat was making him dizzy but, as he moved to adjust his strap, Rayna snatched his hand away and growled, “You take that helmet off your head and you give the Taliban an opportunity to put a hatchet into the back of it. Damn it, Boom Boom. You should know better by now. We already got enough casualties without having to worry about an idiot like you.”

  Boom Boom’s eyes threw daggers but he knew Rayna was right.

  “Relax, Rayna,” said a sympathetic fellow soldier.

  “How can I relax when I’m dealing with rookie mistakes?” barked Rayna.

  “Well, when we get back to base, I’ll use my superpowers and I’ll cool you off real good. Take off that helmet, nasty vests, then move down...” murmured Danny Gerrard in his normal “too cool for words” voice.

  Rayna took her rifle off her lap and swung it to swat Gerrard.

  The snickering soldier stopped it easily and said with a mock whimper, “Please don’t shoot me, Ms. GI Jane. You know my wife’s six thousand miles away and I just want a little nooky nooky with my little fortune cookie.” He cut the attitude and shoved the rifle in front of Rayna’s face. “You think that just because you got into Special Forces, you’re hot shit. Well, you’re not. The mucky mucks just let you in because you’re a woman and you’re Chinese.”

  At that moment, Rayna wasn’t sure who she was an
grier at—the Taliban or jocks like Gerrard who appeared like unwanted mosquitoes throughout every step of her military career. From the recruiter she met in college, to the trainers she had in Ottawa, to the flyboys she met at KAF, all of them had the same arrogant attitude that had pissed off women since the beginning of time. It was pointless to argue though—they had a bigger enemy than Gerrard to worry about.

  The mini-convoy slowed as it passed through a small war-torn village littered with the refuse of a combat that refused to die—shrapnel, spent munitions, shacks with soot-stained mud terrain walls, plastic bags, soda cans and a few goats. Everywhere, the evidence of the war in this ravaged country was evident, with rubble and garbage strewn everywhere, the hulk of a burnt-out vehicle... but mainly the people—skinny to the point of looking anorexic, and their eyes… The hollow look of the living, soon-to-be dead.

  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.”