Dark Redemption (David Rivers Book 3)
Dark Redemption
The David Rivers Series, Book 3
Jason Kasper
Contents
The David Rivers Series
JUDGMENT
Chapter 1
REDEEMER
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
ESCAPE
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
MIDNIGHT
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
FATE
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The David Rivers Series Continues…
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Jason Kasper
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To Bryan, Dustin, Jeremiah, and LaDavid
DOL
The David Rivers Series
Book 1: Greatest Enemy
Book 2: Offer of Revenge
Book 3: Dark Redemption
Book 4: COMING 2018
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JUDGMENT
Demon est deus inversus
-A demon is a god reflected
1
January 1, 2009
The Complex
Two-hour flight from San Antonio International Airport
I eased myself out of the pickup, taking in the view of pale, solitary desert neatly framed by open hangar doors. A security truck loaded with armed Outfit operators cruised slowly in the distance, its path a thin line between the arid expanse of sand and steep plateaus lining the bleak horizon.
The frail pitch of approaching jet engines sliced through the low murmur of men’s voices echoing around me. I looked at the crowd of Outfit shooters lining the dusty white walls of the hangar, every spare member of the Handler’s private army standing tensely as they awaited their first glance of his face.
I grinned to myself, but the expression was quickly erased by the frigid winter breeze that washed into the hangar. Between being plucked from the African equator a day earlier and the hasty shower that left my hair wet, the desert outside San Antonio may as well have been the Arctic.
I barely had time to close the pickup door before Sergio accosted me from behind.
“Where the fuck have you been?” He was frowning, anxious, the gray amid his dark hair more prominent than usual.
“I had to get Bay Six ready for my mission debrief.”
“He’s only got ninety minutes before he has to be wheels-up again. Counting for transit on and off the compound, that leaves us an hour for your brief. Remember what I told you—”
“Professionalism. Got it.”
“We’ve got two pickups to move him and his security detail into the compound. I’ll be with him in the lead vehicle, and I want you in the trail truck.”
“Okay.”
“His security detail will provide all instructions. They’ve got tactical control from the time his jet lands until it takes off again, so we are to comply with whatever they say.”
“Sure.”
“This is a pivotal day for the Outfit. I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly.”
“Sergio, when has my conduct been less than professional? Besides, I couldn’t imagine a better way to spend New Year’s Day.”
His posture stiffened. “David, this is not the time—”
“My Christmas present was some hashish in Somalia, and now I’m here with you fuckers.”
We heard the jet touch down on the far end of the runway. I drew a long breath to steady myself and noticed a look of fear crossing Sergio’s face.
“Screw this up, David, and I’m not going to be the one making you pay. He will. But I won’t have my career degraded because of your arrogance.”
Forcing myself to exhale, I smiled at him. “I wouldn’t worry about that. People will be talking about this debrief for years.”
The booming activation of the jet’s thrust reversers heralded its deceleration before we could see it through the open hangar door, and Sergio cracked the knuckles on both hands before self-consciously dropping them to his sides. “The Handler’s never taken a debrief in person here before.”
If the next hour went the way I intended, he never would again.
After my discharge from the Army less than a year ago, I descended into a suicidal despair. But providence led me to Boss, Matz, and Ophie, a mercenary trio that had defined my existence since our first meeting. They introduced me to Karma, the woman whose love had given me a reason to live. Since their death—and hers—at the hands of the faceless criminal mastermind I was about to meet, I was consumed by the burning, rabid desire for revenge. I knew I wouldn’t survive long enough to enjoy my long-awaited victory over the Handler, but death was a foregone conclusion in my ragged pursuit of vengeance. In a way, the greatest favor he could bestow on me would be to extinguish the last flicker of life that blazed with the sole motivation of killing him. I’d embrace death so long as I could offer the same to him in return, ember for inferno.
After my brutal three-day combat mission in Somalia, I wasn’t at peak physical condition for an assassination attempt. My left shoulder was strained from hauling the heavy case through a firefight with an Islamic militia, and my wrist was rubbed raw from the handcuff that had been removed only an hour ago. But there would be no second chances; I’d staged a set of scissors next to the coffeemaker in the briefing room, another beside the projector, and stocked my pockets with metal pens that could be thrust into a human eye socket with great effect.
Barring access to those tools, I’d aim to either crush his skull repeatedly with whatever hard object I could find or bite through his carotid.
“All right,” Sergio said resolutely as the whooshing howl of jet engines grew louder. “Here we go.”
Another gust of frigid wind disturbed the giant American flag suspended from the cross beams above us. In my mind I was suddenly on a sliver of Dominican beach with Ian as he recovered me from exile, listening to him speak the words that would ultimately send me to Africa and now here, moments away from meeting my greatest enemy.
I made contact with a source who used to work for the Handler’s organization…there was a survivor from Boss’s team. Whoever survived is now working for the Handler.
Recalling those words caused the same sinking feeling of dread as the first time I’d heard them. Clenching my jaw, I forced my attention back to the tarmac.
The desert plateaus beyond the hangar vanished behind the sleek white bullet of the business jet rolling into view, a sweeping red line tracing its length. I counted seven oval-shaped windows reflecting the hangar back on us, and guessed there could be no more than twenty passengers aboard, half of whom were probably his security. The plane, which had no tail number, must have originated from an airfield private enough for this conspicuous lack of identification to go unreported.
The jet coasted to a halt outside the hangar, its engines emitting an eerie, high-pitched whistle that matched the constant tone of combat-induced ringing in my ears.
I breathed in the sickly kerosene smell of jet fuel exhaust and folded my arms against the cold as a clamshell door behind the cockpit unfolded to reveal a set of stairs lowering to the tarmac. Everyone in the hangar stared fixedly at the plane, awaiting the imminent flood of bodyguards.
Instead, a single figure appeared in the doorway.
The silhouette stood sto
ck-still for a moment, and then descended the stairs with a certain lithe grace. After setting foot on the ground, the figure unhurriedly approached us, empty-handed and unaccompanied.
It was a woman.
She may have been many things, but I could tell from her appearance that she was definitely not a bodyguard. Her long red hair drifted in the wind, offset by a conservative knee-length skirt and short heels.
I looked to Sergio for guidance, but his eyes were turned to her, his lips slightly parted. I couldn’t tell if he recognized her.
As she approached us, she didn’t spare so much as a sideways glance to the security vehicles posted beyond the compound fence or the rows of Complex operators filling the hangar behind us.
Instead, her relaxed gaze was fixed on me until she stopped a few feet away. Her features held a peculiar fairness, a delicate grace beset by the cool reserve of her gunmetal gray eyes that remained composed and businesslike.
“Mr. Rivers, are you ready?”
“Absolutely.”
She lifted a hand toward the plane. “Good. He’s waiting for you.”
In a split second, it all made sense.
Why wouldn’t the Handler remain on his jet? He’d be unseen and protected within the comfort of his usual travel accommodations, safely parked amid the Complex’s concentric security rings.
Perfect. This would bring me even closer to him than I’d hoped.
Sergio was the first to blink.
“The brief was to take place in the planning bay, Sage,” he blurted. “His aide gave me very specific instructions.”
“And yet the Handler has chosen to receive the brief on his plane.”
Sergio’s mouth opened before he swallowed and said, “Very well. Let’s go.”
“We would prefer you supervise security until his jet has taken off.”
“I have a man in charge of that.”
Sage flashed him a mischievous grin. “You have something to add to the debrief?”
“David is my recruit. I should be present.”
“You can have Mr. Rivers back when the Handler is done with him. You’ve already blown one chance, Sergio. You’re not getting another.”
Though he said nothing, his eyes didn’t move from hers.
“Well,” I said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them, “the Handler probably wants to hear all about Africa. Probably shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
I took a step toward the jet, but Sage looked to me coldly. “Remove everything from your person and empty the contents of your pockets completely. Phone, pens, paper. His security staff has a pronounced tendency to react poorly to any items they find.”
Sergio held out his hand.
I slapped my work phone, wallet, and battered notepad into his waiting palm, then reluctantly added the metal pens to the tally.
“That’s it,” I said.
Sage shook her head. “Your wristwatch, Mr. Rivers.”
I unstrapped it and handed it to Sergio, the intensity of his glare displaying one final concentrated effort to impart his earnestness upon me. “Represent the Outfit, David.”
“I plan on it.”
Sage said, “After you, Mr. Rivers.”
I walked toward the lowered stairs of the plane. The click of her heels followed me across the tarmac before all was lost in the dreamlike, white noise cry of the idling jet. Its horizontal crimson stripe turned to blood before me, a lucid reminder of my impending confrontation.
I didn’t feel myself ascending the staircase. A thousand aches and pains from my fight for survival in Africa were left on the ground as I floated upward, my body weightless from the magnitude of meeting the Handler face-to-face at last. The crescendo of the engines died as I entered the soundproofed cabin and turned my eyes to a long interior divided into segments by partially open doors.
I crossed through a lounge filled with black leather couches offset by cream surfaces, my shadow whispering past a glossy wood partition as I entered the center of the cabin. Looking past an unoccupied conference table flanked by blank flat screens, I saw a final sliding door blocking my view of the aft section of the plane.
I advanced toward the tail, my heart slamming as I slid open the door. A low couch stretched across one wall, while opposite it two seats faced each other. The windows were opaque, allowing in ambient light while blocking any outside view.
The room was empty.
I whirled around as Sage entered behind me. “Where is he?”
Her eyes creased in an otherwise imperceptible smile. “He’s not coming here, Mr. Rivers. You’re going to him.”
After barreling down the runway at a greater speed than any aircraft I’d ever flown in, we swiftly rose to a cruising altitude I couldn’t estimate through the opaque windows and soared for hours with no means to gauge how much time had elapsed since our departure. As we finally began our descent to places unknown, the cabin of the plane was completely silent.
And that’s what was most unsettling about the entire experience—not Sage sealing me into the aft section of the plane without a word, or being forced to spend so many hours between a locked door and a lavatory. Even the unknown destination took second place to the silence of my surroundings, the expansive smells of the desert I’d just left replaced by richly conditioned leather and plush carpet, a tomb that allowed the high-pitch ring of my permanent hearing loss to surface with perfect clarity. The ringing became a soundtrack to my mind’s churning through a cast of characters now reduced to memories in an intricate web of lies I’d built around myself to get closer to the Handler.
I remembered watching Ophie torture a man named Luka in the basement of our team house. We know you killed Caspian. You’re just here to answer for it. Before his gruesome death, Luka had screamed over and over that the Iranian, not he, had been responsible for the murder.
But when I asked who the Iranian was, Matz had curtly responded, He’s dead already. Stop talking.
In the wake of my team’s massacre, I had returned from a brief exile in the Dominican Republic to meet Ian’s contact from the Handler’s organization, a heavyset Indian man who had told me in no uncertain terms that I was about to meet the survivor from Boss’s team. The man had also gotten me a job interview for the Outfit and, most importantly, provided the words Khasham Khada that would eventually save my life.
A month later I’d met Sergio, who oversaw my conduct in the test that would determine my admission into the Outfit.
The test had nearly killed me. Actually, it had killed me, though my drowning in the frigid waters of a winter harbor had been erased when a carefully staged medical team had resuscitated me. After a lengthy psychiatric evaluation, I’d attended my first job interview for the Outfit, and was then paired with an experienced partner named Jais for my debut mission.
The mission was simple: link up with a recovery team, meet with an old woman referred to as the Silver Widow, and take possession of a case. But after fighting our way across the war-torn wilderness of southern Somalia, Jais and I had barely escaped an enemy militia to reach our link-up site. The recovery team transported us to a hidden structure, separating me from Jais.
I had been summoned to meet the Silver Widow alone, and instead of an old woman, I found the face of a young, beautiful Somali woman behind a headdress of interlocking silver pieces. And in that dreamlike exchange, the woman told me that she knew I wanted to kill the Handler, and sought the same end. Her instructions were simple enough, but if I failed to follow them exactly, she warned I’d be killed before my first sunset in America. That sunset was now a few hours away, and her words weighed heavily on my mind.
I heard the precise click of a lock neatly opening, followed by the cabin door sliding sideways.
Sage stood in the doorway, her red hair neatly parted, tucked behind an unadorned ear on one side and descending in wavy lengths past her chin. Shale eyes flicked to the bottle of water in the cup holder beside me, then to the galley tucked in the corner.
“No.”
“Given your psych evaluation, that took considerable restraint.”
She’d read my file. My thoughts flickered back to the psychiatrist who had interviewed me as I tried out for the Outfit, his ice-blue eyes fixed upon mine as he dismantled my carefully maintained exterior of normalcy.
I shrugged. “It didn’t take that much restraint. Not one bottle of bourbon on the plane, Sage? So much for an organization with unlimited resources.”
She moved to the seat across from me, expensive-smelling perfume wafting around her as she slowly crossed one leg over the other.
“When I transport someone to meet him for the first time, they look like they’re on the way to a promotion interview. But not you, Mr. Rivers.”
I self-consciously rubbed my cheek. The last time I shaved was a week earlier to ensure my oxygen mask would seal to my face before the high-altitude jump into Somalia.
“I didn’t have much time to clean up.”
“I don’t mean your appearance. I mean your eyes. You look like a man being marched to the gallows.”
“Am I?”
“Maybe. Why did you get summoned to meet him?”
I examined the strangely attractive lay of her face. From one angle she appeared old enough to be my mother, but with a slight turn of her head, she looked twenty years younger.
“I don’t know,” I said, glancing at the opaque window next to me. “Where are we headed?”