The Assassin's Case Read online

  Advanced praise for The Assassin’s Case

  "Craig Alexander's latest is a page-turning thriller that is a bold mix of Biblical themes and mainstream grit. Alexander takes the reader on a thrill-ride exploration of the need for vengeance and its effect on the body, mind and soul."

  Jeremy Robinson - the #1 bestselling Action-Adventure and #1 bestselling Science Fiction author of more than thirty novels including his runaway indie hit RAGNAROK, ISLAND 731, PROJECT NEMESIS, SECONDWORLD, THE ANTARKTOS SAGA, and the exciting Jack Sigler series.

  Praise for The Nineveh Project

  Another great thriller from Craig Alexander

  "A must read. The Nineveh Project reads like an action movie plays out on the screen—thrilling and non-stop. Craig Alexander puts the reader in the seat of an unremitting thrill ride that doesn't let up until the book ends."

  BookReview.com

  "Craig Alexander imbues his debut novel, The Nineveh Project, with the kind of kinetic excitement you might expect from a man who has a black belt in three Korean martial arts. Combining The Bourne Identity's fights and espionage with The Da Vinci Code's pot-boiling thrills ... "

  From the Essential Gear column of Black Belt Magazine

  “The Nineveh Project is an action-packed tale…”

  The Rankin Ledger

  “In the best thriller tradition, the book is gripping and hard to put down.”

  The Rankin Record

  Also by Craig Alexander:

  THE NINEVEH PROJECT

  The Assassin’s Case

  Copyright © Craig Alexander, 2016

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]

  Cover design by:

  Yocla Designs

  for Christian

  The only cure for grief is action.

  George Henry Lewes

  PROLOGUE

  16 Years Ago

  Grant Sawyer lay prone in thick, wild, grass on a hillside overlooking a salvage yard. His body was melded to the ground, the reticle of his Unertl ten-power scope trained on the brain stem of his target. A finger rested on his rifle’s trigger guard, the power to grant life or death at its tip. Grass itched against his stomach, the faint hint of radiator fluid and charred motor oil drifted on the breeze. “I have the subject in my sights.”

  “Copy, Bravo One.”

  The subject was Vinnie Delfuco. A thug and racketeer with a history of violence, now branching out into the illicit drug trade. Delfuco’s family, an old style Sicilian mafia-like organization led by his father, had been the subject of a long running FBI investigation. The family was wreaking havoc in Memphis, Tennessee and the Bureau’s best efforts had produced no convictions. Ambitious and greedy, Vinnie was going off the reservation. Just the break the FBI needed to nail him, maybe gain some leverage to pry open the layers of secrecy shrouding his father.

  Vinnie was about to sell drugs to an undercover agent. After the transaction, things could become interesting. HRT, the elite FBI Hostage Rescue Team, of which Grant was a member, had been called in for backup.

  Grant’s job was to make sure no agents were killed. He kept his crosshairs on Vinnie’s head as the other snipers called in the positions of their targets. The others had multiple targets, but Grant’s primary was Vinnie Delfuco. The man carried an Uzi on a sling over his shoulder and no one believed he would hesitate to use it.

  The drama unfolded in a large open area between stacks of smashed cars, washers, dryers, refrigerators, and mounds of scrap metal. It had taken Grant two hours to belly-crawl into position. Aided by a ghillie suit, a type of overall covered in torn cloth shreds designed to resemble foliage, he was now part of the landscape. The baking sun made sweat trickle down his back and collected on his brow. Bugs dined on his exposed skin, but he ignored the discomfort. His focus, his entire being, existed only in the scope. The distance to his target was a little less than two-hundred yards, with little wind. A relatively easy shot with the rifle in his hands, a custom built .308-caliber on a Remington Model 700 bolt-action receiver.

  As the cash and the drugs changed hands, Grant released a slow breath, nestled the rifle against his shoulder, and leaned into the cheek pad, its surface cool from sweat. He adjusted position, aligning his body with the recoil path to minimize muzzle jump. Mind, body, and weapon, one.

  “We’re green.” The team was moving in.

  Grant heard a shout of warning followed by the blast of a pistol. Something had gone wrong. Through the earpiece, and audibly with his opposite ear, Grant heard shouts to freeze and drop weapons. Through the magnified image in the scope, he saw the anger flash on Vinnie Delfuco’s face as he realized the betrayal. He brought up the Uzi. With bloodlust in his eyes he moved the gun into to firing position on the undercover agent. They wanted Delfuco alive, but for him to survive, an agent would probably die. A body shot might not instantly incapacitate Delfuco and he would carve the agent in half at such close range with the automatic weapon. The agent or Delfuco. There wasn’t really a choice.

  Grant’s finger caressed the trigger, methodically reeling in the slack to reach the trigger’s two-and-a-half pound breaking point.

  The rifle spat its deadly charge, a 168-grain bullet traveling at 2,700 feet per second. Vinnie Delfuco’s existence was eradicated in a spray of red mist before Grant’s ears registered the gun’s report. Vinnie’s lifeless body crumpled to the dust before he had a chance to fire a shot.

  After their leader went down, the rest of Delfuco’s men surrendered when the Hostage Rescue Team swarmed them.

  Two Weeks Later

  “On the night before the Bear’s big day, they look at the moon, far, far, away.” Grant lay next to his six-year-old, Pierce, in his single bed, an arm draped around his shoulders. Grant could have repeated the text of The Berenstain Bears On the Moon without opening the front cover. Pierce loved it. His latest craze was anything to do with space. Grant read through the book with only an occasional peek at the pages. “Now they look up at the stars, very, very far away. Will they go up to a star …? Well, they may … someday.” He flipped the cover closed and kissed his son’s forehead.

  “One more story, dad. Please. I’m not tired.” Pierce yawned, his eyelids fluttering. He was a near duplicate of his father; the only features he inherited from his mom were her striking ice-blue eyes.

  “Oh, I know,” Grant said. “But I am.” He rolled out of the bed, switched off the lamp, and adjusted the covers around Pierce’s shoulders. Grant cupped a hand over his son’s face and gave him another kiss. “Get some good sleep.”

  “I will. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  As Grant walked through the door Pierce called, “Dad?”

  Grant gripped the doorframe and leaned back. “What is it, buddy?”

  “Are you tougher than Houston’s dad?”

  Grant smiled and went back to kneel by the bed. Ah, the old my dad can beat up your dad. “Your mom’s the tough one.”

  “Aw, dad.”

  Grant had to be gone a lot. Occasionally he had to be away for weeks at a time. He had just returned from a fifteen day trip. Although Grant tried to make every minute count when he was at home, it was still hard on Pierce. Even so, his son thought he was a superhero. Gr
ant knew all too soon that would change. But for now he would enjoy every minute. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, Houston said his dad could beat you up, no problem.”

  Houston was Pierce’s friend and classmate. His father, Rex Pittman, was Pierce’s Tae Kwon Do instructor. He was a very nice guy and seemed to be a capable martial artist. He was definitely good with the kids in his Little Dragon program.

  “Well, Houston is proud of his father. And he should be. But we would never get into a fight, so it doesn’t really matter.” Grant tousled his son’s hair. “Now, go to sleep.”

  As Grant reached his bedroom door, Pierce called out again. “You could take him. I know it.”

  Grant shook his head and smiled. He walked down the hall of his family’s one story house toward his bedroom, surprised to find the door closed. When he began story-time Susan had been finishing up in the kitchen. He eased the door open. The room lights were dimmed and candles burned on the nightstands. He shut the door and reached for the light switch.

  “Why don’t you leave them off?” Susan stood in the bathroom doorway, the light from within shining through a flimsy negligee. “I haven’t had a chance to welcome you home properly.”

  She looked amazing. The silk gown accentuated every curve, the light caught the highlights in her blonde hair, framing it in a halo, candlelight gleamed in her blue eyes.

  Grant crossed the room in three steps and smothered her in his arms.

  Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

  “You have got to be kidding me.” Grant untangled himself from Susan and grabbed his pager off the dresser. The numbers 888 flashed across the beeper window. Three eights meant the team was to immediately assemble at HRT headquarters. He had to report in. Grant sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.”

  He didn’t have to explain, she knew what it meant.

  After tossing his gear-bag in the rear cargo area of his Pathfinder, Grant patted his pockets and realized he had left his phone and pager inside. He closed the rear hatch and noticed the paper still sitting at the end of the driveway. Might as well take it inside. He scooped the paper off the drive and scanned the street. They lived on a tree-lined cul-de-sac in a quiet middle class suburb of Fredericksburg, Virginia, a long way from the small Texas town where he grew up.

  As he turned, his world ended.

  His house erupted in a white-hot flash and a deafening boom. Though most of the concussion wave shot debris straight up into the night sky, the blast still lifted him from the ground and hurled him into the street. His back hit first, then his head. Sparks exploded in his skull, and the wind was knocked out of him, a scream stuck in his throat. Debris rained down. Though strained and muffled by his traumatized ears, he registered the screech of car alarms and a thump as a large piece of wreckage slammed to the ground near him. As his vision faded to black and consciousness slipped away, the last things he heard were the cries of neighbors and a distant siren.

  * * * * *

  Grant blinked his eyes. Pain thrummed through his head, followed by a wave of nausea. Through blurred vision he made out white sheets and the railing of a hospital bed. He continued to blink and his vision slowly cleared. He felt a light pressure on his right arm and saw a hand resting on it. He tilted his head so he could see who was beside him. His best friend, Steve Jenson, one of the assistant special agents in charge in the Dallas FBI field office. When Grant started his career at the Bureau, Steve had been his training agent. But he had become more than that, a mentor, and later a friend. Pierce called him Uncle Steve.

  Steve patted Grant’s arm. “You’ve been out for two days. You took quite a blow to the head. A few burns too.”

  Susan. Pierce.

  Fear constricted Grant’s chest and he squeezed Steve’s hand. One look in the man’s haunted eyes told Grant all he needed to know. But he still had to ask. “My family?”

  A tear pooled in Steve’s eye and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Grant. I’m so sorry.”

  Grant squeezed his eyes shut, stifling a yell, but not the tears.

  “Grant.”

  Something grave in Steve’s tone forced Grant’s eyes open.

  “There’s more.” Steve swallowed and smacked his lips before taking a deep breath. “Okay. I’ve just got to spit this out.” More tears rolled down his face. “There were two more bombs. One at your parents and one at Charlotte’s. Your parents didn’t make it, but your sister’s okay. She received an emergency page from the hospital. She was en-route the house went up.”

  Steve grimaced and Grant realized he had been clamping down on his hand. He eased the pressure. “Why? How? Who?”

  “Our bomb recovery and analysis team determined the devices placed at your sister’s and parents’ were detonated with pagers. So, they could have been set off from anywhere. But the one at your house was detonated using a short range remote.” Tears flowed from Steve’s eyes. “The bastard was probably close enough to watch.” He took a breath. “As to the who and the why, we’re pretty sure Carmine Delfuco is responsible. This sort of thing seems to happen to people who cross him. We just can’t prove it. Yet.”

  “How did he know I was the one that pulled the trigger on his son?”

  “We’re pretty sure it was someone in the Memphis PD. Probably someone that worked the bust. At least that’s what I believe.”

  Grant leaned back on the pillow. He gripped the bed railing hard enough to turn his knuckles white. His chest was so tight he didn’t know if he could draw a breath, but he did. This time he didn’t stifle the yell of anguish that bubbled from his throat.

  One sole desire, one passion now remains

  To keep life's fever still within his veins,

  Vengeance! dire vengeance on the wretch who cast

  O'er him and all he lov'd that ruinous blast.

  Thomas Moore

  ONE

  Present Day

  If Grant knew then what he knew now, would he have pulled the trigger? Would he have killed the scumbag?

  Impossible to say.

  The magic bullet. One shot that ended six lives. Grant’s included. Francis Bacon said a man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.

  Well Grant’s wounds were green. He hadn’t healed. And didn’t want to.

  Grant shrugged his shoulders and attempted to shake the grief and anger. He tried to focus on the brightly decorated shops in the mall. Christmas used to be a time of elation and joy, his favorite time of the year.

  Now, not so much.

  The myriad of twinkling lights, tinsel and bows, the throng of shoppers, laughing children, and every wish of a merry Christmas battered Grant like a body blow.

  He located an empty bench among the crowd and fell onto it. The scent of baked cookies, cinnamon, and evergreen filled his nostrils. He closed his eyes, fighting against the wave of memories besieging his psyche.

  He lost.

  Everyone had known who was responsible.

  Everyone.

  Grant smacked a fist into his opposite palm. After his family’s murder and a brief leave of absence, Grant requested re-assignment to an investigative unit. Of course he had been warned to stay clear of the Delfuco case. After almost a year with no convictions for his family’s murder, Grant snapped.

  He loaded his car with enough munitions to storm a small country and drove the seven hours from Dallas to Memphis. Justice would be meted out. He arrived at the Delfuco mansion and forced his way in, injuring several hired thugs in the process. Carmine Delfuco fled in an armored limo, and before Grant could exact revenge, he was stopped. Local law enforcement, aided by the FBI agents surveilling the mansion, swarmed him. But they weren’t after the bad guys, they were after Grant.

  Even with friends high up the chain of command, Grant was suspended without pay. His future with the bureau dim, he quit before his pending appearance in front of a board of review. As a matter of fact he was fortunate not to have been charged. For a while he re
tained friends in the Bureau and they kept him informed. They eventually identified the assassin who had placed the bombs. Jimmy “Boom” Tedesco. In order to stay out of prison he gave damning evidence that brought the Delfuco organization down. Carmine was convicted and given two life sentences without the possibility of parole. But his prison term was cut short by a brutal stabbing with a shiv. Not long after that the attempts on Grant’s life began. Someone still wanted revenge for Carmine and Vinnie. And nobody could tell Grant who wanted it.

  Jimmy Tedesco still walked free, living plush in the witness protection program. The U.S. Attorney’s office decided that the hand that pulled the trigger was more important than the gun.

  But not for Grant.

  A woman burdened with packages plopped down with a sigh next to Grant and snapped him out of his reverie. Grateful for the distraction, he attempted a weak smile. He stood and began to navigate his way through the crowd. Under normal conditions, especially during the holiday season, he avoided anywhere crowds were gathered, but the only shop that carried his security guard uniforms was located in this mall. On his shift the night before he ripped his last pair of pants, forced to come here to buy more.

  Ghosts weren’t supposed to mingle with the living. And that’s what he was. A ghost. Oh, he still drew breath, but Grant Sawyer died sixteen years ago. All that remained was a shade, a pale shadow of the man he used to be, a specter driven by grief and anger.

  Still, out of habit he scanned his surroundings, looking, searching, his gaze attempting to identify the out of place, the unusual, the sinister.

  A glance at his watch told him six hours remained until his shift began. He lifted his head, eyes darting from face-to-face. Though no one touched him, the throng of people began to suffocate him as his thoughts strayed.