Brady Hawk Box Set Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  What Others Are Saying

  More Books by R.J. Patterson

  FIRST STRIKE

  DEEP COVER

  POINT OF IMPACT

  About the Author

  FIRST STRIKE

  A Brady Hawk Thriller

  R.J. PATTERSON

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  What Others Are Saying

  About R.J. Patterson

  “R.J. Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

  -Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

  “Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

  -Richard D., reader

  “Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.

  -Ray F., reader

  DEAD SHOT

  “Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer R.J. Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It’s that good.”

  -Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  “You can tell R.J. knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but withDead Shot, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery.”

  -Josh Katzowitz,

  NFL writer for CBSSports.com

  & author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game

  DEAD LINE

  “This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. R.J. Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”

  -Bob Behler

  3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year

  and play-by-play voice for Boise State football

  DEAD IN THE WATER

  “In Dead in the Water, R.J. Patterson accurately captures the action-packed saga of a what could be a real-life college football scandal. The sordid details will leave readers flipping through the pages as fast as a hurry-up offense.”

  -Mark Schlabach,

  ESPN college sports columnist and

  co-author of Called to Coach

  Heisman: The Man Behind the Trophy

  Other titles by R.J. Patterson

  Ed Maddux thriller series

  King of Queens

  To Catch a Spy

  Whispers of Treason

  Brady Hawk series

  Dead Shot

  Dead Line

  Better off Dead

  Dead in the Water

  Dead Man's Curve

  Dead and Gone

  Dead Wrong

  Dead Man's Land

  Dead Drop

  Dead to Rights

  Dead End

  James Flynn Thriller series

  The Warren Omissions

  Imminent Threat

  The Cooper Affair

  Seeds of War

  Brady Hawk series

  First Strike

  Deep Cover

  Point of Impact

  Full Blast

  Target Zero

  Fury

  State of Play

  Siege

  Seek and Destroy

  Into the Shadows

  Hard Target

  No Way Out

  For Sean, a real American military hero

  FIRST STRIKE

  A Brady Hawk Thriller

  Book 1

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  CHAPTER 0

  Present Day

  Zaranj, Afghanistan

  BRADY HAWK JAMMED a magazine clip into his P226 pistol and set it down on the dusty table. He stared at it for a second, pondering the twisted path that led him to this moment, the one where he geared himself up to go on a killing spree. The last time he’d been in this godforsaken part of the world he was helping people in a substantial way—not masquerading as an English teacher, but getting down in the sand and helping the people who needed it most. This time his help was less tangible but far more important.

  Hawk concluded the only thing that had really changed was his tactics. Digging wells and teaching people different methods of irrigation were helpful, but it was useless if they were about to be killed by 21st Century marauders who conjured up the spirit of Genghis Kahn. He’d help them again more tangibly in due time. But in the world now, there were more pressing matters—specifically, a terrorist group named Al Hasib.

  Hawk stepped over the dead body in the middle of his kitchen and strode toward the bathroom. Hawk brushed the dust off the mirror and stared at the man in front of him. Despite his reluctance, his eyes went directly to the scar on the right side of his forehead, a constant reminder of why he was here. His scraggly beard fell well past his neck, a symbol of his feeble attempt to blend into life here. Despite his disdain for the region’s troublemakers, he’d managed to temper his anger, hiding in plain sight—until now. He picked up a pair of scissors from the ledge of the bathroom sink and hacked away at the hair dangling beneath his chin. His razor quickly followed, leaving him with a clean-shaven face.

  His deep blue eyes stared back at him, half urging him onward in his mission and half begging him to return to the safe life he could have in the United States. Given who his father was, Hawk would’ve never been extended an opportunity to join Firestorm, the black ops team comprised of elite ex-military soldiers. With a father as a world-renowned weapons maker, Hawk could become a liability, a public symbol that Al Hasib, or any other terrorist group, would love to behead as a statement. But Hawk was that good. So good in fact that Senator J.D. Blunt, the senior official from Texas who oversaw the program, personally signed off on allowing Hawk to join the team.

  “The upside far outweighs the downside,” argued Blunt as he chewed on an unlit cigar before the rest of the Firestorm committee. “He may strike more precisely than a thousand drone bombings.”

  Blunt’s confidence in Hawk only fueled his passion to prove the senator right—not that Hawk needed any. Motivation was as plentiful as the desert sand. But he didn’t want to think about it. It was too painful, too real. It had been three years, but the wound hadn’t even scabbed over. Every day he awoke to the image of Emily facing her executioners in Deir ez-Zor along the banks of the Euphrates River. It was the enduring image he saw every time before he locked in to assassin mode and began killing with precision.

  Hawk returned to the kitchen and collected all his weapons on the table, strapping them to his person. The dead body lying prone in front of him wasn’t even cold, but he was far from being done killing for the night. He was just getting started, as he was finally ready to do what he’d gone to Zaranj to do: Kill Nasim Ghazi.

  CHAPTER 1

  Two months earlier

  Kirkuk, Iraq

  HAWK HUSTLED UP THE STEPS flanking the back of the two-story adobe home. Staying low, he wormed his way along the rooftop until he reached his pe
rch. The sun directly overhead had warmed the air but not the rooftop. It only felt mildly warm to his elbows. He turned on his comlink and dug out his binoculars.

  “Tell me what I’m looking at here,” Hawk said.

  “I hope you’re looking at the U.S. consulate in Kirkuk,” replied Alex Duncan, Hawk’s sassy handler. She was a CIA reject, an analyst-turned-handler who lost her job a year ago because she bucked the system one too many times. With some time off to reflect on her missteps that led to her ouster, she had a firm grasp on why discretion was truly the better part of valor. Instead of growing bitter, she decided to change her attitude—though she wasn’t completely reformed. She still believed rules could be broken if necessary, a long way from her previous belief that rules were made to be broken. The combination made her the perfect handler for an ops program like Firestorm.

  “Kirkuk? I thought I was supposed to be in Baghdad,” he deadpanned.

  “Cut the comedy act, Hawk. I’m watching you on a satellite feed,” she said.

  He tweaked the focus on his binoculars. “You know I’ve never understood these terrorists, killing themselves for an ideology they’ll never live to see realized.”

  “It’s not much different than anyone who volunteers to go to war.”

  “But when you go to war, at least you do so with the hope that you’ll come home and see the ideal for which you fought for come to life.”

  Alex waited for a moment before responding. “I always believed there were two kinds of men in the world—men who go to their deaths screaming, and men who go to their deaths in silence. Then I met a third kind.”

  Hawk pulled his binoculars back. “Wait a minute. Are you quoting Mr. McKinley from Rang De Basanti? I had no idea you were into Bollywood films.”

  “You know, I’m not sure if I like working with you any more now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because all my nuggets of wisdom come from Bollywood films, and I don’t know if I can have someone outing me as a fraudulent philosopher.”

  “If you quit because of that, you’re going to miss out on exploring my extensive Bollywood DVD collection. I only loan out my movies to work friends.”

  She laughed. “You see anything going on out there yet?”

  He smiled and pressed his binoculars against his face. He zoomed in on the consulate. “Not much going on, but the building is still smoldering.”

  “I can see that, too.”

  “You know, Alex, this is the third mission you’ve sent me on where I’m convinced you could’ve done the same thing from your office. I love the frequent mileage points, but this isn’t exactly what I signed up for.”

  “No one ever signs up for what they get. It’s called life.”

  “Are you always this cranky this late at night?”

  “There’s something about smart asses that brings it out in me. Besides, it’s more like early morning in my book.” She paused. “So, you can’t see anything?”

  “Apparently, not much more than you can. Just a few armed guards milling around. It’s time for the Zuhr prayer here—just not a lot going on right now.”

  “You’re going to need to get closer.”

  Hawk scanned the structure again with his binoculars. “How close?”

  “Inside.”

  “Inside? So I’m going from casual observer to infiltrating a heavily guarded compound on my own?”

  “Exactly. Isn’t that what you signed up for?”

  Before he could answer, a gunshot cracked through the air and a bullet whizzed past him. Hawk stayed low and scrambled behind an air conditioning unit a few meters away.

  “A heads up would’ve been nice,” Hawk said as he pulled out his gun and glanced in the direction the shot came from. Another bullet whistled past him.

  “I’ve got a delay of a few seconds here.”

  Hawk rolled over to the other side of the air conditioning unit and snuck a peek toward the gunfire. Nothing. “Can you give me some help here?”

  “I see it now,” she said. “You’ve got what looks like a single shooter three rooftops away to the east.”

  “Any way out of here?”

  “There’s a van in the alleyway behind you. You could jump and land on it. Shouldn’t be too far of a fall. And I don’t think the shooter is in a position where he could see you.”

  “Think or know? This isn’t the time for conjecture.”

  “Know.”

  “Roger that.”

  Hawk slithered backward and dropped off the edge of the roof onto the van. He slid down and headed toward the shooter.

  “What are you doing?” Alex asked. “You need to get out of there.”

  “No, what I need are answers—like how did someone know I was here and who sent this guy to kill me.”

  “You know you’re on your own if you get caught.”

  “Yeah, I know that as well as I know my own name and my alias.”

  Hawk could hear her sigh.

  “I don’t know how well I can help you now,” she said. “There’s a delay in my feed, remember?”

  “Do what you can.”

  Hawk stopped and pointed at a set of steps leading to what he guessed was the rooftop three houses away. He waited for Alex’s response.

  “That’s the one,” she said.

  Hawk crept up the first flight of stairs, keeping his body flush with the wall. The second flight started at the corner and ascended to the roof.

  “Hawk!” Alex screamed. “He’s heading straight for—”

  Hawk was not only five seconds ahead of her, but he was two steps ahead as well. He’d taken the comlink out of his left ear and could hear the faint footfalls of the man descending the steps. Hawk recoiled and delivered a blow to the man’s throat as he turned the corner. With the man gasping for air and unable to scream, Hawk smashed the man’s face with his knee. The crack of a broken nose echoed in the alleyway.

  Undaunted by the beating he was taking, the man attempted to fight back, swinging weakly at Hawk. Annoyed by the gesture, Hawk head butted the man and sent him falling backward into the alley from a height of no more than four meters.

  Hawk raced toward the man, who wasn’t moving. He felt for a pulse. Still kicking.

  “Are you all right?” Alex asked after her feed caught up with the man falling into the alley.

  “Never better.”

  “He’s not much good to you now, is he?”

  Hawk shook his head. “Let’s see who you are.” He started digging around in the man’s pocket and found a set of keys and a picture—a picture of Hawk. “Now this just got really interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Alex, he has a picture of me on him. And it’s a picture of me from when I was in Syria working with the Peace Corps. Please tell me how this guy has this.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Really? It’s not a difficult question to answer. You either know or you don’t.”

  “Hawk! Listen to me. Prayers are ending. You need to get out of there now. People are returning to the streets.”

  He stared at the man and knelt down and tucked the photo into his back pocket. “Screw it. I’m taking him with me.”

  “In broad daylight? Are you out of your mind?”

  Hawk hoisted the man’s limp body onto his shoulders. “I’ve got to get my answers one way or another.” Hawk tugged on his keffiyeh and swung the excess material across his face. He glanced beyond the alley and into the street with his would-be assassin in tow.

  “That’s not a good idea, Hawk,” Alex said in his ear.

  “You got a better one?” Hawk strode across the street.

  He started to open the back of his Land Rover when a man carrying an assault rifle spotted Hawk and yelled at him in Arabic. Left vulnerable, Hawk had no other option except to drop his prisoner and use the Land Rover as a shield. Hawk nonchalantly nodded at the man before dumping the assassin’s body on the ground. Hawk yanked the driver’s side door open a
nd jumped behind the steering wheel, twisting the key in the ignition as the engine roared to life.

  Hawk stomped on the gas, kicking up a small storm of dust—but not before the gunman in the street fired a few shots in his direction, one of which hit the side of the Land Rover.

  “What the hell is going on, Hawk?” Alex’s voice crackled through his comlink.

  “Nothing to worry about. I’ve got it all under control.”

  “That’s not what it looks like from here,” she snapped.

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  “Yeah —you look sane.”

  “We’ve got far bigger problems to worry about than my sanity—like a traitor in our midst.”

  Hawk rounded the corner and jammed his foot on the brakes, bringing his vehicle to a skidding stop. With a large black SUV in front of him, he turned around and looked over his shoulder while shifting the car into reverse. Before he could step on the gas, another SUV backed out of the alleyway and boxed him in. Several armed men stormed out of the vehicles and surrounded him.

  “Hawk!” Alex said. “What’s going on?”

  He sat in the car with his arms raised. “I’m surrounded.”

  CHAPTER 2

  SENATOR J.D. BLUNT GNAWED on an unlit cigar for a moment before looking at the wiry freshman senator from the Defense Budget Committee across the long conference room table. Meetings that started at 7 a.m. always put him in a foul mood before the first word was ever uttered. But the subject that convened that particular gathering would’ve made his blood boil no matter when it started.

  He slowly removed the cigar from his mouth with his middle and index finger on his right hand and took a deep breath. He put his head down and glared at the man.

  “I’m sorry, Senator,” Blunt said as he snapped his fingers. “What’s your name again?”

  “Hirschbeck. Guy Hirschbeck.”

  “Senator Herschel,” Blunt began, purposefully butchering his fellow senator’s name, “I don’t think I heard what you just said quite right.”