The Reaper

Here are the first two chapters of The Reaper, which releases on Friday, June 25th:

CHAPTER 1

San Juan Island, Washington

DOUG MITCHELL RAN HIS hands across the smooth tattoo that spanned his collarbone. The artwork was intricate, though marred by scars. He fingered the five wounds as he moved from left to right, recalling each encounter with near perfect clarity. The gunpowder that hung in the air, the level of humidity oppressing his body, the terrain he fought on—they were all distinct and unforgettable, mostly because each scar almost meant the end of his life. There’d been many other close quarters combat situations where he’d escaped unscathed. But to Mitchell, there was nothing like seeing the light in a man’s eyes go out when he thought he was going to kill you first.

He glanced down at the image of the Grim Reaper on his forearm, more body artwork that he added to his collection years ago. During training, he never imagined any other nickname would usurp the one he’d been given during his first day—Dig-Doug, a wordplay on the 80s arcade game. That all changed when his unit was pinned down one night in Oman and he killed twelve of the thirteen insurgents surrounding them. He would’ve taken the last one too if the man hadn’t fled into the night. Not long after that, Dig-Doug gave way to the Grim Reaper before being shortened to Reaper. And every time Mitchell stared at his tattoo, he smiled, not because he was proud of his killing prowess but because he was simply alive.

Across the street in the brick bungalow was his latest target, Archie Langston. The retired Army Ranger was staring down a full frontal assault from a unit of four boys ranging in ages from three to ten. His wife Amy thumbed through a magazine and smiled, occasionally paying attention to the mayhem swirling at her feet. The rough housing had been going on fifteen minutes, and Reaper wondered when Langston might grow tired of the game. But his stamina didn’t appear to be waning.

Reaper put down his binoculars and turned on the radio. The news anchor on the radio introduced a story about a new drug that had overtaken opioid in the U.S. as the most deadly drug. The street name was Heaven’s Dust, which was apparently how it made users feel before hell came calling. Reaper turned off the radio and shook his head, unsure why anyone would put such toxins into their body.

There are always consequences.

Reaper gripped the steering wheel as he considered how he would deliver Langston’s consequences. Running him over in the street was a quick and easy favorite of Reaper’s until the whole world decided to get doorbell cameras. Reaper considered using his silencer and killing Langston with two shots—one to the head and the other to the center mass—when he put the garbage out on the street. Put the body in the trash can and disappear into the night.

But Reaper thought about the possibility of Langston’s boys finding their dad’s body in a bloody heap. It wasn’t the kind of thing Reaper was supposed to think about, but he did. With a son of his own, he’d considered how traumatic it would be if Charlie found him that way. Reaper decided it was best if the boys didn’t find their father at all. Someone else would do it and they could just mourn the man they thought he was—a patriot, a soldier, a noble man. But that was all a big lie. Langston was a traitor.

Reaper put his car in drive, pausing to glance inside the happy home one last time. Part of him was jealous that he didn’t have that kind of relationship with Charlie. However, Reaper realized that he was afforded no such luxury. His moral compass had been askew for years, and he knew he couldn’t pretend otherwise. With a bitter ex-wife to fill Charlie’s head with stories of his father’s ineptitude and selfishness, Reaper resigned himself to the fact that the images of loving homes he saw in the movies—and through the windows of targets—were nothing more than romanticized notions. Real life was grim.

Reaper drove to the volunteer fire department and parked behind a shed. He jimmied open the lock and surveyed the small building before deciding where he would position himself to surprise Langston.

For an hour, Reaper considered all the scenarios and how he might react to each one. Langston’s instincts as an Army Ranger would make hand-to-hand combat more challenging, but Reaper was certain he’d thought of everything. Once he was satisfied that there wasn’t anything that could surprise him, he sent the text message to Langston’s phone and then turned on the lights in the building. All he had to do now was wait.

Ten minutes later, Reaper heard a vehicle skid to a stop followed by a door slamming. He peeked out of the window and saw Langston hustling toward the door, his coat and helmet tucked under his arm. Reaper eased into his position and took a deep breath.

Langston entered the firehouse and shouted into the darkness. “Hello? Is anyone else here?”

Reaper wasted no time in placing Langston in a chokehold. The Army Ranger bucked for a few seconds before attempting to ram his attacker against the wall. Reaper had anticipated the move and already had his back just inches from it. Instead of creating an opening for Langston to break the grip, Reaper was able to tighten his hold. Langston grabbed onto Reaper’s forearms and pulled downward, but he didn’t budge. A few seconds later, Langston collapsed to the floor.

Reaper hoisted his target onto his shoulders and carried him down to the shore behind the firehouse. The moon glistened on the calm waters of Sportsmans Lake, one of the largest on the island. Seconds later, the peaceful reflection vanished as Reaper held Langston’s head down in the water. The Ranger regained consciousness, thrashing around for a few moments before the life went out of him. With his face still down in the water, Reaper drew back and stood over his victim.

“Poor bastard never knew what hit him,” Reaper said.

He bent over and prepared to shove Langston’s body away from shore when he rolled over, gasping for air. He grabbed Reaper’s shirt and flung him into the water. Langston used the momentum of his throw to get on top of Reaper and forced his head beneath the water. Reaper looked up and saw the rage in Langston’s face. But his attempt to overpower Reaper was short lived.

Reaper grabbed two fistfuls of sand and flung them at Langston, but he didn’t flinch, maintaining his grip. With time running short, Reaper groped in the water and found a rock buried halfway in the sand. He dug it out before mustering all the strength he had left to bash it against Langston’s head. The blow knocked out Langston as he fell on his side into the shallow water.

Reaper rolled Langston onto his stomach, holding his face in the water for several minutes. When he was convinced Langston was dead, Reaper felt for a pulse to ensure he didn’t make the same mistake twice. When he didn’t detect any signs of life, Reaper used his foot to push Langston out into the middle of the lake.

Reaper spit in the direction of the body.

“Traitor,” he said before turning back and walking toward the building.

Reaper turned off all the lights in the firehouse and then returned to his car. He pulled his moleskin notebook out of the console and leafed to the last page. With a pen, he drew a line through Archie Langston’s name and stared at the one below it.

Two more traitors to go.

CHAPTER 2

Bogotá, Colombia

BRADY HAWK EASED HIS van into a natural blind on the ridge, facing north. From his position, he could see down the road about two kilometers away, giving him a perfect view of the sprawling Vargas mansion. Torches flickered above a three-meter stone wall forming an imposing perimeter. Outside the gate, men dressed in suits patrolled the area and checked the identity of each guest as they arrived. One of those guests was his wife Alex.

Hawk scanned the area as he noticed the car she had rode off in for the party at the Vargas mansion. She’d been the plus-one for Bruce McNally, U.S. oil executive who’d been caught recently evading taxes. However, the CIA offered McNally the opportunity to pay a small fine if he agreed to take an agent to the Vargas family’s annual Battle of Boyacá Day ball. McNally didn’t refuse the offer.

The brake lights on McNally’s Aston Martin DB11 Volante lit up as the car came to a stop. Hawk watched McNally hand over some papers before the guard returned them, smiled, and waved McNally inside.

The glitz of the evening made Hawk jealous for a moment, never mind that someone else was getting to escort Alex to such a swanky soirée. Hawk’s mind drifted as he imagined what it would be like to hobnob with a crowd of self-important people, whether it be celebrities, politicians, or white-collar criminals. The thought was fleeting and he shrugged it off.

Alex and I would be bored in fifteen minutes tops.

Hawk listened to Alex’s conversation with McNally via the transmitter in her diamond earrings that Dr. Z had designed for the operation.

“I don’t understand why you need me to do this,” McNally said.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t be complaining,” Alex said. “Otherwise, you’d be in an orange jumpsuit behind bars right now.”

“I could also get killed for this,” he said. “The Vargas family isn’t very forgiving.”

“Most cartel families aren’t. But lucky for you, I’m not here for them.”

“Then what are you—”

“The less you know, the better,” Alex said. “Now, you can introduce me to some people before we’ll be parting ways.”

“If you make a scene and they find out I brought you to this gala, they’re going to have my head.”

“Nobody’s going to kill you,” Alex said. “Just act cool and enjoy yourself tonight. After ten minutes of mingling, your work is done. Capeesh?”

“What about a ride home?”

“I’ve got that taken care of.”

Hawk smiled as he listened to Alex handle the oil executive. He was terrified, though not so much that he wasn’t willing to assist the CIA in order to avoid jail time. But Alex’s cool demeanor seemed to calm his fears for the time being.

“If you freak out and blow this, we’ll both end up dead,” she said. “And I don’t think you want that to happen.”

“Of course not,” McNally said. “I can stick to the script.”

“There’s no script,” Alex snapped. “You introduce me, act normal, and enjoy yourself with all your money-laundering, drug-selling criminal friends.”

Hawk watched through his binoculars as Alex eased her long legs out of the Aston Martin and stood. She wore a low-cut red sequin dress and a pair of black high heels. Before they had left for the operation, Hawk had suggested they could be late.

He let out a low whistle.

“Would you stop that?” Alex said in a hushed tone.

“Even through these M22s, you still look hot.”

“Stop it,” she said. “I’m turning red.”

Hawk watched as she disappeared through the front doors of the mansion. He checked the time on the new wristwatch Dr. Z had given him before returning to the van. Hawk settled in to listen to Alex work her magic.

When Magnum director Morgan May suggested Hawk and Alex team up for this operation, he was more than enthusiastic about it. But when he found out he would be providing support, he wasn’t sure he liked the idea as much. Listening helplessly from afar as his wife strode into the house of infamous cartel leader Hector Vargas didn’t seem like the best idea. However, since the mission had nothing to do with taking down a notorious global criminal, Hawk warmed to the idea again. But the approach to the mission still bothered him.

The mark was Patrick Brownfield, the U.S. Ambassador to Colombia. The mission was simple: Get Brownfield drunk and get him to reveal who he was working with to eliminate a half-dozen DEA agents working undercover to stop huge cartel shipments. Brownfield’s reputation as a philandering sot would make the mission easy, according to May when she briefed the Magnum team. But Hawk had been in the field long enough to know that nothing ever went according to plan.

While Alex did all the heavy lifting, Hawk’s task was to provide support by capturing the conversation on an audio file. He was also supposed to follow them back to Brownfield’s penthouse suite and pick her up once they got all the information out of him that they needed.

“He’s got a champagne glass in each hand,” Alex said over the coms.

“You think he found a last-minute date?” Hawk asked.

There was a slight pause before she answered. “Nope. Disaster averted. He just drained one glass and is now working on the second one.”

“I love it when our reports don’t have any surprises.”

“Roger that,” she said. “Flirtatious drunk status confirmed.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult for you now,” Hawk said.

“If he can’t stand up in an hour, that’s going to be a problem, too.”

“Pace his drinking for him,” he said.

“Wish me luck.”

Hawk adjusted the volume on his earphones, straining to hear bits and pieces of conversations in Spanish over the band and lead singer belting out a festive tune. Fireworks lit up the dusky sky above the Vargas estate, distant booms rattling the windows of the van.

After a half-hour of enduring inane small talk from other partygoers, Alex met Ambassador Brownfield.

“Come with me, Mr. Ambassador,” she said. “I’d love to get to know you better.”

Hawk shifted in his seat, anticipating the ensuing conversation more than he had in previous operations.

“Would you like another drink?” Brownfield asked Alex.

“Why, of course,” she said.

Moments later, he heard the clinking of glasses followed by the obligatory, “Cheers.” And just as she began the conversation, Hawk jumped when he heard loud pounding on the side of the van door. He removed his headphones and palmed his weapon off the desk in front of him. He tucked the gun into the back of his pants and then grabbed his binoculars.

Hawk climbed back into the front seat and exited through the driver’s side door.

“Buenas noches, amigos,” Hawk said as he walked around the side of the van.

“Que es esto?” one of the men said.

“Sorry, that’s the extent of my Spanish,” Hawk said, selling his lie by speaking with his thick Texas accent. “I don’t know any more-o.”

“You are not authorized to be out here,” one of the men said.

Hawk shrugged. “I must’ve missed the spot where I pick up my permission slip. But I’m sure whoever owns this property won’t mind an avid birdwatcher from Texas peeping on the winged residents of this here mountainside.”

“I don’t speak redneck,” one of the men said. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Hawk held up his binoculars and raised his voice a few decibels. “I’m watching birds,” he said with a wide grin as he flapped his arms.

One of the men pulled out a gun and trained it on Hawk. “Who sent you?”

Hawk raised his hands in the air and drew back from the man, who had a tattoo across his forehead. “Whoa there, hombre. I don’t know what you’re doing with that thing, but you shouldn’t be pointing that at me. Now, if you want to shoot some birds, might I recommend something with a wider pellet pattern?”

“Shut up, you fool,” growled the other guard, who had a mustache accented by a pink mole on his right cheek. “The only way onto this property is by a road that is guarded both day and night. If you drove here, you came up a narrow ridge and you knew what you were doing.”

“I’ve got something right—” Hawk froze as both mole face and tattoo trained their guns on the Magnum agent’s chest. “Look, I just wanted to show you this birding app that I use that has a pin dropped for this location and suggests using this trail. Whatever it is that you think I’m doing up here, I can promise you that you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong,” mole face said.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Hawk said. “And it’d be a great honor for me to show you how wrong you are.”

Mole face sneered, while tattoo cocked his head to one side and squinted while studying Hawk.

“Open the van,” mole face said.

“Look, uh, you guys aren’t federales, are you?” Hawk asked. “Because I’ve got a Spix macaw in there that I’m pretty sure will fetch me more than enough to cover my mortgage next year, several years, really. And it might be illegal to export from its natural habitat. Now, I’m prepared to make a deal with you.”

“Let’s throw him in the canyon,” tattoo said in Spanish.

“Not before he opens the door,” mole face said and then turned to Hawk. “Show it to us. I want to see the special bird.”

As Hawk turned around, he felt his gun pushing against the back of his shirt, surely forming a visible and distinct imprint.

“Don’t move another millimeter,” tattoo said.

Hawk raised his hands slowly.

“I said not another millimeter,” tattoo barked again as he snatched Hawk’s gun and pocketed it.

“Okay, so sue me,” Hawk said. “I use a handgun to hunt these birds, too. But that doesn’t mean what I told you about using a shotgun earlier wasn’t right. It gives you more leeway for mistakes.”

“Shut up,” mole face said before backhanding Hawk.

“You’re lucky I haven’t already ripped your vocal cords out of your throat with my bare hands,” tattoo said.

Hawk turned around and brought his wrists together, holding them out for the men. “Fine. Arrest me. I’m sure we can work something out so that I don’t spend any time in jail.”

Hawk’s wristwatch whirred, releasing a wispy gas into the air.

“What is that?” tattoo asked.

“What?” Hawk asked, feigning ignorance. “This watch? It helps you know what hora it is?Entiendes?”

“Let me see that,” mole face said as he grabbed Hawk’s wrist.

However, instead of investigating it like Hawk had hoped, the man twisted Hawk’s arm and pinned him against the side of the van.

“How about we take a look inside now,” mole face said in a hushed tone near Hawk’s ear.

But before Hawk could oblige, he felt his hand released and heard mole face collapse onto the ground. Hawk turned around and found tattoo crumpled in a heap as well.

After inspecting his watch, Hawk smiled.

“Thanks, Dr. Z,” Hawk said aloud as he surveyed the two men lying motionless on the ground.

The Magnum Director of Research and Development had outfitted a wristwatch for Hawk that contained a designer gas. It would knock out anyone but Hawk in a matter of seconds, and it was the first time he’d tested it in the field.

To be on the safe side, Hawk shot both men and tossed them into the canyon.

He spent the next hour listening to Alex weave her web around Ambassador Brownfield before he realized she was ushering him toward his car. Hawk drove back down the dirt path he’d used to reach his perch and waited for them to reach the highway.

Another ten minutes passed before he heard an unfamiliar voice coming from Alex’s coms.

“Señorita,” a man said, “would you please come with me?”

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“Señor Vargas would like to speak with you,” he said.

“I’d rather not,” she said.

“This isn’t an invitation you can decline. You’re in Señor Vargas’ home, and he wants to speak to you. Don’t be rude and cause a scene.”

Hawk swallowed hard and could feel his heart thumping in his chest. Alex was going to speak with Hector Vargas. If the cartel’s men had already figured out who she was, Hawk knew he’d never see her again.

He wanted to say something to her, but he was afraid they might hear him, endangering her further.

Yet it didn’t matter. Hawk didn’t have time to do anything about it anyway.

He closed his eyes and said a little prayer under his breath.

[To order The Reaper, click here.]