Search and Destroy JT Sawyer (books to read in your 30s txt) 📖

hopped over a fallen log, crossing the creek, then trotted along the dirt bank for fifty yards before angling off towards a skateboard park.

Once Shepard bolted over the fence, Carter retrieved her AR then slid up next to the other agent, who was groaning beside her. The man’s eyes were having troubling focusing, and she knew he probably had a mild concussion given the trauma to his nose from the vicious heel kick delivered by Shepard.

He’s lucky that’s all he got. Shepard went through all three of us like we were training dummies. Looks like the email the director got earlier about this guy’s background wasn’t too far off base.

She saw Tremblay staggering to his feet, gasping then sweeping his AR towards the next block of homes.

“Put it down. The helo guys will find him. Not going to risk putting any civis in harm’s way shooting at that guy across all these yards.”

“Fuck,” Tremblay shouted in between gulps of air, reluctantly lowering his rifle.

She helped her injured colleague up, resting him against the garage then glancing over at the other agents in the enclosed porch, who were flushing their faces with water from the kitchen.

He could have cut through all of us if he wanted to.

They heard the voice of the FBI helicopter pilot splinter through their walkies. “Subject is on foot a half-mile from your location, Agent Carter, at the edge of Brentwood Park near the highway.”

“Copy that. Stay on him. We’re on our way.”

Tremblay rubbed his sore ribs. “Yeah, well, your boy sounds like the nutjob that the news is making him out to be. Why else would he run?”

“He doesn’t come across as crazy, just desperate.”

They heard their radios crackle as the voice of the other team inside came over the speaker. “Carter, we need to call in the bomb squad. Just found enough Symtex down in the basement to take out half this block.”

“Christ.” Tremblay shook his head. “Like I said, whack-job—and he’s been trained by our government to be a fucking ghost. That’s just terrific.”

Carter stood up, her cheeks becoming taut. “All teams, exit the house now!” She helped the wounded man to his feet while barking orders at one of the nearest agents.

“Get back to our car and broadcast on the loudspeaker for everyone to begin evacuating their homes. We need to get this neighborhood cleared.”

Carter motioned to her wounded colleague with the smashed nose. “Take him, then call the bomb squad and alert first responders to set up a perimeter within a four-block radius around this location.”

She waved to Tremblay to follow her. “We’re heading to the park to intersect Shepard’s direction of travel before he can make it to the highway. Direct our other units to that location.”

22

Carlos Montoya watched the black SUV pull away from Shepard’s house from his vantage point two blocks away. He had become almost as familiar with the exterior of the house as the interior after reconning the place for the past few days and then bypassing the security system inside to plant the explosives in the basement.

He started the engine of the gray van, pulling out and following the two FBI agents.

Montoya leaned back, speaking in Spanish to the four other men in the cargo space who were doing a weapons check on their rifles, a mix of ARs and Yugoslavian AKs. They had all served under Montoya in Colombia during his days of running the Carmesi Cartel and had been flown up to the States with Hunley’s assistance on a private jet owned by one of Roth’s shell corporations.

“So much for the Feds catching him. Roth was right—we just need to put this guy down and not fuck around. If the FBI agents had just captured him, he’d at least be muzzled in one of their holding cells. If any of them get in the way then take ’em out too, but Roth said the priority must be on Shepard above all else. And if you get separated, remember the escape protocols and rendezvous with me at the southside boat docks by 1830 tonight.”

The men nodded, donning their sunglasses and pulling up their face coverings.

Montoya turned up the volume on the police scanner, matching up the roadblocks that were going into place with the mental map of the region that he had memorized. This was a far cry from the targeted hits he’d done on his employer’s rivals in the rural areas of Colombia, where he could bribe or extort the police into compliance until his mission was over.

They needed to kill Shepard quickly and get out of the States. Not only did he have to clean up the mess from the agent surviving the explosion, but there were deadlines looming in Venezuela, and Montoya needed to be in place to dispatch any anti-Rimaldi journalists or opposition leaders.

“Shepard has had quite a run of luck,” said a thin man behind Montoya’s seat. “He survives for years as an operator in other countries then escapes the blast zone at Burke’s and now dodges a federal tac-team.”

Montoya rubbed a long, jagged scar on his forearm, contemplating the man’s words. He had taken part in enough murders, kidnappings and assassinations over the past thirty years to recognize luck as a factor in one’s survival, but he knew that such a thing was always a random variable that could never be relied upon over a lifetime of combat.

“Skills and tactical experience always take precedence, amigo, but when you have luck added into the equation, it sure won’t hurt your odds of seeing the next sunrise.”

As Montoya kept pace with the FBI vehicle ahead as it wound through the suburbs, he thought about the coming sunrises on his own Colombian plantation after he retired from this job.

23

Cal stepped under a shade ramada, watching the helicopter circling the other end of the park. He sucked in some deep breaths, assessing his options. To his right and left were more of the same type of suburban sprawl he’d