Ulterior Motive

Jack Coleston

Description

The fate of the United States hangs in the balance and only a select few can prevent the impending disaster. Stanley Carmichael is an intelligent and hard-working member of the Central Intelligence Agency. Yet, he never expected to be named Deputy Director of the CIA so soon in his career. Nonetheless, he finds himself stepping into shoes that feel impossible to fill. Anna Carmichael is a legend. She's one of the fiercest ex-members of the Special Activities Division, where she saw more than enough blood and war for a lifetime. Now, she's still CIA, but stuck behind a desk and bored. Luckily for her, it seems her fieldwork isn't done yet. For as soon as Anna's partnered with rookie FBI Special Agent Blayze Phillips, she realizes his investigation is a lot more dangerous than it seems-especially when it turns its attention to the mysterious Caliph al-Maqasid.They know that the Caliph spent the last few years successfully uniting fractured terrorist groups in the Middle East. Now he's formed the most well-funded, strategically efficient operation that's on its way to becoming a true global caliphate. But who is the Caliph, really? Why doesn't anyone know anything about this infinitely clever, charismatic, and terrifying man? And what, exactly, is he plotting next?The Carmichaels will have to work together to find out because the Caliph is about to strike at the heart of America.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Everlast Media
• Date de parution: 05 mars 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780473384777
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2016 Jack Coleston

Published by Everlast Media Group

New Zealand

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

ISBN-13: 978-0-473-38477-7

Cover Design by BespokeBookCovers.com

Editing by Katrina Diaz

Copy-editing and Proofreading by Mirel Abeles

Printed in the United States of America
For Nathan and

Carey
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
A Note From The Author
Acknowledgments
The elevator doors swung open and a blast of hot air hit Stanley square in the face. The air delivered smells of freshly burnt gasoline, carbon monoxide, and the acrid stench of something rotting in one of the nearby dumpsters. It was a stark contrast to the pure air-conditioned comfort of the nine-by-nine steel box where he had spent the last two minutes of his fifty-floor descent.
Yet Stanley was unfazed by the change because he was in an exceptional mood.
Shifting his shoulders to settle his finest Italian suit jacket in place, Stanley used both of his hands to smooth the white cotton shirt collar that curved around his thin neck. He emerged from the elevator into the corner of a large rectangular parking garage.
Rolling back his left jacket sleeve he glanced at his Rolex Submariner. The big hand rested on the twelve and the little hand pointed to the one.
A big smile creased his face. Time could change anything, even the things that had always seemed impossible, like a childhood dream.
Then the second hand stopped.
He tapped the face with his forefinger in irritation.
What’s going on?
Stanley was jolted from his irritation by a disturbing commotion at the opposite end of the garage. The voices of men speaking loud and fast in a foreign language echoed above the distinct sounds of shoes squeaking sharp and harsh on the smooth concrete floor.
Swiveling his head in one quick movement, his eyes locked onto the source.
The timing couldn’t have been worse.
Stanley’s eyes widened with fear and his mouth dropped open in shock. His mind raced and he tried to comprehend the sight of four men in black ski masks wielding silenced MP5 submachine guns. For a second it looked like they were coming towards him, until he saw them change direction, revealing the man they were carrying. It was a sight materialized out of Stanley's worst nightmare. The kidnappers stuffed the limp body into the back of a waiting Range Rover.
Fear coursed through him. No time to waste. The men weren’t taking notice of Stanley and he didn’t want them to. With all the courage he could muster he sprinted across the concrete. The white fluorescent light bounced off the polished surface and into his eyes, causing a dull ache in the back of his head.
This is a bad idea; it’s a bad idea!
Huffing and puffing, Stanley covered the distance to his car as fast as his long, skinny legs could take him.
Behind him he heard a roaring engine and distressed tires echoing throughout the confined space.
Don’t look back!
Fumbling in his pocket with hands that shook like a fish out of water, he managed to grasp the fob with sweaty fingers and pressed the remote control to unlock his car. He reached forward and grasped the handle, swinging open the door of his black Maserati Quattroporte.
Stanley threw himself onto the driver’s seat, his heart pounding so hard he feared that one of his ribs might break.
Damn, damn, damn!
Turning the key, the V-8 engine roared to life.
Manage the situation, Stanley. Don’t let them out of your sight.
Throwing the gear selector into reverse, he maneuvered the Maserati out of the parking space before slamming the transmission into drive, then he pressed the accelerator to the floor in frustration.
The rear wheels screeched in loud protest and wisps of pale blue smoke curled up from the tires as they spun and fought for a hold on the slippery concrete.
It took a few seconds before the tires found their grip. The engine shrieked and snarled like a wailing banshee. Stanley’s body was sucked back into the seat by the sudden gravitational forces at work on his lean frame. He spun the steering wheel in a frantic motion and the car drifted around the corner sideways, then it hurtled at breakneck speed towards the exit.
Swerving, he managed to avoid clipping a reversing car.
Stomping on the brakes, the car decelerated to a stop as it reached the exit.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the rear end of the offending black Range Rover disappearing from view.
Anna! Of course, what the hell am I thinking! She’ll be able to help.
He pushed the speed dial for his wife’s number into the car phone.
Anna's line was busy.
“Great, what am I going to do now!” He thumped the steering wheel and sighed.
It was at a time like this that Stanley needed his wife with him. It was just his luck that she wasn’t.
Maybe I can scare these kidnappers into … who am I kidding? These guys are obviously professionals.
Reaching down for the semi-automatic Glock 17 fixed to the side of his seat caused his hands to shake more than they already were. Anna always kept the pistol cleaned and loaded for him just in case, but she always hoped he would never actually need to use it. The cold polycarbonate shell of the gun made him want to recoil while he removed it from its holster with the utmost care. He could smell the familiar chemical scent of the gun oil that Anna used on every gun they owned.
Pulling back the slide on the top of the weapon as far back as it would go, he could feel the tough spring fight against his grip and the solid grooves digging into his skin. Letting go, it produced a resounding c lick and a fresh nine-millimeter cartridge was seated in the Glock’s chamber. Stanley received comfort from this gesture, however his hands refused to stop shaking as he placed it gingerly in the mouth of the center console.
He jammed his right foot onto the gas pedal once more. The back end of the Maserati slid to the right and then left, fishtailing out onto the road and missing the oncoming traffic by a hair’s breadth.
Turning away from the slide, the wheels regained their desperate grip on the blacktop. His eyes hunted for a sign of the Range Rover up ahead. The excitable Italian V-8 catapulted him forward faster and faster. He had to keep up with the kidnappers no matter what the cost.
This was more than just a matter of life and death. It was an unequivocal issue of national security.

Five months earlier… Thursday, April 10, 2014
Sighing, Stanley stared down at his feet, hoping that somehow they would walk of their own volition in the opposite direction.
No backing out now; any minute I’m going to be marched into the Oval Office. But, it’s not the office that scares me, or the president—it’s him.
His eyes shot from one point to another: the ceiling, the floor and the president’s chief of staff working away behind his desk. Anything in the room was a welcome distraction to keep Stanley’s mind from thinking about “him.”
I’ve always wanted to be the director of the CIA. One day, when I was ready—like when I’m fifty-something. Now, they want to make me deputy director? Now, when I’m just thirty-eight? My kids are still in elementary school.
Sucking in fresh air through his thin lips he tried to maintain his cool while continuing to internalize his complicated situation.
Sure, I’ve had two and a half years running the National Counterterrorism Center, but that’s different from co-running an entire agency. Apparently they want me to swim in the deep end or die trying. Damn politics! By the end of today, I could be buried in a mountain of paperwork across the hall from the director. Unbelievable… Damn! I don’t want this, not yet.
Stanley played with the ring of keys in his pocket while he reflected on the man whose job he might replace.
Jamie Hanfield’s favorite saying was, “If you feel like you’re in over your head, you probably are. Don’t worry though—fake it till you make it.”
Jamie Hanfield had died of a sudden heart attack only two weeks earlier at age forty-seven, leaving his wife and three teenage children behind.
Everyone could see it coming, but they hadn’t expected it so soon. For as long as anyone could remember, Jamie had downed food in vast quantities like the acceptable social drug it was. Twinkies, Ding Dongs, sugary doughnuts and every kind of fast food known to man had conspired together to produce his portly three hundred and fifty pounds. Hanfield’s looks were very deceptive though. Behind the mountainous rolls of fat had been a charming man with a big heart and an extraordinary mind, honed from years of service both on and off the field. A critical eye for detail—that’s what had made him so good at what he did.
Many CIA officers reflected, on why Jamie never made it to director. No doubt, he had been the people’s choice hands down over the ruling tyrant, General Sandro Johnson.
Despite being a fifty-four-year-old general, Johnson was the man everyone called “Colonel Sanders” or “the Colonel.” All this behind his back, of course. The name was in reference to the late founder of Kentucky Fried C