The Shadow Sanction

By Brent Peacock

Retired CIA hitman Allen 'The Shadow' Reynolds thought his killing days were over. But someone from his past hasn't forgotten him! An attack on his family makes Shadow return to the game, this time on a personal vendetta. No one attacks his family and lives to tell the tale! Chasing down an assassin with skills almost as good as his, Reynolds uncovers a plot to overthrow the Government of the USA, causing all hell to break loose!
Racing against an impossible deadline, the very nature of the world as we know it hangs in the balance as Shadow joins forces with FBI agent Steve Harris. Together they follow the trail of corruption to the highest level of government, uncovering a plan so sinister, it's almost unbelievable!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brent Peacock
• Release date: Mar 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458180445

Brent Peacock

Brent Peacock is 58 years old and has been happily married to his wife Jo for 39 years. They have four adult children and live on the Gold Coast, Australia. Brent has been involved in motivational and leadership seminars for the past 30 years and holds a Dip. Theo. Brent likes Caving, Golf, Movies and reading. Brent and Jo are self confessed travelholics. Most of the references to overseas cities and places in his books come directly from their travels worldwide. Brent answers the following questions. Your favourite city? Paris. Your favourite place in the world? Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming. Your most scary moment? Flying from Grand Canyon to Las Vegas in a small 6 seater plane during a gale force wind. The most life changing place you have been? Monument Valley, Utah. It is one of the most spell binding places on Earth.

Book preview

Chapter One.

Madrid, Spain.

SHE WAS ONE OF THOSE girls that caught the eye of every man she passed. Tall, slim, and very attractive. Her black sheer silk dress clung to her body outlining her stunning curves. The low neckline offered a glimpse of her cleavage causing heads to turn as she passed by. Shoulder length dark brown hair bounced on her neck as she walked. When she sat down at the bar, most of the men in the room knew they had no chance with her so didn't even try. One or two sat staring, trying to pluck up the courage to buy her a drink. She surveyed the onlookers with amusement. Not one took her fancy. To be the centre of attention in a crowded club like this one was a great feeling, but none of these men would be taking her home tonight.

A five-piece band played jazz music just a little too loudly for the small dingy room making conversation difficult. It didn't really matter. Most of the patrons were only there to hook up, or get drunk. An ambitious punter offered her $500 dollars for sex, but she laughed him off with a look of contempt. No, she wasn't a working girl, far from it. The bartender poured her an expensive glass of champagne without being asked. He knew what she drank; she was a regular who always gave him a smile and a good tip.

'Evening Jasmine, nice to see you again.

Thanks Manuel, crowded tonight.

Yeah, mostly the usual losers, present company excluded of course!

Jasmine laughed out loud. The bartender had a dry sense of humour, coupled with a cutting sarcastic edge. He always amused her, for a few moments anyway.

The smell of an expensive aftershave caught her attention. A tall blonde man stood behind her smiling. She returned the smile and he sat next to her. The atmosphere in the room changed dramatically as the other men knew they had missed their chance.

Cigarette? he asked, offering her a packet. She took one without a word; he had the lighter burning before she put it to her lips. Inhaling deeply, she savoured the smoke then blew it over her head away from him. This man was a total stranger to her but he had an almost animal magnetism. He was around 30, handsome in a rugged way, shoulder length hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing an expensive hand tailored suit and a gold Rolex watch. The man had a relaxed elegance. He didn't have to try, he'd won her already.

Jasmine stroked one finger down his hand, which caused the desired reaction. He squeezed her leg and she moved it up into his palm. A quick glance towards the door signalled her intentions. He grasped her hand firmly as they walked out of the bar; the other unlucky patrons watching them leave with feelings of envy and disappointment.

She pushed him up against the alley wall at the side of the building, kissing him hard while pulling at his shirt. He moved around her to brace her back against the wall as he returned her kiss with passion, his tongue probing her mouth. Her heart raced with anticipation as he put one hand inside her dress pulling at her bra and he tugged at his belt with the other. She felt something hard push against her leg and move up her thigh. Jasmine closed her eyes and lifted her leg up around his hip as she hugged his neck.

The barrel of the Glock thrust firmly against her chest muffled the sudden sound of the gunshot. Her body acted as an effective silencer. White-hot pain shot through her, the bullet blasting a hole right through her heart. She looked into his eyes in absolute surprise unable to comprehend what had just happened.

It's nothing personal, just business. Your husband sent me, he whispered in her ear. Blackness shrouded her vision; he held her close for a few moments as she died, checked to make sure no-one else was there, then gently lowered her to the ground. For an instant he gazed at her body, but felt no emotion.

The assassin known as 'Viper' had struck again.

Clean, precise, ruthless.

Another perfect kill!

Chapter Two.

Oslo, Norway.

VIKING SOGARD GREW UP IN a rough Oslo neighbourhood. His hippy parents made the mistake of naming him after the warrior seafarers from Norway's historical past, never thinking that this name would be a constant source of strife and embarrassment to their son. A rich, high-class child may have come through his early years with that name and ended up as a company director or merchant banker. Viking barely survived his childhood because of multiple beatings and attacks from older boys ridiculing his name. His education came from the streets and he eventually ended up as a hardened criminal and killer. Dropping out of school at age 15, he joined a street gang involved in drug peddling and petty theft. Money was his driving force, the power it gave him leading him deeper and deeper into underworld activities.

Sefhan Bakker, the leader of Viking's gang, needed someone to eliminate his enemies, so provided Viking with his first pistol. Sogard didn't even practise with the gun. He simply went out, shot the target in the head and callously walked away. Bakker knew immediately that Sogard would be a useful asset. Over the next twelve months the other gangs in the area lost many of their key members to Viking's handiwork, which enabled Bakker to take over their activities and expand his power considerably. Viking became Bakker's right hand man. His reputation grew as the bodies continued to pile up. By the time he turned 19, the gang controlled most of the drug dealing, prostitution and protection rackets on the lower south side of town. Viking was the most feared member of the crew. He had become a ruthless sadistic killer with a total disregard for human life. No one dared to cross him, or even argue with him. He held an iron grip on those under him as his personal fortune grew daily.

Innovation was the name of Vikings game. He went out of his way to find new methods of killing. Car bombs were one of his favourites. Preset countdown timers attached to a C4 charge placed out of sight under a vehicle were the most effective, but soon became boring. Not satisfied with his abilities, he trained in martial arts, as well as becoming an expert marksman. Becoming a successful sniper had been one of his boyhood dreams. Viking spent hours practising long-range shots, honing his skill to the point he was able to shoot a small coconut at over 500 yards. Pleased with his newly developed talent he decided to take out his next target with a long-range sniper attack.

He didn't have to wait long. A north side crew tried to muscle in on the south side, causing Bakker to assign him the job of killing their leader. Viking took time to find out where the man lived and his daily routine. The gangster had a warehouse as the base of his operations in a rundown central city area. It was a perfect location for the shot. Viking had a choice of three disused buildings to shoot from; each provided a clean getaway afterwards. He studied the targets location from each one of the buildings, deciding to take out the north side leader as he entered the front door of his warehouse. From observation he discovered that the man left his home to drive to the warehouse at almost the same time everyday. He always drove himself and never had any bodyguards with him. His Mercedes was standard issue, no armour plating or other special protection. It was always parked in the same spot, in an alley to the right of the building. There were no outside guards, in fact the north side crew kept such a low profile no one would have even known they were there.

'Very sloppy,' Viking thought as he watched the man enter the building from his chosen vantage point on the roof of the building 400 yards away. He had deliberately picked the building the furthest distance from his target to prove to himself he was a competent sniper.

The next day Viking drove to the building in the early hours of the morning, parking his Saab out of sight. He set himself on the roof and waited for his target. It was a crisp Oslo morning, a slight mist hung over the central city and dark clouds threatened snow. The sun tried hard to break through the cloud cover but was not successful. Frost covered the roof when he arrived, crunching under his feet, so he kept his gloves on as he waited. Viking unpacked his rifle, assembled it, fitted the silencer and checked the sights. Perfect. Nothing would get in his way. He felt an excitement inside as his heart rate went up in anticipation of the kill. Checking his watch, he saw that his targets arrival time window had begun. The gangster always came to the building between 7.30 and 8am. Today Viking saw the black Mercedes pull up at 7.42. He quickly took off his gloves and picked up the rifle, sighting the weapon on the driver as he opened the car door. Three steps were all the man took before Viking fired. The bullet tore through the gangsters forehead, blowing the back of his skull clean off. He died instantly and his body crumpled on the roadway.

Viking waited. No one came out of the building. No one saw the man die. No one screamed or cried out. Perfect! He quickly packed up his weapon, walked down the stairs, climbed into his car and drove away. No one had seen him. The sniper had made a perfect kill.

Viking put on his favourite song as he drove away. Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody played loudly through the cars sound system and he joined in with the lines… Mama, just killed a man, put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead.

Suddenly he began to laugh an evil sadistic laugh. The sniper had arrived. The world was about to change!

For the next three years Viking concentrated on his sniper ability, making perfect kills from distances over 600 yards. He used a hand-made weapon that he designed himself. A gunsmith who was a special friend of the Bakker crew built the rifle to his specific design. It broke down into small pieces that fitted into a briefcase size carry case. Word of his talent spread and he was soon getting offers of work from people all over the country.

Unfortunately Bakker didn't like his growing popularity. He decided Viking was only allowed to follow his orders and no one else's. Viking reluctantly agreed, and continued to kill for Bakker as he was directed.

Sefhan Bakker lived in a large house in one of the best areas on the south side. Unlike the north side gangster, Bakker never drove his own car. His driver was a trained gunman, who had worked for similar organizations in Britain. Bakker had two bodyguards, both of whom were ex-military, and proficient killers. He never went anywhere without the three men. At age twenty-seven Bakker looked a lot older than his years. He stood 6 feet tall with straight blond hair, tied back in a shoulder length ponytail. His body was trim and his almost handsome face was scarred with a knife wound that ran from his ear to his chin, the result of an attack one night when a beautiful young woman lured him away from his bodyguards. The bodyguards killed both the attackers and the woman in a back alley next to the nightclub where Bakker had met her. It turned out that another gang arranged the hit, so Viking was dispatched to eliminate the three leaders.

Bakker never had a steady girlfriend, although he was fond of one of his callgirls, a pretty twenty-year old named Sonia. She lived in an apartment near his home, and often spent the night at Bakker's house. Tonight Bakker, Sonia and the bodyguards had been to the city to see the new stage play, 'Mama Mia.' They drove into Bakker's driveway, opened the car doors and the bodyguards moved to protect their boss by walking in front of him. Bakker turned to take Sonia's hand helping her out of the car. As he looked into her eyes, she smiled at him and stood up. A red hole appeared in her forehead and she fell dead in front of him, her skull and brain matter splattered over the car. Bakker gasped as he looked around, only to see his three bodyguards fall dead, all shot the same way. A sudden tremendous pain hit his lower body. He staggered back looking down at his belly, and saw blood pouring from a bullet wound. Another shot hit him in the upper left arm, blowing his shoulder apart. Bakker fell to the ground, pain pulsing through him in violent waves. He felt his vision start to blur as the blood pumped from his body.

As he lapsed in and out of consciousness, he became aware of someone standing next to him. A man's shoe rolled him on his back, and standing over him was Viking Sogard.

Sefhan, you told me not to work for anyone else, but I just had to take this job. I was paid a tremendous amount of money to kill you, so much in fact that I couldn't turn the job down. It's been fun, sorry it had to end this way!

Bakker started to say something, but he never had a chance to complete his sentence before Viking shot him in the head with the same pistol Bakker gave him all those years before. He looked at the bodies for a few moments, then turned and walked away.

His next move was to turn over the control of the south side crew to a new boss, the man who had ordered Bakker killed. From that point on, Viking was his own master. He moved countries and set up a new base in Goteburg, Sweden, working closely with the Swedish Mafia. His reputation grew and offers of work came in from all over Europe. The criminal underworld made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. His talent was in such demand that he only chose the targets that provided him with the richest rewards. His code name 'Viper' was registered on Interpol and Intelligence databases, but none were able to track him down. 'Viper' rivalled Carlos the Jackal in his infamy.

Chapter Three.

Island of Diu,

Off the west coast of India.

ALLEN REYNOLDS SAT ON THE BACK deck of his house looking at the rolling surf. It was another perfect day, one straight out of a travel magazine. The white sandy beach shimmered in the sun as the tall coconuts palms swayed gently in the breeze. 5 miles from the tiny town of Jalandhar Beach, his large colonial home sat on the top of a small hillock. The five-acre estate was far enough away from civilisation to ensure he would not be disturbed by any unwelcome intrusion. A dirt road, which was only ever travelled by his four-wheel drive, led across the rolling grasslands to the house. He enjoyed the quiet solitude of his new life, broken only by the sound of seabirds, the breaking surf and the laughter of his children playing at the waters edge. Shani his wife sat beside him and smiled as the children played then reached out her hand to touch Reynolds arm. As he glanced over at her, his mind wandered back to his past life as a covert CIA assassin, the best in the business.

Only eleven months ago he was responsible for the impeachment of US President Connor Evans. His relentless pursuit of the corrupt US leader had uncovered an international plot to control the energy production of the world, involving several high-ranking government officials. It seemed like another lifetime, one he didn't even slightly miss. Reynolds had never felt so happy and relaxed. His careful plan to escape his past life had been successful. No one knew where he was, or even if he was still alive. His covert operations alias, 'Shadow,' was retired permanently.

Reynolds heard a low distant rumble and glanced over the roof of the house. An afternoon storm was heading their way, bringing a heavy squall of rain. He studied the storm line and estimated it would be on them in an hour.

Shani, do you still want to go into town for supplies?

Yes, I promised the children ice creams too, so we had better get moving before the rain hits.

The small town of Jalandhar Beach was only a fifteen-minute drive away, so the whole family climbed into their Land Cruiser and set off. Reynolds turned the air conditioner up to full, cooling the temperature in the vehicle to a pleasant 76oF. Pulling up outside the main general store in town, he left the family in the car as he went for ice creams. A sudden heavy shower of rain hit the township turning the street into a river, followed by a bright flash of lighting that lit up the sky. Almost immediately a deafening clap of thunder caused the windows of the shops to vibrate. One of the children squealed in fright, which made the others laugh. Reynolds stood under the store veranda waiting for a break in the rain, the ice creams melting in his hands. The humidity in the air was stifling.

Rainwater in the gutters raced towards the open drains, but they could not cope with the tropical downpour. More lightning and thunder shook the street. Showers of water poured from the roofs of the shops adding to the torrent on the road. Reynolds glanced at the sky deciding to ditch the ice creams and come back later when the storm had past. He dropped them into the gutter by the Land Cruiser, the splash of them hitting the water drawing his gaze to the lower body of the car.

Get out of the car, get out now! he yelled as he ripped open the two curbside doors. The family looked at him in surprise, then quickly jumped from the vehicle.

Run, run, come on run! he yelled like a madman pushing them up the street. Reflected in the water under the car was a digital countdown timer, its red LED numbers catching Reynolds attention. They had made less than twenty yards when the bomb under the car went off. A massive fireball consumed the vehicle with such power it blew out the windows in the shops along the street, setting fire to the general store as well as the shop next door. The force of the blast knocked the running family off their feet into the water pouring down the road. Dazed but conscious Reynolds shook his head to try to clear his ringing ears. He gathered up the children as Shani stood to her feet, her hands shaking, her face drained of colour, blood running down her cheek from a cut on her forehead. Seeing her injury, he tore the sleeve off his shirt, rolled it into a pad and held it to her face. The children were grazed, soaking wet and shaken but had no serious injuries. Like a mother duck shielding her babies, he directed the family into the nearest shop, out of sight from the street.

Give me your car keys! he yelled at the shopkeeper, with a menace that shook the little Indian man. Without saying a word the frightened man handed the keys to Reynolds, pointing to the back door of the shop. In the ally behind the building was an old Land Rover that looked like it should have been in a wreckers yard ten years ago. Splashing through puddles they franticly ran towards it and climbed in. Reynolds jammed the old car into gear; hit the gas and the wheels spun in the mud as he sped away from the scene. His mind raced as he planned their escape. Six miles from the town was the local airstrip where he had hidden a Gulf Stream jet, stolen from the German businessman Konrad Lehmann during his final mission. A successful operative always had an escape plan, even if he didn't need one.

The old Land Rover made the distance to the airstrip quickly, arriving just as the rain began to ease. Reynolds pulled up outside the side door of an old hanger, pushed the family inside, then stood in the doorway checking for anyone tailing them. There was no one there, no cars, no people, and no observers. He helped the group into the jet, started the engines and quickly ran through the pre-flight check. Satisfied the jet was good to go he ran down the stairs, opened the hanger door then raced back up, pushing the button to close the cabin door behind him. One of the children sobbed with shock as Shani tried to calm her. The others sat in stunned silence, not knowing or understanding what had just happened. Reynolds taxied the jet out to the runway and took off without even talking to the control tower. As they left the ground he saw a car pull up fast near the runway, the driver jumped out then stood with his hands on his hips looking at the jet in frustration.

Reynolds tried to identify the man but couldn't get a good look at him before the aircraft flew into the clouds and out of sight of the ground. He turned off the jets transponder, levelled off at 6000 feet to avoid other planes and set a flight path to Kenya. Putting the plane on autopilot, he grabbed the first aid kit and went back to the cabin to attend to Shani's wound and try to calm the children.

As he dressed the cut he felt the old hatred begin to rise in him again. Whoever the man at the airstrip was, he'd picked the wrong target.

Shadow was back, and he was angry!

God help anyone who dared to harm his family!

Chapter Four

Zagreb,

Croatia.

MIROSLAV VESNA SAT IN A little coffee house off the plaza in the centre of Zagreb smoking a Cuban cigar, feeling bored. Business was quiet and he really needed to get some new direction to stimulate his interest. As a high-ranking member of the Croatian mafia, he controlled the drug sales and distribution network for the whole of Croatia. The massive number of addicts always meant there was a ready market, but times were tough and that meant money was hard to come by if you were a crack head or cocaine dependant. Not that he was really concerned. His customers would do anything to get the drugs, including jobs for him involving house break-ins, car theft and muggings. The profit from these side enterprises went straight into his pocket. No sense in reporting the extra income to his bosses, what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

He glanced across the street as a black Mercedes pulled up at the curb. A tall man in a dark grey business suit and black sunglasses got out of the car and walked towards him. Vesna quickly looked up and down the street, checking he wasn't being watched. The man sat down at his table with a nod then slipped a brown envelope under the table into his hand.

Miroslav, I trust all is well with you.

What do you want Sterling, you know we shouldn't meet in public, it's too risky!

Sorry my friend, this can't wait.

Vesna stared at the man he hated across the table. As usual he was impossible to read. Sterling's craggy face and brown unruly curls gave him an everyday look. It was his eyes that caught people's attention. They had a cold hardness that betrayed his inner man but gave nothing more away. This was one relationship Vesna would gladly terminate if he could. Not many people truly frightened him like this man did. Ever since he first had dealings with Sterling Westfield, he felt he was being trapped in an uncontrollable situation. Of course he could have the man killed, but Westfield was a member of the United States diplomatic corps working out of the US embassy as a political analyst, a polite way of saying he worked for the CIA. Taking out a member of the CIA would create more problems than it would solve, so Vesna put up with the problem as well as taking the money provided. At first it was a simple matter of providing details of the movements of his bosses, but now he was being asked for more and more information on government involvement in mafia crime and payoffs to city officials.

Miroslav could see where this was heading. Sooner or later the demands would be more than he could handle which would lead to the need for a permanent dissolving of this relationship.

'Later Miroslav, later' he thought.

So what's so important that you can't wait to see me in the usual meeting place?

Westfield handed him another envelope. Inside was a blurred picture of a man in a business suit wearing sunglasses. Vesna studied the photo thinking that the man looked familiar but the quality of the shot was bad, so he couldn't place the face.

"Am I supposed to know this