Minerva

By Robert F Moore

American war veterans battled adversaries throughout the world to liberate persecuted people, eliminate oppression, protect the homeland and safeguard their comrades. Many soldiers were stricken with physical and mental maladies in their quest to uphold the Oath of Enlistment. Now, as they return home to rebuild their shattered lives, veterans discover the promises made by the government they fought to protect are hollow. Once their service concludes they find themselves forgotten by most, except for one group...
Dax Rushmore leads a band of ex-military veterans determined to uphold the vows made to their brothers. Dax helps establish ranches throughout the United States, residencies where veterans can begin the healing process. To fund the extensive network, the council devised methods to steal funds from the entity that pledged to care for veterans, the U.S. government. As veterans throughout America are drawn to the ranches, more money is needed to fund the operation. Dax and his team are selected to orchestrate the largest theft the world has ever witnessed. As the underlying plot unfolds, is there an ulterior mission, one which threatens the lives of Dax and his team?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert F Moore
• Release date: Jul 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781626202719

Robert F Moore

Robert F Moore is a tenured investment professional who gleans elements of his thriller novels from analysis of markets, corporations, economies and business leaders. His thriller novels involve people and events which pose extraordinary socioeconomic impact to the United States and world. Characters routinely face unprecedented situations which forces them to utilize all internal and external resources."Minerva" Robert's third thriller novel, introduces the character Dax Rushmore and is scheduled for release in late 2015.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jimmy Dempsey leaned against the wall in the ramshackle, three-room cabin, reached over to the stool and grabbed the liter of whiskey. After two long slugs he placed it down and stared at the half-finished bottle as the amber liquid swished side to side. The landlord continued to pound on the door again, third time in the last twenty minutes.

I heard you in there you son-of-a-bitch. Open this door and give me my rent or I’ll break the damn thing down. I’m coming in, you hear me?

The keys outside jingled. Jimmy saw the lock turn and the grumpy old landlord tried to push the door open. A chair jammed underneath the knob, and deadbolt installed earlier in the month held it firmly in place. Two slams against the door proved useless. Incessant grunts on the other side of the door made Jimmy crack a smile.

Open this door, you parasite.

Jimmy leaned back, took another gulp from the bottle and closed his eyes. The noise outside quieted. A shadow spread across the floor as the old man peered through the small, dingy window. Jimmy pulled his legs closer to avoid being seen. Afternoon sunlight filled the room again when the landlord walked away.

Get packed. You can bet I’ll get in, and when I do I’m tossing your ass out. Then we’ll see how tough you are. The old man shouted and slapped his hand against the door.

Old prick always liked to give him a hard time, with snide remarks, sarcastic comments and nasty names. Most of it he brushed off since they came from a miserable bastard. It was the rest of the stuff in Jimmy’s life, one thing piled on top of the other, which ate at him every day. The lingering injuries, especially his shoulder, affected every aspect of his life, most importantly, his ability to hold down a decent job. Veterans Administration doctors told him most of the problems were in his head. They said repairs to his tattered right shoulder worked out fine and pressed him to follow the physical therapy routines as instructed. He did, but it didn’t help. The arm hung like a piece of decaying meat, virtually useless as the muscles atrophied.

Doctors were right about one thing; his head caused the biggest problems. Jimmy’s mind plagued him every moment of his life, even when he slept. Horrific images never disappeared; in fact they became more vivid with each passing day. Combined with the screams, cries and explosions, at times he felt like the streets of the Middle East chased him. He struggled to reconcile the feelings, realize they were in the past, but he couldn’t make them go away. Whiskey worked, temporarily.

He heard the keys turn the tumbler he’d locked after the old man left. Conversation outside made his eyes widen. Jimmy put down the fresh bottle, grabbed his .45 and aimed at the door. His left hand shook, so he scrunched his leg closer and leaned his forearm atop his knee. A hard hit rocked the door. The second one rattled the doorframe. He heard somebody pant after each hit. With each slam against the door, wood around the deadbolt splintered. Words of encouragement followed each blow. Jimmy squinted and aimed at the door. After a dozen more hits the deadbolt and chair gave way. Both flew across the room and crashed against the wall next to him.

A burly, three hundred pound, bald, twenty-year-old guy stood in the doorway. When he saw the gun aimed at his chest he backed away and raised his hands, then quickly ducked out of sight. Paddy, took his place.

How do you like me now, you son-of-a-bitch? The landlord flashed a victorious grin.

Don’t go in there, Paddy. the young guy shouted. Look at his eyes.

Paddy dismissed him with a wave. Get your shit together, hero, and get off my property or I’ll drag your crippled ass off.

By the way Paddy swayed in the doorway, Jimmy could tell he’d been drinking, too. He raised his top lip to reveal chew-stained teeth, bloodshot eyes focused on the weapon. You don’t have the fucking balls.

Jimmy kept the gun trained on him, finger on the trigger.

Okay, enough games today. Paddy took two steps in. Time for you to go. He brushed all of the items off the bureau and onto the floor. Thrust out chest, arms crossed, Paddy rocked on his heels, smiled, yanked the pictures off the wall and threw them to the floor.

Jimmy’s favorite platoon picture crashed near his feet. His eyes widened, nostrils flared, he lowered his aim to Paddy’s thigh and pulled the trigger. The room shook from the round. The old man emitted a guttural howl, grabbed his leg and collapsed.

He saw the big guy peek in. When their eyes locked, he ran. Jimmy stood, lifted the picture off the floor, shook off the broken glass and grabbed a long shard. He held the picture in front of Paddy’s face, inches from his nose. You show these men respect, do you understand?

Paddy started to convulse.

Apologize to them.

Whaaaa, what are you talking about?

Jimmy put the picture on Paddy’s lap, grabbed him under the chin with one hand and swiped the glass across his cheek with the other. Blood spurted from the gash.

I’m, I’m, I’m sorry. He tried to pull away.

He slashed a cross on Paddy’s forehead, You’re forgiven—by them.

Blood streamed into Paddy’s eyes. Each time he tried to wipe it away, more ran down.

Distant sirens made Jimmy realize the game would soon be over. He looked down at Paddy. You have ten seconds to get out of here or I’ll shoot you again. He turned his back on Paddy, leaned over and grabbed the bottle. The gulp of whiskey burned as it cascaded down his throat. He heard Paddy’s nails scrape across the wood floor.

Paddy tried to rise. One, two. The old man pleaded for mercy, continued to wipe at his face and struggled for direction. Three, four—five. Paddy wept as he clawed his limp body across the floor. Six, seven—eight. He collapsed in the doorway. The sirens got louder.

Jimmy jammed the pistol into his waistband, grabbed Paddy’s arm, dragged him outside and dropped him in the dirt. Always show the military respect, asshole. He pulled the pistol from his pants, aimed for Paddy’s good leg, focused on the knee and pulled the trigger.

An extended groan filled the air as Jimmy walked back into the cabin, slammed the door shut and wedged the chair against the knob. He picked up the platoon picture, gently wiped off the blood and placed it on the bed against the wall so he could see the faces of each man.

Cars pulled up outside. Jimmy heard tires crunch to a halt on the gravel. Red and blue lights filled the room. Paddy wailed in agony, begging for help. Crackle of radio chatter and voices outside fractured the silence inside the room.

He hooked a blanket over the lone window, leaned against the wall and listened. Cars continued to pull in. He grabbed the bottle, chugged down the last quarter, then crawled to the bureau, opened the bottom drawer and searched for his last pint. It sat alone, away from the empty bottles strewn on one side of the drawer.

Jimmy’s cell phone jingled to life. He answered on the eighth ring. Is this Jimmy, Jimmy Dempsey?

It is. Who wants to know?

I’m lieutenant Ted Richards, with the Spokane police department. What’s going on in there?

Jimmy wrapped his good arm around his head, the phone against the back of it. A sigh escaped as he listened to the lieutenant say, repeatedly, Jimmy, are you with me? Can you hear me okay?

I can hear you.

Good. Can we get this guy away from your door without you firing on my guys? It looks like he’s hurt pretty bad and needs medical attention. When he didn’t respond, the lieutenant asked again.

Sure, get him out of here. I’m tired of hearing him whine like a pussy.

You’re right, it’s worse than nails on a chalkboard. Jimmy, you promise my guys will be okay, right?

They’ll be fine. I got nothing against them.

So what’s going on, what did this guy do to you?

Jimmy saw three red lasers penetrate the shattered doorframe and settle on the wall to his right. The sound of shuffling feet and hushed voices caused him to turn his head to the door. Paddy cussed up a storm as they carried him away. Finally silence.

Thanks for letting us get him out of here, Jimmy. He was starting to get on my nerves too. What did that guy do to you?

He’s broken my balls ever since I’ve lived here.

You don’t need that crap. How long have you been living here?

Radios crackled outside. Feet stopped shuffling. They probably found secure positions, weapons trained on the door and window. The lieutenant continued to ask questions, but he didn’t answer. He cracked open the bottle and took a long gulp. When he put it down a quarter of the bottle was gone.

I want to help you, Jimmy. Come out and talk to me. We can work this out. That guy will be fine. Come out and tell me what’s going on. Will you do that, Jimmy? Please, I want to help you.

There ain’t nothing you can do for me, lieutenant. I’ve done it all to myself.

I can help you, Jimmy. Come out and talk to me.

Ain’t gonna happen.

Who can I call? You want to talk to your parents. Give me a few minutes and we’ll get them on the line for you.

He took a deep breath. Better have a direct line to heaven and hell, that’s the only way you’re reaching them. Guess I’ll find out soon enough which is which.

Don’t talk like that, Jimmy. How about a girlfriend or buddy in the neighborhood? Tell me who you want and I’ll try to get them on the line.

I got nobody.

Hey, you have me. I’m sure the guys you served with still care about you. Let me get one of them for you. Who do you want to talk to? Give me a name.

A list slowly worked its way through his head. Too much time had elapsed. The promise to stay in touch became less frequent over time. He looked at the faces of the men in the picture, his eyes drifted to Leroy, the platoon leader who treated him with respect. But the young guy, Dax, Jimmy always knew he’d be special, and he was right. It didn’t take long before Dax found his calling with the SEALs. They kept in touch for a while, but their friendship faded over time.

Reunions with guys from the platoon never happened. Phone calls became less frequent. Most of it was his fault. Guys always tried to include him, but he shut them out. He assumed the injury made them feel sorry for him. They’d send cards, leave messages, offer to put him up when work got tough—two offered him jobs, regardless of his limited physical abilities. Now too much time had gone by for him to trouble old friends with this crap.

Often he questioned why he isolated himself, and the move to Washington to be near his hometown. Estranged from what little family that remained. Even the town he grew up in seemed so different. Only friendships formed during his service meant anything, and yet he shut them out. He didn’t want their sympathy. Looking back, Jimmy had only himself to blame for self-pity. His life had deteriorated. Now with the cops outside things would only get worse, much worse.

The lieutenant continued to badger him with questions. Jimmy interrupted him, I’m coming out. If your guys get in my way, I’m going through them.

Don’t do that, Jimmy. I have veterans out here, men who served, just like you. These guys have families. You don’t want to hurt them and they have nothing against you. Come out and we’ll talk about this. Leave the weapons inside. Nobody gets hurt.

Tell them to stay out of my way. Jimmy ended the call.

He went to the closet and lifted his rifle off the shelf. Doing it with one arm felt awkward, as did everything else in life. Hand wrapped around the barrel, he faced the muzzle away from his body and leaned it upright in the closet. He tried to be careful, military training. Plus, he didn’t want to shoot his dick off by accident and have cops rush in to help.

The phone kept ringing. He plucked it from his pocket, walked to the bathroom, raised the lid on the toilet and dropped it down. Back inside the closet, he pulled the bolt back on the .30-.06; made sure the chamber was clear and slammed it shut and carried it to the bed. Jimmy also emptied the round from the .45, released the clip, pulled out every bullet, dumped them on the bed and shoved the empty magazine back in. Both guns beside him, he sipped the last few ounces of whiskey.

A warm wave come over him as the alcohol burned all the way down. Bottle tipped straight up, the last drops dribbled down his throat. Everything will be okay, he thought. An inner peace settled over him. He looked at the picture one more time and laid it face down on the bed.

He jammed the pistol into his waistband, struggled to rise and lurched forward into the wall, legs wobbly. Stay out of my way. Jimmy screamed as he stood behind the door. He pushed the chair aside, grabbed the knob and slowly turned. Blinding light hit him when he opened the door. Commands to Put your weapons down filled the air. He took two steps outside, gripped the butt of the pistol and yanked it from his waistband. He heard the first few shots of the barrage.

Chapter 2

Dax Rushmore stared out the black-tinted rear windows of the speeding van and focused on the red and blue flashing lights in the distant Arizona night. The pursuit vehicle, whichever division of law enforcement, was coming for them—no doubt about it. With no other vehicles on the desolate rural road, their van had to be the target. They hadn’t passed another car in over twenty miles, not since the outskirts of a dusty, desert crossroads town thirty minutes ago.

No one said a word. Only the rumble of rubber on asphalt, hum of the engine under the hood and wind across the van’s body pierced the silence. All four men fully realized what those lights meant. Heads turned to look out the rear windows, except the driver, as the vehicle behind them continued to close ground.

I told you to slow down, Hawk blurted. Look at the spot you put us in.

Falcon slammed the pedal to the floor and the van accelerated. Still the flashing lights behind them gained. No way to outrun them, and nowhere to go. They hadn’t seen a side road or state route in miles. The desert offered little value for escape. In addition to getting lost, the treacherous washes would eventually stop them cold.

He caressed the medal in his pocket and weighed their options. Gentlemen, Dax said. We have a dilemma. I suggest you prepare yourselves.

Silence. One of the two men in the back of the van with Dax unzipped the duffel bag. Dax reached into the bag, pulled out a handful of blue surgical gloves and tossed a pair to each guy after he put on his. He also handed them an AR57 semi-auto and Glock-30 hand gun. Those were in addition to their personal weapons. He crawled on his belly to Falcon, placed guns and gloves between the driver and passenger seat. The snapping sound of gloves being put on broke the silence inside the van.

The vehicle closed ground. Red and blue strobe lights illuminated the inside of the van. Each of the men in the back stayed near the floor. Dax crawled to the middle of the van, quickly wrapped a thick, plastic tie-wrap around the ankles of the bound, blindfolded man. He yanked the loose end and pulled tight. With the man’s legs secured, Dax shoved him against the driver’s side body of the van. He shuffled behind the passenger seat and looked out the rear window, then tapped the back of the driver’s seat with the palm of his hand. Ease off the gas. Let them catch us.

The van slowed and the car pulled directly behind them within a minute. A spotlight penetrated the back window and illuminated the inside of the van. The other men remained low. Neither raised their head into view.

Falcon, you call the action. On three, we flank. Raven, Hawk—pause two seconds and hit them from the back doors, Dax said. They had always created aliases to openly communicate during operations.

Dax grabbed the handle to the sliding door. He pulled the lever all the way down and cracked it open, AR57 by his side. Hawk turned the handle to the rear door, foot against the base, weapon in free hand.

Falcon slowed the vehicle, drove onto the shoulder and gently applied the brakes. A plume of dust enveloped the van from the dirt shoulder. A crunching sound filled the inside of the van as the cruiser skidded to a stop behind them. It became very quiet. The spotlight from the vehicle scanned back and forth between the two rear windows. Dax nestled his body closer to the floor, but never released the handle.

There are two of them, Falcon said. They have their weapons un-holstered. Neither guy has taken a step. They’re discussing something.

Dax didn’t move. In his peripheral vision he saw Falcon shift his attention back and forth between the driver and passenger mirrors.

Okay, here they come, Falcon said. One.

Dax jammed the butt of the assault weapon into the pit of his arm.

Two.

He brought his knees up and feet closer to his body, ready to spring into action. His breathing settled into a calm rhythm.

Three.

Dax slammed the side door open, leaped feet first onto the ground and leveled the weapon. His left foot slid on the sand, weight shifted backwards. A bullet whizzed by, inches from his head.

Dax fell onto his back and slid down the embankment. Instinctively, he raised the weapon skyward, finger never coming off the trigger. He heard a series of shots, short quick bursts—a familiar sound heard many times, shattered the quiet. Blasts from hand guns mixed with the sound of assault weapon fire, then silence.

He rose, scurried up the sandy shoulder and aimed the weapon. A body lay near the back of the van. Dax ran to it, jammed the weapon into the neck of the downed officer. No response. He kicked the officer’s weapon away, knelt and placed his left index and middle finger on the man’s carotid artery. Nothing.

The sound of footsteps made him bolt for cover on the side of the van. Dax called out, Hawk, Falcon—Raven.

Back here, Eagle.

Dax crouched, leveled the weapon and peered around the back of the van. Two men were upright, two on the ground. Falcon stood above the other officer, weapon trained as the injured man groaned and clawed his way back to the squad car. Dax turned away and bowed his head when he heard Falcon begin to recite, For if we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. Amen.

The Glock-30 cracked twice.

Dax ran to the officers’ vehicle. It appeared to be a Border Patrol car, based on the thick, dark green stripe near the rear door. A glance at the rear quarter panel confirmed his hunch. The division of law enforcement didn’t matter; all he wanted was to see the computer inside.

The license plate number of the van remained static on the screen. No words below the description, other than the name and address of the true owner. It came back clean. No transmission from the Border Patrol command center. Perhaps the officers had never called for backup. Regardless, the team had to distance themselves from this mess.

Eagle, Raven called out. Hawk is down.

Status? Dax listened to hear if a communication came over the police radio. Raven, what’s his condition?

He’s dead, sir.

Dax looked through the windshield of the cruiser, toward the two men at the back of the van. One flat on the ground, the other on a knee, head bowed. He rushed from the passenger side of the patrol car and knelt next to Raven. Where’s he hit? He reached down and grabbed his wrist. It’d be no use. He knew a dead man when he saw one. An extensive list would now have another name added.

The wound to the head had stopped bleeding—the pool of blood didn’t grow. Instinctively, Dax put his fingers to his comrade’s neck. Shoulders slumped, he slowly shook his head. Bag him.

He never had a chance, Falcon said, as the men gathered around their comrade on the ground. Falcon surveyed the desolate state route.

We need to get out of here. Let’s get the other guy off the road, Dax said. He and Falcon each grabbed an arm and pulled the Border Patrol Agent past the cruiser and down the shoulder, out of sight from the road. They walked back to the next guy. Falcon prepared to slide his hands under the second agent’s shoulder.

Same way as last time, Dax said.

They lifted the agent by the hand and elbow, dragged him down the sandy slope and plopped the body next to his partner. Neither of them looked down at the dead men. They raced back to the van.

Dax reached inside the duffel bag, searched the compartments and grabbed a hair net. He pulled it down over his head, covered his short hair and tucked the elastic band under his ears. The sound of the body bag zipper closing behind him caused him turn around. Falcon and Raven lifted opposite ends. Dax stepped back as they struggled to slide their comrade into the van. He lifted in the middle.

Dax went to the patrol car, checked his gloves for tears and carefully slid into the driver’s seat. He shifted into drive and pulled onto the road. With the floodlight still on, Dax switched on the high-beams and slowly drove down the road, searching for flat ground to ditch the cruiser in the desert. It took a few hundred yards to find a level shoulder.

Dax pressed the accelerator and cut the wheel to the right. The car raced into the desert, hopped across uneven ground until far enough from the road to avoid being seen at night. Before he got out, Dax shut off the engine, killed the spotlight, pressed the off switch on the computer monitor, exited and shut the door. The dome light darkened.

Rather than race blindly through the dark desert, Dax kept a moderate pace until he reached the road, then broke into a full sprint for the van. Where’s the duffel? he asked, winded. Raven slid the duffel bag to the open side door. Dax rummaged through it, grasped the metal tin of kerosene and wooden matches. At the back of the van he searched for Hawk’s pool of blood and poured the liquid on it. Dax flicked the match, took a step back and tossed it onto the puddle of kerosene. Flames raced into the sky bringing brief light to the dark desert.

Back inside the van, Dax slammed the side door shut and Falcon pressed the accelerator. The van lurched forward. Once the speed leveled he reached over the body bag in the middle of the van and yanked the arm of the bound man, flipped him onto his back and straightened his legs. He untied the blindfold and removed it from the wavy, brunette head of the man. Wide, blank eyes met his—a glare of unmistakable terror in the faint light.

Chapter 3

The car came to a stop behind a dozen police and emergency vehicles already parked inside the gates of the Thilman’s palatial residence. Enclosed by a block fence, the property sat at the base of Camelback Mountain, in Paradise Valley, Arizona. The massive ranch home had a contemporary look—cathedral window, neutral beige paint and a portico supported by two cylindrical pillars.

Special Agent, Paul Christensen exited the passenger side, stretched as he stood and studied the circular driveway. The large ornate fountain in the middle immediately caught his attention. It seemed out of place in the desert. Outside the gate a lone policeman kept two media teams away from the entrance of the property. If the media knew the full details of what happened to the owner, and more importantly who was responsible, national and local media teams would’ve flooded nearby streets.

Paul grabbed his sports jacket, paused, and decided against it. He folded it over the passenger seat and closed the door. Temperature had already spiked to over one hundred degrees, slightly past 9 a.m. on the late spring day.

How do you folks deal with this heat? Paul asked.

You get used to it, like anyplace else, Sam replied.

Paul had met Sam less than an hour ago when the older agent had picked him up at Phoenix International. During the ride from the airport to the house, Sam had casually glossed over his tenure with the Bureau, but expressed enthusiasm when he described his family life. He spent half their ride detailing the latest achievements of his two daughters and son, all grown with lives, and children of their own. Blessed with multiple grandchildren, Sam had only seven months until retirement. Family obviously held the top shelf and he sounded excited to start the next chapter of life.

The two agents walked up a handful of stone steps, past the tall white columns of the wide covered porch. Sam grasped the handle of the large wooden door and pushed it open. Paul turned and