Shadow Soldiers #1: Shadow Soldier Series, #1

By Wrathe W. Aceing

This is the first in a series of novellas that explore the world of the mercenary and the challenges they face keeping evil from overrunning society.

"ENOUGH" is a military thriller delving into the dark areas of the soldier's conscience.  The action explodes as the characters smolder dealing with their understanding of revenge.

"Mercy Strained" is the mission of one dark soldier who entered the military to build the skills necessary to exact her revenge on the monsters that stole her childhood and her womanhood.

"A Child's Cry" introduces Sergeant James Terrance (JT) Welder who forms a team of mercenaries to rescue a little girl and destroy the gang who took her from her family.

Who will stand the line and protect us from evil?  Who will protect the ones who cannot defend themselves?  The Shadow Soldier holds back the darkness so that we may live in the light. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: vmPublishing
• Release date: Sep 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536526424

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Judge and Jury

Synopsis

This is the mission of one dark soldier who entered the military to build the skills necessary to exact her revenge on the monsters who stole her childhood and her womanhood.

The price of allowing child abuse to continue is real, and it is time to stand up against this onslaught of evil.

The Hide

I checked my surroundings carefully.  It is second nature and gives me a calm sense of control.  With the 360-degree surveillance completed, I tensed my calf muscles and began another round of exercises.  I had been in hiding for eighteen hours, and as usual, hourly isometric exercises on this type of mission were vital for staying prepared.  The target would emerge from his garage in a few minutes, carrying his newspaper and whistling some made-up tune.

The Target

He stood five feet ten inches tall and had a paunch belly from too much beer.  His hair grew gray and long; a sign his life had been lived too long, in my estimation.  He had been sent to juvenile detention in his youth for statutory rape, and he had been apprehended twice in his adult life but never again convicted.

I looked down at the four pictures my research had uncovered—four sweet young girls destroyed by a monster, a monster whistling tunes known only within the confines of his demented skull.

He had a family with two daughters, but that didn’t weigh into my decision except to keep them from harm.  One was just beginning to blossom, and knowing this type of reprobate, she would become fair game.

The black stone he had received six days ago sat on the desk in his study.  It had the Roman numeral VI on its cut and polished surface.  He had forgotten about the funny gift taped to his steering wheel when he had come out of the bar.  Chances were no one would consider it important as long as Detective Christian from Texas did not receive the incident report.

Execution

The light rain moistened the driveway making it a little slippery, as the garage door’s electric motor engaged and slid up on its tracks.  He whistled but seemed perturbed by the drizzle.  Holding his newspaper over his head, he walked out to the car and fumbled one-handed with the lock.

I was 1500 feet away, and the wind would have no effect.  Sighting, I took the first shot.  His scream startled the neighborhood as he reached for a crotch that no longer existed.  I had used a hollow-point round to tear through his flesh.  The second solid projectile was much more merciful.  It entered his temple and ended the tormented sound of his screams forever.  His body slumped over in a crumpled mess of blood, gore, and brain matter.

Calmly picking up my brass and weapon, I began my exit.  I broke the gun down and placed it in a foam-filled suitcase that fit right behind the truck toolbox, its hidden panel well defended by my mastery of metalwork.  I slowly folded the tarp, ensuring none of my evidence slipped off, and stored it at the bottom of the toolbox.  One final check of the hideout, and I considered it cleared.  It was time to move on to the next phase of the escape.

I took off the military coveralls I had purposefully dyed to match the surroundings of the hide.  The boots and the formfitting gloves were also removed and bagged.  I would burn these in a furnace across town, but for now, I stuffed them in with the gun case.

On the passenger seat of the truck was a stylish pink summer dress.  I loved the way it made me look, and after using face cream and paper towels to remove the camouflage from my face, I donned the dress.  Letting my hair down and shaking it into place, I took out a compact and painted on my next mask that of a young lady driving to work on a drizzly day.

Traffic clogged the neighborhood as the flashing lights of police vehicles guarded the egresses.  I drove by the entrance observing the arm waves of the cop directing traffic.  I had no reason to look into the neighborhood and ask questions.  Smiling at the officer as he waved me through, I cleared the impediment, headed south for a few miles, then changed direction toward the furnace to finish my cleanup.

The Posse

I will admit the stone was an issue, but something inside me wanted these monsters to know doom was upon them.  The problem with being a sniper was that it was not up close and personal.  Of the forty-two kills so far, thirty-four had shown significant signs of worry, and most had the stone in their pocket at their time of death.

So far, the stone had stumped rather than helped law enforcement.  Two major city detectives came up with the theory that the stone was an access token to one of the many deviant underground networks.  Show your stone and get inside the deviant den.  This caused a nationwide hunt for a criminal network, leaving me to my solitary stalk.

The stones were the only physical evidence my detective from Texas had, but this had not stopped his inquiry.  He knew something was out of place, and these killings were not random.  He had the uncanny ability to put small snippets of information together and develop a solid theory.  He was a good detective and, as far as I could observe, a good man.

Unlike the wonderful detective movies I love watching on a rainy day, this criminal was not caught up in her fatal flaw.  Everything I did was planned and properly executed.  I had a great deal of work to accomplish, and getting caught was not part of the plan.  Since my picture first appeared on a milk carton, I had been training for my life’s work—to rid the world of 100 rapists.

Chapter 2 - About Milk Cartons

Real Pain

Iwas thirteen when I found the milk carton with my picture.  By that time, I was street-smart and beyond the reach of authorities or parents.  It had been six years since my abduction, and the hell I had gone through had removed any little girl dreams I might have had.

For the next three years, I traveled the dark alleys of runaways and criminals, discarded by society as a petty thief.  At the end of this three-year period, I found my way back to my hometown and spent six months observing what remained of my family.

My mother had committed suicide two years after my abduction, unable to live without her daughter, blaming herself for not keeping a better eye on me at the playground.  My father drank.  He sat on the porch of the house, slowly decaying around him, and drank.  My mother was his world, and I’d been his princess.  Now alone, there was no life or adventure, so he drank and awaited his God’s final call to take him from his veil of tears.

I suppose I could have walked up the cracked sidewalk and reintroduced myself, saving him from his hell.  It would have been the Christian thing to do.  From the five-story burned-out building where I watched, I felt his pain.

The pain inside me was the counterpoint to the argument raging in my brain.  He needed love, and I sought revenge.  Tears flowed down my cheeks without letup, and I wept openly for the first time in my young life.  I loved the man so much, but the destruction done to me stopped any melting of my vengeful heart.  I am sorry, Daddy, but I must make them pay, even if you suffer.

Turning Points

My daddy loved to play with me, and he helped me see anything was possible if I worked at it.  His laughter-filled, never-give-up attitude was infectious.  When I told him I wanted to be an astronaut, he laughed and grabbed my hand, rushing me out to the backyard.  There he began making plans for my astronaut training center.

Daddy, you would understand.  I need to train and do it so you are never made part of my deeds.  I love you too much to bring you on this journey.  My thoughts ended the argument.  Steeling my heart and stemming the flow of my tears, I left the rolling hills of Peekskill, New York, behind and made my way to Buena Vista, Georgia.  With the help of a friendly innkeeper, I would start training for my new mission.

Military Plans

As I crossed the Mason-Dixon Line, I left my proper name behind.  Using my forged documents,  I began building the life of Margaret Callaghan, a runaway taken in and adopted by the friendly innkeeper so she could enter the Army at Fort Benning, Georgia.

I had just turned sixteen, and with a little luck, I would get my new parent’s permission to enlist at seventeen.  If not, I would patiently wait out the final year of my youth and enlist at eighteen.

Mr. William Masterton ran the Morning Dove Bed & Breakfast in the quiet town of Buena Vista, Georgia.  I had met him twice in my travels, and he allowed me to do chores around his property for dinner and some travel money.  I would ask him one more favor— help me get into the Army.  I knew it would make him proud, having noticed the regimental flag of the 29th Infantry above his fireplace mantle.

As I pulled into the drive on my motorcycle, the thought of the dove and the soldier tickled my fancy.

Mr. Masterton stepped out on the porch and replicated my happy grin as I removed my helmet.  Now, there is a very happy young lady.  His voice carried over the loud rumble of my idling bike.

Turning off the machine and placing the helmet on the seat, I ran up to the porch and gave my benefactor a giant hug.  I am back home, and the Georgia sun always makes me smile.

He laughed, very much like the laugh of my father.

I hope you don’t mind, but I need somewhere to stay, and I couldn’t think of anyone but you.

I watched his reaction; like my father, he did not hesitate or show shock.  He laughed, returned the hug, and pointed me toward the jar of lemonade on the porch next to the big rockers.

You know you’re always welcome here.  Always.  He poured a glass of lemonade and passed it over.  How long will your visit be this time?

I pushed aside the question and tried to chat about silly things, but he gently moved me back to my purpose, and somehow, I let down my natural guard for this kind man and told him my plans to join the Army.

The afternoon breeze, filled with peach blossoms and magnolias, worked with the delightful lemon concoction to gently remove the bustle of the world.  I fell into the southern cadence of the second man to love me.  By dinnertime, his late wife’s special fried chicken recipe, William Masterton had agreed to adopt a runaway named Margaret Callaghan, whose only possession was a library card from Boulder, Colorado, and committed to signing the waiver allowing me to join the Army a year early.

As I drew the soft handmade comforter up to my chin, I ticked off the first step in my plan.  Find a family to foster my entrance into sniper training.

Chapter 3 - Training for Anonymity

Every day of my military career was calculated from induction to signing my discharge papers.  My job was to be the best but to remain in the shadows of anonymity.  Many other women in the service would distinguish themselves, and rightly so.  My whole life depended on learning the skills of a silent warrior and leaving the service with a clean but undistinguished record.  I needed Margaret Callaghan to be forgettable and to disappear when my service was over.

Personally, I would push myself to be the best.  Publicly, I would come in second or third and remain unnoticed by my superiors and teammates.  My days within the Army units were wonderful and truly enjoyable.  I met and befriended many, but I knew the talk about getting together back in normal life was just lip service.

I took to the rigors of the foot soldier energetically until I qualified for sniper training.  My marksmanship and stealth are needed to prove my right to carry the nation’s mission into the field.  Gaining top marks, of course, careful not to be first, I made the tools of a sniper a part of my very being.

Pulling the trigger was the final act of an intricate dance that needed perfect execution.  Marksmanship was necessary, but observation and stalking were the keys to a successful mission and a long career.  They were the tools I needed to learn, and my stay with the Army helped me exercise my newfound stealth.  Working the roadways of Afghanistan with a team of Army scouts steeled me for my primary purpose—to find and destroy those who would take the dreams of a small girl so viciously.

It was four wonderful years of preparation and something I look back on fondly.  Many of my brothers and sisters-in-arms would make fine lifelong buddies if it were not for my need to pass into anonymity.

On the day of my discharge, I left friends at the train station with promises of calling and writing, knowing full well Margaret Callaghan was about to disappear.  Replaced by Sherry Beaulieu, a travel reporter for a newsletter called Boots-n-all, giving me my passport to anywhere in the world.

As the train pulled out for parts east, I gave one last wave and headed down the street for the Harley Davidson store.  I had been extremely frugal and could easily afford the used HD Road King in the window.  It would allow for advanced observation, letting my reporter backdrop blend into the natural habitat of any city or village as I began the stalk.  Instead of searching mountain lairs filled with Taliban, I would hunt friendly neighborhoods across America and seek out monsters that molest young girls.

My basic plan was simple.  Once I had a target selected from my research, I would enter the area and observe their movements, setting up the stalk and the takedown.  My cover as a travel reporter allowed me access, and my Army skills fulfilled the mission’s task parameters.  Then I would move on to the next target.

America made the research easy.  Molesters needed to register, and the registry was open for public use.  Of course, I had multiple aliases to use as I searched, but the process was simple.  The size of the database dwarfed my goal.  Sitting in a New Jersey library, the overwhelming disgust almost brought me to tears, and the need to dig through the slime to find the most evil monsters turned my stomach.

The first target was Jerry Friedlander.  He had raped and murdered three girls but had been released from prison after only four years because of his lawyer’s slick evidence tampering allegations.  Living in Fairmore Glen, New Jersey, I first met him leaving a bar laughing with a partner and making lewd comments to a woman they passed in the street.

I took a room at the Holiday Inn, getting a discount by including the Inn in the article I was writing about country living in New Jersey.  Fairmore Glen was known for its parks filled with flowers and waterscapes.

One of the disciplines drummed into me in the Army was to be sure of my facts.  There actually was a place for those Innocence Project do-gooders.  My job was to sift out the questionable and find the real monsters.  Once the actual stalk began, I was sure of the monster and had pictures of the girls he had harmed in my go bag.  Jerry had molested Tanya, Alexi, and Linda, taking their lives.  I intended to return the favor.

It took eight days of observing his behavior to find the pattern.  I gave him the first of my stones with the Roman numeral II etched on the polished side.  He had two days left before judgment.  In this particular case, the entrance to his favorite bar proved the best location.  He came out every day around four to wander the streets and watch the girls leave the HighBent Secretarial Service across the street.  The woods within the Fairmore Glen Gardens at the top of the hill gave me both an unobstructed view and multiple exits for escape.

Jerry followed the pattern, stumbling out of the bar at four o’clock, lighting a cigarette, and laughing.  I could see the doors open at HighBent and focused my rifle on Jerry just as he pointed and hooted at a blonde secretary who had just exited.  I pulled the trigger, and Jerry’s hand and face disappeared. 

One thing I learned was that buildings tended to distort the sound of gunfire.  The echo had people looking in all directions.  Few would realize I was on the hill so far from the grizzly scene.  Few in America have any realization of weapons and their destructive power.

Jerry now knew, or at least I hoped his tormented soul in hell knew.  The blonde girl stood still, in shock, having witnessed the moment.  She had started to call back to the rude man across the street for his unkind remarks as the bullet struck.  Her trauma would slowly dissipate as the stories about the murder of a rapist in Fairmore Glen, NJ, died down.  The families of three innocent girls might find relief, and I would move on to Chicago and my next target.

I policed my brass and broke down the weapon removing all traces of the blind.  My travel cover had left the wonderful village of Fairmore Glen three days ago, leaving a copy of my travel article with the Holiday Inn manager.  Sherry Beaulieu was a memory, and the killer was anonymous.

The pickup truck was dark blue and beat up like any good journeyman’s vehicle.  The plates were borrowed two days ago from a wreck, and the state line was two hours away from the park.  Before the first police car arrived on the scene, I was already on Route 78, heading west toward Pennsylvania.

After crossing the state line, I pulled into the highway travel plaza for some much-needed coffee.  Sitting in the booth by myself, leafing through a Pennsylvania guidebook, I noticed a slight tremor in my hand.  I had felt the effects of adrenaline many times in Afghanistan.  This was different.  The excitement of the action coursed through my body with telltale signs of blood pressure and jitters, but this was deeper.  It cracked open a vault buried deep within my soul and allowed the torment of my youth to acknowledge the judgment rendered.

I had wondered how I would react since the moment I chose this pathway.  I cannot say, even now, if I understood the feeling, but it seemed to bathe that broken part of me with a sweet joy of accomplishment.  I had no doubt my actions were wrong, and I stood apart from society.  I had no expectations of forgiveness here or in the afterlife.  I still remember that first salving moment seeing Jerry Friedlander crumble to the ground and the continuing touch of joy as I sent each monster to their eternal hell.

Chapter 4 - Keeping Sharp

Inoticed it on the twenty-sixth target.  The planning had once again been perfect, and Todd Kalimar strolled into the crosshairs of my rifle.  His body immediately crumpled, falling to the ground lifeless, but only part of his head was missing.  I had aimed to hit him just below the eyes centered on his big bulbous nose, but the shot was up and to the right, burrowing through the top of his skull and disintegrating only one-quarter of his brain.

I maintained proper discipline, cleaning up my surroundings and exiting the area, but my marksmanship had