The Shepherd's Household

By Ed Hurst

It was just another pipeline project in the Middle East, but someone was paying big money to make the project fail. Three ordinary men working together discover a plot to take over corporations and governments. But who is this evil mastermind behind it all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed Hurst
• Release date: May 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370139286

Ed Hurst

Born 18 September 1956 in Seminole, OK. Traveled a great deal in Europe with the US Army, worked a series of odd jobs, and finally in public education. Ordained to the ministry as a Baptist, then with a non-denominational endorsement. Currently semi-retired.

Book preview

The Shepherd’s Household

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 by Ed Hurst

Copyright notice: People of honor need no copyright laws; they are only too happy to give credit where credit is due. Others will ignore copyright laws whenever they please. If you are of the latter, please note what Moses said about dishonorable behavior – be sure your sin will find you out (Numbers 32:23)

Permission is granted to copy, reproduce and distribute for non-commercial reasons, provided the book remains in its original form.

Cover image: Composite by Ed Hurst. Background – Pipes for the Keystone Pipeline by Shannon Patrick; used by permission under CC 2.0-Attribution; source. Soldier silhouette is public domain. This cover image is available from the author under the same license as the background using this full paragraph.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1: The Sniper

01

02

03

04

05

06

07

08

09

10

Part 2: The Fixer

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

Part 3: The Courier

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

Aftermath

Prologue

The young lad picked his way quietly along the narrow alley, stopping now and then to listen. The residents had fled the village long ago; mostly he was hearing the sound of the breeze whipping against the vacant structures. Near the end of the dirt track he paused again just back from the corner of the building. His ears could just barely catch the voices of men speaking a foreign language. Squatting down, he peered around the corner from under the bushes growing there and scanned the open area. On the far side of a small paved square was an old workshop of some kind.

The sign had been removed long ago, leaving a patch of different colored paint. There were some holes where lag bolts had held the sign to the concrete facing. From a somewhat larger hole, a single twisted tail of electrical wire poked through near the corner of the bare spot. The glass long gone, two windows stared out like empty eyes on either side of the front door. The ill-fitting garage doors farther along the face were clearly not the originals. Focusing his attention on this building, the boy believed the rather loud foreign voices came from there.

His hand shaking and sweaty, he reached inside the front of his tattered sweater. To overcome his fear, he pretended for just a moment to hate them with all his might. For just a few minutes the fire of hatred obscured the fearful image of his mother writhing in pain from torture. The rebel soldiers had attached bare wires to each of her ankles and made him watch as they sent a painful jolt through her body. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but he had screamed for her.

The soldiers had trained him quite well, drilling repeatedly until he could do it with his eyes closed. The grenade inside his sweater was small, made for children’s hands, but a little heavy. It was a canister mounted atop a short stick handle. Drop or throw it and nothing happened. Press the trigger at the top of the handle and nothing happened. But press that trigger for three seconds, and then immediately throw it, and the device was armed. It would explode on impact. They warned him that if he didn’t protect himself, primarily by throwing it inside of an enclosed space where he couldn’t see it, then it would kill him, too. He couldn’t throw it far enough in the open to be safe.

He pushed aside all other thoughts and stepped forward from behind the bush. The open square was surrounded by taller buildings, making it oddly quiet with very little of the wind disturbing things. Glancing in every direction, he made sure he wasn’t seen. He got as close to the old garage as he dared and jerked out the grenade. He never got past cocking his arm back. Something in front of his face exploded and knocked him on his back.

He didn’t remember falling, and was only vaguely aware of hitting the pavement under him. Was he dead? Did the grenade go off prematurely? It was like trying to use his body from far away. He noticed the device was still in his hand. Presently he managed to let it go. There was an acrid smell of burnt synthetic fibers in his nostrils, and his eyes began to focus just enough to discern smoke arising from his body below his face.

Still somewhat stunned, his limbs were slow to respond. There was the sense that he was still trying to crawl back into himself from somewhere else. He hadn’t yet noticed any pain, but it was awfully warm on his chest in the cool fall weather. His hand slowly found it’s way to his side, and then crept up onto his torso. His sweater was mostly gone, and the shirt underneath had holes in it. Around the edges of these gaps the fabric was hot enough to sting his fingertips. Something had exploded in front of him and burned him, for his torso suddenly awakened in pain. Just trying to breathe hurt.

Tears ran down his dusty face and into the ears, but he was still too weak to move.

Part 1: The Sniper

01

For just a moment, Franklin rubbed his eyes, then continued scanning the village and surrounding terrain for any sign of movement. Had he been staring through the display on his rifle, it would have driven him nuts. Then again, it could have been worse. He was older now, but remembered all too well staring through the scope of that .30 caliber bolt-action rifle, waiting for a target.

Once more, he gave thanks for the new energy weapons. His was already old and battered, but still quite functional. It was sort of a cast-off, one of the last few of this early model still intact as the troops had turned them all in for newer versions that were less breakable.

Because of how the pulse rifles worked, the job of sniper was far, far easier now. No more windage and range; there was no leading a moving target calculating for time of flight. It was purely line of sight at the speed of light. If he could see it, he could hit it. No jolt from firing, either, so a light grip was enough. The scope was electronically enhanced, providing the same view day or night. All it took was steady hands, and he was fortunate at his age to still have them.

During daylight he kept it plugged into the solar panels to prevent running down the fuel cell. Next to Franklin was a target sensor, with a small stretchable wire linked to his rifle. The sensor had a downlink from tactical satellites and passing drones. It also had a built-in pulse shooter of its own, but that was even older technology than the rifle. The sensor could see almost anything out there, but nobody trusted it to know when to shoot or how to tune the pulse for different targets. Still, it made a good battle buddy because it could detect targets outside his view, though Franklin preferred gazing at his field of fire with naked eyes and didn’t miss much.

This time he caught it before the sensor did. Down across from the shop that the crawler team had occupied, there just a flicker of movement behind a bush. The village had been evacuated, so there wasn’t supposed to be any other people around. With virtually no wild animals and only a few birds, Franklin was inclined to believe this was human. Something inside of him had tingled this morning, warning there would be action, so he jolted to full awareness at the same moment the sensor sounded it’s barely audible alarm.

With only the smallest of movements, and no further noise, Franklin raised his rifle and sighted through scope. It was a human figure behind the bush. The distance was deceptive; was that an adult?

He saw the figure rise and step from behind the bush. He whispered to himself, A kid?

His scope eye kept watch on the boy. The sensor told him via the scope display that an explosive vest was unlikely and he breathed a sigh of relief, only to then be told the boy was hiding something inside his heavy outer shirt. Franklin groaned to think the boy had a grenade, but quickly reached his free hand around to dial down the aperture, and reduce both the duration and frequency on the rifle. No sense in killing if he could avoid it. The readout confirmed his shot would be non-fatal.

The lad had his hand inside the outer garment. As he got near the shop, he stopped and stood still for just a moment. Franklin aimed at the center of mass. Suddenly the lad jerked his hand out and cocked back to throw. Without hesitation, Franklin pulled the trigger.

There was a small explosion on the front of the boy’s chest as the pulse struck his clothing. The kid fell backward in a puff of smoke.

Disconnecting his rifle from the power and sensor feed hurriedly, Franklin reached over to switch the sensor to automatic fire. That was in case the boy was not alone. As he rose and descended the stairs from the rooftop of the building, his fingers double-checked to insure his don’t shoot me tag was attached and working