Justice: A DEA Undercover Thriller, #2

By Louis Scott

Welcome and thank you for reading the DEA Undercover Thriller series. These novels are based on my decades in law enforcement's special operations and undercover work. My other thriller series, A Joe Boxer Thriller, has many of the same characters, although a completely different reading experience. I know you'll love them too.

So if you find the name Justice Boudreaux familiar, it might be because you've discovered him in Joe Boxer's adventures or you may have read him when this book was formally the Savage Souls Series. So thanks again for taking the ride. See you on the other side.

Savages Forever - Forever Savages,

Louis Scott

SAINT:

DEA Special Agent James St. John has been undercover too long. The targets of his undercover operation, the Savage Souls outlaw motorcycle club, have now become his brothers. His loyalties are divided between the badge he wears and the colors he's earned.

The problem with outlaws is that they'd kill for James St. John, but if his cover is blown, these same brothers will kill the real person, Louis Seals. His entire existence is a lie, but he has no one to trust except a suspicious woman named Abigail looking for revenge, and the outlaws' leader, Justice Boudreaux. In St. John's life of deception he's only sure of two things: Abigail is a liar, and if his cover is blown he's a dead man.

When the corruption of political law enforcement controls the throttles of common sense, bad things happen to good men. Unless they see the reality for what it is. St. John may have gone deep but his vision has never been more clear. Sometimes the difference between the cops and the outlaws is that one group pretends crime is a bad thing.

JUSTICE:

What drives the hearts of men to do heroic feats, while others do horribly unspeakable acts? When the lines between black and white are no longer easily defined, that's where the true heart of a man is tested. 



CIA Operative Justice Boudreaux has served his country behind enemy lines, only to discover that the real enemy is the Agency who sent him there. While his mission is to save, another secret agent is programed to destroy.

Ben Ford is a murdering machine with only one thing in his heart - to kill for his country. 

When the two warriors collide, there are no nations safe from their ability to complete their missions.

But there's a fine line between good and evil, and the only way to win is to sabotage the other. May the best man win. 

SINNER:

There are no coincidences where matters of life and death are present. DEA Special Agent James St. John and Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club president, Justice Boudreaux don't leave reuniting to chance.

The Gray Man is more wickedly evil than ever before. With the death of his manipulating mother and his disapproving father, there's no one to keep this monster in check. Yes there is  - St. John and Justice. If they can keep from killing each other first that is.

SINNER will announce a 2017 release date as soon as it becomes available.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SilverHart Publishing
• Release date: Jan 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386734567

Book preview

JUSTICE

Also by Louis Scott

A DEA Undercover Thriller

Justice

Saint

A F.O.R.C.E. Adventure

Split Second

New York Minute

The Darkest Hour

A Joe Boxer Thriller

Call Of Duty

Fast

Rapid Fire

End of Watch

Cajun Murder Mystery

By the Numbers

The Shepherd

Geaux Tiger

Cajun Cooking

Crooked Cross

Cracked Cross

Double Cross

Creole Crossroads

Bayou Backslide (Cajun Murder Mystery Special Edition)

Bayou Roux: The Complete First Season

JUSTICE

A DEA Undercover Thriller

Louis Scott

SilverHart Publishing

Copyright © 2017 by Louis Scott Silverii

Contact the author for permissions

Louis Scott Thrillers

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To my kids - To our wonderfully blended family - I love you.

Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow.

Isaiah 1:17

Contents

Big News

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Two years later

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Louis Scott

Big News

Join SGT. Joe Boxer’s fight to make America safe again. An ultra-reality series based on the author’s experiences and world current events.

SGT. Joe Boxer is an ultra-reality series based on the author’s adventures and current world events.

Introduction

Welcome and thank you for reading the DEA Undercover Thriller series. These novels are based on my decades in law enforcement’s special operations and undercover work.

My other thriller series, A Joe Boxer Thriller, has many of the same characters, although a completely different reading experience. I know you’ll love them too.

So if you find the name Justice Boudreaux familiar, it might be because you’ve discovered him in Joe Boxer’s adventures or you may have read him when this book was formally the Savage Souls Series.

So thanks again for taking the ride. See you on the other side.

Savages Forever - Forever Savages,

Louis Scott

Chapter One

Justice Boudreaux was in a foreign land to kill.

Why—because that’s what his government trained him to do. He was good at it. He knew it and the CIA knew it. The trouble with this whole fucked up scenario was his target also knew it.

His rubbery sole slipped in the sandy coating that painted everything. Justice paused to scan the hard, jagged region just beyond the border of Pakistan. Mountainous and arid, he eyed his partner without confidence in her ability to maintain the track.

Sweat flowed from his gnarled beard. Water was scarce, so he didn’t bother wasting it on dousing for comfort—it was for survival. His partner, chosen without Justice’s consent, had a different purpose for her canteen’s contents. Her glint showed determination, but Justice still doubted Batya Cohen’s abilities. He wagged his head as she sucked from the Camelback water bladder strapped to her backpack.

You’d think breaching Pakistan without their government’s knowledge would be a bigger problem than you having to work with a woman, Batya said. She drew from the rubber water tube until liquid gushed between thin lips.

She spit the fine wind-swept sand granules from her mouth, L’Chayim, she offered.

Cheers, Justice replied.

Oh, you speak Hebrew? her lips parted to show bright white teeth.

My government says I gotta talk the talk, so I do as I’m ordered, Justice squatted against a clump of boulders. Making himself as small a target for the enemy was hard to do at six feet and six inches tall, but he managed to shove his 258-pound frame into a gulch of rock and shade.

She retied the shemagh over her head and neck. Afghans traditionally wore the square cloth, but many soldiers and special operations warriors adopted use of the versatile garment.

Justice, please answer this, Batya snugged the water hose’s tip beneath her desert-colored vest. Is it because I’m a woman or a Jew?

Neither, he snapped at the implication. This isn’t Israel’s problem. Why would the Mossad bother dispatching a female to eliminate a rogue American asset? There’s more to it than you’re allowed to tell.

The olive and black checkered scarf was tugged just beneath her razor-slits that barely allowed him to see her cold hazel eyes, "Your country may have created this shaytan, but he has killed many in my country. There’s no tolerance for his return."

Justice leveled his monocular scope to eye-level. He wafted bats of steaming air through his nostrils while he zeroed upward, toward the ridge of a steep terrain.

"Shaytan—devil. That’s what the Muslims call him. Is that what the Jews call him too?"

"We don’t bother giving him a name. There is nothing other than the one true God. To offer this man a name such as devil, iblis, or shaytan would conflict with our monotheistic view of only one God. She knelt about five feet away from him, Why, is that another problem you have with me and my people?"

He pocketed the scope into the tactical vest strapped around his torso. Beneath it were light Kevlar panels. Probably not any good for stopping many bullets, but maybe it’d hold his insides together until he scrambled a medi-vac. His gloved finger twirled to signal it was time to move.

I ain’t got a problem with you being a woman or a Jew. I just thought it’d be ironic for you and the Muslims to agree on something—even if it was a name for the devil.

Batya leaned her lean frame close to the rock-strewn loam and began the long upward trek toward the unguarded military outpost. What both of our people do agree on is that your government trained and dispatched this animal to prey on both of our countrymen.

He glared at her ass as it moved inches from his dusty face. Justice averted his gaze, but the smile was glued. Guys never really grew up—they just learned to not be so gross in public.

Maybe she can take care of herself after all.

Both operatives sat at the spear’s tip as far as specialized training was concerned. Justice’s acceptance into Delta Force afforded more training than most of the Army’s soldiers would see in a lifetime. Along with the United States Navy SEAL Team Six, both units were by far the most elite of the Joint Special Operations Command units.

The former LSU football standout left college athletics to graduate early. His heart was one of service to his country. He’d grown up in a dysfunctional, backwater bayou brawl-a-thon with his father, but he’d always known hard work would make up for a fucked up childhood of fishing and alligator hunting.

North Carolina’s Fort Bragg was another world away from Turtle Bayou, Louisiana, but it wasn’t long until he got the call that would take him even farther away from his beloved United States Army—the Central Intelligence Agency.

Hold on sister, Justice gasped.

His left hand swung out to grab her. He pressed her into the rugged mountainside. Grimacing, he held tight until Batya was able to regain her footing. Justice watched the small rocks tumble into big stones as an avalanche stormed its way back down the last three thousand feet of elevation they’d just covered.

I had it, bruised, she snapped at him in a breathless tone. Her face contorted by exhaustion and the early stages of dehydration.

He tried to wink with an eye that had become swollen with crystalline salt and tears. They burned red hot against the reflective rock surface. He’d just deal with it. The canteen water was for drinking—not rinsing. Batya either didn’t respond to his wink or didn’t recognize his effort. Her expression remained hollow.

Sure you did. I just didn’t want to have to go down to get you. It’s a long way straight up to start all over.

Zebach Sh’lamim, quietly she offered.

You’re welcome, he beamed. We got about another two hundred feet to the ridge. There’s a guard’s watchtower up there. Supposed to be unmanned.

Correct me if I’m wrong, though I’m not, but won’t we be in Pakistan? Fingertips full of blood from the long crawl, she pressed the wounds against her shemagh until the bleeding clotted.

How do I reply without lying to you? He whisked out his canteen and slammed down two slugs of warm water. Officially, I don’t exist. I’m a ghost in Afghanistan or Pakistan. Hell. I’m a ghost back home. So whether it’s the friendlies, or terrorist cells, or the newly liberated country of Afghanis, my government says I don’t exist.

So what exactly does that mean? she asked.

He saw her breathing had settled down, and color returned to her face.

It means I don’t much care where I am. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the mission accomplished.

Americans, and your John Wayne swagger, she shook her head no, but Justice thought he detected an attempt at humor.

I wish we were riding in on horses. Since we’re more like inchworms than cowboys, lets get to the ridge and have a look. You gotta problem with Pakistan?

Her dust-covered nose scrunched up, Inchworm?

It’s American—like The Duke. He bobbed his chin to signal they should move.

Justice wormed his way up the remainder of the sheer cliff wall. She trailed close behind. Purposefully shaved by the military, the rock’s smoothed effect would prevent enemies from climbing the mountain walls. They were no typical enemy.

He’d read Batya’s dossier hours before an introduction for the mission. Israeli’s Mossad was their country’s best counter-terrorism unit. They’re storied past had it’s early ups and downs, similar to Justice’s beloved military Special Forces units, but when it came to the craft of killing, no one beat their spies. Batya, like many Jewish operatives, began her career in Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security unit, and then transferred to Aman, their military intelligence division. Her portfolio said she’d worked with both branches before called to duty as a Mossad covert operative.

Justice held up his left arm. His clinched fist signaled for Batya to freeze where she was. He snaked his long physique across a semi-level landing. The scope was pressed against his right eye. His left eye almost useless, he pressed it closed to minimize the distractions. Laser-focused, he cursed across stretched lips that tried to cheat the hot air for a whiff of cooler breeze.

Three bogies.

So much for the veracity of your American intelligence, she huffed.

He looked at the way back down to where their journey began, It was a drone’s flyover. Just a few hours ago, dejected, Justice licked his lips—they felt like sandpaper.

You Westerners rely upon too much technology. Nothing beats old fashion eyes on target. She sneered.

He broke visual contact with the three guards to glare at her. She gave off no emotional indicators. This woman’s bio read like a Sylvester Stallone movie character, but she was as real as they came. But, could she walk the walk when the shit hit the fan?

What would you suggest then, Miss know it all?

My surname is Cohen, not Knowitall, she challenged. Who do those lost souls belong to?

Justice shrugged his shoulders.

You saved me from tumbling a long way down. Let me dispatch these three, she said with cold confidence. Her light hazel eyes rarely blinked.

Justice chortled. His attention was turned back on their targets. He wasn’t able to detect insignia. They were either rebels or terrorists. He nodded to Batya. His lips curled upward—she understood he was questioning her.

How deep did you dig into my resume? she taunted.

I heard you’re Kidon.

Yes, that is correct, she stated with a matter of fact.

Justice’s first inclination was to laugh. No way was she an infamously covert assassin for the Mossad’s Caesarea. He’d soon find out, but if she was, he was in the presence of greatness. Though he’d never let her know how he felt.

She leaned deep over the rock formation until her dried, cracked lips almost touched his temple. The warm air from her whispers tingled the fuzzy lobe of his ear. He cracked another smile.

Once you have had your fill of boyhood giggles, you will do well to pay me proper respect.

He stopped grinning—insulted by her insolence.

I can take out two from here without problem. The third one will be the one closest to us. He will panic and flee. You must intercept him.

Is this woman fucking serious?

Sorry honey, I’m here to erase Benjamin Franklin Ford, not chase down your runaways.

Her hard glare ripped off a look that could’ve killed a weaker man, Honey? I’m about to assassinate two bees from over a thousand yards on the move. I deserve better than to be treated better than that.

Her stare went back on target—finger on trigger.

Maybe she can walk the walk.

Chapter Two

The Safed Koh Range extended further than he could’ve imagined. The American agent also realized the tribesmen knew it better than he did. That gave both of them an advantage. They couldn’t escape, and Ben Ford couldn’t call in reinforcements. Actually, Ben could give a shit less about calling in help—he was sent by the United States government to perform his duties as he was trained to do—alone.

Six elders from the Popi Tribe sat on fur pelts atop sunbaked earthen terrain and gnarled tree stumps. Faces, hardened by struggle and war, wrapped inside crinkled leather skin, gave no indication of comprehension. Ben bantered across from the council beneath the canopy of foliage. They were unimpressed by this Westerner.

Although considered short by U.S. standards, at five feet and seven inches tall, Ben commanded respect. He was adorned in their country’s traditional Shalwar Kameez. The cotton and polyester tunic had become his daily attire. He felt more engrained with the culture, though his European features were unmistakable.

Benjamin Ben Franklin Ford still had the sense for United States military discipline, but his ultra-secret training by the Central Intelligence Agency instilled a greater appreciation for adopting the local customs. True to his blue-blooded upbringing and his West Point Academy appointment, he also knew to dress up for the occasion. Despite the high temperatures, Ben arrived wearing a dark colored waistcoat over his beige pajama-like trousers and seamless blouse. Again, the elders didn’t look to be impressed.

Thank you for meeting with me, elders. Intensity in his eyes blazed with potential.

The chief elder, known as Al bin Tosk sucked against the hookah. Vaporized mist filled the air with the scent of flavored shisha, What do you want?

I want what you want. Osama bin Laden. Hollow black eyes ducked behind his wire framed classes. They were ink-dark—black as death, but still intensity glared from his gazes.

You are mistaken, comrade. Al bin Tosk laughed.

Chief Elder, I’ve come a great distance for the honor of your company. Please refrain from inferences of communistic affiliations. I’m one hundred percent American, his voice hitched against the back of his throat.

Al bin Tosk sneered. Wrinkles traversed his wooden face until the ancient etchings looked so deep as to touch bone. Purposefully long on his draw and then exhale of tobacco smoke, Al bin Tosk muttered something inaudible to the tribal elder on his right side.

Dumb ass, the other man said in Dari, the language of Afghan Persian.

Rage surged like whitecaps through Ben’s veins. They could disagree as gentlemen, but there never was a good reason to be insulting.

Al bin Tosk said, Agreed.

Sir, might I ask your name? Ben spoke in the man’s native tongue.

Shock washed away the old man’s arrogant expression, Anwar is my name. His brownish-green eyes welded toward the dirt.

Ben’s right desert-camo colored boot smashed the water basin’s smoking bowl. Glass spit into the critiquing Anwar’s face. The old man winced.

Dumb ass? Ben knew he’d blown it by alerting them that he understood their native tongue. He saw the shock in Al bin Tosk’s reddened eyes. Tell me where to find bin Laden or I’ll show you how much of a dumb ass I can be.

Al bin Tosk waved his meatless hand between Ben and Anwar, "Enough of this heathen action. You come to our country and expect us to treat you like royalty? The chief councilman tried to erect his body from off of the hard ground.

Sit down old man. I’m not done, Ben felt out of body. His appetite for anger swelled. He’d come too far to leave empty handed. One of these men would spill it.

Ben saw it from the corner of his right eye—he ducked to his left. Another Afghani fell forward with his sandal in his hand. The man, younger looking than the others tried to strike him from behind with his shoe, which Ben knew was a serious form of insult.

Ben snapped.

The man, known to Ben as Quati, had just regained his balance—dusty sandal still in hand. Ben zipped his KA-BAR steel knife from the sheath concealed beneath the waistcoat. Both men turned toward each other. Ben shoved the blade’s razor-sharp tip through Quati’s Adam’s apple. Quati remained standing only because Ben held him up—he died instantly once the knife severed his spine and exited through the skin at the back of Quati’s leathery neck.

The kill flipped a switch in Ben that became more difficult to control with repetition. He glowered at the remaining five. Their expressions ranged from surprise or a lack of concern for their fellow council member. Finally, he noticed the tremble in Al bin Tosk’s right hand. They were scared shitless.

Anybody else care to swing a shoe at this dumbass? He zeroed in on the man who’d first stirred up this entire episode.

You are Iblis, Anwar shouted.

Ben lunged at him. The man flinched—both hands covering his face in surrender. You think I’m the devil? Well, isn’t that an upgrade from a dumbass? Lets celebrate, shall we? Ben laughed maniacally.

Al bin Tosk demanded, That’s enough. He slammed his ornately carved wooden walking stick against the jagged rock.

Who do you think you are, Moses? You going to bring water from this rock old man? Ben, basted in a coat of sweat, felt his heart beat elevate.

Al bin Tosk scoffed, We have no fairy tale Moses in our faith. It’s time for you to leave this land. Now, he screamed.

That’s another thing that pissed me off, Ben spouted. His body trembled—it wouldn’t be long. One last chance. Where is Osama bin Laden?

Go home Iblis, Anwar derided Ben.

Ben grabbed the old man by his tunic and jerked Anwar to his feet. The man’s tattered hemp sandals remained where they were.

Where is he? Ben said.

Defiant, Anwar proclaimed, You’re worse than he is?

Ben whispered, Where is he?

Go home Iblis. We prefer the treatment of bin Laden. At least he doesn’t come disguised.

Ben pulled the reed-thin man toward him. Anwar’s feet left the ground as he hurled against his will. Ben smashed his forehead into the tribesman’s nose and eyes. Blood exploded from Anwar’s mahogany-colored face. The high altitude and thin air made bleeding much easier and clotting it very difficult. He went limp.

Ben clamped his teeth against Anwar’s throat. Ben blacked out for a moment, but still remained in control of his actions. His teeth gnashed and jerked as powerfully together as he could humanly muster until he felt it give. He continued to bite and tear until Anwar’s larynx dangled from his between his teeth.

Ben released Anwar’s bloodstained Shalwar Kameez. He fell to the ground.

You want your Iblis, you got him. I’m your devil now. Tell me where Osama bin Laden is, or I’ll kill everyone of you. He glared with a wide-eyed expression that allowed the whisking of wind to carry sand against his pupils. It didn’t bother him—focus was on his mission—find Osama bin Laden.

Al bin Tosk’s frail figure quaked, Is this what America promised to do for our people? Send deviants like you to help us? I regret the first time I ever met you Ben Franklin Ford. Tears clustered in his greenish brown eyes, Please, go back to America.

Listen up. You agreed to help me. You will help me, or I’ve no need for you or your Popi tribe.

Ben’s Middle East mission was crystal clear—find Osama bin Laden, or don’t come back. It used to twist his gut that the country he loved and served, disregarded him as disposable. But, to be fair, he knew the risk, just not the bullshit attached. The CIA oversaw the entire experiment—another reason to expect the unexpected.

As a young recruit, the Agency promised Ben he’d never be the same after an experience serving as a covert operative. He withdrew from the prestigious West Point Military Academy, and sprinted full-speed ahead into the anxious arms of CIA scientists and bureaucrats. He still hated them for what they did to him, but as time dragged on, he’d forgotten what it was he hated about what they did. It had become who he was.

Al bin Tosk was speaking but Ben’s mind had warbled out of his current realm of reality.

"Do what you wish with us, we’re not afraid to die for our cause, but leave our people alone.