The Messenger: Horizons: The Messenger Series, #2

By J.W. Harrelson

A building explodes in Yumurtalık, providing Jim Wallace's group of renegade special operators an opportunity to escape; Giancarlo Carmozzi provides the transportation. However, The Order of the Dragon is not prepared to call off the dogs. Thus begins the chase from Turkey to Italy, the rescue of the Carmozzi family, and the start of a rivalry between Navy SEAL Gary Phillips and Templar assassin, Jamal Mubarak, the world's premier rogue hunters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Wallace Enterprises, LLC
• Release date: Nov 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386819981

Book preview

YUMURTALIK, TURKEY - WEDNESDAY 07:00

A ROCKET-PROPELLED grenade divided the darkness as it streaked from the top of a two-story building and entered the first-floor window of another building directly across the narrow Turkish street. The gas lines, feeding the stove and heaters, ignited immediately, making the secondary explosion indistinguishable from the primary. The blast shattered windows and set off car alarms.

On top the two-story building, the Templar assassin, Jamal Mubarak, lifted himself from the roof and studied his creation: the inferno formerly known as the Israeli Mossad safe house.

Mission report? sounded in his radio earpiece.

End of mission, Jamal replied.

Rally point, came the order.

Out.

The blaze illuminated the displeasure on Jamal’s face. The way Tuttle, Wallace and their associates died mattered little to him; they were only garnish on the side of the main dish. The main dish was Gary Phillips, the Gator, and this was not how he had envisioned sending the world’s premiere rogue hunter to the next stage of existence. No, this wasn’t how he had envisioned taking the title. He had wanted to look into the Gator’s eyes and see the admission that he, Jamal Mubarak, had been the Gator’s better. It was all so dissatisfying.

He dropped the RPG launcher, turned, and walked away.

TREMBLING, ZEHRA SAT on the edge of her bed, gazing at the orange glow radiating through her bedroom window. What was that sound? It had to be an explosion, but those didn’t happen here, at least they weren’t supposed to. Surely that madness had not come here, to her small, peaceful town. She hoped it had not.

Finding her strength, she stood and started to ease toward the window, but found that her hands were still clinching the bed sheets. Releasing the sheets, the blood returned to her fingers and hands, slowly restoring the sensation. She wished Fatih were here. She wished he didn’t have to leave for days on end to pull fish from the sea. She wished she didn’t have to be home alone, facing these fears alone.

Clenching her jaw and hating her fear, she willed herself toward the window. She pulled the curtain back just in time to see a dark figure jump from the roof of the building directly across the street from the burning one. That was Mehmet’s house, wasn’t it? Was that he on the roof? Surely not, Mehmet had more sense than that, unless that nagging wife of his harried him out to see what was going on.

A crashing sound captured her attention. She instinctively stepped back from the window and looked to the backyards below her. There was another crash, then she saw one dark figure, then another. Wait, there were nine of them, snaking through the neighbors’ backyards, making their way toward Huseyin Baykara Drive. They ran from sight.

Were they the ones responsible for the explosion? Were they the ones bringing hatred and destruction to her town?

Spinning, Zehra sprinted across her bedroom, snatched her house coat from the hook on the bedroom door, and flung the door open. Her bare feet slapped on the tiled floor as she ran down the hallway toward the living room and balcony facing Huseyin Baykara Drive.

ROUNDING A SHARP CURVE on Huseyin Baykara Drive, Jim Wallace and his crew began their descent toward the sea. Before them, stretching across the horizon, was a translucent, magenta ribbon, signaling the rising sun. The sounds of their running footsteps echoed off the four-storied, man-made canyon of apartment buildings.

Glancing over his shoulder, Jim saw a fiery glow emanating from the building formerly known as the Israeli safe house, a building he was still surprised they made it out of. Looking forward, he saw locals stepping out onto the balconies of their apartments, leaning over the railings, trying to see the source of the explosion.

A woman standing on one of the fourth-level balconies caught Jim’s eye. It wasn’t anything about her appearance—her hair was mussed, and she wore a bathrobe that revealed nothing. Then it hit him. While the others on the balconies had not focused on anything, her eyes were focused on them, and the look was not one of passive observation or innocent curiosity. Her look was one of anger. Jim got a gut feeling: if they were going to have any trouble, she would be the spark that set it off.

Ryan Harris, running beside Jim, displayed a look of worry. Son, it looks like our popularity is growing.

Jim turned his attention from the woman to the landscape before him. He saw men exiting apartment doors on both sides of the street. Jim pointed to a group forming on the left. Yeah, it does. He turned his head and yelled over his shoulder, Keep moving!

Keep moving! Gary Phillips repeated, sounding like he was repeating a cadence call.

Jim glanced at Ryan, shaking his head. Freaking Navy . . . always have something to say.

Ryan pointed to a group of scowling men standing on the right sidewalk. What do you think the natives will do?

Jim looked to where Ryan was pointing. Men, hardened by a life of manual labor, spoke excitedly to each other. He knew from firsthand experience how ugly human behavior turned in dire situations. There was no doubt in his mind the bystanders would transition from agitated observation to violent action. The only question was when. I hope they keep standing there and watching, at least until we get on that ship. Your ship captain gonna be ready?

Ryan turned a serious look to Jim. Son, if he ain’t, we’re gonna be up the proverbial creek.

A shrill scream came from above. Jim glanced up and saw the angry woman leaning over the balcony rail, pointing at them and yelling. Once again, his gut-instinct had served him well.

Jim looked from the woman and over his shoulder. Sol!

Sol, who was running a few paces behind Jim, diverted his eyes from the screaming woman and directed his attention to Jim. Yes, Achi?

Any of you Mossad boys got weapons?

Sol grinned. How quickly Jim had forgotten they had just exited an inferno unscathed. We have no need of weapons, Achi.

Jim looked forward and noticed the men standing on the left sidewalk were now looking between the screaming woman and them. Jim grimaced. Have you seen the angry mob gaining interest in us, Sol?

Yes, Achi, I have.

Jim’s lips thinned. Why was Sol so calm? Did he know something the others didn’t? You have any ideas about what we should do, Sol?

Sol laughed. Yes, Achi, you have legs and feet, keep using them.

Jim felt like strangling him. He glanced at Ryan and shook his head. How do you like that answer? We have legs and feet.

Ryan wiped the sweat from his forehead. His legs were beginning to feel the lactic acid burn. Son, my legs are wearing out.

Jim could hear Ryan’s breathing getting heavier. You’re carrying too much weight, meathead.

Ryan took a deep breath, coughed, and spit. I usually stand and fight.

Jim thumbed toward the group of men on the right, now peeling from the sidewalk to follow. You think you can take them?

Ryan shook out his arms, both felt twenty pounds heavier. Even if he did stop to fight, he was already too tired to put out much effort. Nope, too tired and there’s too many.

Jim noticed the look of fatigue on Ryan’s face. He could tell now was not the time to continue focusing on the negative. Loosen up your arms and shoulders and even out your breathing. Find your Zen place.

Ryan smiled. Thanks, man.

Running onto the concrete pier, Jim could smell the scent of fresh bread cooking in the seaside shops, mixed with smoke wafting down the hill toward the sea. Their destination, an Italian freighter, was moored at the end of the pier, the running light above the forecastle beckoning them like a silent Greek Siren. Jim was tempted to look back to the inferno they had just escaped, but, for some reason, the story of Lot’s wife came to mind.

Gary Phillips moved beside him, his steps falling into rhythm with Jim’s. You OK, Army?

Jim turned to find Gary with a goofy grin on his face. Once again, he was running beside an obnoxious Navy SEAL who didn’t have anything better to do than ask stupid questions. Yeah, Navy, I’m fine.

Gary chuckled. You sound tired.

Jim’s brow furrowed as he listened. He was hardly breathing. That’s Ryan you hear, dummy.

Gary chuckled a little louder. No, I think I hear you.

Get your ears checked.

Why are you running so slow?

Jim realized what Gary was doing. Here he was trying to make sure everyone got to the ship safely, and the dumb squid could only think about trying to be cute. Now’s not the time. What do you want?

Gary glanced at Ryan before returning his attention to Jim. You know this Liam Cavanaugh?

Jim looked at Ryan before glancing over his shoulder, ensuring the others were keeping up. Satisfied everyone was OK, Jim turned and glanced at Gary. We kind of worked together in Russia.

Gary’s brow furrowed. You know that’s not what I mean. Can he be trusted?

Jim noticed the change in Gary’s demeanor. He struggled to keep the grin off his face as he decided to take the opportunity to be the obnoxious one. He shrugged. He’s always looked after Ryan.

Gary shook his head. Can we trust him?

Jim stifled a laugh and made sure he could speak with a normal voice before opening his mouth. Maybe. It’s been my experience that he looks after his own.

Gary held out his hands. That’s wonderful. Are you one of his own?

Jim couldn’t contain it any longer and laughed out loud. Not even close.

A concerned expression formed on Gary’s face. Is there any animosity between you two?

Jim shrugged. Hard to say.

What did you do to him?

A proud smile formed on Jim’s face. I crashed his hijacking party at Chievres Air Base.

Gary thought back to the late nineties and the missing commercial airliners and passengers that were discovered at Chievres Airbase in Belgium. He remembered hearing how Cavanaugh had used a weakness in aviation radar to land the jets at Chievres and hide them and the passengers in unused military hangars and bunkers. He had heard a couple of Delta Force operators had discovered Cavanaugh’s plan and ended the hostage situation. What he didn’t know was the names of the operators that had executed the mission.

That was you?

Jim nodded. Yep.

Gary had grown up around the criminal element in south Florida and had military experience hunting criminals around the world. There was one thing all criminals had in common: they were not the forgive and forget kind. If Jim was telling the truth, he could not conceive of a situation where Jim had received the forgiving grace of Liam Cavanaugh. Why are we going with them?

Jim knew the dilemma going through Gary’s mind, but he wasn’t going to give him the rest of the story to ease his apprehension. No, Gary wanted to be the nuisance, now he was going to deal with the crap he’d stirred up. My boy Ryan is one of his, and he says we’re welcome.

Is Ryan the boss?

Jim shrugged. Probably not.

I don’t like this, Army.

Jim glanced over his shoulder to check on his crew and saw that many of the townspeople had gathered and were walking onto the pier. You got another plan, brainiac?

Nope.

Jim chuckled. Then I guess we’ll take our chances with Cavanaugh.

CAPTAIN GIANCARLO CARMOZZI cursed as he watched the group of men running along the pier toward his ship. The explosion and subsequent fire made him think something had gone wrong; now, the running men confirmed it. He stepped from the pilot house and slid down the ladder to the main deck.

Luigi, the first mate, saw Giancarlo running across the deck toward him. Capitano, Luigi yelled, Cavanaugh’s men are early.

I can see that, Luigi. Have we finished loading?

The produce is loaded, Capitano, but the opium has yet to arrive.

Continuing to run, Giancarlo shook his head. Merda. Giancarlo yelled to Luigi and the crew. Cut the mooring lines! Cut them now!

Luigi fell into step with Giancarlo, sprinting toward the gangplank. Boris will not like that, Capitano.

Neither do I, Luigi, but Boris is not Liam Cavanaugh. Go get the engines running, now!

Giancarlo stopped at the top of the gangplank and yelled at the men running up. Faster, run faster! Ryan Harris?

That’s me, Ryan said from the middle of the pack and halfway up the gangplank.

You’re early, Giancarlo said, watching the first four men board his ship.

Winded, Ryan replied, It got a little hot.

Is that supposed to be funny?

No, Ryan said as he boarded the ship and stood before Giancarlo, taking several deep breaths. It ain’t.

Are all of your people here?

Turning, Ryan performed a quick head count. Yeah, they’re all here.

Giancarlo pulled a knife. Good, help me get rid of this gangplank.

Giancarlo knelt beside the gangplank and began cutting the ropes. Ryan dropped to his knees and began cutting the ropes on the opposite side.

Looking up from his task, Ryan noticed the mob closing in on the ship. They’re getting closer.

Giancarlo turned and yelled to his crew, Fire flares toward the crowd!

Two flares streaked toward the pier, ricocheted off the concrete in front of the crowd, and flew over their heads. The crowd stopped moving and the yelling grew louder.

When the ropes were cut, Giancarlo stood, kicked the gangplank into the sea, and turned toward the pilot house. All ahead slow!

Several crewmen loudly repeated the order, sending it toward the pilot house and the engine room.

A loud clunking sound reverberated through the ship’s hull, followed by a groan as the ship lurched forward.

Giancarlo placed his hand on the ship’s rail, watching the pier recede from the ship. You have placed me in a terrible position, Signore Harris.

I apologize, Captain Carmozzi. We weren’t planning on getting blown up tonight.

Giancarlo pulled a cigarillo from his shirt pocket, placed it between his teeth, turned, and looked into Ryan’s eyes. "Of course this was not your plan, amico, but that does not change the fact that I had to leave without a portion of my cargo."

I will make it up to you.

No, Signore Harris, I think you mean Signore Cavanaugh will make it up to me, Giancarlo said before turning and walking toward the pilot house.

STRATHCARRON, SCOTLAND - WEDNESDAY - 08:00

JEAN-PIERRE SAW THE highway sign for Strathcarron and then looked into the rearview mirror. His boss slept with his head against the right-side window. Monsieur? Monsieur DePayns?

DePayns opened his eyes and lifted his head, wiping the corner of his mouth. Outside his window, an empty pasture merged with a jagged ridge line. Turning, he looked to the rearview mirror and made eye contact with Jean-Pierre. Where are we?

Approaching the A896 - A890 intersection. Shall we continue, or should we take a break?

François, the curly-haired giant sitting in the front passenger seat, turned to Jean-Pierre. "Oui, let us take a break, Jean-Pierre. My behind is sore."

Chet, the short-cropped blond sitting to the left of DePayns, turned from gazing out his window to face François. How delicate you are.

The front passenger seat creaked as François twisted to look at Chet. I am not delicate.

DePayns patted Chet on the shoulder, stopping him from responding. It was much too early for an argument. I agree with François. I need to gather myself before proceeding.

The Strathcarron Hotel? Jean-Pierre asked.

DePayns nodded. Yes, my boy, that will do nicely.

DePayns looked at each of the three young men, smiled, and thought about his three daughters. Each young woman was a genius wrapped in a beautiful body, but they would probably never be considered for the position of consigliere to the Dracul, not with the current Dracul, at least not as long as he was married to Johanna. No. He would have to depend on the three young men in the vehicle with him, fellows he had raised since boyhood to marry his daughters and provide the necessary bridge for a DePayns to remain in the role of consigliere. What’s in a name?

Slowing the Mercedes G500, Jean-Pierre turned left before accelerating toward the small village of Strathcarron. Pastures littered with cows and sheep were shaded by an overcast sky that obscured the sun. DePayns turned his attention to the mountains surrounding the valley and watched the peaks scrape the low flying clouds. The vehicle lightly bounced as it sped onto the bridge spanning the River Carron. DePayns redirected his attention, his eyes following the river to where it emptied into the dark waters of Loch Carron.

François marveled at the scenery. "Magnifique. We should stop and take photographs."

Chet exhaled heavily. "Mon Dieu, the delicate one cannot wait to stop."

François spun in his seat and pointed at Chet. I told you, I am not delicate . . . wait. A smile formed on his face. You are in a hurry.

Yes, I am in a hurry . . . to leave this place.

DePayns turned to Chet, raising his right eyebrow. What is wrong with this place?

Chet shrugged. "It has a certain . . . je ne sais quoi."

DePayns raised both eyebrows. End of the world?

Chet nodded at DePayns. Exactly, monsieur.

François gave a disbelieving laugh. That is not it, monsieur. He misses Amelia.

DePayns raised an eyebrow to Chet. Is that so, my boy? How are things with you and my youngest daughter?

Chet cut his eyes at François before turning to DePayns. With much respect, monsieur, I do not want to discuss Amelia in front of him, Chet said, pointing at François.

François gave a full, hearty laugh. Who is delicate now?

Switching on the right turn signal, Jean-Pierre pulled into the small roadside park across the street from the Strathcarron Hotel. We are here.

Three doors opened, and three pairs of feet crunched on the gravel covering the parking area. Walking past DePayns toward the rear hatch of the vehicle, François asked, How much further, monsieur?

What is this place, Chet? DePayns said, stretching his arms above his head before bending and performing a set of toe touches.

Chet swung open the rear hatch door. It is the cursed end of the world, monsieur.

DePayns joined Chet and François at the open hatch. François reached inside the cargo area and slid a brown box toward him. DePayns placed a hand on his shoulder. Our destination is about thirteen kilometers past the end of the world.

Chet produced a knife and cut open a brown box, revealing a disassembled rifle and four pistols. The smell of gun oil wafted from the box, producing a desire to smell gun smoke. Do you think we will have the opportunity to use these, monsieur?

DePayns raised his eyebrows as he noticed the expression on Chet’s face. I hope not, my boy. I hope not.

François fed a clip into a pistol and slapped it home. I hope so, monsieur.

DePayns turned to François. And why is that, my dear boy?

François handed the pistol to DePayns. I do not like the way Monsieur Sinclair talks to people. I especially do not like the way he talks to you.

DePayns took the pistol and placed it in a holster under his left arm. These young men had only met Sinclair on a handful of occasions, but obviously he had made a poor impression on them. He hoped Sinclair would behave himself. His boys obviously wanted blood. It is of no consequence, my boys.

Chet raised his eyebrows and looked at DePayns. There is no consequence for Monsieur Sinclair because no one provides a consequence, Chet said, chambering a round in his pistol before placing it in a holster under his left arm. We should shoot him and leave this place.

François laughed. Yes, lover boy, let us kill a man so you can speed your reunion with Amelia.

François, DePayns said before turning to Chet and placing a hand on his shoulder. My dear boy, there is always a consequence, whether you do good or evil. I prefer the consequence for good. Have no fear. Master Madrakeson requires order, and order will be restored one way or another. Maybe that’s the angle I will use when I talk to Sinclair.

Jean-Pierre turned in the driver’s seat to face the three men. Do not forget to assemble my rifle.

Chet whipped his head around toward Jean-Pierre. It speaks!

François backhanded Chet in the belly and nodded to Jean-Pierre. "Fear not, mon ami. I will do it," François said and began assembling the parts that would become Jean-Pierre’s rifle.

A short while later, Jean-Pierre had the SUV heading west on a single-lane road that skirted the northern shore of Loch Carron, between Strome and Ardaneaskan. As the vehicle bounced, DePayns’ head swayed side to side as he studied the forest and mountain on his right. Through the dense vegetation, perched at the base of the mountain, was the Sinclair house, which had perched there, in various forms, since the Templars had arrived in Scotland.  The Sinclair family had been an integral part of keeping the Order of the Dragon alive in harsh times; yet now, a descendant of that great family behaved as if he wanted the Order to fall, taking centuries of hard work with it. Sinclair had always been a good friend of his, but friend or not, he could not allow their goal to fail.

How much further, monsieur? François asked, pulling DePayns from his thoughts.

Chet shook his head, disgust on his face. Oh, delicate one, please tell me you do not want to stop again.

François turned in his seat. A sly grin on his face. Why, will Amelia not wait?

DePayns attempted to stifle a chuckle, but couldn’t, prompting Chet to face him. Monsieur, do you see what I deal with daily?

DePayns patted Chet on the shoulder and faced François. We are almost there.

Chet turned toward the loch, which was now partially obscured by some large evergreen trees, but it didn’t matter. He hated this place. It was too cold, too wet, too dreary, and too quiet. He shook his head. Why did he choose to live in the middle of nowhere?

François chuckled. Lover boy, are you well?

Chet turned a derisive eye to François. Of course I am. Why do you ask?

François turned to face Chet and studied his face. Ever since he had started dating Amelia his skin had become unusually thin, and that made him all the more fun to antagonize. You are behaving like you have an upset stomach, or is it you are just love sick?

Chet threw his hands up. I am not sick, I just want to know why someone would want to live so far from civilization.

DePayns patted Chet on the shoulder. My boy, he chooses to live here because, unknown to most, this is Templar land.

Chet shook his head. It is Godforsaken land.

I have heard some call it God’s country, Jean-Pierre said.

Chet slapped the back of Jean-Pierre’s seat. It speaks again! The only people who speak well of this desolate place are the ones who have always lived here.

There, DePayns said, pointing to a dirt and gravel automobile path on the right. That is Sinclair’s driveway.

Jean-Pierre slowed and turned right into the drive. Ahead they could see the drive was blocked by a metal gate. Jean-Pierre pulled up to the gate and placed the SUV into park. Chet climbed from the vehicle and strode toward the gate.

DePayns grimaced, dropped his head, and rubbed his forehead as he saw Chet remove the silenced pistol from inside his coat. A second later, he heard the unmistakable sound of metal striking metal and the gate being pulled open. Sinclair was already going to be upset with the unannounced visit and subsequent demand for travel, but when he became aware of the damage to his personal property . . .

Francois looked over the headrest. Monsieur?

DePayns lifted his head. Yes, François?

Tell him we must travel further into the Highlands after we leave here.

DePayns smiled. My boys.

The SUV bumped north on the gravel path for about two hundred yards and then circled back so they were heading east. A few minutes later they emerged from the forest into a five-acre clearing. Sinclair’s house was at the northernmost border, nestled at the base of the mountain. Jean-Pierre drove to within fifteen yards of the house and placed the running vehicle into park.

DePayns looked around François and through the front window, studying Sinclair’s house. What do you see, Jean Pierre?

Jean Pierre squinted his eyes. Nothing, monsieur. The sky is reflecting off the windows, preventing me from seeing inside.

Here, Chet said, handing Jean Pierre the rifle. Jean-Pierre took it and chambered a round.

François backhanded Jean-Pierre in