The Slayer

By Stan A Cowie

The Slayer #1

The Slayer is a contractor (mercenary) tired of military politics, tired of watching wrongs not being corrected. He accepts a contract from a retired commanding officer from his old regiment as a favor and a respectable sum of nontaxable funds. That is the beginning of a new career. Now a seasoned contractor, a new challenge arises. This contract takes him and a small select team into the African continent in search of kidnapped children, kidnapped for sale to the highest bidder for whatever purpose they chose. Their time is limited. The kidnappers must be stopped before they reach their destination and the children are sold and dispersed throughout the world. If that happens, the mission is futile. With a small select team, the impossible is attempted.

The Slayer #2

Select senior businessmen are disappearing from around the world, and their families are being approached for exorbitant ransoms by a terrorist cell to fund their onslaught of the civilized world. A contract accepted by the Slayer: at all costs, seek, extract, and destroy. The right man for the right job, the Slayer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664185876

Stan A Cowie

Stan A. Cowie left school at the age of fifteen and worked in the shipyards and foundries of Scotland. He eventually took on a five-year stint in the British military, serving in the Middle East, Bahrain, Yemen, Kenya, and Tanganyika before moving to Canada. He now spends his summer months in British Columbia and winter months in Arizona.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Stan A Cowie.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/16/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

827985

Contents

Acknowledgments

The Fraternity

Slayer #1 The Extractor

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

The Slayer #2

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

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

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Acknowledgments

All my thanks to the RAF Regiment for taking me from a boy to a man.

Thanks to Lt. Colonel USAR (Ret.) Robert K. Brown, owner and publisher of Soldier of Fortune and author of Dancing with Devils. For all the info I could glean from his writing, thanks!

Special thanks to Captain Duncan Smith, British RN, Royal Marine Commando, and SBS (Ret.) for keeping me on track and being such a good horseshoe partner.

Thanks to my lovely wife Lou, always there with the encouragement.

The Fraternity

He became a member of the greatest

Fraternity in the world.

They took a boy and made him a man.

They took his ignorance and gave him wisdom.

They took his weakness and gave him strength.

They took his misguidance and gave guidance.

They took his despair and gave him hope.

They took his fears and made him brave.

They made him a Soldier.

—Stan A. Cowie, 20 August 2016

Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.

—Sir Winston Churchill, August 20, 1940

SLAYER #1

The Extractor

42777.png

Chapter 1

The temperature was -35 degrees F. I had approximately four point eight hours of daylight, if you can call it that. First light was in one hour’s time, making it around eight forty-five; there was a light snowfall, keeping the temperature from dropping any further. Thank the Lord for small mercies. My immediate location was 800.5 meters from an all-male prison. Situated approximately twenty kilometers from the city of Anadyr, as the crow flies, thought I’d throw that in as there was no road, the only access was by airbus. Prisoners were flown into this location with a good chance of never leaving it alive; I say that as it’s only long-haul guys that make it to this location. All supplies come on a scheduled trip every Friday, weather permitting. Guards rotate on a six-week-in-and-three-out schedule; the warden stays all the time by choice—the reason I’m here. I was fifteen kilometers from the Bering Strait, downhill all the way. I could see the fog where the sea starts and the sea ice ends; you have around three clicks of ice at this time, and it will increase till January or February. In the middle of the straits are the islands of Big Diomede and Little Diomede. Big Diomede belongs to Russia; Little Diomede belongs to the US of A. They are situated thirty kilometers apart or thereabouts; that is where Sarah says she can see Russia from Alaska. It’s one island to the other, and they can walk across; when it is frozen, that is, as it does between the islands in midwinter.

Anadyr has eleven point two thousand population, mostly Chukchi or Inuit, the rest Ruskies; and they’ve got to be hiding from something or on a scientific mission from hell. The place looked like an Olympic village or the location that Russia dumps its off-color paint no longer required. An apartment can have three colors diagonally across its front—yellow, green, and red, no problem, any color you want. I don’t know when it gets to dry or if it is just frozen on; anyway, it’s nothing to write home about. The only people working there are the crews looking for oil or drilling crews taking core samples, all on government payroll, good ones!

I was buried in two hundred centimeters of fresh snow, looking down on the prison. I could see part of the center courtyard and the warden’s quarters in the center of the back wall facing the courtyard; it was the third floor on a fourth-floor building. The warden had a built-out patio with Plexiglas running on three sides, about one and a half meters high. The patio was two and a half meters deep and open all around the top. This was where he would perform his calisthenics in the morning, as every morning. Something to inspire the staff and let the inmates know he had lost it completely. The outside perimeter had a five-hundred-meter dead zone, which means clear and flat on all fronts, mines, and booby traps of various types. Beyond the five-hundred-meter zone to the seven-hundred-meter zone, it was saturated with surveillance equipment, not the latest technology, but adequate they think; that was why I was at 800.5 outside the blanket area. They felt quite secure, and I was glad they did.

At eight forty-five, the warden would perform for his staff and inmates; and at eight fifty, I would terminate him, as that was why I was here, that was what I did. Besides other things, I was a mercenary or a soldier of fortune, and this was a contract I chose to fulfill.

The story was that two young KGB officers were caught with their fingers in the cookie jar or on the take from the local mafioso and getting a little too close to the wrong people. Anyway, to cut a long story short, they ended up in Anadyr labor camp for an indefinite period. Now that was acceptable to them—get caught, do the time.

But unfortunately, our warden had a liking for handsome young men, whether they liked it or not. If they obliged willingly, well and fine; if they didn’t, tied across a barrel in his quarters was just fine with him as well, and it wasn’t a secret. They had lasted for a period of three months till there was an explosion in the laundry. A large propane tank exploded, blowing out the wall and killing four inmates, also causing a rush of feet for the great outdoors and faraway places. Eight were caught, and five never seen again, two of which were our junior officers who made it all the way to the coast, as it was August, the temperature quite acceptable.

A fishing boat just leaving for the Bering Strait had inherited two new crew members. Common practice was to take your catch to the US side, make your sale, and double your money; and that was their plan this trip. You didn’t make a steady meal out of it as someone would catch you sooner or later and smack your pee-pee with a small fine. Funny that fishing boat was never seen again, but two of the crew ended up in Boston and were currently doing very well with the boys in the south.

Old family members, I believe. Anyway, they never forgot that warden and wanted to pay him back for all the shit he had pushed uphill on them. And that cost them a nice US$150,000, of which I would take the lion’s share. After expenses, it should net me without taxes $80,000. Tide me through the winter, fishing in Mexico.

So that was my story and why I was lying here freezing my arse off. You could call me all the names you like—Damned Merc, Killer, and on and on the list goes—but I’m thick-skinned, so don’t waste it. I was also going to save Russia a pile of money in court costs, as they would find him guilty after a year of trials and deliberation then likely sentence him right back to where he was right now with a life sentence. We knew how they felt about funny boys in the Kremlin, just ask the Olympic committee; so I was about to save them the embarrassment, the time, and money. All they had to do was come up with an explanation.

An attempted break, anything will do. Believe me, anything will do. It was time to switch on my heat; every fifteen minutes I would cook up. Well, it was a twelve-volt system by a company called Gerbing. They made the best, in my book anyway—socks, insoles, back pads, the whole bundle cost me about a grand, and I lay here and felt the spots they missed. The whole bundle was covered over in a white suit with nothing showing but my eyes. If one of those Ruskie heat seekers would fly over about now, they would think they had discovered a nuclear waste dump with the glow that would show up.

There was a fine line in the sky right at sea level; first light was on its way. I opened my pack and produced my secret weapon. A Vykhlop large-caliber silenced sniping rifle, Russian of course, 12.7×54 special subsonic ammo 1125mm with an integral silencer, five-clip box mag, with the full load ready to fire. At 6.5 kilograms, it was not bad. This baby was built for the FSB, the Federal Security Service, nice new name for the notorious KGB, but a beautiful piece of work. The silencer comes back over the barrel, not out in front; and believe me, this was what they called a whisper suppressor and was the best I’d ever seen. At 12.7mm, same as a 50 caliber, the standard loading for this little lady was a precision machined solid bronze projectile, weighing 76 grams with a 1170-grains effective range at 800 meters, and I was taking it to the max. This thing was for shooting through walls and cars or whatever you put in front of it, and the scope would let me check the hair in his navel if I so desired.

The bolt was a straight pull. I chambered one and removed the condom from the muzzle. No dirt, no condensation, the whole thing was wrapped in a white hessian. I moved the scope over the place slowly, just checking it out for the umpteenth time. There was no gate on my side, just wall, no windows facing out, only in—not much fun in that. I switched my heat off and checked the temp—-38. Not nice, this did things to your shot, but no wind for the time being.

The light was growing fast; it would never be bright nor sunny, not today anyway, not in the forecast. OK, live with it, my shot was close to fifteen minutes if the target showed. The word was he never let them down so I brought the scope onto the deck and gave the tripod a little shake to settle it in, and now I waited the last fifteen. It had been close to fifty hours, and I was ready. I was wiggling my toes and flexing my fingers, tensing my muscles and then relaxing them. Once this shot was taken, it was all go for me.

And with that, the patio door burst open, and there was my target skipping across the deck area arms flailing in all directions. This was something to see. This man was six feet two, and in the region of two fifty pounds, the outfit was something else as well—a torn muscle shirt that I could see the food stains on from here; it had been white at one time, but not anymore. Black leotards, man, I was starting to laugh; this guy was ready for where I was going to send him. And when he started his routine, it was hard to concentrate. My cam was a scope mount and would take picks on the first pressure till fired then till one second after. This I had to produce to the customers for their satisfaction. He had done a bunch of arm flapping and came to the Plexiglas and grabbed the top and started to do chin-ups to the top with his head coming over the top.

I put the crosshairs in place, and he went down. I took the first pressure, he came up, second pressure was fire, my round took him through the heart, right where I was told to. The back wall was white and went to crimson in one second, and he slammed back from the glass into the wall. There was a hole of about 7.5 centimeters down the glass where my round went through and entered his heart. The entry hole was approximately three centimeters, the exit had to be twelve, close to five inches. When the cam clicked off, I removed the chip. I started my strip and had it in three pieces and in its holdall then into my pack, and I was wiggling my way out of my hide and picking up my little plastic bags of waste as I went by and dropped them in with the rest, energy bar wrappers, anything that would say I had been here.

They might find my hide if it wasn’t snowed over in the next hour, but that would be all, nothing remained. I slipped on my snowshoes and flapped away into the snow. I had one hundred meters to go to the cliff then a fifty-meter rappel to the bottom; this put me on the opposite side from the hit zone, and at the bottom were my skis, the long Alpine type, and a straight run to Anadyr airlift port.

I say that as there were more choppers that came in than wheels, floatplanes mostly, all bush pilots flying for the construction companies—no tower, just take your chances. My rappel was a rope doubled around a rock that I had to rip off as it was frozen. Once it slid, I slung my pack on my back and went over and looked pretty awkward with all the gear still on. I reached the bottom and brought the line down on me and packed it as well. The snowshoes went on the outside of the pack with little tie-downs; zippers and Velcro didn’t work too good with -38. You tend to rip them off, and that would leave an open spot for the cold to get at you.

I took off, powering myself downhill with the poles. I was a fair-to-good skier and loved it normally. This was a little different, but my talent was going to get me out. The next fifteen kilometers would be work, but I was counting the money and that would keep me busy till my EP (extraction point). I did this in my head all the time while watching for any pursuit. Nothing at this time—no alarm, no shots in the air, no cheering. A little worrisome when there was nothing. I was waiting for the choppers to come in and blow the shit out of me, but nothing. I’m not complaining this wasn’t a suicide mission; I enjoyed my life and had no immediate reason to think about terminating it.

But a clean getaway sometimes gave you reasons for concern. Were they waiting for me at my EP? Had there been a leak? Oh, I could come up with some real good ones, I carried a nine-mil Glock with a nine-mil Stirling strapped across my chest. I used bungees for that with plastic hooks that would just break if I grabbed and yanked it straight out, and it was ready to go, all cocked, one in the pipe. The Stirling had a nice big safety, easy to flip off with mitts. The trigger guard was folded inside the pistol grip for cold-weather work, and the stock was a collapsible item as well. This gave you about forty-two centimeters of good firepower. An offset mag was the only drawback; it stuck straight out in front of your chest, but the world wasn’t perfect. I didn’t get to choose the weaponry, just recommend, no complaints.

The mitts had one finger, and the rest was mitt; you just kept the fingers together and used the loose finger when necessary. The Glock was a little hard to get at; the Stirling was like a fast draw. My progress was a little slow at the moment as I was on an uphill climb and doing my herringbone impression, not my strong point; I was a downhill freak and loved the speed. Today was a little different—overdressed, overloaded, and undernourished and in a fucking hurry. Still waiting for that mystery bird in the sky or the snip, just something to say this guy was worth it.

I broke over the top, and it was all downhill from here. I was going to enjoy this—not steep and deep, but close. I could see the strip but nothing on it except ground fog, always with sea ice. I pointed downhill and went, making my turns when necessary and building up a good speed, ducking and weaving under the scattered pine. In fifteen, I was making my last turns and realized I was going to have to climb up to the strip. I was now below it and made my best effort to keep the momentum going and keep the walking down. I skated right to the rise, and as it was only about thirty meters to the level, I walked with the skies uphill. As my head came over the top, I stopped and did a quick scan around. Nothing! Where the fuck was my ride? Then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted this fucking lightbulb the size of a goddamned bubble car with rotors on it, and they were slowly turning. The pilot was waving frantically at me to get over there so I didn’t waste any time.

He threw the door open and almost lost it; it was half the bird. I had the skis off but couldn’t see getting them inside, well maybe. I jammed them kitty corner over his head and between my legs with all my gear; this little thing looked like a lightbulb with a couple of popsicle sticks on top. It started to shudder and shake and scream like a banshee and slowly lifted to about three meters off the ground then tipped up and was gone, skimming across the strip to the open ice and the Bering Sea, making about the same speed I had on the skis. We were staying low, good, but this was low. We could have run into a trawler or some guy walking his fucking dog at this height, and maybe my pilot realized it and brought it up to about fifteen meters. Then it caught and started to really go. The vibrations slowed down, and we were really moving. I was just looking into the fog. Kind of scary, I’d say it didn’t seem to bother the stickman; he just kept staring into it like he could see through.

Yea right! Bang, just like that, we were over the sea and the fog had gone. He climbed a little then pointed to a small trap on the bottom of my door and pointed to my gear, and I got the message and started to shove the skis out, the whole of my gear—that holdall, my kit bag, everything but the Glock, into the Bering Sea, one shot and gone. My fancy snowsuit went next. That took a real struggle as I’m over six feet and I’m sure they got this bird at Toys n Wheels.

There was a sticker above my head that said it was French made by DTA Delta Trikes Aviation in 1990; its length was 4.90 meters, width 1.95 meters, only weighed 450 kilograms, and cruised at 130 kilometers. Was this economy or what? I was going to have to have words with the commander after this. The frost was climbing up the Plexiglas and obstructing my vision. There was a small plate, I’d say 45 centimeters on each side for our feet.

He had rudder pedals to operate. I had this floor, and I’d say the rest was plastic. The engine sounded like something you would place in a go-kart, but it hung in there. I didn’t know where we were going, nothing out there, just sea. I hoped we weren’t going all the way to Alaska in it, so I just sat and said nothing. The pilot wasn’t very talkative anyway; he would peer at the instrument cluster and shake his head and keep going. The instruments looked like a collection of Timex watches welded to a pipe.

Nothing but sea, we were out half an hour when he nudged me and pointed out in front. A good-size Alaskan trawler was just sitting with the forward hatch open, and we came to hover right over it. I had my eyes closed till I felt the skids hit the bottom, then he shut it down, and all you could hear was the trawler start to build up speed; it had been waiting for us. A hatch closed over our heads, and I scrambled up on deck in time to see a load of fish being dumped on the lower hatch, lightbulb eggbeater gone. I was impressed that the old commander had more connections than I could imagine; he just kept coming up with more and more bizarre tricks, and they all worked.

The skipper waved for me to come below. My pilot gone, the skip took me to a cabin and pointed out some seaman’s gear and told me to get changed and catch a nap, or if I wanted something to eat, the cook would fix it for me. He pulled out some papers and handed them to me: passport and seaman’s ticket third trip, just in case, he said. I nodded thanks and started to peel off my clothes. He pointed to a shower in the corner. Might want to try that, he said and held his nose, laughed, and left.

I stood in the shower till I couldn’t anymore then toweled off and slipped on a pair of faded jeans and a polo-necked sweater, clean socks, well-worn sneakers, and started to feel pretty good. Then I went in search of the galley. The cook was just submerging about two pounds of spaghetti into a cauldron of boiling water with a large stainless steel pot of meat sauce simmering on the side. All of a sudden hungry, I felt I hadn’t seen food in six months, and the juices started to flow I had a hard time keeping them in my mouth. He glanced up and smiled. Been a while? I just nodded.

Grab a chair. The coffee’s hot, this won’t take five. You’re early anyway. The crew won’t be in for another half hour, then just watch this little lot disappear.

There was a large bowl of salad on the side. I scooped up a plate and started on that with my coffee. Man, it tasted great, and I just munched my way through that Caesar. Halfway through, a big platter of the spaghetti and meat sauce was slid in front of me with a shaker of parmesan and fresh rolls and butter. The rolls were so hot you could hardly hold on to them, and the butter just melted as soon as it touched.

My kind of nosh. I nodded my thanks and didn’t lift my head till I was cleaning up, drained my coffee, and left for my bunk and about fourteen hours of shut-eye or whatever I could get before docking. I was hoping for Nome as that was where I had left from. There was a bar there that those bush pilots hung out at, and they jumped back across the border all the time as half the loggers were Canadians without papers, just catching some extra work before breakup in their own spot.

Breakup came whenever the authorities thought it was too soft to move equipment; the loggers didn’t always agree and felt a little cheated, and good fallers were hard to find so if you were Canadian or American, no one gave a shit. All they wanted was trees dropped, and they would leave them lying till the authorities said OK and then the equipment would go back to work with a whole bunch of wood on the ground. This went on all the time. You could find an American logger in Whitehorse any time if you knew where to look; they didn’t shout it out. Just a day’s work for a day’s pay, what’s wrong with that? Those lads worked hard for their buck.

And the logging companies would cover for them anytime and hide them in some camp back in the woods till they had filled their quota then get them a flight out on a bush plane to wherever.

I was just one of those guys, and that would put me back in Canada with no record of having left. Good enough for me. I was still sound asleep when the horn went off—three short blasts and a long one. It scared the shit out of me as I didn’t quite figure out where I was at first then realized we were coming into port, and I wanted to know which port. The horn blasts were just letting them know we had a catch and wanted it on the dock ASAP.

The crew got paid by percentage always. No tickey! No laundry! And fish were heavier fresh than all drained out lying in the hold for a day or two. So the highest bidder got them, and it was all done in no time at all. The boys got cash with a stub in the mail and paid the taxman on their own. I got my stuff together and headed to the bridge. The skipper handed me a couple of hundred dollars with his band on them and said, That’s your pay if anyone asks. I nodded and shoved it in my pocket.

When we tie up, watch me. I’ll give you a nod if all is clear and there are none of those customs geeks around then head for the gate—not the big one, the little one. When you get there, the guy will ask for your papers. Just point at the ship, and I’ll give him a flash and you are gone and our deal is done. Capisce? Cross the road, and you will find a cab to take you wherever you want to go. After that, I don’t know you, never did!

Thanks, I said and left. I kept out of sight till the mooring was done and glanced up at the bridge. He wasn’t looking at me, but scanning up and down the quay where other boats were mooring at the same time and trucks backing in to accept loads that were already sold.

There was activity everywhere. I pinpointed the small gate, and it said Customs over it. Shit, that can’t be the one. I looked up at him; he was smiling and nodded the go-ahead, so I jumped ship and headed for the gate with my toque pulled over my ears and my shoulders hunched against the cold. The guy in attendance had a blue duckbill cap on with the customs logo on it and a USA flag on his shoulder. He just held out his hand and ignored me. I did nothing. He looked up, kind of annoyed, and I pointed to the ship. Looking at me, he said, Yea what?

Shit, I didn’t know what to do, and he waved his hand and said, Fucking papers, come on, you think I got all day? And just then, a big flash from the bridge spot came from the trawler, and that was it. He waved me through and turned his back on me and started to talk to someone else behind him. I was gone across the road on a run, dodging traffic. I glanced back, and no one was at the window. I jumped in the first cab in the line and gave them the bar, and we were gone. I felt a little sticky around the collar just for a minute there. I had that Glock in my hand but was scared to use it. Shit, that would be life if you shot one of those guys and your chances of getting away were pretty slim.

But it didn’t happen, and I was on my way. I almost smiled; the bar was right across town, close to the airport—not a bad place, with a large eating room. There were a lot of truckers pulling in as well; it served all and had a motel-attached Wi-Fi outlets for the truckers. It was 7:30 a.m., and the bar was packed. It kind of took me aback. It wasn’t what I’d expected, but there were slots all down one wall so self-explanatory. I looked around and saw no one I wanted to see, so I went and had a good breakfast, still trying to load up after my little fasting. It always takes a couple of good nosh-ups to get you back to square one.

I was still bagged, going to need another twelve hours; that should make it right. So I ate, had a couple of beers, and just hung around, but my man never showed up. So after a couple of hours, I wandered through to the lobby and registered, got a room, and asked the nice little blonde if Ed Semchuck had been around.

Not yet, should be in tonight or tomorrow. He went to Fairbanks with half a dozen fallers for an operation up there, which was yesterday. Wow, what a night! How that guy can still fly with all that booze in him, I’ll never know. He sure was flying high in here at two in the morning and pulling slots. No stopping that guy, is there? she said.

And I had to agree there was no question we were talking about the same guy. Ed was kind of special to a lot of folks, so I went to my room and crashed, leaving a note for him on his return. I caught a good eight hours and felt great.

This little incident wouldn’t make the news, not even the Warden Gazette. The less said the better, but they would look, no question. I had a feeling it would go down as an attempted break, and they would pin it on some sorry sod or some freaked-out guard. But I felt reasonably secure and would feel better still once across the border and back in the land of Johnny Canuck, with a good chunk of hunting season still left. Ed was beating on my door at nine thirty looking for someone to buy him breakfast, and we left to take on that chore.

We were sipping coffee, having a smoke, just enjoying, so I asked him when his flight to Whitehorse left.

Soon as I get some parts for fixing, welding to do, and some calibration on them. They are so busy up here I can fly them to the ’horse, get them fixed, and back and beat the time for them, you know the saying ‘Time is money’? Well, these guys live by it. So if you want to give me a hand, you ride for free. You on?

I just nodded and said, You got your hand.

"Good man. Let’s go, it will take till noon, then it is all go. The quicker I get this done, the better. These companies who want this kind of stuff done pay double what anyone else pays, and I want to make them happy. So let’s boogie, we have to go to a mine to get the parts then back to the plane, fuel up do the customs thing, then we are out of here. While I am handling the customs, you can get lost with the fueling. I’ll give you my card, no one is going to question you.

They are real loose here. They know me and the mines I’m dealing with, and they know there is no shit going down, but they will still take a peek at the kite. So keep your distance, then get on board with the parts.

Sounds good to me.

We left. Ed had a company pickup waiting so we headed out to the mine for those parts. It was running close to fifteen below; this is considered to be balmy especially after my little trip, which I said nothing about. We arrived at the Diablo, good name for a mine; they hauled gold, silver, zinc out of this place, all underground. Completely surrounded with chain-link, nothing fancy, slide gates with a gateman who knew we were coming, signed us in, and he pointed to the warehouse where we would find our parts; and there they were, all tagged with Ed’s name on them.

Shit, they were going to fill that little kite, and heavy as well. In half an hour, we had them all loaded and tied down, signed out, and back on the road—not much snow, just a skiff enough to make it slippery, but Ed drove like he had ten minutes to live and wanted to cut it down. We side-slid into the airstrip, straight for the plane, and started to load right away.

Without looking up, Ed said, "Time for you to get lost. Go find the fuel, the

Reviews for The Slayer

[tadad_1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Another book that falls into the category of horrendous attempt to ride the coattails of the current popularity of supernatural stories.