Lethal Justice: Ion Frost, #1

By Ethan Reed

Justice has never been so cold.

Former Special Forces Operative Ion Frost has one job left before he vanishes off the grid for good: deliver his dead comrade's dog tags to a boy named Lincoln. It should have been a quick, easy stop.

But for wanderer Ion Frost, things have a way of getting complicated…

Upon meeting Lincoln, Ion learns that his older sister, Taya, has been missing for over a week.

Ion's plans to disappear get put on hold.

Then an assassin takes out Lincoln in a brutally efficient murder. With Lincoln dead and the dog tags missing, Ion is sure of one thing… There's a dark side to this sleepy, small town.

Now Ion is in the thick of it. He's determined to find Lincoln's killer, and deliver his own personal brand of justice. But the harder he searches, the more questions he finds. Who wanted Lincoln dead? Where is Taya?

And how long before his own brutal past catches up with him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Relay Publishing
• Release date: Aug 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201225353

Book preview

ONE

Agreat shadow crept across the desert road, methodically swallowing cracked asphalt as it prowled forward. The form casting it drifted, steady and measured, approaching an abandoned vehicle parked sideways on the roadway. The car was a mid-nineties Corolla, rusted and sun-bleached, its driver-side door left open. The whistling wind chased sand across the asphalt. The shoal water of the Dori River beyond passed silently beneath the narrow one-lane bridge.

The eclipsing form approached on two armor-weighted legs. Eyes peering out behind a blast-resistant visor squinted past the harsh sunlight at the landscape before him. Scattershot poppy fields to the west provided the only color beyond the pale cloudless sky and tawny desert earth, their flowering violet blooms and green stems standing out against the lifeless terrain. The man looked closely at the poppies, surveying his environment. He noticed the pods had been scored. The opium would be collected tomorrow.

EOD Specialist Frost, United States Army ordnance disposal specialist, stalked to the rear passenger side of the car and tilted his head to get a better look. Wedged under the wheel well, set directly beside the fuel tank, crouched a magnetized copper box with a few wire leads hanging from its side.

Frost turned to look back at the rest of his team, twisting at his waist in his suit. The three men stood two hundred feet back, behind concrete Jersey barriers left behind by a previous regiment. They were dressed near-identically in Special Forces ACU gear: bulky interceptor body armor, black T-shirts, UCP camouflage trousers, and black mountain combat boots. All three held M4 carbines in gloved hands. Two wore twin turtle shell ballistic helmets, and the other enjoyed the shade of a wide-brimmed boonie.

They were just outside Zangabad, Afghanistan, a small village in the Panjwai district of Kandahar province. It was a chart-topper for IED deaths in the country, with the Taliban seeking to carve gradually away at the NATO forces until they could reclaim the region they considered their true homeland. During that time, they’d secretly rigged up numerous homes, mud compounds, and vehicles across the district with improvised bombs and killed any villagers who refused them or ratted them out.

What is it? Sergeant First Class Anderson, Frost’s commanding officer, asked over comms. His voice snapped with humorless impatience in Frost’s ear.

Frost turned back and looked again at the Corolla and the sticky bomb under the wheel well. The wires suggested the package contained a DTMF spider receiver. It could be remotely detonated from anywhere, so long as the triggerman held the paired transmitter.

Frost glanced around the flat landscape, searching for spots he might hide if he were the triggerman. Fields of poppies and grapes stretching to the west. Sprawling desert beyond the bridge to the south. The village of a dozen or so mud homes behind his team in the north. To the east, only sand and sky.

We shouldn’t be here, Frost said into his throat mic.

You’ve done this a thousand times, SFC Anderson replied. Let’s get on with it and go.

Has the village been secured? Swept for electronics? Frost asked.

Swept this morning, Cap says. There’s nothing.

All they’d need is a phone, Frost said.

Heat got you shook or what, Frost? asked Frost’s squadmate, Sergeant Peña.

Maybe they gave you that crab premature, Specialist Dean chimed, pushing up the brim of his boonie hat from his cover two hundred feet back.

The Senior Explosive Ordnance Disposal badge, or crab, was awarded to an EOD specialist after five years of in-field experience. Frost had thought the resemblance to a crab was only passing, but he took pride in his badge regardless.

Weren’t you were supposed to be the cool one? Peña asked. Or were you named Frost prematurely, too?

Frost looked back at the team. It was possible they were needling him to get him past his worry. But the unusual deployment, Anderson’s haste, and what he knew now about his fireteam… Frost couldn’t shake the feeling that—as they stayed safe behind the Jersey barriers while he stared down a live explosive—they were reminding him of how powerless he was.

A week ago, Dean had gotten drunk and loud. He’d decided to brag to Peña about what he planned to do with the massive amount of cash they had earned by secretly providing security for the local warlord Hamid Zahir. Evidently, they’d been protecting Zahir’s heroin shipments from ambush by rival Taliban forces and earned a king’s ransom for their services. Dean or Peña might have later guessed that Frost had overheard—they’d acted strangely toward him ever since. Frost, in turn, had wondered how far up the chain of command he had to go to keep himself safe if he reported them.

Frost glanced again at the scored pods of the poppy field to the west. Maybe it was one of Zahir’s fields, and the team was simply roping Frost into disarming a bomb on behalf of the warlord. A bomb the Taliban had left for Zahir’s men and not for coalition forces.

Frost turned his attention once more to the wheel well and the dented copper box that’d been stuck to it. Maybe there wasn’t even anything in it. Maybe. But he’d be surprised if he was that lucky.

Is there a problem with the device, Specialist Frost?

Frost stared at the IED.

No, there’s just—something’s wrong here.

Yeah, I’d say so, Peña said. We’re in the middle of Zangaboom with our pricks hanging out waiting for you to finish stalling.

If we’d come with some support—

The village was cleared of T-Men two days ago, Frost, Anderson said. Support’s just a waste of manpower. Now, are there any other operational issues you’d like to discuss, or can we get on with it?

Yeah, come on, man, Dean said. Let’s just do this. I got a cooler of Millers waiting for me back at base.

Frost ignored Dean, addressing Anderson. "Well, some T-Man rigged up the bomb I’m staring at, right?"

Can you do this, Frost? Anderson said, terse and acidic. Or do I have to get one of them green EOD fuck-ups to come in here and botch this?

Poor kid’ll probably blow his damn legs off, Dean said.

Mm-hmm. EOD fuck-ups are a dime a dozen around here, you ask me, Peña said.

Of course I can do this, Frost said.

Then do it, Anderson said. Because right now, you’re one excuse away from disobeying a direct order.

Frost glanced back at his fireteam. The three looked like apparitions drifting through the heat haze, ghostly shadows waiting to ferry him to the other side.

Something moved in the mud homes behind the team, where two village elders had emerged. The men were in their sixties, perhaps, but spry and animated. They hurled curses at the team as they approached, but Frost thought they might specifically be addressing him.

Watch your six, Frost said.

The team members looked back and saw the approaching elders. Peña turned and started towards them to try to calm them down.

Watch their hands for a cell, Frost said.

There ain’t no cell, Frost, Anderson said.

Peña spoke to the elders in Pashto, holding his free hand out in a placating gesture. But the two men weren’t interested in him. They continued to angrily shout and point at Frost, brushing past Peña and continuing down the road.

I didn’t get your answer, Specialist Frost. Can you do it? Anderson asked again.

What’re they saying, Peña? Frost said.

They want you to get away from their fuckin’ poppy fields, Peña said. The hell you think they’re saying?

Frost? Anderson growled.

Frost looked at Anderson and turned back to the IED. Something was twisting his gut, but he couldn’t be sure what. The whole scene was wrong. Just what did he think would happen here? Would a Taliban triggerman leap out of the poppy fields? Or maybe Anderson would be the one to flip the switch, tying up Frost as a loose end. Pushing him to make a decision with the knowledge that he was ignoring a direct order and risking his military career if nothing really was wrong. All of it hinged on one thing: how much did his team think he knew?

Frost took a deep breath and knelt beside the car.

I’m preparing to examine the device, he said.

A small cyclone of dust kicked up in front of Frost. His eyes stung with sweat, his clothes soaked through beneath his suit. He reached out and grabbed the copper box with both hands, gently pulling it towards him. The magnetic hold broke free from the wheel well, and Frost carefully set the box down on the dust and gravel in front of him. He felt the underlip of the lid with his fingertips. There didn’t seem to be any adhesive holding it shut. There weren’t any booby traps that he could make out, just a single bolt latch without a lock.

Frost exhaled, taking a moment to gauge his luck. He sucked in one quick breath, then slid the bolt open and lifted the latch in two swift moves. Nothing happened. He breathed out again.

Inside the box nestled a DTMF receiver attached to blasting caps, the caps set inside a dozen modified M112 demolition blocks. Loose nails and screws lay all around the charges in a metal nest of shrapnel.

Frost glanced back down the road and was surprised to see that the village elders were heading straight for him, a hundred feet out now, still screaming and gesticulating.

Hey, what the fuck? Frost said. He rose to his feet. Peña, Dean, restrain these guys!

The two elders marched faster. Spittle flew from their mouths as they cursed him in Pashto. They pointed at the field and at Frost.

Where the fuck are you guys?! Frost said.

Pop. Pop. Blood sprayed across the front of Frost’s helmet, and it took him a second to realize it wasn’t his. The two elders lay crumpled on the concrete.

An eerie quiet fell over the scene. Nothing but the high whistling of the wind now. Frost looked at the dead men. Blood spilled over the desert moondust that powdered the road.

He looked back at his team. Peña and Dean lowered their carbines, still standing behind the Jersey barriers. Anderson held a cell phone.

Frost tore away from the car as fast as he could, running clumsily in his bulky bomb suit. The bomb went off. A shock wave threw Frost through the air as if he’d been hit by a semitrailer. Nails and screws ripped through the protective Nomex-Kevlar of his bomb suit. Chunks of the old Corolla shot into the air—whole fragments of the chassis, the roof, and the hood. A mushroom cloud of black smoke rose into the day, trailing flame beneath it.

Frost slammed into the ground. He gasped for air and rolled onto his back to stare up into the sky. A bell rang in his ears. He glanced down at himself. His entire left side was blackened. Most of his ABS suit had been torn away. Several large chunks of shrapnel had cut into his legs, his arms, and his torso. Smaller pieces sat embedded in his exposed skin, like cancerous diamonds burning into his flesh. His blood baked in the heat of the sun and the wreckage. He groaned loudly, the tinnitus now overtaken by the white noise of radio static coming through his earpiece.

Frost looked back to the pale sky a final time. A piece of heavy metal sheeting was plummeting back to earth. Heading straight for him. He shut his eyes and resigned himself. Soon, all was lifeless again upon that desolate terrain.

TWO

Ablood-red sun fell behind the Teton Range mountains and cast a wash of soft coral pink and wisteria violet over the valley of Clear Rock. Frost drove the vacant highway into town, the blued mountainscape at his back. He crossed the Hognose River and glanced over at the folded road map on the empty passenger seat. He found his exit off the highway and took it, his aviator shades reflecting the bright lights of the small town before him. The calm of the open road, that endless sky that had done him such good, now diminished in his rearview.

He parked his dark Ford Ranger in front of the roadhouse and sat there for a moment. He stared at the front door of the establishment. The old building looked like it’d been recently renovated. Sleek front signage, 54modern double-doors at the entrance. Frost glanced around the broader parking lot. The roadhouse was set at the corner of a small commercial plaza beside a lawyer’s office, a small pharmacy, and a dollar store. Not a whole lot of life. Maybe forty vehicles or so.

It had been six months since Zangabad. Frost hadn’t said a word to anyone about the ambush, the attempted hit, or the Special Forces working with Zahir. None of it. He couldn’t be sure how high the conspiracy ran. He knew that his team had discovered he’d survived the ambush, and that Crane knew he was stateside. But maybe the captain hadn’t tracked him to Wyoming just yet, Frost thought. Maybe. He ran the odds in his head and his system gave up its answer: Level Three.

Crapshoot.

He clicked open his glove box and pulled out a Glock 43. He checked the magazine, returned it, and racked the chamber. He tucked the gun into his back waistband and settled his denim jacket over it. He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror and pulled off his Broncos ball cap. Rough jigsaw scarring crisscrossed the top of his forehead and ran around the side to the base of his skull. Frost rubbed a hardened lump above the back of his ear, feeling the patchwork of flesh left from the inelegant stitchwork. The uneven lump where the shrapnel had lodged into his skull still took some getting used to. It was like a loose tooth that he couldn’t stop poking at.

Frost set the ball cap back on his head and adjusted the brim. He grabbed a manila envelope from the passenger seat and exited the truck.

Frost adjusted his eyes as he stepped into the roadhouse. Clocked the patrons quickly. There was a handful of families and friends having dinner, most of the patriarchs obese, slow, conspicuous. Threat minimal.

A few waitresses in black pants and polo shirts milled between the tables. A group of drunk forty-somethings sat in pairs at a table in front of him. Couples date night, he guessed. Otherwise there were just a few single men alone at the bar. Sitting with their hunched backs to the room, nursing beers, thumbing their phones.

Frost counted thirty-five people in the roadhouse total that he could see. He factored another dozen or so in the kitchen and washrooms that he couldn’t. He adjusted the odds in his head and lowered his threat assessment to a Level Two: Controlled.

In a booth on the righthand side of the roadhouse, a young man sat alone, facing the front door. He was a handsome kid with a short crew cut and well put together, wearing a crisp black Oxford with white buttons and an elegant silver wristwatch. He sat straight, his shirt ironed, his hairstyle functional and tidy. A Marine on leave.

The young man looked over at Frost and saw his Broncos cap. He waved him over and Frost made his way to the kid, who smiled and offered the empty seat.

What’s your name? Frost asked, still standing.

The young man smiled at Frost’s suspicion, intrigued at the prospect of engaging in the kind of Tinker-Tailor tradecraft he’d only seen in the movies.

Lincoln Dane, the kid said with a furtive cock of his eyebrows. Frost tried not to smile—his life was on the line, after all—but Lincoln was like a puppy. After everything, Lincoln wasn’t a bad reminder of the naivete that Frost had nearly died protecting. A grin crept across his face, despite himself.

Frost nodded and glanced around the room again before taking a seat opposite the kid, setting the manila envelope flat on the table between them.

Why’d you wave me over? Frost said.

Lincoln looked confused. He glanced up at the Broncos logo on Frost’s ball cap and looked back at him. You said on the phone you’d be wearing—

There’s three other men in here wearing Broncos caps, Frost said.

The kid looked around the roadhouse to confirm, then looked sheepishly back to Frost. Well, none of them came in here looking for nobody.

And how do you know that? Frost said.

Lincoln looked around the roadhouse again. That one there came in with the woman he’s sitting with. First date, looks like. And those other two are sitting by themselves with their backs to the room. Playing on their phones. To Frost’s relief, he only nodded at the men he mentioned, rather than pointing.

Frost nodded to himself, satisfied that Lincoln seemed to have a decent head on his shoulders. The kid might be a little naïve, but at least Frost wasn’t risking his neck for a vapid liability.

Frost looked up at the roadhouse lighting. Their booth was dim, lit by a single golden bulb hanging from a pendant fixture. Frost removed his sunglasses and set them inside his jacket pocket. He squinted and ground his teeth for a second, a dull pain rising behind his eyes. It lingered for a moment before slowly dissipating.

Lincoln noticed his discomfort. You okay?

Frost nodded. Post-concussion thing. Developed a sensitivity to light. Loud noise, too. It’s nothing.

Just got back myself.

Fallujah, you said?

Yessir. On leave for three months.

A young waitress came by their table, smiling brightly at both of them. Can I start you boys off with a couple drinks?

I’ll have a Bud, Lincoln said.

And for you? the waitress asked.

I can’t stay long, Frost said. He needed to get back on the road before Crane found him. Relaxing was dangerous. Even chatting with Lincoln was pushing the envelope, nice kid or no.

You can have one beer, can’t you? Lincoln said.

Frost looked at him. Lincoln gave a warm smile, just as welcoming as the kid’s dear departed uncle. The kid even looked like Brakespeare, without the years or the hardship. Frost could share at least one drink with the kid.

Yeah, I can have one. He turned to the waitress. Two Buds.

She smiled politely and made off to fetch their drinks. Lincoln tried his best to hide his own reaction, but Frost still caught the eager nod the kid gave when Frost gave his order.

So… what do I call you? Lincoln said.

Excuse me?

You said you didn’t want to give your name over the phone.

Frost nodded.

So, is it Mr. X? Or…

Kevin Johnson, if you like, Frost said.

That real?

Says so on my driver’s license. Frost paused. But no, it’s not. That trouble we talked about overseas, you know? I hope you understand.

Lincoln nodded, and, just for a moment, eyes flicked from Frost’s face to the manila envelope on the table—the reason they were both here. Frost slid the manila envelope across the table.

That them? Lincoln asked, his smile fading.

Frost nodded.

Did you know my uncle well?

I did. Served three tours together. Known each other since basic at Fort Benning.

I really appreciated your phone call. Coming out all this way, too.

Well, he wanted you to have these, Frost said, tapping the manila envelope. He looked Lincoln over again. You know, you look like him quite a bit.

Yeah? Lincoln said.

Mm. That same… I don’t know. Zeal or something. He was always full of life, ready to crack a joke, even in a war zone. You’ve got that same spark. It’s a little eerie.

Lincoln smiled, and something in the kid’s eyes told Frost that what he had said meant more than he’d guessed. He obviously wasn’t the only one who missed his friend. The waitress returned with their beers and set them down and was off again. Lincoln held up his bottle in a toast.

To Uncle Brakespeare, Lincoln said.

To Brakespeare.

They clinked bottles and drank.

You know, he was always good to me, Lincoln said. He stared off, his lips a tight line. We didn’t exactly see much of each other, what with him out in Boise and me here. But we bonded quick the first time he came out to visit my dad, though. Every time he drove down, he always had something new to teach me. And he called every time he heard I’d done something I was proud of. Making varsity, graduating with honors, that kinda thing. Always told me that he was giving me a long-distance high-five. He was the reason I joined the Marines in the first place, actually. I wanted to learn everything he knew. Maybe teach it to my kids someday, too.

Well, that sounds like Brakespeare. I’m glad he had family that cared for him as much as he cared for his team, Frost said. He mulled Lincoln’s words over in his mind. He had left Brakespeare behind for his promotion to Special Forces, but his new fireteam had nearly killed him and then hunted him like prey. Now, he was risking his neck for what he felt was the last man to have shown him kindness. After everything, Brakespeare’s memory was stronger than Frost’s fear of that risk. After the heart stops pumping, we really are just our legacy.

Lincoln looked from Frost to the manila envelope and picked it up. He opened the seal and took out the items inside. There was a letter with Lincoln neatly printed on the envelope in clinical typeface. Lincoln looked at the envelope for a moment and slid the letter into his jacket pocket. He reached into the manila envelope again and pulled out a set of dog tags. Lincoln examined them in his hand. His uncle’s full name, social security number, blood type, and no preference religious affiliation stared back at him before he clenched them in his fist.

Thank you, sir, he said. I mean it.

Frost nodded in acknowledgement.

Did you know he was sick? Lincoln said.

Frost shook his head. Not before he sent me the letter. Said he knew the cancer would take him out soon and asked me to deliver those items to you.

"You guys must have been real tight, if he asked you to be the one to do it."

We were. Fought together in Jalalabad, Kabul, the Kunar Valley. Before I took up with Special Forces in Kandahar.

Lincoln leaned forward, drinking in Frost’s every word, until his phone dinged and he tensed. His hand darted to his pocket and he pulled it out, but deflated after he checked the screen.

Sorry, he said to Frost, returning the phone to his pocket. I’ve been trying to get a hold of my sister for over a week now. Taya, she’s… I was just hoping that was her. It wasn’t.

Everything all right?

I’m sure it’s fine, Lincoln said, though his brow was noticeably creased. I’m just worried. Not like her to not answer. Been keeping me up some.

She know about her uncle passing?

Lincoln shook his head. Not yet. He opened his fist and stared at the dog tags again before slipping the chain over his neck, where they hung down in front of his chest.

I think I’m going to frame these in my apartment, he said, taking another sip of his beer.

The waitress returned. You fellas ready for another round?

Lincoln looked across the booth at Frost and raised an eyebrow.

Frost thought about it. With Crane after him, he felt it would be wise to keep moving. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do in Clear Rock and honored Brakespeare’s dying wishes. But he was having a good time with the kid, and talking about Brakespeare was almost like talking about family. Frost’s life on the road was necessary to stay alive, but he hadn’t realized how isolated he’d felt since he’d begun to roam. He had covered his tracks well enough, sacrificed enough, to