Trial by Fire

By Will Jordan

  A CIA agent must go into Ukraine to find a compromised source in this international thriller novella.
 
Tech specialist Keira Frost has just graduated to the big leagues. But despite numerous commendations for outstanding achievement and a tour of duty under her belt, it’s her reputation for insubordination that precedes her.

Tasked with proving she can take orders with Agency field ops, Keira is eager to get started. But her new CO Ryan Drake is not going to make it easy. As the team is sent to the wasteland of Pripyat, the town devastated by the disaster of Chernobyl, radiation is far from the only danger waiting for them . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781788630634

Will Jordan

Will Jordan’s Ryan Drake novels draw on extensive research into weapons and tactics, as well as the experiences of men who’ve fought in some of the world’s most daunting combat zones. Other books in the series include Redemption, Sacrifice and Betrayal. He lives in Fife, Scotland, with his wife and sons.

Book preview

Trial by Fire

Will Jordan

Canelo

Chapter 1

Keira smiled.

As the shouts and catcalls and jeers all around her rose to a crescendo, she flashed a fierce, predatory smile, split lips parting to reveal bloodied teeth as her opponent came at her again. She saw an arm drawn back, saw a clenched fist come rushing toward her face, and then white light and blurred movement filled her vision as the blow landed.

She went down, her ears ringing, the shouts and taunts around her nearly overwhelmed by the pounding blood in her ears. But no sooner had she fallen than she began to pull herself up again, defiantly refusing to stay down.

Her opponent glared at her, furious but confused, unsure what to do next. Schoolyard fights weren’t supposed to be like this. When one person was clearly done, they stayed down and submitted. They didn’t keep getting up to take another beating, didn’t keep defying and taunting the winner.

Keira’s stubborn refusal to accept her weakness was making him look bad, as if he couldn’t subdue a 13-year-old girl half his size, as if he was the weaker one. He had started this: mocking and provoking her until at last he’d gotten the reaction he’d wanted. It wasn’t difficult; an aloof loner decked out in black leather clothes, heavy goth makeup and spiked hair, her sort were an easy target.

It was supposed to be a walkover. A chance to make fun of someone who was so openly, wilfully different; a chance to put her in her place and teach her a lesson. But somehow it was starting to feel as if she was the one getting the upper hand.

‘Stay down,’ he warned her. ‘Or I’ll knock you down for good next time.’

That was when she looked at him, still with that same bloody, taunting smile. As if his punches had done nothing but amuse her.

‘What’s the matter? You afraid of me, pussy?’

Anger overwhelmed any reservations he might have had as he went in again, fully intent on knocking her down properly this time. Such was his focus on delivering as much of a beating as possible, he didn’t even pause to consider that she might actually be a threat.

But then something happened to change his appreciation of the fight forever. As he lashed out at her, her foot swung upward toward his groin. She was wearing heavy black work boots. And although she was far smaller and weaker than him, her legs retained surprising strength.

Every ounce of that power had been channelled into that steel toe-capped boot, and instantly he felt an explosion of sickening pain between his legs, spreading up into his stomach as if his whole lower abdomen had just turned inside out. Letting out an agonised groan, he buckled and fell.

She was on top of him in a heartbeat, a whirlwind of fists and nails that struck and clawed and gouged anywhere they could. Pinned beneath her and incapacitated, he could do little more than curl into a ball and try desperately to protect himself; screaming at her to stop.

But she didn’t stop. She kept up her furious assault. Many of her blows missed wildly or struck where they could do little harm, but others found their mark, and she seemed to show no signs of tiring. She was possessed by a wild, frenzied energy that seemed to lend extra strength to her meagre frame.

Only when a teacher managed to shove his way through the gathered crowd and forcibly hauled her off him did the attack finally end.

Keira was still smiling as they pulled her away. Only this time it wasn’t the smile of a fighter backed into a corner – it was one of triumph.

---

CIA Headquarters, Langley – 2 November 2005

The young woman sat slouched in her chair, arms folded tight across her chest, one foot absently drumming a staccato rhythm on the cheap carpet.

A moody high-school student waiting to be summoned into the principal’s office. That was what the sharply dressed office workers passing down the corridor probably thought of her. She could see it in the curious, occasionally derisive looks they gave her as they strode by, quickening their pace a little once they were past her as if eager to escape her presence.

Her appearance did little to aid her cause. With her short, dark hair in disarray, her scuffed and worn-leather biker jacket, and her ripped and faded jeans, she was about as far from the popular image of a clean-cut suit-and-sunglasses-wearing CIA agent as it was possible to be. She was an outsider, an unwelcome intruder into this sanitised world of neatly ironed shirts and rigid punctuality.

She knew it, and so did they. And they didn’t like it.

Pencil-pushing REMFs (Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers), she thought with a slight curl of her lip. The closest most of them had been to a combat zone was watching Black Hawk Down while sipping their Starbucks coffee. She had to fight her natural urge to glare back at them, to match their derision with outright hostility, or better yet to leap up and scare the shit out of them as they passed.

It might have given her a momentary glimmer of satisfaction, but she knew it wouldn’t be worth it. Such impulsive decisions had caused enough problems for her already during her short but fraught time with the Agency.

In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that was why she’d been called in here today. Dan Franklin, the director of the CIA’s clandestine Shepherd programme, wanted to speak to her personally. That couldn’t be good.

The Shepherds were an elite group within the CIA's complex field operative hierarchy, tasked with finding and retrieving lost Agency assets. If a high value source went missing, it was the Shepherds who were called on to bring them home. This often meant venturing into the most dangerous and unpredictable conflict zones on the planet, with little support and no prospect of rescue if they were captured. Very few applicants made it through the Shepherd programme's demanding selection process, but Frost was one of them. For now, at least.

She’d been waiting about ten minutes when the door opposite swung open to reveal a tall, slightly spare-looking man in his late thirties. Well dressed and good looking, with his dark blonde hair kept short and neatly styled; he was on the face of it the epitome of the corporate veneer expected at Langley. And yet, there was something a little different about the way he carried himself: a certain confidence she hadn’t detected in most of the other men here.

He scrutinized the casually dressed young woman seated before him, and Frost instinctively straightened up in her chair, some semblance of her military training asserting itself. Franklin’s expression made it clear he wasn’t impressed by what he saw.

‘Ms Frost,’ he said eventually, gesturing into his office. ‘You’d better come in.’

Time for her ass-kicking, she thought. She was used to such things. Rising to her feet and steeling herself for the inevitable, Frost crossed the corridor and made her way inside.

Her first impression was that Franklin’s personal office wasn’t nearly as big or as grand as she’d expected. Cheap hard-wearing carpet, a couple of filing cabinets and basic furniture were the order of the day here. A desk – plain and functional and not particularly valuable looking – sat opposite her, with the usual computer terminal, an In-Out tray with files and folders of various colours denoting their classified status, and the usual pens and writing materials. Beyond this, a small window looked out over the parkland that surrounded the Agency’s headquarters building, the view partially blocked by a spruce tree growing too close to the window.

All in all, it was an uninspiring workspace for the director of a highly classified paramilitary programme. And yet there was a precision and neatness to it all that struck a chord in her. Everything was laid out in a careful, logical manner that reminded her of a barrack-room footlocker, and a glance at the wall to her left confirmed her suspicions.

Staring down at her from a small, framed photograph was a younger and far happier-looking Dan Franklin, dressed in desert camo fatigues and grinning alongside another man she didn’t recognise. The parched terrain and towering mountains in the background suggested the photo was taken during a tour in Afghanistan.

He still looked young enough for active duty. She wondered why he’d left the military.

The answer came a few moments later as Franklin eased himself in behind his desk, his pained expression and stiff posture making it clear such movement required great effort on his part. An injury then, probably sustained in the line of duty. Christ knew, there were plenty of them these days.

‘Have a seat,’ he said, nodding curtly toward a spare chair.

Frost did as instructed, waiting in tense silence as Franklin removed a manila-coloured folder from his In tray and proceeded to leaf through it, stopping occasionally at a point of interest. It was her personnel folder.

‘You’ve had an interesting career, Frost,’ the Shepherd director said at length. ‘Enlisted in the US Army aged 18, no fixed address or next of kin.’ His brows rose a little at that, and much to her irritation Frost could feel a blush colouring her cheeks. Her life before the military contained little that she was proud of. ‘Your instructors in basic training noted you displayed outstanding technical skill, marksmanship ability and determination. You were recommended to the Signal Corps, where you specialised in Information Networking and Cyber Warfare. You’ve completed one active tour of duty in Iraq, been commended three times for outstanding professional achievement…’

Frost braced herself, knowing what was coming next.

‘… and officially reprimanded twice, first for insubordination and second for conduct unbecoming.’

Closing the file carefully, Franklin looked up at the young woman seated opposite as if trying to work out what exactly she was made of. Frost for her part raised her chin, showing just a hint of defiance.

‘Like I said, an interesting career. And now, you’ve landed on me.’ He spread his hands to encompass his modest office. ‘You made