Broken Justice

By Ray Floyd

Brad Peterson is an ex-Special Forces operative and an incredibly wealthy man. His Peterson Foundation is aided by a well-trained private army that assists people in need around the world.

While helping the street children in Sao Paulo, Brazil, they stumble across a human-trafficking ring run by a terrorist organization. After an intensive investigation aided by a local policeman, Inspector Teixeira, they uncover a devilish plot to attack the opening ceremony of the upcoming Rio Olympic Games.

Brad, Teixeira and the rest of the team relentlessly track down the terrorists in an effort to apprehend them before they launch the biggest terror attack in history. But with time running out, can they close in on their elusive prey before it's too late?

A fast-paced international thriller, Ray Floyd's 'Broken Justice' will keep you on the edge of your seat from the first page till the last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jan 12, 2023

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The streetlamps cast an eerie glow on the rain-slicked street as Eduardo Bravo hurried to his destination. January in Sao Paulo was hot, and despite the rain and late hour, Eduardo felt beads of sweat forming on his face. Of course, the anticipation of what lay ahead might also have contributed to his current state.

He was in a seedy part of the huge city with the apartment buildings on both sides of the narrow street in a state of disrepair. His expensive clothes would normally have caused him to stand out in these shabby surroundings. Fortunately it was well after midnight and nobody was around to wonder what he was doing in this neighborhood. He tapped the bulge of the Glock in his shoulder holster to reassure himself. If anyone assumed that he was an easy target, they were in for a big surprise.

Finally, he reached his destination. He entered the nondescript building and climbed the stairs to the third floor. His anticipation mounted as he fumbled for the key in his jacket pocket, eventually opening the scarred door to number 307. The small apartment was dark, although a sliver of light shone through the bottom of the doorway that led to the bedroom.

He flipped the switch and blinked as the bright light illuminated the stark room. It was a combination living/dining room, with a small kitchenette off to one side that held the only piece of furniture, a small fridge. He opened the fridge and removed a bottle of ice-cold beer, which he downed in two big gulps.

He approached the door to the bedroom where he hesitated for a moment. He briefly wondered what treat his Arab friends had in store for him tonight. He twisted the handle, opened the door and drank in the sight.

The room was decorated with opulent furnishings, plush drapes, and a large four-poster king-sized bed in the centre. However, the object that received all of his attention was the naked young girl lying spread-eagled on the huge bed. She couldn’t have been much older than twelve or thirteen, with small budding breasts and a hairless pubic region. My new friends sure know my tastes, Eduardo thought.

He felt a stirring in his crotch as he approached the frightened girl. The little blue tablet he’d taken recently kicked in. The girl’s arms and legs were attached by course ropes to the corner posts of the bed and a crude gag covered her mouth. She watched him with wide, terrified eyes as he sat next to her on the bed and stroked her thighs.

After a couple of minutes, he stood and removed his clothing, hanging the items neatly in the closet. Naked and totally aroused, he once more sat on the bed next to the girl. He placed the barrel of the Glock between her frightened eyes and spoke softly in Portuguese. He told her to obey his every command without making a sound, or he’d blow her brains out. When he asked her if she understood, she nodded fearfully.

Satisfied, he removed her gag and she let out a small whimper. He walked over to the small vanity and smiled. Several lines of high-grade cocaine crossed the surface, as well as a fancy crack pipe with several large rocks lying next to it.

He snorted a couple of lines before turning his attention to the pipe. He broke off a large piece of rock and carefully placed it on the pipe, using a lighter to melt it into place. He lifted the pipe to his lips, ignited the lighter and held it to the end. He inhaled the sweet-tasting smoke greedily until he thought his lungs would burst. He held the smoke in for a few seconds before exhaling slowly.

His head spun and his ears buzzed as the potent drug took effect. He attached another large piece of rock to the heated pipe and walked unsteadily over to the bed. He placed the pipe between the girl’s lips and held the lighter to the end. Without hesitation she inhaled the smoke as fast as she could, holding the smoke for about ten seconds before exhaling.

Suddenly, the fear in her eyes was replaced by an almost vacant stare as she smiled dreamily at him. She showed no sign of resistance as he stroked her between her thighs before penetrating her with his finger. She let out a soft moan and whispered to him that she wanted another hit of the pipe. He happily complied, taking another big hit himself.

He untied her bonds and they continued smoking the potent crack until they were both wasted. After a while, he climbed on top of her and eventually managed to enter her. It took him about thirty minutes of violent thrusting before he finally achieved the long-awaited orgasm he so desperately craved. She hardly seemed to notice, as he’d strategically placed the pipe and rocks on the bedside table, which she’d smoked continuously while he did his thing.

After roughly three hours of drug-induced sleep, he woke to find the girl lying almost comatose next to him. The crack was probably a lot stronger than the glue she was used to sniffing, he thought. Without even checking on her condition, he quickly dressed and left, making a phone call as he exited the building. His new friends would handle the clean-up and the girl. He wasn’t concerned that she might recover and leave before then; after all, who would believe her? She was just a street kid, while he was the esteemed Deputy Police Chief of Sao Paulo, Brazil.

1

I gazed down at the scene as the chopper came in to land. The refugee camp was well-planned, consisting mostly of large army-style tents with a few semi-permanent structures on the northern side of the camp. Not bad, considering that two months ago there was nothing to be seen here but sand and the occasional small bush.

The Peterson Foundation had come to the aid of the Syrian refugees that threatened to overwhelm the already crowded Shatila refugee camp just south of Beirut in Lebanon. Since the numerous ISIS bombings in Europe, the flow of refugees into Europe had slowed to a trickle, resulting in serious overcrowding at most of the refugee camps.

It was the middle of January, and although the camp had only been open for a couple of weeks, it was filling up rapidly as more refugees learned of its existence. The large camp could comfortably accommodate about fifteen thousand people and was split into two distinct sections.

To gain admittance to the camp, refugees had to provide some form of identification and submit to being fingerprinted and photographed. The prints and photos were run through several databases, including F.B.I., C.I.A., Mossad, M.I.5, SVR, and Interpol.

These applicants remained in one section of the camp until it was determined that they had no known affiliation with ISIS or any other terrorist organizations. Upon being successfully vetted, the applicants were moved to a more secure section of the camp where they remained until they could be relocated to Europe.

I glanced across at Danni as the helicopter gently touched down near the administration buildings. So, what do you think? I asked.

I can’t believe that they managed to build this whole thing so quickly, Brad, she replied, giving me one of her winning smiles.

My stunningly beautiful girlfriend had accompanied me a few months earlier when we’d picked out the spot where the camp was to be built. We’d met about eight months ago in Uganda in Central Africa and had shared many adventures, including being kidnapped by a ruthless African Warlord.

I guess that if you spend enough money, anything is possible, I answered. I had created the Peterson Foundation the previous year after inheriting a multi-billion-dollar fortune from a long-lost uncle, who just happened to be a Canadian oil tycoon. As a result, both the foundation and I had more money than we could possibly spend.

After the rotors wound down and the dust settled, Danni and I exited the helicopter. We were met by my brother Mark, Captain Cameron Smith, and Master Sergeant Bill Wright. I was a former Army Ranger Major, while Mark was a former captain in the 101 st Airborne. We’d put together a small army of ex-special force operatives from around the world to assist the foundation in its efforts around the globe. For chain-of-command purposes, I was using the rank of Colonel while Mark was accorded the rank of Major.

How’s it going, brother? he asked as he strode forward and shook my hand before kissing Danni on the cheek.

Not too bad, I replied. You seem to have things under control here.

Mainly thanks to Captain Smith and Sergeant Wright. He indicated to the two men coming forward to greet us.

Captain Smith shook my hand. Don’t believe a word of that. Your brother worked his ass off to get this place ready in time. Bill and I may have provided the security, but your brother’s been putting in twelve to fourteen-hour days with the construction crews.

Great, now I feel really bad. Danni and I had just completed an awesome two-week vacation in Hawaii.

Mark grinned. No need to, you guys deserved some time off. Anyhow, since the camp is now finished, my days are much easier. That is, if you call mundane administration work easier.

Danni hugged him. We really appreciate all you’ve accomplished in our absence.

Mark appeared a little embarrassed. You’re more than welcome. Sergeant, please arrange for their bags to be taken to their quarters. He turned to us. Follow Captain Smith and myself and we’ll give you a quick tour of the camp and its facilities.

Sounds like a plan. Danni and I followed Mark to where a large golf cart was parked.

2

Nizar Assadi was sweating profusely as he joined the line waiting outside the refugee camp. Although the temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees Fahrenheit, he wore a long, tattered overcoat. The reason was not to keep him warm but to conceal the heavy vest beneath it.

There were several large double pockets sewn onto the vest. The ones closest to his body contained slabs of C4 explosive, while the outer ones contained small ball bearings and rusty nails. The combination would ensure a lethal hail of shrapnel once the explosives detonated.

Nizar was Syrian and had recently been recruited by ISIS to carry out this suicide mission. Unlike most radical Islamists, he had no past of family being murdered by America or her allies. His family back in Syria were quite wealthy and he had enjoyed a privileged life up to this point.

It was only the recent discovery of advanced cancer eating away at his body that had led him down this path. With less than a month left to live, he had been approached by two men that were referred by his doctor. Just like the good doctor, they were senior members of ISIS. They had convinced him that this final heroic act on earth would glorify Allah and ensure his place in Paradise, where seventy-two beautiful virgins awaited his arrival. Although he was somewhat skeptical, what did he have to lose? Rather go out with a bang than endure a slow, painful death.

As the line began moving again and he edged closer to the entrance, he began to softly mumble several verses from the Koran that he remembered. He was relieved to see that the guards were not searching anybody, just directing them to a large administration hall.

His instructions had been clear. Keep your hands clear of the jacket pockets until you are inside the administration hall. Once he was inside, he would depress the plunger on the dead man’s switch. He would eventually be called into a smaller room where the infidels were running background checks on the refugees. Once inside, he would release the plunger and take his rightful place in Paradise.

Mark brought the golf cart to a halt and indicated the fenced-off area ahead of us. Once the refugees have been successfully vetted, they are moved into this area. It is completely self-contained with living, eating and bathing facilities. They are not allowed to leave this secure area until they board the trucks for the airport, where they are flown to various European cities.

How long do they have to wait in there? Danni asked.

Good question, Mark replied. Usually about two to three weeks on average. Most European countries are only too happy to take refugees that have already been vetted, as they have quotas to fill.

How kind of them. Danni’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

I gave her a look. Now, now, Danni, be nice. I’m actually amazed that they are still taking refugees at all after the latest bombing in Paris.

I suppose you’re right, she grudgingly conceded.

Just then Captain Smith’s hand flew up to his earpiece and he tapped Mark on the shoulder. We have a Code Black, he said urgently.

Mark instantly got the golf cart moving and headed towards the security and surveillance building he’d pointed out earlier.

Noting the concern etched on my brother’s face I asked, What the hell is a Code Black?

Someone just entered the camp with explosives, he explained.

How do you know that? I asked.

That innocent-looking wooden frame as you enter the camp conceals the latest x-ray and bomb-detection equipment, he replied.

Meanwhile, Captain Smith had been urgently speaking into his throat-mike. He turned to Mark. The target has just entered the main admin hall.

That’s great. Mark skidded the golf cart to a stop in front of the security building.

Confused, I asked my brother, Why is that great? Surely it’s very bad?

We have security protocols in place for just such an eventuality, he shouted over his shoulder as we entered the security building.

I was amazed. The large room was carpeted and air-conditioned and several people monitored large banks of screens. I immediately recognized most of them as members of the intelligence gathering unit of the Peterson Foundation, which was made up primarily of ex-F.B.I., C.I.A., N.S.A., and Secret Service agents.

What’s the status of our target? Mark asked the man in charge.

He indicated one of the large screens. That’s him. He’s patiently waiting his turn to be called into the vetting room.

What happens now? I asked impatiently.

Once he entered the admin hall, the door was closed and locked, making him last in line to be called into the next room. Once he is the only one remaining, all doors will be locked and sealed, Mark explained.

How is that going to help? Danni interjected. It’s just a flimsy prefab building. Surely the bomb blast will destroy it and everything around it?

Just what we want everyone to think, Mark continued. Between the prefab panels are three inches of armored steel, including the floor and ceiling.

I nodded. Very clever. I should have known that you guys would be one step ahead.

Mark grinned. It sure helps to have unlimited funds at your disposal.

Ok, so what happens once the target is isolated? I asked.

As you can see on the screen, he has his right hand in his jacket pocket. He’s probably holding the detonator with some type of dead man’s switch. We’re going to pump an odourless gas through the aircon ducts, which will put him to sleep. If he releases the switch, he’ll be blown to hell along with the cheap furniture in the room. Then it’s just a simple matter of cleaning up the mess and replacing the panels and furniture.

And if he doesn’t blow himself up? Danni asked.

Then we’ll send in a very advanced robotic bomb disposal system. When our would-be suicide bomber wakes up, he’ll be lounging in a very nice Lebanese prison.

Nizar Assadi gulped and took a deep breath as the final two people ahead of him were called into the next room. His time was up and he felt his hand trembling in his pocket. Contrary to his instructions, he hadn’t depressed the plunger yet. He was afraid that he’d accidentally let it go before he made it into the next room. It was a decision that saved his life. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep and a robotic arm was cutting away at the pocket of his jacket.

Assadi would only later discover that he didn’t have terminal cancer. The incredible pain he’d been experiencing was simply a result of the ‘medication’ his doctor had administered to him.

Armed with this information, Assadi quickly gave up the doctor and his two accomplices. A Special Forces team helped them find their way to Paradise shortly after he’d revealed their identities.

3

Two days later, Mark, Danni and I were winging our way back to Las Vegas aboard the Foundation’s luxuriously appointed Gulfstream G-650 ER. We had left the camp in the capable hands of Captain Smith and Sergeant Wright. My brother Mark would return after a week to once again take charge of the refugee camp, so I was not overly concerned. Mark hadn’t seen his wife Angela in months, and besides, the Foundation had serious business to discuss.

There were seven members of the Peterson Foundation’s board of trustees. Besides Mark and myself and our parents, Danni and Angela were also on the board. The seventh member was Tanya Buckman, wife of my best friend Fred who had died tragically in Afghanistan two years earlier.

Ted and I had both been Army Rangers; I was a Major while he was a Master-Sergeant. Our squad had been ambushed while attempting to extract a captured journalist from the Taliban. I had been injured and he lost his life while trying to save me. It had taken me a while to get over his death, especially the guilt and nightmares that had plagued me for a long time after.

I was brought back to the present as the captain announced our descent into Las Vegas. The Peterson Foundation Compound was a three-hundred-acre parcel of land up against the foothills just southwest of the city.

It had originally started off as my private residence when I was still in my selfish mode. It consisted of a massive main house, huge lake complete with wave-maker, combination runway and large auto racing track, as well as a beautifully designed eighteen-hole golf course. There was also a daunting obstacle course and shooting range where our private army could hone their skills and stay fit.

The employee accommodations on the east side of the lake had recently been completed. They consisted of a large condominium-style complex for the ex-army guys as well as a more upscale townhouse complex for the professional employees, such as the pilots and doctors. After a smooth landing, the pilot taxied towards a large complex of hangers that housed a few smaller aircraft, including a couple of helicopters.

Angela, Tanya and my parents were on hand to greet us as we exited the sleek aircraft. How was the flight? my father asked.

Could have been better, I replied. The champagne wasn’t chilled to the correct temperature.

He punched me playfully on the