Assassin's Dawn: A David Slaton Adventure

By Ward Larsen

In this prequel novella from Ward Larsen, Assassin's Dawn, we go where it all began . . . the origin of the perfect assassin!

Recruited out of university, Slaton has excelled in training, and is proving highly effective in the operational world. The motivation behind his success is clear to those who know the truth: three years earlier, the two people he held dearest fell victim to a terror attack. The killer responsible, Ramzi Tayeb, has proved maddeningly elusive.

Then a chance: a Mossad operation in Central Europe aims to steal information from Ramzi’s brother, a terrorist financier who could lead to the shadowed extremist. Slaton takes the lead, but a mission to hack the man’s laptop goes horribly wrong, and soon the police are investigating a murder.

Slaton is withdrawing his team to safety when new information arises. Ramzi himself may soon appear—a rare moment of vulnerability. And so a new mission is born, one that is run not by Mossad, but by the most lethal operative it has ever created—an assassin destined to become a legend.

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Aug 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781250832054

Ward Larsen

Ward Larsen is a USA Today bestselling author, and multiple-time winner of the Florida Book Award. His first thriller, The Perfect Assassin, has been optioned for film by Amber Entertainment. He has also been nominated for the Macavity and Silver Falchion Awards. A former U.S. Air Force fighter pilot, Larsen has served as a federal law enforcement officer, airline captain, and is a trained aircraft accident investigator.

Book preview

1

The bullet struck slightly off center, ripples of energy transmitting through the target’s head and shoulders. The mist of debris blossoming behind was carried away by an indifferent wind. The hit, of course, was through and through. The shooter remained in concealment, although not as well hidden as he might have been. The next three shots were the same: center-of-mass hits, lethal, yet each slightly off the mark.

Standing on the observation platform, Major Avram Berkovic lowered his binoculars. He wasn’t studying the paper targets half a mile away—the shots would be scored by the computerized range system. He was instead watching one small notch amid the twenty acres of tawny scrubland spread out before him. He shook his head, dispirited.

A problem? said a gravel-laden voice from behind.

Berkovic swiveled on his stool and saw a familiar figure approaching on the wide wooden deck. He didn’t know the man well, but owing to his position few people on earth did. Anton Bloch was middle-aged and unrepentantly thick, his physique that of a wrestler who’d stopped trying to make weight twenty years ago. Heavy but not soft. His hair was gone on top and shaved close on the sides, a man who spared no time for anything artful when it came to grooming. This, too, came with his position. Bloch had been director of Mossad for three years. Berkovic had met him on a half-dozen occasions, always here at the training center, and always for the same reason. Mossad put the occasional candidate through his program at Camp Adam—the Israeli Defense Forces sniper course. And to his credit, Bloch took a personal interest in how his nominees performed.

Berkovic handed over the binoculars. Ten degrees left, near the wadi. In the shadow of the small acacia.

Bloch trained the optic on the spot. He had long ago done a stint in the army himself, more than the compulsory two and a half years. Having gravitated to military intelligence, he’d never been a front-line operator. One didn’t need to be to spot the ill-concealed student. A boot … no, a pair of boots protruding from a stand of brush that didn’t quite match those around it. The texture of the camouflage was wrong, the color more brown than green.

Bloch handed back the binoculars. Not the latest one I sent you, I trust?

No, he’s IDF. It’s been getting harder and harder to find good talent. Kids these days, they love to play first-person-shooter on their Xbox. But take them out of their gaming chairs, put them outside? They blend in like oil on water. None of them have ever had their nose in a ditch, gotten a feel for the wind, sat still for a day waiting for a deer to come down a trail. Give me a hunter any day of the week over a joystick operator.

Bloch nodded.

Berkovic smiled, an awkward compression of his weathered facial features. That one you sent me last year—he was the real deal.

Actually, that’s why I’ve come.

A radio crackled to life, a report of the prospective sniper’s score. Berkovic picked up a mobile handset and said, Okay, that’s a little soft. Bring him in.

Bloch looked across the low rolling hills. The red flags downrange disappeared, but as per tradition, the shooter didn’t move. An instructor in khakis walked out from the safety shed and made a beeline to the student’s position. He, too, had spotted him. Within a minute, he had the young man standing and was giving a debriefing that was nothing short of a hazing. Jabbing fingers, shouting, even knocking off remnants of the failed ghillie suit.

Did Slaton ever get that treatment? Bloch asked.

A brief snort of laughter. Everybody gets that treatment in the beginning. The problem with Slaton was that by the third day we couldn’t find him. He nailed every target, but the instructors had no idea where he was. I had five of my guys out there, looking all over the damned hills. Granted, it’s a lot of ground to cover. In the end they ordered him to break concealment for the debriefing. Still nothing. They got out a bullhorn and began beating the bushes with sticks. We never found him—he just showed up right on time for the next morning’s training session.

Did the instructors come down on him about it?

Nobody said a word—it was like it never happened. The instructors took a liking to him, respected his abilities. Berkovic filled out a form on a clipboard and hung it on a peg. So, what brings you here? Have you got another one like him you want to bring in?

I wish I did.

It was actually a rare event to send a Mossad recruit through IDF sniper school. It only happened when a recruit turned out to be an exceptional shooter, and didn’t obviate the usual training for tradecraft and language skills. In agency parlance, it was simply a matter of training to strength.

Actually, Bloch said, I came because I’d like your insight.

On what?

Slaton.

Berkovic regarded Bloch curiously. He’s your guy. What could I tell you?

I suspect you understand his mindset better than most. His tactical nature, the way he thinks. The way he operates so … precisely.

The instructor wandered to the OP’s front rail, then turned and sat on it casually. A carefree bachelor on the fender of a sports car.

"There was something different about him, Berkovic said. But it wasn’t anything he learned here. I can teach anybody to shoot, to stalk, maybe even to be patient. Some pick it up more quickly than others—that’s how we weed them out of the program. We give recruits a set amount time to progress, and if they don’t keep up, they’re out."

Bloch again looked downrange. The instructor was giving the student something closer to encouragement now, a hand on his shoulder. Bring them down, then build them up—a time-honed tradition in military training. What made Slaton stand out? he asked.

His eye for shooting was phenomenal. Funny thing is, if it hadn’t been I think he would have excelled anyway. If I had to use a single word, I’d say … commitment. Or maybe motivation. He was driven in a way I’ve never seen. Berkovic gestured to a few chairs scattered around the deck. When his time in the chute was over, he wouldn’t just go to the bar. He’d come here and watch, listen to the instructors’ critiques of other students. He was a sponge, pressing the guys in the shack for every scrap of knowledge, sometimes arguing they were wrong … and he made some good points. Even when he did go for a beer, he never stopped asking questions, never stopped learning.

Berkovic paused, and when Bloch didn’t fill the silence, he said, Any idea what pushed him so hard?

A hesitation. I won’t mention specifics, but suffice to say … he has an account to settle.

With an individual?

I would say our enemies in general, although there is one particular man.

Another snort of laughter from the sniper instructor. Whoever he is, I hope he’s got his affairs in order.

Bloch ignored the comment, and asked, With respect to Slaton’s unusual intensity, do you think it could ever lead to problems with … discipline?

Discipline? As in following orders?

A qualified tip of the head.

Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him going rogue.

God forbid. David has completed quite a few missions now, and there have been no major issues.

What about minor ones?

Bloch hesitated. The ops were relatively simple, and he was always part of a team.

"You’re worried about him operating alone?

It’s bound to happen at some point, either by design or owing to circumstances. I want to be confident he’ll hold to his objectives, not leverage his skills to pursue his own agenda.

Berkovic pushed away from the rail. "Director, you’re sending him out there to remove some very bad people. People who, given half a chance, would slaughter you and me in a heartbeat. Or for that matter, our families. I got to know David pretty well during his time here—nobody gets through the course without my personal seal of approval. He’s no psychotic killer and he’s no Girl Scout. He’s a reasonable, thoughtful human being who happens to be exceedingly lethal. You’re telling me has a score to settle. I don’t know what it is, but my advice to you is simple—use it."

The radio again came to life. Berkovic lifted the handset and had a brief exchange with an instructor downrange.

When he was done, Bloch said, All right. Thank you for your opinion.

Anytime.

The director turned to leave, and when he was halfway across the platform, Berkovic called out, But one thing …

Bloch paused, turned back around. His heavy brow arched inquisitively.

Whatever you do, be straight with him. Otherwise you might end up on his list.

2

The fragrance tonight was lavender. This morning it had been jasmine. What the next day would bring was left to the whims of the staff olfactory specialist, a septuagenarian Swiss woman with shaman leanings.

The Hotel Le Cristal was among the finest in Luxembourg, a spaceship of opulence in a galaxy of gentrification. It carried its status with no small amount of pride. The lobby was a lustrous display of contemporary architecture, to the point that the bell staff were forced to shoo away passersby who mistook it for a museum. The splendid pool and spa were the essence of relaxation. From the front awning it was a mere stroll to the pleasant curves of the Alzette River, and a five-minute cab ride to the banking fortresses along Grand