God of Vengeance: Destiny's Detritus

By Ron J. J. Rongey

Derrik Vargas has a past that remains a mystery, even to himself. The maelstrom he is continually caught up in keeps him from delving into the mounting questions he has regarding his past and the seemingly never-ending violent and unrelenting chain of events he must try to survive. Derrik doesn't know that his past is on a collision course with his present, and the casualty rate will only increase as he draws closer to the facts that are truly stranger than fiction. He must quickly unravel this mystery or perish in its inexorable wake. This is an epic tale that chronicles events with a depth and breadth rarely depicted. Find out what Derrik's fate will be as the story unfolds and an unlikely truth is revealed. What does it all have to do with the so-called God of Vengeance?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644243817

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God of Vengeance

Destiny's Detritus

Ron J. Rongey

Copyright © 2019 Ron J. Rongey

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2019

God of Vengeance: Destiny’s Detritus is a work of fiction. Any names of individuals represented herein that resemble those of people either living or dead is strictly coincidental. Any incidents or situations are the products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

ISBN 978-1-64424-379-4 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-66240-268-5 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-64424-381-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The Road Taken

When Duty Calls

A Fractured Pattern

From the Ashes

A Glimmer

Best Laid Plans

A Crack through Time

Wodak

Strangers in A Strange Land

Ripples

Out of the Frying Pan

Fool's Errand

Consequences

Dalliance

The Gathering Storm

Tangled Web

Doomed Souls

The Spider

Fighting Chance

Convolutions

Hell Spawn

The Die Is Cast

Beyond Madness

Terrible Toll

Loose Ends

Awareness

Grim Truth

Arch Nemesis

Revelation

Puzzle Pieces

Predator and Prey

Reckoning

The Stakes

Escalation

Soliloquy

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgments

The following are the names of the people I credit for helping me during the creation of this body of work.

Tim the Overlord Wilson who gave me the time, Candice Pascual who gave me the tools.

My Mom for her support and my Wife for inspiration and motivation.

Chapter 1

The Road Taken

He huddled drearily in his threadbare jacket. The late afternoon air was crisp from an early freeze. He looked up with rheumy eyes at the penthouse apartment far overhead. What caused him to do so was uncertain, even to him. Suddenly, the sliding glass doors leading to the ornate balcony above exploded outward. As shards of glass and twisted metal rained down from the seventeenth floor, the shabbily clothed man threw his right arm up and closed his eyes reflexively.

When he opened them again he could not believe what he saw. There were two men on the cold, frozen ground. One was sprawled like a rag doll covered in blood, unrecognizable. The other man was an image of madness. The old vagrant, sole witness to the grim tableau, had seen many strange things on the harsh city streets. This would remain etched with vivid clarity in an otherwise foggy, besotted mind until his untimely death.

The man the old one saw crouched in a feral manner over the poor soul on the ground appeared to be nearly six feet tall with a dark complexion. His torn and shredded clothing revealed an immensely powerful build. Corded muscle stood out along his chest and arms tensed in volcanic anger. Tousled black hair framed what might be considered a ruggedly handsome face were it not twisted into a murderous mask of relentless vengeance. He too, was spattered in blood, but the gray haired man sensed that none was his.

It was the eyes that raised the hair on the old man's neck, arms and hands. With his eyes cast full upon him, the vagrant was riveted in place. Blazing blue eyes burned through him. A wild, unquenchable fire danced within them. They seemed to emit a light of their own. White teeth flashed in a mirthless grin and the man leaped inhumanly from his apparent victim to alight an unbelievable distance away. The crazed man bounded into an alley and was gone.

The old man stood transfixed for what seemed an eternity. He looked at the ruined remains of the man lying on the ground before him. Tendrils of steam rose from freshly drawn blood in the frigid air. The sound of approaching police sirens broke his trance. Seeing people emerging from the building and adjacent ones as well, he quickly shuffled away.

Through the red mist of a too-freshly-fulminated, boundless rage, one thought emerged: One down, five to go. Derrik Vargas was a man of few words in any case- far less now. He surveyed a garbage-strewn alley. Looking for the quickest exit from the immediate area, he chose to go up to get his bearings. He jumped to the first rung of the fire escape and pulled himself up with practiced ease. In an instant, he stood poised on the rooftop. It was only then that he noticed a twinge of pain in his right wrist. There was also a dull throbbing in his right hip, and his right knee ached. This was all that spoke of a seventeen-story drop from a high-rise apartment. His quarry had taken the brunt of the fall, and Derrik took no notice regarding the rest of the details.

A cold breeze fluttered the tattered remnants of his shirt as a puff of white mist escaped his nostrils. The frigid weather seemed to have no effect as he surveyed the cityscape. He could hear the faint sound of police sirens in the distance. This meant little to Derrik- a mere annoyance. He would be long gone before they arrived to see the utter destruction he had wreaked.

Thinking back on the events that transpired within the last week was like remembering bits and pieces of a fever-induced dream. None of it could be real. Yet, Derrik had survived it as testament to it all being very, very real. Only through his most recent revelations could he believe any of what had occurred. The thought of it evoked another torrent of anger within him.

All the waste of human lives and for what? he thought.

In all his years, he was never able to fathom the unlimited capacity mankind possessed to inflict misery upon itself.

Those who had done so had unwisely chosen him and those he cared about as their target this time. Not only did Derrik possess the training and experience to retaliate, but they were also finding out how resilient he was.

His life had been turned upside down by the now identified agents of destruction he was currently hunting. He was running out of time. It was still hard to believe how all this was playing out, especially when he thought about how that fateful Tuesday morning, seeming now so long ago had started out so ordinarily. Out of bed at 5:00a.m., a quick shower, no shave as usual- an interesting quirk he had attributed to a yet to be researched strain of Macedonian lineage. He believed his seemingly perpetual tan and jet-black hair more of a confirmation.

The flashing blue eyes had thrown him. They were what had made him seriously consider looking into his heritage. He never had found the time to do so. Of course, at the time, it wouldn't have done him any good. Time was what he never seemed to have then anyway. His life had become a blur of events over the past few years, not like the blur any thought of his childhood had evoked, though.

He was so much involved with what was going on in the here and now that it all got pushed to the back of his mind. It was getting crowded back there. It seemed, as the years passed, there were more questions and almost no answers when it came to his personal history. Something had happened, some trauma that had to do with surviving an avalanche.

The details were sketchy. That made it tricky when it came to pursuing a military career. His exotic appearance seemed to be a plus, though. It didn't hurt that he could speak, read, and write several different languages, including flawless English with no trace of accent. His spotty documentation had been shrugged off since his country of origin was a beleaguered and war-torn region of the Balkans.

Due to his circumstances, he had no choice but to fabricate a history in order to obtain a US visa. He had then applied for citizenship. He could never be president, but with such an impressive skill set, it was not difficult to raise his status and be noticed once he entered the military. All this and so much more swirled and simmered just beneath the surface of his conscious thought as he prepared for another day in his new life as the director of internal security for the SWAN Corporation, a multinational conglomerate.

His responsibilities often extended far into the night. A matter of residual military discipline prompted him to be at his desk in his spacious office at the allotted time, no matter how late his services were required the previous evening.

There weren't many aspects to Derrik's life that didn't possess a rigid military precision, left over from all those years in the service.

He tended to avoid that part of his life as much as the rest. It, too, contained questions he had no answers for. Indeed, he wasn't sure he wanted the answers. Thus, like so much else, it was filed away into the <> category.

It was his no-nonsense approach to life that was keeping him sane up to this point. He had no reason to change. Oh well, no time for that now- except that he was beginning to feel a fraying at the edges of his reality.

Oh well. All this is nothing a good workout couldn't fix, thought Derrik.

His weight training regimen and timed runs had become more punishing lately. His practices at the kenpo school had become more brutal. He had lost workout partners, and they were the replacements of the ones he had burned up before. Derrik was like a freight train that had jumped the tracks at full speed, hurtling forward, completely out of control. Once again, he had no time to ponder such convoluted and complex matters.

Derrik pulled his black Jaguar S-Type into the underground parking garage of the SWAN building located on Main Street in downtown Dallas, Texas. This was the central hub of the SWAN Corporation. It had satellite offices in New York, Los Angeles, Switzerland, Australia, India, Japan, and the list went on.

Derrik's position with the corporation was vital. His job was key to the all-important facade of a smooth-running, infinitely complex behemoth. All aspects to the inner workings of this gigantic machine were under Derrik's scrutiny, whether it was an electronic document, a hard file, a recorded incident from a security camera, or any number of business transactions that were brokered anywhere in the world.

He could find himself waking up on a cot in the back room of some dingy dwelling in Istanbul one day and the posh surroundings of a five-star hotel in Monte Carlo the next.

Of course, Derrik couldn't be everywhere at once. So he recruited, trained, and strategically inserted a crack team of handpicked professionals. They were already the best at what they did before they met Derrik. He knew the best when he saw it, and he saw them before they saw him. He watched them in their own element for a time before approaching them and offering his proposal.

They, too, had heard of him- not everything, though. That's the advantage of working in black ops. Unless you travel in the highest circles, the files are classified, and sometimes no documentation is kept at all. Besides, you have to know there's something to look for before you go looking. Make no mistake; Derrik was heavily screened by the SWAN Corporation. His reputation preceded him in this case as well. Again, you had to know what you were looking for. As for Derrik, even if you found it, you might not know what it was. There are few matters left in this world that would fall under the label undefinable. This was one of the few.

It all revolved around how Derrik had been the team leader of an elite covert operations group based out of Fort Benning, Georgia. It was code-named ROK, which had been derived from the name of a legendary gigantic bird. Derrik thought it was appropriate since most of their missions involved airborne insertion. It was an offshoot of the Army Rangers.

In fact, some of the members (including Derrik) were recruited directly from the Army Rangers. Others, like Hector Campos (Derrik's second in command), were brought in from other areas of the US Armed Forces.

Each was considered among the best in his field of expertise. Hector was a Navy SEAL and had been a trainer for the Basic Under Water Demolitions Team out of Little Creek, Virginia. He and Derrik hit it off the instant they met. It didn't take long before they became the best of friends. Hector was a human dynamo. Derrik had never seen so much energy stuffed into such a compact frame.

At times, Hector's exuberance seemed almost comical. It was the perfect balance for Derrik's serious demeanor, something that Hector took great delight in making sport of- never in the presence of their subordinates, though. As far as they were concerned, the two men were models of professional leadership. There was too much at stake for any doubt. Every mission they were tasked with required absolute trust in each other's capabilities. Over time, that trust was earned through shared experiences. The fact that they all came back alive from numerous missions was an emphatic testament to their level of expertise and team work.

Nick Brodie was a blond giant who stood six feet seven and weighed nearly three hundred pounds. His entire impressive frame was constituted of solid muscle. He was a munitions expert selected from Fifth Special Forces Group out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky.

Dan Walker was a man of medium height and proportionately athletic build with sandy-colored hair. He was generally found with his nose buried in a thickly bound book. He hailed from Fort Bragg, North Carolina and had been selected for Delta Force, but for reasons undisclosed to everyone except Derrik, declined the slot and opted to be placed in Derrik's team.

This had caused Derrik's first run in with Colonel Stephen H. Riser of Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) based in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. In conjunction with the National Security Agency (NSA) in Fort Meade, Maryland, a team was to be selected and commanded by Derrik.

Colonel Riser chose Derrik to head up the splinter team. Derrik was supposed to have carte blanche when it came to selecting the members of his team. Halfway through Derrik's selection process, Colonel Riser showed up with Sergeant Walker in tow. After a closed-door session with a lot of shouting and things being knocked around, Sergeant Walker emerged as the latest member of Derrik's team.

Dana Reid was the only female on the team. She stood five feet eleven (eye to eye with Derrik) and was blond and beautiful by anyone's standards. The stereotypes that went with such a combination were a constant motivation toward her penchant for over-achievement. A top-honors graduate at West Point, she was being groomed for a Washington slot. She (like Derrik) could speak, read, and write several different languages and was an expert in psychological warfare. The brass in DC thought there couldn't be any better qualifications.

Thanks to Derrik, Dana was able to throw everyone, including her fiancé, a flaming curveball. She thought she was bucking conventions by joining the military and beating guys at their own war game. She realized she couldn't be further from the truth when she saw the gilded path she was being led down by the faceless string pullers.

She suspected everything was due to the behind-the-scenes machinations of General Nathan Blue Blazes Reid, her father. Her psychological warfare training began to come in handy on a personal level.

It was a right-place-right-time situation when Derrik and Dana first met. She was undergoing spook training at Camp Peary located just outside of Williamsburg, Virginia. Known as the Farm, it was the CIA's training ground for infiltration and covert operations. As far as Dana was concerned, this was just more DC grooming.

Derrik was there as an adviser on covert Middle Eastern operations. During a training and information session, Dana's pointed and extremely well-informed inquiries sparked Derrik's interest. They spoke further while sharing cherry Kool-Aid from a five-gallon canister propped under a large pine tree. Somehow, what started out as an abstract discussion of comparative tactics transformed into an unburdening of Dana's frustration. Derrik was a bit nonplussed, but after returning to Fort Benning he decided to check into Dana's story. He thought her skill and exceptional intelligence were being wasted and would be better served in another capacity, but what? Four months later, Dana received a call. She remembered Derrik instantly and, as quickly, took him up on the proposed slot with his newly formed team.

The remaining four members of Derrik's team were what might be referred to as his Ranger buddies. They'd been through everything together, practically from the start of Derrik's military career. There was Dave Johns, a lean, rangy fellow reminiscent of the classic cowpuncher. Replete with leathery, sun-dried skin and craggy good looks, he hailed from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Theodore Moonie was another mountain of muscle. Rivaling Nick Brodie, he stood six feet six and weighed 310 pounds. Self-proclaimed,the brother like no other. he had enlisted in Jackson, Mississippi.

Eric Palladin was a tall light-complected man with blazing red hair and the customary light-blue eyes. He was known as Brainiac because he had proven himself to be a mathematical genius and had no business being where he was, although it was where he chose to be. Somehow, Derrik knew where Erik was coming from in so far as that was concerned. Yet he had no idea why he could empathize so fully.

Ichizao Sakura known as Cheezie, was another character. His parents were Japanese, but he was raised in San Diego, California. When Derrik wasn't around it was he and Hector who together wreaked havoc throughout the compound. Derrik frowned on such behavior but did see the benefit in morale it served after a particularly tough mission. He realized it was a relatively painless way for his team to unwind, even if it did mean having to placate their unsuspecting targets.

Like when Eric Palladin found his red and black Kawasaki Ninja suspended twenty-five feet in the branches of a huge oak tree. Cheezie quipped with Fuckin' rice burner musta' back farted itself up that tree.

Leo Nunzio was as dark complected as Derrik, with black hair and deep brown eyes. He had a wrestler's build and hands the size of frying pans. He was from the Bronx in New York City. Leo was as Italian as anyone could possibly be and loved every minute of it. The team called him the Fixer, or Fix for short.

He could repair any piece of equipment. If it needed a part, no matter how obscure, he could find it even on short notice. His talent didn't stop at mechanical things. He was good at scrounging up anything the team needed- from building materials, art objects, jewelry, clothing, or exotic animals to fine champagne and quail's eggs. Whatever the team couldn't requisition or wasn't authorized, Leo had it waiting for them. Sometimes he had it for them before they even knew they needed it.

Derrik received a call at zero two hundred on a Sunday morning from Colonel Riser. He and Hector were to board a C-130 Hercules already waiting for them on the tarmac with propellers roaring. They were to fly directly to DC, which gave Derrik the distinct impression that this was from left field. Derrik always had his finger on the pulse of world events, the ones you didn't read about. Having been dropped in every hotspot on the planet gave him a unique perspective and well-honed instinct about covert matters. This one gave him an itch between the shoulder blades.

Derrik and Hector were escorted through three well-armed Special Operations Division checkpoints located on the second floor of the Pentagon. Derrik had been in a SCIF before, but this one looked like it hadn't been cleaned up in three days. There were styrofoam cups, paper plates, napkins, and plastic utensils strewn about and overflowing from wastebaskets. The ashtrays were overflowing as well. The smell of sweat and stale cigarette smoke permeated the enclosure. SCIF stood for special classified intelligence facility. This one consisted of a room suspended within another room to prevent eavesdropping, whether electronic or otherwise.

The interior housed a large table with enough chairs to accommodate Derrik, Hector, Colonel Riser and two unidentifieds in civilian clothes. The walls were adorned with aerial maps of a region Derrik instantly found familiar, and the sight of them seemed to intensify that itch.

Colonel Riser began by introducing the other two men. The first was Bill Steadman, who had arrived from the underground facilities of the National Security Agency located in Fort Meade, Maryland, days ago. He was largely responsible for the mess in the room. Bill looked as though he had been awake the entire time as well.

The second man was Jim Wessig. He had come directly from CIA headquarters with time-sensitive information. All the men shook hands while the smell of the aforementioned stale cigarette smoke began soaking into their clothes. Bill lifted his haggard frame from a gray-on-gray metal folding chair and pointed a finger epicenter of the third map on the wall behind him.

I'm told you're familiar with this area, Captain Vargas. Derrik nodded in the affirmative.

It's the southwest bank of hills located about two clicks from the city known as Hawija in Iraq, said Derrik. You were with the extraction team that picked up our men there, replied Bill.

Inquisitive looks prompted him to continue.

For the benefit of the rest of you, Sunni Al Muhammad was the man who gave us a heads-up on Saddam Hussein's mustard gas attack on the Kurdish town of Halabja back in '88. We barely got word to our people in time. We owed this man a big one. After Saddam's fall, all hell broke loose. Sunni's intel' wasn't viable anymore, but we sure as hell weren't going to leave him in the meat grinder. Derrik attributed his strong sense of déja vú when he looked at the map to his prior mission there.

The prearranged rendezvous point was at Hawija. Derrik, Moodie, Johns, Sakura, and three other Rangers, along with the pilot and crew chief of a specially outfitted Blackhawk helicopter, crossed the Iraqi border like a great avenging black bird. The chopper was hugging the terrain, so close a cloud of dust plumed up behind it. Terror-stricken Iraqis on the ground dove for cover with its passing. They were flying low to escape radar detection.

The instant they arrived, Derrik and the other Rangers hit the ground running and formed an armed perimeter around the Blackhawk as the CIA operatives and informants hastily got aboard. The extraction and subsequent return were executed without incident. This was one of Derrik's very few nonlethal missions.

While Bill spoke, Jim Wessig reached into his briefcase and removed a blue folder. He began spreading out photographs on the table like a large deck of cards. Just as Bill stopped speaking, Jim interjected by saying, These are real-time photos of the area. The buildings you see here are a hastily built chemical weapons facility. We have eyes on confirmation of this, and we'd have taken the usual measures, but the most recent intel from our operative has upgraded the site to biological as well.

This has gone down in quick time, said Jim. We don't even know what faction is behind this. Someone has chosen this out-of-the way spot and counted on it going unnoticed in the midst of all the in-fighting and turmoil of the area. Not at any time was this region ever secured. He looked at his watch and said, Twelve hours ago, we lost contact with our man. We have no backup. The decision was made to bring your team on line. Your primary mission is to destroy that facility. If you can locate our operative and make an extraction without compromising target acquisition, we'd be in your debt once again. It will be, of course, your call.

Chapter 2

When Duty Calls

Derrik looked over his crew one last time.

Five minutes to DZ! he had to yell over the roar of the C-130's engines. They were cruising at thirty five thousand feet. They had crossed into Iraqi air space eighteen minutes ago. Through the lambent green glow of the cargo plane's interior lights, Derrik saw everyone give the thumbs up.

He couldn't help thinking back on all the other missions they'd been on- all the close calls. Everyone here knew the risks. They accepted them in an almost offhand manner. Maybe it was because they had been so lucky up to this point- no casualties, no serious injuries, 117 confirmed kills between them. This line of thinking was stupid and dangerous, especially when you're the team leader.

Derrik shook himself mentally and began checking over his gear. He was wearing black BDUs and a multipocketed black assault vest. Short minutes ago, he had finished applying black tiger stripes to his face with a camo stick. Under his left arm protruded the black rubber Pachmeyer grips of his Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 Magnum revolver. He had a Beretta 92-SF holstered in a jackass rig strapped to his right leg. His backup weapon was an AMT .380 stainless semi-automatic with Teflon-coated nine millimeter short hollow points in the clip. He liked its flat, compact design. He had a tanto-style knife with a six-inch surgical steel blade strapped upside down to his cargo vest in front of his right shoulder. In his lap he held an all-black Heckler & Koch MP5.

The other members of Derrik's team were similarly outfitted except for Hector, who favored a Colt Arms CAR-15 over the MP5, and Moonie carried an M203 grenade launcher. Sakura and Nunzio were carrying C-5 plastic explosives along with the rest of their gear, which would be used to take out the chemical-weapons facility.

Just as Derrik strapped on his matching flat black Kevlar helmet, the red light came on, signalling the team to prepare for the jump. They all stood in unison and began shuffling toward the ramp, which was slowly opening at the rear of the plane. A tremendous gust of wind roared through the plane's interior. A large hole opened up before them. The red light turned to green, signaling them to jump.

Derrik saw his team disappear one by one into the inky blackness. They were initiating a HALO jump, which stood for high altitude, low opening. Jumping this way and at night would hopefully minimize possible detection, which could spell disaster for the mission and certain death for the team. Derrik was the last to leave the plane. He felt the air surging past as he plummeted toward the night-black earth far below. He could only make out the other members of his team as darker patches against the moonless sky.

Conditions couldn't be better for a HALO jump. He checked his altimeter. Scant seconds before he pulled the cord to his primary chute. For some reason, Derrik's mind jumped to his last conversation with Dana. They were in the HUMVW enroute to the hangar, where they would prepare for boarding a C-141, which would take them to their rendezvous point for overseas transport in Hawaii.

Dana was driving, which gave Derrik every opportunity to take note of her somewhat-morose expression. This was highly unusual, especially at the onset of a mission. Dana generally conducted herself like the consummate professional she was, with no hint of excitement, fear, anxiety, or nervousness Derrik had seen in the rest of his team to one degree or another. Even Derrik had run the gambit of emotions before every mission. If Dana was experiencing any of them, she never showed it, until now.

I don't think it's a good idea for you to be on this mission if something in your life has got you so distracted, said Derrik, bluntly. I'm sorry sir. What did you say?

You've made my point, said Derrik. You need to stay 100 percent focused. I didn't think I'd ever have to remind you of this.

Yes, sir. You're right, of course. It's as though all my training went right out the window after I spoke with David on the phone, said Dana. (David was her fiance'. They'd been together about a year and a half.)

"What the hell could you two have talked about that would put you