Osama's Skull: A Zach Colt Adventure

By Michael D Urban

Osama bin Laden didn’t die in Abbottabad. He wasn’t buried at sea. Kidnapped, hidden at a CIA black site in Poland, he perished in custody. Then certain powerful individuals wanted a souvenir—his skull. But the CIA has other plans. It recruits Navy SEAL Ingvar Rogers to steal the skull and act as live bait to destroy ISIS and a

• Language: English
• Publisher: IGTBA Enterprises
• Release date: Dec 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9780985359959

Michael D Urban

Michael D. Urban was born outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Now he lives in New England. For over a decade Mike lived and traveled throughout Central America. He has worked in federal law enforcement both in the States and overseas. Most recently he was a trial lawyer in private practice. He writes award-winning thrillers, for both young and old, with his faithful dog Ziggy at his feet.

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OSAMA’S

SKULL

A ZACH COLT ADVENTURE

By

Michael D. Urban

© 2017 Michael D. Urban

Also by Michael D. Urban

IRONSIDES’ PERIL

Ironsides’ Peril is the only modern-day thriller about Old Ironsides, America’s iconic warship. Iranian-backed terrorists have hijacked USS Constitution and attacked Boston. Packed with intense action, ruthless terrorists, ocean-going drones, Iranian subs, Navy SEALs, and the USCG Eagle.

WINNER

SUSPENSE/THRILLER

Next Generation Indie Book Awards

HONORABLE MENTION

BEST THRILLER-TERRORIST

Readers’ Favorite International Book Awards

A first-rate thriller.

− William Martin

Author of The Lincoln Letter

The author clearly knows the style and pace of modern international thrillers coupled with a milieu he knows and has researched well…. an adventure tale for nearly all ages.

− Judge, Writer’s Digest

21st Annual Self-Published Book Awards

"A terrorist with roots to the original Barbary pirates and his ruthless band have hijacked the USS Constitution. The quandary – How do you recapture an 18th-Century warship using 21st-Century weapons and tactics? The answer is ingenious. As thrillers go, this one benefits from an unusual setting as well as a likable hero in Zach Colt. I suspect Urban has the making of a series that can be successful. A good read."

− Jack Quick,

Stacey Alesi’s Bookbitch.com

IRONSIDES’ PERIL

"When Old Ironsides turns 215, the 200th anniversary of the War of 1812, the city of Boston is poised to celebrate until a series of terrorist attacks strike. There are not many authors who will take you inside the mind of a terrorist, but Urban takes us into the minds of three. He provides captivating details about the history of Old Ironsides, the military, and his main characters – every single one of them comes alive and seem extremely real. I really enjoyed this book."

– Readers’ Favorite (5-Star Review)

DRAKE’S COFFIN

Drake’s Coffin is the rousing adventure tale of a search for lost treasure. Four hundred years ago the English adventurer Sir Francis Drake stole it from the Spanish and buried it in the jungle of Panama. Thirty years ago, an unsuspecting group of teenage boys stumbled upon it in a night of violent death that would change their lives forever. Now, as adults, led by Zach Colt, they have come back for Drake’s legendary treasure, in a race against time, old enemies, and modern foes.

FINALIST

ACTION/ADVENTURE

Next Generation Indie Book Awards

Nominated for

BEST THRILLER

Global eBook Awards

FINALIST

BEST eBOOK COVER

Global eBook Awards

Urban’s debut novel is fast-paced, real and intense. A coming-of-age story and thrilling adventure rolled into one.

– Kirkus Reviews

"Drake’s Coffin is a highly well-written adventure story that is packed with violence and high-paced action. This is one thrilling, readable story that readers will love. The plot proceeds with twists and turns, often unexpected, to the story’s end. The characters are well-drawn and totally believable …. Drake’s Coffin is a must read, to say the least!"

– Readers’ Favorite (5-Star Review)

EL DRACO’S TREASURE

A Young Zach Colt Adventure

El Draco’s Treasure is a Young Adult version of Part I of Drake’s Coffin.

El Draco’s Treasure tells the tale of the discovery of Sir Francis Drake’s lost treasure in the jungles of Panama by an intrepid group of Explorer Scouts.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales or events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

IGTBA is a trade name of Michael D. Urban

Copyright © 2017 by Michael D. Urban

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce all or a portion of this book in any form whatsoever.

Zachary Colt and Zach Colt are trademarks of

Michael D. Urban

For information contact:

[e-mail]

Digital ISBN: 978-0-9853599-5-9

Print ISBN: 978-0-9853599-4-2

First Print Edition

First Digital Edition

Cover by IGTBA Enterprises

Dedication

To Liz.

Not plain.

Not simple.

Sharpen the arrows, fill the quivers.

Jeremiah 51:11

There is no dialogue except with weapons.

Osama bin Laden

It is better to have less thunder in the mouth and more lightning in the hand.

Apache proverb

But who in war will not have his laugh amid the skulls?

Winston S. Churchill

Part I

Bone of Contention

∼ PROLOGUE ∼

1917

Fort Sill, Oklahoma

When Prescott Bush rode through the gates of Ft. Sill he had no idea he was about to commit a crime and spark one of America’s greatest mysteries. Or that he would get away with it.

His only concern was the heat. It intensified all morning. After riding for three hours, he’d had enough.

July in Oklahoma. More like July in Hades!

Bush was sweating more than he’d ever had at Yale, even during exams. The itchy wool of his uniform didn’t help. Nor did the heavy, wide-brim felt hat on his head, held in place by a leather strap chafing his chin. His armpits were soaked black, as was his back. Even his horse was miserable. The big Army issue bay pawed the ground, bobbed its head up and down, and pulled at the bit. With a strong tug on the reins, he steadied the animal.

Whoa, Eli! Easy boy!

Turning sideways in his saddle Bush searched for his two companions. They were a quarter-mile back, struggling to catch up, making slow headway across the prairie. The intense heat rising from the ground created a prism which weirdly distorted the two figures as they approached.

First Lieutenant Lester Barnes, his closest pal, bounced up and down in the saddle, every bit the greenhorn. His other friend, Second Lieutenant Willard Finster, a much worse horseman, had barely survived officer training. He lagged farther behind, swaying side-to-side and practically falling off his steed.

The lead rider smiled at the comic sight.

A sorry lot. Maybe we’ll have the Huns laughing themselves to death. That is, if we ever get to France.

One year out of Yale. Six months on active duty in the regular Army. Eight months after the first Doughboys saw combat in France. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, Prescott Bush could not believe his ill luck. He had traded the wealth and comfort of Connecticut for the dirt, flies, and isolation—physical, cultural, and spiritual—of the West. Whatever romantic dreams he had about finding glory on the field of battle had long since died.

God, I miss New Haven.

Suddenly depressed, his smile faded. He reached down and loosened a canteen. Taking a few sips, he spat the dust and grit from his mouth onto the prairie grass as the two clownish equestrians drew even. They were breathing hard and more sweat-soaked than he was. Their spavined mounts looked blown.

Barnes doffed his hat and wiped a stained silk handkerchief across his forehead.

Good heavens, Prescott, what on earth are we doing here? It’s beastly.

Bush didn’t answer. His mind was elsewhere.

I say, Prescott, Finster chimed in. Your little picnic has become rather hellish, won’t you admit?

Eli neighed and reared. The air felt oddly still and heavy. Ignoring the taunt, Bush scanned the horizon to the west, unease building in his gut.

The sky a mile or two off had darkened. A churning mass of gray and black clouds materialized, shot through with bolts of lightning. A sound like an approaching freight train hit them. All three men stared.

Tornado! Bush yelled. Follow me!

He wrenched Eli’s head to the right and drove his spurs into the bay’s flanks. Fort Sill, barely visible in the distance, was to the north and at a slight elevation compared to the surrounding plains. There was nowhere else to hide.

Maybe they could make it.

Bush galloped madly across the open prairie. The storm tugged at his back. Eli, terrified, ate ground in a massive burst of speed. A gangly 6 feet 4 inches and far from a gifted rider, Bush hung on, scared yet exhilarated beyond anything he’d ever felt before.

Tall grass flailed his ankles. The brim of his hat flipped back and flattened across his crown. He clutched the reins so tightly his fingers blanched. His knees ached and his thighs burned as Eli pounded over the uneven terrain.

The walls of the fort grew larger. Bush saw the sun-bleached American flag whipping in the gusts. He glanced back. His two companions were out of sight. The dark clouds trailing behind had coalesced into a black funnel. Its tip brushed the ground as it rapidly angled toward the palisade of the fort, threatening to cut Bush off from his safe haven.

He yanked the reins to force Eli in a more easterly direction. Racing under the shadow of the fort’s walls, he hit a dirt road. A gated iron archway appeared ahead.

Bush’s hat whipped off. He felt almost as if he and Eli were swept aloft, swimming through the roiling air.

Horse and rider bolted through the entrance and were surrounded by rows of stone markers. Eli screamed, twisted to one side and fell, throwing Bush onto the ground. He rolled two or three times before bumping up against a solid pile of rocks. The fallen animal disappeared in the swirling dust.

The worst of the storm now engulfed him. Bush clung to the rough stones, even as all around wooden crosses and granite grave markers were torn from the earth and lofted into the air. The surface to his right and left was stripped bare as the tip of the funnel passed nearby. He kept his head down and hung on, praying his arms would hold and that he would not be struck by airborne debris pried loose by the fierce wind.

Almost as fast as it had started, the howling tornado diminished as it roared east.

The sun reappeared, searing his back. The silence was uncanny. Bush waited, lungs heaving. Afraid to unclench his hands and open his eyes.

Clop, clop, clop.

He swiveled his head and peered skyward. A figure on horseback blotted out the sun.

My Lord, Prescott, who is your toothy friend?

Bush recognized the voice. Goddamnit, Finster! What the hell are you talking about?

Finster pointed to Bush’s right. Still not letting go of his anchor, Bush craned his neck.

A foot away was a shallow pit. In the pit was a crumbling pine coffin. The soil and rocks covering the coffin had been sucked away together with its flimsy lid, leaving the bones inside exposed. A skull with empty eye sockets glared at them. Its jaw gaped open as if screaming. The yellowed teeth were worn, many broken or missing.

Aghast, Bush recoiled and scrambled several feet away. His sudden movement startled Finster’s horse. It quickly sidestepped, almost trampling him.

Barnes sidled up on his ride. The three men contemplated the remains. After a few moments, Barnes dismounted and walked toward the skeleton. He squatted nearby and poked it with his quirt.

I wonder who he is?

Bush got to his feet, beat the dirt from his clothes, and joined his friend. Finster kicked his nag closer.

At the head of the grave was the tall mound of rock held together with cement which had saved Bush’s life. Much larger than its neighbors, it was obviously an important marker. Embedded in the cement was a brass plaque tarnished green with age.

Bush stepped near and bent over to read. He quickly straightened.

His voice, dry from the dust of the tornado, was raspy.

Fellas, you are not going to believe this!

After what we’ve just been through, I can believe anything, Barnes responded.

Come on, Prescott, tell us! Finster demanded.

Bush turned toward his two friends.

A smile lit his face.

It says ‘Geronimo.’

No longer feeling squeamish, he crouched and scooped the relic up.

The boys at the Tomb are going to love this.

∼ Chapter 1 ∼

Present Day

Boston, Massachusetts

Zach Colt’s executive assistant was uneasy. The man sitting in reception unsettled her. He had been waiting almost an hour. Yet he was calm, too calm. And the odd-looking young girl next to him hadn’t twitched a muscle in that time. She’d never seen a child sit so motionless.

Then there was the backpack on the floor between the man’s feet. Ever since the Marathon bombing she had not liked backpacks, especially black ones. This one was green, but it still spooked her. She hoped security had searched it well.

The clock ticked. It was approaching noon. Zach had promised her the afternoon off to do some Christmas shopping. It was plain that was not going to happen.

Strange visitors to the office were nothing new. Since Colt had become famous for saving Old Ironsides from terrorist hijackers bent on destroying the ship, a raft of characters had found their way to his Boston-based charitable foundation. They ranged from stable Rotary Club types to scuzzy drifters. Most had in common the desire to meet Zach and ask for money. Zach didn’t mind shaking hands and having a selfie taken. Fame had its price. Doling out the money, that was another matter.

Usually she could size them up. But not this time. While pretending to type, she peeked again over the top of her screen.

He certainly is handsome.

Blond, close-cropped hair. A fashionable few day’s stubble. Over six feet tall. Clear blue eyes. A square jaw. He’d taken off his down jacket to reveal a short-sleeved white t-shirt. Tight black jeans. Muscled forearms and hard biceps. Big hands. She involuntarily wet her lips.

While she was staring, he cocked his head and met her scrutiny. His expression was hard and wary. Sensing her interest, he softened his features and cracked a lazy smile. She blushed.

The buzzer on her desk phone sounded. She reached for the handset, reluctantly breaking eye contact.

It was Zach checking in.

Is he still there?

Yes.

What do you think, Mary? Madman or saint?

She looked back at the visitor. Puzzled but no longer flustered, she boldly returned the smile.

Both, I think.

She blinked twice and disengaged.

You’ll see. Decide for yourself.

Huh! You’re a big help. Send him in.

Mary replaced the handset. She rose and stepped out from behind her desk to face the two.

Mr. Colt will see you now.

She swept a hand toward the door.

The man stood, lofted the backpack over one shoulder, and took the child’s hand. The girl obediently got up.

As the pair passed Mary, with his free hand the man gave her fanny a pat. Startled, she stepped back. Before she could protest, the stranger was in Zach’s office, and the door shut.

She blinked rapidly at the closed door.

How dare he! Pig!

Her flared nostrils detected the scent of leather and something else. She shook her head angrily and stomped back to her desk.

After she calmed down and resumed typing it hit her. The scent. It was the way her father smelled after coming back from a hunting trip in northern New Hampshire.

Gunpowder! He smells like gunpowder!

She reached for the phone to tell Zach, but hesitated before punching his extension.

I must be crazy. Or paranoid. Anyway, we have good security. And he has a child with him, how could he be dangerous? Oh darn, I forgot to tell Zach about the girl! Too late…

She put down the phone and resumed her work.

As she typed, the oddity of the man’s scent and his fresh behavior continued to nag her. She resolved to later speak with Zach. He needed to know.

*****

Inside the office, Zach Colt sat erect in his chair. A yellow, lined legal pad and black gel pen were in front of him on a polished mahogany desk. His hands rested casually on the desktop. He had been intrigued by Mary’s cryptic remarks and eyed the door with mild curiosity.

It was a corner office, with huge plate glass windows on both sides. One window provided a spectacular view of Boston Harbor. The other faced a cluster of nearby skyscrapers.

When the two strangers entered the room, Zach stood. The girl was a surprise. Mary seldom made such an error. He smiled at the pair and gestured towards the wooden chairs facing his desk. A bit reticent, he did not attempt to shake hands.

I’m Zach Colt. Please, sit. What brings you here?

The stranger sat, as did Zach. The girl remained standing behind her chair. Her gaze was fixed on a point beyond the windows. She was young, but Zach had no clue as to her true age. Practically a lifelong bachelor, he’d had little experience with children, until recently. The man Zach instantly pegged as ex-military. A hard number.

Together, an odd pair.

The stranger eyed Colt with interest. He took in Zach’s chestnut brown hair and short beard, his solid build, and the neutral expression on his face. Zach’s brown eyes were intelligent but guarded. Perhaps even a bit haunted, if the gray shadows underneath meant anything. The stranger detected a thin red scar running from ear to jaw on the right side of Zach’s face, mostly hidden by the facial hair. The bottom of the earlobe was missing. As he watched, the scar seemed to darken.

Then he examined Colt’s office. The desk was a huge old-fashioned partners’ desk, the kind favored by lawyers in the 19th century. On it was a skull, some sort of big jungle cat, facing outward with fangs bared, looking ready to ward off intruders. Also on the surface was a rusty old KA-BAR, likely used as a letter opener, and a trio of photographs in matching gold frames. On one wall was a framed Presidential Medal of Freedom. Next to it was a painting of the USS Constitution under full sail. It reminded him of a painting he’d seen as a boy in a museum by the English artist Turner.

An oxblood leather couch. Comfortable black-and-gold-painted captain’s chairs embossed with a collegiate seal faced the desk. It was the room of a rich, powerful, accomplished man, fully in his prime of life.

The young man flashed a killer grin.

So, this is what a genuine American hero looks like. Hot damn!

Now the scar definitely changed color. He’d found Colt’s tell.

Zach shifted in his chair and leaned forward. When he spoke, his voice was deep and even.

I assume you have a more important purpose in mind coming here other than to annoy me. If you want something, you are certainly not getting off on the right foot. Why don’t you try again? Let’s start with your name.

You can call me Mr. Hansel. That’s the name I gave to security.

Zach did not react.

And the girl?

My daughter, Gretel.

Again, the grin.

Zach waited. He was not impressed.

Give them the bum’s rush or play along?

Zach examined the girl. She continued to stare out the window, her face without expression. Zach noticed that her jeans were frayed at the hem and the knees were dirty. Her face and hands were also soiled. She looked as if she could use a good meal. For her sake, Zach softened his tone and ran with it.

All right Mr. Hansel, how may I help you?

The stranger inched to the edge of his seat. He clasped both hands over his kneecaps and leaned forward. His eyes sought out Zach’s.

Do you recognize me, Mr. Colt?

Zach calmly looked back. There was something about the young man that fired a synapse or two. The shape of the face. The voice. The smart-alecky demeanor. They all hinted at something familiar. But he couldn’t place it, and now, given the stranger’s question, both his sympathy and patience evaporated.

Keeping eye contact, he stood, placed both hands palm down on his desk and said, I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Hansel. I have better things to do with my time than play twenty questions.

Zach straightened his spine and nudged his chair back, ready to come around the desk and expedite his unwanted guests’ exit.

C’mon, Uncle Zach. Play nice. My father told me you were a hard-ass. I guess he was right.

Zach stopped.

Your father? He knew me?

Yup. You two were about as close as Siamese twins. He told me he saved your butt. More than once.

When was that?

A long time ago. Before you buried him in the Panama jungle.

Zach sucked in a breath. The list of men he’d buried in the jungle was short—just two names. One was a good friend. The other, a deadly enemy.

The stranger’s looks. The grin. His brash manner. Especially the manner. It all clicked. Zach could not check his smile.

What else did Fritz tell you?

He said not to piss you off.

He paused a beat.

Guess I screwed up that one, he ended with another grin.

Yeah, big time.

Zach walked around his desk.

I’ll be damned. You’re Fritz Rogers’s boy. Have to be. No one else would be that cocky—or stupid.

He stretched out his arm, offering to shake hands.

Your real name?

The young man rose and took Zach’s hand. The grip was powerful.

Ingvar. Ingvar Rogers. You can call me IV.

Zach’s eyebrows rose.

I’ll explain later.

The Nordic name fits you. Your father loved Vikings. Hell, for all practical purposes, he was one.

Zach leaned back against his desk, crossed his arms, and inwardly laughed at the memory of his old friend.

Your father was a good man. I miss him. But, he was a bullshit artist. I wouldn’t believe everything he said about me, he shrugged.

The young man’s face changed. His expression became serious.

He said I could trust you with my life.

The silent girl’s eyes suddenly widened. There followed a sharp breaking sound. Pieces of glass from the shattered window behind Zach’s desk rained down. A hole appeared in the wall behind the stranger’s head as he, Zach, and the girl instantly dropped to the floor.

Gretel finally spoke.

Building with mirrored windows. Rooftop. South end. Three meters in from the corner. One man. Fifty caliber.

Roger that, sweetheart, IV shouted as he shielded the child’s body with his own and dragged her to a spot away from the angle of fire. Zach scrambled after them. They sat with their backs against the wall, partially hidden by the desk. The door opened. Mary took one step in and froze.

Get down! Zach bellowed.

A second round penetrated the wall inches from Mary’s head. She screamed and fled.

Zach turned toward IV and nodded in the direction of the girl.

How’d she do that, identify where the shot came from?

I trained her.

For what?

To stay alive.

IV bent over and whispered something in the child’s ear. Gretel shook her head and stuck her tongue out at him. She certainly did not look particularly agitated.

She’s seen worse, he added.

While Gretel looked absently out through the remnants of the shattered window, IV stroked her hair.

Pretty cool kid, isn’t she?

A third round punched through the wall above Zach’s left ear.

The little girl shook her head and jerked her chin to the right. IV’s eyes flicked in the same direction.

Mr. Colt, the shooter’s changed positions. We need to leave.

Zach had already reached the same conclusion.

There’s a secret way out. It leads to an adjacent office. When we go, we need to move fast. I’ll draw fire, then you and Gretel follow.

Affirmative.

Gretel, is that really her name?

Yes.

Zach paused a beat. OK. First let’s get some firepower of our own.

Zach slid across the floor to a tall cabinet. He reached up and tapped a code into a touchpad. The cabinet door sprang open. An array of weapons was inside. Zach pulled out two Daniel Defense M4 carbines and several 30-round magazines. He pushed a carbine and ammunition across the floor to IV, then grabbed two holstered pistols and tossed one over.

A fourth round nearly parted Gretel’s hair. This time she flinched.

Zach slammed the cabinet shut and rapidly punched in a new sequence. The piece of furniture swung aside, revealing the entrance to an adjoining room.

Let’s bolt, Zach shouted. He rose halfway up and fired two short bursts from his rifle through the broken window in the direction of the sniper’s last shot. He took care to aim for the rooftop so as not to hit the building itself and its occupants.

IV shoved his daughter into the safety of the next room. While Zach continued to fire, he dove back into Zach’s office and slithered across the floor to his backpack. IV flung it through the opening. A slug plowed into the polished oak floor near his leg. Wood splinters filled the air. As the shooter reloaded, IV crawled into the empty room and secured the backpack.

Zach, keeping low, slipped through the door after him.

∼ Chapter 2 ∼

Cincinnati, Ohio

The flight attendant walked up and down the aisle inside the small turboprop jet one last time. She checked the restrooms. Satisfied that all the passengers had deplaned and no unclaimed bags remained under the seats or in overhead storage bins, she poked her head into the cockpit. The captain and copilot were completing paperwork. They were both young and tired. The schedule for her small trunk airline flying in and out of Cincinnati was brutal. Everyone needed a day off.

The captain looked up. He had not worked with this particular flight attendant before. He read her nametag. Sheila.

She was petite, busty, and dark-complected.

A man could get lost in those brown eyes.

There had not been many Jewish girls in his small town in Nebraska. She intrigued him. He smiled at her, wondering vaguely what her plans were for the layover, amused also by his own unintended mental pun.

She smiled back.

It’s all secure, Captain.

Thanks Sheila. Excellent work. You can disembark now.

As she started to leave he cleared his throat.

Uhhh. Say, Sheila, we have tomorrow off. Would you like to hang out?

She wanted to roll her eyes. Instead, she smiled sweetly at the young pilot.

Gee, Mike. I’m flattered, but I’m meeting some old friends. Maybe some other time.

He’d heard that one before.

Sure, Sheila. Have a good break.

He gave a little wave. Abashed, he lowered his gaze to the unfinished forms, scribbling furiously.

Relieved, she retrieved her bag and exited the plane.

*****

Sheila Goldfarb, the Jewish hottie. Pure genius.

If only they knew.

She was not Jewish. Her real name was Nargis Gabol. Both parents were Pakistani immigrants living in St. Paul, Minnesota. Moderate, educated Muslims, neither her father nor mother forced her to adopt the more fundamentalist aspects of the faith. She’d had a typical American childhood. Playgroups, birthday parties, soccer, her own clique of giggly girlfriends.

In high school, she blossomed into a very beautiful young woman. That was when the trouble started. Boys. Lots of them. They lined up outside her door like dogs in heat.

In the beginning her parents were somewhat flattered. Their daughter was popular. She obviously fit in. They believed she was assimilating well.

Then they were appalled. The attention was too much. It was simply improper for a Muslim girl to mix with young men to such an extent.

Anger took over when they discovered her kissing a boy in a car parked in front of their modest home. Change was needed. A return to their faith was the path taken.

Nargis sighed. It was always the same. Men were drawn to her. Even the Imam in her mosque in Minneapolis, the one her parents began to frequent. He was young, charismatic, fervent, and a magnet for the youth in her neighborhood.

And she was drawn to men. It was something she could not suppress. Even with the young Imam.

Their affair had begun when she was seventeen. The attention and affection of the older man was at first merely playful, then beguiling, and finally fully sexual. He became her mentor, friend, lover.

The grooming did not end with sex. He had other uses for her. ISIS needed