Blood Promise

By Mike Howard

Retired CIA counterterrorist operator, Jack Trench was brought back into the spy game in "Full Circle." After two members of his former counterterrorist team - known as The Watchers - were attacked by an enemy they thought they had defeated long ago, Trench was brought back in by the CIA to help find the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sayuri Publishing
• Release date: Dec 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989500116

Mike Howard

Mike Lives with his wife Janice and their beloved chihuahua Kiku in Las Vegas, Nevada. Mike spent 22 years as a clandestine operative with the CIA mostly working in counterterrorism. After the CIA, Mike spent 16 years as the Chief Security Officer for the Microsoft Corporation in the Seattle area. As he likes to say, "in his youth" Mike served as a Police Officer for the Oakland Police Department in California.Opting for a warmer climate, Mike and his wife, a former American Airlines Flight Attendant, relocated to Las Vegas, a city replete with world-class entertainment and restaurants. Both Mike and his wife are avowed foodies so Las Vegas is the perfect place for them to fulfill their culinary adventures. Mike and Janice work out regularly and have established their own foundation, The Michael and Janice Howard Foundation, which supports at risk youth in the Las Vegas Valley. Mike started his martial arts journey at the age of 14. He has taught a variety of martial arts to people in the government and private sector for a large part of his life. He earned a brown belt in Kodenkan Jiu-Jitsu and attained a black belt in the Japanese art of Aikido while stationed in the Philippines while serving with the CIA. Mike has had exposure to a variety of fighting styles in his life including Gracie Jiu-Jitsu, Karate, Judo and Stick/Knife fighting. He is a James Bond fan and loves his martinis, especially a Vesper!Mike currently serves as the President of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department Foundation Board of Directors and is on the Advisory Board of the Mob Museum. Mike has a YouTube podcast on leadership called the Mike Howard Ronin Leadership Podcast which has a following of over one thousand subscribers. Mike also writes a weekly blog on LinkedIn called Ronin Leadership Thoughts. Mike is the author of three other books, including "The Art of Ronin Leadership: Strategy, Execution, Sustained Success; "The Art of Executing Ronin Leadership Strategies - Execution: Planning, Alignment, Continuous Improvement," and his first thriller novel "Full Circle" which is an Amazon Best Seller.

Book preview

BloodPromise.cover.jpg

Blood Promise

A Jack Trench Thriller

© 2024 Mike Howard.

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Development Editor: Judith Briles,

Editor/Proofreader: Peggie Ireland

Cover and Interior Design: Rebecca Finkel, F + P Graphic Design, FPGD.com

Book Publishing Expert: Judith Briles, The Book Shepherd

Books may be purchased in quantity through the author’s website: MikeHowardAuthor.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023921140

ISBN trade paper: 979-8-9895001-0-9

ISBN eBook: 979-8-9895001-1-6

ISBN audiobook: 979-8-9895001-3-0

Action | Mystery | Thriller | Suspense

I dedicate this book, first and foremost, to my wife and best friend Janice. Your love and support for my passion to write books is what drives me to be a better writer.

I also want to dedicate this book to my friends and family who give me encouragement and feedback so that I can continue to hone my craft as an author.

Finally, I dedicate this book to the brave men and women of the CIA, past and present. Your work goes unheralded for the most part. You often work alone, in the deepest, darkest, most dangerous parts of the globe, gathering intelligence and protecting our nation against a legion of enemies. God bless you, your families, and our great nation. You Shadow Warriors are truly the tip of the spear.

Mbabane, Eswatini (formerly Swaziland) | 2022

Chloe Dupre felt exhilarated driving down the MR3 freeway in a Toyota Camry Solara convertible. She had rented it from the concierge at the Hilton Garden Inn in Mbabane, Eswatini’s capital.

Africa. Chloe’s skin tingled with excitement. I’m back danced through her mind as she tapped the wheel. Heading toward the city of Lobamba, residence of Eswatini’s Queen Mother, she felt herself smiling. There were elephant herds there that she so wanted to photograph. The vast landscape that unfolded was stunning. It was something she didn’t think a person could grasp without engaging in a true see it to experience it situation. A portfolio of Chloe’s photography was with her in the car. Soon there would be more photos to add from this exotic and intoxicating locale.

Swaziland had changed its name to Eswatini in 2018, but Chloe’s mother Rochelle had always referred to the country as Swaziland. It was a beautiful country, landlocked between South Africa and Mozambique. Rochelle had been a French diplomat in South Africa in the 1990s and assigned to South Africa’s capital, Pretoria. She had loved going to Swaziland with her little girl on weekends and holidays to get away from the city and enjoy the beautiful countryside.

A widow, she brought Chloe on all of her foreign postings. Africa was no exception. Chloe fondly remembered the rides to the countryside, staying at local hotels and absorbing the African culture as a child. Two weeks ago, Chloe visited her mother, now retired in Avallon, France, two hours outside of Paris. Chloe, now twenty-seven, worked as a freelance photojournalist and was based out of Paris. The two shared a loving and close relationship. They always enjoyed reminiscing about their travels around the world, including their love of Swaziland.

"I’m excited, Maman. I just received a contract from Le Monde to do a piece on South Africa … on how the Soweto Township looks now, post-Apartheid."

C’est magnifique, ma chère. And since you are going, you must visit Swaziland as well.

I will take hundreds of pictures and put them in an album for us to share and cherish for years to come, Mère. And when I have it finished, I will return to Paris to be with you, and we’ll revisit our first time living there—twenty plus years ago—and compare it to what it is today.

Now she was in Africa and Paris was thousands of miles away. She was south of Mbabane, driving with the top down and her blonde hair blowing freely in the African wind.

Africa … what’s not to love? thought Chole. I’ve been away for too many years.

Chloe was five miles outside of Lobamba when she noticed a car pulled to side of the road. An African woman was frantically waving her hands at Chloe to pull over. Chloe thought about driving past the scene, but her conscience got the better of her. If that were me, I would hope someone like me would stop to help, ran through her mind.

She pulled her car over to assist the woman. Though Chloe was a white western woman, she never felt out of place or unsafe in Africa, or anywhere else her profession had taken her thus far.

The woman looked to be in her twenties and holding a baby cradled in her left arm. The car definitely had a flat tire. Most of the people in Swaziland spoke some English so Chloe felt she would be able to communicate with this woman.

Hi. Looks like you need some help.

The woman was sweating, and her eyes portrayed fear. Connecting with Chloe’s eyes, all she could do was nod her head up and down.

It was the left rear tire on the woman’s car that was flat. Chloe was handy with cars. Her mother had made sure she knew how to take care of herself in a vehicle emergency.

Okay, do you have a spare tire? I can try and help you put one on.

The woman nodded in the affirmative again and pointed to the trunk. Chloe went towards the trunk and then turned back to the woman.

Can you open the trunk or give me the key so I can open it?

Just then, the rear doors of the woman’s car flew open. Two men, each carrying a handgun, bolted out of the car. They were African men also in their twenties. They had been lying down in the back seat of the car, which is why Chloe hadn’t noticed them. The men grabbed her and pulled her away from the car into a nearby ditch before Chloe even had time to scream. One man had put his hand over her mouth while the other man was expertly using zip ties to secure Chloe’s hands behind her back. The woman with the baby came around the car to the ditch and pulled out a roll of duct tape, tossing it to one of the men.

This is not good.

Words were finally spoken. Tape her mouth shut.

Chloe noted four things about the woman she had tried to help. One, she was not sweating anymore. Two, the fearful eyes were gone. Her eyes were now cold and hard. Three, she had a cruel and wicked smile on her face. And four, the woman was in charge.

This is not good. All of Chloe’s senses were vibrating, each struggling to alert her to the intense danger that now surrounded her. Each broadcasting, this woman intends to harm you. You are in deep shit, Chloe.

Chloe looked at the woman with a mixture of surprise and anger. One of the men put the duct tape over her mouth. Now that she was secured, the men started carrying her away from the freeway into the nearby jungle where they had parked an SUV. Chloe was an athletic woman with a lithe body born of regular workouts and playing soccer. She put up a fight, squirming and trying to kick at the men. The woman glared at Chloe.

Stop was all she said.

She walked over to Chloe. The two men were fighting to hold her down as Chloe kept fighting. The woman stood over her, spat in her face and then viciously kicked her in the head.

Chloe went black.

Avallon, France

Rochelle Dupre was working in her garden. It was a cool March morning, and she was dressed warmly in a large alpaca sweater and jeans. Leisurely, she worked in her vegetable garden and sipped hot coffee from the thermos she kept with her. The coffee warmed her body and felt good going down her throat. Rochelle’s home was on the outskirts of Avallon’s old town city center. Avallon was in the heart of Burgundy with a rich history. Romans, Celtics, and the French all had historical ties to the city. Older structures—such as the city’s fortress walls with their turrets and bastions—blended with newer business buildings.

Avallon was what one would call a postcard city. A camera’s lens would find plenty of beauty to capture everywhere it landed.

Rochelle lived in a 5,000 square foot two-story brick house. After a lifetime of traveling the world for the French government, all she wanted was peace and quiet. In her twenty-year diplomatic career spread over Africa, Asia, and the US, she eventually became the French Ambassador to Singapore. It would be her last assignment before retiring. She enjoyed the pomp and circumstance her career brought her. But now, she was content to read books, garden, cook and mind her own business.

My, how my life has changed! she reflected as she picked and pulled vegetables for the noon meal.

She was thinking about these things when she heard the phone ringing in her kitchen. Though she had a cell phone, she was still old school enough to have a land line in her home. In the diplomatic service, she had been taught that redundancy was essential in a crisis. Old habits die hard. Rochelle had been in her share of crisis situations around the world.

Removing her gardening gloves as she entered the kitchen, she answered the phone on the fourth ring.

Bonjour, she said.

Rochelle, it’s Nick Travers.

Nick Travers was a retired American diplomat who lived in Paris after leaving the US State Department. Nick and Rochelle had crossed paths in the diplomatic circuit many times and had formed a deep platonic relationship over the years. Nick was a widower, losing his wife to cancer many years ago, just as Rochelle had lost her husband to the same disease.

They were like brother and sister, but his tone didn’t say this was a warm, catch-up type of call. She immediately detected a sense of urgency in Nick’s voice.

Nick! How wonderful to hear from you. It’s been too long. How are you?

There was a palpable pause at the end of the line.

I know you don’t really pay attention to the news and what’s going on in the world anymore. I’m calling you because I just heard—

Rochelle interrupted. Heardwhat, Nick? What’s going on?

It’s Chloe. She’s been kidnapped in Swaziland. Nick too referred to Eswatini by its former name.

It just came across the wires.

What the hell are you talking about?! Rochelle screamed into the phone.

The BBC reported this morning that a French female tourist was kidnapped on the highway outside of Mbabane. She was driving a rented car from her hotel. Rochelle, Chloe rented the car.

No. No, this cannot be. It’s not true! It’s not true!

Now Rochelle was saying it to herself. It’s not real. It’s a dream. It isn’t Chloe. It’s someone else. Of course, she knew that it was real. Nick would never have called if it wasn’t the truth. She took a deep breath. Her mind shifted into crisis management mode.

What else did the BBC say, Nick?

Well, they said that the Royal Eswatini police were working on the case. They also said there had been a rise in crime in the country including kidnapping for ransom. But so far, there’s been no request for ransom and no clues as to who did this. I’m … I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Rochelle.

Rochelle let this information sink in.

No. I’m glad it was you who told me, Nick, and not some bureaucrat from the government.

Rochelle knew that any time now, she would be contacted by multiple French government agencies. These would include her former employer, the Ministry for Europe and Foreign Affairs, France’s equivalent to the US State Department, the French Gendarmerie, France’s national police force and the Directorate General for External Security, France’s version of the CIA. Since a French citizen had been kidnapped on foreign soil, these were the primary agencies who would work the case.

Rochelle, I’m coming to Avallon to stay with you … if that is okay?

Of course, Nick. Please come immediately. Your support will be so welcome now. Thank you, my friend.

Well, at least very soon, your former colleagues in the government will be coming to your aid as well.

Yes, that is true. I pray that this is just a robbery gone wrong and that whoever took her lets her go soon.

But in her gut, Rochelle knew this was probably not the case. Her stomach knotted up thinking about what might be happening to her beautiful daughter so far away. She felt helpless to do anything.

I’ll be there in a few hours, Rochelle. Try and stay calm. We’ll figure this out and get Chloe back.

Okay, Nick. See you soon.

The call ended and Rochelle slid down to the floor, still holding the now disconnected phone. Then she screamed. It was more of a wail … a haunting, painful sound from the depths of her soul. Her daughter had been kidnapped. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of all the things her captors might be doing to her right now. Her body was wracked with the pain she was feeling, and uncontrollable tears were flowing down her face.

She spent the next fifteen minutes on the kitchen floor. Then she got up, wiped her eyes, smoothed out her hair and went into her large great room.

Always on its charger, Rochelle kept her cell phone in the room. She pulled the phone from the charger and started looking at her contact list. She found the name she was looking for.

She hesitated for a moment. Should I make the call or not? Will he pick up? Will he talk to me? Will he get Chloe back? Dammit. It’s Chloe … my daughter. You have to call. It’s not about us. It’s about her.

Rochelle punched in the number on the phone.

There was a pause. It was typical when making calls to foreign countries. She envisioned the numbers she had punched in weaving through countless miles of air to its destination.

She was calling the US.

The phone then started ringing … once, twice, three times, four times, five times ….

Pick up your damn phone! God, please don’t let me get to voicemail!

Finally, the line picked up on the other end.

Hello, this is Jack.

Libreville, Gabon | 27 years earlier, 1995

Trench was sweating his ass off.

What the hell am I doing here in Libreville! I’m stuck in a ratty ass rental car with no air conditioning, staring at another car. A car that probably has air conditioning and its occupants are fat, dumb, happy, and cool!

He could answer that question himself.

Trench was a CIA officer assigned to a counterterrorist unit called Cobra One. Specifically, a subset of Cobra One called The Watchers. The Watchers had one job and one job alone—keep CIA officers safe overseas. If a CIA officer had to conduct a dangerous meeting with an asset, call The Watchers to provide cover and fire- power. If a CIA officer felt he or she was under hostile surveillance from enemy spy outfits or terrorist groups—call The Watchers.

When the shit hits the fan—call The Watchers.

Two weeks ago, Libreville’s Station Chief, Chief of Station (COS) Frank Amos, sent a cable to CIA headquarters in Langley. He needed The Watchers team deployed to Libreville asap. One of his case officers, Mustapha Meskin, had been recruiting a terrorist asset from Hezbollah for the past several months. Hezbollah, the Lebanese Shia terrorist organization, had set up a small cell in Libreville. Hezbollah’s leaders in Lebanon thought that such a cell in a tiny African country like Gabon, which no one in the west pays any attention to, would be an ideal location from which to run terrorist operations.

Meskin was on his first tour of duty after graduation from his CIA training. He loved being in Africa. Gabon was a former French colony located in West Africa. Bordered by the Gulf of Guinea to the west, it is a poor but beautiful country. After four months on the ground in Libreville, Meskin befriended a young Muslim, Fairouz Rabbani, at a local mosque during weekly prayers. They were the same age, 25, and single. Meskin had run Agency traces on Rabbani to see if he had any terrorist affiliations. Sure as shit he did! Rabbani had been with Hezbollah since he was nineteen years old. He fought against the Israeli military many times in the Beqaa Valley in Lebanon. He had been wounded in the leg after having been shot by an Israeli soldier in one such encounter. Rabbani killed the Israeli soldier, but his wound left him with a permanent limp. Two months before Meskin’s arrival in Libreville, Rabbani had been sent by his Hezbollah chiefs to help start up the cell in Gabon.

Ironically, the wound to Rabbani’s leg not only caused him to limp, but it also caused something more serious: doubt. Doubt about his choice of a profession. Doubt about his longevity on this earth if he stayed too long in the terrorist game. Meskin, doing what case officers do, exploited Rabbani’s doubts over a period of months. He planted the seeds in Rabbani’s head, heart, and soul about what a normal life could be like: no more guns; no more hiding in the shadows; no more taking orders from madmen in Beirut. He could be his own man. If he fell in love with a woman, he could marry her without worrying if his bride would soon be a widow due to his terrorist activities. Meskin worked Rabbani until he was able to recruit him to provide information on the cell in Libreville. A coup for the station!

Yet in the last few meetings with Rabbani, Meskin felt they were being watched. He never made any surveillance but like a good operations officer, he had a sixth sense. Something wasn’t right. And lately, Rabbani’s intelligence on the cell was sporadic and certainly not as good as it was when they first started talking. The last thing the COS, Frank Amos, wanted on his watch was a kidnapped or murdered case officer. Those kinds of things didn’t look so good in a personnel file.

So, he called for The Watchers to conduct surveillance on Meskin’s meetings with Rabbani, thus the presence of one Jack Trench and his team.

For the past few weeks, Trench and his team had been conducting surveillance on Meskin and Rabbani. So far, nothing was amiss. No sign of surveillance and bad guys.

That all changed yesterday. Rabbani called Meskin and asked to meet him immediately. He said he had information that Meskin would want to know and know now! Meskin noted a definite sense of urgency in Rabbani’s voice. Something he hadn’t heard before.

Meskin and Rabbani had three different destinations around Libreville where they would meet. Typically, Meskin would pick Rabbani up in his blue Mitsubishi Pajero SUV at a predesignated location