Torching the Crimson Flag Read online

  Torching The Crimson Flag

  Conrad Brasso

  Also by Conrad Brasso

  Hunting The Midnight Shark

  Braving The Emerald Wasp

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  Contents

  Torching The Crimson Flag

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  About the Author

  Torching The Crimson Flag

  By Conrad Brasso

  Torching The Crimson Flag by Conrad Brasso

  Copyright 2020 Klug Publishing, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of Klug Publishing LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, email: [email protected]

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

  Cover Art: 100 Covers

  Cover Design: Hackntog Design

  ISBN: 978-1-950566-10-5

  Thank you to my team for keeping me on mission and on schedule, in spite of the extraordinary circumstances. Thank you to all my readers for reading these books. Thank you especially to my insiders list members for all your valuable feedback and encouragement. And most of all, thank you, Beautiful, as always, for your love and support.

  You may choose to look the other way but you can never say again that you did not know.

  — William Wilberforce, 1791

  Chapter One

  Meticulous. Brilliant. Professional.

  Trustworthy. Accurate.

  Studious.

  Discreet.

  Patriot.

  Those were just a few of the words people used to describe the most protected man on the planet. He wasn’t the president of the free world, held no high position in a company, didn’t own a world-changing patent, and certainly wasn’t a social media magnet. He was the opposite of that, whatever it would be called. He had no wife, no kids, and no family. Not even a dog. That was part of the deal. He didn’t mind; it appealed to his slightly neurotic obsessive-compulsive personality. Nathan B. Harris liked to lead a simple life, yet the United States government had no limit on the amount of money and resources they devoted to keeping him safe.

  Dr. Harris was the Chief White House Translator. He spoke eleven languages fluently and had diplomatic status in all of them. That meant that he could just as easily translate conversations on trade as he could facilitate talks about the effects of Genetically Modified Organisms on corn crops in Argentina. He’d honored four administrations with his skills and had sat in on almost every meeting that those American Presidents had held with foreign dignitaries. He was part of the meeting on nuclear disarmament between President George Baker and the leader of North Korea. He sat next to President Webb at the Euro/America Summit when the United States was embroiled in intense negotiations with Russia. Two years ago, when Japan had experienced provocation from China, he was part of those bilateral meetings, seamlessly moving from English into Japanese and Mandarin, and back to English. He accompanied the American Ambassador to Israel when an Arab-led coalition was questioning the integrity of a newly-negotiated peace process. His official role there had been part of the hospitality team. Only the U.S. Ambassador knew Nathan was fluent in Arabic and harvesting information from the other side while he worked in disguise.

  Despite all of his grand accolades, another word to describe Harris would’ve been unrecognizable. If anyone saw a picture of him, nobody would know who he was or remember having seen him before. It was one of his most important attributes and, believe it or not, one of the reasons he still held the position over a sexy director from a flashy communications firm in New York who’d matched his linguistic skills and tried to steal his job.

  The day he was kidnapped began like every other day in the last thirty years of his life, the days he was home, at least. When he was on the road with the President, he’d try and keep the same routine, but it wasn’t always possible. His alarm started chirping like a bird at 4:30 AM, gradually getting louder, until he turned it off six minutes later. He got out of bed and immediately remade it, perfectly. Although Nathan Harris was simple, he’d always purchased quality. And every time he made his bed, he’d run his hand over the uber-soft seamless Dreamsacks silken sheets and think about the importance of being the best. After using the restroom, he’d walk to the kitchen and drink a full glass of water before going downstairs and spending an hour on his Expresso Fitness S3 Novo – an exercise bike that features a 19-inch monitor, an interactive fitness management system, over thirty virtual tours from around the world, and the ability to race against other bikers with real-time road conditions. After an ice-shower, fifteen minutes in a steam room, and another ice shower, he’d get dressed in quality plain clothes, have breakfast, and take ten minutes to read the Bible and center himself in his faith. Then he’d stand by his front door at 6:45 AM until his security detail pulled up at the curb and said it was okay to step outside.

  Tim Michaels was former Secret Service. He wasn’t retired. He’d been cherry-picked for this job along with five other highly competent operators. They traveled with Nathan to foreign countries, checked his accommodations, and were on constant protective duty and high alert. Being former SS worked well because they understood how the President’s security functioned and were able to seamlessly integrate the translator when he needed to be present.

  On this day, the medium gray 2005 Cadillac Escalade with darkly smoked windows pulled up to the curb. This particular vehicle had been custom-designed in Silao, Mexico, at the factory. The word escalade refers to a siege warfare tactic of scaling fortified walls or ramparts with the aid of ladders or siege towers. From the outside, the bull
et-resistant exterior seemed to match any other Cadillac. But inside, the vehicle was battle-ready, equipped with the latest in technology and communications.

  Nathan observed four men in dark suits with sunglasses get out. One watched ahead, the other behind, the third stood just outside the driver’s side door and pivoted his head in multiple directions. Tim was the fourth man. He checked left and right and then calmly walked up the sidewalk to Nathan’s front door.

  “Dr. Harris.”

  “Tim.”

  “Good night?”

  “Always,” he said, allowing a slight smile to emerge from under his mustache. Checking the angle of his carefully placed brown homburg on his bald head, he tipped the brim and said, “We’re living the dream, kid. Living the dream.”

  The conversation was always the same. It wasn’t an accident. If Dr. Nathan B. Harris had been intimidated, threatened, frightened, or under any other kind of duress during his rest-time in his home, he’d have responded differently. He’d have said, “Yes, thank you. I slept great.” That would trigger a myriad of prepared responses, beginning with him being physically scuttled away. Then, a few members of his team would clear his house, take all of his digital equipment, sweep the place for spying bugs, and that was just the beginning of the protective protocol.

  “Package received,” Tim informed the others. He waited for Harris to close his front door and make use of the thumb scanner in the center of it to lock and arm the home.

  The two men were just turning to walk down the sidewalk when four KTM 250 motorcycles came ripping around the street corners! Two at each end of the short block. They accelerated with tremendous velocity – their riders hunched over to maximize aerodynamics.

  Tim pushed the translator forward, “Get into the car, now!!”

  It was too late. The bikers had their QBZ-95’s ready. By the time Nathan Harris’ security detail drew their Glocks, small-caliber, high-velocity, copper-alloy-jacketed, hardened steel-cored bullets were ripping their bodies apart.

  Harris froze. Terrified.

  “Get in the car!” John Grayson yelled from the driver’s seat. “Nathan! Move!”

  One of the bikers pulled up beside the Escalade and tossed a black sticky object against the driver’s side door. In a short second, the bomb exploded the bullet-proof door, and the rider shot Grayson. His blood splattered all over the inside of the half-million-dollar vehicle. A white 2004 Ford E Series Van skidded onto the scene with its side door open and screeched to a halt. Two figures hopped off their bikes and threw Dr. Harris to the ground. They zip-tied him like cowboys tying a calf in a rodeo and tossed him into the van.

  The whole scene had taken less than a minute, and now the street was eerily quiet, except for the noise of death gurgling from the government-provided security personnel. Several neighbors called 9-1-1 to report the gunfire. But there was one house, two houses down and across the street, who had three roommates sharing the space. In the neighborhood, they were known as young Millennial entrepreneurs trying to make it in the digital marketing space. In reality, they were hired by the Secret Service to monitor Nathan’s house for just such a moment. They took turns keeping constant watch, monitoring comms, and recording every action around his home. Every minute of every hour. Night and day. It was boring and tedious. But not right now. As soon as things began to happen, they scurried together and placed an immediate call to the President directly. It was a short conversation with devastating news.

  As the information got reported through secure intelligence channels, dozens of heads of nations from around the world were in full-fledged panic mode.

  Dr. Harris knew all their secrets.

  Chapter Two

  Several years ago, Trey Stone had come to Banff, Canada, on a mission for the CIA, and he’d always promised himself he’d be back with his family when he wasn’t on company time. He loved the stunning mountains, the smell of the pines, the shimmering Bow River, and the wildlife. It truly was one of the world’s most spectacular locations, and at this moment, it was the perfect place for a refreshing holiday during the oppressively hot, muggy summer of the East Coast of the United States. His daughter, Jasmine, could philosophize among her newly made coffee-drinking friends in the historic downtown. Bao Zhen, his wife, could go shopping with her mom and stock up on indigenous Canadian trinkets. And a few hours away, Trey could surreptitiously dress in his mountain ghillie suit, hide in the shale and snow-tipped peaks past the Lake Louise Glacier and practice shooting at things.

  It had been ten months since the Stone family had been involved in their mission against the Emerald Wasp, a Middle East child trafficking network that had been operating in the United States and North Africa. The aftermath had lasted a few months. Paperwork. Debriefing with various government agencies. Sworn testimony in secret court sessions, with their identities highly protected, of course. And continued meetings with Dr. Messerman, their post-traumatic stress disorder counselor. Now, basking in the therapy of the inspiring Rocky Mountains, the Stone family was happily re-energizing and recovering.

  Trey was famous in the American covert world, although most people had never met him and wouldn’t be able to describe what he looked like. He was one of the CIA’s top snipers, trained in a clandestine facility in central Japan. Multilingual, dark-haired, good looking, and sporting a photographic memory, he’d mastered moving through a group of people while being friendly, but remarkably unmemorable. He was skilled at collecting valuable human intel from a variety of sources. Most importantly, he was trained in dozens of ways to kill so that it looked like a natural death. In short, he was the quintessential covert assassin.

  Stone had met his wife, Bao Zhen, while on a short break from covert operations in Malaysia. He’d wandered, quite innocently, into a jazz club in Kuala Lumpur, but came out, knowing he’d just met the lady he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. She, too, was a brilliant person. With a fearless passion for justice and lots of experience from the school of cruel life-lessons, she understood the difference between right and wrong all too well. Together, they were the true definition of synergy: their interaction produced a combined effect more significant than the mere sum of their separate actions.

  Three thousand miles away, on one of the most isolated pieces of real estate in the world, Boyd Carter was back home on the Big Island of Hawaii. Sneaking through a guava forest on the north side of the island, she knelt and pulled out her American Predator. Ruger made this rifle to accommodate the most popular short-action cartridge in the world, and the cold hammer-forged barrel of her weapon was ready for heat. Putting her crosshairs right on his neck, she pulled the trigger. It was good shot. The Hawaiian pua’a grunted and then fell over, dead.

  “Chee-hoo! Nice shot, cuz!”

  Carter looked over at her fourteen-year-old cousin. His long black hair and dark Hawaiian face made his white teeth appear even whiter as he smiled broadly.

  “Too easy,” she grinned.

  “Ono grinds this weekend,” he responded in Pigeon. There’d be some good eating.

  The two of them made their way over to the fallen wild boar. Boyd’s bullet had sliced cleanly through the neck, severing the spine, and exiting out the other side. It had been a very quick kill. Less experienced hunters would go for the head. But, while pigs are smart, their brains are pretty small and encased in thick bone. Many hunters have talked about nailing a headshot and walking over to the hog, only to have it jump up and charge them because they’d missed the brain entirely. Boyd looked down at the animal with deep satisfaction. A good hunt. This one had been gelded about a year earlier and was perfect for harvesting. He even had giant crescent-moon tusks, very valuable to Hawaiians.

  “You want ‘em?” she asked her cousin.

  “Serious?”

  “They’re yours.”

  “Mahalos, Boyd! Nice!”

  They quickly field-dressed their prize, extremely careful not to contaminate the meat by puncturing any of the internal organs.
When they were done, they tied the animal by its hooves to a sturdy guava pole before lifting it between them to carry out of the bush. Even dressed, he was probably just shy of 200lbs. This was Boyd’s least favorite part. Her cousin was a typical Hawaiian teenage country boy. He’d grown up hunting and diving and surfing, so that even at age 14, lifting his share of the weight was no trouble for him. She distracted herself as they laboriously made their way back to the truck, thinking about the food they would make. By the time they processed the meat, there would be plenty to share with the whole family.

  Boyd Carter and the Stones had been working together with a small group of operatives for almost two years. They based out of a high-tech warehouse they’d created in Maryland, called LaunchPad, in honor of the building’s former life as a missile and torpedo testing site for the Martins Company. It was off-grid, and although a few American intelligence organizations knew it existed, they didn’t know it’s exact location. People as high as ex-U.S. presidents and the CIA director himself, made sure that it was a well-covered operation in every sense of the word. The team had been able to provide help faster and stealthier than any bureaucracy-heavy three-lettered agencies could.