Enemy of Mine
Authors: Brad Taylor
ENEMY OF MINE
ALSO BY BRAD TAYLOR
One Rough Man
All Necessary Force
ENEMY
OF MINE
BRAD TAYLOR
A PIKE LOGAN THRILLER
DUTTON
DUTTON
Published by the Penguin Group
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Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First printing, January 2013
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © 2013 by Brad Taylor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Taylor, Brad, 1965–
Enemy of mine : a Pike Logan thriller / Brad Taylor.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-101-60660-5
1. Special operations (Military science)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.A9353E54 2013
813’.6—dc23
2012014703
Printed in the United States of America
Set in Sabon LT Std.
Designed by Leonard Telesca
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
| ALWAYS LEARNING | PEARSON |
To my mother and father,
for teaching me the art of the possible
Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter.
Ernest Hemingway
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Arabic Proverb
Prologue
Two months ago
T
he time to start recording
came and went, and I hesitated still. I studied the screen, searching for whatever was causing my reticence. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing I hadn’t seen a hundred times before. A simple room, ten feet by twenty feet, with only a beat-up desk and chair. No place to hide. No weapons of any kind. A room tailor-made for a takedown.
Yet a vague unease made me pause, like the fleeting stench of something rotten under the floor. Made me believe that perhaps I wouldn’t want anyone in the future to see what I was about to witness.
The camera was located just above the single door to the room, allowing me full view of its entire length. The image it fed to the screen was grainy and harsh as it strained to work in the dim light of the single fluorescent bulb. The corners were hidden in shadows, but the desk was clearly illuminated. Good enough to trigger the assault when the time came.
I caught movement, and saw the top edge of the door swing open. I quickly dialed my phone, alerting the team. “Stand by.”
A figure entered the frame. It was a woman. Not the target. She moved to the desk, then turned around, giving me a clear shot of her face. I knew her.
What the hell is she doing here? Why didn’t she stay home?
I said, “We have an innocent on the X. I’m calling an abort.”
A voice I didn’t recognize answered. “Mission takes priority. No abort.”
A small girl entered the screen, running to the woman.
“You’ve now got two innocents. One child. Abort. My call.”
“It’s not your call. It’s a Taskforce call, and the mission takes priority.”
The decision made no sense. We had plenty of other opportunities to get this guy, and the noncombatants had the potential to turn the hit into a fiasco. At the very least, it would be impossible to keep the operation from leaking out.
“Who the hell is this? Put on the team leader.”
All I heard was “Mission takes priority.” Then a click as he hung up. I was redialing when another figure entered the room. A man, but not the target. The man didn’t turn around, but I knew who it was. The woman’s face showed fear, and the child darted behind her back. The man advanced toward them both and I saw he was holding a club.
The phone connected and I said, “The innocents are in trouble. Execute, execute, execute.”
The mechanical voice said, “Trouble from the target? Is the target there?”
“No. It’s someone else, but he’s bad. I know he’s bad. Get in there!”
“The mission takes priority. We wait for the target.”
The man jabbed with the club like he was holding a sword, hitting the woman in the stomach. She doubled over.
“Dammit, get your ass in there, now!”
The phone was dead.
The man swung the club upward, catching the woman in the jaw. The impact split her jaw sideways in a spray of blood, the stark white of bone punching through the red flesh of her cheek.
I screamed at the flickering image and grabbed the edges of the monitor, desperately trying to will myself to the scene.
The woman fell backward onto the desk, exposing the girl. She cowered at the man’s feet, tears running down her face, her mouth open in a shriek I couldn’t hear. The man grabbed her by the head and lifted her off the ground. He rocked to the left once, then violently swung to the right, whipsawing the small child into the wall by her head. She crumpled in an unnatural heap. The man withdrew a knife from his jacket and held it up high. In full view of the camera. For me to see. Then he began to slowly turn toward the lens…
…And I woke up, drawing in great gulps of air. I was disoriented and bathed in sweat, the feeble light from the outside parking lot finally showing me the corners of the hotel room. I felt an echo, and wondered if I’d screamed for real. I began to sit up when the nausea hit. I scrambled for the toilet through the dim light, reaching it a second before spewing out everything I had eaten in the last six hours.
The heaves subsided and I curled next to the toilet, still trembling at the aftershocks of the dream.
The man had returned, and now he was bringing my family with him.
I should have never looked at the pictures.
It had been four years since the murder of my wife and daughter, and I had never had a dream of the crime. I had dreamed of the man plenty. He stalked me like a Freddy Krueger, popping up in all sorts of weird ways, but never with my family. Never. I had been blessed with nothing but good dreams of them. Dreams that brought melancholy when I awoke, but good nonetheless. Ephemeral moments I tried hard to remember, but which faded away like fog hit by the morning sun. Unlike this one. Acid wouldn’t remove the etching it had left in my soul, I knew.
Why did I look?
I had come back to Fayetteville, North Carolina, to check on any progress in solving the crime, like I had done about every three months since the murders, as if my presence would cause something to break free. It never did. The case was as cold as Jimmy Hoffa, and the police
barely tolerated me now. They were nice enough, but they knew it was going nowhere, and looked at me with pity.
This time I had decided to study the crime-scene photos to see if there was a clue they were missing, something I’d never done before. Something others had warned me against. Four years ago the officers had said the pictures were brutal, and because of it, at every visit, I had never asked. This time I did. And they were right.
Now the pictures had brought the stalker to my family. Had allowed him unfettered access to torture me every night, a faceless mass of evil that would never leave me in peace.
In all the dreams I saw him from the back. He never turned around. Never showed me his true nature, content to simply taunt me, like he had tonight with the knife. Deep inside, a part of me begged for him to show himself. A corner of my soul that lived in blackness and craved escape. Craved relief. It believed that if I could see him, I could kill him.
And it desperately wanted to do that.
Present Day
W
hen she saw her suitcase
come up first on the conveyor belt, the investigator’s face broke into a smile. The flight from Beirut had been a long one, and she was ready to get home. Had she known how little time she had left, she most definitely would have preferred it to come out last—or not at all.
