The Last Operation (The Remnants of War Series, Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Patrick Astre
devices picked up the details of his "retirement plan" being arranged. He'd prepared accordingly.
It was three AM when Kanga and his elite squad surrounded the three room house Daniels occupied. "Elite," in this case, simply meant a bunch of murdering thugs.
Daniels' only regret had been that he couldn't film the event. He would have liked watching the scene when Kanga and his soldiers burst through the door, probably firing hundreds of rounds into his cot and the sleeping figure under the thin blankets. He could only imagine Kanga's face when they pulled the blankets back. Instead of Daniels' bullet riddled corpse, they would have found his artistic rendering of a happy face flipping them the middle finger.
Or perhaps not.
Maybe they would have been so scared of his reputation, they might have fired so many rounds they would have shredded his artwork. One thing Daniels knew for sure: The two Claymores had worked.
Nothing inside the house survived the hailstorm of thousands of steel pellets and jagged shrapnel exploding from the Claymore mines at the rate of twenty-thousand feet per second, much faster then the average bullet from a pistol.
Daniels' dear friend and architect of his retirement plan, General Kanga, had been in the room. The exploding Claymores activated a timer for Daniels' last statement. Ten seconds later four shaped Semtex charges exploded, shredding the little house and setting off a drum of jellied gasoline, Napalm. The explosion could be seen and heard for miles.
That really pissed off Mobutu. Not only did Daniels evade his goon squad, but now he would have to find replacements, including his number one henchman, General Kanga.
Not one had survived.
It took Daniels six weeks to make his way through the bush into neighboring Zimbabwe. He'd lost forty pounds from dysentery and malnutrition. Even worse, most of his funds had been blocked and it would take almost a year to free them up.
By the time Daniels returned to the States and landed in New York, he was down to less then fifteen thousand. He was tearing through that, faster then a convict on the run.
He'd rented a two room flat in Chinatown off Mott Street that could be accurately described as a shit-hole, but Daniels didn't care.
He spent two months getting back in shape. Five AM runs for six miles followed by two hours of weight training, a mid-day nap and three hours of Tai-Zen Jiu-jitsu, (Daniels had earned a black belt six years earlier) had become his daily routine. He was leaner and meaner then he'd been in a long time.
He was also down to two hundred bucks and seriously considering the offer from Wendsworth Whittier Lawford III. (Who the hell would name their kid Wendsworth anyway, thought Daniels) W.W. Lawford III had inherited a clothing manufacturing business complete with its own outlets and a chain of department stores.
The man had a sharp business sense and worked hard expanding the business overseas. He was generally known as a pretty decent guy but somewhat paranoid. He wanted Daniels as his head of security for the stores as well as a sort of personal bodyguard. The money was good. There was really nothing wrong with the job except Daniels couldn't see himself there. He knew he would slowly go downhill until one day he would wake up with a potbelly and a golf club in his hand.
Thanks but no thanks.
As far as taking the job short term, a year or so, Daniels knew he would lose the Edge.
The Edge has been with him since his first day at Fort Bragg's Special Forces School back in the day. Hungry and mean as a wolf, he felt the Edge as a mystical force hovering on the fringes of his consciousness. He thought of it like a psychic sixth sense. It made the hair stand on the back of his neck and stopped him just one step before walking into a guerrilla trap in the jungles near Bogota. The Edge nagged him about Mobutu and Kanga and saved him from being murdered. It's always there: his martial guardian angel. But like any force of
It was three AM when Kanga and his elite squad surrounded the three room house Daniels occupied. "Elite," in this case, simply meant a bunch of murdering thugs.
Daniels' only regret had been that he couldn't film the event. He would have liked watching the scene when Kanga and his soldiers burst through the door, probably firing hundreds of rounds into his cot and the sleeping figure under the thin blankets. He could only imagine Kanga's face when they pulled the blankets back. Instead of Daniels' bullet riddled corpse, they would have found his artistic rendering of a happy face flipping them the middle finger.
Or perhaps not.
Maybe they would have been so scared of his reputation, they might have fired so many rounds they would have shredded his artwork. One thing Daniels knew for sure: The two Claymores had worked.
Nothing inside the house survived the hailstorm of thousands of steel pellets and jagged shrapnel exploding from the Claymore mines at the rate of twenty-thousand feet per second, much faster then the average bullet from a pistol.
Daniels' dear friend and architect of his retirement plan, General Kanga, had been in the room. The exploding Claymores activated a timer for Daniels' last statement. Ten seconds later four shaped Semtex charges exploded, shredding the little house and setting off a drum of jellied gasoline, Napalm. The explosion could be seen and heard for miles.
That really pissed off Mobutu. Not only did Daniels evade his goon squad, but now he would have to find replacements, including his number one henchman, General Kanga.
Not one had survived.
It took Daniels six weeks to make his way through the bush into neighboring Zimbabwe. He'd lost forty pounds from dysentery and malnutrition. Even worse, most of his funds had been blocked and it would take almost a year to free them up.
By the time Daniels returned to the States and landed in New York, he was down to less then fifteen thousand. He was tearing through that, faster then a convict on the run.
He'd rented a two room flat in Chinatown off Mott Street that could be accurately described as a shit-hole, but Daniels didn't care.
He spent two months getting back in shape. Five AM runs for six miles followed by two hours of weight training, a mid-day nap and three hours of Tai-Zen Jiu-jitsu, (Daniels had earned a black belt six years earlier) had become his daily routine. He was leaner and meaner then he'd been in a long time.
He was also down to two hundred bucks and seriously considering the offer from Wendsworth Whittier Lawford III. (Who the hell would name their kid Wendsworth anyway, thought Daniels) W.W. Lawford III had inherited a clothing manufacturing business complete with its own outlets and a chain of department stores.
The man had a sharp business sense and worked hard expanding the business overseas. He was generally known as a pretty decent guy but somewhat paranoid. He wanted Daniels as his head of security for the stores as well as a sort of personal bodyguard. The money was good. There was really nothing wrong with the job except Daniels couldn't see himself there. He knew he would slowly go downhill until one day he would wake up with a potbelly and a golf club in his hand.
Thanks but no thanks.
As far as taking the job short term, a year or so, Daniels knew he would lose the Edge.
The Edge has been with him since his first day at Fort Bragg's Special Forces School back in the day. Hungry and mean as a wolf, he felt the Edge as a mystical force hovering on the fringes of his consciousness. He thought of it like a psychic sixth sense. It made the hair stand on the back of his neck and stopped him just one step before walking into a guerrilla trap in the jungles near Bogota. The Edge nagged him about Mobutu and Kanga and saved him from being murdered. It's always there: his martial guardian angel. But like any force of
Readers choose
An Unexpected Wife
Marquita Valentine
Jonathan Lowe
Erin Quinn
Rhys Ford
Jonathan Valin
Kevin Sampsell
Julie Buxbaum
Edward Kritzler