Power Trip

  Power Trip

  Eric Swan Thriller #1

  Dom Testa

  Join the Swaniverse - Get free stuff

  Eric Swan is

  The Spy Who Can Never Die

  With each new tale you’ll learn a little more about Q2’s super spy, Eric Swan.

  If you’d like to be among the first to learn of each new adventure before they’re published, just let me know where to find you.

  As a thank you for joining the Swaniverse, you’ll be treated to a free Eric Swan short story, along with other bonus treats.

  Details at the back of the book.

  Thanks, and happy reading.

  Dom Testa

  Contents

  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 One

  The drop from the roof was a good ten feet. It wasn’t the distance that concerned me. I’d had enough training to avoid a break or tweak, even in this dim light. Just a month ago I’d jumped from the roof of an urgent care facility in Baton Rouge and that had been closer to 14 feet. An easy drop, tuck, and roll maneuver had preserved limbs and ligaments.

  Which was a good thing because Quanta would’ve had a fit if I’d damaged my new body so soon.

  Of course if I had been injured in that particular fall, at least I’d been in the right place to get patched up. The physician assistant on duty would’ve happily attended to me. He seemed an affable fellow with a cheery smile and deep laugh.

  As it turned out, I’d ultimately pumped four rounds into him, two on each side of the dangling stethoscope. A nice spread, thanks. But that was a different case and the malevolent PA had it coming, anyway.

  So no, it wasn’t the distance. It was the possibility of noise, any sound that could alert the jumbo-sized thug pacing back and forth in front of the building. The hulk, vaping something with a hint of strawberry, could be disabled easily enough before turning his automatic weapon in my direction.

  Unless he had a warning, like the sound of a 180-pound man — or was my last body 180? — dropping into a layer of dried leaves.

  And the leaves were everywhere. The patch of land housing this compound, miles from the nearest town, technically was in a small clearing but the aspen trees around it had surrendered to the late-fall weather. The nearby peaks had already seen a considerable kiss of snow and it wouldn’t be long until this part of Utah became a postcard.

  I studied the situation, flexing my fingers around the grip of the Glock 18, aware of the seconds ticking by. There was only one way to jump into the scene without giving my opponent prep time. I’d jump onto the scene.

  It’s not my favorite technique. Sure, in the movies the good guy always gets the drop on the villain by jumping onto his head, but in the real world that’s usually a dumb move. Too many things can go wrong, including injury to the schmuck leaping from the roof. Action movies put too many stuntman notions into people’s heads.

  But there wasn’t time for another play, so I’d have to be that schmuck. A dozen men, armed and angry, could arrive any minute. It had to be now.

  I thumbed the pistol’s safety and tucked the piece into my back waistband, then crept to the edge of the roof, careful to not send debris skittering over the side.

  The beast had just made an about-face. He’d be directly below in seconds. I inhaled, held it, then pitched myself over the side.

  Just as he stopped to scratch an itch on his lower back.

  It was not a graceful landing. “Well, shit,” I muttered, sprawled on my ass, staring up at six-and-a-half feet of muscle and body hair. If there was any consolation it was the befuddled look on his face.

  But he wasn’t startled for long. Dropping the vape pen and fumbling for control of his weapon, he stepped a little closer, which was, of course, the stupidest thing he could do.

  “Here you go,” I called out, and from my sitting position launched the toe of my right boot upward into his crotch. As the first sign of crumpling appeared in his face, I placed another well-aimed shot into the balls. One blow like that is disarming, two is crippling, and the giant let his weapon drop as he sank to his knees, hands cupping his groin. His face was screwed up in agony, but also conveniently within range. My heel connected with his jaw and he was out, lying on his stomach with one arm twisted beneath him.

  I was still on my ass and elbows, so I rolled to one side to alleviate the pain of my own weapon digging into my lower back.

  Well, the exchange certainly wasn’t textbook, but I’d gotten away with it. I looked over to confirm the beast was done for the time being, then chuckled. Screw the bullet-proof vest; next time I’d request a cup.

  Pushing to my feet and removing the gun, I looked left and right. For a moment I thought of dragging the unconscious monster into the shadows, but he looked like 280 pounds of grade-A sirloin, and who had time for that struggle? The squad of bad dudes would arrive soon. The sight of their buddy with dented nuts would put them on high alert, but so be it.

  I left him and hurried to the door of the squatty building, opened it, then turned on the inside light. That would draw — and hopefully keep — the attention of the approaching mercenaries. Then I jogged around the far side of the building, stopping before the shed.

  It sat in a placid, nondescript way, backed right up to the woods. It didn’t look like much but that was by design. You don’t store dozens of crates of high explosives in your garage. You hide them, preferably out in the boonies in a decrepit shed.

  Then you possibly rig the door of the sad-looking shed with a smaller, but still lethal, outward charge to keep your secret stash free from the nosy eyes of hunters, hikers, or quasi-federal agents. I dropped to my knees before the door and turned on my phone’s flashlight.

  Squinting through the crack around the lock uncovered nothing amiss. I leaned to the left and studied the lower hinge, then stood and repeated the exam at the top. Nothing.

  Of course, this could all just be a waste of precious time. One solid kick could have me inside in a flash.

  Or a different sort of flash could be the last thing I ever saw before bits of me scattered for the wildlife to nibble on. Most of us recalled a Q2 training video showing grisly evidence of a directional bomb’s treatment of a human body, and that didn’t seem optimal to me. Not with so much vacation time accrued.

  But were these jokers smart enough to rig something like that? My three days of surveillance would’ve registered a big no if it hadn’t been for Red Hair. Red was undoubtedly in charge and seemed to possess the brainpower of the other 10 combined.

  He’d arrived at sunrise the day before and the atmosphere around the camp instantly morphed. Instead of lackadaisical and sloppy, people moved faster and checked things twice. I counted at least four of the crew suddenly wearing clean shirts, something they’d previously been in no hurry to do. And when Red spoke, the minions hung on his every syllable like they were receiving instructions from God. Which, in their world, they apparently were.

  I, however, wasn’t privy to an
y of those syllables. While it had been child’s play intercepting everyone else’s communication devices, Red Hair was a criminal grownup. He didn’t appear to use a cell phone, and his other device — a sort of science-fictiony gadget that connected him with the off-campus universe — was impenetrable. At least with the limited gear I had on hand. Red was a pro’s pro.

  Yeah, the guy’s arrival changed my entire perspective. This particular big cheese only communicated with the morons when necessary, and otherwise spent his time inspecting the grounds and the goods before dispensing commands. Not once did he raise his voice or bark like a drill sergeant. He didn’t have to. From my perch I’d watched Red give a severe look of disapproval to one soldier, and an hour later that soldier’s limp body was loaded into the back of an F350 for disposal off site.

  He’d begun issuing serious orders last night. Beginning just before midnight, a large truck had backed up to this little shed, right to the door. Because of the darkness I couldn’t see all of the activities moving in and out, but I was able — with night-vision glasses — to catch a glimpse of several crates hauled inside.

  Red likely wouldn’t keep them here for long before packing them off to other nefarious types. Which is why my timetable had jumped to pronto.

  Now, as I studied the shitty shed’s door, I thought back to one specific incident. On his first day Red spent fifteen minutes inside this dumpy little building and, upon exiting, had nodded at the door. Just a nod and a few quiet comments. It could’ve meant anything.

  ‘I love what you’ve done with the place.’

  ‘Nice man cave, bro.’

  ‘Think we could get some chips and queso in here next time?’

  But I had to assume the worst. It had been thirty-six hours, plenty of time for a quick demolition upgrade. Now, if I’d been free to take out everything and everyone right away it would’ve been a non-issue. But Quanta’s instructions had been clear: We suspect a knave will arrive this week. Wait and gather intel before implementing operation’s final act.

  That final act had originally been composed of two parts:

  1) Secure the area, which meant disabling any goons on patrol. Like the turd now lying in the dirt. The turd who’d wake up a soprano.

  2) Confirm the existence of the explosives in this desolate stretch of land two hours outside Salt Lake City, and, after that, acquire a sample for Q2’s nerdy technicians to identify. That would conclude my business and clear a path for the FBI.

  But now a third item had been tacked onto the to-do list. Identify the knave I’d casually nicknamed Red.

  The truth is, I had a feeling I knew exactly who Red was, which colored that feeling with both excitement and alarm. At the moment, however, the pressing issue was the door and its potential booby-trap.

  “Oh, hell,” I muttered and took one step back. Too much time spent thinking always chapped my ass. Red wouldn’t risk detonating anything this close to his deadline. And besides, I hated waiting around, almost as much as getting blown up. I’d spent three days on this cold, uncomfortable assignment and nothing sounded better right now than my own bed after a hot bath and hard liquor.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I lifted a leg and kicked hard, right below the door’s lock. A satisfying crunch rang out, but it took two more blows before a splintering sound told me it was now permanently unlocked.

  Drawing the Glock, I toed the damaged door inward. It groaned and swung back halfway before stopping against something in the dark.

  The crates were stacked in multiple columns, each large box just a bit catawompus from the one below, no doubt engineered to facilitate an easier grasp at the bottom. A quick assessment revealed twelve silos of five. The arrangement ate up almost all the space inside the shed, leaving just enough room for big men with big muscles to maneuver.

  After glancing around I took two tentative steps into the dark space. I pushed the door closed behind me — although its days of properly latching were over — and fired up the flashlight again. The closest stack of crates weren’t marked, no numbers, no symbols. I needed to get a message to Q2 before the dirty dozen rode in, but, first, a quick peek. Just to be sure sure.

  I lowered the top crate — gently, mind you — to the floor. I slipped a small tool out of my jacket’s zipped pocket and unfolded the flathead screwdriver. I’d never been a boy scout, but damn, was I prepared. Kneeling and holding the light with one hand, I pried at the lid of the wooden box until it gave way with a high-pitched whine.

  Pushing it backwards onto the planked floor, I focused the light inside the crate. And blinked.

  It was full of rocks.

  “Son of a bitch,” I whispered. Back on my feet, I debated whether or not to examine any more of the crates. What if the top ones were decoys, while the others . . .

  No. The shed itself was the decoy, with one now-obvious purpose: To distract anyone who might be spending three very cold days watching a carefully choreographed charade.

  But the truck they’d unloaded had been the only cargo truck in the camp. Why go to all the trouble if they hadn’t unloaded the explosives? They’d spent close to thirty minutes hauling these boxes into the shed. Why?

  I whipped out my phone, waited for the satellite signal to kick in, and sent two words: Shit’s gone.

  I could explain more later, but first I needed an explanation myself. Starting to back out of the shed, a thought occurred to me. Stepping around the stacks of crates I trained my light on the back wall. The wall that backed up to the thick woods behind it.

  The wall that, I now saw, had a small, hinged door, one that appeared quite new.

  A hinged door that had allowed Red’s boys, under my curious gaze, to traipse out of the truck and right inside the front door with two dozen crates, and instantly pass the first 12 through the opening in the back. There, they likely were grabbed by other goons and stashed somewhere in that thick stand of trees until ready for delivery.

  While I, Eric Swan, supposed super sleuth for America’s Q2, the greatest counter-terrorist organization our nation had ever known, sat mouth breathing, sure he’d uncovered the stash.

  Red had known I was there all along. Which meant he knew . . .

  Which meant he knew I was standing here right now with my Glock in my hand. I said Glock.

  Shit.

  I turned around, took one step out the door, and came face to face with Red. Well, Red and ten of his associates, all pointing ugly weapons at my relatively-new face. A string of lights came on, bathing the scene like a late-night Christmas tree lot, complete with pine smells.

  “Find anything interesting?” Red asked, without even the courtesy of a smirk. Just a cold, emotionless question. So aggravating. Bad guys are supposed to smirk when they toss out one-liners like that. C’mon, you’ve seen the movies.

  I didn’t wait for the inevitable instruction; I tossed my gun onto the dirt between us. “For a big-time rock collector like me?” I said. “Not that interesting. Not a trace of tanzanite. What a waste of time.”

  If Red wasn’t going to play Bruce Willis, I would. I could see some of his troops glance at each other, not sure what to make of a wise-cracking asshole this close to death. Red, however, remained impassive.

  Look, this is a good time to pull back the curtain and let you see what really happens in these spy-like situations. Think of me as the how-to video for real-life espionage work.

  Here’s lesson one: In movies the bad guy always feels the need to give a speech. I guess screenwriters love the canvas that scene provides, a chance for them to really write.

  In the real world, there’s never a speech. They just shoot you.

  Red bent over and picked up my gun, examined it briefly, then flipped off the safety and pointed it at my head.

  “Before you do that, “ I said, holding up a hand, “may I ask you one question? I’ve been freezing my ass off for three days. Just one question. Then you can shoot me.”

  The men around him were now complete
ly perplexed, which gave me at least a tiny burst of satisfaction. Red remained still, the gun lined up with my forehead.

  I took a deep breath, perhaps my last for a while. “I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I gotta ask.” I closed the distance between us and stared right into his dark eyes. They were eyes that didn’t fit with the red hair, which, now I knew, was fake. All I needed was his acknowledgment.

  I said, “You’re Beadle, right?”

  It wasn’t much, an almost-imperceptible widening of those evil eyes. Almost. In that moment I knew I’d hit pay dirt. What a damned shame I wouldn’t be able to upload that information. It was intel that changed everything.

  He didn’t speak, and I saw the gun lower just a bit as he chewed on my question.

  “Okay, that’s what I thought,” I said with a chuckle. “Go ahead. I’ll see ya later.”

  He brought the gun back up, and then everything became a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors.

  Chapter Two

  I’d been trained for years. In fact, the training never stopped. Weapons, hand-to-hand combat, even psychological warfare. The bad guys always had something new up their sleeves so we were drilled over and over again.

  Not that I complained. Well, not much. When you work the assignments our department is handed you’re thankful you can defend yourself in a somewhat respectable manner.

  Which is why, after so many years, I couldn’t believe I was getting my ass handed to me by such a petite woman.