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  The Story

  Can a lethal assassin have a soft side?

  After a botched operation in Geneva, Javin Pierce and his partner are offered the chance to return to the CIS if they eliminate two senior ISIS leaders hiding in Iraq. Dispatched to the lawless lands, Javin and Claudia start to gather intel, and soon find themselves immersed in a sinister corruption scheme that reaches top-level Iraqi officials.

  Javin isn’t about to walk away.

  Now, being hunted down by ruthless ISIS fighters, the team fights to survive and navigate crooked, ever-shifting allegiances. As Javin and Claudia forge bonds with unlikely local allies from a refugee camp, Javin gets more than he bargained for. The evidence leads to Europe and an elaborate retrieval that, if successful, will tear down the entire corruption scheme and bring desperate relief to the camp.

  Javin now realizes his ticket back into the agency might be his most dangerous but satisfying mission yet. How will Javin clean up the targets, get back into the agency, and execute the seemingly impossible retrieval, all without leaving a trace?

  RETRIEVAL

  JAVIN PIERCE SERIES -

  BOOK FOUR

  ETHAN JONES

  To God and my family.

  Thank you for your wonderful love.

  Table of Contents

  Front Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Epilogue

  Bonus - A Grenade Named Ghaffari

  Bonus - Interception Chapter One

  Bonus - Interception Chapter Two

  Bonus - Interception Chapter Three

  Bonus - Interception Chapter Four

  Bonus - Interception Chapter Five

  Bonus - Interception Chapter Six

  Bonus - Interception Chapter Seven

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Boulder, Colorado

  United States of America

  Asif, the former jihadist fighter for the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, or ISIS, frowned as he turned the small Ford Focus onto Arapahoe Avenue. The patio area of Thrive—the raw vegan organic eatery where the meeting with his handler was going to take place—was crowded with “hippies.” It was the insulting label the fighter reserved for everyone who seemed to be practicing a healthier, active lifestyle, visible in their slim or athletic bodies. Most of the patrons were wearing colorful t-shirts stamped with messages bringing attention to saving the planet, the elephants, or to tearing down walls.

  The fighter cursed them out loud as he parked as close as he could to the entrance. He disliked being summoned out of his hideout in Boulder’s southern outskirts. The last few days had been very problematic. One of the sleeper cell members was arrested a week ago in Washington, DC. That event had caused the rest of the cell to scatter across the country. He had driven for two long days from his small apartment in Detroit, Michigan to Denver, Colorado.

  The cell’s handler, however, was nervous about Asif living in the Muslim community in the southern part of the city. Some of the community members, allegedly even a couple of the mosque leaders, reportedly worked for the FBI or other American intelligence agencies. So the handler had moved Asif to Boulder, a city of about a hundred thousand people just twenty-five miles northwest of Denver. The fear of being discovered was also the reason why this meeting was taking place in “hippieland,” theoretically beyond the reach of any Muslim traitors or FBI agents.

  Asif cursed again and studied the small eatery through his windshield. A handful of patrons were sitting at the counter set along the windows. The handler had not arrived yet, but Asif was fifteen minutes early. He always liked to get a feel for the place, its surroundings, find the emergency exits, and prepare a contingency plan, if things went sideways. Reconnaissance and preparation had kept him alive during the battle of Mosul, the Iraqi town controlled by ISIS for three years, between 2014 and 2017. He had escaped just as the Iraqi Army, assisted by the United States-led coalition, had started their efforts to retake the strategic city.

  The same attitude of always being prepared had allowed him to infiltrate a team of the White Helmets, a controversial humanitarian organization operating in Syria. Over four hundred members of the organization—which allegedly had ran false flag operations and had assisted in Islamic extremists’ savage attacks—had been evacuated from Syria shortly before the fall of East Aleppo, one of the bloodiest battles of the never-ending civil war. Asif had made his way to Canada, and then had slipped through the border into the United States. Shortly after his arrival, he had been activated for the White House bombing. Now that that plot had been postponed, Asif could hardly wait for his next assignment.

  He turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. The temperature was pushing north of one hundred degrees, and the air was thick with moisture. The air conditioner in the car was barely working, and Asif’s forehead was already covered in patches of sweat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and hurried toward the eatery.

  As soon as he opened the door, a blast of cool air hit him. Asif did not have a chance to enjoy it, though, because a white foxy-looking dog growled, then barked at him. Instinctively, Asif stepped to the side, then readied his foot to kick the small dog.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” The middle-aged woman sitting by the door pulled on the dog’s leash, trying to force it to sit on the floor. “She’s never like that. Sorry.”

  “She better learn to behave, or something bad will happen to her.” Asif stared with fiery eyes at the dog.

  “Again, sorry.” The woman’s voice took on a defensive tone, and she avoided Asif’s eyes.

  The dog—which was an Akita, originating from the mountainous region of northern Japan of the same name—growled again at Asif. The loyal breed was used for tracking game or protecting their owners. The woman placed her hand on the dog’s head and gave it a quick pat, but she did not pull back on the leash.

  Asif cursed the dog and the woman under his breath, then headed toward the counter. Loud reggae music filled the air, along with the delicious aroma of fried onions and peppers. “What’s up, man?” said the man behind the counter with a friendly smile and a nod. His long hair and beard were of a strawberry-blond color. A green-and-gray bandana covered most of his forehead.

  Asif said nothing. He glanced at the wide array of shelves on the wall filled with all sorts of bottles, cans, and packages. Then hi
s eyes fell on the counter, most of which was covered by small figurines of Buddha, rocks, pieces of wood, and other ornaments that Asif assumed had some sort of mystical or positive energy power. Hippie nonsense.

  He shook his head, then glanced at the handwritten menu on a blackboard to the right side. He did not understand most of the words, like “yerba,” “matcha,” or “hemp milk,” so he asked, “Can I get an ice coffee?”

  “Sure. Would you like anything—”

  “Just coffee. With little ice.”

  “What size?”

  “Large.”

  “Right away. It’s $3.33.”

  Asif cringed when he heard the price. Back in Iraq, he could have bought two pounds, perhaps even more, of excellent Turkish coffee, which was a hundred times better than this watered-down filtered dark water the Americans called coffee. He had not been working during the last month he had been living in the US, and the allowance he received from the handler barely covered the most basic expenses.

  He picked up the receipt, hoping the handler could pay for it. Or at least for lunch, since it was his idea to meet here. Then he found a seat near the back of the eatery, at the counter that was made out of a wood-carved pattern that resembled a tree trunk. He ran his hand over the smooth veneered surface, paying extra attention to a nook where a cluster of small rocks and shells had been enclosed. He nodded at the craftsmanship and was reminded of his father. He used to do woodworking, and had the same or perhaps even a greater set of skills than those demonstrated here. He had tried to teach Asif at least the basics, but he had been too disinterested and stubborn to learn. Asif was more interested in using knives and rifles as tools of his trade.

  He glanced at his phone for a moment, then put it away. His eyes studied the faces of the patrons, then his eyes rested on the dog. Its head was turned the other way, but Asif still felt the dog had somehow recognized him. I hate this place and this country. He cursed the dog again, then glanced at his wristwatch.

  When the coffee arrived in a few moments, he took a small sip, unsure about what to expect. He was pleasantly surprised, because it was quite good. Not as good as the Turkish coffee I make and still not worth almost four dollars, but still not bad. He sipped it again, then glanced out the window.

  His eyes noticed the handler walking through the busy parking lot. He had already spotted Asif and gave him a small head nod that seemed like he was summoning him to come outside. Really? It’s scorching hot out there, even in the shade.

  Asif brought the cup to his mouth and waited for the handler to come inside the eatery. He did and headed straight to the counter, without looking in Asif’s direction. The handler chatted with the man behind the counter in a way that gave Asif the impression the handler was a regular patron. That feeling was reinforced when the man gave the handler his food—something of a purple color in a large plastic cup. What did he get? And how did he get it so fast? The handler opened the door and headed outside, toward a small table with two chairs that had just become available. It was somewhat in the shade.

  Asif shrugged and stood up. He glanced at the white dog, whose head was leaning on its front paws. It seemed to be napping, but Asif knew better. As soon as he stepped closer to the dog, its ears perked up. It stood on its front paws and let out a low snarl to warn the owner. The woman gave the dog a gentle pat and avoided making eye contact with Asif. He silently cursed them and stepped outside.

  He joined the handler at the table. He did not stand up to embrace Asif—as per the customary way friends greeted each other in the Arab culture—and also avoided using the traditional Muslim greetings. Instead, he shook Asif’s hand, then gestured toward the wicker chair.

  “We could have sat inside,” Asif said. “It’s cooler.”

  “Right. And crowded with infidels who would listen to our conversation.” The handler looked around. The nearest table was maybe ten feet away, well beyond earshot, especially if he and Asif exchanged low whispers.

  Asif shrugged. “Well, we could have had this conversation at the apartment—”

  The handler waved a dismissive hand. “I love their puddings. This one has dates, coconut crystals, and cacao, among other things. You should try it. It’s finger-licking good.”

  Asif frowned. “I hate them and their stupid food. But you’ve started to sound just like them...”

  The handler returned the frown and gave Asif a piercing gaze. “Watch your mouth, Asif. We need to sound, look, act like the infidels if we are to blend in and not stick out like our brother who is now in jail.” He leaned closer to the table. “Our operation is postponed because of his stupidity.”

  “It’s easy for you to say that. You look just like them. Pale skin, dreadlocks, American education, better English.”

  “Right, but I also make an effort, for our cause. It’s difficult, yes, but we must all do it.”

  Asif nodded, but the frown remained on his face. “Are they still looking for us ... for me?”

  “Yes. The FBI will never stop until they’ve found you. So, we have a change of plans. We’re moving you again.”

  “Where to?”

  “We thought about relocating you within the States or Canada, but the situation has become too dangerous. Canada and their security agencies have expanded their searches. Both countries are not safe for you anymore.”

  “Europe then?”

  “No, we already have enough people there. Your services are needed back home. Iraq.”

  Asif’s face showed no emotion, but a wave of excitement washed over him. He would be among brothers, his own people, meeting old friends and going to a mosque without the fear of the police or the disgust of the infidels. But he also felt a sense of uneasiness. His return to Iraq meant there was a difficult operation in the works, something that needed his special set of skills.

  “What is it? Bombing? Kidnapping? Execution?”

  The handler scooped his pudding. “Mmmmm, this is delicious. Really, you should try it.”

  Asif sipped his coffee. “You didn’t answer my questions.”

  The handler reached for his phone inside his front jeans pocket. He tapped the screen, then slid it to the left and right until he found what he was looking for. “This is why you’re going back to Iraq.”

  Asif glanced at the man in the picture. It was obvious that he was Caucasian, but his face was well-tanned. The man had brown eyes, a straight nose, and a strong jawline. The photograph showed the upper part of his body. He was wearing a desert chest rig over a bulletproof vest of the same color. Over his shoulder, the man was carrying an M4 rifle, the American-made weapon widely found across Iraq. Asif’s face formed a wicked grin. “It will be my pleasure to behead an American.”

  “He’s not American, but close enough. The operative’s name is Javin Pierce from the Canadian Intel Service. He’s a corrector.”

  Asif arched his thick eyebrows. “What’s that?”

  “Not sure exactly. I think it’s someone who fixes other people’s mistakes.”

  “Like me.” Asif smiled.

  The handler nodded. “Yes, like you. Pierce has been dispatched to Iraq to fix a mistake made during the fall of Raqqa.”

  Asif’s eyes turned into small slits. Raqqa had been the de facto capital of ISIS’s self-proclaimed caliphate in Syria. Asif had mourned over the crumbling of the caliphate and the deaths of tens of brothers in arms who were killed as they made their last stand. But a few hundred fighters had been able to escape, after negotiating a deal that gave them safe passage through the enemy that had besieged the city. The Syrian Democratic Forces, Kurdish forces, and local Arab and Shiite fighters wanted to avoid further bloodshed, so they agreed to allow the remnants of the ISIS army to leave the city, along with their families, tons of weapons and ammunitions, and many possessions. Most of the ISIS fighters were still in Syria or Iraq. They were regrouping and preparing to take back those lands they had lost.

  Asif thought he knew what mistake the handler was referring to, but
still decided to ask. “What mistake was that?”

  “Allowing our brothers to escape certain death. A team of CIS and CIA operatives are in Mosul, hunting down some of our brothers who are hiding there.”

  Asif’s face flushed with rage. He flared his nostrils and clenched his fists. “When do I leave?”

  The handler gave Asif a look of caution mixed with irritation. “Keep your voice down.” He looked around, but Asif’s outburst had not drawn any patrons’ attention. The loud reggae music playing through the speakers was drowning out their conversation. “You’ll leave soon. We need to make the necessary preparations. And you shouldn’t underestimate Pierce and his team. There’s at least three of these operatives, working closely with the infidels of the Iraqi army and the Shia PMF.”

  Asif cursed out the Shia militia. The Popular Mobilisation Forces were supported by Iran, a long-time sworn enemy of Iraq. Besides, some Sunnis like Asif hated Shias, who were considered as having renounced the true faith and worse than infidels, deserving of nothing else but death. The Shias believed that Prophet Muhammad’s successor should come through the prophet’s house. The Sunnis differed in their position, claiming that any one of the prophet’s followers could become the central figure in Islam. The division took place over 1,400 years ago, but still kept the Muslim community in Iraq and across the Middle East divided and in a constant state of conflict and fighting.

  Asif said, “They will all die. I will kill them all with my own hands.” He began to grind his teeth.

  “You will, you will, inshallah.” If God wills it. The handler again looked around. “But keep your voice down and focus. These operatives are nothing like we’ve seen before. They know our tactics, our supporters. We need something new to stop them. We need to think and be smart.”

  Asif nodded. He drew in a deep breath to calm himself. “I understand. Yes, we will give the Americans and the Canadians pain and death. They have no business in our homelands. He who interferes with what doesn’t concern him, finds what doesn’t please him.”