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  The Story

  They’re tracking you…

  Back into service after going rogue, Javin Pierce and his partner Claudia are working with the Chinese intelligence agency to discover a traitor among their ranks. Paired with a team they can’t trust, the agents are facing a crafty hacker that moves in the darkest shadows of cyberspace. As Javin and Claudia get closer to discovering the traitor’s identity, they realize this is only the beginning…

  As they now go head-to-head against a man determined to sacrifice all others to save himself, how will Javin and Claudia outwit the hacker and bring down the traitor posing as a patriot?

  INTERCEPTION

  JAVIN PIERCE SERIES -

  BOOK FIVE

  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

  Epilogue

  Bonus - Contracted Hit Short Story

  Bonus - Sneak Peek at Javin Pierce Book 6

  Bonus - Chapter Two

  Bonus - Arctic Wargame Chapter One

  Bonus - Arctic Wargame Chapter Two

  Bonus - Arctic Wargame Chapter Three

  Bonus - Arctic Wargame Chapter Four

  Bonus - Arctic Wargame Chapter Five

  Bonus - Arctic Wargame Chapter Six

  Bonus - Arctic Wargame Chapter Seven

  Bonus - Arctic Wargame Chapter Eight

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Outskirts of Beijing, China

  The hacker knew he was in huge trouble as soon as he heard the first knock on the door. The rap was gentle, as if whoever was behind the door was reluctant to wake up the hacker at this ungodly hour of the night. He glanced at the clock on the wall across from his couch where he had yet again fallen asleep. He blinked the sleep away and shrugged. Nothing good ever came from someone arriving at your apartment at 3:30 a.m.

  He jumped to his feet and bolted toward his workstation at the other end of the room. A quick glance at the first monitor told him there were at least two men outside the door. One of them had blocked the peephole, which was expected. The hacker had installed a second camera in one of the doorframes, about an inch from the floor. It showed the lower half of the men’s bodies, with black flat shoes and dark blue pants that looked like uniforms.

  One of the men knocked on the door. “Open up. Police. Open up,” he shouted in Chinese.

  The hacker, of course, had no intentions of complying with the order. He flicked a switch in his custom-made computer, which released a small, thin hard drive. He picked up his black sport jacket from behind the chair, put it on, and tossed the drive in the front pocket. Then he picked up his two cellphones and put them in the front pockets of his black jeans.

  Another loud rap on the door, then the same voice said, “Last warning: This is the police. Open up, or we’re coming in.”

  The hacker ignored the warning. He glanced around the desk area to see if he had forgotten anything. He was usually extremely careful, but there was always the first time for a mistake, which he could not afford.

  A loud bang told him the police were attempting to break down the door.

  Time to fly, he told himself.

  The hacker pulled a lever and heard the computer’s back-up hard drive plunge into a specially-made plastic container full of highly concentrated hydrofluoric acid. The failsafe security measure he had employed in the past. The corrosive acid would dissolve the drive’s contents, making any retrieval attempt futile.

  He slid his Chinese-made QSZ-92 5.8mm pistol into the small of his back and an extra magazine in one of his pockets and dashed toward the balcony. At another time, in another life, he would have easily fought through this situation. He had done so more times than he cared to remember. He would not even need the gun. But this was different, and he was no longer a young man. More importantly, he had a pretty good idea about who was really coming for him.

  Out on the balcony, he released th
e fire escape ladder. It slid down with a loud rattling noise. If someone was watching his fourth-floor balcony, they would have noticed.

  It didn’t matter.

  The hacker glided down the ladder, but only halfway.

  As expected, two uniformed police officers ran toward the ladder. One of them shouted at the hacker to stop. The second officer aimed his pistol at the hacker.

  He didn’t stop.

  The officer fired a round that pinged against the ladder’s metal railing. It was a couple of feet away from the hacker’s hands. Either the officer was a bad marksman, or he did not fire to kill or wound, but to simply slow down the hacker.

  The hacker ducked, then turned his body. The second-story window about a yard away from the ladder had been left slightly open, as it was when the hacker had checked earlier that evening. He rented that apartment too, under a different, false name. It was his insurance policy for situations like this.

  The apartment was empty, as he expected it to be. He zipped through the living room, then listened as he came to the door. Distant footsteps, so he burst into the hall.

  One of the police officers shouted at him, but the hacker ran toward the stairs. He reached them and ran up, instead of down. He knew the officers on the street would be rushing in that direction.

  He continued to the fourth floor, then another flight of stairs, and reached the door leading to the terrace. The rusty metal door was padlocked, but he had the key. He threw the door open, then bolted it behind him.

  The hacker ran across the terrace, careful not to trip on the uneven surface, littered with debris and slick because of the rain that had poured down throughout the day. The dim moonlight cast an eerie glow around him, barely enough to light up the terrace. He slowed down as he felt out of breath, his heart drumming in his chest. I’m getting too old for this.

  A gunshot rang from the street, but the hacker did not stop. As he came near the end of the terrace, he picked up speed, readying himself for the jump onto the other building. The gap was only a couple of yards wide, but he was jumping about ten feet down.

  You can do this, Han.

  He mustered all his strength and leaped over the gap, arrowing through the air.

  Han landed hard on his left leg. He rolled onto the dirty, wet terrace and shouted in pain as his ankle twisted under his body weight. Han cursed the officers, then checked his pockets. The hard drive was still there. The phones and the pistol were in their place. He struggled to climb onto his feet and hobbled toward the fire escape ladder that would take him down to the street behind the building. You’re almost there, Han.

  His 1978 Mercedes-Benz 450SL was parked just around the corner from the apartment complex. He was not expecting anyone to be waiting for him, but if they were, he wouldn’t hesitate to use his gun.

  He limped down the slippery rungs. His ankle was burning in pain, and, at one point, he almost lost his footing, but made it safely down to the dark, narrow alley. He listened for a moment for police sirens or rushing footsteps.

  Nothing.

  So he shuffled toward the mouth of the alley, and when he reached it, he studied the street and the parking lot behind a small café. His light blue Mercedes was the only car parked there, next to a black truck that belonged to the café’s owner. Han paid him handsomely so that nothing would happen to his precious forty-one-year-old convertible.

  He cast a wide gaze around before he slipped into the driver’s leather seat. It was not very comfortable, but he did not drive a classic car because of luxury, or nostalgia for years gone by. No, Han had picked the Mercedes because it was impossible to hack. Newer cars were relatively easy prey for hijackers, who could interfere with the vehicles’ Wi-Fi system and take control of the vehicle’s functions. There was nothing digital in the German masterpiece, just steel, plastic, and glass.

  Han turned on the car, then slipped the clutch, ignoring the pain that shot up from his ankle. The car glided smoothly forward and out of the parking lot. He glanced to the left as he came onto the empty street. He shifted to second gear and looked in the rearview mirror. No one was tailing him.

  He doubted he had so easily lost the police and the one who had sent them. He looked over his shoulder, but still there was no car behind his Mercedes. What’s going on?

  Han turned on the counter-surveillance system he had installed in his car. It was a radio frequency detector that automatically scanned the vehicle for GPS transmitters and other kinds of tracking bugs. The system required about sixty seconds for a full sweep of the Mercedes, but Han would start to notice anything unusual within the first few moments.

  The first hit came about fifteen seconds later, just as Han had made a left turn. The dashboard-mounted monitor alerted him to a tracking chip planted in the undercarriage, on the right side of the car, by displaying a colorful graph of activity, like a heart rate monitor. Han grinned. Amateurs.

  He turned on the homing switch, and the screen pinpointed the exact location of the transmitting source. Han stopped on the side of the street and waited until the scanning was complete. No other alerts about more spying devices. He stepped outside and felt with his hand inside the rear wheel well. His fingers found a matchbox-sized, GPS-enabled device securely attached to the metal frame by a magnet. He smiled, crushed the device under his heel, and returned to his seat.

  Before he had lifted his foot off the clutch, a silver sedan slithered up behind him. The car had no markings, but Han had a feeling it wasn’t just a random resident out for a late-night drive. His hand went to the pistol. If he had more time or was better prepared, he would have tried an electronic attack, attempted to take control of the vehicle, which looked like a newer model Honda. But he had no time and no idea how many other vehicles might be following him or trying to surround him. He shrugged. Desperate situations demanded desperate measures.

  He stepped outside and aimed the QSZ-92 pistol at the silver sedan. Han fired a quick burst. His bullets lifted sparks off the Honda’s grille and skimmed over its hood. His intention was not to kill or wound the police officers or whoever was inside the sedan. He just wanted to end the chase.

  A gunman popped his head out of one of the back windows. A submachine gun glinted in the faint light coming from a single lamppost a few yards away from the sedan. The gunman slid half his body out the window and turned the weapon upon Han.

  The hacker fell behind the front of the Mercedes as bullets hammered the vehicle. Shards of glass fell over his shoulders as the windshield erupted. He was not worried about any of the rounds striking him. What if this is suppressive fire so that other gunmen can advance toward my position?

  The thought darkened his long thin face. He crouched near the right-side corner of the front and waited for a moment. Then he stole a peek. The gunman was still firing round after round, but he was aiming his fire at the back of the car.

  Han lay on his side, then fired a few rounds. He tried really hard to miss the shooter. Even after the barrage against the Mercedes, a gut feeling told him the gunmen did not want him dead. But Han was not going to be taken alive.

  The shooter emptied his magazine and slid back into his seat.

  Han realigned his pistol with the sedan’s right-side front tire and squeezed off the last few rounds. He was not sure if his bullets hit the mark. The Honda did not drop to that side as he had expected.

  He took advantage of the break in the gunfire to reload his pistol. Then he cocked it, which released the firing pin with a single pull. The weapon took a twenty-round magazine, since the 5.8 x 21mm calibre was narrower than the standard Western 9mm Parabellum rounds. Han wished he had armor-piercing cartridges.

  He double-tapped the right front tire, which exploded and caused the sedan to sink down. Han smiled and returned to his driver’s seat. He released the clutch, stepped on the gas, and shifted gears. The Mercedes tore through the street as fragments of the broken glass flew around the cabin. Han cleared off what was left of the windshield with the pistol, th
en looked over his shoulder. The silver sedan was still in its place and getting smaller and smaller by the second.

  The Mercedes drifted around the next turn as Han downshifted, but he was a heartbeat too late. The turn was sharper than he expected, and the car bounced over the curve and onto the sidewalk. Han eased up on the gas and fought the wheel for a moment, before the car returned to the street. He thought about whether he should continue to his safehouse, which was only a ten-minute drive away. It was in a secluded, abandoned warehouse, part of a larger decrepit industrial park, where Han had created a small but efficient hideout. It was off the grid, he had never taken anyone there, and, as far as he was concerned, no one was aware of that location. Yes, I’ll go there, stay underground for a while, until this all blows over. Then, I can find out who exactly is looking for me, and why.

  He slowed down and drove extremely carefully for the next few minutes, not wanting to attract anyone’s attention. A bullet-ridden Mercedes would be easy to remember; and it would be a straightforward task to find speeding vehicles in the recordings from the security cameras that were located all over the neighborhood.

  When he came near the industrial park, Han sat up straighter in his seat and became even more vigilant. His eyes studied every back alley and every parked vehicle. He took in every detail of the buildings, examining the windows and the doors.

  Nothing suspicious.

  He circled the hideout, uncertain whether he should turn in or keep driving. A spine-chilling feeling told him to turn around, floor the gas pedal, and drive away as fast as he could. But he shook his head and along with it the feeling burdening his being. My nerves are shot. I’m just getting too old for this stuff...

  He parked behind the hideout, in an abandoned garage, then covered the car with a black tarp he had stored there for this exact purpose. Then he limped across the alley to his safehouse. He glanced at the rusty metal door and looked around for footprints in the dirt. Then he walked to the window and glanced inside. It was dark, and he could not see anyone.