The Reluctant Assassin Box Set Read online

  The Reluctant Assassin Series Books 4-5

  Fahrenheit Kuwait/Target: New York

  Lee Jackson

  Copyright © 2019, 2020 by Lee Jackson.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Severn River Publishing

  www.SevernRiverPublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-64875-800-3 (Paperback)

  Contents

  Also by Lee Jackson

  Fahrenheit Kuwait

  Major Characters

  Prologue

  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 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Target: New York

  Prologue

  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 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

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  You Might Also Enjoy…

  Thanks for Reading

  The Reluctant Assassin

  THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Prologue

  THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Chapter 1

  THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Chapter 2

  THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Chapter 3

  THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN: Chapter 4

  Read The Reluctant Assassin

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Lee Jackson

  The Reluctant Assassin Series

  The Reluctant Assassin

  Rasputin’s Legacy

  Vortex: Berlin

  Fahrenheit Kuwait

  Target: New York

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  Fahrenheit Kuwait

  To my wonderful family.

  We’ve always been there for each other.

  Major Characters

  Code Name Atcho: aka Eduardo Xiquez

  Klaus aka Sahab Kadyrov: Chechen Terrorist

  Sofia Stahl: Atcho’s Wife

  Burly Retired: CIA Officer

  Tony Collins: Investigative Reporter

  Ivan Chekov: Former Soviet KGB Officer

  Rafael: Cuban Freedom Fighter

  Major Joe Horton: US Army Intelligence Officer

  Kadir: Hawaladar in Berlin

  Hassan: Hawaladar in Libya

  Yousef: Hawaladar in Riyadh

  Detective Berger: Berlin Police Force

  Gerhardt: German Federal Intelligence

  Dr. Burakgazi: Orthopedic Surgeon in Berlin

  Prologue

  Berlin, November 9, 1989

  Dawn burst over Berlin, turning the skies a flaming red. Tony Collins, investigative reporter for the Washington Herald, had remained all night at his position on the border at Checkpoint Charlie watching a human drama unfold.

  In a thrilling reversal of policy that had existed in East Germany since the end of World War II and had been enforced at the point of machine guns, the Berlin Wall had opened for all East and West Germans, allowing them to cross freely to the opposite side of the Wall. Effectively, the border between East and West Germany had been erased.

  All night, Collins had stood at Checkpoint Charlie with his cameraman, interviewing East and West Berliners as they crossed both ways to greet long unseen family members and friends. He watched people as they wept over the joy of familial intimacy after so many decades of forced separation; and as they grieved the lost time and wasted lives of departed souls, the result of a cruel dictatorship, now vanquished.

  Collins broadcast his live reports to a breathless world. The crowds that came by him were buoyant and friendly. Some people did not care to be interviewed but the overwhelming majority, when they saw him with his cameraman and the bright lights, at least waved and called to him, and many stopped to share their newfound freedom with a worldwide audience.

  One man passed by whom at first, Collins barely noticed. He was of medium height, wore a thickly padded jacket, and his dark hair was unkempt. He made a beeline toward Collins and his cameraman, and as he passed, he called to them. “Thank you. Thank you, America. I love America. I am going to America.”

  Collins beamed and waved back. “Would you like to speak to the camera?” The man grinned to decline and kept walking. Collins watched him go, wondering what life the man had come from and what life he would lead now. He was alone, and the reporter watched him until he disappeared into the crowd, noting that nothing about the man distinguished him from any other East German intending to stay in the West, except he carried two duffle bags, one slung over each shoulder. Maybe his life’s possessions.

  When Collins turned back to the east side of the city, another man briefly caught his attention because he avoided not just the camera, but the lights themselves. He was nondescript except that he looked in remarkable physical shape, and he walked rapidly compared to the res
t of the crowd. However, his facial expression showed an attempt to hide extreme pain. He shot Collins a look of contempt but as he did so, his pain seemed to surge, because he stopped and set down a suitcase he had carried in his left hand. Now oblivious to Collins’ observation, he reached into his jacket with his good hand and tended to his right shoulder, which seemed to be heavily bandaged. Then he picked up the suitcase again, recommenced his trek, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Collins sighed. Another new beginning.

  1

  Berlin, November 10, 1989—The morning after the Wall fell.

  Klaus hurried through the crowds of celebrating Berliners, away from the news reporter and his cameraman at Checkpoint Charlie. The notion that the term “East Berliners” was no longer accurate did not escape him. Now, they were simply “Berliners.”

  People danced in the middle of what had been, only yesterday, the kill zone. For the umpteenth time, Klaus stopped among the masses and set his suitcase down. Gingerly, he looked inside his jacket at his shattered shoulder. He had managed to apply a home remedy coagulant to stop the bleeding and had wrapped a rough bandage around it and secured it under his arm. Nevertheless, blood seeped through. If he did not get medical attention soon, not only would his appearance be noticed, but infection would set in.

  He set his jaw against the pain, picked up his bag, and started out again. He walked at a fast pace not only because that was his nature, but also because of the need to see a doctor. Furthermore, he carried a precious cargo in his luggage and expected that bad people would soon be looking for him, if they were not already.

  He was almost unmindful of the merriment around him. He jostled anyone who slowed his progress, but he was careful to keep hidden the pistol he carried in his belt.

  People turned to look at him, a fearsome sight. He was medium height, with a day’s growth of whiskers. His surly glance warned away anyone who showed curiosity or was hesitant or obstinate about moving out of his way. He knew where he wanted to go and needed to pass only a few more streets before he made his turn.

  Then ahead, the figure of a particular man caught his attention. The man blended with the crowd and was unremarkable except for two duffle bags he carried, one on each shoulder.

  Pain forgotten, Klaus’ pulse raced. He stepped up his pace and closed the distance, his eyes locked on the bags, examining them. Certain that they were the specific ones he knew about, he slowed his pace to stay near the man. The ache in his shoulder increased again. He ignored it and trudged on.

  The sun moved high in the sky. Klaus had been up for thirty-six hours with little to eat. Besides his badly wounded shoulder, the suitcase had become a dead weight. He had intended to go straight to an apartment where supporters lived on the west side of Berlin, but having seen those two duffle bags, he pursued, determined not to let them out of his sight until he could retrieve them.

  The man who carried them continued walking until the crowd had thinned at its extremities. Then he looked around as though searching for something. He was in a residential section of the former West Berlin that mixed with some light commerce, including gasthauses, the German version of bed-and-breakfasts. He selected one that appeared clean and tidy. He did not seem to be familiar with the place, because he stood outside studying it, and even turned and observed two others in close proximity.

  Klaus watched him, and when the man walked through the front entrance, Klaus found a side access. It was locked. Klaus had little time to think or improvise, so he took the quickest action he could—he broke one of the windowpanes in the door. Reaching inside, he found the knob on the deadbolt, turned it, and let himself in. He was in a short, empty hall. At the other end, it turned into a long, dark corridor leading off to his right. On his left was a set of stairs, obviously set against the back wall of the building.

  From down the hall, he heard the murmur of voices at the reception desk. Then briefly, he saw his quarry head toward him and turn slightly to his right. Moments later, the man climbed another set of wooden stairs at the front of the building.

  Klaus turned and slipped up the back stairs, careful to make as little noise as possible. He paused so he could observe over the top step. He did not worry about being seen. The stairwell was dark.

  Still carrying the duffle bags, the other man moved down the hall and stopped in front of a door. He inserted a key into the lock and entered.

  Klaus flew up the remaining stairs and down the corridor to the man’s room. Before the door closed, he crashed through with his good shoulder. Using his suitcase as a battering ram, he thrust it into his quarry's startled face. The man fell back. Klaus shoved a foot behind his ankle, dropping him backwards to the floor. The man landed on the duffle bags still hanging from his back.

  Klaus kicked hard into his victim’s kidneys. When the man doubled up in pain, Klaus let go of the suitcase, kicked his head, and continued kicking until there was no movement. Then he grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it across the beaten face. He drew his pistol and pushed the barrel deep into the pillow next to the man’s temple. When he pulled the trigger, only a muffled explosion sounded. The body lay in a pool of blood.

  Quickly, gingerly, Klaus pulled the duffle bags from under the limp body. Blood had spilled onto them. The agony in Klaus’ own injured shoulder suddenly became almost overwhelming, and he sat heavily at the end of the bed, his breath coming in short gasps. Perspiration streamed from his forehead and neck and down into his shirt. Some seeped into his wound, with stinging salt adding to excruciating pain. Can’t stop.

  He dragged the duffle bags to a sink in the room and cleaned off the blood. Then he did the same with his boots. When finished, he set both duffle bags at the end of the bed, sat down again, and opened them. He peered inside. So, that’s what five million dollars in cash looks like.

  Klaus struggled with the two duffle bags and his suitcase through the side streets of Berlin to Little Istanbul, a Muslim area in former West Berlin. The pain in his right shoulder was excruciating, but he staved off anyone showing curiosity with a fierce look, backed by showing his pistol. Blood caked over his shoulder and right arm added to the effect.

  He went to an apartment building and descended a set of stairs to the basement. Ignoring pain, he searched in the dark confines until he found a well-hidden niche that could accommodate the duffle bags and his suitcase. Before leaving them, he opened one of the bags and pulled out four bound stacks of cash. He put two in each of his jacket pockets. Then he staggered upstairs to the apartment.

  When he stumbled in, he found several men sitting cross-legged in a circle on the floor drinking mint tea. Seeing his condition, several jumped to their feet and helped him to a bed in another room. Soft Turkish music played.

  Klaus collapsed on the bed. “Turn off the music,” he gasped. He pulled two one-hundred-dollar bills from his pockets. “Get some pain medicine.” He handed the money to one of them. “I can’t go to a hospital. Find a nurse or doctor who will come here.”

  Mercifully, he swooned, and when he awoke, at least a day had gone by. A man and a woman sat at the end of the bed. He recognized neither of them.

  “I am Abdul Kareem,” the man introduced himself. “This is my sister Zohra. She is a nurse.” He spoke gravely. “You need major treatment, or you will lose that arm.”

  Klaus stirred, barely comprehending. His shoulder throbbed, and he saw through bleary eyes that it had been heavily bandaged. He tried to pull his mind from a fog but felt incapable of coherent thought.

  “The bones in your shoulder were destroyed,” Abdul told him. “You should be moved to a hospital.”

  “No,” he gasped. He fell unconscious again.

  Two weeks later, Klaus managed to stay awake longer than a few minutes at a time. He became aware that he had been bathed and his shoulder cleaned and dressed regularly. His clothes had been washed, and his money neatly stacked in a drawer with an accounting of how it had been spent, mostly for medicine.

  A
month passed. Klaus was on his feet and moving about. The pain subsided but became excruciating if he bumped his arm or tried to move it. When not bound in a tight sling, the limb hung limply at his side.

  While he convalesced, he nursed hatred for all things Western, particularly the man responsible for his shoulder wound—a man called Atcho. Atcho had also killed his brother.