Without regret, p.1
Without Regret, page 1
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Praise for WITHOUT MERCY
“Unrelenting thriller . . . constant action, sympathetic heroes, believable evildoers, and absolute authenticity on every page.”
―Publishers Weekly, STARRED review
“The authenticity of the story makes the tale particularly terrifying, especially at a time when real-life international relations appear unstable. A fine apocalyptic thriller right up the alley of Clancy and Thor fans.”
―Booklist
“A superb book . . . one of the best thrillers I have read since Stephen Coonts’ Liberty’s Last Stand. I did not want to put the book down. Colonel David Hunt and R.J. Pineiro worked together well to produce an exciting, well-written book.”
―Fresh Fiction
“A masterful thriller written by men of deep experience. First-rate and very highly recommended!”
―Ralph Peters, New York Times bestselling author of The Damned of Petersburg
“Without Mercy is the ultimate terrorist scenario. Readers who enjoy Tom Clancy and Brad Taylor will find a new favorite.”
―Ward Larsen, USA Today bestselling author of Assassin’s Silence
Praise for WITHOUT FEAR
“Outstanding follow-up to their debut, 2017’s Without Mercy. This military adventure thriller deserves to become a genre classic.”
―Publishers Weekly, STARRED review
“Not only explosive, thrilling combat, but also realistic characters to root for. Think Brad Taylor, Brad Thor, Ben Coes . . . Smart, skillful, seriously committed action with emotional weight.”
―Shawangunk Journal
“The story drips with battlefield authenticity, written by someone who has been on the front lines and knows what war looks like.”
―The Real Book Spy
Advance Praise For WITHOUT REGRET
“In Hunt and Pineiro’s rip-roaring third thriller featuring Col. Hunter Stark (after 2018’s Without Fear), technical problems cause the plane carrying Kim Jong-un, North Korea’s president, and his entourage to Washington, D.C., to land at Dallas–Fort Worth International Airport, where they run into ex-president George W. Bush, who loans the North Koreans his plane. That plane is shot down seconds after takeoff, killing everyone aboard. The shooters, Sinaloa cartel member Mireya Moreno Carreon, who has a grudge against Bush, and her henchmen, weren’t aware of the switch. Not on the plane was formidable Naree Kyong-Lee, the North Korean in charge of Kim’s security, who vows revenge. Several subplots, one featuring Stark’s former partner, FBI agent Monica Cruz, entertain, but it’s Stark’s efforts to prevent WWIII that will keep readers turning the pages. Hunt and Pineiro reinforce their place in the military thriller genre.”
―Publishers Weekly
Books by David Hunt and R.J. Pineiro
Without Mercy
Without Fear
Without Regret
Books by David Hunt
They Just Don’t Get It
On the Hunt
Terror Red *
* with Christine Hunsinger
Books by R.J. Pineiro
Siege of Lightning
Ultimatum
Retribution
Exposure
Breakthrough
01-01-00
Y2K
Shutdown
Conspiracy.com
Firewall
Cyberterror
Havoc
SpyWare
The Eagle and the Cross
The Fall
Ashes of Victory **
Avenue of Regrets
Chilling Effect
Highest Law
First, Fire the Consultants! ***
The Scars We Cannot See ****
** with Joe Weber
*** with Robert H. Wilson
**** forthcoming
Copyright © 2020 by David Hunt and Rogelio J. Pineiro
All rights reserved. Produced in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) or otherwise, without express written permission of the authors.
Identifiers:
ISBN 9798662985124 (paperback)
ASIN B088BBTZ66 (Kindle)
Cover design by Kevin Summers
Cover images: Under license from Shutterstock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, corporations, or other entities, is coincidental and not intended by the authors.
To Angela, Ryan, Jason, Byron, and Travis, the brightest lights I have ever known.
—Col. David Hunt
To the amazing women in my family: Lory, Linda, Dora, Irene, Dorita, Islay, Sarah and Donna.
—R.J. Pineiro
WITHOUT REGRET
A Novel
Col. David Hunt and R.J. Pineiro
“We give everything we have on every mission for each other, without regret. We do this because they are the right things to do, and we are exactly the right people to do them.”
—Colonel Hunter Stark
PROLOGUE
O Romeo, Romeo
JUNE 2004.
CULIACÁN CITY, NORTHWESTERN MEXICO.
“What a shit sandwich, Colonel,” Master Chief Evan Larson whispered, keeping his tripod-mounted, custom M2 Browning .50-caliber machine gun pointed at their target.
Larson’s right hand rested on the dual handgrips of the heavy weapon’s rear buffer assembly—that included built-in squeeze triggers—while his left held a pair of night-vision binoculars. “Definitely a Charlie Foxtrot,” he added.
Kneeling next to him, Colonel Hunter Stark frowned. He used a similar set of optics to scan the street from the top of their five-story rooftop, adjacent to a crowded and dark parking lot on the outskirts of Culiacán Rosales, the capital city of the state of Sinaloa. His system also recorded everything into a memory card. The dual-tube device amplified the available light, primarily from surrounding buildings and evening traffic. Streetlights, like so much of this town, were broken.
Unfortunately, as Larson had pointed out, the busy scene below, painted in green, had twice as many foot soldiers guarding the movie theater than had been indicated in the brief provided by their employer, the U.S. government.
The steady beat of Rancheras streaming from a nearby nightclub added to the cacophony of horn-blowing cars and buses, swarms of motorcycles, and shouting street vendors.
Scantily-dressed ladies worked the dark corner nearest the club, ironically located next to an old Mission-style church. A pair of nuns in dark habits handed out pamphlets to the same pedestrians accosted by the prostitutes.
Stark had to shake his head at the sight, the forces of good and evil hard at work, hunting for lost souls. At the moment, the latter was certainly winning, the women luring quite the number of guys into a rundown hotel advertising rooms by t he hour.
One, a young and handsome man dressed in black carrying a guitar case not unlike the ones Stark and Larson used to haul their weapons up here, had gone inside almost two hours earlier accompanied by one of the Mexican beauties.
“And why the hell does Pretty Boy get to have all the fun?” Larson asked.
“I have PID on nineteen. Mix of MAC-10s and UZIs,” Stark said, having positive identification on nineteen hostiles armed with either MAC-10 automatic pistols or UZI submachine guns, two popular Cartel weapons. His words were picked up by a RAP4 tactical throat mic connected to an AN/PRC-148 Multiband Inter/Intra Team Radio (MBITR) strapped to his utility vest. Stark took note that the men armed with the MAC-10s were in the open, by the entrance to the movie house. The men with the UZIs were scattered across the large parking lot, staying low, out of sight of the MAC-10 men.
Are those two separate groups?
“Don’t forget la policia,” Larson said, pointing his massive Browning at a state police pickup truck surrounded by four uniformed officers armed with M4 carbines around the corner from the theater.
“Plus, hostiles on the roof of the movie house, next to the billboard,” reported Master Sergeant Ryan Hunt, a former sniper with the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment (Delta).
Armed with a Barrett M82 rifle fitted with an NVWS-4 Gen3 night vision sniper scope and a sound suppressor, Ryan was on the eighth floor of the motel. “I see UZIs, but no NODs in sight, sir,” he added.
And it all meant that the bodyguards of Rodolfo Carrillo, the younger brother and go-to guy of Juarez Cartel boss Vincente Carrillo, had no night vision. They were relying on light from neon signs, headlights, and the dim moon to spot any threat to their principal.
“Got them,” Stark said.
“Not sure why anyone in this fucked-up town would pay to see that,” Larson commented about the marquee advertising the movie, Hotel Rwanda. “I’d be looking for a damn comedy—anything to make me forget I live in this shithole.”
“And we’re about to make it worse,” Stark replied.
Larson, almost a foot taller and nearly seventy pounds heavier than Stark, wore dark civilian clothes bought in Juarez, as did the rest of his contractor team. The chief, however, had refused to part with his good luck charm: a thick carbon fiber bracelet on his right wrist, embossed with LERNE LEIDEN OHNE ZU KLAGEN.
It was German for “learn to suffer without complaining,” the motto of the Kampfschwimmers, the German Navy’s version of the U.S. Navy SEALs. Larson had been on a joint operation with them in a prior life.
In addition to Ryan and Larson, two former Navy SEALs, Michael Hagen and Danny Martin, waited in their respective getaway vehicles, one behind the apartment building and the other behind the hotel. No one wore any ID or anything that could be traced back to Uncle Sam should this SAP go sideways. Special Access Programs was the official name of what the general public knew as “Black Ops.”
“And to put a cherry on our shit cake,” Larson said, “OGA’s got us dressed like fucking mariachis.” OGA, or Other Government Agency, was a euphemism for the Central Intelligence Agency.
The comment drew laughs from all the operators, especially Danny, their designated pilot. He’d been a naval aviator before earning his trident, operating in Seal Team Two before advancing to the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group, commonly known as DEVGRU, or SEAL Team Six.
Per his contract, Stark was to kill Rodolfo Carrillo, known locally as el “Niño de Oro,” or the “Golden Boy,” an act that Langley hoped would start a nasty little war of attrition between the Juarez and Sinaloa Cartels.
It was a classic Agency move: goad the enemy into thinning each other’s herds before the DEA and Mexico’s elite Special Forces Corps mopped up the remnants. And the unofficial word was that the op had been personally sanctioned by no other than POTUS himself.
Stark wasn’t really enamored of the thought of carrying out an assassination, even for America’s War on Drugs, but the contract did meet his three criteria for accepting a job:
One, would the mission make the world a better place?
Two, did the employer have cash in hand, and was the retainer enough to cover initial expenses?
And three, did all the team members agree to go?
The CIA always had plenty of cash. And Rodolfo Carrillo, their high value target, or HVT, as well as his lovely older brother, were the epitome of evil, truly bad hombres, responsible for the brutal deaths of thousands. So, Mexico—and the world for that matter—would certainly be a better place without the bastard, as well as all the bastards that would be gunned down in the days, weeks, and even months to come because of today’s kill.
Although Stark had been able to put most of his demons if not to bed, then to rest, he would never be totally at peace with what he was and what he had done or was about to do: an assassination. He could, however, justify doing these jobs and fighting with the best damn men and women on the planet.
So, no regret here.
But the veteran warrior had been around the block enough times to know that no matter how many Cartel monsters were eliminated, when the dust settled, a whole new group of monsters—oftentimes more ruthless than their predecessors—would take their place.
The drug business, like show business, had to go on.
“How’s the range, Ryan?” Stark asked.
“Comfortable, sir. Nine hundred yards. Wind five to ten, left to right.”
“Yeah, I bet you’re real comfy after that señorita loved you long time, left to right and up and down,” Danny Martin chimed in.
“Hey, Danny,” Ryan said. “How’s your wife and my kids?”
“Fuck you, man,” Danny replied.
“Nah,” Larson replied. “Pretty Boy only has eyes for that working girl in Juarez. What was her name? Juanita?”
“Anita,” Danny corrected.
“Hey, she’s no hooker, Chief,” Ryan replied. “Anita’s the daughter of—”
“But wasn’t our boy doing some biker chick in Scottsdale? Veronica, right?” Danny asked.
“Monica,” Ryan replied, “and she wasn’t a—”
“Alright, knock it off,” Stark ordered.
“Yeah, Danny,” Larson added. “Let Pretty Boy focus on Golden Boy.”
Stark sighed. His guys were great operators but also great pains in his ass. But if he was completely honest with himself, Stark would admit to being a tad jealous of Ryan, the all-American, handsome sniper who always seemed to get the girl.
Unlike Stark, who had a knack for ending up in the wrong relationships.
His list of mistakes included Kira Tupolev, a striking Russian intelligence officer he met during a joint op to assist in the Moscow theater hostage crisis in 2002, when fifty armed Chechens seized the Dubrovka Theater along with a hundred and seventy people. And there was the beautiful Seung Yong-Kim, a South Korean woman with an affinity for expensive tequila Stark met in Seoul when he ran security for the FIFA World Cup that very same year. Unfortunately, Seung was a North Korean agent impersonating FIFA security, attempting to disrupt electricity and water to the Olympic Village.
I sure know how to pick them.
Stark pushed the past aside and centered his binoculars on the large double doors of the theater and slowly panning to the street, where three dark Cadillac Escalades and ten armed men waited for their boss. The rest of the soldiers were spread through the street and the parking lot, plus the two Ryan had spotted on the roof. And Stark expected at least a half dozen to exit the establishment with their principal, bringing the number up to around twenty-five—almost twice the CIA count.
The chief’s right. This is a certifiable Charlie Fox—
The headlights of a passing truck reflected on the windshield of a parked car, flashing in his binoculars in a way that brought him back to a place he typically kept locked away.
Unbidden, the images of his baby brothers, Bobby and Joey Stark, materialized in his mind. The former, a member of the 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit, had died in Somalia in 1993. The latter, a USMC captain, died almost nine years later when a roadside IED hit his convoy outside Bagram, Afghanistan.
Stark always felt guilt—he was the oldest and should have died first, but he would concede that their violent deaths, combined with the deaths of so many other brothers and sisters, had forged his actions and life forever.
