Enjoy this free excerpt from The Trap

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Chapter 1

 

 

This country is about to kill the only man who can save it.

–U.S. Congressman

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What brought a man to that point? It was a question Ferrar would ask himself repeatedly over the ensuing two weeks.

     December wind howled through the night down the Hindu Kush into eastern Afghanistan. George Ferrar tried to shrug off the cold seeping through his Pathan waistcoat and vest. Then he pulled the scarf over his mouth to conceal his breath in the frosty air.

     The darkness crawled with armed and dangerous men. Among them was his six-man undercover unit commanded by an unstable jerk.

     But it was a good time to be in Afghanistan.

     Sure Ferrar trudged along plagued by uncertainty and reeling from the effects of September 11. But he was trying to restore order in the world.

     America had come under attack. World markets were faltering. Terror had begun its incipient reign. And for the moment Afghanistan was where he belonged.

     Ahead of him five other veterans of undercover warfare climbed a steep trail toward the mouth of Tora Bora’s main cave.

     He couldn’t keep his eyes off the evidence of previous mortar attacks. Huge craters pitted the cliff. Corpses of fighters affiliated with al-Qaeda and the Taliban lay limbless and stiff. Unexploded ordinance littered the crags of the slope.

     Now he would finish the job.

     He hefted the assault rifle on his shoulder. A rifle was a normal accoutrement for local tribesmen and he needed to fit in. It would serve him well as would the entire arsenal beneath his waistcoat.

     He hadn’t started out his career in the army as a walking battle platform but technological improvements and the aggressive Green Berets had turned him into one.

     In addition to all the gadgetry he still clung to the know-how acquired through long experience of undercover warfare. And he still had his Maine farm boy instincts.

     Under the myriad stars illuminating the mountainside he looked hard at Alpha, the jerk in the lead.

     Operation Jawbreaker used code names like Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, etc. But jerk fit the guy better.

     Alpha was signaling them with a cautionary motion of the hand. The group stopped and waited.

     From his position at the rear of the line Ferrar swept the surrounding hillside for signs of hostiles. Anyone else in that desolate valley would be unfriendly by definition. The rest of the Allied troops were nowhere in sight. In fact they were busy creating a predawn diversion down at the airport that morning.

     As usual his eyes came to rest on the large strong frame of Alpha. The guy lowered his assault rifle and casually rested it on the frozen corpse of a terrorist fighter.

     Ferrar knew Alpha well. As a soldier Alpha was as ruthless and dominant as any alpha bull. As a man he was Tray Bolton, the foster son of the CIA director. As a former friend he was the muscle-bound backslapping jock Ferrar had competed against in classrooms and gridirons from high school through college.

     Only desperate times could throw the two of them into the same unit.

     And desperate times had indeed arrived.

Excerpt from The Trap

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