Black Widow (Dylan Kane #5) (Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers) Read online

  Black Widow

  A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller

  by

  J. Robert Kennedy

  From the Back Cover

  FROM USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR J. ROBERT KENNEDY

  A MASS MIGRATION

  AN OUTPOURING OF COMPASSION

  THE ULTIMATE BETRAYAL

  USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy serves up another heart-pounding thriller in Black Widow. After corrupt Russian agents sell deadly radioactive Cesium to Chechen terrorists, CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane is sent to infiltrate the ISIL terror cell suspected of purchasing it.

  Then all contact is lost.

  From the war-torn deserts of Syria to the humanitarian corridors of Europe, J. Robert Kennedy delivers another action-packed thriller torn from today’s headlines, taking readers on a heart-wrenching journey from the perspectives of the innocent victims, the terrorists among them, and the heroes trying to stop them. In true Kennedy style, this deftly-crafted, taught thriller, provides all the action, humor, romance and heartbreak only he can deliver.

  About J. Robert Kennedy

  USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over twenty-five international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series of which the first installment, The Protocol, has been on the bestseller lists since its release, including occupying the number one spot for three months. He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.

  "If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J Robert Kennedy."

  Amazon Vine Voice Reviewer

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  Find out more at www.jrobertkennedy.com.

  Books by J. Robert Kennedy

  The James Acton Thrillers

  The Protocol

  Brass Monkey

  Broken Dove

  The Templar's Relic

  Flags of Sin

  The Arab Fall

  The Circle of Eight

  The Venice Code

  Pompeii's Ghosts

  Amazon Burning

  The Riddle

  Blood Relics

  Sins of the Titanic

  Saint Peter's Soldiers

  The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

  Rogue Operator

  Containment Failure

  Cold Warriors

  Death to America

  Black Widow

  The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

  Payback

  Infidels

  The Lazarus Moment

  The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

  Depraved Difference

  Tick Tock

  The Redeemer

  Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

  The Turned

  Table of Contents

  The Novel

  Acknowledgements

  Get 5 Free eBooks!

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  For Master Sergeant Joshua L. Wheeler, the first known Delta operator to die fighting ISIL.

  “The Hour (of Resurrection) will not come until the Romans land in Al-A'maq (valleys in Antioch, southern Turkey) or in Dabiq (a plain near Aleppo, Syria). An army consisting of the best of the people of the Earth (an international Muslim army) at that time will come out of Medina (in Saudi Arabia) to face them.

  “When they will arrange themselves in ranks, the Romans will say: ‘Do not stand between us and those (Christian Converts to Islam) who were taken away from amongst us. Let us fight with them’; and the Muslims will say: ‘No! by Allah, we will not stand aside and let you fight our brothers.’”

  Abu Huraira quoting the Prophet Mohammad

  Preface

  This novel was written during the height of the Syrian refugee crisis. Much has been reported and said about the situation, and this novel uses many of those opinions and theories, with the experiences of those involved mirroring actual events reported on the news, though often not on the mainstream outlets.

  It is important to remember when reading this novel that it is just that—a novel. And though it shows the horrors and hardships many of these people have endured, it also shows how easily the generosity our Western societies have been raised to believe in, can be abused. To our own detriment.

  And as time passes, and this crisis abates, as all do, it may be easy to dismiss the warnings that follow as the overactive imagination of a fiction author, and that would be fair.

  Yet it may also simply mean that the security apparatus that we so often criticize, worked.

  And we just never knew it.

  Like the 69 terrorist attacks prevented on American soil since 9/11 as of this writing.

  If we had let our guard down because nothing had happened for several years after that horrible attack, would we be as safe today? Would we feel as safe today?

  Like the real life heroes those within this novel are modeled after, they never let their guard down.

  And we are all safer for it.

  Vedeno Gorge, Chechnya

  Colonel Kolya Chernov kept any of the emotions he was feeling off his face, though inside he was fuming. As the commander of Alfa Group Six, part of Russia’s elite Special Forces unit, Spetsnaz, he knew everything in their arsenal, and everything in pretty much anyone else’s, at least those that mattered.

  Though here he didn’t have to go far from home.

  What he had caught a glimpse of were type BGE 75-T containers.

  Russian.

  Or more accurately, Soviet.

  A remnant of the Cold War—soon to be replaced with a new one, if their illustrious leader in Moscow had his way. Chernov loved his country, the Russian Armed Forces, and certainly his unit. Getting into Spetsnaz was one of the proudest days of his life, being promoted to colonel one of the more disappointing ones. He didn’t want to command a desk, he wanted to be out in the field, but as the general had told him, “You’re the boss, you can do what you want”.

  So he did.

  And when the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation, the SVR RF, had contacted his unit requiring a four-man team to provide additional security in Chechnya, he had decided the request was suspicious enough to pique his interest, and the assignment possibly dangerous enough to satisfy his craving for action.

  And now his suspicions were proven well founded.

  The SVR were merely the renamed First Chief Directorate of the former KGB, and the new reality in Russia was that they and the remainder of the former agency, the FSB, were more like their old namesakes with each passing day. He didn’t trust the SVR as far as he could throw one of them, their motivations completely different from a soldier’s. He trusted his men, would die for his men, yet he’d have to seriously consider whether he’d hit the brakes if one of these SVR bastards were to step in front of his vehicle.

  The six canisters contained Cesium-137, extremely dangerous, and more than enough to build multiple dirty bombs. This was a substance terrorists the world over were desperate to get their hands on, and here he was, standing guard while two SVR agents sold a batch to what were clearly Chechen rebels, he recognizing the leader.

  Each group had a computer hooked to satellite links, and money transferred.

  Smiles.

  Handshakes.

  And the deal was done, the Chechens climbing in their Toyota and leaving, the SVR agents heading toward the Mi-24 Hind helicopter now powering up.

  He could hold his tongue no longer.

  “I assume we’re now going to stop them?”

  The lead SVR agent—his name never provided—looked at him, a bemused expression on his face. “Why would we want to do that?”

  “Because we just sold terrorists nuclear materials.”

  Any humor disappeared, the man’s eyes boring into Chernov’s as he stepped closer. “You are mistaken as to what you saw. Do you understand me?”

  The attempt at intimidation probably worked on most, but not on Chernov, though he valued his life enough to know to drop the subject. “Understood.”

  “Good. Now let’s go. There’s vodka to celebrate!”

  Chernov was the last to board, his men, his friends, all giving him a look that told him they too knew what had just happened and were none too happy about it.

  But this was the new Russia.

  The same as the old Russia.

  And those that questioned the KGB—or the SVR—might just live long enough to regret it.

  Al-Raqqah, Syria

  ISIL controlled territory

  Maloof stood, hands clasped behind his back, keffiyeh covering his face, his eyes squinting against the harsh sun of the Syrian midday. Safar stood on the other side of the door, a devout Sunni Muslim and longtime member of ISIL, he one of the originals before it had even become known by that ever-changing moniker.

  Some would call him a fanatic.

  And a moron.

  He wasn’t very intelligent, which was why he continued to be a foot soldier, though now given the honor of guarding the C
aliph himself, the leader of ISIL, a man few even knew existed, the Western press for some reason content to let people believe this was some ragtag group of loosely associated cells. Instead, it was a well-organized group with a clear organizational structure, which made it far more formidable than anything preceding it.

  It had taken him six months to gain his position, distinguishing himself in battle, using his brains and training to get himself noticed. And when offered a promotion, he had declined.

  “Rank means nothing to me. I serve Allah, and I can think of no better way than to protect the Caliph.”

  His commander had smiled. “So you want to be on his personal guard?”

  He nodded.

  His commander’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be trying to get yourself away from the front, would you?” Maloof laughed, his commander joining in. “No, I don’t think anyone could accuse you of that.”

  And arrangements had been made.

  He had met the man, their supreme leader. He wasn’t what he had expected. Rather unassuming, fairly quiet, considering the amount of blood that had been spilled under his orders. But that was neither here nor there. The man had a mission, one handed down to him since the Archangel Gabriel delivered the words of the Koran to Mohammad so many centuries before.

  The Global Caliphate.

  The Caliphate had now been reestablished after collapsing post-World War One. The previous had been massive at one point, extending from Spain to North Africa to the Philippines. What existed today was a pale imitation.

  Yet it was a start.

  What many didn’t understand was that the goal of many in Islam wasn’t world domination or intentional death and mayhem, it was the end-times—not something to be feared, but to be embraced. Many Muslims felt their duty was to spread the influence of Islam until the return of the Mahdi and Isa—the Prophet Jesus—who would defeat evil and rule those who survived until the Day of Judgement.

  And unlike most people of faith, Twelvers believed it their duty to do anything they could to bring upon Armageddon, so that they might achieve paradise sooner.

  Twelvers led Iran.

  And they would have the bomb within ten years should the new nuclear deal stand.

  His comrades-in-arms had chuckled at the naiveté of the West when the deal was announced, the jokes quick, the wit sharp concerning its main proponent. It was gallows humor, everyone in the room knowing full well this could mean the end of their nation, a fiery death of nuclear hell now almost inevitable.

  For he was Israeli.

  Mossad.

  Not a Jew, but an Arab, one who liked to think Islam had been hijacked by madness, and had worked hard to get to where he was today.

  Undercover at the doorway of the orchestrator of so much mayhem.

  The meeting taking place on the other side of the door he guarded had been routine—at least that’s what he had thought initially. A simple meeting of regional commanders to discuss the progress of the war.

  Yet it had turned into much more, the open window over his right shoulder allowing him to hear every word said. The arrogance of these men was supreme, it never occurring to them that the enemy might overhear their discussion.

  “We have managed to identify a source and arrange a purchase,” said one, he doing most of the talking, the Caliph alone responding.

  “Excellent. When will we have it?”

  “Very soon. It will be expensive, however.”

  The Caliph laughed. “Money is no problem. Thanks to our generous benefactors and a healthy black market for our oil, our coffers are as rich as anyone’s. Just tell us what you need and we’ll see it transferred.”

  “Very good, sir, I will let you know as soon as the final figure has been negotiated.”

  “The source?”

  “Chechens.”

  “How did they get it?”

  “Russians, apparently.”

  “Soon they will pay the price for their arrogance, but first, the West.” The Caliph coughed then there was a pause, the clinking of a glass suggesting a parched throat quenched. “And the infiltration plan?”

  “Going perfectly. We’re already moving men and equipment into place. The Americans and Europeans won’t know what hit them.”

  “Excellent. Their political correctness and misguided compassion will be their undoing. They falsely attribute their ways to all others, naively believing in the basic good of people because they believe they are basically good. Little do they realize that theirs is ours for the taking, as they are the kafir, the infidel, and it is our sacred right to do whatever it takes to further our cause. Allah is on our side, brothers, and with us as his sword, we will strike a blow that will once and for all rid us of the American presence here in our homeland. Now and forever.”

  Shouts of Allahu Akbar erupted and Maloof glanced over at Safar, who he could tell was dying to join in, though his doing so would betray the fact they had both been listening.

  Maloof shook his head slightly, Safar nodding, his cheeks sucking in slightly as he clamped down with his teeth, resisting the urge.

  As the cheers continued, Maloof surveyed the barren landscape surrounding the compound, wondering what this plan could possibly be. Clearly they intended to strike America and Europe with a blow painful enough to rid them of the American bombing campaign. He personally thought that a foolish assumption, since after 9/11 the American beast had been awoken, unleashing its fury on Afghanistan and Iraq, and pursuing the perpetrators across the globe. To think that Americans would retreat, with their tails between their legs due to a terrorist attack, was foolish.

  Even for these people.

  So it had to be something more.

  But what could possibly hurt the Americans enough to want to give up?

  What could the Chechens be providing, sourced from the Russians, that would cause enough devastation to make the Americans pull out?

  9/11 had pissed America off. It hadn’t scared them. If it had, then perhaps a terrified public would have demanded their government stand down from its policy of active engagement. If they expected anything different this time, then the threat must be something so horrifying it would strike fear into the hearts of its victims.

  He sucked in a breath as he realized what it might be.

  And knew he had to get this intel to his handlers as quickly as possible.

  Or millions could die.

  Arbat, Moscow

  Colonel Kolya Chernov tipped the bottle of vodka, draining the last few ounces into his glass, the fresh ice crackling in protest. It wasn’t tradition for a Russian to drink his vodka over ice, but he had acquired a taste for ice cold drinks while serving in too many hot and dusty shitholes where ice and refrigeration were rare commodities.

  Even in the dead of a Russian winter, he preferred his drinks cold.

  He loved the freezing, harsh wind on his face, the crisp air filling his lungs.

  Embracing the winter—it was what made one Russian.

  He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, his feet up on a ratty ottoman, and sighed. He loved his country, hated his government, and hoped he’d die before he saw it completely go to shit. And he had a sneaking suspicion that might be sooner rather than later.

  He’d been benched.

  Three weeks ago they had returned from the mission in Chechnya and the general had sent him home. “Take some time for yourself. Courtesy Moscow.” The last two words had been delivered with a look that implied it was a warning, the general’s embrace suggesting he didn’t expect to see him again.

  If he was going to die, then so be it, but why the hell did it have to take so long? The waiting was worse than the deed. It left him thinking that perhaps they had changed their mind, that the phone might ring telling him to report to base.

  Yet the fact it was just he and the others from that mission sent home told him this was SVR related, and they rarely changed their mind.