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  MACH ONE

  ICE

  The Series

  An International Clandestine Enterprise Novel

  by

  Amy Jarecki

  Rapture Books

  Copyright © 2018, Amy Jarecki

  Jarecki, Amy

  Mach One

  ISBN: 9781942442271

  AISN: B07659B3N4

  First Release: January, 2018

  Book Cover Design by: Dar Albert

  Edited by: Scott Moreland

  All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences.

  Table of Contents

  MACH ONE

  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

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter One

  Luke made no audible sound, carefully rolling each step across the balls of his feet. He crept toward the building, the butt of his M4 rifle secured against his shoulder. His finger twitched on the trigger. Every breath roared in his ears like the thunder of a giant waterfall. Still, not a soul could hear his controlled inhalations. And no one but Luke could detect the air slowly expelling from his lungs. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and pooled against the gun, making the rifle slip on his cheek. His finger twitched again as he blinked and tightened his grip. He was too close to the target to err.

  He slid his foot forward, his gaze shifting rapidly, his heart beating just as fast. One misplaced step and this whole gig might explode. He’d counted each enemy combatant as he’d taken them out. Six down. One bastard was still out there. Waiting.

  God, he loved this, living on adrenaline and caffeine. A thrill-seeking junkie, after his Middle Eastern tour as a pilot with the Royal Australian Air Force, Luke joined NATO three years ago for this very thing. But it wasn’t until he was recruited by the elite International Clandestine Enterprise that he’d found home. ICE. A badass name for an organization few knew existed.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Reflexes took over as he crouched low before taking another step.

  Crack!

  A shot blasted from ten o’clock, smacking into the wall above his head. He dropped and rolled, swinging his weapon toward the shooter. Closing his finger on the trigger, he fired off a repeating round, blinking the sweat out of his eyes while he searched for the perp through his NV goggles. He homed on a flicker of movement. Relentlessly, he fired until the dark outline of the enemy gunman dropped.

  Seven down, you suckas. Springing to his feet, Luke sprinted toward Building One. At last, he’d won—taken the biscuit.

  The lights in the paintball court flashed on, blinding and bright.

  “Fox, you’re needed in the sit room ASAP,” Garth Moore’s voice reverberated through the court, splattered with red and blue paint.

  Luke shifted his goggles to his forehead and flipped on the safety of his M4 rifle. The weapon might only shoot paint, but it still hurt. “I won, fair and square, mates. Told you I could take the lot of you wankers.” He looked to the American, Aaron Crosby, lumbering to his feet and swathed in slick blue.

  “You ass. How did you know I had you in my sights?”

  Luke tapped his helmet while the other six gathered around. He’d ducked because of a gut warning. He always did. “Sixth sense. Every pilot has to develop one, else he’ll end up taking a nosedive at Mach 1 on a three-second suicide mission.”

  “Yeah right.” Crosby gestured toward the exit with his thumb. “The boss sounded serious.”

  “I hope he is.” Luke headed for the door. “I’ve endured enough training to last a bloody lifetime.”

  Luke tried not to grin as he sped toward the sit room. He’d been fast-tracking at ICE for four months and was ready for action—more than ready. Hell, he’d been baptized by fire when NATO assigned him as the pilot of a mission that took out one of the top brass of ISIS and foiled their plot to get their hands on a nuke. He’d proved himself in the field and, though espionage training had been necessary, he was ready to get back out there. It killed him to watch the ops go down on the monitors in Command. He needed to be in the thick of it. Luke wasn’t just a pilot. With his training at ICE, there wasn’t any job out there he couldn’t tackle—not a scumbag he couldn’t take down—not a mob of terrorists he couldn’t stop.

  Did he have an overly inflated ego? Probably. That happened when a man spent too much time acing simulated operations and left his teammates covered in blue paint. But he wasn’t a novice. He’d earned his stripes in the trenches—or in the dog fights chasing bandits at 30,000 feet with his RAAF mates.

  “Fox, you’re late,” Garth barked as Luke pushed through the doors of the inner sanctum. The Situation Room stood as a secured glass fortress in the center of the Command Center, Command for short. A place where top secret news was relayed and plans to combat evil were carefully laid.

  Luke gave the CO a lopsided grin. “Sorry, sir.” Garth Moore was an ex-Marine, turned mega-spy. He had gray hair cut in a flattop, eyes of steel, and he controlled the operations of assets all over the globe in the most clandestine operation on the planet. ICE wasn’t just secret. Known only to presidents and prime ministers of NATO countries, ICE was remote, located in an underground World War II bunker, converted into an elite, high-tech training and monitoring facility. Forty-five meters below the surface of inner Iceland, not even a nuclear holocaust could take it out.

  But ICE existed to ensure such holocausts never happened.

  “We have a situation,” Garth said, his expression growing dark, serious. That hawk-eyed stare alone declared this was the real deal.

  Bring it on. “Ripper! And you need an ace?” Luke couldn’t help his grin.

  “I need a pilot—someone who won’t crack, no matter what. Would that be you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir? Isn’t that a bit cavalier given you haven’t heard where I’m sending you?”

  Luke squared his shoulders. “I’m ready for a challenge, sir.”

  “That’s what all the rookies say.”

  “I’m no rook.” But something in the room was oddly quiet. After glancing to the blank monitors and back to the shrewd glint in the CO’s eyes, Luke leaned forward, pressing his knuckles onto the table. “So…what’s up?”

  Chapter Two

  After Luke took a seat at the sit room table, Garth brought up urban scenes of teens laying in gutters and al
leyways and looking stoned out of their minds. Every monitor lining the Situation Room’s walls reflected a different, gut-wrenching picture of youth at its worst.

  “Normally, we let the individual countries deal with their internal drug problems. But this one’s landed on our doorstep.” Garth pointed to each of the pictures. “New York, Dallas, Paris, Edinburgh, Warsaw, Prague, Sydney. If we can’t stop this, the next generation is looking grim.”

  Luke’s gut tuned over when he recognized the Sydney scene—it was Bondi Beach where he’d spent his summers as a teen. He’d swam, played volleyball, and participated in the volunteer lifesaving club, but the kids on the screen were spaced out and lifeless, dozens of them strewn across the sand as if they’d been tranquilized. “Jesus.”

  “If only the Almighty could help.”

  “What are they taking?”

  Garth brought up a slide—red pills and needles. “It’s called Rhapsody, though it’s anything but. The drug is like being transported to the fires of hell. One pill and the victim is hooked. It’s synthetic. And I don’t need to say the problem has reached epidemic proportions.”

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  “The Morales Cartel.” Garth clicked and every monitor brought up a picture of a man who appeared to be in his fifties—shrewd-looking, broad forehead, intelligent eyes, moustache. “This is Vincent Morales—El Padrino.”

  “The Godfather?” Luke asked. He was fluent in a number of languages, Spanish being the first he’d mastered.

  “That’s what he calls himself. The bastard has no family because a wife and kids would create a weakness. He even killed his mother.”

  “What about his father?”

  “Died of natural causes—or so the record states.” Garth clicked to a picture of a sprawling hacienda. “The problem is he’s untouchable—his hacienda is surrounded by loyal families—I mean miles of people who will put their lives on the line for the bastard.”

  Luke rocked back in his chair and crossed his arms. “What about the mother of all bombs?”

  Garth chuckled. “I like how you think, but Mexico isn’t ready for such a radical move. And while the heads of state are bickering about how to take Morales out, more kids are falling victim to Rhapsody.”

  “Unbelievable.” Watching while the main screen ran through a slideshow of fuzzy images of The Godfather, Luke drummed his fingers. “So, where do I come in?”

  “We’re going to ensure he needs a pilot.”

  “Going to ensure?”

  “That’s right, the FBI will take the current aviator out as soon as the bandit hits U.S. airspace.”

  “They have his number?”

  “He’s as good as nabbed.” Garth checked his watch. “As a matter of fact, he’s probably going down about…n-o-w.”

  Luke pointed to the big monitor. “Do we have a front row seat?”

  “Not this time. The Americans are keeping the op restricted.”

  Releasing a long breath, Luke didn’t care if he could see the takedown or not. He’d had enough of living 45 meters underground at the edge of the earth. “You beauty.” He snapped his fingers. “I’m in like Flynn.”

  Garth’s woolly eyebrows slanted downward. “Don’t get too happy, hot shot.”

  Luke spread his palms with a shrug. “So, how do I get the job?”

  “The plan’s a bit unconventional. Keep in mind Vincent Morales trusts no one. So, we’re going to outsmart him at his own game. You’ll fly a mission for his fiercest adversary, the Zambada Cartel.”

  “Sounds easy.”

  “Not even close.” Giving a deadpan stare, the ex-Marine shook his head. “You’re going to be arrested and hung out to dry.”

  “Arrested?” A lead ball sank in Luke’s gut. “In Mexico?” His voice shot up. He could think of five of the world’s worst places to be imprisoned and Mexico was number three—only behind the Middle East and North Korea.

  “Once they bring you in, we’ll ensure your dossier, which will include a litany of crime, makes its way to Morales. But you’ll do time in a Mexican pen.”

  “Christ.” Luke rubbed the back of his neck and looked to the ceiling. “How much time are you talking about?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  There were hundreds of missions Luke could be on right now; hunting terrorists, following leads in Europe, taking down international thieves…and ICE wanted him to rot in some hellhole prison in bloody Mexico?

  “Can you handle it?” The CO had a way of looking at a man with an ice-cold expression that was both challenging and impossible to refuse.

  If that’s what it takes to show them I’m as good as any other field agent, then bring it on.

  “Yes, sir.” Taking a deep breath, Luke leaned forward. “Just make sure I don’t rot in there.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ve put too damned many hours into you to lose the keys and walk away.”

  “Good to hear. What about communications?”

  “There won’t be any.”

  “Huh?” Now he’d heard everything. “That’s insane.”

  “Morales doesn’t allow computers, cell phones or any electronic devices at Hacienda Paraiso. Once you’re nabbed, it’s lights out all the way. You’ll have to wait until you fly a drug run out of his territory—then make contact.”

  Luke didn’t like that at all. “What about a mini phone to conceal in the sole of my shoe?”

  “Sorry.” Garth shook his head. “It’s too risky.”

  Chapter Three

  “You sent for me?” Mia asked in Spanish, moving into El Padrino’s study, trimmed with rich colors and teakwood furniture. She’d never inquired as to where any of The Godfather’s extravagance had come from. A long time ago, she’d learned not to ask questions. The less she spoke, the easier it was to avoid confrontation—especially the painful type.

  Mia didn’t care much for the man’s study. It spoke to her of violence and evil, the worst of which lay hidden behind a black Japanese screen in the corner. Everywhere she looked, weapons mounted on the forest-green walls posed as a testament to the man’s violent nature. Deadly swords and items of torture she couldn’t guess how to use surrounded her, adding to her anxiety. El Padrino might speak softly. He might be gentle with her—most of the time. But in the next moment, everything could change. And every servant at Hacienda Paraiso knew never to cross him.

  This room reminded Mia of her fear—terror that had lurked in the depths of her soul ever since she’d arrived. Impossible to enjoy a moment where anxiety didn’t hold her in a rigid grip, or trepidation didn’t dictate her every action, she lived in an ornate hell.

  This room reminded her of the evil in El Padrino’s heart. And this room served as a testament of the bad person she had become.

  “There you are.” He looked up from the paper in his hands. “Sit.”

  Mia took her usual wing-backed chair, crossed her ankles and tucked them beneath. She kept her spine erect, her shoulders tense. Relaxing would be a mistake. “Is all well?” she asked, keeping her expression passive and guarded.

  “As far as you’re concerned, si.”

  She nodded, folding her hands and clenching them tightly.

  “You were right about Coronel, he was a spy for the Zambada Cartel.”

  She pursed her lips while her stomach twisted. El Padrino had started using her to vet new men into the cartel. She hated doing it. They all looked like thieves to her. But something in Coronel’s eyes had told her the man was deceitful. She scraped her teeth over her bottom lip wondering where the man was now, but knowing better than to ask.

  El Padrino picked up a sword-shaped letter opener from its marble cradle lined by felt and began cleaning his fingernails. “I have another task for you, my pet.”

  “Oh?” Her stomach roiled a bit more.

  Swapping the opener for a cigarette, he leaned back in his chair and lit it. “There’s a pilot in the Cereso in Chihuahua.”

  “Jail?”

&nbsp
; “He was working for Zambada.” El Padrino took a long drag then let the smoke escape out the corner of his mouth. “But he’s an Australian.”

  Mia arched her eyebrows, showing just enough interest without the need to speak.

  “I want you to meet with him—determine if he’s a man I can trust.”

  She crossed her arms. “If he flew for the Zambada Cartel and is now in prison, I doubt he’s worth your time.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. His hands are dirty and I suspect he has no fondness for the bastards responsible for his arrest.”

  “That may be so, but how can you know he won’t cross you?”

  “You’ve proven to me that you have good intuition—which can be very useful. And you speak the language.”

  Her hands clenched tighter, not wanting to remember. Remembering the past brought too much pain. “I haven’t in years.”

  “You are perfectly able. The books you read are mostly in English.”

  Again, she nodded. Arguing now would be fruitless. And agonizing. Mia glanced over her shoulder at the black Japanese screen while she stifled a shudder.

  “Go. Meet with this Australian. Tell him…ah…that loyalty will bring him wealth beyond his imagination.” El Padrino stood and moved from behind his desk. “You will do this for me.” It wasn’t a question, but a command.

  “Si,” she said, too aware she could give no other answer.

  “Bueno.” He sauntered behind her chair and ran his thick fingers over her hair. The pungent odor of tobacco that yellowed them made her swallow against an urge to gag. Unable to control the shiver slithering down her spine, Mia tensed.

  “It’s good to fear me, my pet,” he whispered in her ear. “Go to Chihuahua and inquire about this man. But with this sliver of freedom I am granting you, always remember, there is no place you can go where I cannot find you. You know the rules. Follow them.”

  ***

  The bolt creaked as it scraped open in the cell door—a cell Luke had been sharing with five other men for the past month.