SCALPEL (eBook)

GMC Sr. (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
812 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
9798317804732 (ISBN)

Infos

Follow the journey of a man wrongly accused and pursued by SCALPEL, a covert organization and his former employer. Assassins lurk in every corner to take him down. Only his high-level skills and experience keep him one step ahead of the killers on his tail. This exciting, gripping thriller is loaded with action, plot twists, betrayals and adult content.

GMC, SR., is a retired, proud Vietnam veteran of Native American and Black heritage. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

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The ultra-top secret, anti-terrorist organization SCALPEL has made a former top operative their primary target. The disgraced operative has been framed as a traitor, murderer, and drug dealer with an international bullseye on his back. Using the skills he developed over decades of his career, he manages to stay one step ahead; eluding assassins at every turn, he seeks help but only finds more people trying to kill him. When he confronts the man responsible for his disgrace, he uncovers an illegal operation of mass proportions that threatens the security of the United States. His only shot at clearing his name is to use his skills to terminate the assassins he once trained with. Uncover the thrilling adventure in "e;SCALPEL"e; by Gregory Coleman.

Textauszug

HONDURAS

It was another unbearably hot day, one hundred and ten in the shade, humidity one hundred percent plus. The heat and humidity, however, didn’t seem to bother the thirty camouflaged, heavily armed men walking thru the shoulder high grass in two skirmish lines. They were hired ‘soldiers’, in the service of self-made General Rene Wayon Villatoro, who controlled all of the high-grade cocaine grown and exported out of Honduras, with the ‘assistance’ of his ruthless army of mercenaries, pistoleros, assassinos, and Honduran military.

Accustomed to the energy sapping heat, they continued to follow the faint trail left by the group of highly trained rebels who, for the fifth time this month, had completely destroyed another of Villatoro’s processing/distribution sites. The trail led the men through the rain forest to the field of shoulder high elephant grass. The field itself was about twenty yards wide and forty yards long, with trees bordering both sides. They had to bunch up some to all get thru it at the same time; exactly what he’d counted on.

From his ‘perch’, thirty feet above the ground, hidden in the overlapping branches of a large pine, he had an unobstructed view of the entire field and the men in it. Using the binoculars, he spotted the small white notch he’d left earlier as a point of reference. When the middle of the body of men reached the notch, he would detonate the row of claymores situated along both sides of the field. Some were secured to the ground and some to the trees angled downward, but all were arranged for maximum damage.

Holding the binoculars with one hand, he reached and retrieved the detonator and counted silently. When he mouthed zero, he pushed the toggle switch. Six of the twelve claymores detonated instantly, shredding almost two-thirds of the men. The rest of the mines went off in a timed sequence. Mingled with the explosions were the screams of the dying.

Remembering some of the atrocities they’d committed on some of the uncooperative villagers and the photo of McCollough’s granddaughter, he turned a deaf ear. Scanning the field, in search of survivors, all he saw were mangled torn bodies causing him to nod in satisfaction. Replacing the binoculars, he climbed down from his drop, took a compass reading and headed in that direction.

It was a 5 klic (kilometer) hump to the little hidden vill he and his rebels were using as a base camp. He’d gone three quarters of the distance he halted when he smelled smoke, and not cooking fire smoke. Ignoring caution and security procedures, he broke out in a dead run, swinging the CAR15-M79 combo around to the ready. When he reached the little rise just before the village the assault combo dropped from his hands to dangle by the strap around his shoulder and chest. Every hut was on fire, twisted, torn and or burning bodies lay everywhere; even the females, who were not soldiers but mothers, wives, sisters, girlfriends, or those who just provided a little pleasure now and then. He dropped to one knee while surveying the carnage.

One thought screamed in his head; someone trusted had betrayed them.

He entered the vill, eyes not really seeing, barely recognizing some of the remains of the men he’d trained and severed with. Then, gathering what little supplies that had been left, he took a compass reading and headed in that direction, ignoring the millions of flies buzzing around him and settling on the bodies. An old phase from his tours in Viet Nam came to his head,

PAYBACK TIME, yeah, he thinks, as he adapts the ‘airborne scuffle’ heading towards his ‘hidden’ cache of equipment.

Two hours later he was seated behind the wheel of a dilapidated chicken truck and dressed in peasant garb. He was heading towards Chuchatoto, a small town in Honduras and the headquarters of General Villatoro. The General’s hacienda, which was more like a fortress, was located five- or six-kilometers due west of the city. It was referred to as ‘El Ciudad’ and was large enough to billet fifty to one hundred of his private soldiers, several APCs and one helicopter. He knew this from previous recon missions of the place.

It was easy to pick out Villatoro’s soldiers out of the several thousand inhabitants of Chuchatoto, they were the only ones dressed in military garb and armed, sauntering around like they owned the place and people. Actually, they did, because Villatoro owned the town. But he didn’t allow bullying and harassing the people and any man found guilty of conducting himself in a nonmilitary manner was punished in public. But, since most of the ‘soldiers’ stayed in the eastern portion of the little town The truck entered the edge of the town by a small, potholed, back dirt road partially, overgrown with foliage. It was ten in the morning and the few people he passed were busy going about their day’s work. They barely noticed the elderly looking man in the wreck of a truck. He pulled off the dirt road and stopped the truck at the rear of an old, small, almost dilapidated building. Staying in cover, even though there was no one around, he eased out of the truck and slowly meandered to the doors where he produced a key. A casual looking glance around confirmed he was still alone. Moving quickly, he had the doors open, the truck inside, and the doors closed and locked in a matter of minutes. Killing the engine, he again exited the vehicle and went to work unloading his gear from the hidden panel in the bed of the truck and stowing it in another hidden compartment built into the floor of the building. Sliding the strap of a small pair of binoculars around his neck, he bounded up the set of stairs behind him. Reaching the second floor, he headed towards one of the small windows, swinging the binoculars up to his eyes, scanning the streets below and the adjacent buildings. Satisfied, no one was watching the building he was in he began eyeing the soldiers milling about. Then the one he was searching for caught his eye; about his height and weight, sporting a handlebar moustache, dark glasses and captain’s bars. The man staggered up to one of the whore houses and inside.

He was down the stairs in a flash, tossing the binoculars thru of open window of the truck, and out the single back door, locking it behind him. Twenty minutes later he was entering the whore house by an open second floor window. A very pretty girl of maybe eighteen years was sleeping on the bed inside the small, ragged room, one lovely breast showing. He padded through the room and to the door which he opened to a crack, checking the hallway, then proceeded through. The ‘ladies’ walking back and forth in the hallway paid him no attention and after a thirty-minute search, he found the captain in one of the rooms receiving an early morning ‘service’. He backtracked and waited for the captain to exit.

Squatting between the buildings, he thought about the Intel provided on the General and his officers, focusing on Capitan Jose Guillermo Hernandez. Known as ‘El Gusano’, the worm, because of his ‘small member’, the Capitan had a‘taste’ for young girls, very young girls, between the ages of fifteen and seventeen. The plan was to lure ‘El Gusano’ away with the promise of a very young girl, terminate him, impersonate him and infiltrate the General’s fortress, after that it was by the numbers. A loud drunken voice snapped his head to the right. There stood El Gusano yelling obscenities at several ‘old’ prostitutes for calling him by his street name. He was up in a flash and, adapting the old peasant shuffle, walked up to the Capitan, snatched off the wide brimmed ragged straw hat and, with a lecherous leer, informed El Gusano that he had a fourteen-year-old just begging for his ‘attention’ and only for a few pesos, if the good Capitan would just follow him. The ‘good’ Capitan leered back and slurred to lead the way, grabbing his crotch in anticipation.

They moved towards the building where he’d left the truck. The Capitan grabbed his shoulder asking if they needed to use his jeep, pointing to it parked a block away. He said no, they were just going around the corner. Five minutes later he was holding the door to the dilapidated building open as El Gusano staggered inside. He secured the door, padded up behind the Capitan, and struck him at the base of the neck. El Gusano dropped like a stone to the dirt floor. He stood over the sprawled figure, stripped off the grey beard, moustache and wig, and said in a cold voice, “Party time asshole.”

AS SOON as it became dark, halfway to the General’s fortress, it began to rain, light at first, then a steady hard downpour, as he had hoped. He would use it to his advantage. Now, dressed in El Gusano’s fatigues, poncho, the jungle floppy pulled down over his eyes, plus sporting a phony moustache and driving the Capitan’s jeep full of his equipment, he slowed down at the main gate to return the half-ass salute of the guard stationed there. The man never gave him a second glance, maybe out of fear or he just wanted to get back inside the dry guard shack.

As he cruised through the fortress on his way to the Capitan’s private quarters, he rehashed the Intel El Gusano had willingly provided, with the razor-sharp edge of a Marine Randall combat knife against his testicles for motivation, regarding the locations of primary targets, the...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 1.7.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 9798317804732 / 9798317804732