Rogue Strike (A Troy Stark Thriller—Book #6), page 1
R O G U E S T R I K E
(A TROY STARK THRILLER—BOOK 6)
J A C K M A R S
Jack Mars
Jack Mars is the USA Today bestselling author of the LUKE STONE thriller series, which includes seven books. He is also the author of the new FORGING OF LUKE STONE prequel series, comprising six books; of the AGENT ZERO spy thriller series, comprising twelve books; of the TROY STARK thriller series, comprising seven books; of the SPY GAME thriller series, comprising ten books; of the JAKE MERCER thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the new TYLER WOLF thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting).
ANY MEANS NECESSARY (a Luke Stone Thriller—Book #1), AGENT ZERO (An Agent Zero Spy Thriller—Book #1), and PRIMARY TARGET (The Forging of Luke Stone—Book #1) are each available as free downloads on Amazon!
Jack loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.Jackmarsauthor.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!
Copyright © 2024 by Jack Mars. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Marco Barone, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
BOOKS BY JACK MARS
TYLER WOLF THRILLER SERIES
DOUBLE AGENT (Book #1)
DOUBLE CROSS (Book #2)
DOUBLE ASSET (Book #3)
DOUBLE DOCTRINE (Book #4)
DOUBLE JEOPARDY (Book #5)
DOUBLE THREAT (Book #6)
DOUBLE TARGET (Book #7)
JAKE MERCER THRILLER SERIES
ABSOLUTE THREAT (Book #1)
ABSOLUTE DAMAGE (Book #2)
ABSOLUTE FORCE (Book #3)
ABSOLUTE PERIL (Book #4)
ABSOLUTE TREASON (Book #5)
ABSOLUTE VENGEANCE (Book #6)
ABSOLUTE TARGET (Book #7)
THE SPY GAME
TARGET ONE (Book #1)
TARGET TWO (Book #2)
TARGET THREE (Book #3)
TARGET FOUR (Book #4)
TARGET FIVE (Book #5)
TARGET SIX (Book #6)
TARGET SEVEN (Book #7)
TARGET EIGHT (Book #8)
TARGET NINE (Book #9)
TARGET TEN (Book #10)
TROY STARK THRILLER SERIES
ROGUE FORCE (Book #1)
ROGUE COMMAND (Book #2)
ROGUE TARGET (Book #3)
ROGUE MISSION (Book #4)
ROGUE SHOT (Book #5)
ROGUE STRIKE (Book #6)
ROGUE ORDER (Book #7)
LUKE STONE THRILLER SERIES
ANY MEANS NECESSARY (Book #1)
OATH OF OFFICE (Book #2)
SITUATION ROOM (Book #3)
OPPOSE ANY FOE (Book #4)
PRESIDENT ELECT (Book #5)
OUR SACRED HONOR (Book #6)
HOUSE DIVIDED (Book #7)
FORGING OF LUKE STONE PREQUEL SERIES
PRIMARY TARGET (Book #1)
PRIMARY COMMAND (Book #2)
PRIMARY THREAT (Book #3)
PRIMARY GLORY (Book #4)
PRIMARY VALOR (Book #5)
PRIMARY DUTY (Book #6)
AN AGENT ZERO SPY THRILLER SERIES
AGENT ZERO (Book #1)
TARGET ZERO (Book #2)
HUNTING ZERO (Book #3)
TRAPPING ZERO (Book #4)
FILE ZERO (Book #5)
RECALL ZERO (Book #6)
ASSASSIN ZERO (Book #7)
DECOY ZERO (Book #8)
CHASING ZERO (Book #9)
VENGEANCE ZERO (Book #10)
ZERO ZERO (Book #11)
ABSOLUTE ZERO (Book #12)
CONTENTS
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 ONE
February 1
6:15 am Central European Time
A flat
Neighborhood of La Latina
Madrid, Spain
“Brisk,” Troy Stark said under his breath, on the morning his car exploded.
It was cold, and the heat hadn’t started coming up into the radiators yet, so the overnight chill was still inside his flat.
He was sitting in the little kitchen breakfast nook by the window, wearing blue boxer briefs and a t-shirt, slowly sipping a cup of hot coffee. The edges of the window were white with frost, leaving a nearly circular patch in the middle which he could see through. The chill in the apartment brought gooseflesh up on his legs and arms. He liked that feeling.
Below his window, the dark early morning streets were empty. In the daytime, the narrow winding streets were lined with colorful buildings, painted in greens and blues and yellows and reds, that had intricate balconies and windows, each one unique from all the others. But this time of day the vibrant colors were muted, and hard to see.
In a little while, he was leaving for the airport. Miquel Castro-Ruiz had been reinstated as the Director of El Grupo Especial. Indeed, El Grupo itself had been saved from the chopping block, perhaps because of the successful mission in Hong Kong, or maybe for some murky political reason. There was no telling, and it didn’t matter. What mattered is Troy had been given some time off, and he was going home to New York.
He glanced around his small apartment. Sitting at this small round table, you could practically see the whole place.
From here, he could look through the doorway into his bedroom. The bed was unmade and rumpled, the sheets and blanket twisted this way and that. A pillow had fallen onto the polished hardwood floor. He had gotten out of the old military habit of making his bed the minute he climbed out of it.
“First win of the day,” he muttered.
He took a sip of his coffee. It was very, very good. The shops in this neighborhood sold excellent coffee. Exceptional coffee. Troy was becoming a coffee snob.
He stared at the bed. In his mind’s eye, he saw the bed how it was several days ago, right around this time, before the sunrise, the morning after they came back from Hong Kong. Agent Dubois had been tangled among those sheets, deep asleep, her giant head of curly hair sticking out, her beautiful body half-covered by Troy’s thick flannel blanket.
He grunted, only half-aware he was doing it.
Dubois had gone to Paris later that day, worried for her mother’s safety. Chatter among the intelligence agencies and the criminal networks suggested that at least Troy Stark, but possibly other agents of El Grupo as well, had been marked for revenge by elements of the Albanian, and much worse, the southern Italian Mafia. If true, it was bad news indeed.
“Rumors,” Troy said. “Whispers.”
The image of Dubois faded, and the bed was empty again. Quite a night they'd had. He still didn't know what it meant or if there was going to be anything more. Dubois should have been a professional poker player. She held her cards close to the vest.
Coy was one thing. Utterly inscrutable was something else.
Troy shook his head. It was getting late.
“Better get ready,” he said.
He had decided to drive himself to the airport and park his car there. It was a very American thing to do, completely unnecessary here in Madrid, where the Metro subway train ran an easy connection to the airport. But he was going to do it anyway. The Europeans could take trains everywhere, if they wanted. He was an American.
Just across the street from his flat was a postage stamp-sized, fenced in parking lot. It had exactly five spaces, and one of them belonged to Troy Stark. His lime green Smart car was there, sandwiched between a tiny red Fiat on its left and an old motorcycle on its right. That Smart car was the smallest vehicle Troy had ever owned, and nothing else came close. People drove small cars around here. Space was at a premium in this part of the city.
Troy had a little trick for mornings like this one. The Smart car came with an electronic key fob that was also a remote starter. The car was just close enough that if you opened the window a crack, and stuck your hand out, you could start it right from here.
Troy was all packed. By the time he showered and was ready to go, the car would be running five or ten minutes and plenty warm inside.
It was lazy. It was soft.
Troy loved it. He had lived rough most of his life. This was a thin slice of luxury.
He forced the window open the slightest amount, took the fob and snaked his hand out into the sharp cold morning. He clicked the button.
Across the way, the low front beams and the red taillights of the Smart popped on. He could hear the gentle purr of its engine coming to life.
“Beautiful.”
He pulled his hand in. It was time to…
BOOOM!
Troy dropped to the floor as an explosion tore the silence outside. He lay motionless on the cold kitchen hardwood, barely feeling it. He scanned the room. Nothing moved. Everything was normal in here.
His car had just blown up.
He waited, his heartbeat galloping, but his breathing steady.
In a moment, a smaller secondary explosion went up, the one he waiting for. The first explosion was the bomb the would-be assassins had placed. The second was the fire reaching the gas tank.
He climbed to his feet and peered out the window.
The Fiat was just catching fire now. That gas tank would go in another minute or two.
The motorcycle would probably catch at some point. If the fire department didn’t get here soon, everything in the parking lot might go.
A couple of people had appeared on the street in dark heavy jackets, staying well away from the rising flames and the black smoke. In the distance, Troy could hear the wail of the approaching sirens. From here, it seemed clear that no one had been hurt, and no one was going to be. But Troy might have sat in that car and started it himself at 8:15 in the morning, when the streets were already full of people walking past.
More than anything, this was a lucky break.
It was his car that exploded, and he supposed he would have to speak with someone about that. But he also had a plane to catch. Maybe he could do that interview over the phone.
“Looks like I’m taking the train to the airport after all,” he said.
Then he thought of Dubois, in the Paris flat where her mother lived. He glanced at the clock. 6:25. He sighed heavily. He’d better call her.
CHAPTER TWO
9:59 pm Central European Time
Texel Island, on the North Sea
North Holland
The Netherlands
The men were killers.
They went by the names of archangels, Michael and Uriel.
They stood outside the high outer walls of the big house, lingering among the dunes and sea grasses. A cold, heavy rain beat down. Down on the beach, giant surf battered the shoreline. The men stood silent in this far-flung, wind-swept place.
Dressed in black, they looked like wraiths, dark ghosts in the shadows. On this night, they wore hooded coats to protect themselves against both the rain, and anyone seeing their faces. There was no one around. The place sat on a low bluff more than a kilometer from the nearest empty houses.
In the summer months, for the Dutch, this island was a popular holiday destination. In the winter, it was as though the world had ended, and everyone who had ever lived was gone.
But there were always cameras.
The resident here was known to be reclusive. He was also known to be highly tech-savvy. It wouldn’t surprise Michael if the man was already aware that they were here, and was watching them right now.
That didn’t worry Michael. He was broad and muscular, renowned for his bad temper and his quick reflexes. A combat veteran of numerous wars, his body was scarred by battle. Since his military days ended, he had murdered more than a dozen people in cold blood for money. He was God's own warrior angel.
If the man inside that house did know the angels had come for him, his best hope would be to call the authorities. In this place, it would take an hour or more for the police to come. By the time they arrived, and in all likelihood “they” would be one man armed with a flashlight, the angels would be long gone.
Michael looked at his partner.
Uriel was tall and slim, with very fast hands. His face was unremarkable. He had a receding hairline. He looked like he could be an accountant or a teacher. You wouldn't remember seeing him, even if he didn't wear a hood. He was logical and detail-oriented. He was also cold-blooded and relentless. Among the archangels, Uriel was the scholar, the angel of knowledge and learning.
The two of them stood outside a three-meter-high stone wall.
Uriel opened a green metal box at the base of the wall, the controls to the home security system, and quickly removed the digital user interface. Behind it, there was a forest of wires and fuses mounted on a motherboard.
Uriel held a small flashlight in his mouth, its beam shining into the box. His gloved fingers ran across the board, pulling fuses and unclipping wires. It seemed random, but Michael knew there was a method to it.
Abruptly, Uriel took the light from his mouth and turned it off. He closed the box.
“Done,” he said.
Michael believed him. If Uriel said he had just disabled the house’s alarm, sentry lights and camera system, then that’s exactly what had happened.
They were not the best of friends, Michael and Uriel. Maybe they didn’t even like each other. But they were partners, and Michael respected Uriel’s professionalism and his knack for the finer points of technology. It was a beautiful thing.
“You opened the gate and the door?” Michael said.
“The wall and the house,” Uriel said. “The gate and the door. We are standing here, on the outside, but in a real sense, we are already in.”
Michael went to the reinforced steel gate set into a sort of tunnel through the wall. He grabbed an upright rung and pulled. The gate swung open easily. It didn’t even make a sound. He smiled to himself and, just like that, he slipped inside the wall.
A moment later, the two men walked across the low hills of the grounds toward the house. Just past the edge of the concrete patio was the beach. The North Sea winds howled across the rolling dunes, driving the rain, whitecaps visible against the darkness of the water and the sky.
The house was to their left. They were behind it now, closer to the ocean than to the road. Michael gazed up at the house as they approached. It was large and white, ultra-modern, shaped like a pillbox or a machine gun nest.
They came in under the shadow of a stone overhang. Michael knew the layout. There was a porch or deck above their heads, where the resident here enjoyed his coffee when he awakened, and later, in the afternoons and evenings, his wine and his marijuana. If the rumors were true, there were other drugs as well.
The rear door was under this overhang. It was heavy steel, with a keypad and a card reader mounted next to it. Both should be disabled now. The two men paused by the door, the wind blowing the rain in on them. The rain pattered on their coats, and ran down their faces.
“Heart attack,” Michael said. “The man has terrible habits. Obesity. Lack of exercise. Smoking. Drinking. Bad diet.”
Uriel nodded. “No one knows or cares.”
“But if there’s any trouble, we shoot him,” Michael said.
Uriel knew all of this, of course, but it was customary to make sure they were on the same page in the playbook one last time before doing the job.
“Too much resistance, attempts to contact outside parties…”
Uriel was still nodding.
“Just boom,” Michael said. He patted the pistol hidden beneath his coat. “Murder is murder. The man was a criminal.”
“Yes,” Uriel said. “Boom.”
“No one will be surprised.”
“No,” Uriel said. “No one will be surprised at all. Why would they, with his acquaintances and affiliations? After all, the man was a criminal.”
Talking to Uriel sometimes was like trying to talk to a cardboard box. You got nothing from him. Other times, it was like talking to a parakeet. He simply repeated your words back to you. The man had precious little personality of his own.
