Shadow Target (A Shadow Target Thriller Book 1), page 1
Shadow Target
R.D. West
Shadow Target
Copyright© 2022 by R.D. West
Cover design by R.D. West
Cover Copyright © 2022 by R.D. West
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictionally and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to a person, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For information contact :
R.D. West
rdwest@rd-west.com
First Edition
Contents
Also by R.D. West
Dedication
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Epilogue
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About the Author
Also by R.D. West
SHADOW TARGET SERIES
SHADOW TARGET
HUNTER ELITE (COMING SOON)
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Preface
Shadow Target takes place in different locations throughout the United States. In the spirit of telling a compelling story, some aspects of the real towns and cities have been altered. Thank you for understanding the author's creative freedom.
Chapter 1
After pulling into the Sunshade Motel parking lot a shy past 10:00 p.m., Brad Jones navigated his inconspicuous, late model, black Toyota Corolla under the seedy motor inn’s porte cochère. The office had its blinds tilted at a downward angle. A neon “No Vacancy” sign glowed brightly from the outside of the window; it washed out the darkness around the bushes near the entrance in a blood-red hue.
Inside, the desk clerk was nowhere to be seen, allowing Brad to pass by without detection. The parking lot was dotted with a wide variety of vehicles, ranging from poorly-cared-for clunkers to high-end, luxury sedans. Motels like Sunshade were a perfect spot for D.C.’s elite to frequent with their mistresses or call girls, not to mention the other nefarious dealings transpiring behind closed doors. Being located far from the capital and the prying eyes of city dwellers, the lodge was a breeding ground for the corrupt to conduct their business. That night was no different.
Brad swung the Corolla about and then backed into an open slot near the far edge of the motel’s car lot. The headlights vanished a second later and the engine cut off. He removed the keys from the ignition and retrieved his phone from the cubby hole in the center console.
As he pressed the power button on the side of the device and then applied his thumbprint to the screen, Brad swept the front of the rooms facing the expanse of the motor inn’s lot. Not a soul stirred outside. It was completely quiet.
Brad then diverted his gaze down at the screen. He studied the balding, middle-aged man’s picture that stared back at him.
Frank Talbot was about as ordinary as they came; his features were plain and nondescript. He wore thick-rimmed, Coke bottle glasses and had a black mustache. His round head and double chin erased any sort of defined, chiseled features from his pasty, white complexion.
The words “Sunshade Motel. Room 4B.” were printed under his image. That’s all Brad had to go on, and all that he needed to complete his assignment.
He killed the light from his phone and got out of the sedan. The warm, muggy night air greeted Brad as he carefully shut his door without any residual noise. One final sweep of the rooms of the motel and its grounds showed no signs of surveillance of any sort, signaling that he could move about without being captured by cameras.
Adjusting his ACDC t-shirt over the top of his jeans and pulling the bill of his black ball cap further down on his head, Brad made for the steel staircase. He had grown used to blending in and not drawing attention to himself. Though he was barely twenty, Brad had completed numerous assignments without ever being detected or failing a mission.
His boots pinged off the steps as he ascended the staircase. He constantly scanned the parking lot and rooms as he neared the landing of the second floor. So far, all was as expected with no surprises that he could foresee.
Brad causally walked down the stretch of balcony past the rooms and shut blinds until arriving at his destination. One final glance at the closed doors around him and Brad advanced on Mr. Talbot’s room.
A symphony of pleasurable noises was emitted through the door. Each groan and holler indicated the businessman was more than enjoying his weekly rendezvous.
With a soft but firm rap on the door, Brad listened as the couple ceased their primal grunts. A brief moment of silence lingered followed by lowered voices and shuffling feet.
“Yes? Who is it and what do you want?” a breathless, quickened voice asked.
“Yes, sir,” Brad started as he got into character. “We’ve received reports from other guests of an odd smell coming from your room.”
“An odd smell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t smell anything. They’re mistaken.”
Brad maintained decorum and said, “I understand, sir, but we’d like to check for ourselves and make sure there isn’t a gas leak or other danger to our guests. For this inconvenience, we’re going to comp your night’s stay and offer you a voucher for a free future reservation.”
The muttered voices persisted until he replied. “Fine, but make it quick.”
As the door’s deadbolt retracted and it pulled away from the jamb, Brad dipped his shoulder and rammed the door, forcing his way into the motel room. He quickly shut the door behind him, engaged the lock, and pulled his FNX-45 from the waistband of his blue jeans.
Mr. Talbot stumbled back from the door, dressed in nothing more than a white robe. His bulbous gut pressed against the loose knot keeping the flaps of the covering from coming undone. Beads of sweat raced down the sides of his clammy flesh as he raised his arms. The room smelled of cheap cleaner and generations of bad decisions.
“What the hell is this?” the portly man snarled.
A naked, older, blonde woman hidden under the ruffled sheets of the queen-sized bed ventured a scream, but Brad shushed the shivering hooker and controlled the scene.
“Keep quiet and do not make a single sound. Am I clear?”
She nodded her compliance as she whimpered through pursed lips.
“Please. I don’t know who you are or what you want, but if it’s money or other valuables that you’re after, I can give you what I have in my wallet.” Mr. Talbot turned and tipped his head at his trousers draped over the backrest of a brown, wooden chair behind him. “It’s in my back pocket. Take what you want and leave.”
“Shut up.”
Brad kept the HK aimed at the fat man’s skull as he looked over the room, then at the partially cracked door leading into the bathroom. The motel room’s aged wallpaper barely clung to the walls. The furniture was about as old and worn as the walls were. So was the ancient, tube television.
High-heeled black boots stuck out from under the woman’s garments that had been tossed in the middle of the floor. Her small, black purse rested on the top of the dresser next to the TV that had muted adult programming playing.
“Is there anyone else in here?” Brad asked.
Mr. Talbot shook his head and said, “No. It’s just us.”
The woman’s frightened whimpers seeped from the white covers crammed against her mouth.
“Listen. Please take what you want,” Mr. Talbot said on the verge of crying. “I have a wife and three kids. I swear I won’t report this to the authorities. You have my word.”
Brad approached the quaking, plump man, grabbed him by the scruff of his robe, and shoved him toward the bed without acknowledging the plea. Then he checked the time on his wrist watch. It was 10:20 p.m. He needed to conclude his business and exit the room.
“There has to be some sort of arrangement we can make here.” Mr. Talbot pushed up from the bed and sat down next to the weeping hooker as Brad dialed up the volume on the tv.
The mixture of grunts and moans would muffle the coming noise.
“I know we can–“
A single round fired from the HK45’s suppressor in a whisper, silencing Mr. Talbot. The bullet punched the bald man’s forehead. His head snapped back as blood and brain matter sprayed the white, dingy sheets. He collapsed back onto the mattress, pinning the woman’s legs under his body.
Frightened, the hooker belted a scream that was instantly silenced by the TV’s speakers. She kicked her legs and pressed into the headboard, but couldn’t escape.
Brad leveled the HK with her head and squeezed the trigger without pause.
Another silenced report fired from the gun and punched her skull. Her head flopped back against the padded headboard; then she dumped over onto the mattress.
No witnesses were to be left alive, regardless of whether they were part of the assignment or not. That was the rule.
Having completed his task, Brad kept the volume on the TV high and then removed the cell phone from his back pocket. He angled the camera lens at their deadpan faces and snapped a picture for confirmation of the kills.
With the pictures recorded, Brad stowed the pistol in the waistband of his jeans, deposited the phone in his back pants pocket, and then advanced toward the door. Brad glanced through the shut blinds to confirm the balcony was clear; then he gripped the door handle with his gloved hand.
As the television’s scratchy speakers continued to blare inside the room, Brad opened the door wide enough to slip through to the balcony. He shut the door behind him and strode toward the landing of the steel staircase. Then he descended to the bottom step and marched toward his car.
Wrestling the car keys from his front pants pocket, he opened the driver’s side door and plopped down onto the seat. Brad then removed his gloves and chucked them onto the passenger side floorboard, and reached back and grabbed his cell phone.
He typed Mission Complete in the text message containing Frank Talbot’s picture and hit send. Then Brad started the Corolla and exited the parking lot the way he came, vanishing into the night.
Chapter 2
Brad’s morning started early the next day. It was 6:15 a.m. He had already been up and about for over an hour. He’d slept little during the night, but he was used to running on fumes, and could always drown himself in endless energy drinks or coffee.
Sun shone through the window of his tiny house, which was sparsely decorated. A single twin-sized bed, a dresser, couch, footlocker, and a kitchen table with two chairs were the extent of his furnishings. He sat at the small round table and stared off into the distance as he cleaned his HK45. For Brad, it was one of the ways to decompress after a job. The monotonous task of deconstructing the firearm, cleaning it thoroughly, and assembling it back together was therapeutic.
Over the years, he had grown proficient in handling the weapon. From a young age, Brad had been trained to use firearms and to know them inside out. Respect his tools of the trade and they’d treat him well. As time passed, each gun he used felt like an extension of him.
He secured the slide into place. Then Brad slapped the magazine into the mag well. He placed the weapon on the table top next to his cleaning kit.
The tools were organized in an orderly fashion on the soft, light-gray mat before him. He was taught that to be proficient at his craft one had to be methodical and precise in every aspect of his life.
Brad glanced past the weapon to the book to his right on the edge of the table. Manhattan Heights was one of his favorite reads. He had been an avid reader for as long as he could remember. Other than cleaning his gun, reading the adventures of his favorite heroic character helped relax Brad after a job. It pulled his mind out of a world with which he wasn’t fully quadrated. Sure, he killed people, and he was among the best, but the why always found a way to niggle at him.
Two hard knocks sounded at his front door. He checked his watch. Right on time.
“Come in.”
The door opened with a slight squeak. Additional sunlight flooded into the entryway as Mya Black entered his compact dwelling.
She was all business as usual but flashed a brief smile Brad’s way as she stepped through the doorway. Her long, black hair was pulled tight into a ponytail and swung with each step she made. Not a hint of makeup coated her perfectly tanned skin, but Mya didn’t require such trivial things. She had a natural beauty that made her far more pretty than any cover model could ever attempt to achieve.
“How’d it go last night?” she asked.
“No issues. Completed in less than ten minutes.”
“Excellent. Not that I’m surprised. You’re nothing if not punctual.”
“I try to be.”
Brad enjoyed their banter, regardless of the topic. Mya was one of the few people on the compound with whom he’d grown close. They had a kindred spirit that blossomed over the years since early childhood. Having relations, they knew, was forbidden and met with severe punishment as it was deemed a distraction from maintaining focus and discipline. Cobalt came first, second, and third, and there the list ended. Anything else would not be tolerated by the instructors, or their leader, Morgan Rojas.
“Have you slept?” Mya asked while studying Brad’s tired face. “You don’t look like you got even a wink of sleep.”
“I drifted off here and there when I got back late last night, but nothing solid. I’m just glad it was a close assignment and not overseas, but either way, I’ll manage. It’s what we do, right?”
Mya nodded and then said, “Right. It is.” She turned and trained her ear at the door. “Well, let’s stop by the mess hall and grab you some coffee or an energy drink. You need to be awake and alert, more so than what you look like right now. They’ll be passing out assignments shortly, and you don’t want to catch another lecture or waste disposal duty, do you?”
Brad shrugged at the thought of collecting the compound’s waste and then stood from his chair. “It’s not the worst thing they could charge us with doing.”
“If you say so.” Mya backed toward the doorway as Brad carried the cleaning kit and mat to his footlocker. He deposited both into the hold, and then secured the HK45 in his assigned weapons lockbox. She continued. “Just remember that when you’re grabbing those soggy trash bags and tossing them into that nasty dump cart. And don’t forget, Asher’s trash will be mixed in, so you would be handling his trash as well. He would love to see that.”
Brad hesitated midstride, his brows furrowing in disgust. “You’re right. I can’t give him the satisfaction. But it won’t come to that.” He followed Mya outside and then shut the door behind him.
“That’s what I like about you, Brad. You’re confident and ballsy, borderline arrogant.”
“Yes. That’s all part of my charm.”
Mya gave one last smirk as they got on the move. “That it is.”
Chapter 3
A buzz of activity swarmed the grounds of the sprawling compound that was nestled in the valley of dense sylvan within the Blue Ridge Mountains. The expanse of the community had grown since Brad’s arrival thirteen years ago. A steady flow of recruits funneled into Virginia’s hidden training facility, which housed more than twenty kids of varying ages and walks of life. He couldn’t remember how he’d arrived at such a place or any of his life previous to his arrival, but it had been his home ever since.
The property was dotted with a multitude of buildings across eighty acres of prime land. It was self-sustained by and for the cadets, instructors, and guards who lived on-site.
