Death to America: Dylan Kane Thrillers, #4

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BOOKS BY J. ROBERT KENNEDY

Please click here for the intended reading order.

* Also available in audio

The Templar Detective Thrillers

The Templar Detective

The Templar Detective and the Parisian Adulteress

The Templar Detective and the Sergeant's Secret

The Templar Detective and the Unholy Exorcist

The Templar Detective and the Code Breaker

The Templar Detective and the Black Scourge

The Templar Detective and the Lost Children

The Templar Detective and the Satanic Whisper

The Just Jack Thrillers

You Don't Know Jack

Jack Be Nimble

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 Thirteenth Legion

Raging Sun

Wages of Sin

Wrath of the Gods

The Templar’s Revenge

The Nazi’s Engineer

Atlantis Lost

The Cylon Curse

The Viking Deception

Keepers of the Lost Ark

The Tomb of Genghis Khan

The Manila Deception

The Fourth Bible

Embassy of the Empire

Armageddon

No Good Deed

The Last Soviet

Lake of Bones

Fatal Reunion

The Resurrection Tablet

The Antarctica Incident

The Ghosts of Paris

No More Secrets

The Curse of Imhotep

The Sword of Doom

The Heretics Bible

The Dylan Kane Thrillers

Rogue Operator *

Containment Failure *

Cold Warriors *

Death to America

Black Widow

The Agenda

Retribution

State Sanctioned

Extraordinary Rendition

Red Eagle

The Messenger

The Defector

The Mole

The Arsenal

The Betrayal

The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

Payback

Infidels

The Lazarus Moment

Kill Chain

Forgotten

The Cuban Incident

Rampage

Inside the Wire

Charlie Foxtrot

A Price Too High

Righteous Hell

The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

Depraved Difference

Tick Tock

The Redeemer

The Kriminalinspektor Wolfgang Vogel Mysteries

The Colonel’s Wife

Sins of the Child

Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

The Turned

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Table of Contents

The Novel

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

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Acknowledgments

Don't Miss Out!

Thank You!

About the Author

Also by the Author

For fifteen-year-old Aziza Hamid, who showed us what true terror looks like. May you never feel fear again like you did that day.

Every step we take towards making the State our Caretaker of our lives, by that much we move toward making the State our Master.

Dwight D. Eisenhower

They who would give up an essential liberty for temporary security, deserve neither liberty or security.

Benjamin Franklin, November 11, 1755

PREFACE

The technologies described in this book exist, used daily to protect the United States and its allies from aggressors, both foreign and domestic. When dealing with foreign threats, America employs all tools in its arsenal. However, with domestic threats, the Constitution often hinders those who would protect the citizens of what many consider the freest country in the world.

What you are about to read raises an important question. What happens when the domestic threat is so grave that addressing it requires ignoring the very rights guaranteed to every American, the very tenets that built the greatest nation on Earth?

In today’s day and age of constant vigilance, of constant fear over terrorism, what would happen if the fight, now centered in lands so far away many can’t find them on a map, were to tomorrow appear on the streets of Detroit, New York City, or Miami? Would the average person cling to their liberties, guaranteed to them for over two centuries by successive democratically elected governments, or would they demand their government violate those freedoms under the belief that if you’ve done nothing wrong, then you’ve nothing to hide.

If we faced a terrifying evil, how willing would we be to let our government violate our rights to save us?

1 |

1301 Second Avenue

Seattle, Washington

Today

Peter Jackson pulled at his longish hair, slowly letting the strands slip through his fingers, the massaging action on the scalp a good stress reliever he had discovered in his youth.

But Marybeth did it the best.

He smiled as he remembered the first time she had sat behind him at his favorite watering hole and whispered in his ear. Stressed much?

Hmmm, he had grunted, his eyes half closed.

Let me help. And she had stood in the middle of the bar, giving him a scalp massage which included pulling his hair between her fingers, something he had never experienced before. And it was wonderful.

No, it was amazing!

It was erotic in its delivery, her large breasts looming over him every time he looked up at her as she smiled down at him. But alas, it wasn’t to be. She wasn’t his type. She was new age Goth, and he was a straitlaced hi-tech wonk struggling to climb the corporate ladder. Not to mention the fact her boyfriend Mike was huge. And a friend.

I wonder whatever happened to her.

He pulled his hair some more as the phone demanded his attention. He hit the speaker, his office door closed, his latest conquered rung garnering him a life outside the cubicle.

Life is good!

Go for Pete!

Is this Mr. Peter Jackson?

He tensed. The voice was mechanical, robotic, like something from the movies, yet something he had never heard in real life. It had to be one of his friends playing a gag on him. Yes.

Mr. Peter Jackson of Forty-Two Seventy-Eighth Lane?

He played along as a smile spread. Yes.

You have a wife named Connie and a daughter Elizabeth?

His eyes narrowed slightly. Yes. The smile was gone, the creepiness factor amping up. Who is this? Is this Dave?

His buddy Dave Brooklyn was a practical joker, one of the funniest bastards he had ever met, especially once he had half a dozen brewskies in his system. But bringing his wife and daughter into this was crossing a line he didn’t think even Dave would dare.

Mr. Jackson, your identity has been confirmed. You have been drafted by the Caliphate Restoration Army of Mohammad. You are now under our command. If you want no harm to come to your wife Connie or your daughter Elizabeth, you will follow our instructions exactly.

Jackson’s chest tightened as he stood, staring at the phone. Okay, listen, whoever this is, this is no longer funny. I’m hanging up now. He reached for the button when the monotone voice replied.

If you terminate the call, we will execute your wife and child.

Suddenly, the voice changed and he paled, dropping into his chair as he grabbed the phone from its cradle. Daddy? Is that you?

Yes, sweetheart, are you okay? Tears filled his eyes. This wasn’t a joke, this wasn’t a prank that had crossed the boundaries of good taste. This was real.

The mechanical monster that had kidnapped his family replaced his daughter’s voice. You are about to receive a package. You will sign for it without indicating to the delivery man that anything is wrong.

When?

Now. There was a knock at his office door and he flinched. No tricks, Mr. Jackson. We know everything you are doing. Put the phone back on speaker.

No tricks, he repeated, activating the speaker phone and returning the handset to its cradle. He wiped his eyes dry and drew a deep breath. Come in!

The door opened and a FedEx driver stepped inside. Good morning, sir. I’ve got a package here for you. He lifted it off the dolly and placed it on the corner of Jackson’s desk. Jackson took the handheld computer from the driver and signed, all the while his eyes flitting between the large package and the man, attempting to get a sense of whether he was in on it.

But he’s our regular guy!

Jackson had no idea what his name was.

Johnson. It’s on his name tag, you idiot.

He had seen Johnson on dozens of occasions, if not hundreds. An office like this had FedEx coming every day, and he was their regular deliveryman.

Careful, it’s marked fragile, said Johnson with a smile as he closed the door behind him.

Jackson stood by the box, nothing too large, perhaps the size of a case of bottled beer. I’ve got the package. His voice was subdued, broken. Everything until the package had arrived had made the entire experience surreal, with the possibility it could still be a joke, one his wife had enlisted their daughter’s help in playing.

But knowing exactly, to the moment, when a FedEx package would arrive?

That made it real.

Unless they’re in the office?

Open the box. Very carefully.

Jackson retrieved a letter opener from his top-right desk drawer and cut the tape sealing the box, all the while peering out his office’s large, glass-walled windows to see if he could spot someone watching him.

Nothing.

And when he folded open the lid, he realized this was no joke.

And he was in desperate trouble.

Take off your suit jacket and put on the vest. Carefully. Whatever you do, do not press the red button on the detonator.

He shook, his entire body barely clinging to reality as his world threatened to collapse around him. He pushed the box away, stepping back as his arms stretched out, searching for something to support himself with. He found the smooth, cool finish of his office door and pushed back against it, wedging his shoulder blades into the corner as his eyes fixated on the open box perched on the corner of his desk.

A suicide vest!

He had seen them in the movies, on TV shows, and, of course, on the news.

But never in person.

And never had he thought he would ever have the opportunity.

Not in America.

Not in his hometown.

This is insane!

Remove your jacket, Mr. Jackson.

His eyes tore away from the box, settling on the phone for a moment, before returning to the impossible, the unbelievable.

I won’t ask again, Mr. Jackson.

How can they know what I’m doing?

He pulled his left arm out of its sleeve, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders, his entire body shaking freely now. Hanging the jacket on the back of the door, he approached the box and peered inside. Suddenly, his blinds all closed, sending him to the corner again. He peered at the panel in the corner of his desk, one of the coolest features of his new office. It allowed him to open and close the blinds, dim the lights, and control his Bluetooth connected iPhone, playable through the speakers in the ceiling.

And now it was being used against him.

It meant they had full access to the corporate network somehow.

Who are these people?

Now, gently remove the vest from the box. Be careful not to touch the red trigger.

Jackson approached the box, arms outstretched as if he were a zombie and the box contained brains. He gripped the sides, his head held high so he wouldn’t see inside, then, taking a breath, he looked.

And again, his chest tightened like a vise.

Reaching inside, he carefully picked up the vest, finding it to be literally that. No sleeves, open at the front. It looked like something hunters might wear as an extra layer to keep their torso warm but their arms free to shoot. Sewn into the front and back were long red tubes, taped in place, the thread securing them, and at the top of the tubes were wires, all leading to a cluster and a rectangle hidden by more black tape, stitched in place. From the rectangle, a coil rolled in tape stretched for about two feet, ending in a tube with a red button at the end.

That must be the detonator.

Put it on, now.

He nodded, to whom he did not know, but he was certain he was on camera. With the blinds closed, it had to be somewhere in his office.

Unless they have some sort of thermal camera!

As he eyed the room around him, searching for anything out of the ordinary, he gingerly pushed his right arm through the hole in the vest, then carefully pulled it up to his shoulder. He slowly reached for the detonator and held it securely, making certain his thumb was nowhere near the button. Sliding his other arm into the vest, he breathed a sigh of relief, grabbing the edge of the desk for support. His knuckles white, he lowered his head and took several deep breaths.

He needed to figure a way out of this, but he was at a loss. His mind was barely processing anything now, fear gripping him as if someone were slowly wrapping him in a roll of cellophane from chest to feet, with each layer leaving fewer and fewer options for escape.

 Now remove the ski mask from the box and put it over your head.

This is really happening!

 He opened his eyes and looked back in the box. A black ski mask sat face up, staring back at him, the hollow eyes seemingly peering into his very soul.

Are you really going to let them kill you? To kill others?

At this point, he didn’t care about himself, he only cared about his wife and daughter. He knew where this was heading. They would send him out into public and force him to detonate the vest. And that could kill dozens of people. Innocent people. People who had wives and daughters of their own.

You can’t do this!

Now, Mr. Jackson.

He reached in and grabbed the mask, gently letting the trigger dangle at his side as he pulled the oppressive wool knitting over his face. He adjusted it so he could see and breathe through the holes provided.

But it was still claustrophobic.

His head, the hair matted in place, was already sweating, the beads of salty discharge trickling down his neck then his spine. He wondered if it might short circuit the vest if he were to get too sweaty. His heart skipped a beat, wondering if that meant it wouldn’t work, or if it could go off on its own.

Very good, Mr. Jackson. We are almost done. Now take the sign from the box and place it around your neck.

Another look and his eyes filled with tears as he realized what exactly they had drafted him into. What had they called themselves? His mind raced, struggling to remember the words spoken only moments before, the entire conversation a mere fog of memory. The Caliphate Restoration Army of Mohammad. They were Islamists. That much was now clear as he retrieved the cardboard sign at the bottom, a string tied off on the top two corners through holes that appeared to have been punched with a knife and a twist.

The text on it, three simple words, sent chills up and down his spine.

DEATH TO AMERICA.

It was a slogan he had heard a thousand times, a popular refrain from the brainwashed masses of the Muslim world as they burned American flags and effigies of whatever American president happened to be in power at the time, at whatever perceived affront their religious leaders had told them America had committed yet again. Before 9/11, he had paid it little mind, the Iran hostage crisis before his time, the news and world politics a boring thing his dad paid attention to. But 9/11 had enraged him like everyone else, having him cheering the troops on as they exacted our country’s revenge on those who would attack us so brazenly.

Then he had grown numb to it, like most others. The wars dragged on, the original intentions questioned, the missions changed, and as each Islamist outrage around the world continued to be perpetrated, he tuned out unless it was on home soil.

And there had been too many of those, even if they were all home grown.

It’s terrifying to think that our own citizens would want to harm our country!

And yet here he was, fitting a sign with those three hateful words around his neck. He retrieved the detonator with his right hand and stood trembling by the desk, wondering who they intended him to kill, and why they had chosen him. He wasn’t political, he barely kept up with the news. He and his friends sometimes chit-chatted about what was wrong with the country, and he sometime took the position that not only the country, but the entire West, had become too complacent, too politically correct to speak up and face the problem that it was now enveloped in. Muslim immigration wasn’t compatible with the Judeo-Christian Western world. Most Muslims were perfectly nice people who wanted to live in peace with those around them, but they wanted to live in peace in a culture that matched theirs.

A reasonable aspiration, he thought. Americans love America. Why? Because it’s the greatest country the world has ever known, built with the blood, sweat, and tears of pioneers who left their homes, crossed an ocean, and helped create the greatest democracy and military power in history. But if our country turned to shit for some reason, forcing us to leave, would we immigrate to other countries and live with the locals, or would we seek other Americans and set up America-Town or some equivalent? Most likely, we would do that if we moved to Mexico, where the culture might be too different for some. But if we moved to Canada, would we really set up our own communities, or just blend in with a local population so similar to ours?

He had bet on the latter, which his friends hadn’t argued with. His point had been that when Muslims were forced to leave their countries because of war or other intolerable conditions, they came to America, Canada, or the United Kingdom, and wanted to live in peace. But when they found the country they had moved into so dramatically different from anything they could have imagined, they clustered in enclaves with other Muslims, setting up their own Mini-Iran, as Axl Rose had so indelicately put it years ago.

And with those enclaves, a bubble quickly formed, blocking out the reality of the culture they were living within, inspiring leaders to step up and demand the West change its laws and ways to permit their, if viewed from a Western perspective, backward ways of thinking, where we were, in some cases, centuries ahead. And when a new generation of youth, born into these enclaves, citizens of their new country, preached to day in and day out that their own country, the adopted country of their parents, hated them and their ways because they refused to let women be covered head to toe, refused to allow Sharia law, refused to change zoning for a Mosque, refused to condemn Israel for defending itself, these children quickly learned to hate. To hate those different from them, to hate their own country.

He had thought it so blatantly obvious that he found it impossible to believe his government hadn’t come to the same conclusions. Western Europe certainly was noticing it, but was it too late? New citizenship tests and courses in the UK, right-wing anti-Muslim parties winning an increasing number of seats, The Netherlands repealing multiculturalism, France banning the burqa. These countries were fighting back, but was it too little too late when millions lived within your borders, many born there with the full rights of citizenship?

The outrages of Boko Haram and the kidnapping of several hundred girls had prompted the discussion over beers with his friends, and had been one of the more spirited ones, all of them arguing passionately about the same thing, even their buddy in London joining in over Skype, missing his morning Tube as he called it.

Jackson sighed. That was the most political he had ever gotten. And he wasn’t even sure how political it was. It wasn’t a Republican or Democratic thing, it wasn’t left or right. It was preserving our way of life against an enemy determined to end it. It was like capitalism versus communism, the good old days of the Cold War. Two fundamentally different visions for the world, determined to wipe out the other.

And now here he was, turned into a pawn of the enemy.

His cellphone rang in his pocket.

Answer your phone.

He reached in and answered the call. Hello?

Hang up the phone on your desk.

It was the same voice. He complied.

Now listen carefully. You will walk out of your office, walk to the center of the floor, stand on a desk, and yell, ‘Allahu Akbar’ three times, each time thrusting your free hand into the air. Then you will press the detonator. We will then release your wife and daughter. Repeat these instructions.

Tears poured down Jackson’s face as he carefully repeated the instructions, his shoulders slumping, his chin dropping to his chest as he realized he had mere moments to live, and it was his friends and coworkers whom he was about to kill.

And those who survived would think he did this to them, not the madman on the other end of the phone.

Very good. Now proceed.

He inhaled deeply. No.

You will proceed or we will kill your wife and daughter, starting with your daughter.

I won’t do it, not until I’ve spoken to them. I want to say goodbye. His voice cracked on the last word, the tears blinding him, his entire world a blur as if peering through a water feature wall, rivulets of pain and anguish trickling from the top to the bottom then escaping and burning hot salty streaks down his cheeks to his neck and chest.

Very well.

Daddy?

Peter, is that you?

The voices of his two most precious treasures killed him. There was no doubt they had them both, and if those behind this wanted him to kill dozens or more, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill two more innocents to attain their goal. But just hearing their voices made everything all right, everything normal again, if only for a brief instance.

Yes, it’s me. Are you two okay? It was everything he could do to control his voice, to portray the strength he needed to as a man, as a father, as a husband. They must be terrified, and it was up to him to save them.

Just scared, honey. What’s going on?

He could hear the fear in his wife’s voice, but also the forced strength as they both shielded their daughter from the surrounding horror. Have you heard the conversation?

No, we’re in a room. Somebody’s with us, and they just told us you were on the phone.

Lizzy darling, Mommy and I have to talk about your birthday, so Mommy’s going to cover your ears.

Okay, Daddy!

His heart broke at the excitement in her voice as the mention of her birthday wiped away any fear that might have haunted the little six-year-old’s heart.

Okay, go ahead.

They’re forcing me to wear a suicide bomb vest—

Oh, my God! His wife’s voice cracked, her spirit breaking as his own control slowly lost grip.

They want me to blow up my office or they’ll kill you and Lizzy.

His wife sobbed, and behind it, he could hear the innocent, gentle humming of his daughter as she did her