Blowback Read online

  Praise for AL PESSIN and his

  TASK FORCE EPSILON thrillers

  Blowback

  “If your thing is adventure, political intrigue, suspense, and action galore, then this is the thriller for you. Don’t wait. Check it out. Now.”

  —Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author

  of the Cotton Malone thrillers

  “Don’t mess with the good guys. Reading Al Pessin’s Blowback is like saddling a rocket. Once it gets going, hang on for one helluva ride!”

  —John Gilstrap, New York Times bestselling author of

  the award-winning Jonathan Grave thriller series

  “Blowback is a realistic—and top-notch—boots-on-the-ground military thriller featuring the secret counterterrorism unit Task Force Epsilon. Author Al Pessin gives readers a front-row seat as über-resilient unit leader Bridget Davenport directs U.S. Army lieutenant Faraz Abdallah on a harrowing undercover mission to the Syrian terrorist camps in pursuit of the elusive Taliban mastermind al-Souri. The pages will fly by as you draw closer to the heart-thumping, action-packed climax. Pessin really knows his stuff, and Blowback proves it!”

  —Alan Orloff, Thriller- and Derringer-Award winning

  author of I Know Where You Sleep

  “Blowback is a timely military thriller that pulls no punches. Al Pessin brings the war on terror to life as few authors can. Highly recommended for fans of Alex Berenson and Brad Thor.”

  —Ward Larsen, USA Today bestselling

  author of Assassin’s Strike

  “The blistering and bracing Blowback is a thinking man’s (or woman’s!) action thriller, a scarily prescient take on current events that foretells the headlines instead of exploiting them. Al Pessin’s second entry in the Task Force Epsilon series conjures comparisons to James Rollins’s seminal Sigma Force in all the right ways while staking out his own turf in a crowded landscape.

  A riveting and relentless read.”

  —Jon Land, USA Today bestselling author

  “Original, action-packed, gripping, and timely—Blowback kept me up all night. Al Pessin knows Washington and the war on terror. And Hollywood, take note, Al Pessin is the new Tom Clancy.”

  —Tony Park, international bestselling author

  Sandblast

  TOP-FIVE SELECTION, UNPUBLISHED BOOK OF THE YEAR,

  2018 ROYAL PALM LITERARY AWARDS,

  SHORT-LIST SELECTION, 2017 BOSQUE FICTION PRIZE

  “Al Pessin escorts you through thrills and chaos,

  writing with the sure hand of authority.

  This guy knows his stuff.”

  —Richard Castle, New York Times bestselling

  author of the Nikki Heat thrillers

  “In Sandblast, Al Pessin has crafted a taut action-thriller that really pulls you in. You’ll feel like you’re right beside the main character on an increasingly perilous journey filled with impossible choices that threaten to change him at his very core. The plot is highly original, and I felt like I was there. It’s a great book.”

  —Henry V. O’Neil, author of The Sim War series

  “Sandblast is the definition of a terrific military thriller—straightforward, precise, and devastating. This timely, realistic story—with its authentic and knowing voice, and courageous main characters—propels readers to the peak of white-knuckled brinksmanship and will be awarded top marks by fans of Alex Berensen and Vince Flynn.”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan, Mary Higgins Clark,

  Anthony, and six-time Agatha award-winner

  “Sandblast is tense, believable, and relevant. Pessin calls on his years in the Pentagon and White House press corps for the keen details that bring this tale to life. There’s a high emotional content here, too, as we follow the almost impossible quest of a likable and massively outgunned hero.”

  —T. Jefferson Parker, New York Times bestselling

  author of The Last Good Guy

  “So exciting—and so terrifyingly realistic—you won’t be able to put it down. If you like complex international thrillers, keep Al Pessin on your short list of must-read authors.”

  —D. J. Niko, international bestselling author of

  The Sarah Weston Chronicles

  “Sandblast is an aptly titled nail-biter of a thriller that opens at a pulse-rattling pace and only ratchets upwards from there. Al Pessin not only knows how to tell a story but his journalistic background imbues this tale of an Afghan-American Army officer infiltrating a terrorist organization with compelling authority.”

  —Les Standiford, author of Water to the Angels and

  many other books, director of the creative writing

  program at Florida International University

  “Al Pessin brings a lifetime of frontline experience to a novel that could have been taken from today’s headlines. Utterly compelling and a cautionary tale for our times.”

  —Retired Admiral James Stavridis,

  former dean, Fletcher School at Tufts University,

  former commander, NATO forces (including

  those in Afghanistan), and frequent media commentator

  “Sandblast vividly depicts a close-to-real scene, which makes the story more entertaining and educating.”

  —Ali Ahmad Jalali, Afghan Ambassador to Germany,

  former interior minister of Afghanistan and Afghan

  presidential candidate, and Distinguished Professor

  at the Near East South Asia Center for Strategic

  Studies (NESA), National Defense University

  in Washington, D.C.

  “The author writes with incredible authenticity . . . Exceptionally well plotted . . . complex and consistent . . . Each chapter adds a new hook . . . The story will appeal to a broad range of readers. We met the people, felt their anxiety, sweated with them in their decision process. This is a deeper story than it appears . . . The inner turmoil of the protagonists propels the story. The reader is pulled along, seeing lives lived, lost, and changed. Faraz is a heroic character of sequel deserving merit.”

  —Statement of the judges, 2018 Royal Palm Literary

  Awards given by the Florida Writers Association

  Books by Al Pessin

  THE TASK FORCE EPSILON THRILLER SERIES

  Sandblast

  Blowback

  BLOWBACK

  A TASK FORCE EPSILON THRILLER

  AL PESSIN

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART 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

  PART TWO

  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

&n
bsp; Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  PART THREE

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 Al Pessin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book 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 fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4673-7

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4674-4 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4674-0 (e-book)

  For Sam and Steph

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  The six-man Special Ops team slipped into the village at two a.m., walking almost silently along the edge of the hard-packed dirt road past the ramshackle one-room houses, trying not to disturb the sleeping dogs. The men were all in black, with night vision goggles protruding from their helmets and M4 assault rifles at the ready. The thin mountain air was cold, and their breath, steady and even in spite of the long climb from the landing zone, turned to fog. Clouds obscured the moon—always a good thing.

  GPS indicated their target was forty meters ahead.

  * * *

  Thirty-five hundred miles to the west, a young man walked along a very different road in a nondescript residential neighborhood of South London.

  It was well into a cold, drizzly evening as he rounded the corner, twenty minutes from the Underground station where he’d gotten off the train. Mahmoud wore black jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and a black jacket. His baseball cap and backpack were gray, and the cap bore no team logo. He pulled it down to his eyebrows as he turned into the wind.

  Mahmoud found the spot he had scouted between the light circles of two lampposts and checked his phone. Three bars, just as before. He turned into a dark alcove between two houses and wedged himself into a small space behind their dumpsters. He dialed the international number he had been repeating to himself all afternoon.

  The distant phone rang once, twice, and the beginning of a third time. Someone picked up and blew a small puff of breath through the wires, satellite links, and cell towers into Mahmoud’s ear. He understood—all was clear.

  Mahmoud recited the saying in Arabic, as it had been recited to him on another call a few hours earlier. “If you do not recognize Allah, at least know him by his power.”

  The line was silent for a second, as if out of reverence—not for the wisdom of the words, but rather for their power at that moment.

  Then the programmed response came: “Allahu akbar.” God is great.

  * * *

  The sergeant leading the Special Ops team raised his right fist to signal Stop. He turned toward his men, checked his weapons, and adjusted his goggles. The others did the same. He looked at each man in turn, and each one gave a thumbs-up to indicate ready.

  The sergeant turned forward again and resumed the advance.

  * * *

  Mahmoud touched his phone’s screen to end the call, then removed the back and tossed the battery into the dumpster. He took out the SIM card and crushed it with his fingers as he resumed his walk, planning a circuitous route to a different tube station on a different line.

  At a public ash can with a tall neck and a small opening for cigarette butts, he disposed of the SIM. He dropped the rest of the phone in a trash bin a few blocks away.

  The rain was heavier now, dripping off his jacket and onto his shoes. He had another ten minutes of walking ahead of him.

  * * *

  The Special Ops team’s target was sleeping on a homemade mat on the dirt floor of a small hut in the center of the village, a few steps off the road behind an animal shed. He was alone. Blood from his wounds had soaked through the makeshift bandages and stained his borrowed shirt. His dark beard was scraggly. His wool cap lay next to him. His traditional Afghan trousers and tunic were filthy from one interrogation, two gunfights, eight hours on the road—some of it walking—and a day in this hut.

  His right leg jerked, and his right hand moved as if to raise a weapon. He woke up in a sweat and nearly cried out. It was the third time that night he’d had the same nightmare: The Taliban search party caught him. He was in a fight for his life. He lost.

  Awake now, the young man heard footsteps. He reached for his AK-47, for real this time, and pointed it into the darkness.

  Someone opened the door, slowly and quietly. The red lights of laser targeting sights swept the room.

  A voice said in foreign-accented Pashto, “Lower your weapon.” He did, but he kept his hand on it. He thought he knew what was happening, but here, one could never be sure.

  Three men entered with practiced speed. The first grabbed his AK. Another pointed a rifle at him. The third approached and shined a light in his eyes. He winced and turned away, then blinked and turned back, looking straight into the light.

  The man behind it, apparently the team leader, twice compared the face he saw to a photo on a small tablet computer. “State your name,” he whispered in English.

  The man on the floor swallowed. It had been a long time since he’d said his name, his real name. He took a breath, his tone and his identity strengthening as he formed each word: “Lieutenant Faraz Abdallah.”

  “Code word and authentication, please, sir.”

  “Sandblast, Whiskey-Alpha-5-9-0-Sierra-Sierra-Romeo.”

  The team leader nodded and put the tablet back into his pocket. “Master Sergeant Murphy, sir. We’re here to take you home.”

  * * *

  A twentysomething Arab man didn’t stand out on the London Underground, especially not in this neighborhood. Mahmoud took a seat and played a game on his phone as he settled in for the long ride back to the safe house. He didn’t much like electronic games, but playing helped him blend in with the crowd. And it kept his eyes down under the baseball cap.

  His backpack was lighter than it had been that morning. He had no more spare clothes. And he had three fewer mobile phones, having used each one once in far-flung parts of the city before dismantling and discarding them.

  Mahmoud had been remarkably calm for most of the journey. But every time he thought about what he had set in motion, his heart raced and beads of sweat formed at his temples. The infidels would truly know Allah’s power. And with His help, they would see the futility of their war on His people.

  Less than forty-
eight hours earlier, the enemy had scored what they saw as a great victory, a drone strike in Afghanistan. They had committed the cowardly murder of Ibn Jihad, leader of the newly unified global movement to end the occupation of the Holy Lands and establish Allah’s law throughout the world.

  Through the acts launched by his phone calls, the holy fighters would begin their revenge. The infidels would realize that their victory was hollow, that no drone could crush the believers, that time and right and numbers were on the their side.

  Mahmoud’s stomach grumbled. He hadn’t stopped to eat all day, hadn’t spoken to anyone or purchased anything. He had scanned a different travel card for each train and bus ride. He had changed his shirt, jacket, and baseball cap in public restrooms several times and trashed the used ones. He was certain that no one knew who he was or what he had done.

  Hunger pangs were a small price to pay, especially compared to the price the brothers would be paying tomorrow. He still thought of them as brothers, maybe some sisters, too. Tomorrow, they would be martyrs, like the great Ibn Jihad, may Allah grant him the highest place in paradise.

  In His blessed memory, tomorrow would be the greatest day ever for the jihad.

  * * *

  Faraz walked to the team’s Black Hawk helicopter under his own power, surrounded by the Special Ops guys. It was a strange sight—American troops with blackened faces, body armor, helmets, M4s, and night vision goggles walking with an Afghan in sandals and traditional clothes.