The broken chase a chase.., p.1
The Broken Chase: A Chase Fulton Novel, page 1
part #26 of Chase Fulton Series
THE SILENT CHASE
CHASE FULTON NOVEL #26
CAP DANIELS
** USA **
Also by Cap Daniels
The Chase Fulton Novels Series
Book One: The Opening Chase
Book Two: The Broken Chase
Book Three: The Stronger Chase
Book Four: The Unending Chase
Book Five: The Distant Chase
Book Six: The Entangled Chase
Book Seven: The Devil’s Chase
Book Eight: The Angel’s Chase
Book Nine: The Forgotten Chase
Book Ten: The Emerald Chase
Book Eleven: The Polar Chase
Book Twelve: The Burning Chase
Book Thirteen: The Poison Chase
Book Fourteen: The Bitter Chase
Book Fifteen: The Blind Chase
Book Sixteen: The Smuggler’s Chase
Book Seventeen: The Hollow Chase
Book Eighteen: The Sunken Chase
Book Nineteen: The Darker Chase
Book Twenty: The Abandoned Chase
Book Twenty-One: The Gambler’s Chase
Book Twenty-Two: The Arctic Chase
Book Twenty-Three: The Diamond Chase
Book Twenty-Four: The Phantom Chase
Book Twenty-Five: The Crimson Chase
Book Twenty-Six: The Silent Chase
Book Twenty-Seven: The Shepherd's Chase
Book Twenty-Eight: The Scorpion's Chase
The Avenging Angel – Seven Deadly Sins Series
Book One: The Russian’s Pride
Book Two: The Russian’s Greed
Book Three: The Russian’s Gluttony
Book Four: The Russian’s Lust
Book Five: The Russian’s Sloth
Book Six: The Russian’s Envy (2024)
Book Seven: The Russian’s Wrath (TBA)
Stand-Alone Novels
We Were Brave
Singer – Memoir of a Christian Sniper
Novellas
The Chase Is On
I Am Gypsy
The Silent Chase
Chase Fulton Novel #26
Cap Daniels
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, historical events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Although many locations such as marinas, airports, hotels, restaurants, etc. used in this work actually exist, they are used fictitiously and may have been relocated, exaggerated, or otherwise modified by creative license for the purpose of this work. Although many characters are based on personalities, physical attributes, skills, or intellect of actual individuals, all the characters in this work are products of the author’s imagination.
Published by:
** USA **
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
13 Digit ISBN: 978-1-951021-57-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024934609
Copyright © 2024 Cap Daniels—All Rights Reserved
Cover Design: German Creative
Printed in the United States of America
The Silent Chase
CAP DANIELS
Chapter 1
Pity for the Enemy
Autumn 2011
My objective lay less than twenty yards ahead, and from my position of partial cover and concealment, there was only one viable route to it. I could cover the distance in less than five seconds, but doing so would expose me to the well-armed, even if poorly trained, gunmen lying in wait for me to make the move they anticipated. Surviving the sprint to the objective might be possible, but freeing the treasure and escaping the kill zone would likely spell my demise.
My heart pounded, and I fed my mind and body the oxygen they required in deliberate cycles of combat breathing: inhale five seconds . . . hold five seconds . . . exhale five seconds . . . hold five seconds. The pattern supplied more-than-sufficient oxygen, but it did something at least equally as important. It gave my mind a course and rhythm, like the bass guitar in a band. Everything, especially combat, needs a rhythm, and my situation in that moment was no exception. Achieving my objective wasn’t optional. I would claim the treasure, and nothing would stop me.
I was far from alone. Behind and beside me stood, knelt, and lay some of the fiercest and most devoted warriors the world has ever known. Through the decade we’d spent together, we’d grown to move as one body and think as one collective mind. I had lain my life in their hands in countless conflicts on five continents, and they’d never failed me. Just as I trusted them to keep me alive, every man on the team trusted every other as if we were the same blood, the same soul. No force and no foe could shatter the bond my team had forged, nor could they plant the seed of doubt in our thoughts. Failure was not only not an option; it was an impossibility. As surely as my heart beat and my lungs breathed, defeat would not consume us, and failure would not define us.
“Alpha One, Alpha Six.”
The confident baritone of Jimmy “Singer” Grossmann, the deadliest sniper I’d ever known, sounded inside my skull as if the voice were my own.
“Go for Alpha One.”
Singer said, “Countersniper at three o’clock high.”
I subconsciously glanced up and right in a wasted effort to spot the well-concealed marksman. From my vantage point low in the environment, the killer was out of sight, but few, if any, fighters could hide from the eyes of our sniper. Even though I couldn’t see Singer’s adversary, I didn’t need eyes on the target to know the assassin was the greatest threat to my successful rescue of the objective.
“Eliminate the countersniper.”
I gave the order as if the tiny movement of Singer’s trigger finger wouldn’t actually erase another life from the planet. Pity for the enemy could lead only to my demise, so I couldn’t allow the humanity—or inhumanity—of my order to enter my conscious thought. Paving the road both in and out of the objective would be done with one press of the trigger and one felled enemy at a time. Patience equals prudence on the field of battle, and patience would keep us alive while our enemies fell.
The shot was barely more than silent as Singer’s rifle breathed its deadly hiss. Although Singer’s mortal application of his skill was never in question, I waited for his declaration.
“Countersniper eliminated.”
I clicked my tongue against the floor of my mouth, sending a ringing vibration through the bone conduction device cemented to my jawbone and then to the transceiver that would send an invisible message hundreds of miles through space and time. The satellites overhead would receive, decipher, transmit, and relay the simple message to the sat-com at my sniper’s side and through the tiny device, identical to mine, implanted beneath the flesh of his jaw.
Dr. Celeste Mankiller had been a brilliant technical services officer with the Department of Justice before joining tactical Team Twenty-One, our team of covert operatives. With a bountiful research and development budget and a laboratory any mad scientist would kill to own, Dr. Mankiller was free to unleash her boundless imagination to hone the cutting edge of clandestine gadgetry exclusively for me and the warriors I proudly led.
“Alpha One, Alpha Two.”
Marvin “Mongo” Malloy, the giant brain of our team, whose physical size more than matched his intellectual prowess, said, “I’m hit.”
I swallowed the bitter taste hanging in my throat as the thought of losing Mongo became a reality.
I said, “Medic is en route.”
Mongo answered almost instantly. “Negative. I’m out of the fight, and there’s no ingress for the medic. It’s done, but Chase, don’t let them beat us. Don’t let this be in vain.”
The nobility of the man who bore the burden of second-in-command was beyond question, and carrying on without him at my side was almost unthinkable. But letting his end come unavenged was more than I or my team would allow.
Pressing on when brothers-in-arms fall in the fiery pit of battle is the darkest of all demands on the soul of the surviving warrior. The bodies of our dead and wounded would be claimed, but not before the objective—the mission—was accomplished.
Clint “Gator” Barrow, the newest member of our team, crawled into position five yards to my right and surveyed the open killing field in front of him. His eye caught mine, and I didn’t have to guess what he was thinking.
I whispered, “Don’t do it, Alpha Eight.”
He continued studying the void between us and our goal. “It’s the only way.”
“No,” I demanded. “There has to be another option.”
Gator said, “I’m going. We’re pinned down, and none of us will make it out of here if I don’t. I’ll draw their attention and their fire while you make the rescue.”
Sacrifice is the hallmark of the patriot, and every warrior under my command was the epitome thereof. Jesus Himself said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
Every soul on our team—our family—would, without hesitation, sacrifice himself not only for the lives of his team, but also for the life of anyone reaching in desperation for the flag of freedom. Bravery, strength, and sacrifice were more than mere words. They were the standards under which my team marched and lived every day of their lives.
I reissued the command, but it fell on deaf ears. “Stand down, Alpha Eight.”
As if I’d never spoken at all, Gator drew his boots beneath his body and sprang from his position so close yet so distant. The sacrifice was made. He was committed, and I wouldn’t allow his valiant effort to wither on the vine. The fire came, and rounds filled the air, riddling Gator’s body with the crimson stains of war.
Singer said, “Three down, Alpha One. Go, go, go!”
The three rounds our sniper put in the air while Gator made the ultimate sacrifice found their marks on the exposed enemy shooters, and the door was open. I lunged from my position and willed my legs to carry my body across the battlefield that had become my entire world in only seconds. Almost before my mind could realize the victory, the prize was in my grasp, and I was turning on a heel to escape the slaughterhouse in which I’d risked everything to achieve the ultimate victory.
Three strides into my egress, I was at full speed and more determined than ever to make my escape. My rifle bounced against my chest at the ends of the sling around my neck and shoulder. My breath came hard, my mind no longer counting seconds between inhalation and exhalations. I was running for my life, and victory lay only feet away . . . until it happened.
The foe I could’ve never expected stepped into my path, rifle raised, ultimate determination beaming from dark eyes, and I faltered. Instead of raising my weapon in a desperate effort to beat my adversary to the trigger, I staggered sideways and grabbed my chest in disbelief as the bullets of my enemy found their mark and the pink mist of what had been life sprayed in every direction from the impact.
With the mission a failure and the battle lost, I fell to my knees and stared up into the dark eyes that had been my undoing, my ultimate weakness, and my greatest joy.
My beautiful, captivating wife, Penny Fulton, stood over me, her paintball gun held at the ready and glee exploding from her face. She spun and laughed. “Girls win! We beat the super spies!”
The women we loved showed themselves from behind inflated barricades and makeshift hiding holes, leaping and dancing like excited children, and my embarrassed team ambled from their positions, heads held low.
I stood. “Would you believe me if I told you that we let you win?”
Chapter 2
Recess to Excess
If ever there was an island of misfit toys, it was Bonaventure Plantation, my family’s ancestral home nestled on the west bank of the North River in Saint Marys, Georgia, where my team lived, worked, played, trained, and grew into a family like no other. Recess was everybody’s favorite part of the day, and when we weren’t on a mission, life for the family was an ongoing state of recess to excess, but when someone pulled our pin and tossed the grenade, we were into the fray, and the resulting explosion was anything but child’s play.
Our enormous table made for the perfect setting when dinner was served family-style. Clark’s wife, Maebelle, was a world-renowned chef and just happened to be my cousin. When our great uncle, Judge Bernard Henry Huntsinger, passed away, Bonaventure became mine, and Maebelle’s inheritance became El Juez, the hottest new restaurant on South Beach. When the whole gang was home, Maebelle loved nothing more than seeing all of us devour her latest creation and come running back for seconds.
With dessert astern and steaming cups of coffee lining the table, I said, “I want a rematch.”
Penny laughed. “Okay, fine. But this time, I’m calling your little Russian girlfriend to join us. With her on our side, we’ll beat you boys in record time.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said.
Penny lowered her gaze. “That may be your position, but that’s not how she sees it. If I were out of the picture, she’d move in here tomorrow.”
“Come on. If that’s really what she wanted, why did she give you part of her liver?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about that,” she said. “I’d really like to ask her that question face-to-face.”
“Why?”
She chewed her lip for a moment. “I’d really like to know. I’m sure she had some ulterior motive. Nobody gives their ex-boyfriend’s wife an organ purely out of the goodness of their heart.”
“What ulterior motive could she have?”
“I don’t know. But why don’t you give her a call and make up some reason to ask her to come to Bonaventure for a few days?”
“That’s crazy. What kind of reason?”
“Why’s it crazy?” Penny asked. “What are you afraid of?”
I stared down the table, hoping someone would come to my rescue, and Mongo volunteered. I only thought he was on my side.
The big man said, “Don’t get me wrong. I love watching Chase sweat, but I’ve got a better idea than inviting Anya to come to Bonaventure.”
The look on Penny’s face said she was intrigued. The look on mine probably said I was still way too uncomfortable with the whole ordeal.
Mongo said, “Tatiana is dancing as Odette and Odile in Swan Lake at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York on Saturday and Sunday. Irina and I are going, of course, and Anya will be there to see Little Anya in her first principal performance.”
My heart sank. That’s what I need in my life. Sitting through two days of ballet I don’t understand and my wife communing with Anya, the woman Penny thinks wants to be back in my bed more than anything else in the world.
Before I could protest, Penny’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “That’s perfect. I’m in.” She grabbed my hand. “You can come, too, if you want.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Those were the words that came from my lips, but the look I shot Mongo carried quite a different message.
In addition to being the strongest man I’d ever met, Mongo had a soft side no one would ever suspect. When he married Irina Volkovna, he got a Russian two-for-one deal that changed his life forever. Irina’s daughter, Tatiana, had wrapped the big man around her little finger in an instant. She studied at the Bolshoi prior to defecting to the States with her mother. Tatiana was a prodigy by any definition. Ballet ran in her veins where blood should’ve been, and she became the shining star of Juilliard and the most highly sought-after ballerina in the country.
“It is date,” Irina said. “We will have wonderful time in New York.” Apparently, the Russian accent is impossible to shed, but Irina was trying.
Since misery loves company, I said, “Let’s all go. It’s on me.”
Skipper, our brilliant analyst and practically my little sister, leapt to her feet. “I’ll make the reservations.”
A few groans escaped the lips of my brothers-in-arms, but if I was going to suffer through it, I wasn’t going to do it alone.
Gator stared around the room as if begging anyone to tell him what just happened.
Singer threw an arm around his understudy. “Do you like the ballet, kid?”
He shrugged. “I like ballerinas. Does that count?” That got a chuckle, and he cocked his head. “Anya is Chase’s Russian girlfriend . . . The hot blonde, right?”
I lifted a knife from the table and pointed it straight at Gator. “You’re fired, and I’m trying to talk myself out of killing you right now.”
Penny pulled the knife from my hand and held it to my neck. “Don’t worry, Gator. You’re not fired, and no one is going to kill you.”
I croaked out, “She’s not my girlfriend, and she’s way less hot than Penny. Way less.”
My wife dropped the knife. “Good answer. And for the record, nobody has to go who doesn’t want to go . . . except Chase.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Skipper’s already made the reservations. We’re committed. All of us.”
* * *
Friday arrived, and the whole family climbed aboard the Grey Ghost, our Gulfstream IV, that would whisk us away to the Big Apple. We touched down at Teterboro two hours later, and the bite of the cool autumn air was only the first sting I’d endure for the weekend.
Skipper, as usual, knocked it out of the park as the team’s travel agent. Our hotel just off Columbus Circle, overlooking Central Park, was five-star, from the doorman to the penthouse, but ultra-luxury is often wasted on knuckle-draggers like my team and me. The warm, damp towels on little silver platters made us look like savages. I’ll admit that I was neither sophisticated enough nor smart enough to understand why we needed fancy wet washcloths in the lobby of a hotel, but one of the bellmen leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry. Ain’t nobody needs one of them pretentious towels. Come on. I’ll take you up.”
