Against All Enemies Read online

  Praise for John Gilstrap

  END GAME

  An Amazon Editor’s Favorite Book of the Year

  “Gilstrap’s new Jonathan Grave thriller, is his best novel to date—even considering his enviable bibliography. End Game starts off explosively and keeps on rolling. Gilstrap puts you in the moment as very few authors can. And there are many vignettes that will stay with you long after you have finished the book.”

  —Joe Hartlaub, BookReporter

  DAMAGE CONTROL

  “Powerful and explosive, an unforgettable journey into the dark side of the human soul. Gilstrap is a master of action and drama. If you like Vince Flynn and Brad Thor, you’ll love John Gilstrap.”

  —Gayle Lynds

  “Rousing . . . Readers will anxiously await the next installment.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “It’s easy to see why John Gilstrap is the go-to guy among thriller writers when it comes to weapons, ammunition, and explosives. His expertise is uncontested.”

  —John Ramsey Miller

  “The best page-turning thriller I’ve grabbed in ages. Gilstrap is one of the very few writers who can position a set of characters in a situation, ramp up the tension, and yes, keep it there, all the way through. There is no place you can put this book down.”

  —Beth Kanell, Kingdom Books, Vermont

  “A page-turning, near-perfect thriller, with engaging and believable characters . . . unputdownable! Warning—if you must be up early the next morning, don’t start the book.”

  —Top Mystery Novels

  “Takes you full force right away and doesn’t let go until the very last page . . . has enough full-bore action to take your breath away, barely giving you time to inhale. The action is nonstop. Gilstrap knows his technology and weaponry. Damage Control will blow you away.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  THREAT WARNING

  “If you are a fan of thriller novels, I hope you’ve been reading John Gilstrap’s Jonathan Grave series. Threat Warning is a character-driven work where the vehicle has four on the floor and horsepower to burn. From beginning to end, it is dripping with excitement.”

  —Joe Hartlaub, Book Reporter

  “If you like Vince Flynn–style action, with a strong, incorruptible hero, this series deserves to be in your reading diet. Threat Warning reconfirms Gilstrap as a master of jaw-dropping action and heart-squeezing suspense.”

  —Austin Camacho, The Big Thrill

  HOSTAGE ZERO

  “Jonathan Grave, my favorite free-lance peacemaker, problem-solver, and tough-guy hero, is back—and in particularly fine form. Hostage Zero is classic Gilstrap: the people are utterly real, the action’s foot-to-the-floor, and the writing’s fluid as a well-oiled machine gun. A tour de force!”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  “This addictively readable thriller marries a breakneck pace to a complex, multilayered plot . . . A roller-coaster ride of adrenaline-inducing plot twists leads to a riveting and highly satisfying conclusion. Exceptional characterization and an intricate, flawlessly crafted storyline make this an absolute must-read for thriller fans.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  NO MERCY

  “No Mercy grabs hold of you on page one and doesn’t let go. Gilstrap’s new series is terrific. It will leave you breathless. I can’t wait to see what Jonathan Grave is up to next.”

  —Harlan Coben

  “The release of a new John Gilstrap novel is always worth celebrating, because he’s one of the finest thriller writers on the planet. No Mercy showcases his work at its finest—taut, action-packed, and impossible to put down!”

  —Tess Gerritsen

  “A great hero, a pulse-pounding story—and the launch of a really exciting series.”

  —Joseph Finder

  “An entertaining, fast-paced tale of violence and revenge.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “No other writer is better able to combine in a single novel both rocket-paced suspense and heartfelt looks at family and the human spirit. And what a pleasure to meet Jonathan Grave, a hero for our time . . . and for all time.”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  AT ALL COSTS

  “Riveting . . . combines a great plot and realistic, likeable characters with look-over-your-shoulder tension. A page-turner.”

  —The Kansas City Star

  “Gilstrap builds tension . . . until the last page, a hallmark of great thriller writers. I almost called the paramedics before I finished At All Costs.”

  —Tulsa World

  “Gilstrap has ingeniously twisted his simple premise six ways from Sunday.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Not to be missed.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  NATHAN’S RUN

  “Gilstrap pushes every thriller button . . . A nail-biting denouement and strong characters.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Gilstrap has a shot at being the next John Grisham . . . one of the best books of the year.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “Emotionally charged . . . one of the year’s best.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Brilliantly calculated . . . With the skill of a veteran pulp master, Gilstrap weaves a yarn that demands to be read in one sitting.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Like a roller coaster, the story races along on well-oiled wheels to an undeniably pulse-pounding conclusion.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  ALSO BY JOHN GILSTRAP

  FICTION

  End Game

  High Treason

  Damage Control

  Threat Warning

  Hostage Zero

  No Mercy

  Scott Free

  Even Steven

  At All Costs

  Nathan’s Run

  Nonfiction

  Six Minutes to Freedom (with Kurt Muse)

  Collaborations

  Watchlist: A Serial Thriller

  JOHN GILSTRAP

  AGAINST ALL ENEMIES

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for John Gilstrap

  ALSO BY JOHN GILSTRAP

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Three Years Later

  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

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FRIENDLY FIRE

  Copyright Page

  To Hannah, Robbie, and Vivienne, the next generation

  I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United
States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice.

  So help me God.

  —US Army Oath of Enlistment

  Chapter One

  Behrang Hotaki smiled at everyone who made eye contact with him. He knew some of them but many more were strangers, and if he was friendly, the merchants at the bazaar were more likely to take pity on him and share a plum or a tomato. Maybe some rice or some bread. For lamb or chicken, he would have to do something in return, and all too often that meant doing things he did not want to do. These people, villagers and merchants alike, would show him pity, but they dared not show him kindness, dared not show him friendship.

  They knew him as an orphan, a waif, a boy whose family name may never be spoken. With the Americans gone, the old ways had reemerged, and the Taliban knew everything. Behrang understood that anyone who wished to see old age needed to assume that the monsters’ knowledge was perfect.

  He smiled, and they mostly smiled in return. To smile was to be polite, and to be polite was to be invisible. If a boy were shy enough—invisible enough—he could be forgiven the sins of his family. By demonstrating that he knew his place, the gifts bestowed on him might be more generous. Even Satan and the others understood that a boy his age needed some tiny bit of pity.

  Behrang intended to hurt them all, to kill them if he could. Not with a gun or with a suicide vest, but with a betrayal of his own. He dreamed of the day when he might see all of these animals dead, their brains blasted from their heads. The slower they died, the happier he’d be. He wished he could watch as they had watched, but without that false expression of concern. He would not pretend to mourn for them as they had pretended to mourn for his family. If he were able, he would spit on their corpses, piss on their faces.

  But that would not be possible. When justice finally came, he could not afford to be nearby. After Charlie—the last remaining American, who was even more invisible than Behrang—killed Satan and his leaders, the rest of the Taliban monsters would murder everyone in the village. Behrang would be far, far away when that happened.

  And it would happen soon.

  Among Behrang’s greatest blessings was the gift of patience. Six years had passed since people in this crowd had betrayed his father—six years since his sisters and mother were raped while Behrang was forced to watch. Six years since the Taliban slipped the thin rope around his father’s neck and hoisted him into the air, his feet mere inches above the ground. The jackals had laughed as Father had kicked and stretched to reach the gravel street that remained barely out of reach.

  It had been six endless years since Behrang himself had become a toy of the Taliban monsters. They thought they owned him, that they could do whatever they wanted without consequence.

  So many people here in the bazaar knew everything. They knew what his father had tried to accomplish—the education he’d tried to provide for everyone, girls as well as boys—and they all knew who, among them, had once been vocal supporters of his efforts. But to a person, they were cowards, unwilling to risk one one-hundredth of what Father had risked. Every one of them valued profit and their own safety above any point of principle. In the end, none of them rose to help, and now that it was all over and his family was dead, they dared to show pity to Behrang. In their minds, they were better than him because they had been too smart to be honest.

  They all thought so little of Behrang that they would say things in his presence that should never be said in front of anyone. Because he was invisible, they assumed he was harmless. Perhaps they assumed he was deaf and blind. Either way, they talked in ways they shouldn’t.

  As a result, Behrang knew the secret of secrets. He knew where Satan would be tomorrow afternoon.

  Behrang wondered sometimes if the man who called himself Satan—a blasphemy in itself—had a given name that was something different. He had to, didn’t he? What parents could think so little of their son at birth that they would name him after the ultimate evil? Perhaps they could foresee the future. Or perhaps by giving him such a name they had shaped the man he would become.

  Behrang had seen much cruelty in his thirteen years, but he had never seen anyone else who so enjoyed inflicting it. Satan showed no more emotion when he set a man ablaze than a merchant would show in selling a pomegranate.

  Satan and the Taliban killed innocents for sport, for the sole purpose of turning children into orphans. The terror they inflicted was their greatest weapon, far larger and more effective than any cannon or bomb. Fearful people would stand and watch as girls—and boys—were raped, and they would do nothing as their fathers were lifted off the ground to be strangled to death.

  Father would have told Behrang that he should not feel anger toward people who felt such fear, but rather that he should feel pity for them. A man who lives in fear cannot live a full life, his father had told him. Fear is a slaveholder that turns good people into obedient pets. It is far better to live a shortened life in freedom than it is to die an old man as a slave to others.

  Behrang knew that the anger in his soul was wrong, that it would disappoint his father, but Father had found his relief from slavery so long ago. He had seen the world as a professor sees the world, through the smeared and foggy windows of a classroom, where lofty philosophy stirred the intellect of men and women living in comfort. As an orphan on the street, living off the pity of your family’s murderers, the realities of life were gritty and painful and foul-smelling. Behrang had no room for theories and philosophy in his life. He had room only for living or dying, and the space between those two options was so small as to be unmeasurable.

  He scanned the flood of people at the bazaar for the single face he needed to see. Somewhere among the dozens of farmers’ and craftsmen’s stalls, Charlie would appear, and when he did, the American would wink at him, and then they would wander off to somewhere safe. That’s when Behrang would pass along his news.

  Few people knew that Americans remained in this part of the province, and of those who did remain, Charlie said that all of them were looking for Satan. “If you see him,” Charlie had told him, “if you even hear of him, I need you to tell me.”

  From the very first day they’d met, Behrang had suspected that Charlie was a soldier, but the man had never told him that. In fact, Charlie avoided saying anything about himself. He asked all kinds of questions, from who knew whom to how things used to be back when life was normal. Charlie was nice. Behrang liked the fact that he never pretended to be something he was not. While he spoke Pashto very well, he needed to be careful of his accent. On good days, Charlie’s dialect was good enough to pass as a native, but there were certain phrases, particularly when Charlie was amused or angry, where his American roots would show.

  Charlie’s other problem was his blue eyes. They weren’t unheard of in Afghanistan, but they raised questions. Behrang had pointed that out on their first meeting, and the next time they saw each other the American’s eyes were brown and red and watery. Charlie explained to him that he wasn’t crying, but rather that his . . . contract windows . . . hurt his eyes. Behrang could only imagine. If contract windows could change the color of your eyes, how could they not hurt?

  Charlie knew things—the kinds of things that he couldn’t possibly know. On the very first day they’d met—what was that, two years ago?—after Charlie had bought him a beautiful plum from the vendor’s cart, he’d said to him, “I’m very sorry to hear about your parents and your sisters.” Behrang had heard the foreign accent in his words.

  Behrang’s head swiveled to see who might have overheard. “Are you American?” he’d whispered.

  “I’d like to speak with you,” Charlie had said. He kept his voice low. “Away from these other people.”

  Behrang considered running away. The Americans had ruined his
country, after all. They had killed so many people. But they had saved many, too.

  “I want to hurt the people who killed your family,” the stranger said. “My name is Charlie and I am your friend. You can trust me.”

  Behrang remembered smiling at those words.

  And Charlie had smiled back at him. “I guess everyone you cannot trust tells you that you can trust them,” he said, speaking Behrang’s thoughts exactly.

  Charlie’s massive beard separated to show a happy display of white teeth. “The day comes when you have to trust someone,” he said. “Why not start with the man who wants to make people pay for killing your family?”

  From that very first meeting—the first of dozens—Behrang had trusted the big man with the thick neck and blue eyes. Charlie told him to meet in the fig grove north of the village. He said that Behrang should show up at eleven o’clock the next morning and wait. “If I do not arrive by eleven-thirty, that means it’s not safe, and you should go on about your day.”