Targets Down Read online

  PRAISE FOR TARGETS DOWN

  Bob Hamer is the Joseph Wambaugh of the twenty-first century. He has gone from literary contender to champion of his division. Targets Down is a brain-scrambled thriller. Hamer, skillfully blends a frighteningly realistic plot into a vivid scene of what undercover really means. A fast-paced novel of action.

  —William H. Labarge, author of the national best seller and aviation book of the year Sweetwater Gunslinger 201

  In terse and powerful prose, Bob Hamer reveals not only the bravery and inventiveness of our nation's undercover crimefighters, but also the delicate balance they must strike in order to perform this service to society and still have a normal life. Matt's stuggle to support and honor his marriage is a touching and honest as his exploits in the criminal realm are exciting and riveting. His is a flesh and blood hero, not a superman, with the same doubts, fears, and mundane day-to-day struggles that all of us face. A poignant, brave, and honest novel, alternately luridly bracing and surprisingly touching.

  —Nick Searcy, actor, FX's Network Justified

  Bob Hamer, a highly decorated FBI agent, has been deeply embedded in numerous criminal organizations and has seen society at its worse. Throughout a lifetime of dangerous assignments as an undercover agent, he maintained his faith, which isn't as easy as it may sound. Now he brings those experiences to the written page in the form of hard hitting novels. A masterful storyteller, Hamer will have you pondering what's fact or fiction because he's been there.

  —Dr. Jim Garlow, chairman of Renewing American Leadership, senior pastor of Skyline Wesleyan Church and best-selling author of Cracking DaVinci's Code, A Christian's Response to Islam, Heaven and the Afterlife, and Encountering Heaven and the Afterlife

  Bob Hamer has proven a point, you don't have to resort to vile, four letter words and overly explicit sexual encounters to tell an exciting and fulfilling page turner. As we say down my way, "It's a good un."

  —Charlie Daniels, in his four-decade music career, has six platinum albums, performed for U.S. troops all over the world, and has been honored by two American presidents

  In Targets Down, Bob Hamer has written a gripping thriller that reminds us to never confuse tenderness for weakness. It takes a man of incredible strength and fortitude to take on and defeat evil in the world and not lose his soul. Hamer's unique background and expertise is apparent as he puts us right in the middle of the action and forces us to look at men like him to get us out alive.

  —Jonathan Flora, award-winning director/producer of Lt. Dan Band: For The Common Good

  Bob Hamer spins a tale which reads too much like the truth. Maybe that's because he's been there. His lifetime of undercover experiences brings a sense of realism to his latest page-turning work.

  —Jeffrey Hunt, director CSI and CSI:NY

  Bob Hamer spent twenty plus years undercover for the Feds. He ate, lived, and breathed the UC lifestyle, living life on the edge. He's seen it all and done it all, so now after a career of lying he wants me to trust him. Oh wait, he was a Marine, now I gotta like the guy. Targets Down is pedal to the metal, red lining in every gear. Who are the targets and when do they go down?

  —Jack Scalia, actor, producer, director

  Copyright © 2011 by Bob Hamer

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-4336-7277-4

  Pubished by B&H Publishing Group

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Author is represented by Rosenbaum & Associates Literary Agency, Brentwood, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: ADVENTURE FICTION FAITH—FICTION INTELLIGENCE SERVICE—FICTION

  Publisher's Note: The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

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  CONTENTS

  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

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  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 Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  The powerful hand gripped the silenced Russian-made weapon, and the tattooed arm straightened. As the teenager talked to the killer's two associates in the darkened parking lot, she had no idea she was about to be erased by the threat behind her. It was all so impersonal, but career criminals operated on a different plain. Morality was never an issue; expediency was. The Ukrainian girl was a liability and thus expendable.

  The ever-constant traffic on Ventura Boulevard masked the sounds of the two muted gunshots fired in rapid succession. From just a few feet away, either shot to the back of the head was fatal. Before anyone exited the rear door to the Russian Veil, the three men threw the limp body into the bed of the pickup truck and were gone: another anonymous victim of Los Angeles street justice, a judici
al system lacking due process or fairness. Even a quest for freedom was a capital offense.

  MATT HOGAN STOOD IN front of the mirror admiring his greased biker-hair look. His rugged battle-scarred features were in sharp contrast to the metrosexuals parading up and down the Sunset Strip on any Saturday evening. The undercover agent then sprayed a 70 percent solution of alcohol on the left side of his powerful neck. He carefully placed the Tinsley transfer, blotted the paper, waited a few seconds, and just as carefully removed the transfer. Satisfied with his work, he finished with a dash of baby powder to aid in drying the large prison-like tattoo. A movie studio German "SS" now complemented the stubble. But even clean shaven, Matt could be a menacing figure, a no-holds-barred, man's man.

  If it's true, the hotter the fire the stronger the steel, then Hogan was as strong as they came. A member of the FBI's small cadre of undercover agents, he successfully played the role of contract killer, drug dealer, and when cleaned up, a sophisticated white- collar criminal. A psychologist described him as a "synthesist," a person who could void himself of his own personality and take on the characteristics, mind-set, and mannerisms of whatever the part required. Matt was good, maybe too good. Sometimes even he questioned who he was.

  Working undercover meant more than a fake driver's license and a fictitious name. It was living life as a liar for hours, days, even months at a time. It meant becoming one of them without becoming one of them. Distance offered detachment, but when you went undercover, it became personal. It was getting close to people you will ultimately betray and probing the darkest side of humanity, including your own. Unlike Hollywood, there were no retakes; a botched line, a missed mark, a mistake could mean instant death. Matt Hogan walked in the flames many times; he experienced the fire.

  As he began writing the letters H-A-T-E on the fingers of his right hand, Steve Barnett walked into the Joint Terrorism Task Force locker room.

  "Well, if it isn't the Mary Kay of the FBI," said Steve. "You enjoy putting on makeup way too much. I hope you aren't switching sides on me."

  "Don't ask. Don't tell," said Matt concentrating on his artwork.

  "Why don't you just pierce your ear and grow a ponytail, like every other undercover agent I know?"

  "Caitlin won't let me. She's got a pretty strict dress code around the house. In fact, these biker undercover assignments keep me sleeping on the couch until I take a shower."

  "I guess that's why she's been spending so many nights with me at my place."

  "In your dreams big guy. I know for a fact she doesn't date the follicly challenged with a bad weave."

  Steve pulled out a comb and began to rake his sparse locks styled in a weak comb-over. "That's how much you know. I'm a Hair Club for Men honor graduate, and she loves to run her fingers through these amber waves."

  Matt didn't even look up, still writing on his fingers. "I'm surprised you're awake. Isn't this way past your bedtime?"

  Steve looked in the mirror, moving his face even closer, carefully examining his skin, searching for tell-tale signs of aging, "These late nights are causing all kinds of wrinkles."

  "I'm not sure eight hours of sleep or Mary Kay will help," said Matt without cracking a smile.

  "What about Botox?"

  "Yeah, that might fill in a few of those deep crevices around the eyes, but you still don't have a shot with any skirt rated higher than a three or four."

  "You're probably right. I keep hoping my near-perfect shooting scores at the Leisure World pistol range will attract some blue-hair with money, but I'm even striking out there." Steve paused, turned serious, and then said almost in a whisper, "Dwayne said we're ready to start the briefing when you are."

  An FBI office is like a locker room with the requisite jock snapping and sarcastic sniping. The thin-skinned need not apply. A sense of humor is almost a requirement, sometimes the sicker the better. Those on the outside would never understand or appreciate the need to talk or act the way grown men in law enforcement do. Those in the military understand. Those on the front lines fighting evil know the need. It brings a sense of relief from the tensions the real world throws at you every day, the constant reminders of your mortality. It also brings a sense of camaraderie. You can't count on judges, lawyers, lawmakers, or administrators. Like the combat soldier or Marine, you can only count on the man next to you on the urban battlefield.

  Matt blew on his fingers to accelerate the drying time of the ink from the tattoo makeup pen and followed Steve to the room at the end of the long hallway.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Darkness blanketed the hilltop road. This section of the mountain pass didn't burden taxpayers with streetlights, and only a faint glimmer of illumination from Los Angeles's San Fernando Valley could be seen through the thick, damp fog. It was well past ten, and Lydia Mitchell was hopeful she could make it home by the eleven o'clock news. Her two young daughters would be asleep, and her macho FBI agent husband, exhausted from just a few hours of babysitting, would probably be stretched out on his favorite leather recliner in the family room. Lydia valued her volunteer work at the community food bank. She chaffed, however, at the late-evening committee meetings at various members' homes.

  Her husband's Mustang sputtered as she pulled from the Laurel Hills development off Mulholland Drive, and now the car seemed even more irritated as she tried to accelerate up a small rise in the road. The twenty-eight-year-old brunette glanced at the fuel gauge. Of course it registered full; she just filled the tank earlier in the evening. Flip babied his car and always insisted on brand-name gasoline, but Lydia thought his obsession was silly—after all, gas is gas. The local independent dealer a few blocks from her home always beat the Mobil and the Shell on opposite corners by several pennies so she filled up, saving nearly ninety-seven cents. Now she wondered if her frugality was a mistake. Would cheap gas cause all this clanking? She wasn't looking forward to explaining to her husband why she entrusted his "precious pony" to off-brand fuel.

  She rounded the bend of this two-lane road, and a fire team of coyotes greeted her. The animals stopped in the middle of the road, four pairs of eyes glowing in her headlights, and they stared as if telling the Mustang it had no right to be trespassing. When the engine sputtered, the animals raced into the roadside underbrush, giving way to the machine belching its dinner.

  Lydia drove another mile, and the car continued to cough, more frequently as the trip progressed. Her efforts at variously giving it more gas and taking her foot off the pedal were ineffective. Eventually it died. She struggled to steer the vehicle to the side of the road, resting it just off the pavement. Frustration began to build.

  Fishing through her purse, she found her cell phone lodged at the bottom hidden beneath her wallet, checkbook, and an assortment of cosmetics. She opened the door to activate the dome light, and the alarm signaled the keys were still in the ignition. The annoying sound only added to her frustration. She looked down at the phone pad and, using the speed dial feature, called home, hoping her husband could provide answers and a rescue. Closing the car door to silence the alarm, she waited for the sound of the familiar ring of her home phone. Nothing. She opened the door, the alarm sounded, and she tried again, speed dialing her home number. Her efforts were futile as she realized she was out of her cell phone provider's service area.

  "Great!" she muttered, "Now what?"

  She knew absolutely nothing about cars, so even raising the hood to examine the engine was a useless gesture. She tried the cell phone one more time but to no avail. The heavy fog was a mist-like rain, and the windows were quickly covered in moisture, obscuring her visibility even more.

  Fear began to envelope her. She was unfamiliar with this section of town and had little idea of where to seek help. Was it safe to start walking in either direction? Maybe a cop would stop to help a stranded motorist, but this seldom-traveled section of the road offered little hope.
She couldn't wait here all night. She knew somewhere on this road there were homes, but she could see no lights behind gated entrances. Her friend's home was several miles back. She hated the thought of walking that far in the dampness and the dark. Was it even safe to leave Flip's car? Maybe if she walked a little way in either direction she could at least get cell- phone coverage.

  Just as she was about to exit the car, she saw the reflection of headlights in her rearview mirror. A chill ran down her spine. This seemed like a scene from a cheap Hollywood horror movie—a dark, lonely road, and a stranded female who became tomorrow's headline. Always the drama queen, as her husband liked to point out, she tried to squelch her fear.

  She took a deep breath and watched the vehicle approach. Her heart began to pound; her palms began to sweat. Should she flag down the motorist? Before she could even decide, the car passed. At first it was a feeling of relief, then confusion, and finally irritation. She was safe but still stranded. As she began to capture a second thought, the car stopped and made a u-turn in the road. She watched the car slowly return. Her heart was almost pounding through her chest, and her hands were shaking.

  The vehicle pulled alongside the Mustang. The driver's side window of the dark blue Chrysler 300 retreated into the door frame, and a warm, black face appeared.

  Lydia relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. The driver was Benjamin Hobbs, a minister from a church in Baldwin Hills, who also worked at the food bank and was at tonight's meeting.

  "Need some help?"

  "Oh, thank God, it's you. My car stalled, and I can't get cell- phone coverage. I wasn't sure what to do."

  "Let me pull over, and let's see if I can get it started," said Ben.