Black Flag Rising: A James Jackson Thriller Read online

  Black Flag Rising

  Jesse Russell

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  © Jesse Russell Books 2016

  Please consider joining my Email list at

  http://jesserussellbooks.com/join-the-team

  I am currently working on Black Flag Warning, A James Jackson Thriller, Volume 2

  This book is dedicated to God Almighty. Creator of the Universe, who gave me this book. Literally. If you have any problems with it, please take it up with Him.

  I would like to thank my ever- patient and supportive wife as well as my family for putting up with me during this journey. Also, my numerous friends.

  Lastly I would like to thank my great friend and brother Scott for constantly supporting me, beta- reading for me and reminding me to finish this work.

  You all are the best.

  The Devil whispered in my ear. “You are not strong enough to withstand the storm…”

  And I whispered back. “Today, I am the storm.”

  1

  The sun came peeking up over the river Bac on the edge of Chisinau, Moldova. The decrepit former Soviet satellite state had become a symbol of a land that time forgot. The poorest country in all of Europe, the place was no stranger to UN and other worldwide meddling and relief projects. Other poor countries around the world looked at them and said, “At least we're not Moldova.”

  It was 6:30 a.m., and Dumitru Vieru was busy unloading a UN relief truck of food and supplies for the poor and indigent. The UN was one of the largest importers of goods and supplies to the destitute country. The truck driver had gone to find a restroom and something to eat after driving up from the Black Sea.

  He had to get done quickly as there was another load coming in from Chechnya, via Ukraine.

  The shipment was to be loaded back up on the truck after he had removed the relief supplies and a number of the crates were to be loaded back in around it. He had been contacted off the books to do the job and he would be paid in cash for his efforts. He needed the money.

  Due to its strategic location on a route between Asia and Europe, the territory of modern Moldova had been invaded many times in the late antiquity and early middle ages by the Goths, Huns, Avars, Bulgarians, Magyars, Pechenegs, Cumans, Mongols, and Tatars.

  The last invader had been mother Russia in 1940, when they’d became a wholly owned subsidiary of the communist state. After the USSR fell, Moldova had been liberated in 1991, and left to fend for herself. Being a neighbor of Romania and Ukraine with proximity to Turkey and Bosnia, meant it was constantly dealing with an encroaching terror issue.

  He hustled the forklift back and forth as he lifted the pallets and lowered them down, setting them in a row.

  Dumitru was almost finished when a smaller truck pulled up and two men got out. They opened the back and ordered him to come help pull out the load.

  “I have to get this done first. There is not room yet for a new load.”

  “Hurry up!” one shouted at him, looking menacing.

  “Disgusting Chechens,” he muttered under his breath. “I'll take their money, but these a-holes are the scourge of the earth.”

  He had seen plenty of them in recent years. They would attach themselves to various charities and then vanish into the countryside. They would often move into poor villages and spread their particular brand of hate and domination over the defenseless. Little regional tyrants, making life hell for those who refused to submit.

  “At least I'm getting paid for this job and I'm not some damn Jihadi,” he thought to himself.

  Moving supplies around for the UN seemed like a decent gig in this dirt poor country, and he was grateful to have the work. He also liked the fact that he was helping his fellow countrymen. The pay was more than he could make working for the government or local farmers. None of them had any money.

  “Otherwise, I would not put up with dealing with these rat bastards,” he thought to himself.

  He had two more pallets to offload before he could load in the new shipment.

  Once he had finished, he drove the forklift over to the smaller truck, raised up the forks, and slid them under the new pallet.

  It was heavy.

  “What is this thing? It weighs a ton!” he asked, as his little truck tipped slightly forward.

  “None you businesses. We no pay you to shoot mouth off. Hurry up!” the Chechen shouted at him.

  He scowled at them and drove slowly over to the semi, hoping he didn't tip over from the weight. He lifted up the load and slid the pallet in.

  “Push back! Push back further!” one shouted at him.

  He scowled at them and used the forks to slide it back further. Once it had gone in as far as it would, he pulled back. They shouted at him, “You put bags in now!”

  He was getting more irritated as he wheeled around and lifted a pallet of grain bags and slid it back in, then did it four more times.

  He shut down the forklift and said, “Done. Where is my money?”

  “Not done! Get in! Move grain bags around package. Get in!”

  Now he was really pissed. “If these bastards stiff
me….” he thought.

  He climbed off the forklift and pulled himself up into the back of the trailer, grabbing the heavy bags and moving them up around the new package.

  “More! More!”

  He moved more bags around to cover the box completely.

  When he had finished, he climbed down, wiping his hands and said, “There! You happy? Your precious load is on board and all covered up. Now pay me.”

  The Chechen pulled out an envelope and threw it on the ground. “There you money, Kaffir. You lucky you get paid.” He spat and walked over to the rear doors, slamming them shut and putting on a large padlock he had pulled out of his jacket pocket. He hauled himself up into the cab of the semi and started it up. The other Chechen got in the smaller truck and drove off.

  The semi hissed and jerked forward, heading out of the delivery area.

  “This idiot doesn't even know how to drive a full size semi-tractor,” he thought. “Good luck, and good riddance.”

  He walked over and picked up the envelope, opening it. He’d only took the job because it paid in US dollars. It was still the currency of choice around the world. You had to do what you had to do.

  He counted it out. Eight hundred. It was two hundred dollars short.

  “Those jackasses. I should have counted it before they left,” he muttered under his breath, assuming the two men had probably stolen it from him. In this part of the world, everyone had their hands in everyone else's business, especially the Muslims. They often stole from a non-Muslim, or Kaffir. It was considered more than acceptable. It was honorable.

  He hopped on the forklift and drove it back into the warehouse. He got off and headed over to the coffee machine. “Only ten more days and I get out of here to America,” he thought. He had planned to use the money he had just collected to help pay for the trip, and to pay for his plumber tests when he got there.

  Dumitru was heading to the United States for the very first time. His brother had emigrated there eleven years earlier. One of the smart ones. He had met an American girl while on vacation in Romania, and they had gotten married three months later. He had moved back home with her. They now had two kids, and he had a good plumbing business going in Phoenix, Arizona.

  Dumitru had done hours of research online. It looked like paradise. He was desperate to get there and hook up with his brother's business. He had been studying plumbing and was looking forward to taking his exam for his apprentice’s license once he arrived.

  His brother was always busy, often not getting home until late into the night. His wife had put her foot down and demanded he be home to help her more, so Dumitru would gladly take the jobs that he couldn't get to. He was willing to work any and all hours to escape this place.

  He saw the resorts, pools, and palm trees online and would daydream about it.

  He had told his boss he was only going for a visit, but he had gotten his green card application instead, and knew he would never be back. He hated to leave them in the lurch, but it was time to get out before Moldova turned into another Muslim hell-hole like the rest of Europe was becoming.

  He knew it was only a matter of time, now that the predominently young male refugees were pouring out of every country in the Middle East and heading into Europe. Moldova would gladly take them, thinking they would save their economy. But he knew better. They would devastate his beloved country once and for all. It had already started.

  His mother and father were both gone, victims of the country's lousy healthcare system. So there was really nothing keeping him there any more - except helping his fellow countrymen. It was a tough decision, but there was no turning back now.

  Dumitru sat down at the sparse table in the warehouse and pulled out his smartphone. Even in the poorest country in Europe, people still had these things. They were the only real luxury.

  He checked his Gmail account to see if anything had come in from the airline or his brother. He had a sense of foreboding that something was going to mess up his escape to the west.

  He quietly prayed that nothing would stand in his way. Never being one of much faith, he had been having premonitions over the last several weeks. Nothing he could put his finger on, but a sense that he needed to seek deeper meaning.

  He lifted his head and stood up slowly, his back feeling the workout he had just completed. He slowly walked over to his locker to get a morning snack out of his lunch bag. As he spun the padlock, he started to get light-headed.

  Just as the lock popped open, he weaved side to side. Everything went fuzzy and he fell straight down in a heap.

  Out cold.

  2

  Standing in the tiny shower of his dumpy single wide, Jackson turned the knob and felt a trickle of room temperature water. He sighed as the effects of the previous night took hold. The older he got, the longer it took to come around after his frequent binges.

  He thought about last night’s happy hour with his boss at La Hacienda, his favorite watering hole. They both worked at Scottsdale Luxury Auto and had celebrated a sales record from the prior month. Per usual, Jackson’s happy hour had turned into closing the bar down, and now he was paying for it. Big time.

  “Oh, God. Why did I do it again?” he muttered out loud as the water gradually turned hotter and stronger. He figured the water heater in his dumpy trailer was loaded with rust and was at least twenty-five years old. The thing was worthless. It was a far cry from the high-end Arcadia digs he used to share with his family. Another day had begun and, as usual, Jackson was nursing a wicked hangover from the night before.

  He frequented La Hacienda Lounge partly because it was close by, and partly because it allowed him to drive home on the side streets to avoid the local gendarme. But he also frequented it because of the couple who owned it. Doug and Joy treated him like family, and he needed a little family right now.

  Jackson had become a pro at drinking and driving over the last few years. He could teach a class and call it, “How to Get Hammered and Avoid Anything Parked, Moving, or with a Police Light Bar.” He knew he would have thousands of willing students, considering Scottsdale’s new zero tolerance policies.

  Looking down at the sink to avoid seeing his face, he brushed the metallic-lime taste out of his mouth and toweled off. Pulling the cabinet shut, he reluctantly stared at his hungover face. Almost forty-five, he still had a trace of the good looks from his youth, but the bags under his eyes were getting harder to conceal with a nice tan.

  “Damn, Jackson. Keep this up and you’re going to end up looking like Keith Richards.” He stepped over last night's clothes and shuffled down the hall.

  Making his way into the kitchen of the dilapidated single wide, he got out the Costco generic coffee, poured some funky tap water into the plastic coffee maker, and hit brew.

  The Desert Palms Motor Court had been his home for the last thirty-four months. It was a total dive, but it worked for now. He had gotten a special deal from a customer who had turned out to be a local slumlord. The rent was only $325 per month and had to be one of the lowest in Scottsdale.

  The only downside was that most of his neighbors were either welfare recipients or Desert Rats, the sun-torched old timers who made up a large demographic of The Valley of the Sun. But there was a lot of ‘character’ in the Court, and that was becoming a rare commodity in this town.

  Jackson found he enjoyed the oldsters. One in particular, George Hansen, liked to sit on his porch and regale him with stories of the old days over a cold Tecate. Hansen was tougher than an old boot, but he was really a gem of days gone by. The permanently tanned seventy-five-year-old provided a needed shoulder during a time when Jackson could definitely use one. George had been retired from the FBI for over twenty years. He had left before the agency had become the PC cesspool that politicians had turned it into.

  Former Captain James R. Jackson was an eternity away from being chief officer of the Arizona State Patrol Intelligence Department, better known these days as the Arizona Counter Terrorism Informati
on Center, or ACTIC.

  Back then it had been known as The Spook House.

  That James Jackson didn’t exist any more.

  He heard a text chirp on his phone and reached over to pick it up.

  can’t come in today. Sick. Pls open

  “Damn!” It was from Paul, his boss. It had come in at 6:34 a.m. He glanced at the Oris Pro Diver watch he never took off, and saw he had fifteen minutes to make it to the lot.

  He hustled into the bedroom and grabbed the only clean polo shirt available and threw on some slightly worn slacks from off the back of a chair. He headed back into the kitchen and poured his coffee into the Go Cup sitting in the sink.

  Out the door and firing up the BMW 335i which had been given to him by Paul and the owners as a daily Demo. It had 150,000 clicks on the odometer, but still looked good. He was glad to have it. One less thing he had to worry about paying for these days.

  It was a long way from the hip Arcadia home, State-provided Tahoe and the life that he had previously shared with his now-shattered family. Only a few miles as the crow flew, but worlds apart in everything that mattered.

  As he pulled out of the Desert Palms Motor Court, he saw George outside in his carport, doing pushups. George was one of the good guys left in the park. Jackson was pretty sure he could still kick most people’s asses, including his. Of course, this morning, that wouldn’t be hard. His ten-year-old could take him.

  Good old George, with his neat white crop, trimmed military perfect, still weighed in at about 150 lbs. It looked like he had about 4% body fat. Tougher than an old boot, he was.

  Jackson stopped and rolled down the window. “Hey, old man! Take it easy over there. Can’t afford to lose you around here!”

  George stood up and wiped his hands together. “Well, well. Looky there. Mr. Car Hustler. All spiffed up and headed to off to work. Don’t worry about me, creampuff. Get out of that chick car and I’ll show you.” He grinned and put up his fists, doing a little boxing jig.