Hard Asset: A Cobra Elite Novel
Pamela Clare
Hard Asset
A Cobra Elite Novel
Pamela Clare
www.pamelaclare.com
Contents
Hard Asset
Acknlowledgements
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
Epilogue
Thank You
Also by Pamela Clare
About the Author
Hard Asset
A Cobra Elite novel
Published by Pamela Clare, 2019
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Cover Design by © Jaycee DeLorenzo/Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs
Photo Credit: Nikolas_jkd from Shutterstock.com
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Copyright © 2019 by Pamela Clare
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials by violating the author’s rights. No one should be expected to work for free. If you support the arts and enjoy literature, do not participate in illegal file-sharing.
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ISBN 13: 978-1-7335251-3-8
ISBN 10: 1-7335251-3-0
Created with Vellum
This book is dedicated to the Rohingya people. May your children, born in refugee camps, inherit a homeland, a future—and justice.
Acknlowledgements
A world of thanks to Michelle White, Benjamin Alexander, and Jackie Turner for their unflagging support during the writing of this book. Michelle, your willingness to talk any time I needed to go over this story was a godsend. Jackie, your feedback kept me from jumping off bridges. Benjamin, you did so much in the house and garden to free up time for me to write. I am eternally grateful.
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Additional thanks to Shell Ryan for a very helpful edit.
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Special thanks to Benjamin Alexander and Christopher Wu for answering questions regarding military operations and firearms.
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Thanks as always to my beloved readers, whose enthusiasm keeps me going. You are the best.
1
August 27
Denver
Connor O’Neal tossed back his second shot of whiskey, liquor and loud music helping to bring him back to earth. Yesterday, he’d been taking down cartel assholes in El Salvador. Tonight, he was drinking with his Cobra buddies at the Pony Express, their favorite dive bar in Denver, and trying to keep them from getting arrested.
Re-entry was never easy. Before joining Cobra, Connor had served for a decade with 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta—what civilians called Delta Force and what he simply knew as the Unit. Even so, he still hadn’t figured out how to make the transition back to real life. One minute, he was pumped up on adrenaline, rounds flying, life and death hanging in the balance. The next, he was pushing a shopping cart through the grocery store buying toilet paper.
That’s when the nightmares started.
He glanced around, taking a quick headcount. Malik Jones, a former Army Ranger, and Dylan Cruz, who’d left the SEAL Teams at DEVGRU to join Cobra, were shooting the shit and playing pool. Lev Segal, who’d come to Cobra after a legendary career with Sayeret Matkal, was arguing politics with a hipster in skinny jeans. Meanwhile, Elizabeth Shields, an intel specialist who’d worked for the CIA, was trying to teach Quinn McManus, a former operator with the British Secret Air Service, how to line dance, the big Scot picking it up quickly.
Doc Sullivan, one of Cobra’s medics, sat beside Connor, beer in hand.
Connor pointed with a nod of his head. “Who would’ve thought he could dance?”
Doc looked out at the dance floor, grinned. “Do you think he remembers Shields is off-limits?”
“At the moment?” Connor saw the way McManus looked at her. “Hell, no.”
“He’d better watch his ass.” Doc took a sip of his beer.
“Yeah, he’s mostly watching hers.” Connor chuckled at his own joke.
Doc laughed, too. “Alcohol and hormones are a dangerous combination.”
“Isn’t that the truth?”
It was an open secret that McManus had a thing for Shields. So far, he hadn’t done anything to get himself fired, though his persistent use of the nickname Lilibet for her hadn’t gone unnoticed. Cobra International Security, a private military company, owned and staffed by veterans, had strict rules against hookups among employees. Given the kind of work the company did—running security and carrying out a range of covert operations on behalf of the United States, its allies, and non-governmental organizations like the UN—the rules made sense.
When bullets flew, distractions could be fatal.
For all the rules and risk, working for Cobra was a vacation compared to life in the Unit. Connor hadn’t known what to do with himself after leaving the army until his buddy and fellow operator Nick Andris had emailed him a recruitment brochure.
Connor hadn’t regretted his decision to sign on—not even when he’d taken a round to the gut last November. The hours were better. The pay was better. The gear was state-of-the-art. His fellow operatives were experienced, top-notch fighters and intel specialists recruited from special forces around the world. They even had a new guy, Thor Isaksen, from Denmark’s Sirius Dog Sled Patrol.
“What about you, man?” Doc seemed to study him. “What happened to that blonde you were seeing?”
“I wasn’t seeing her.” Connor made it a rule not to get mixed up emotionally with women. It wasn’t good for them—or him. “It was just, you know …”
“Ah. Got it.” Doc took another swig. “You ever thought of settling down?”
“Sure, but that was a long time ago.”
He’d been new to the Unit and cocky as hell—proud to be an elite operator and drunk on testosterone. He’d met a fancy college girl at a bar, and they’d ended up fucking the sheets off her bed. Soon, they were living together at Mandy’s place, and he’d thought he had it made. He was working his dream job and head-over-heels in love with a smart, beautiful woman. It lasted through one deployment.
“What ended it?”
Connor didn’t feel like getting into this, so he gave Doc the short, sanitized version. “She didn’t like the way I earned my paycheck. How about you?”
“I—”
“Dinnae you touch her, you feckin’ piece of shite!” McManus’ shout cut Doc’s answer short.
Connor looked to see the Scotsman standing toe to toe with a guy in a cowboy hat, his face almost as red as his hair, Shields thrust protectively behind him.
“Hell.” Here we go.
Connor stood, made his way through the crowd, Doc beside him.
When McManus was shit-faced or pissed off, he lapsed into almost unintelligible Glaswegian—usually just before beating the shit out of someo
ne. At six foot four and as strong as an ox, McManus threw a bone-crushing punch.
Shields tried to defuse the situation. “Quinn, I can handle this. He’s drunk. You’re drunk. Just drop it.”
McManus ignored her, crowding the city cowboy, who glared at Shields, clearly not understanding that he was in mortal danger. “Why do you wear tight jeans like that if you don’t want men to touch the goods?”
“You’d best bolt yer rocket, lad, or I’ll shove your bawbag up yer arse.”
“What the fuck does that even mean?” The cowboy glared up at McManus, his buddies crowding around him, watching his six. “I can handle you, carrot top.”
Segal, Jones, and Cruz pushed their way through the crowd to flank McManus, Jones and Cruz still holding their pool cues.
Shit.
Connor caught a glimpse of McManus’ fist clenching. He shouldered his way in between the two men. “Break it up! That’s enough! McManus!”
Shields stepped past McManus and took on City Cowboy herself. “You’re obviously not a smart man, so let me put this in terms even you can understand. You just picked a fight with a military guy who is here with the rest of his team. They just got home from an op and are still pumped on adrenaline. These guys fight for a living, so unless you want to go home in pieces, apologize to me and get out of here.”
City Cowboy glared at her and then McManus—and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“Oh, look, he’s got a wee knifey.” McManus might have been drunk, but his reflexes were lightning quick. He snatched the knife out of the idiot’s hand, examined it as if he’d never seen a blade before. “I could shave wi’ this.”
Connor met City Cowboy’s gaze. “Listen to her. Save yourself some pain.”
The bar was now silent, the air thick with tension.
City Cowboy’s gaze shifted from McManus to Connor and back again before dropping to the floor. “Sorry.”
“Good choice.” Shields’ contempt was clear. “To answer your question, a woman never puts on jeans hoping some drunk loser will grab her butt. The goods, as you call them, aren’t yours to touch. Women dress to please themselves.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Evan, the bouncer, pushed his way through the crowd. Big and bald, his forearms thick and tattooed with skulls, he was an army veteran and, more importantly at this moment, a friend.
“City Cowboy here grabbed Shields’ butt.” Connor stepped back, made room for him. “We were just working it out.”
Evan grabbed City Cowboy by the back of his shirt and dragged him toward the door. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? These guys could flay your sorry ass. You can’t treat women like that. Get the fuck out of here, you piece of shit. Don’t let me see your face again.”
Connor exhaled. “I need a drink.”
August 28
The Hague
Shanti Lahiri fought to contain her frustration. “If I arrive with an armed escort, it will discourage survivors from speaking with me. These women were raped by military men. They watched soldiers murder their children, their husbands, everyone they knew.”
The first security company they’d hired to protect her had pulled out at the last minute for unknown reasons. Shanti had hoped that meant she wouldn’t have one, but Bram wouldn’t budge.
“I understand it makes your job more challenging, but I won’t send you in without a security detail.” Bram’s voice was infuriatingly calm, his Dutch accent almost imperceptible. “The camps aren’t safe. You know that.”
Two British journalists had been abducted from the Kutupalong refugee camp in Bangladesh last month, taken across the border into Myanmar, and then arrested and thrown in jail. Authorities in Myanmar claimed the two had crossed the border illegally and had been trying to steal state secrets. The charges against them were false, of course. They’d been doing exactly what Shanti was about to do—visiting Rohingya refugees in search of the truth about General Naing and the allegations that he had ordered ethnic cleansing, genocidal rape, and the killing of innocent Rohingya civilians.
The reporters had hoped to expose the truth about Naing in the press, but Shanti was traveling there to collect official witness statements on behalf of the International Criminal Court. She wanted to put Naing in prison.
“It’s not just Naing’s troops. There are reports of sex traffickers and sexual assault—”
“I wrote the brief, Bram. I understand the situation.” She’d been working on this case for almost two years.
Bram leaned back in his chair, looked at her through his bifocals. “We will, of course, insist on the greatest discretion. We want to keep your visit as low-key as possible—no press, no public statements, no social media, nothing on the website.”
“How is showing up with a team of Rambos discreet?” Military guys put Shanti on edge with their chauvinism, their guns, and toxic levels of testosterone. She knew only too well the devastation they could cause. “Do they have to be armed?”
Bram grinned as if she’d said something funny. “If they’re any good, they’ll insist on it.”
Bram was her boss and a brilliant human-rights attorney, but it had been a long time since he’d met face to face with victims of brutality.
“I don’t want the sight of armed men to re-traumatize these people.”
Bram’s expression changed, his brow weighed down by sadness, his blue eyes sympathetic. “By asking them to recount their stories, you’ll be making them relive it all. You know that. I think this is personal for you, and I understand why.”
Okay, inconvenient truth there.
Bram changed the subject. “How much Bangla do you remember?”
“I understand a lot, but I can’t say much—just basic things like ‘hello’ and ‘thank you.’ Bangla won’t help me in the camps anyway. Rohingya is its own language.”
That’s why she’d asked the UN to find an interpreter.
Shanti had been born in Dhaka, Bangladesh, to a Bengali Hindu father and an American mother. Her parents had met on the campus of Dhaka University, where her father was a professor of economics and her mother studied Hindu literature. They had fallen in love, gotten married against the wishes of both families, and were happily married still.
Sectarian violence had led her parents to relocate not long after Shanti was born. They had ended up in Ithaca, New York. She’d grown up speaking English. Although she had visited her grandparents in Dhaka each year, they’d spoken English to her, too.
Still, those visits had shaped her in so many ways. She’d heard the story of her grandparents’ narrow escape during the genocide of 1971. Not all of her relatives had made it. And, although her family was quite wealthy, Shanti had also witnessed unspeakable poverty. That stark inequality, along with her family’s tragic history, had driven her to study law.
“Can we at least ask them to wear street clothes and hide their weapons?”
“Ask for whatever you want, but don’t expect them to agree to all of it.”
Denver
Connor glanced around the conference room table, head throbbing, cup of coffee in his hand. The only one who didn’t look hungover was Shields.
Derek Tower, one of Cobra’s two owners, stepped inside, grinned. “Hard night?”
“He grabbed Shields’ bum.” McManus was clearly still angry.
Tower’s eyebrows rose. “Sorry to hear that, Shields. Is he still alive, this asshole? I’m surprised I’m not bailing you all out this morning.”
Connor grinned. “We defused the situation.”
“Good.” Tower sat, turned on the wall-mounted flat-screen monitor. “We’ve got a last-minute job. Another security team backed out on a prosecutor from the International Criminal Court who is headed to Bangladesh.”
A blurry image of a pretty, dark-haired woman filled the screen. Or maybe it was Connor’s vision that was blurry.
“This is Shanti Lahiri, a prosecutor with the ICC. She’s got dual US-Banglade
sh citizenship. Her father is Bangladeshi and a professor at Cornell. Her mother is American and teaches poetry at Ithaca College. Ms. Lahiri studied at Harvard Law and graduated top of her class. She has a brother. Never married. No children.”
The image on the screen changed to a man in a green military uniform.
Shields made a face. “Oh, look, it’s General Asshole.”
Tower pointed toward the screen. “This is General Min Thant Naing. He is believed to be the driving force behind the massacres of Rohingya people in Rakhine State in Myanmar. Shields, can you brief us on the history?”
“Southeast Asia isn’t my area, but I’ll give it a shot.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Ethnically, the Burmese and Rohingya are different—Southeast Asian and Indo-Aryan, respectively. They also speak different languages and worship different gods.”
“Let me guess.” Cruz stood, poured himself more coffee. “Despite everything they have in common, they just don’t get along.”
“Imagine that.” Shields told them how, when Japan invaded what was then Burma during World War II, the Buddhist majority sided with Japan, while the Muslims fought with the British. “The British promised the Rohingya an autonomous state but didn’t deliver. The Rohingya view Rakhine State as their homeland because they’ve lived there since at least the fifteenth century, but the Burmese ethnic majority see them as illegal immigrants—unwelcome foreign invaders with a different language and religion.”
