The Man From Belarus
C. G. Cooper
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Epilogue
A Letter To Readers
Also by C. G. Cooper
About the Author
“THE MAN FROM BELARUS”
Book 16 of the Corps Justice Series
By C. G. Cooper
Copyright © 2020 JBD Entertainment, LLC. All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations and events are all products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events or real persons are completely coincidental.
This novel contains violence and profanity. Readers beware.
A portion of all profits from the sale of my novels goes to fund OPERATION C4, our nonprofit initiative serving young military officers. For more information visit OperationC4.com.
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Prologue
LENA — SUMMERSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 11
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re anxious then.”
She looked at her father, who loomed over her like a hungry hawk, then rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Not really.”
“I’m not anxious, Daddy.”
“Then why aren’t you focused downrange?”
She let out a huff, barely big enough to budge the rifle in her hands. “A cardinal flew by. I wanted to see it.”
“Lots of distractions on the battlefield.”
“Right now, you’re one of them.”
“Pretty feisty for an 8-year-old.”
She could hear the smirk in his voice. Shaving even three years off bugged her and he knew it.
A slight breeze blew a single strand of blonde hair across her left eye. That bugged her too, but she ignored it. The only thing in her sights was the target, a dark smudge next to the tree on the far end of their property. She calculated the wind, checked the target for signs of disturbance, any anomaly that would shift her shot. Nothing. Easy today. Except for the distractions.
“Can I take the shot now?”
His hand brushed the strand of hair away from her eye. She inhaled his smell. One cigarette, and only one in the morning. Then a cigar with his coffee on the porch. She’d taken over coffee duties three years ago, when she was only eight. She had to—his coffee was terrible.
“Patience, Little Rabbit.”
How many times had she told him that she didn’t like it when he called her that, when all the while glowing internally at the nickname? The Bear and his Little Rabbit.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Calm.
Collected.
Easy.
“Take the shot,” he said.
He was doing it again. Trying to distract her. She decided not to react. She let the frustration wash over her and fell back into concentration. She knew the drill. Don’t rush it.
The old iron sights were as good this day as they were when they were made. She knew every inch of the weapon. She’d cleaned it hundreds of times. Every round loaded by hand. He’d shown her, and though he quizzed her hourly, even more than her mandatory schoolwork, she knew she was good. Not as good as her father. Not yet. She’d seen him do miraculous things with the rifle, like it was a veritable extension of his body.
The trigger pull eased and the shot surprised her, as he taught her it should. No anticipation, just a loving respect for the power.
Although she couldn’t see it, she knew the watermelon at the receiving end of her power had been obliterated.
“Hit,” her father said, nodding his head, small binoculars pasted to his eyes.
“Any adjustments?” she asked.
He lowered the binoculars.
“I said you hit.”
“For next time. I want to make sure.”
“Look at me.”
Pride wafted off him like aftershave.
“What, Daddy?” she asked, as if distrustful of her senses.
“I can see your mother in you.”
Don’t cry, Daddy, she thought. God, please, don’t cry.
“You did well,” he said, turning the conversation a hard left away from death. “Very well. It won’t be long before—”
His words were cut off by the sound of one then another car door slamming shut. It came from near the house. Father and daughter lay prone, listening.
“Listen to me,” he said, “you have to go.”
“What?”
He grabbed her hand. “We’ve talked about this.”
So, it was to be now, today. They had come. There was fear in his eyes.
“I’m going with you.”
The answer came with a stern shake of the head.
“But, Daddy—”
“You know what to do, Little Rabbit.”
He took the rifle from her hands. She hadn’t realized they were shaking.
“I’m not ready,” she said, not caring one bit that her voice was suddenly pitched like a 5-year-old’s.
“You’re ready.” He took her head in his hands and kissed her on the forehead. “You know how much I love you. Now, run.” His accent was slipping out now, as it did when he talked of the old days, or when his voice broke over an extra glass of vodka taken over slurring reminiscences of her mother.
“Go,” he said again.
His despair gave her courage. She low-crawled away, slowly, the way he’d taught his Little Rabbit. And she kept crawling, even after she heard the faraway shouts and the burst of automatic gunfire.
CAL STOKES — WHEAT RIDGE, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY
The cheap motel bed creaked with the groans of a thousand weary travelers when Cal Stokes turned over. He groaned with it, wishing he could go back to his dreams. One eye peeled open. Daniel Briggs was sitting on his bed, legs crossed, eyes closed.
“What time is it?” Cal asked.
“Check your watch.”
“I’m too tired to check my watch.”
“Funny, I feel great.”
Cal lifted his head. “Do you ever not feel chipper as a chipmunk?”
Daniel’s eyes opened, a slip of a smile making it to his lips. “You want me to answer that?”
Cal grabbed the pillow from under his head and threw it at his friend, who caught it easily.
“What’s for breakfast?”
“You have a choice: protein bar or Carl’s Jr. biscuit.”
Cal felt his shoulders slump. “You don’t think we could order something a little more substantial for a change?”
“Protein bar or Carl’s Jr. biscuit?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a perfectly grilled filet with French fries. And maybe a side of decent hotel lodgings. This on-the-run business is getting old.”
Daniel didn’t reply, and Cal knew exactly why. They were in their current predicament because of one man and one man only: Cal Stokes. He’d made the decision to release a certain international assassin, Matthew Wilcox, against the express wishes of the president. Daniel and the other members of the currently defunct Jefferson Group had all gone along with Cal’s decision, though he wondered if any of them were second-guessing that choice.
“I don’t think we’ll be hiding much longer,” Daniel said, now going through a series of stretches.
“Did Neil say something?”
Neil Patel, The Jefferson Group’s tech brain, was tracking any potential threats headed their way—namely, the CIA, FBI, military, basically anyone under the command of the president.
“No. But this is Brandon we’re talking about.”
The sniper had been saying the same thing for weeks. President Brandon Zimmer was, or at least had been, one of Cal’s closest friends.
“Feels like the calm before the proverbial storm,” Cal said, placing his bare feet on the cheap carpet and immediately regretting it.
Daniel exhaled out of an intense stretch and looked at his friend.
“What?” said Cal.
“Protein bar or Carl’s Jr. biscuit?”
Cal shook his head and headed to the bathroom. After splashing his face twice with two hands of cold water, he looked in the mirror, sighed, shrugged, and succumbed to his own sense of resolve. He opened the bathroom door and poked his head out.
“Protein bar, damn you.”
Daniel Briggs smirked and said nothing.
Chapter Two
ZIMMER — WASHINGTON, D.C. — PRESENT DAY
“Alright, where is he?”
President Brandon Zimmer bent the upper-right corner of the report that the CIA courier handed him fifteen minutes earlier.
“Unknown, sir,” Marjorie Haines said, taking a scoop of her yogurt.
“Why are you calling me sir this morning?”
She held out a hand as if offering him the answer. “Because you’re the president.”
The report dropped to the desk. “Marge.”
“Yes, sir?” she answered sweetly.
“Seriously?”
Now she smiled. “You’ve been a sourpuss for weeks. Even the porters have noticed.”
“I’m not a sourpuss. Grumpy maybe. I’ll even go as far as pissed. But a sourpuss?”
“Spoken like a true sourpuss.”
He balled up a piece of paper and threw it at her, missing his target entirely.
“And your aim is horrible,” she said without looking up from her phone.
“Remind me why I hired you again?”
They both knew why. The death of a close friend. The memory lingered in the Oval Office for a minute of leaden silence.
“What about Dunn?” Zimmer finally asked.
“I assume you mean Todd Dunn?”
She was doing her best to get under his skin. No, he thought. She’s trying to get me to lighten up. Fine.
“Yes, Todd Dunn.”
Whether it was his refreshed tone or his patient capitulation, Haines, whose closest friends called her The Hammer for her skills in and out of the courtroom, and now in the halls of the nation’s capital as Zimmer’s chief of staff, smiled genuinely as she locked eyes with the president.
“He’s hot on Cal’s trail.”
Zimmer could tell she was holding back. He gave a give-it-to-me gesture.
“Pretty harsh to send Cal’s father’s own company after him.”
Zimmer laughed. “You’re the one who left SSI for Dunn to run. Are you saying you wouldn’t be doing the same thing?” Stokes Security International (SSI) was the elder Stokes’ living legacy, and Haines’ former place of employment.
He expected amusement back. Wrong. Haines recrossed her pantsuited legs with an impatient breath. “You know Dunn. He’s all Ranger and even more all-American. If the president tells him to do something, he does it.”
“You make him sound like a simpleton,” said Zimmer.
“Mr. President, did you know Todd Dunn is a member of Mensa?”
“I did not.”
“He’s much smarter than anyone gives him credit for. Most people see the muscle and Ranger recruit, all high and tight, and they assume he’s as dense as a London winter. He’s done things with Stokes Security International that I for one could never have accomplished.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Not only has Dunn increased profits thirty percent, he’s pretty much revolutionized the world of covert espionage.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll get him an honorary degree from Harvard or something. Back to Cal. Where is he and what the hell is he doing?”
“Not sure.”
The president narrowed his eyes. “I hope you’re not protecting him.”
Haines didn’t flinch. She never flinched. “Are you asking me a question, Mr. President?”
“Dammit, Ma
rge, just give me a straight answer.”
Haines stood, brushed down the seams of her suit, and turned toward the picture of Ulysses Grant on the wall. “It’s not an easy thing being president. Ask him.”
“I wish I could,” Zimmer said. “One of the most misunderstood presidents in history. A humble man. Died penniless and racked with pain.”