Free FATAL eMPULSE by Mark Young

Langley.
    Once she got to a secure line, her chief advised the name might have something to do with a man known as Gerrit O’Rourke, a subject the Agency knew she had contact with years ago. Suddenly, it was as if she—and indirectly, Gerrit—became subjects of interest to the CIA and not Stuart Martin. Whose toes had she stepped on? Maybe this Martin guy was affiliated with the Agency and part of another operation unknown to her. Her target was Hassan and anything pertaining to that terrorist. She had a legitimate reason to find out all she could about any of Hassan’s associates.
    Somehow, her need to know might not be enough to keep her rear end out of trouble. And her prior contact with Gerrit only complicated matters. Really complicated matters—professionally and personally.
    More must be going on than she knew.
    Devon McAllister reached the outskirts of Miami when his cell phone pinged. Incoming text message. He snatched the phone and scrolled through the message.
    Pay dirt! A location for Gerrit and his sidekick at a hotel in Miami. One of his crew knew a local businessman who provided security cameras for all the car-rental agencies around the airport. And for those the businessman did not provide, he found a way to access his competitor’s business network. For a hefty fee, Devon’s contact paid the guy to search all rentals for a specified period of time prior to the estimated arrival of Gerrit and the woman.
    The long shot paid off. The contact scored a rental car, replete with an activated GPS locator, and the alias Gerrit used to rent the car. The rental car’s path was traced from where they parked near Gloria’s hotel to another hotel about a mile away.
    Stupid idiot staying so close to their target location. That mistake was about to cost them dearly. Devon texted back to have the others set up a perimeter with an eyeball on the target’s car. He tapped in:
Don’t scare them off. Wait until I get there to move in
. He hit the Send button before dialing a preset number. Stuart Martin answered.
    “Sir. We’ve located them and my men have their hotel surrounded. Do you want us to terminate the targets or snatch and grab?”
    “I don’t want to risk another security breech. What’s the expression down there?
Feed ‘em to the sharks
.” Stuart clicked off.

Chapter 12
    February 23
Honolulu, Hawaii
    A Customs agent fingered Richard Dunsmuir’s passport. Tucked inside his suitcase—secreted in a false compartment even the best X-ray machines could never detect—he had another passport. Through a contact, he would later clear that second alias as having reentered the U.S. from the East Coast. He needed to travel under the radar while visiting the island state of Hawaii.
    Today, he carried credentials of a businessman from Hawaii. One of several documents he got from his contacts in the State Department.
    “Richard Dunsmuir. Welcome back to the U.S., sir. Do you have anything to declare?”
    He shook his head. “Just a suitcase full of dirty laundry and a gift for my little girl. Can’t wait to get home.” He calmly smiled.
    The agent gave Richard his passport and waved him on. “Two months overseas. I’m sure your family will be excited to see you.” He motioned for the next person in line.
    Once outside the terminal, Richard climbed into a cab, directing the driver to the Hilton Hawaiian Village on Waikiki Beach. He rolled down the window and enjoyed the warm afternoon breeze. It seemed only minutes before he saw the palm-shaded Hilton. Beyond the hotel lay the sparkling-blue Pacific Ocean, whitecapped waves dotted with surfers and swimmers.
    He gave the driver a hefty tip to add to the fare before entering the airy hotel lobby. As he waited for service, he glanced across the spacious veranda, enjoying the peaceful comforts of this resort. Another time, he might be more apt to relax in this laid-back setting, but today’s visit to the islands filled him with anxiety. It was critical that