No Other Option

by Wynne, Marcus

• ISBN13: 9780312877958
• ISBN10: 0312877951
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2001-09-26
• Publisher: Forge Books

Summary

Off the Reservationis the new thriller that tells the tale of the hunt for one of the world's most dangerous trained killers. Marcus Wynne, a former government operator and expert on the psychology of special ops, presents a gripping page-turner told with extraordinary technical accuracy, and providing startling insight into the warrior mentality . Project Dominance Rain: an elite brotherhood of America's finest dogs of war and a hard-core cadre of the best in military intelligence. From the jungles of South America and Africa to the deserts of the Middle East, to the mysterious Orient, to our own shores, this specialized task force acts in the best interests of U.S. national security, surviving any challenge, and bringing victory at any cost. Unleashed by the President himself, this specialized commando unit contains only the most skilled commandos. As one of Dominance Rain's elite members, Jonny Maxwell won fear and respect the world over by his actions in combat. Living legend, he helped turn Dominance Rain into America's most effective secret weapon. But now, Jonny has replaced the adrenaline rush of war with an obsession with rape, and Dominance Rain's most dangerous weapon has become America's most dangerous criminal. Harboring America's greatest military secrets, Jonny is on the loose in Middle America, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. On his tail are Detective Nina Capushek of the Minneapolis Police Department's Sex Crime Unit, a hard-nosed cop whose beauty is most certainly deceiving, and Lieutenant Dale Miller, member of Dominance Rain and Jonny's brother in arms-and the only man with the skills and knowledge to bring Jonny down. The number of victims is increasing, and the trail leads them to Jonny. And although Dale was brought in because he alone knows the inner workings of Jonny's mind, nothing will prepare Dale for their final confrontation. As he and Nina close in on his mentor in the dark art of special operations, Dale begins to fully understand his mission. His assignment is no longer bringing in his rogue brother. The mission is now kill, or be killed . . . .

Author Biography

Marcus Wynne has been a paratrooper, diplomatic bodyguard, Federal Air Marshal, close combat instructor, emergency medical technician, freelance writer, training and security consultant, and a cook. He's traveled to more than 50 countries, many of them among the world's most dangerous places. He is in demand as a speaker on aviation safety and security, counter-terrorism, military matters and the psychology of high-stress operatives. He has made television appearances on Oprah, Primetime Thursday, Good Morning America, Fox Family and Friends, The Crier Report, as well as many local television stations, and has given radio interviews for dozens of major radio stations. Marcus is a full time writer, splitting his time between novels and screenplays.

Table of Contents

No Other Option

PART 1

1.1

Jonny Maxwell fled north through the Kansas night, his hands steady on the wheel of his second stolen car, following the undulant ribbon of 1-35 over the gentle hills and past the dark farmhouses settled among the even rows of corn. Only the lone headlights of an infrequent passing car broke the midnight darkness.

He shook a cigarette from the Marlboro hard pack the car's owner had left on the dashboard. He noticed how his fingertips trembled, and he willed them still. Only when the tremor subsided did he light his cigarette.

Jonny's reflection shone on the inner curve of the windshield, the long hard lines of his face lit by the dim-green dashboard lights and the cigarette lighter's red coil. He was pleased with how little exultation or fear he saw on his face.

This wasn't like Beirut or Bosnia or Syria or Guatemala or any of the other dirty little hellholes he'd fought in. There'd been others with him then--men he'd thought of as his brothers--ready to call down the high-tech wrath of the Stealth bombers and their precision munitions, or to pull on their balaclavas and take up their weapons to come to his aid.

Or to avenge him if he fell.

But he'd fallen alone this time, and there was to be no help for him.

The chemicals of fatigue and stress flowed through him like drugs and, for a moment, the reflection of his face blurred before hiseyes. He skinned his lips back in a fierce grimace and exhaled sharply, twice, through his nostrils to clear his head. He needed a break.

Up ahead, where the road seemed to rise into the night sky, a brightly lit roadside rest stop gleamed between the highway and the dark cornfields. Jonny turned the Cavalier into the parking area and idled slowly forward while he looked the rest stop over. On the far side of the concrete shelter over the rest rooms and vending machines was a parking area for the big interstate trucks. Three semitrailers, their lights off, were parked there. On the passenger car side of the stop there were only two cars besides Jonny's. Parked well away from the lights was a beat up Camry, a man slouched in the tipped-back seat, his head lolling against the window in the abandon of deep sleep. In front of the rest rooms was a black Toyota 4Runner. The driver, smoking a cigarette, sat on the hood and stared up at the night sky.

Jonny pulled in next to the 4Runner and shut off his engine. Jonny got out, stretched, and nodded to the other driver.

He was a college kid, early twenties, blade thin in black Levi's and a black T-shirt, with a scraggly goatee that barely concealed his weak chin. He nodded back to Jonny and said, "Look at this sky, will you? It's beautiful out here."

Jonny regarded him in silence for a moment, long enough to make the boy shift and pluck at the knee of his pants, then looked up at the stars.

"That it is," Jonny said.

He went into the rest room and urinated for a long time. He lingered over the sink and thoroughly washed his hands. When he came back out, the college kid was still there, staring up at the sky. The parking lot was still except for the steady click of cicadas. The boy looked at him and nodded again, avoiding Jonny's steady gaze.

Jonny moved close and pointed at the 4Runner's license plates. "You from Minnesota?"

"I go to school there, St. Thomas. In St. Paul."

"I know the area. Nice place. You grow up around there?"

"No, my family's in Cedar Rapids."

"Didn't want to go to the U of I in Iowa City?"

The boy rushed to laugh. "No. Too close to home."

"Yeah, I remember thinking the same thing."

"You go to U of I?"

"No." Jonny smiled and looked around the parking lot. The Camry driver was still lolled back asleep in his seat, the car halfobscured by shadows. There was no sound or movement from the trucker's side of the rest stop. "I went to UCLA."

"How'd you like Los Angeles?"

"Never been."

"I thought you said ..."

"It was the Tegucigalpa campus of UCLA. In Honduras. You know what that means, UCLA? Unilaterally Controlled Latin Assets."

Jonny interrupted the boy's puzzled look when he pointed at the 4Runner's side panel. "Somebody really keyed your door here. Messed your paint job all up."

"What?" The boy slid off the hood and stepped between the two cars. "Where?"

Jonny pointed low on the rear passenger door. "Right there."

"I don't see anything ..."

When the boy bent low to examine the side panel, Jonny clamped the boy's head, one hand over his mouth and the other at the back of his head. He snapped the boy's head back and then sharply over, twisting the struggling student around faceup. The boy's legs buckled and the whole weight of his body centered at the base of his neck when Jonny levered the thin neck into the crook of his arm. Jonny jerked sharply upward, once, and heard the dull wet pop of the neck breaking. He turned the limp head and extended it twice to ensure the neck was broken and the spinal cord hyperextended. The boy flopped, twitched, and was done. The black jeans darkened with urine as the bladder let go. Jonny eased the body down between the two cars. He looked over the roof of the 4Runner and slowly scanned the rest stop. The sleeping man in the Camry still slept. There was no one out on the trucker's side and no one in the rest rooms.

He opened the 4Runner's rear door and wedged the limp body into the backseat. There was a faded green cotton sleeping bag wadded on the floor, and he pulled it over the body up to the neck, as though the boy were sleeping. Jonny pursed his lips, then reached out and palmed shut the boy's eyes. Then he got into the driver's seat, turned the keys hanging in the ignition, and drove slowly out of the rest stop.

Copyright © 2001 by Marcus Wynne

Excerpts

No Other Option

PART 1

1.1

Jonny Maxwell fled north through the Kansas night, his hands steady on the wheel of his second stolen car, following the undulant ribbon of 1-35 over the gentle hills and past the dark farmhouses settled among the even rows of corn. Only the lone headlights of an infrequent passing car broke the midnight darkness.

He shook a cigarette from the Marlboro hard pack the car's owner had left on the dashboard. He noticed how his fingertips trembled, and he willed them still. Only when the tremor subsided did he light his cigarette.

Jonny's reflection shone on the inner curve of the windshield, the long hard lines of his face lit by the dim-green dashboard lights and the cigarette lighter's red coil. He was pleased with how little exultation or fear he saw on his face.

This wasn't like Beirut or Bosnia or Syria or Guatemala or any of the other dirty little hellholes he'd fought in. There'd been others with him then--men he'd thought of as his brothers--ready to call down the high-tech wrath of the Stealth bombers and their precision munitions, or to pull on their balaclavas and take up their weapons to come to his aid.

Or to avenge him if he fell.

But he'd fallen alone this time, and there was to be no help for him.

The chemicals of fatigue and stress flowed through him like drugs and, for a moment, the reflection of his face blurred before hiseyes. He skinned his lips back in a fierce grimace and exhaled sharply, twice, through his nostrils to clear his head. He needed a break.

Up ahead, where the road seemed to rise into the night sky, a brightly lit roadside rest stop gleamed between the highway and the dark cornfields. Jonny turned the Cavalier into the parking area and idled slowly forward while he looked the rest stop over. On the far side of the concrete shelter over the rest rooms and vending machines was a parking area for the big interstate trucks. Three semitrailers, their lights off, were parked there. On the passenger car side of the stop there were only two cars besides Jonny's. Parked well away from the lights was a beat up Camry, a man slouched in the tipped-back seat, his head lolling against the window in the abandon of deep sleep. In front of the rest rooms was a black Toyota 4Runner. The driver, smoking a cigarette, sat on the hood and stared up at the night sky.

Jonny pulled in next to the 4Runner and shut off his engine. Jonny got out, stretched, and nodded to the other driver.

He was a college kid, early twenties, blade thin in black Levi's and a black T-shirt, with a scraggly goatee that barely concealed his weak chin. He nodded back to Jonny and said, "Look at this sky, will you? It's beautiful out here."

Jonny regarded him in silence for a moment, long enough to make the boy shift and pluck at the knee of his pants, then looked up at the stars.

"That it is," Jonny said.

He went into the rest room and urinated for a long time. He lingered over the sink and thoroughly washed his hands. When he came back out, the college kid was still there, staring up at the sky. The parking lot was still except for the steady click of cicadas. The boy looked at him and nodded again, avoiding Jonny's steady gaze.

Jonny moved close and pointed at the 4Runner's license plates. "You from Minnesota?"

"I go to school there, St. Thomas. In St. Paul."

"I know the area. Nice place. You grow up around there?"

"No, my family's in Cedar Rapids."

"Didn't want to go to the U of I in Iowa City?"

The boy rushed to laugh. "No. Too close to home."

"Yeah, I remember thinking the same thing."

"You go to U of I?"

"No." Jonny smiled and looked around the parking lot. The Camry driver was still lolled back asleep in his seat, the car halfobscured by shadows. There was no sound or movement from the trucker's side of the rest stop. "I went to UCLA."

"How'd you like Los Angeles?"

"Never been."

"I thought you said ..."

"It was the Tegucigalpa campus of UCLA. In Honduras. You know what that means, UCLA? Unilaterally Controlled Latin Assets."

Jonny interrupted the boy's puzzled look when he pointed at the 4Runner's side panel. "Somebody really keyed your door here. Messed your paint job all up."

"What?" The boy slid off the hood and stepped between the two cars. "Where?"

Jonny pointed low on the rear passenger door. "Right there."

"I don't see anything ..."

When the boy bent low to examine the side panel, Jonny clamped the boy's head, one hand over his mouth and the other at the back of his head. He snapped the boy's head back and then sharply over, twisting the struggling student around faceup. The boy's legs buckled and the whole weight of his body centered at the base of his neck when Jonny levered the thin neck into the crook of his arm. Jonny jerked sharply upward, once, and heard the dull wet pop of the neck breaking. He turned the limp head and extended it twice to ensure the neck was broken and the spinal cord hyperextended. The boy flopped, twitched, and was done. The black jeans darkened with urine as the bladder let go. Jonny eased the body down between the two cars. He looked over the roof of the 4Runner and slowly scanned the rest stop. The sleeping man in the Camry still slept. There was no one out on the trucker's side and no one in the rest rooms.

He opened the 4Runner's rear door and wedged the limp body into the backseat. There was a faded green cotton sleeping bag wadded on the floor, and he pulled it over the body up to the neck, as though the boy were sleeping. Jonny pursed his lips, then reached out and palmed shut the boy's eyes. Then he got into the driver's seat, turned the keys hanging in the ignition, and drove slowly out of the rest stop.

Copyright © 2001 by Marcus Wynne