Extracted Asset: Jack Storm Spy Thriller Series, #3

​Thank you

for purchasing this novel

from the best-selling Jack Storm Series.

Sign up for

Ethan’s New Release

Announcements

and never miss a book!

The Story

The Storm they weren’t expecting…

Elite extractor Jack Storm is pulled into a sinister new operation in hopes that it will lead him to key information as to what happened to his missing family…

Information he would do anything for…

Jack’s operation is to find and retrieve a missing Saudi princess whose secret escape has greatly embarrassed her royal family.

A secret they will do anything to hide…

As Jack is thrust into a world of betrayal and deception, he searches the Caribbean for the princess and soon realizes he’s not the only one. Cold-blooded assassins are closing in. But they have no idea what’s raging towards them. Knowing the retrieval is now a rescue, how can Jack desperate for his own answers, save the princess with no place to run?

​EXTRACTED ASSET

JACK STORM SERIES

BOOK THREE

ETHAN JONES

​To God who gives all good things.

Our help is in the name of the Lord, Who made heaven and earth.

Psalm 124:8

To my readers and my behind the scenes team.

Thank you for being part of my good things.

​Table of Contents

Front Page

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Bonus - Short Story Uncatchable

Bonus - Chapter One Unextracted - Jack Storm

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Chapter One

Dockyard Drive

Saint Paul Parish, Antigua

Jack Storm drove his Kia rental through the potholed, narrow road, wondering about the men following him in the black, brand-new Nissan. It was late morning, and he felt cramped in the small vehicle. His head almost touched the cabin’s ceiling even though he was only five feet ten. He looked in the rearview mirror at the pair behind him. They were dark-skinned like most locals, but they had menacing grins on their scowling faces. Jack had taken a closer look when both vehicles were stopped in traffic at an intersection, about a kilometer back. He had thought about getting out of the car and settling the account right then and there. But he had decided against it. Too many witnesses.

So he was waiting for the right moment as the car bounced over the deep potholes. Jack had been told that the constant rain and humidity chewed up the asphalt. The government could barely keep up with patching the roads. When they did, it was low quality work, like this one. The narrow road was barely sufficient for two vehicles and being on the left side of the road also made for difficult driving. But the road also made it easier to spot if he was being followed.

Jack turned the wheel hard to the left because a truck barreling from the other side was too close for comfort. He didn’t want to damage the mirror or scrape the side of the rental. The left wheel fell into a deep pothole where a large chunk of the road had disappeared. Jack was jolted upright in his seat, bumping his head on the ceiling as he fought with the steering wheel and brought the Kia back onto the road.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, then over his shoulder. The Nissan’s driver was a man in his late thirties or early forties, with a full beard and the first signs of graying hair. The front passenger was a young man maybe in his early twenties, who was clean-shaven.

Jack shrugged. He almost regretted what he was about to do. But he knew he’d have to react. He couldn’t allow them to find out where he was going and who he was meeting. He couldn’t evade them; not on Dockyard Drive, the main traffic artery through this southern part of the island.

Jack had to come up with a different plan.

Now he was looking for the perfect place to execute it.

The Kia drove by Saint Paul’s Anglican Church, a massive building to the left with a small graveyard to the side. Jack looked at it but didn’t think the church grounds were suitable for his planned actions. He looked to the right, but there were people walking by and vehicles parked in front of a couple of small stores.

He had to slam on his brakes as an old man bolted in front of his Kia. The man was disheveled, dressed in shorts and a tattered, dirty muscle shirt, even though he had no muscles but a frail body. He shouted and waved a fist at Jack, then made other hand gestures the agent didn’t understand. He waited until the old man had finished his tirade and slowly drove around him.

The Kia had just picked up speed when the old man stepped in front of the black Nissan. The driver slammed on its brakes, and the front passenger stepped out of the vehicle. He approached the old man and tried to shove him to the side.

The old man pushed the young man back.

Jack thought a fight would break out between the two. The Canadian operative wondered if he should take advantage of this moment and disappear. But this was a somewhat reasonably straight stretch of the road, and he doubted he’d be able to escape the pursuers. Plus, he couldn’t allow an old man, who seemed to be suffering from some mental condition, to be beaten.

Or worse.

So Jack slowed down to observe the exchange.

The young man shoved the old man again. He took a step back, staggered, and fell. He seemed to bump his head against the broken asphalt but was able to sit up. The young man towered over the old man and seemed to be yelling at him. He then appeared to spit at the old man.

Jack frowned and turned the Kia around. They had just crossed the line. They’d have to pay.

He drove into the parking lot of the nearest establishment, Crab Hole Liquors. It seemed to be a supermarket. Jack had noticed the locals used the term loosely to refer to what most North Americans would consider a simple convenience store. In Antigua, as in most of the Caribbean countries, liquor was sold next to the food staples. Maybe it is a staple for some people, Jack thought.

He looked over his shoulder at the Nissan, which was still on the road, but approaching fast. Jack stepped out of the car and was met by the muggy heat. A hard rain that had lasted for about half an hour had stopped just five minutes ago. The air was thick with the smell of fried chicken and smoke, floating from one of the houses to the left. Or maybe they’re cooking something good in there, Jack thought about the supermarket.

He glanced around. A few cars were parked erratically around the supermarket. Four young men, two of them without shirts on, were standing close to the door. One of them was smoking. Two were drinking from beer bottles. The fourth was talking on his cellphone. The back alley was empty.

The back alley it is, Jack thought.

He walked in that direction and stood next to the shopping carts, in plain view. He wanted the two goons to see where he was going. He was trying to draw them to him.

It worked.

The two men parked their car and walked purposefully on the narrow, broken sidewalk.

Jack turned the corner and hurried his pace, putting some distance between himself and the predators. He stepped closer to one of the large metal containers where the supermarket stored water dispenser bottles. The structure next to it was an ice storage unit with doors. There was about three feet of space between them. Jack stepped into that space and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

About ten seconds later, footsteps came from the mouth of the alley. They were followed by voices speaking a language Jack didn’t understand. It wasn’t the local language, Creole. No, the language had a harsher tone to it, like Arabic.

The footsteps drew nearer.

Jack got ready.

As soon as the young man’s head came into view, Jack lunged forward. The young man saw the Canadian’s fist coming at him but couldn’t do anything to dodge it. The fist connected with the right side of the man’s face. The heavy blow caused him to lose balance. He leaned to the left, and Jack kicked him hard in the side. The man collapsed to the ground, landing on his back.

The second, older man with the full beard reached for something inside his gray jacket.

Jack had anticipated that move and was fast on his feet. He ran toward the man and slid his body to the right. He grabbed the outstretched arm holding the pistol and twisted it behind the man’s back. He shoved the man against the ice storage unit. His head banged against the metal door, but he was still in the fight.

The young man was struggling to climb to his feet. Jack looked at him but still had his hands full with the older man. The man tried to fight back, throwing an elbow, which struck Jack in the chest. He groaned in pain but kept his fingers clamped around his opponent’s wrist. Jack kept trying to force the pistol out of the man’s hand, but he wasn’t letting go.

The young man was now almost standing, right behind Jack. He had perhaps two seconds before a pistol was jammed into his back.

Jack needed only one second.

He punched the bearded man in the face—a hard hook that knocked him out cold. Prying the pistol out of the man’s hand, Jack spun around, pistol-whipping the young man. The sharp metal barrel cut across the man’s face. Jack heard a crunching sound and saw blood gushing out of the man’s nose. He collapsed onto the ground and stayed down without moving.

One of the locals must have heard the noises, Jack thought. He had only a few seconds to get rid of the bodies.

He went through the pockets of the bearded man, taking his wallet and the Nissan’s keys. Jack had already taken the man’s pistol—a SIG Sauer P226 9mm. The agent opened the door of the nearest ice storage unit. It was empty. Good. Jack nodded to himself. He picked up the bearded man and dropped him into the large ice container.

The younger man had no ID or cellphone. They’re probably in the Nissan, Jack thought. He retrieved the man’s weapon—identical to the one Jack had taken from the bearded man—and dragged the unconscious body to the next ice storage unit. Then he opened the door. This unit was half full, but there was still sufficient room for the young man’s crumpled body.

Jack had finished stowing him away and closing the door when an elderly woman appeared at the mouth of the alley. She measured him up with a stern glance and asked, What you doing there, boy?

Jack smiled. Nothing, ma’am. Just looking for ice.

Found it okay?

Yes, well, I’m not getting it. Not now, anyway.

The woman studied his face as she drew closer to him, shuffling her feet with difficulty. She seemed to be wondering if he was telling the truth. The woman looked around, noticing the sets of footsteps in the loose gravel. She took a closer look at the blood drops on the ground.

Jack held his breath. He had been able to place the pistols at the small of his back and had covered them with his shirt. There was no evidence implicating him in anything. But if the woman opened one of the ice units, she would scream bloody murder. In order to avoid that, he reached into the nearest freezer and picked up a five-kilogram bag of ice. I changed my mind. I’m getting this, maybe other things from the store. He tipped his head toward the supermarket.

The woman nodded. You got enough ice there?

Jack glanced at the young man’s face in the freezer. He looked like he was in a deep sleep. Yeah, it’s good. Quite full actually.

Does it need to be refilled?

No, not today.

The woman held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded.

Jack breathed easier. Can you help me pay for this?

The woman replied, Sure, sure, boy. Follow me, follow me.

He wasn’t sure if she worked at the supermarket or was one of the nosy neighbors. It didn’t matter. As long as she didn’t look into the ice compartments until he was long gone.

Jack followed the woman into the supermarket. He grabbed a couple of bottles of water and a bunch of bananas—the nearest things to the counter—and paid for everything before hurrying to the Nissan. He used the keys to open it and rummaged through the glove compartment and the console. He found the young man’s cellphone and wallet.

Jack opened it and glanced at the ID card. Considering the lettering, it was, indeed, issued by an Arab country. He flipped it to the other side, expecting it to be Egyptian. Fudail Hudhafah Essa, the man that Jack was hunting in Antigua, was an Egyptian terrorist. Jack suspected the two men worked for Essa, and they too were Egyptians.

The agent was surprised to see the national ID card was issued by the Ministry of Interior of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Jack’s eyes ​widened, and his forehead furrowed. Saudi? Why does he have a Saudi card? Jack riffled through the wallet but found no other IDs.

Jack headed toward his Kia. He glanced once toward the back alley. No movement. Let’s hope they remain out cold for a few more minutes until I’ve disappeared.

He put the pistols discreetly in the glove compartment, started the car, and returned onto Dockyard Drive. Before heading east, he opened the wallet of the bearded man. He had a Saudi ID as well. Jack’s brows snapped together. Who are these people? Why are Saudi thugs chasing me?

Jack made the turn and thought about the new complication. Whoever these Saudis are, they mean business. But I can’t let this distract me. My objective is Essa, and I’m going to get him, dead or alive.

​Chapter Two

Dockyard Drive

Saint Paul Parish, Antigua

Jack continued down Dockyard Drive, past English Harbour, and continued up the hill heading toward Shirley Heights. It was a restored military base and gun battery dating from the eighteenth century that had been converted to a restaurant and bar. The Sunday evening party was world-renowned, and the blasting reggae music played live by local bands could be heard five hundred feet below on the equally famous Galleon Beach.

Jack, of course, wasn’t here for the party or the beach. It was around eleven in the morning on Saturday, and Shirley Heights was Essa’s favorite location to have lunch with his closest associates. According to the intelligence collected by the MI6—the UK’s secret intelligence service—Essa had been seen at Shirley Heights three times over the last week. He was always in the company of at least two bodyguards.

Jack shrugged. Two bodyguards wouldn’t be a problem. He’d have the advantage of surprise, and he had run reconnaissance the previous day. He knew the layout of the entire establishment like the back of his hand. Even without the two SIGs collected from the Saudi gunmen, Jack was packing enough firepower to subdue the bodyguards. A well-placed volley of bullets, and the trio would be dead before they folded over their table.

But Jack wasn’t here to kill Essa, not if he didn’t have to.

​The Canadian wanted answers to his questions. Essa was one of the organizers of the attack against Jack and his family while they were vacationing in Denmark. The attack had forced Jack to send his family away aboard a Cessna. The airplane hadn’t been able to complete its flight to London, United Kingdom but had crashed in the North Sea. The plane’s black box had been recovered, but Jack still didn’t have the results of the investigation.

Jack worked for the Canadian Intelligence Service, or CIS, as an extractor. He was called in when an asset needed to be extracted from a hair-raising situation or an operative needed an exfiltration after a mission had gone sideways. But Jack had come to Antigua to extract answers from Essa about the reasons they had mounted that attack on Jack’s family. It appeared to have been personal and not only because of Jack’s assignments and operations.

He nodded to himself as he took the last few turns. The road was wide and in good shape. It had been paved recently, and the white line dividing the lanes was still bright and easy to see. Okay, Jack thought. Essa is Egyptian, and he’s known to only trust and operate with men from his country or Syria. How do the Saudis fit in this equation? Is he expanding his network of operatives?

He shrugged and slowed down as he came to the fort’s entrance. Several vehicles were parked on both sides but fewer than expected for a supposedly busy Saturday morning. Most of the vehicles were brand new SUVs: black or silver Land Rovers and Audis. He counted four of them and wondered if they were of the same party. Maybe a celebrity or someone important is dining here today?

He noticed two men in gray suits and white shirts standing near the restaurant’s entrance. They were obviously security, but they weren’t dark-skinned like the locals. Their skin tone was closer to that of Arabs. Jack hadn’t seen them yesterday. He wasn’t sure if they worked for the establishment or were a part of the security detail of a rich man or woman dining at Shirley Heights. It didn’t matter. Jack wasn’t going to allow anyone to get in the way of achieving his objective.

He parked on the left side and checked himself in the mirror. Jack threaded a hand through his two-inch-long black hair. I should get a haircut. He scratched the left side of the scruffy beard he hadn’t shaved for over a week. He was trying to grow a full beard, but it was coming slower than he had expected and grayer than he liked. I’m too young for this, he shrugged. I’m turning