Unknown Operative: A Carrie Chronicles Spy Thriller: Carrie Chronicles, #4

​Thank you

for purchasing this novel

from the best-selling Carrie Chronicles Series.

Sign up for

Ethan’s New Release

Announcements

and never miss a book!

The Story

They’ve crossed the line…

Carrie O’Connor, elite CIS operative, while rescuing two hostages in the Central African Republic, suffers the loss of a loyal local ally. Carrie understands the severity of the situation only later, when she discovers his daughter is kidnapped, along with a group of young school children.

They’ve gone too far…

Carrie and her partner anxiously take on an even deadlier mission: rescue the children before it’s too late. As Carrie suspects the terrorists have the backing of a corrupt, high-ranking politician who will stop at nothing to hold on to power, she fears the worst.

They’ll have to pay…

Can Carrie change her strategy at the eleventh hour to ensure no child is lost and outplay the terrorists so that they get what they deserve?

​UNKNOWN OPERATIVE

THE CARRIE CHRONICLES -

BOOK FOUR

ETHAN JONES

​To God and my wife.

Thank you for your wonderful love.

​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

Epilogue

Bonus - Taken Short Story

Bonus - Foreign Interference Chapter One

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Chapter One

Bangui City Center

Central African Republic

The tough-looking street vendor lifted his AK rifle and pointed the muzzle at Carrie O’Connor. She was standing across from his makeshift, rickety table, running her hands over a flowery dress. She had picked it out from several dozen laid over the table and on a blanket on the dusty, rust-colored, and pot-holed sidewalk. The weapon was in her peripheral vision, and she didn’t even flinch. She was used to men pointing all kinds of weapons at her in this lawless, thug- and terrorist-infested country. Weapons were like accessories here, in the same way that most Westerners carried a cellphone.

Who are you? What you do here? the young man asked in broken English, his voice menacing.

My name isn’t important. I just want to buy a dress. What’s with the gun? she replied in a calm tone.

Carrie, a Canadian Intelligence Service operative, was in the country for a snatch-and-grab operation. She was trained to steel her nerves when looking down the business end of a gun. Besides, one of her team members had her back. The vendor was oblivious to the sniper rifle aimed at his head. At the first sign of real danger to Carrie’s life, the sniper would take the deadly shot.

I don’t like you. I don’t like whiteys. He moved the rifle closer to Carrie’s chest.

Well, I don’t like you either, Carrie thought.

Her pale skin was tanned, but her freckled face and auburn hair were clear giveaways that she wasn’t from the Central African Republic or one of its neighboring countries. The country had been in turmoil for the last two decades. The only foreigners in the country were journalists, aid workers for a host of UN agencies, businessmen, or covert operatives like her.

Carrie turned slightly to an older man sitting in a plastic chair, but kept looking at the rifle. He didn’t look at the young man, but shouted something in Sango, the Creole-based language spoken in the country.

Carrie didn’t understand the words, but the gruff tone and the dismissive hand gesture were unmistakable. The young man frowned and lowered the rifle. His hands were trembling slightly, and he hadn’t even flicked off the safety lever. At that moment, he was nothing more than a nuisance. How much for this? She folded the dress and showed it to the old man, who had a full head of gray hair.

The price is there. He pointed lazily with his pudgy hand at a number scribbled on a piece of cardboard thrown over the pile of clothes. Then he took a puff of the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

The price of seven thousand CFA francs, the local currency, was at the steep end—almost twelve US dollars—but Carrie wasn’t about to haggle. She had seen enough. There were no entrances to the building behind the vendor’s table or along that side of the wall. The windows were barred, and an exit would be impossible, unless they punched a hole using a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. That’s one option.

She reached for her wallet in one of the pockets of her jeans and handed the young man a few banknotes. He hesitated for a moment, then lowered his rifle, placing it atop the dresses. He took the money and began to count it, leaving the gun unattended.

Carrie grinned. She could easily grab the rifle, switch off the safety, and plant a bullet in each man’s head. They’d be dead before they hit the ground. Instead, she drew a deep breath of the hot, muggy, dusty air. She almost choked on the fine dust particles, but didn’t cough while she looked at the young man.

He said something in a quiet tone to the old man and nodded at him before passing over the money. The man recounted it while Carrie looked over their shoulders. Her mission was reconnaissance, gathering as much intelligence as she could before they started the operation.

We good, the old man said as he placed the money in the front pocket of his brown, sweat-stained shirt.

"Merci beaucoup," Carrie said. Thank you very much, French being the country’s other official language.

She folded her dress over her left arm and rearranged the fold of her brown headscarf.

That was a close call, a voice rang into her earbud.

It was Nathan Smyth, her CIS partner for this operation, who lay behind his C14 Timberwolf sniper rifle.

Carrie turned her head and spoke softly into her throat mike. Not really. The boy wanted to show off in front of his master.

The dress will look good on you, Nathan said.

Yes, she will look like a princess, said Thierry, their local contact. He was sitting behind the wheel of a white Nissan truck, carefully following Carrie’s movements.

Maybe you guys should try it on first…

The reason she wore a headscarf was not only to protect her head and face from the blistering sun, but also to hide her communications gear.

I said nothing, said Vitaliy, the Russian member of the team.

He was standing in front of the bank, Crédit Populaire de Centrafrique, following Carrie’s movements at street level, ready to intervene if things got hairy. But I think Nathan would look gorgeous in it.

Nathan laughed. No way, man. No way.

I’m walking to the end of the market, then I’ll cross through the square and meet you at the Western Union.

Copy that, said Thierry.

She dabbed her sweaty forehead with the fold of her headscarf and walked past the other vendors, making her way along Avenue de l’Independance and toward Place de la République. She avoided making eye contact with anyone, always looking over their shoulders. The target house was two blocks away in the other direction, on Rue de Navarre. But Carrie was observing the area, looking for gunmen, in particular any police or army presence, as well as the lay of the land, in case the team’s original exit strategy failed.

The street began to curve around the large square and the roundabout. The trash-littered roads held few people since it was almost noon, and the sun, a fiery disk high overhead, was scorching. Those who were out and about carried their shopping in plastic bags or large sacks balanced precariously on their heads. Carrie had seen only a dozen or so vehicles during her ten minutes of reconnaissance, mostly old Japanese or European sedans or vans.

She cut through the square and looked over at Thierry’s truck. He was just turning around in front of the yellow-painted Western Union money transfer store. Carrie climbed into the front seat, and Thierry drove toward the north.

So, he said to Carrie. What did you find?

No army, no police. The occasional gunman at the market; wannabe gangsters. But at least ten gunmen have surrounded the house.

And we can expect another four or five inside, Vit said.

According to the plan, he would have started to return to their rendezvous, the back alley behind the pharmacy, two blocks east of the target house. Nathan would have disassembled his sniper rifle and made his way to the rendezvous as well.

So we stick to the original plan, Carrie said. Since we can’t sneak in, we’ll have to make an entrance. Vit will be our eyes and get us the hostages’ location. Nathan will cover our backs, while Thierry and I, and the rest of the team, clean up the place. Is that clear?

Thierry nodded. Like good old times.

Carrie returned the nod. She had worked with him in the country as well as in the neighboring Democratic Republic of Congo across the Ubangi River, less than a kilometer to the south. He was more than a driver who knew his way around the city; he spoke the country’s languages and could blend in easily. Thierry was also a combat-hardened operative, like all the other men in her team. Yeah, like good old times, she said. Well, almost, she added with a sigh.

It was the first time Carrie and her team had worked with Vitaliy Vit Kvasov and the other two operatives of the GRU, Russia’s military intelligence agency, who were observing the target house. But they all came highly recommended, and, considering that one of the hostages was a GRU operative, it made sense for them to be a part of the team. Moreover, the Russians’ intelligence had led to the hostages’ location, and a second GRU team had inserted the rescue team inside Bangui, the country’s capital, the night before. The second team waited just across the river, ready to whisk the rescue team and the freed hostages out of the country.

As if he had sensed the concern in Carrie’s wary voice, Vit said, It will all go well. We’ll save both of them.

Nathan said, They’re going home today.

The second hostage was a female Canadian journalist, who was in the Central African Republic to cover its endless civil war. Along with her boyfriend, the journalist had been abducted just outside the city six days ago. Their driver and interpreter had been released, but the kidnappers—who happened to be part of an offshoot of the Islamic State West Africa Province, or ISWAP, composed of fighters who had come to the Central African Republic after being ousted from Syria and Iraq—had demanded a million dollars each for the journalist and her boyfriend, the GRU operative.

Carrie said, I know. Not worried about that. I just don’t like the odds.

I’ve fought in worse situations, Vit said.

So have I, Carrie said. And Nathan, and Thierry. But there’s no other option.

The Russians had initially suggested a larger rescue team, but Carrie and her superiors had expressed concern over using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. Past experiences showed that the Russians dealt with hostage situations unconventionally, to say the least. There was fear among the Canadian officials that the journalist might be caught in the crossfire when the Russian teams stormed the target house. Thus, Carrie’s participation in the operation, especially because of her agency’s relationship with Thierry and other local assets. Reluctantly, the Russians had agreed to the team’s configuration.

No way we’re paying these butchers, Vit spat out the words as if they burned his mouth. They’ll get inspired and grab more people. Use the money to buy more weapons, recruit more brainwashed kids.

Carrie nodded. She shared Vit’s sentiment, although she would have preferred they had, at least, started negotiations for the hostages’ release. It would have bought them some time, and the kidnappers might have dropped their guard, knowing the money was forthcoming. But the Russians had categorically refused to pay any ransom. They considered it a slap in the face of all the operatives who had given their lives fighting ISWAP terrorists and their jihadist supporters in Syria and elsewhere across the world.

The Russians’ approach was different, extremely radical.

They targeted the families of the hostage-takers.

The long-used strategy had been hugely successful in Chechnya, where family members of terrorists or suspected terrorists were routinely targeted, killed, or severely beaten. In the Bangui case, the GRU station in the Democratic Republic of Congo had identified one of the hostage-takers and had kidnapped his wife in retaliation. While the hostage-taker was a low-level jihadist, he had been able to provide the location where the couple were being held. Moreover, he would facilitate the rescue team’s entry in exchange for his wife’s life.

​Thierry swerved to the left as a chicken decided to cross onto the other side. He honked, and the bird tried to fly over the truck. It barely cleared the hood, leaving a few feathers floating in the air. Why did the chicken cross the road? Thierry asked with a grin.

Carrie rolled her eyes, but decided to play along. Why?

To get us supper…

Carrie smiled and turned her head to look at a little boy running behind the chicken, which had obviously escaped from one of the market stalls. She smiled as the chicken successfully dodged a couple of men who tried to box it in. She’s quite agile…

Not for long, Thierry said.

Carrie shrugged as he made another turn, this time to the right. Are you ready? She shifted in her seat.

Thierry looked at her, then his eyes went to a picture of a young girl he had stuck onto the dashboard, near the radio buttons. I’m not doing this for you or the money, he said in a low, somber voice. "I’m doing this for her."

Carrie nodded. She glanced at the girl, who looked just like Thierry. She had joyful, innocent eyes and a bright, beautiful smile.

Thierry said, I want her to grow up in a normal country, not in the worst country in the world, the poorest, the most afflicted, the most ravaged… I want her not to fear being attacked, robbed, or kidnapped in broad daylight. We’re so rich in gold, diamonds, and uranium, yet the poorest country in Africa. Why? Because of greedy, blood-sucking politicians…

How old is she now? Carrie tipped her head toward the photo.

Thierry smiled. He touched the photo with his long, bony fingers. My Yvette turns seven next week. She’s the love of my life. His voice trembled.

I can tell. Your eyes light up.

After her mom’s passing, she’s the only thing that keeps me alive. If something happened to her…

Nothing will happen to her or you, Thierry. Who looks after her while you’re gone?

My mom. She’s taught her to knit and bake. But Yvette loves painting. She drew a picture of me in school the other day.

He picked up his phone from the center console and showed it to Carrie. Thierry had set his portrait as the phone’s wallpaper. Looks pretty good, Carrie said, genuinely impressed. Your nose is perhaps a bit too long.

Thierry smiled and showed Carrie his crooked yellow teeth. He ran his hand over his nose, then scratched the left side of his goatee. I do have a Pinocchio nose.

Very true, Nathan said and laughed.

Thierry laughed too, but the look of concern lingered in his eyes.

Look, Carrie said. You’re a great operative. Nothing will happen to you. But, on the slim chance that it does, I promise you that I’ll take good care of your girl.

You’d do that for me?

Of course I would. You’re a good friend.

Thierry smiled. Thanks, Carrie. He drew a deep breath. I hope it doesn’t come to that.

It won’t, Nathan said.

Carrie looked through the windshield at the pharmacy coming up on their right. Thierry slowed down as he came to a gigantic pothole, large enough to break an axle. He dodged a two-foot-high pile of garbage as he made the tight turn and entered the back alley.

A grayish van came into view, then a broad-shouldered man wearing khaki pants and a beige jacket appeared from behind the back of the van. He was Savva, one of the GRU operatives. He nodded at Thierry and gestured to the left, so he could park there.

Thierry shrugged and nodded. It was the only available spot if both the van and the truck were to leave after the hostages were released.

Carrie stepped out and looked around. What’s new? she asked Savva.

Nothing. All quiet, he replied in English with a heavy accent. No movement on this side. Dima is covering the back. He reported one of the guards took off and wasn’t replaced.

So there are at least fourteen of them.

And six of us. Not bad.

Carrie nodded.

Footsteps came from behind her, and she turned around to see Vit followed by Nathan. You guys ready? Carrie asked them.

Yes, Nathan said.

As ready as ever, Vit replied.

Good. Let’s do this.

Good luck to all, Nathan said and ran to his left. He was going to secure a position on the rooftop of a building across from the target house.

Carrie opened the van’s rear doors and reached for her bulletproof vest. She put it on over her beige t-shirt, then strapped on a chest rig with extra ammunition for her AK-15, which chambered the 7.62x39mm round and came with a sound suppressor. In her leg holster, she secured her trusted Sig Sauer P229