Flags Of The Forgotten
Heath Stallcup
Contents
Author’s Note
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
Thank you
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About the Author
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Flags of the Forgotten
©2018 Heath Stallcup
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
Printed in the U.S.A.
ISBN—
Created with Vellum
For all of my gun buddies who cheered me on and especially those that allowed me to use their persona in the story.
I hope it measures up.
Author’s Note
It seems that every time I turn around another new idea pops into my head. A new story possibility. Some are just seeds…or a scene that could possibly be used in any myriad of stories. Some scenes are too cool not to use somewhere. Others are too corny to use, but they amuse me nonetheless.
The idea for this one has been floating around in my noodle for quite some time and since I’ve wanted to jump genres for a while, I did what I always do. I went to my peers and asked for advice. Once Mark and Tracy told me to go for it, I knew I had to at least test the waters.
I bounced the idea off my beloved and she loved it. I bounced the idea off a couple of others in the industry and they love it. My worry is…can I do the genre justice? I suppose we’ll find out.
Here’s hoping you enjoy my first real attempt at a pseudo-political thriller.
Prologue
Istanbul, Turkey
1996
THE WOODEN FRAME of the doorjamb exploded into fragments just above Bobby Bridger’s head. He tucked and rolled from the opening and settled in behind the wall of the second story safe house. He tried to clear his head and listen for the footsteps that he knew were coming.
The shooters were using suppressed weapons, but the spit-hiss of the shots being fired told him they were inside and not shooting through a window. He pulled his own suppressor from the thigh pocket of his pants and screwed it into the barrel of his 10MM pistol. He patted his vest pocket and assured himself that the extra magazines were available.
Bobby screwed up his courage and did a roll across the open doorway. He came up on his feet and pointed the barrel down the empty hallway. Slowly he came up to a standing position and eased his head out, looking for the source of the shot. With his free hand, he pulled the ear piece up from his collar and pushed it into his ear. He clicked the transmit button and whispered softly, “They’ve made the safe house.”
“Get your ass clear, Vulture!” The volume of the speaker was high enough that Bobby winced.
“Copy that. Only one problem.” He glanced out the hallway and shots came from the opposite side, splintering the heavy wooden door opposite him. “They’ve got me pinned down. I can’t make the shooters.”
“Standby Vulture. Cleaners are en route to your location.”
“Tell them not to stop for red lights.” He clicked off the transmitter and squatted back down. More shots splintered wood, sprayed plaster, and he could just make out the sounds of booted feet coming down the stairs from the roof access above him.
He clenched his jaw and reached into the duffle at his feet. He really didn’t want to do what he was about to. His hand wrapped around the smooth cylinder of the CS fog grenade and he lifted it from the bag. He took the ring in his teeth and pulled the pin, still holding the release tight. He counted to himself, let the release spring loose, then flung the canister down the hallway in the direction of the shooters.
He closed his eyes and counted while the hallway filled with gas. When he heard the first dry coughs, he lunged out into the hallway and landed hard on his ribs. The CS gas was concentrated at the end of the hallway but enough had worked its way toward the open door that his eyes immediately began to water. He found his target just as he hit the floor and fired three rounds: two to the chest, and one to the head.
The shooter crumbled and fell back against the wall, his weapon clattering between his outstretched legs. Bobby waited just long enough to ensure that those stuck on the stairs didn’t rush into the fog before he scrambled to his feet and quickly made for the stairs at the other end of the hallway. He checked the stairwell and verified it was clear then slid down the handrail to the landing below.
He checked the lower floor then made his way to the rear of the ancient safe house. He could feel his eyes watering and his cheeks burned, but he knew better than to rub them. He pulled the duffle up and slung it over his shoulder. For a brief moment he considered holing up and using the sodium bisulfite solution to decontaminate his face.
The sounds of excited men scrambling through the house negated any thoughts of stopping. He knew that they had to be professionals if they took the time to make a roof entry and use suppressors. They also had to have some kind of inside information to have found the safe house
