Extraction

EXTRACTION ASHLEY ZAKRZEWSKI Copyright © 2023 by ASHLEY ZAKRZEWSKI All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contents 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 About the Author Chapter One Bentley A murky darkness casts an oppressive shadow across the apartment, barely penetrated by a sliver of light sneaking in from the windows. I take an uneasy step into the apartment, clutching my gun tightly in my hand, stepping cautiously inside. My eyes scan the room for any signs of life. The only sound is my own beating heart, but even that seems too loud in this eerie stillness. My eyes roam over the areas where the light touches, focusing on an empty, overturned chair, and a disfigured coffee table, broken and its wood strewn across the floor with slivers of glass glittering like diamonds. A pungent smell of alcohol fills the air, and my eyes drop to find a bottle of red wine in chunks against the carpet, its contents staining the fibers with a deep crimson hue. A picture frame is laying against the wall, one of the shards protruding into the frame, its jagged edge glinting in the light. What happened here? I’ve learned the hard way never to let my guard down and I can still feel the burn of old wounds. No sound or movement comes from within, making me question if anyone is here, or if they are just exceptionally adept at remaining hidden. I go to the first door on my right and find a room with a king-size bed. My knees hit the floor to check under the bed - nothing. The closet still has clothes in it, but it looks like some fell off of hangers. There’s nothing out of place here, apart from the bed being unmade. The drawers are intact, and an expensive jewelry stand has not been disturbed, ruling out robbery as a motive. I remember a lesson from my years of experience - people tend to hide in showers and bathtubs, so I enter the bathroom and pull back the curtain in the shower - still nothing. There is still a hint of perfume in the air, suggesting she hasn’t been gone long. I don’t get paid unless my target is handed over. Where is she? Who else is looking for her? If I don’t find her soon, I won’t be able to attend my sister’s wedding this weekend - she’ll be pissed if I’m not there because it will negate all of our efforts to repair our relationship since my return. I holster my gun and scan the room one more time for any clues that I might have missed during my initial walkthrough. There must be something that can help me locate her quickly; after all, I don’t have time to go on a wild goose chase. My career has always been my priority, but now it’s time to focus on my family. I’ve neglected them for too long while serving my country, and I’m not about to lose the only family I have left. I’m determined to find my target, hand her over, and take myself back to Boston to give my sister away in the absence of my father. I cautiously search the rest of the apartment, my pistol at the ready. I make my way into the kitchen and swing open the pantry door. Empty. Who else has been here? My handler only provided me with an address and a name. The thought he might have hired someone else behind my back crosses my mind. This would be the fourth time this has happened. They call it a team effort, but all it does is slow down the process and leads to a shoddy outcome. I’m not a team player, and I don’t enjoy when people involve themselves in things that don’t concern them. Most know this about me, but this handler in particular continues to ignore my requests, making me increasingly angry. After multiple tours overseas, I decided not to re-up, taking on self-contracting jobs instead. My skills in seeking out criminals and terrorists is well regarded, and going the private route allows me to select the assignments. Plus, the money offered is often two to three times my military salary for just one assignment. My time in the military was cloaked in a veil of secrecy; toxic lies that spread like wildfire and swallowed me whole. It kept me away from home and my family for what felt like an eternity. My sister’s letters kept getting sent back unanswered, stirring up a storm of worry back home. When I finally came home on leave, she bombarded me with questions. What happened to me? Why couldn’t I answer her letters? I could only give her half-truths, fabricated stories about me being disciplined for insubordination and unable to write back. My sister’s eyes held a well of pain that I could feel, even though I couldn’t tell her the real story of why I was away. I had to be careful of the people I was searching for; they would stop at nothing to use my family against me, and she certainly didn’t deserve to get caught up in my mess. She has a family now, a precious daughter and a doting boyfriend who adores them both. They deserve to live their life of love and bliss