The TF-77 Trilogy Read online

  The TF-77 Trilogy

  Books 1-3

  Chase Austin

  Contents

  YOUR FREE BOOK

  Force Recruit

  ABOUT FORCE RECRUIT

  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

  Deadly Force

  ABOUT DEADLY FORCE

  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

  Singular Force

  ABOUT SINGULAR FORCE

  SINGULAR FORCE

  WICKED DECEIT - CHAPTER 1

  WICKED DECEIT - CHAPTER 2

  YOUR FREE BOOK

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  YOUR FREE BOOK

  Do not forget to download your FREE COPY of WICKED STORM.

  Click the link - www.thechaseaustin.com

  Force Recruit

  Task Force Thriller #1

  ABOUT FORCE RECRUIT

  From the Author of the breakthrough Sam Wick Rapid Thriller Series, a breathtaking, page-turning novel about a disgraced female detective’s fight for redemption. And survival…

  Karen Jones was a promising young police detective when she got embroiled in a controversial trial for the murder of a homicide suspect. Traumatized, betrayed, and publicly vilified, Karen could only watch as her career rapidly descended towards its premature end. Her boss--a decorated officer--offered his help to get her out of this mess but it came with a huge cost.

  Karen wanted to be in the force to make a difference but now she had to decide between selling her soul or pursuing this dream she had woven together with her father. The clock is ticking and Karen had to choose her options very fast.

  CHAPTER 1

  New Jersey, USA

  The smell of burlap overwhelmed Karen. She attempted to untangle herself, but the nylon rope was stiff around her body, keeping her fastened to the wooden chair. As her senses gradually returned to normal, she began to feel every bone in her body aching. She didn’t know if her eyes were open or not; the darkness in the burlap was frightening. She had no idea where she was, why she was there and how she got there?

  Her situation seemed hopeless, but suddenly her survival instincts began to kick in to keep her from sinking. She felt an unknown anger swelling within her; anger about everything that had happened to her in the last few weeks. How she had been used and abused by the powerful and everything that had taken her towards destruction. Everyone has a breaking point, and this was probably hers. She felt her ears getting warmer, her teeth clenching, her nostrils flaring, her fists tightening. In that moment of heat, she made a decision—she would not succumb to this. She will not die here. Not before finding out who did this to her, and for that she had to conserve her energy. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, but the stench of the sack made her dizzy again.

  She tried to remember the last place she had been before being here.

  And then she recollected. She recalled the dark corridors of the Pelican motel. She remembered strutting away from the building in a hurry.

  What time did that happen? She remembered checking her cell phone—it had been somewhere around midnight. The whole department was busy celebrating pre-Christmas Eve at Gilly’s—one of the best barbeque bars of the locality—but she wasn’t there. She was in Pelican—a shady motel—doing something that she shouldn’t be doing. And when she had just managed to get out of there, she had woken up here. What had really happened?

  She was awake but remained frozen in the same posture. She didn’t know who was watching her and what they would do if they saw her coming back to senses. She had to figure out things before doing anything else.

  Gradually, she started to connect the dots. The haze started to thin. The first thing that became clear to her was that the people behind this either didn’t know who she was or didn’t care about what she did for a living. Kidnapping a detective wasn’t a joke. The chances were high that the people behind her abduction knew of her identity.

  So the question was why—why had they still done it?

  Abducting her made no sense. She didn’t fit the profile. She wasn’t loaded. Suspended from work, she wasn’t a threat to anyone except, maybe, herself. She was a nobody and what she had done before being kidnaped had the upshots of her being staying a nobody all her life. There weren’t many loose threads to connect but still she racked her brain. So much so that she forgot that she was still tied to a chair and should be panicking.

  She knew no one was coming to save her. Even if it wasn’t for the party, they weren’t going to come looking for her. She was suspended from the department because of the ongoing court case and had not spoken to anyone since she visited the station last, a few weeks ago.

  She knew that they considered her a black mark on the department’s ledger, especially for her court case. She had heard this quite a few times behind her back and, occasionally, to her face. It was, in a way, better that the kidnappers would kill her on realizing no one would look for her. It was a strange situation; the kidnappers must know about the court case. It was the headline of every city newspaper from the day it started. And if they knew about that, then they couldn’t have missed the fact that she was under suspension. Did they mistake her for someone else? Perhaps, but now what? Would they kill her or give her a safe passage out?

  She didn’t know how much time she had spent since waking up, but she didn’t care about things not in her control. All she could do now was think about her options and she kept at it, despite most scenarios ending nowhere. Deep down, she wanted her humiliation to end. She was just twenty-six, yet in a strange way the fact that someone considered her worth killing was oddly comforting.

  As her mind started to calm, her ears picked up music coming from an obviously shitty radio. Taylor Swift’s “Starlight” was playing. Hearing the lyrics, something inside her stirred, and she squirmed with pain and guilt. Outwardly, though, she remained frozen. A plethora of contradictory emotions rose and ebbed within her in a very short span of time. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. She wanted to yell, but couldn’t. She shut her eyes tight and then, as if from the depths of despair, her father’s words rose to overpower her vacillation. “You are my star and you will always be.” His voice echoed in her ears.

  Though sweating and dehydrated, her thoughts now started to move towards hope, calm as the morning sun. Her eyes had started to burn, but something inside her was solidifying. She would not be a victim. She would not bow down. She would fight until her last breath.

  But she had to wait for the right time. She had already tested the ropes around her. They were tied in a way that the more you struggled, the more they clawed into your skin. It was best to save her strength. She would need it; she would need her focus. What awaited her on the other side of the sack was unknown. The best thin
g she could do was to be ready. Her head kept lolling as if in sleep, her chin touching the upper part of her chest. Her body was fluid, like a napping cat, but her mind was alert.

  CHAPTER 2

  One month ago | U.S. District Court, New Jersey

  The place was filled with the peculiar mix of the dominant and the fringe of the city: judges, lawyers, business executives, and law enforcement personnel, together with the mentally ill, the homeless, felons and ex-felons, paralegals and illegals. Christmas was approaching and holiday decorations could be seen on the lamp-posts outside and decking nearby buildings. In front of the federal building stood a 15-foot tall Christmas tree, its better days far behind it.

  On the steps of the district court plaza, two cameramen were setting up their tripods, video cameras and a microphone tree. No cameras were allowed in the federal court. Detective Karen Jones, in her mid-twenties, tough and wounded, stood by the statue of the blindfolded Lady Justice, smoking.

  Her eyes tracked an attractive blonde as she hurried up the steps and through the heavy glass doors. She shot the cigarette butt into a trashcan and followed her in.

  CHAPTER 3

  In the courtroom, Karen sat at one of the tables next to Assistant City Attorney Roger Wilson. The blonde she had followed into the courthouse sat at the other table: Pamela Rodriguez, mid-thirties, killer eyes, killer legs, and exceptionally good at what she did. Next to her was Luis Sanchez and his wife.

  A full jury was seated in the box. In the public gallery, several reporters, including newspapers like the New York Times and a sketch artist were poised to capture the personalities of the case. Judge Benjamin Anderson, fifties, northern and courtly, entered from the chambers and took the bench.

  “All rise. The United States District Court for the District of New Jersey, Judge Benjamin Anderson presiding, is now in session. All persons having business before the court draw near and you shall be heard. Be seated.” The bailiff shouted.

  Everyone settled, including the judge.

  Anderson began, “In the matter of Sanchez versus Jones, are we ready for opening statements?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, the plaintiffs are ready to proceed.” Ms. Rodriguez rose and then sat down.

  Wilson rose, all 300 pounds of him. “Your Honor, the defense is ready.” The judge looked at detective Karen Jones, sitting beside Wilson—her defence attorney.

  “Very well then,” Anderson said. He turned his attention to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being on time this morning. We will begin our trial today with opening statements from the attorneys for both sides. These statements are not to be construed as anything like actual evidence. The attorneys, being attorneys, may make some lofty allegations, but just because they say it, doesn’t make it true.”

  Polite smiles and chuckles from the jury vibrated through the room.

  Anderson continued, “It will be up to you to decide if what the lawyers allege in these statements is, in fact, proven during this trial. The plaintiffs always go first. Ms. Rodriguez, you have the floor.” He ended with a glance at Luis Sanchez and his wife.

  Rodriguez stood and moved to a lectern that stood off the corner of the jury box. She smiled and began making eye contact with each of the jurors in turn. “The judge is right when he tells you that the statement I’m about to make is only a blueprint, a road map, if you will, of the case I will present on behalf of my clients, Luis Sanchez and his wife, Elena Sanchez. I would like to take you down that road a piece…” She shot a quick glance in Anderson’s direction, to see if that bit of folksy landed. Karen glanced at Wilson, who rolled his eyes at Rodriguez’s homespun approach.

  “This is not a criminal case. You may believe that what happened to my clients’ son was criminal but, in this courtroom, we are trying a civil matter. It involves the fatal shooting of a man named Alejandro Sanchez, a loving son and an upright citizen.” She glanced at Luis and Elena, sitting tearfully at the plaintiff’s table, “Most of all, this case is about a police officer who wasn’t satisfied with her job and the vast powers that come with it. She also wanted your job, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. And Judge Anderson’s job. In fact, she wanted the state of New Jersey’s job, the job of administering verdicts and sentences, and especially, carrying out executions. She wanted it all. This case is about that officer, Detective Karen Jones, sitting at the defendant’s table.” As she turned to look at her, all eyes traveled to Karen.

  Rodriguez looked at each juror and then politely thanked everyone before going back to her seat. Karen tracked Rodriguez back to her table and caught the wife, Elena, staring daggers at her. Unnerved, she turned away like a guilty person.

  “We will take a brief recess before we hear from Mr. Wilson,” Anderson said.

  “All rise.” The bailiff spoke again. As Anderson stood, everyone else followed.

  Outside the courthouse, a homeless man was rooting in the ash-can for left-over butts, mumbling to himself, as Karen smoked by the statue, watching the TV reporters tape a standup report on Rodriguez’s opening. Her words drifted across the plaza.

  “... The wrongful death civil suit of the homicide detective Karen Jones opened today in federal court in New Jersey. Detective Jones is being sued by the family of Alejandro Sanchez, a man detective Jones believed to be a runway criminal wanted in five cases. The family contends that Alejandro was not the wanted man, and that he was unarmed the night detective Jones shot and killed him. Although detective Jones was cleared by the NJPD, questions remain about exactly what happened that night...”

  “Christ’s sake,” Karen muttered under her breath. She looked over as the homeless man abruptly stopped mumbling, looked up at someone approaching and dashed away. Karen turned; it was Rodriguez, lighting a smoke of her own.

  “You scared him off,” Karen said.

  “He knows me. He used to be a lawyer. He’s embarrassed for me to see him like he is now.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Long story. Ask Wilson. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

  “You hate Wilson?” Karen asked.

  “What’s there to like? Wilson works for the city; He doesn’t have to know how to win. He just has to know how to settle. At least I know what it’s like to win. Speaking of which, can I ask you something—just you and me here?” Rodriguez looked at Karen for the first time since she was standing with her. Karen nodded. “Why didn’t the city settle this case? It could’ve all gone away for a couple hundred grand. They do it every week.”

  “I wouldn’t let them. I told them I’d go out and get my own lawyer if they tried to settle.” Karen looked over to the TV reporter, who was interviewing a nameless citizen. “And raise a shit storm with the media.” she added.

  “That jury gets two weeks of watching the couple crying their eyes out every day. They’ll make that two hundred grand a drop in the bucket.” Rodriguez paused, but Karen only shrugged. “You do know that if they award punitive damages, the city doesn’t cover you, right? That comes out of your pocket. You have that kind of money squirreled away, detective? You crooked and brutal?”

  Karen took a long drag, exhaled, and looked right at her. “Your client’s son was a rapist and a murderer.”

  “Not proved.”

  “They had to know, but they looked the other way. Turned a blind eye.”

  “I’d like to see you prove that, too. I’d like to see you prove anything. Other than the one incontestable fact of this case—that you killed Alejandro Sanchez.”

  “And I’d do it again.”

  “I know you would, detective. I know you would. That’s why we’re here. To stop you from doing it again to someone else. I’m on. Stick around. You might learn something.” Rodriguez stubbed out her cigarette before heading towards the cameras. Karen watched her go.

  Wilson’s opening was underway. “... the law gives a police officer the right to use deadly force if he believes he is in danger.”

  In the Courtroom Artist’s sketch of Wilson a
t the lectern, he showed him as a fat belly up man. Karen was sitting at the defence table, staring straight ahead, unable to look at her lawyer, who she and everyone else knew was a second-tier talent, compared to Rodriguez. “Which is what Detective Karen Jones believed. That her life was in danger. A dark rainy night, an ill-lit street, a crime-ridden neighborhood, a dedicated detective in hot pursuit of a serial killer.” Wilson continued.