Black Venom

By Dawson Howard

Wade Ross, raised as an aboriginal in the deserts of Australia, went on to become one of the most dangerous and efficient Special Forces dark cover operatives.
While on a mission to uncover and destroy a suspected gun running/manufacturing syndicate he learns his mother and sister have been murdered by those he is chasing.
Things are now very personal and somebody will pay.
He zigzags through three continents, both by himself and with his team of multi-national ex-Special Forces companions, destroying all he comes in contact with but all the while aware somebody very high up is after him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Jun 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685834180

Book preview

1

Istanbul

It was cold and Wade felt tired. He hunched his shoulders, turned up his collar, tried to shield his face from the lashing wind. The crowd of people were like a tidal wave as they rushed for the warmth of the subway entry. A beggar sat cross legged with his bony hand outstretched, head lowered and his other hand holding a tattered piece of cardboard to shield against the wind. Arms and legs brushed by him. All oblivious to his plight. Wade stood beside the forgotten man, about to rifle through his backpack looking for some change, when over the cacophony of noise and voices he heard the distinctive sound of muffled automatic gunfire, coming from deep within the bowels of the train station. The late afternoon Turkish commuters, incognisant to the noise from below, watched in amazement as he leapt the turnstile and charged down the hundred year old, worn, smooth stone stairs; taking three or four at a time.

The doors of the second level platform train were closing as he turned for the next downward spiralling staircase. An express train rumbled past on the opposite line. People closed their jackets tighter and increased the grip on their belongings trying to resist the force of air being sucked along behind the carriages. But still no one seemed to have noticed the sound of weapons only one floor below. Wade didn’t hesitate to try and understand why. Grabbing the handrail, to speed his forward momentum, he immediately pivoted to his left to avoid the two blood splattered women who were carrying an old man, head dropped forward, gunshot to the shoulder. Not slowing, Wade glanced backwards, and immediately realised the shooters were using Hollow Point rounds. The man’s shoulder was indistinguishable. His shoulder blade and half his back blown away, obviously dead. People started screaming. Pandemonium erupted.

Arriving at the third level platform he saw the carnage. Victims, like scattered tenpins, all shot from behind, trying to flee the onslaught. Wade dropped his backpack and slid behind a young, blood covered woman lying supine, with all her distinguishable features gone. Beside her a young man shot through the neck. Lifeless as the last vestibules of blood slowly trickled down his chin.

Blood and bone fragments covered the cold, grey, dirty concrete. Odours of gunpowder and human excrement coated the air. The colourful Turkish tiles, that lined the walls and curved ceiling, were shattered and strewn across the ground. Fluorescent lights hung precariously from their wires. Glass encased advertising was riddled with gunshots. It was reminiscent of entering a war zone.

Years of Special Forces military work, and numerous too many conflicts to remember, Wade was accustomed to the blood and gore that goes with shootings and death but that did not stop him from needing to contain the urge to gag.

Moving to a column, he squatted, waited and listened. Muffled voices could be heard from the end carriage, sixty metres away. Sliding like a snake and avoiding broken tiles he used dead bodies as cover and slowly raised his head. Two balaclava hooded men were dragging boxes from the rear carriage, another was watching for any onlookers and a fourth was inside the carriage; all had an M16 assault rifle slung over their shoulder.

The four carriage train had been disabled and sat in darkness. The windows of the closest carriage were littered with bullet holes or shattered, with the walls and ceiling covered in blood. Wade saw more bodies lying limp on the chairs and strewn across the floor. The platform was like a scene from a horror movie, with the only light coming from a single halogen above the gunmen and the slithers that crept down the escalator from the floor above.

Reaching across to the young guy lying on his front, Wade slowly dragged him behind the column. He removed the blood stained jacket, beanie and put them on.

Trains could be heard rumbling throughout the station. Moving from the protection of the concrete column he commenced a drunken stupor act; stumbling across the platform. The shooter on guard noticedhim first and approached. Wade saw the two grenades hanging from his waistband and the thirty centimetre serrated knife at his hip. Using his peripheral vision and keeping up his act he watched as the guard unslung his rifle, intending to use the butt as a club. Wade hung back, head lowered, bent over at the waist; forcing the guard to step into a pool of blood. The guard raised the butt ready to strike. Waiting until the last possible moment Wade reacted, like a cobra strike, and pivoted on his right foot, swung his left leg, and collected the guards open midriff. The force of the kick broke the guard’s ribs. The noise echoed across the platform like a whip cracking. Unable to keep his footing, in the slippery pool of blood, the guard started to fall. Continuing his circular motion Wade grabbed the rifle, with his right hand and with his left gave a sharp but decisive throat punch, shattering the guard’s windpipe.

The attack took less than three seconds and gave him the advantage of surprise, over the other guards, even though the noise had given away his position. The first two dropped the boxes. Unable to even get their rifles unslung; they were executed by a double tap. Special Forces shooting style; one body shot and one head shot. The last guard charged from the carriage as a single shot passed through the side of his head.

Minutes had passed. Wade had been checking for survivors when a nine man Turkish SWAT team, swarmed the platform and had him surrounded. Unable to understand the language he quickly became aware they wanted him on the ground and in the prone position. One SWAT team member had a rifle hard against the back of his head whilst another frisked him. The one searching deliberately taking his time and elbowing Wade, in the ribs, as he progressed. Kicking him as he searched each leg. Finding nothing they zip tied his hands behind his back.

Forced to stay face down on the cold concrete platform, twenty minutes passed when a large policeman, the officer in command, approached and barked commands. Not understanding, Wade lay still which further agitated the police officer. Having endured torture, in his past, he was ready for any response. He flexed his muscles and concentrated hard on not responding or showing any sign of weakness. The size twelve boots connected with his ribs. After six kicks the perpetrator was distracted and moved away, still yelling orders at his men.

Dragged to his feet he was dropped on a platform seat. A SWAT team member kept a rifle to the back of his head. Swallowing he grimaced as he took smaller and smaller breaths aware his ribs had been bruised. Watching the scene before him the body language, yelling, finger pointing and stares he came to realisehe was being blamed for what had happened. Angry and frustrated the police chief returned. Unclipped his pouch and drew out a 9mm Glock. Wade was lifted to his feet. The platform was in complete silence as he pushed the weapon against Wade’s forehead. Continually barking commands and yelling the officer was frothing from the mouth. Spittle was showering Wade’s face. With his hands cuffed behind his back and no other way of responding; he called the officers bluff and stared straight back. This further enraged the police officer. His pistol was shaking as he continued his screams and raised it to strike.

A voice could be heard when suddenly the police chief turned and stepped back. A man of medium height, average build, well groomed and in his mid-forties stepped in front of the officer and ordered him, in Turkish, to holster his weapon. He instructed the SWAT team to lower their weapons and for Wade’s hand restraints to be removed.

I’m CIA Special Agent Joe Plant and I think we need to talk.

Neither man spoke as Plant led Wade to the opposite end of the platform. Large industrial floodlights had the entire platform lit up like a football stadium. Remaining calm and unflinching Wade concentrated on controlling his breathing. He was trying to decide if he trusted this well spoken African American or was there a hidden agenda somewhere. He studied his eyes waiting for the tell tale signs of a liar while also accepting that he had helped him with the police officer.

You’re definitely not Turkish, so I assume you’re a traveller, correct? Waiting for a response and with none forthcoming he continued. Well I’m guessing you’ve had military training by what’s happened here, again waiting for a response and with Wade still showing no reaction. Okay … so if you could tell me who you are, where you’re from and what happened I can then, maybe, help with getting you out of here? asked Plant sitting beside him.

Wade paused. Looked around. He watched the forensic team camera flashes. Body bags being zipped. Ambulance and police officers frantically scribbling notes. He listened and realised how bizarre it was to be in such a large, busy subway but no trains to be heard. He thought of all the families that had now lost a loved one.

My name is Ross …Wade Ross … I’m Australian. I’m on my way to London when I came across this commotion.

‘You are obviously military …correct?

Ex.

Australian Army? Plant asked.

Yes.

What part?

Confused with the question Wade watched as Plant fiddled in his pockets.

Infantry.

Infantry? he questioned. I’m ex American military. Army, 110th Military Intelligence and I can tell from what I’m seeing here that you’re definitely not a regular infantryman. More likely a special forces group or something similar …correct?

Pausing again he looked away. Yeah.

So tell me how it went down? Plant asked as he activated his recorder app on his phone.

Wade proceeded to explain the whole event as if he was back in the forces, no details left out with a clear description of who was where and when and how the take down happened. When he was finished, Plant looked at the scene, looked at Wade and confirmed he agreed with exactly what Wade had described.

I am not sure what I should do now. On one hand you should be given a medal for service to the safety of the Turkish people. On the other hand, you are now going to be hunted for stopping a major supply lane of guns, ammunition and most likely drugs, stated Plant.

Don’t worry I can handle myself.

Of that I have no doubt. It’s the collateral damage I’m most worried about. Anyway, you should come with me.

Thanks but I think I’ll make my own way.

I’m sorry Wade I can’t let you do that.

Why … who are these guys?

Grey Wolves. They’re from an active Turkish terrorist cell. We are still trying to ascertain how many of them there are and who or what is their primary targets and they’re going to be pretty pissed with you …so let’s go.

Wade looked down the platform at the swarms of people. He tried to decide if he really wanted, at this time, to be mixed up with an organisation like the CIA. He had left Australia, and the military, to clear his head and find peace with his life. Hanging around with the CIA would definitely make sure that didn’t happen. Reluctantly he walked back and grabbed his backpack. Turning he noticed one of the attackers had a fighting knife under his jacket. Never one to pass up an opportunity, he bent down, pretending to look into the eyes of his attacker, and slipped the knife under his shirt.

The fire stairs, leading off the end of the platform, stunk of urine and alcohol. Broken beer bottles and syringes covered every step. A well known haunt for street people and drug addicts. They climbed to street level avoiding the crowds and the leach like media. Plant was concerned that Wade, covered in blood, would induce too many questions; with answers that could be misconstrued. Wade listened as Plant, on the phone, ordered a plane to be ready at the Istanbul Ataturk International Airport, private flights area, and a car to be brought around.

They headed through a set of large, steel, fire doors. A dark blue Opel sedan was waiting with the driver anxious to get out of the alley. Wade and Plant leapt in the back seat. The driver floored the accelerator, before the doors had closed, racing out into the Istanbul late afternoon peak hour traffic.

The sixty five minute trip went without any further incident. Wade waited to question Plant but the CIA agent spent the entire trip on his phone discussing details in Turkish. They entered through a customs entry, opposite side of the airport to the main terminal. The guard had not fully opened the gate when automatic gunfire erupted from a landing atop a hanger off to their right. Bullets riddled the passenger side of the car. Glass spewed everywhere as the windows shattered. The driver immediately took evasive action and accelerated behind the first building as he screamed out. Plant leapt from the car firing in the direction of the incoming rounds. The drivers head fell forward; dead, shot through the neck.

Plant yelled, Ross you need to get over to the black Gulfstream … now. I’ll call them … go.

Wade charged toward the nearest gap in the buildings hoping that the jet was somewhere near. He rounded the building, with a stream of bullets ricocheting off the ground behind him. The long dark grey Gulfstream IV corporate jet stood on the runway one hundred metres to his front vibrating as two 13,850 lbf Rolls Royce engines were building to maximum power. A buzz cut, black suited, pistol drawn male was standing in the doorway, frantically gesturing him to hurry.

2

Darwin

Martha loved this time of year. She closed her eyes and thought of her younger days growing up in the Northern Territory, Australia. The springtime sun and the cooling south easterly breezes made everything feel so carefree.

Life had not been easy for an aboriginal girl in an era when white men treated aboriginals with utter contempt and an aboriginal girl even worse. Her drunken father had given her to a white drover, for money, when she was fourteen years old. She endured many years of physical and mental abuse until the drover decided he had enough and dumped her at a watering hole, miles from the nearest town or homestead. She survived in the desert, for three months, until she stumbled across an orphanage mission.

Martha was in her early twenties when she arrived at the mission. The doctor and nurses treated her injuries and nursed her back to health. This became the turning point in Martha’s life because for the first time someone had shown they cared. She stayed, lived and worked in the mission for nine years. During this time, she adopted two young children, an eight year old half cast boy Wundurra, meaning Warrior, and a two year old aboriginal girl Camira, named after her mother, and meaning Of the Wind.

Time passed, she had saved some money and Martha left the mission to resettle in Darwin. She wanted her children to have a proper education and hopefully an opportunity in life. They met other aboriginal families who were very welcoming and helpful. This made the transition to city life a lot easier; except for Wundurra. Being half cast, not fully white and not fully black, life was tough with no friends, constant bullying and fights. Wundurra became very strong both physically and mentally. It also made him shy and withdrawn. He sought solace with learning the aboriginal beliefs of the Dreamtime.

It was through these teachings he learnt to be able to observe and understand. He watched his mother show the highest level of human compassion no matter how difficult or tough her own situation might be.

He would remember times like when he was sitting on the front step and his mother came home after a long day of working with aboriginal children. She was exhausted and struggling with the hardships of life when she noticed an old white man shuffling, barefoot, past their house. She walked out and enquired what was wrong. When she saw his bruised and battered feet, she told him to wait. She went inside, grabbed a pair of Wundurra’s thongs, which she gave to him and wished him good luck. The old man was so grateful, and happy, he kissed her and she smiled.

He spent all his free hours asking the aboriginal elders questions and learning about the Dreamtime. Eventually, the elders took him through an initiation ceremony so that he could enter into manhood. The older he got the more intense the learning and studying became. He was an excellent student because he had a genuine desire to learn. He would ask the elders to explain something and if he was not one hundred percent certain he understood he would ask again. The elders admired his passion to learn and never found him irritating. He completed his schooling and achieved exceptionally high results. Martha was so proud she wanted him to continue with tertiary studies. They discussed the options and decided he would go to Sydney to study psychology and further his passion of abstract art. His mother and sister were sad to see him leave but excited about his future.

In Sydney Wundurra developed his love for Parkour ‘the art of displacement’ or more easily understood as free running street gymnastics and at this time he also discovered the military. Within twelve months he had joined the army.

3

London

Wade opened his eyes as the jet started its descent. He sat there stretching his arms, legs, neck and any other part of his body that was suffering from muscle fatigue. He felt his ribs and knew that the bruising and swelling would need a few days to recuperate. He walked to the bathroom.Upon seeing his reflection he was surprised at how bad he looked. Bloodshot eyes, hair filthy and caked with blood. A large cut to the side of his neck, from a gunshot graze, with dried blood leading down into his shirt. His clothes were no better.

He checked all the cupboards in the bathroom hoping to find some clean clothes or at least something to clean himself with. No luck, the bathroom was as sterile as a hospital theatre and the only item of any use was toilet paper. He wiped as much dirt and blood off as he could. The result was not startling but at least he could walk in public without being arrested.

Heading back to his seat he noticed, for the first time, that the entire cabin was empty. He knocked and entered a bedroom. It was so well presented it looked like a photo shoot was about to happen. A fully stocked galley was the same and the conference room looked like it had never been occupied. He approached the cockpit door. After various attempts to attract attention he returned to his seat.

Dark grey and black clouds flitted past the window. He watched water droplets of rain skim across the glass developing patterns of no particular order. He was thinking he would possibly make his way to western England, namely Hereford, home of the British SAS. Whilst he was sitting contemplating and analysing options, the guy with the suit entered from the cockpit area, handed him a piece of paper, with a hand scribbled phone number and advised they would be landing at Heathrow in five minutes and he needed to belt himself in.

The jet landed and taxied inside a huge hangar. Leaving the doorway, the pilot appeared and informed him that the CIA had an agent waiting to escort him through customs and take him to wherever he wished.

Wade felt like he was on some surreal adventure. A few hours earlier he was wandering through Turkey minding his own business and enjoying the freedom. And now he was exiting a private jet after being manhandled, shot at, given an unknown phone number and no answers. The agent was no more helpful and walked him through the customs gate, past a completely uninterested customs officer, who did not even raise her head, and pointed at a door.

Opening the door, and leaving the hangar, Wade was confronted with a typical English autumn of cold biting winds and heavy rain. The wind chill made him think snow was not far off. The door behind him slammed shut. No way back and he knew no one was going to open it for him. The row of sheer faced, Second World War buildings had no cover or overhangs. To his front was a derelict car park, the size of ten football fields, also bare of cover. In the distance, two kilometres away, he saw an airport service road and no traffic to be seen in either direction.

With no coat and getting colder and wetter every moment he needed to get out of the weather. He ran toward the service road, hoping he could find a way to the train station. A truck approached. Dressed in ragged clothing, no coat and dripping wet he knew the driver would not stop.His only option was to get in the back without the driver being aware. The rain was so intense the truck’s wipers were going flat out. Wade dropped in a trench at the sharp bend in the road. The truck slowed. Like a hunting lion Wade leapt from the reeds and water, three large strides and lunged at the tailgate. The tailgate took his weight and he pulled himself into the back.

The truck was an airport operation vehicle used for transporting luggage to different areas and terminals. After cutting into the fifth suitcase he found what he needed. He quickly grabbed pants, shirt, boots, socks, hat and a coat. He bundled it all up in a large towelling bathrobe and carefully looked along the side of the truck determining when to leap out. As luck would have it the truck was about to stop, for traffic lights, and there