Drive Faster: Operation: Just Cause

By David Edward

From Amazon bestselling author David Edward comes the new thriller Drive Faster, a high-speed edge-of-your-seat must-read that delivers gritty real-world excitement.

"Intense, powerful and an absolute must-read for fans of the action-thriller genre Edward is once again on top form with a novel to keep you on the edge of your seat! Sure to win Edward a host of new followers eager for his next release Drive Faster is unreservedly recommended!" - Book Viral Reviews

When a high-value prisoner transfer is interrupted in the blistering Arizona desert, Special Agent Dirk Lasher and his new unit of not-yet-trained operatives must give pursuit. With no time to prepare and little familiarity between the team members, the stakes could not be higher. If their prisoner Kimberly Sharp is allowed to escape, the very foundation of global society could come unraveled.

As the pursuit intensifies and the stakes increase, powerful competitor countries get involved, pushing non-stop to the pulse-pounding deadly showdown on the outskirts of civilization. The criminal Sharp is more valuable than initially realized, and the outcome may just determine the future of civilization itself.

Praise for the earlier Dirk Lasher thriller Panama Red: "Intense!" "Unrelenting!" "Holds its own with the genre best!" "First Rate!" "Fast-Paced Action!" "Damn Good!", ★★★★★

If you are a fan of Brad Thor, John Sandford, or Tom Clancy, you will love this new adventure by author David Edward.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frequency99, Inc
• Release date: Jul 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223207498

David Edward

D. Edward served as a Special Agent in the US Army in the 1980s and 1990s and is a veteran of multiple overseas combat tours. He was the Special Agent in Charge of the 1990 Panama Canal counter-terrorism threat assessment report to the US Congress. Edward is a graduate of the United States Army Intelligence School where he studied advanced HUMINT (Human Intelligence) and battlefield counterintelligence; also completing training at the Jungle Operations Training Center in Panama, Central America. He holds advanced degrees in engineering including a Ph.D. from NCU, three related M.Sc. degrees (MBA, MSIT, MSIM), and has an undergraduate degree in business (BSBA). His books typically reach the Amazon Kindle top 10 upon release in their genre. 'End of Reason' was his first work to reach #1 on Amazon in its category, on June 22, 2021. 'Unreasonable' reached #1 as a pre-order and held the spot for over a month upon release. You can follow his publication schedule here: d-edward.com or email him at his first name, the at sign, the first three letters of the word Florida, a dot, and the word cloud. He did have a Twitter account but then he thought it was stupid so he canceled it.

Book preview

Tough Interview

What do you mean we lost contact? Hand me the mic. Dirk Lasher reached over and took the triangular radio handset. He had to lean in as it was attached to the front of the bus.

The driver leaned out of his way as she kept the bus on the road doing the speed limit of fifty-five.

Have you lost contact with the transport? Over, Dirk said, sounding irritated.

He looked back into the small modified school bus. The Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) said he would have a budget, but he didn’t have it yet, sixty days into the new job. He was able to negotiate for a no-longer-in-use small school bus from the Fort Huachuca civilian post-management authority. Today was interview day, having flown in the seven candidates for the two open GS-11 Special Agent positions he had to fill to complete his team of four field agents counting himself.

Yes, they went radio silent about five minutes after the turn at Superior at the junction of SR 60 and SR 177, the voice on the radio said, emotionless.

Isa Kern leaned forward from her seat on the first green bench just a few feet away. How far behind them are we?

Isa was Dirk’s first DIA hire. He wanted Jack Williams as his first choice for the senior agent slot, but Jack had another full year on his enlistment in the US Army. Isa had been less-than-honorably discharged a year ago, so she was available. Just because she was his second choice didn’t mean she wasn’t top-notch, probably a better second-in-command than Williams in the grand scheme of things. Lasher was satisfied with how it all worked out, Isa had reported to him for a few years in the Army, and he was the one to recommend her for Warrant Officer. She was loyal to a fault and made good decisions.

We’re about ten minutes behind. Superior is just ahead; we’ll be making the turn onto SR 177 in about five minutes, Agatha Jones, the bus driver, answered. Agatha was in her sixties, retired from active duty in the late 1960s, and driving a school bus for the Sierra Vista southeast school district as a way to fill time and augment her Army pension. She befriended Lasher since he was new to the area, and she had been helping him as much as she could.

Lasher looked back at the bus passengers. These were the final candidates for his team after a month of interviews. They arrived individually at the Phoenix airport yesterday and today. He was taking them all to Fort Huachuca for evaluation. Several interviews were set up, a psychological assessment, and three physical obstacle course tests were planned for the next two days.

Lasher spoke low so only Isa could hear him. I still can’t believe they wouldn’t provide an air escort. We’re moving one of the most important subjects to Central American stability, and the Air Force won’t cover the cost of fuel for a three-hour drive.

The bureaucracy giveth, the bureaucracy taketh away, she said.

I know, we propose, the bean counters dispose. I got it. Lasher was not amused, feeling the pressure building of a problem, one he tried to get in front of but didn’t have the tools yet to influence inside the giant government machine he was still learning.

Once the budget comes in, I’ll have funding, and funding solves a lot of these problems, he thought, watching the road ahead.

Besides, Chief, Isa continued, using Lasher’s prior Army rank, Sharp has been passed around for the last two months between agencies—the CIA, DEA, FBI, and probably others. She most likely isn’t considered high value anymore, just because we are finally getting our crack at her.

They have no idea what questions to ask her; we do.

Sloppy seconds does not a virgin make.

Lasher frowned. He preferred clean language.

Isa remembered and turned red, mad at herself for upsetting her new boss. Well, you know what I mean.

The bus slowed as it navigated the small town of Superior, then turned onto SR 177 on the other side of the main thoroughfare, the junction a significant reason the town existed at all. Agatha took the off-ramp to the left, which looped around. About halfway through the turn, she was able to accelerate, now heading south.

As soon as they cleared the small slice of civilization, two black smoke plumes were visible, maybe three or four miles ahead.

Uh oh, Isa said.

Lasher saw it. Everyone saw it now. The candidates in the back understood something was wrong.

Lasher turned to address the group. Okay, everyone. There may be a problem with a prisoner transport up ahead. I’m going to need you to stay in your seats, please, while we figure out what is going on.

Quickly, Farris Hunter, a young fit-looking man sitting in the second row, leaned forward. Sir, I’m special forces. Well, was...you probably know that already, but if there is trouble, I can help.

Isa knew it, but Lasher didn’t. He had been consumed one hundred percent working on getting the new headquarters set up and negotiating through the government bureaucracy. The whole point of the interview process was to get the best recruits ready to talk to him so he didn’t have to waste time on the others. He would bother to get to know the ones he hired.

Lasher looked at Isa; she nodded her agreement that Farris had qualifications.

Noted, he said. Hold tight. Then, louder to everyone, Everyone hold tight as we figure all this out. He turned back around. The smoke was coming from where the road went through a hill, the choice of the road engineers to cut the hill in the middle, so the road stayed flat. Agatha, slow down; I don’t want to drive into a problem if we can avoid it.

The bus slowed from fifty-five to fifty. The rising sun was to their left as they drove south. The smoke plumes were not that far away now. As they got to within about a half-mile, the black sedans of the caravan could be seen. One was on fire upside down; two others looked intact but were diagonal on the road. Clearly, something happened to them.

This is bad.

Lasher turned to tell Agatha to stop. Just as he did, he saw glinting from the top left of the rise.

Agatha, go ahead— was as far as he got, realizing that the front windshield was exploding inward, and the inside of the bus had filled with a pink mist. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Agatha was driving the bus, but her head had exploded. He realized that he was covered in her blood, and his own as well, the glass from the front windshield digging into him as the round impact blew it apart.

It slowly dawned on him that the glinting was a sniper on the rise. The initial shot had taken out the bus driver.

Agatha’s foot was on the accelerator; the bus was increasing in speed, heading to the hill and danger. Not sure what else to do, Lasher leaned over the driver’s seat and took the wheel, jamming the vehicle to the left to go off-road. The increased acceleration caused the little engine to roar. The bus bounced into the loose sand and sped forward but to the left away from the road, quickly cutting off the angle of the sniper, the hills rise now blocking the sniper’s view of them.

When it seemed they were well out of view, Lasher reached down and turned the engine off, deciding it was easier than trying to get Agatha’s foot off the accelerator or deal with the mess that used to be his friend. He looked up to the passengers. Everyone on the left side of the bus was covered in blood, brains, and pieces of bone. For the whole group, confusion was turning to a realization at what happened, looks of puzzlement changing to faces of horror.

Everybody, get down! Isa yelled, recovering as quickly as Lasher.

The bus had run a few hundred feet into the bright yellow desert. With the engine off, it was now eerily quiet.

Go, Dirk, get moving. The sniper is going to reposition; we’re just sitting out here. You have a minute or two, maybe less.

Does anyone have a weapon? Lasher asked. He didn’t; why carry on a school bus picking up recruit interviewees from the airport? The in-country carry rules were specific about not carrying unless on an assignment. Administrative duties did not qualify.

I have a Glock 17 in my travel bag, Farris Hunter said. It’s in the under-storage with all the other bags.

Acting quickly, Dirk said, Okay. Everyone out the back emergency door. Now! Go! Kid, what's your name?

Farris Hunter.

Farris, get your bag as quick as you can, then get back behind the bus with the rest of us. I assume you have ammo?

Yes, sir. It’s loaded now, nothing in the chamber.

Lasher frowned; this would have been a security problem trying to get through the Huachuca gate.

I can deal with that later. He was the last one out of the rear emergency door.

Farris grabbed his bag, pulled out the sidearm, and handed the Glock to Lasher.

Lasher ejected the magazine, checked the load, looked down the open barrel to make sure it was clear, reseated the magazine, and primed the pistol. It was all done in about a second and a half, expert handgun knowledge showing through.

Isa, keep everyone here. Keep the bus between you and that hill. I'm going to scout the area ahead. Have someone low-crawl up to the bus radio and call for help.

I should go with you, she and Farris both said back to Lasher at the same time. They then looked at each other.

It’s my gun. Farris smiled.

Do what I said, Lasher spat back at both, in no mood and with no time for debate. He had a quarter mile to cover to get to the back of the rise. He turned and sprinted at his top speed; he could cover the distance in maybe sixty seconds if he gave it everything he had.

I hope it’s fast enough.

The constant uncomfortable feeling of having eyes on him, waiting for the shot that could take him out, followed him on the sprint. It seemed to take forever, running out in the open, that feeling of anxiety between his shoulder blades.

He made the base of the hill and kept going, slowing some to improve his recovery, feeling the burn in his chest and legs from the exertion. Thirty seconds later, another shot rang out; he turned and saw it impact the school bus. Then another, then another. The reports indicated the sniper was now full on top of the rise, maybe a hundred yards forward and up.

There was return fire from the bus.

Someone else had a firearm. Good, why didn’t they volunteer it when I asked? I’ll have to remember to find out. God, I hate new recruits.

Lasher changed direction and sprinted up the rise, straight at the sniper’s noise, who was still firing about every three or four seconds. His legs burned with the effort, already taxed from the dash across open ground. He cleared the top and saw the sniper on the ground; the guy was in the classic prone supported position, flat on the ground, his belly pressed into the sand, legs out in a V, toes pointing out on either side, head down on the scope, elbows in.

Nothing wrong with a bit of luck. Lasher had overrun the position by a few yards, so he was now approaching from the rear of the lightly armored figure. He raised his handgun as he continued to run forward, aiming for the neck where the Kevlar vest ended and before the helmet began.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

He fired three times, interrupting the sniper’s reload. Each shot was a clean hit, the first exploding the neck on both sides, the subsequent two follow-up shots increasing the damage.

Lasher was surprised at the gun’s trigger action.

Someone has filed the safety trigger; it should have taken a lot more force to fire.

The Glock 17 did not have a traditional safety; instead, it had a trigger safety, basically, a small lever trigger that had to be depressed along with the main trigger.

As Lasher cleared the top, he could see down onto the road. The lead car had been destroyed. The prisoner transport crashed into a round depression where some type of ordinance had detonated. The back of the prisoner truck was open; four men were pulling out a woman covered in blood and kicking against them, fighting to get back in the transport.

Why would Sharp be fighting them? Are they not rescuing her?

Two white SUVs waited, engines running.

The problem was this was another quarter mile away. Lasher was in great shape and combat-ready, but that didn’t make him superman.

Grandpa Lasher always had a dog named Fritz, a way for him to memorialize his time as a B-17 tail gunner during World War Two. He always got a rescue dog from the South Miami Animal Rescue and almost always rescued a dachshund, the German Weiner Dog. Grandpa tended to pick older dogs, which made Dirk happy, but it did mean that each Fritz rarely made it more than a couple years before it passed away.

The current Fritz had just passed away yesterday, early in the morning. Grandpa had taken him to the vet a week ago, and they offered to put him down. Grandpa said no, that Lashers went out on their own terms. He and young Dirk had taken shifts sitting with Fritz in a small closet in their small flat-roof house, making sure Fritz could get water when he wanted and carrying him outside to go to the bathroom every couple of hours.

It made for a long five days, and Fritz finally passed on Dirk’s watch around 4 a.m. yesterday. Grandpa dug a hole next to several other holes, the South Florida Arlington Cemetery of rescued dachshunds. He and Dirk put Fritz into the new small grave, and Grandpa said the same thing he always said: Fritz was a good dog who had a tough life but got the chance to go out peacefully around people he knew and liked.

Grandpa said Dirk didn’t have to go to high school yesterday, that he could stay home if he wanted. Dirk was sad but didn’t think just hanging around the house would make him feel any better, so he went to school like he did every school day.

His head wasn’t in it, and around midday, a couple of bullies beat him up and took his lunch money. Dirk would have been too tough a mark on any other day, but they managed to pick just the right time when he was tired and distracted.

Now, the following day, Dirk and Grandpa sat in the school parking lot in Grandpa’s big green Ford LTD. The sun was up, the cool morning air in Little Havana, a suburb of Miami, Florida, was turning from cool to warm because of it.

Sometimes you will have to dig deep, Diederik, Grandpa Lasher told him, talking in a caring, soft voice to teenage Dirk as he reached over and opened the car door from his driver seat. Grandpa was still sad about Fritz, maybe more than Dirk was. The dogs seemed to mean something extra to Grandpa that Dirk could never understand.

The car door had been the last barrier between freshman Dirk and the older high school boys who had beaten him up after school yesterday.

Grandpa, they are all bigger than me, and they already beat me up yesterday. I just want to go home. You said I could stay home today. I didn’t want to, but now I do.

Diederik, if we let others intimidate us just because they are bigger than us, there eventually won’t be any home to go to. They will take it like they took your lunch money. If you don’t stand up to them, who will? You have been doing well at the dojo. This is your time. Go, find out who you are, Grandpa said as he pushed Dirk out of the car, into certain doom.

Lasher remembered and groaned to himself. Digging as deep as he could, he started to run over the rise and down the steep slope by the road, on the diagonal, half getting down the hill, half advancing as fast as he could on the SUVs. The woman was undoubtedly Kimberly Sharp, and no one but Lasher seemed to understand the danger she represented to the world.

Lasher was winded and sweating. He pushed his left hand across his forehead to clear the perspiration, his hand hitting numerous shards of glass as he did.

I thought windshields were supposed to be safety glass.

He got his fingers around one and pulled it out. It had rounded edges but was still spiky enough to cut skin. A renewed blood flowed from the wound.

Shoot, that was a mistake pulling it out.

Removing the glass reopened the wound enough that now he had new blood streaming down into his eyes. He wiped it away again. Unsure what else to do, he quickly took his outer dress shirt off and tied it around his forehead, which worked to stop the flow of blood and sweat into his eyes. He hadn’t bothered to look down until now; he had not realized how much glass had hit him from the windshield.

With that done, he sped up his run. The soldiers operating the extraction team, and Sharp, were all now near loaded into the two white SUVs. The last door slammed closed, both vehicles spun their back tires, accelerating as fast as they could.

Lasher was close enough, less than a hundred yards. He raised the weapon and fired the remaining fourteen rounds at the rear of the SUVs. He aimed a few rounds higher than he thought he should, anything to improve the chance of an impact as the vehicles sped down the road, now accelerating away quickly.

He slowed to a fast walk, completely winded. When he got to the small crater where the SUVs had been parked, he saw the rubber trail where the tires had spun on acceleration. He walked farther up the road, following them. Several dozen feet up the road, there were gas drippings. He could see them glinting in the morning sun.

Well, that was lucky; it looks like I hit the gas tank