The
Freedom Broker
by
KJ Howe
Genre:
Thriller
KIDNAP
& RANSOM
IN-DEPTH
RESEARCH FOR CANADIAN AUTHOR’S DEBUT INTERNATIONAL THRILLER
There are
twenty-five elite kidnap negotiators in the world. Only one is a
woman. And she’s the best in the business. Meet Thea Paris in THE
FREEDOM BROKER.
With
over 40,000 reported kidnappings every year—which
translates to five people every hour—the
world of kidnap and ransom is taking on a newsworthy role across the
globe. Displaced military and police in third world countries have no
way to put food on the table, but they do have security skills, so
they have turned to kidnapping as a way of making a living. Also,
terrorists are using kidnapping as a fundraising enterprise, filling
their coffers with over 125 million dollars since 2009. Kidnappers
used to only abduct high net-worth individuals and executives of
multi-national organizations. Not anymore. Journalists, aid workers,
and family members of executives have now become high value targets.
Kidnapping
is a growing international crisis. What tools do we have to fight
against this increasing threat? There are twenty-five elite kidnap
negotiators who travel to the globe’s hotspots to bring hostages
home, through negotiation or recovery, and they are called response
consultants or freedom
brokers.
Local to Toronto, author K.J. Howe has immersed herself in the world
of kidnapping for the last three years, interviewing kidnap
negotiators, former hostages, kidnap and ransom insurance executives,
hostage reintegration experts, psychiatrists specializing in the
captive’s mindset, and the Special Forces soldiers who deliver
ransoms and execute rescues.
Howe’s
research culminates into her debut thriller, THE
FREEDOM BROKER,
published by the Hachette Book Group under the Quercus imprint in the
US, Canada, U.K. and many foreign territories. The book has reached
attention North America wide, and has led to reviewers such as #1
NYT Bestseller James Patterson calling
it “fact and fiction at its best.”
K.J. Howe’s novel has
received positive and international acclaim from some of North
America’s most influential mediums and authors including:
TIME
Magazine called
the book a “Dark Delight.”
#1
NYT Bestseller Lee Child endorses
the book: “Razor sharp and full of you-are-there authenticity—a
superb thriller.”
NYT
Bestseller Linwood Barclay shares, “Breathless
action, great characters, and convincing details make Howe’s debut
a surefire rocket to the top of the lists.”
In
The Providence
Journal,
USA Today Bestselling author Jon Land reviews, “The
Freedom Broker is a blisteringly original, superbly crafted thriller
that promises to be one of the major debuts of 2017. K.J. Howe’s
gut-wrenching foray into the world of hostage negotiation turned
upside down propels her straight into the league of Linda Fairstein,
Tess Gerritsen, Lisa Scottoline, and Karin Slaughter, thanks to a
tale framed by an emotional complexity and structural elegance both
rare for the genre. As riveting as it is bracing, this is reading
entertainment at its absolute best.”
CHAPTER
ONE
500
feet above Kwale, Nigeria
November 1st
2:30 a.m.
November 1st
2:30 a.m.
Thea
Paris knew the drill.
If
the mission failed, no one would retrieve her body. She’d be left to rot in the
jungle, unidentified and forgotten. And that wouldn’t do. She couldn’t miss her
father’s 60th celebration.
Her
gloved hand glided over her flak jacket and M4 with practiced ease. Night
vision goggles, flares, grenades, extra magazines—all easy to access. The
weapon had been tested, cleaned and oiled, ready to combat the humidity of the
jungle. Pre-mission checks done.
The
hypnotic purr of the resurrected Hughes 500P helicopter set the tone for the
operation. Black, in every sense of the word. Sound, movement, light, all kept
to a minimum. They were flying Nap-of-the-Earth; low, utilizing the terrain to
stay below the radar.
As
operational commander, she’d led her seven-man team through endless rehearsals,
using a model of the targeted area. Now it was time for execution. Brown
listened to Hendrix in his earbuds, his way of psyching up. Johansson stared
into space, probably thinking about his pregnant wife who wasn’t happy he’d
accepted this mission. Team A, following behind in the other gutted chopper,
consisted of twin brothers Neil and Stewart—yep, born in Scotland—and a wizened
former French Foreign Legionnaire named Jean-Luc who could outshoot them all.
She’d handpicked each one from the pool of operatives at Quantum International
Security.
Except
Rifat Asker, her boss' son.
Who
was staring at her. They’d known each other since they’d been kids, as their
fathers were best friends. Rif had serious combat skills, but they often locked
horns on methods of execution. She traced the S-shaped scar on her right cheek,
a permanent reminder of Rif clashing with her brother Nikos.
She
pressed a special app button on her smartphone. The glucose monitor read 105.
Batteries were fully charged. Perfect. Nothing screwed up a mission more than
low blood sugar. She slipped her phone into the pocket of her fatigues beside
her glucagon kit. Rif’s assessing gaze still focused on her. Did he suspect she
had diabetes? She’d done her best to keep her illness under wraps. Competition
was tough among this elite group, and she didn’t want anyone thinking she
wasn’t up for the job.
The
pilot's voice crackled in her earpiece. "Three minutes to touchdown."
"Roger
that. We're green here."
The
second helicopter followed somewhere behind them, but the stormy sky
obliterated all evidence of its existence. She wiped her damp palms on her
fatigues. Rain rattled the chopper's fuselage, and the turbulence unsettled her
stomach. Flying had never been her strong suit. The reduced visibility worked
in their favor, but the cloying humidity and heat degraded the airtime and
performance of the chopper. To compensate, they'd reduced their fuel load to
stay as light as possible, but that left only a minimal buffer for problems.
Rif
shifted to face Brown and Johansson. "Okay, boys, let's grab this 'Oil
Eagle'."
The
hostage, John Sampson, an oil executive based in Texas, earned high six figures
to visit remote drilling sites and increase their output. Sampson had two kids,
and his wife taught third grade. He coached baseball every Thursday night, but
he'd missed the last ten weeks because he'd been held captive in the swamp by
MEND—Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger-Delta. Seemed like every
terrorist group had some catchy acronym, like they’d hired PR firms to come up
with them.
This
Nigerian militant group wouldn’t budge from a three-million-dollar demand, and
Sampson’s kidnapping insurance topped out at one mil. That left one option.
Rescue. But one out of five was the success rate for extractions.
"One
minute until touchdown," the pilot warned.
She
slipped on her night vision goggles and clutched the straps anchored to the cabin
walls.
"You
sure there's no leak?" Black camo paint emphasized the tension in the
lines around Rif's eyes.
"Roger
that.” She concentrated on the positives—always better than bleak thoughts when
descending into hellfire. They should have the element of surprise, and she’d
selected a crackerjack team. Every member would put his life on the line for
the others, and their combined combat experience read like the Ivy League of
special ops.
The
pilot threaded the riverbed using the narrow view provided by the FLIR camera
mounted near the skids. Flying into the thick jungle on a moonless night was
far from optimal, but their intel was time sensitive. They had to get Sampson
out tonight.
"Thirty
seconds." The pilot's warning was like a shot of caffeine injected into
her veins.
They’d
arrived at a small clearing in the triple canopy jungle two miles from the
rebel camp. A film of perspiration coated her back. Her body tingled. Alive,
awake, adrenalized.
"Ten
seconds."
The
pilot raised the bird’s nose, flaring to a hover, then settled onto the grass.
She nodded to her team, and they hit the ground and rolled away from the
chopper. Heat emanated from the rotorwash, as their transport rose up and away.
A
moldy stench flooded her mouth and nose, the residual effect of endless rainy
seasons. They huddled in the thick bush while the other Hughes dropped off
Jean-Luc and the two Scots. She scanned the area. The choppers faded into the
distance, their peculiar silhouettes showcasing the modifications for stealth.
Night
sounds returned. Crickets chirping, water gurgling from the nearby river bed,
the ominous roar of a hippo. She checked her GPS, signaled Rif, and entered the
dense foliage. Forty-two minutes to execute the rescue, rendezvous with the
helicopters, and get the hell out of here. She circumnavigated the heaviest
brush, then froze.
A
sound. Scuffling in the bushes. Her hands tightened on her M4. A sentry so
close to their launch point?
She
glanced over her shoulder. Rif's large frame crouched two feet behind her. Brown
and Johansson squatted beside him while Team A covered the rear. The shrubbery
to their left rippled in the brisk breeze.
Silence.
A mosquito implanted itself in her neck. She ignored the sharp sting.
A
branch snapped. She flicked off the safety.
Crunching
footsteps. A shrill cry.
She
scanned right, left. Movement flashed in front of them at ground level.
Her
finger hovered beside the trigger.
More
footsteps.
A
porcupine scurried across their ingress route, its quills in full attack mode.
She
exhaled a long breath and gave Brown a half-smile. Dammit to hell. She’d almost
shot the prickly creature, which would have blown their cover. Brown touched
the rabbit's foot around his neck and nodded. Good luck charms were an
operational must. She always wore the St. Barbara silver pendant her father had
given her on her twelfth birthday. It hadn't let her down yet.
The
two teams traversed the unfriendly terrain, minimizing any disturbance of the
bush. Animal sounds punctuated the night, the rainfall a constant backdrop. She
scouted the path, moving cautiously in the darkness. At the edge of the ridge,
she paused. Faint flames from a fire kicked her heart into overdrive. The
outskirts of the MEND camp lurked below.
She
scoured the area. No sign of sentries along the bluff. She squeezed Rif's arm,
signaling him to lead Team A down the escarpment. They’d have a rough time of
it. The earth was thick, muddy, slick.
Thea,
Brown, and Johansson remained on the curved ridge. As commander, she needed a
bird's eye view. Brown and Johansson flanked her, positioned to counter any
patrolling rebels.
She
cloaked herself in shrubbery and settled into her hide. They'd mapped all the
major landmarks from satellite images: the rebels' weapons hut perched beside
the acacia trees, a large shelter to the west sequestered in the jungle, and
five small buildings rooted in the southwest quadrant. Outbuilding Tango held
their hostage, a quarter mile away.
She
waited and watched for what seemed to be an eternity, rain seeping into her
shirt mixing with sweat, leaving her skin clammy and cold. Her mind went to the
weirdest places during missions—she pictured this sodden landscape as an ideal
backdrop for a waterproof mascara ad.
A
tiny shiver darted across her shoulders. The world was preternaturally still,
quiet—like death had already arrived. Twenty-five precious minutes had
evaporated. Not good.
Precise
and measured, she nestled her rifle into the overhang. Her breathing slowed.
She scanned the area, pursing her lips, the familiar taste of camo grease
comforting her.
A
soft hiss whispered in her earpiece, then Rif came on. "Going for the
Eagle." Team A hovered on the outskirts of the camp.
Muffled
laughter echoed in the distance. A few rebels huddled by the campfire,
undoubtedly trying to ward off the dampness with some kai-kai, a local
palm liquor.
"Six
hostiles by the fire with AK-47s. You’re good to go." Her voice was barely
audible. They had to assume MEND had guards posted. Double-crosses dominated
the rebels' lives, making them especially paranoid.
Footsteps
sounded nearby. She froze. Definitely a human cadence. The soft glow of a
cigarette caught her eye. A rebel headed straight for her.
Time
for cocktail hour. She eased her hand into her pack and pulled out the
tranquilizer gun, her fingers brushing the ballistic syringe loaded with an
immobilizing drug.
The
rebel cleared his throat and continued his patrol, oblivious. She waited,
keeping her breath even, her body motionless. He stepped into range. In one
motion, she twisted her body, lifted the tranquilizer gun, and fired. The rebel
grunted and slapped at his neck, as if swatting an insect. Seconds later, he
slumped to the ground.
She
scrambled over to him and poked him with the toe of her boot. No response. She
crushed his cigarette into the wet earth and secured his hands and feet with
plastic cuffs, slapping duct tape on his mouth. They should be long gone before
he woke.
Thea's
skin was slick as the rain continued to batter the earth. She glanced at her
stopwatch—another four and a half minutes had passed since Team A had entered
the camp. Glancing to the southwest, she waited for Rif and his team to return
with the hostage, anxious to hear the code “gusher,” meaning the hostage had
been found.
Minutes
ticked by, and nothing. Her nerves were tighter than the strings on a
Stradivarius.
Her
radio buzzed. Rif's measured voice came through. "Dry well. The Eagle
isn't in Tango."
She
sucked in air. Intel from two hours ago had confirmed Sampson’s location in
that outbuilding. He must’ve been moved.
"Abort."
It killed her to do this, but she couldn't endanger her team members' lives by
ordering an exploration of the camp. There wasn’t enough time. They'd tried—and
failed. The intel was bad. End of story. End of mission.
Silence
greeted her. Dammit. Rif was a pro; he knew to respond to her command.
"Abort
mission. Confirm." She scanned the camp. A few more rebels joined the
group around the fire.
Rif's
voice filled the silence. "Give me three minutes, over."
No
way. Three minutes was a lifetime. They needed to leave immediately to meet the
choppers.
"I
repeat, abort mission, over."
Silence.
Her
earpiece finally crackled. “Wait, out.” Operator speak for bugger off, I’m
busy. Rif had spent years in Delta Force, but this wasn't the U.S. Army. She
was in charge of this mission, and he was defying orders.
Before
she could respond, shots fired below at the base camp. No more hiding in the
shadows. Time to bring it.
"Go
active," she commanded her team.
The
men from the campfire scrambled for their weapons while Brown and Johansson
blasted their M4s from their positions on the ridge. Figures dropped to the
muddy earth. Bullets ripped through the night, and the scent of gunpowder
flooded her nostrils.
"Brown,
take your shot." He was responsible for disabling the rebels' ammo hut
with the grenade launcher.
“Eyes shut,”
Brown warned, protecting the team’s vision from the bright lights of the
explosion since they all wore night vision goggles. Seconds later, the building
erupted in a burst of crimson flames.
The
sound of metal hitting rock sharpened her focus. Bullets showered the area
around her. She pressed her chin into the mud, flattened her body, and returned
fire.
A
group of rebels stormed toward the cliffside, but the team’s NVGs made the
figures easy targets. Blasts reverberated across the valley as muzzle flashes
flared.
"Return
to home base, over." Her voice remained calm, but four-letter words
ricocheted through her brain.
Where
was Rif?
She
spotted rebels at the base of the hill, the men cutting off Team A’s egress
route. Dammit to hell. Well, “all in” was obviously the theme of the day.
“Cover me,
Brown.” She jumped up from her hide and ran down the slippery hillside, her
footing uncertain in the muck. Before the rebels could react to her presence,
she pressed the trigger on her M4, rattling off round after round. She slammed
in a fresh magazine and kept firing. Several men fell, others ran for cover.
She continued the barrage. The egress route was clear. At least now Rif and the
others had a chance of getting out.
Her
radio buzzed. "Bravo four, hit." Johansson's voice was reedy. He'd
been shot.
The
northeast wasn't covered, and Rif was AWOL. It was up to her to help Jo.
She
pressed the talk button. "Coming, Jo. Brown, watch my back."
Sprinting
back up the hill, she traversed the ridge toward Johansson, mud sucking at her
combat boots.
Fifty
feet. She pushed harder.
Thirty.
Ten.
Bullets
peppered the air around her. She dove behind the tree.
Her
forearms bore the brunt of her landing, the pain rumbling up to her shoulders.
She scrambled forward on her belly and checked Johansson. Blood seeped from his
shoulder. His face was ashen, his eyes unfocused. She grabbed a quick clot from
the first aid kit in Jo’s backpack and placed it on his wound. "I’m too
scared to face your hormonal wife alone, so keep your shit together."
He
gave her a weak smile.
She
secured the morphine syringe from his front pocket and injected him. He’d be
lost in the hazy world of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon soon
enough.
A
group of rebels climbed the embankment. Brown maintained his disciplined fire,
but couldn't keep up. She aimed at the oncoming attackers and pressed the
trigger. Several men fell. She shoved a fresh magazine into her M4.
Figures
appeared in the mist, the heat of their bodies a hazy green through the night
vision goggles. She counted them. Four. The tallest one, Rif, had a body slung
over his right shoulder. Sampson. They'd found him, but she couldn't tell if
the hostage was dead or alive.
"Jo,
Team A's back. Can you walk?" Her breath was rapid and shallow.
"Hell,
yes.”
Not
sure she believed him, given he was on morphine. She was strong for a buck
thirty lightweight, but couldn't run while carrying over two hundred pounds.
They'd be an easy mark for the rebels.
Rif's
team had reached the ridge.
"Stand
up, Soldier."
Johansson
groaned. "My wife’s going to kill me."
"No
time for marriage counselling." She helped him to his feet. He stumbled,
unsteady in the mud. She wrapped his arm around her shoulder, supporting his
weight. "Let's get you home, Papa-To-Be."
The
faint sound of incoming rotorwash spurred her. They only had a few minutes to
reach the clearing.
A
burst of nearby gunfire startled her. She looked up, prepared to shoot, but she
recognized Rif’s lanky frame running across the ridge. He joined them behind a
massive tree. Rain had smeared the black camo paint, giving his face a sinister
look. "Team A's headed back to the clearing with Sampson." He slung
his rifle across his back and hoisted Johansson over his shoulder. "Cover
me."
She
stormed after them, heart and rifle on full auto. The rebels dove for shelter
as she and Brown laid down suppressing fire. She shouted at Brown.
"Chopper!" All of her teammates needed to be on the Hughes before she
would jump in.
The
three of them sprinted for the clearing as another onslaught of bullets
barraged the surrounding trees. She used a large mangrove for cover and
returned fire, giving Rif time to help Johansson to safety.
She
zigzagged across the open field. Her chopper rested in a valley a hundred
meters away. The other Hughes holding Team A and Sampson lifted off into the
rain. Bullets whipped by. A sharp sting flared in her arm as she plowed through
the thick underbrush. She ignored the pain and ran faster.
She
scrambled down the gorge and dove inside the chopper. Johansson, Brown, and Rif
were already on board. She ripped off her night vision goggles and grabbed her
headset.
"Go!"
she yelled at the pilot.
"Hold
tight."
The
winds gusted from the east, which meant they had to power up while heading
straight into the barrels of the rebels’ AK-47s. The rotorblades strained as a
group of armed men ran toward the Hughes. Come on, come on. Her fingernails dug
into her palms. They plunged straight into live fire like a flying piñata.
She
kept her gaze straight ahead, willing the chopper to reach 60 knots so they
could turn. Seconds felt like hours as they finally accelerated and swerved
away from the camp. She glanced into the cockpit. The pilot's shirt was soaked.
Rif
glanced at the blood on her sleeve. "You hit?"
"Just
a graze." She stared at the holes in the fuselage, realizing just how
close a call it’d been—and how Rif changing the plan mid-mission could have
cost her teammates their lives.
"Is
Sampson okay?" After all this, she prayed the hostage was alive.
"He's
dehydrated and a bit roughed up, but he'll make it."
"Amen
for that." Saint Barbara had done her job again. Thea slumped against the
fuselage, grateful the rebels didn't have an RPG. She checked her phone. As
expected, the intense stress had skyrocketed her blood sugar levels. But the
insulin would counteract that soon enough.
She
inhaled a deep breath. Another hostage safely returned by Quantum International
Security. Looks like she’d make Papa’s party, after all.
Born
in Toronto, Canada, K.J. enjoyed a nomadic lifestyle during her early
years, living in Africa, the Middle East, Europe, and the Caribbean,
which gave her an insider’s view into many different cultures.
While abroad, she read every book she could find, which triggered in
her a desire to create her own stories.
She
attended Salzburg International Preparatory School, Neuchâtel Junior
College, and Albert College before earning a Specialists Degree in
Business from the University of Toronto. K.J. found success in the
corporate world, but her passion for travel, adventure, and stories
drew her back to school where she earned a Masters in Writing Popular
Fiction from Seton Hill University. She also won several writing
awards, including three Daphne du Maurier Awards for Excellence in
Mystery and Suspense.
While
honing her fiction skills, K.J. worked as a medical, health, and
fitness writer. She then became involved with the International
Thriller Writers as the executive director of ThrillerFest, the
organization’s annual conference held every July in New York City.
In
preparation for writing THE FREEDOM BROKER series, which focuses on
elite kidnap negotiator Thea Paris, K.J. spent extensive time
researching the dark world of kidnapping. She has interviewed former
hostages, negotiators, hostage reintegration experts, Special Forces
operatives, and K&R insurance executives.
K.J.
is an avid tennis player, cyclist, and swimmer. Travel and adventure
still rank high on her priority list. She has had the pleasure of
riding racing camels in Jordan, surfing in Hawaii, zip lining in the
Costa Rican jungle, diving alongside Great White Sharks in South
Africa, studying modern combat in the Arizona desert, and
working with elephants in Botswana. Home is in Toronto, Canada, but
she is often missing in action.
K.J.
Howe is available for interviews and appearances along with
presentations about kidnapping and travel safety. For media
appearances, interviews, speaking engagements, and/or book review
requests please contact mickey.creativeedge@gmail.com by email or by
phone at 403.464.6925.
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