In the Blood

Raw and gritty tale

Jack Carr

• Publisher: Atria/Emily Bestler Books
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9781982181666
• eBook ISBN: 9781982181680
• Topic: Literature
• Index: Literature

“Take my word for it, James Reece is one rowdy motherf***er. Get ready!” —Chris Pratt, star of the #1 Amazon Prime series The Terminal List

The #1 New York Times bestselling Terminal List series continues as James Reece embarks on a global journey of vengeance.

A woman boards a plane in the African country of Burkina Faso having just completed a targeted assassination for the state of Israel. Two minutes later, her plane is blown out of the sky.

Over 6,000 miles away, former Navy SEAL James Reece watches the names and pictures of the victims on cable news. One face triggers a distant memory of a Mossad operative attached to the CIA years earlier in Iraq—a woman with ties to the intelligence services of two nations…a woman Reece thought he would never see again.

Reece enlists friends new and old across the globe to track down her killer, unaware that he may be walking into a deadly trap.

PART ONE ALIYA THE OPERATIVE

FOR BY WISE GUIDANCE YOU CAN WAGE YOUR WAR.

—PROVERBS 24:6 AND FORMER MOTTO OF THE MOSSAD

CHAPTER 1

Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana

“WHAT’S THAT HUNK OF steel on your hip?” Reece asked as his friend entered the cabin.

They called it “the cabin.” Most people would have called it a home but for the fact that it was on the Hastingses’ property and was originally built as a guest house. It wasn’t ostentatious by any stretch, but it certainly was not a hovel. Its log timber frame blended in with the environment with a beautiful stone fireplace and large wraparound deck. A sloping grass lawn led to a dock where James had been staying in shape with morning swims and kettlebell workouts.

“It’s good to see you, too, Reece.”

“So, what’s the pistol?”

“My 1911.”

“That is not your old 1911.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Raife Hastings had been carrying the family heirloom for as long as Reece could remember. The pistol began its life as a commercial Colt 1911 .45 that made its way to Great Britain in the early 1940s under the Lend-Lease Act. Raife’s grandfather was issued the sidearm when he joined B Squadron of the Long Range Desert Group, an elite reconnaissance unit that operated behind the lines against German and Italian forces in North Africa during World War II. He was a leader in the Special Air Service after returning to Rhodesia at the end of the war, and his handgun went with him. Raife’s father, Jonathan Robin Hastings, had followed family custom, passing SAS selection in England. When Southern Rhodesia split from Great Britain to become its own, rogue nation, Jonathan stayed on with the now-independent SAS regiment and later helped found the famed Selous Scouts alongside Colonel Ronald Reid-Daly. The pistol was passed to Raife upon his graduation from BUD/S and he smuggled it downrange on each of his deployments to continue the tradition. It had served his family well and though he wouldn’t admit it, he thought of it as a good-luck charm.

“Yes, I get it, Raife, but that’s a different 1911.”

What weapon a person carried and how they carried it told Reece a lot about them. Reece’s eyes always went to the hands; the result of growing up with a father who served in the SEAL Teams in Vietnam and then transferred into the ranks of the Central Intelligence Agency. Right- or left-handed, concealed or open carry, appendix or 4–5 o’clock holster position, striker-fired polymer-frame pistol or cocked and locked 1911, Kydex or leather holster, type of knife clipped to pocket, shoes, pants, belt, hat, watch; all of these things tell a story, his father had said.

In Raife’s case, he wore Courteney Selous boots, jeans, and a belt Reece knew was made from the hide of a Cape buffalo. A leather holster from Alessi sat just behind his right hip. Two inches taller than Reece’s six feet, he radiated competence and strength and looked like he would feel right at home in the UFC’s Octagon. His emerald-green eyes and tan face with a scar that ran from his left eye to his lip, camouflaged by three days of stubble, gave one the not-incorrect impression that Raife was a man of the land and someone not unfamiliar with violence.

Raife shook his head and looked to Katie, who was setting up a fly rod on the kitchen table.

“Since Reece is socially inept and is incapable of just saying ‘hello,’ I will tell you, Katie; I finally retired the old warhorse to the safe, at least until I can pass it along to my son.” Raife’s wife had given birth to a baby boy as Reece was emerging from the wilds of Siberia on a previous mission. “Your boyfriend keeps getting me into firefights, so instead of worrying about losing it, I had Jason Burton at Heirloom Precision build this for me.”

“Well, you will be happy to know that one of my goals is to keep him, and you, out of additional firefights. I think I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime,” Katie said, remembering that her relationship with Reece had been interrupted on more than a few occasions by men with guns who wanted them dead.

“I have been doing quite well as of late, isn’t that right, Katie? I haven’t been shot at in at least two days.”

Katie rolled her eyes.

“Let me check it out,” Reece said, gesturing to his friend.

Raife drew the pistol, being sure to keep the muzzle in a safe direction. He removed the Wilson Combat magazine and placed it into his front pocket, pushed down on the thumb safety, and racked the slide to the rear, ejecting a .45-caliber round from the chamber before handing John Browning’s iconic masterpiece to his blood brother.

Reece inspected the pistol and let out a long whistle. “This must have cost you hundreds,” Reece said, knowing the pistol was essentially priceless, coming from one of the top 1911 gunsmiths in the world.

Now it was Raife’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Nice,” Reece said admiringly. “Jason Burton does incredible work. Pre-Series 70?”

“When did you become a 1911 expert?” Raife asked.

“Since you walked in here with this.”

“Base gun is a 1969 Colt Pre-Series 70,” Raife confirmed. “National Match–style slide with serrations which were most likely an overrun from a contract with the Army Marksmanship Unit.”

“Can I try the trigger?”

“Be my guest.”

Reece visually inspected the chamber and then rode the slide home out of respect for the masterpiece in his hands. He pointed it in a safe direction and pressed the trigger.

“Wow! Perfection,” he said, locking the slide to the rear and taking a closer look at the impeccable work.

“That action is smooth. Did you pin the safety?”

“Of course.”

“Short trigger, ivory grips, ambi-safety, Kart National Match barrel, flattened slide top with ‘arrowhead’ serrations, custom rear sight, gold-inlaid front sight, and maker’s mark under the grip panel. Classic. The rear slide serrations stop at the top of the frame rails—that’s a sweet touch.”

Raife’s eyes moved to Katie.

“Don’t look at me. He might as well be speaking Greek.”

“You know, I should get one of these. Good thing I have your dad’s credit card.”

Raife shook his head. “I don’t know why he did that.”

Reece could not help needling his friend. The only reason he had reluctantly accepted the card was so he could bring it up to get under Raife’s thick skin.

“And I quote,” Reece began as he handed the pistol back.

“Here he goes,” Katie said. “See what you’ve started.”

“Thank you for saving my son’s life. You are welcome to stay in the cabin as long as you would like. That’s when he handed me the credit card, which I of course readily accepted.”

“He’s going to regret that,” Raife said, tucking a strand of shoulder-length dark blond hair behind a cauliflower ear.

“It’s a distinct possibility. Right now, I’m using it to pay for physical therapy; my back’s still a little sore from carrying you up that mountain in Russia.”

“Bloody hell,” Raife replied. A hint of Rhodesia still slipped into his voice, especially when he was annoyed. “It was more like a hill.”

“Easy to say when you are passed out on my back for most of the climb.”

“You two are something else,” Katie said, getting to her feet. “Raife, can I get you something to drink? Beer? Wine? Beer might be easier to get to, as the wine is in the garage and is currently blocked in by about a hundred boxes of books James had shipped out from Virginia.”

“Oh yeah,” Reece interjected, “Jonathan also said that I could visit the wine cellar anytime I wish and that nothing was off-limits.”

“Now I know you are lying.”

“I might be paraphrasing a bit.”

“A bit?”

“Katie, spare no expense for our friend,” Reece shouted to Katie, who was going over the beer inventory in the kitchen refrigerator.

“He’s incorrigible,” Katie said to their guest.

“Katie, don’t use big words like that around Raife. He’s going to have to look them up later.”

The truth was that Raife was one of the smartest and toughest people Reece had ever met. From a family that defined the word rugged, the blood of Africa still flowed through his veins. In what was then Rhodesia, you didn’t call a plumber if a water pipe broke or an electrician if you lost power or a mechanic if your truck wouldn’t start. You fixed it yourself. If your home was attacked you didn’t call the police, you defended your land and your family. Then you dug a hole and buried the bodies. You were self-reliant as a practical necessity. Your very survival, and the survival of your family, depended on it.

“I’ll take a beer,” Raife said.

“IPA? Cloudcroft?” Katie asked, looking in the fridge.

“That’ll do.”

“James?”

“Sounds great.”

Katie grabbed three beers from the fridge, handing two off before opening one for herself.

“Cheers, boys. Raife, can you stay for dinner?” she asked, walking to the kitchen to start prepping.

“I’m going to need to get back. Just wanted to say a quick hello.”

“I believe Raife has diaper duty tonight. How’s the leg feeling today?” Reece asked with genuine concern. Just as Raife had helped Reece get back into fighting shape after his brain surgery, Reece had been hitting the trails with his friend, slowly upping the mileage and moving to progressively more difficult terrain as Raife’s leg continued its rehabilitation. The break from a fall on Medny Island, Russia, that almost killed him had taken its toll.

“Feels good, brother. It’s almost there.”

“Great, because tomorrow’s run will be one to remember.”

“Aren’t you guys worried about overtraining?” Katie asked from the kitchen.

“I’m not familiar with the term,” Reece quipped.

“I don’t know why I even try,” Katie muttered to herself.

“So,” Raife said, taking a seat. “Where is that Cabot?”

“That ol’ thing? I think it’s around here somewhere.”

That ol’ thing was relatively new. Reece had accompanied Raife and Jonathan down to Helena for the Montana Outfitter and Guides Association banquet to support Big Hearts Under the Big Sky, a program focused on children with life-threatening illnesses and military members who have provided extraordinary service to the country. An Apocalypse 1911, kindly donated by Rob Bianchin of Cabot Guns in Pennsylvania, went up for auction. Two cattle ranchers went head-to-head in a bidding war. The crusty old rancher who won promptly marched over to Reece and presented it to him. Apparently, after five or six too many Neversweat bourbons, Raife’s father had confirmed a rumor or two. Reece tried to turn it down, but the old rancher would hear none of it. He finally turned to the elder Hastings and proclaimed: Jonathan, I am sending this to you. Make sure the boy gets it. Now, I’ll not hear another word about it.

“Let’s give them a run before we get too far into these beers, eh?” Raife said.

“Were you guys always this competitive?” Katie asked. “Never mind, rhetorical question.”

“Why don’t I just run my carry?” Reece asked.

“Still using that XL?” Raife asked, referring to the SIG Sauer P365 XL that Reece had taken a liking to over the past couple of years.

“Yep, I love this thing,” Reece said, tapping the BlackPoint Tactical Mini WING holster on his belt. “Icarus Precision grip module, Parker Mountain Machine threaded barrel and comp, Trijicon RMRcc red dot.”

“Did you go with the 3.25 or 6.5 MOA dot?”

Reece eyed his friend quizzically.

“Since when do you ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Preface
• Prologue
• Part One: Aliya
• Part Two: Tuvia
• Part Three: Abelard
• Part Four: Nizar
• Epilogue
• Author’s Note
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Glossary
• Copyright