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  Praise for

  Meltdown

  “Chuck Holton’s military experience and astounding real-life adventures lend authenticity to his writing rarely found in today’s fiction or nonfiction. It is entertainment—masterfully mixed with powerful life lessons that you can use, and pass on to your friends.”

  —LT. COL. OLIVER NORTH, USMC (RET), host of War Stories on FOX News Channel and New York Times best-selling author of American Heroes

  “Meltdown is even more hair-raising because it is so plausible. But if I’m on the run in a hot zone, there’s no one I’d rather have at my back than the men—and woman—of Task Force Valor. An explosive climax is a reminder of just Who really controls our lives and destiny. My only disappointment in turning the last page was saying good-bye.”

  —JEANETTE WINDLE, author of Veiled Freedom, Betrayed, and CrossFire

  “Chuck Holton has done it again! Meltdown is hot and will keep you sizzling on the edge of your seat! Keep some ice water nearby. Chuck’s latest may just be his hottest! Highly recommended!”

  —DON BROWN, author of the Navy Justice Series

  “There are some writers who do their research in the library and on the Internet. Chuck Holton does his research with a passport, a compass, and a good pair of boots. The result is a novel full of action so authentic you can smell the cordite, and characters so real that you can almost touch them. Meltdown is not to be missed.”

  —TOM MORRISEY, author of Pirate Hunter

  OTHER BOOKS BY CHUCK HOLTON FICTION

  FICTION

  TASK FORCE VALOR SERIES

  Island Inferno

  Allah’s Fire (co-written with Gayle Roper)

  NONFICTION

  A More Elite Soldier

  Stories for a Soldier’s Heart

  Bulletproof

  This book is dedicated to the one person who is most responsible for keeping me alive to see age forty:

  My mother.

  No other person on earth has invested more in my safekeeping

  or prayed more for my safety.

  Thank you, Mom. I love you.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to especially thank my good friend Lynne Thompson (www.soccermombook.com) for her tremendous help “above and beyond” on this project. She even braved West Virginia in wintertime to make this happen.

  Thanks to Olenka and Stepan Mankovska and George and Sharon Markey for taking me into their home while I visited Ukraine, and for translation and cultural consulting on the manuscript.

  My various editors, Julee Schwarzburg, Ken Petersen, and Jeff Gerke, held my nose to the grindstone and ensured the job got done right even as a thousand other projects vied for my time and attention.

  And to my wife, who resisted rolling her eyes at me for an entire year as I grumbled about those thousand-and-one projects.

  And thank You, Father God, for using any humble work of mine to further Your kingdom. May these efforts do more than entertain—may they change lives.

  Prologue

  Cartagena, Colombia

  “HIJO DE—”

  Edgar Oswardo Lerida interrupted his own oath as he dropped the hotel phone into its cradle. Two weeks and the money still had not arrived in his account. He crossed himself and kissed the three rings on his right hand, El Padre, El Hijo, El Espíritu Santo.

  You are turning into your mother. He wasn’t usually this superstitious. But now that he was so close, he felt like he should be as careful as possible to keep from offending anyone in the heavens.

  Edgar crossed to the window of the spacious top-floor suite and looked down on the Cartagena harbor. He spotted the lone statue of the Virgin Mary, which stood on a column in the bay. A sense of helplessness threatened to overwhelm him like the angry midafternoon clouds bearing down on Boca Grande—the modern hotel district—from across the water.

  He turned away from the window and sank onto the bed like a deflating tire. He lay looking at the ceiling fan without seeing it, traveling instead in his mind back to Panama, to the bitter wife and resentful children who doubtless thought him dead by now.

  If only the money would come! He let his thoughts wander to Argentina. There he hoped to take on a new name, meet a beautiful woman, and…what? Start the process all over again? The unwelcome thought that perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all tried to crawl into his brain for the hundredth time, but he pushed it away. There was no going back. He was no longer Edgar Oswardo Lerida, and he could never be again. His name was now Gustavo. Gustavo Soto.

  He sighed. It was not good for him to be alone anymore. He’d been thinking too much. That was the problem. Another night alone in this room with nothing but the television would be worse than water torture.

  Edgar—Gustavo, rather—sat up. He needed a companion. Cartagena was full of beautiful women. Why not?

  He stopped at the mirror on the way to the door and ran a brush through his thinning hair. Despite being in his midforties, he was still handsome enough. And if not, well, he had money, or would shortly.

  He stepped to the door and pulled it open, then froze as a jolt of adrenaline nearly gave him a seizure.

  The doorway was filled by the largest man he’d ever seen. The man wore a black suit and sunglasses. Hands the size of hubcaps reached up and wrapped around Edgar’s neck, lifting him off his feet and carrying him back into the room.

  The large man was followed by a thin, middle-aged gringo in a black crew neck and leather blazer, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

  The gorilla slammed Edgar backward onto the bed, then produced a giant pistol and pressed it to his forehead. “No te muevas,” he growled.

  The thin man spoke. “You are Edgar Lerida.” It was not a question.

  Edgar’s heart beat triple time. Questions jumped into his mind like storm troopers. Nobody knows I’m here! Who are these men? But he willed himself to be calm. “You have the wrong…room,” he croaked.

  The gringo’s grin sent a shiver through him. “Ah. We will keep the payment, then.”

  Recognition hit Edgar like a bucket of ice. The gringo’s voice. It was he who had arranged the purchase of the remaining liquid explosive. Edgar knew better than to ask the man’s name. “Did the product not arrive safely?”

  “It is still in port, waiting to be released by Customs.”

  Is that what this is about? “You must know that is out of my control.”

  “Of course.” The gringo waved the gorilla off. The thug stepped back and lowered his weapon, but did not put it away. “We have a proposition for you.”

  It was clear from the man’s tone that Edgar was going to listen whether he wanted to or not. He rose to his elbows and regarded the white man. His pencil-thin sideburns were like black knives on the sides of his face, and flecks of gray in his perfectly manicured goatee were the only hint that the man might be over forty. He carried a black briefcase.

  “We know that you are one of the foremost experts in the product which we have purchased,” the gringo said, “as well as a master of improvised explosives in general. We need your talents for a mission involving the product.” He set the briefcase on the bed. “Inside this case you will find precise instructions as to what you must accomplish. When these tasks are complete, your payment will be delivered, along with a bonus of one million dollars.”

  Edgar held up a hand. “Gentlemen, I am a businessman, not a soldier. But I know many people in this business. Why don’t I assist you in finding someone more suited—”

  “Modesty does not become you, Señor Lerida. Neither does cowardice. When it comes to explosives, you are an artist. Use that creativity well and you will be back here enjoying the good life in two weeks’ time. There is a telephone in the case. Keep it on at all times. I will be in touch.�
� The gringo turned and followed his gorilla toward the door.

  Edgar struggled to a sitting position on the bed. “And what if I’m not able to complete the mission?”

  The gringo stopped on the threshold and turned, displaying a thin smile and a reply that turned Edgar’s blood to cold Jell-O in his veins. “Again, put your imagination to good use.”

  1

  THE ROUNDHOUSE KICK caught Mary Walker just beneath the rib cage, forcibly expelling a grunt along with a lungful of air. She fought to suck in a breath, determined to make her adversary pay for that.

  The man who had kicked her gave a wicked smile and lashed out again, higher this time. But she jerked her head back, and his foot barely grazed her cheek. She crouched and jabbed a fist at his solar plexus, but he swatted it away and clubbed the side of her head with his forearm.

  Now she was mad. Her pulse pounded in her temples almost as hard as her opponent. She couldn’t take much more. A step back and she could see that he was breathing hard too.

  He growled at her. “Come on!”

  She feigned a punch to his head, and when his hands went up to defend it, she nailed his inner thigh with a hard right kick. He grunted and grabbed for the bruised leg as she launched a high kick at his head.

  But even hurt he was too quick. He ducked and her foot sailed high.

  She spun around just in time to see his heel coming straight at her face.

  Still spinning, Mary cocked her head to the side and caught his leg over her left shoulder as it brushed her ear. She threw her feet out from under her body and fell to her knees, taking his leg with her. His momentum combined with hers to flip him by his leg and slam his face into the mat.

  She released her hold on his leg and stood up, panting. She’d won.

  The man rolled over and looked up at her. “What the heck was that, Mary?”

  She wiped her upper lip with the back of her hand. “I don’t know, Tom. Just seemed like the thing to do.”

  Applause broke out from the people in the small gym. They’d stopped lifting weights or riding stationary bikes to watch the sparring match. Those who weren’t clapping were now gaping at her or murmuring to one another.

  Tom Harliss pushed off the mat and got to his feet, chuckling. “In ten years of teaching MuayThai, I’ve never seen that move before. I’m sure it’s not legal.”

  Mary shrugged, brushing away a strand of red hair that had escaped her ponytail. “In my job, sometimes you do whatever it takes.”

  Tom nodded, straightening his tank top. “Uh-huh. What is it you do, exactly?”

  The beeping sound coming from her knapsack saved her from answering his question. “Just a sec.” She ran to her bag and fumbled with the zipper, the gloves she wore making it even more difficult to flip the phone open once she found it. When she finally succeeded, the screen said she had a new text message. She clumsily poked a few buttons until the message came up. It read simply, “OFFICE ASAP.”

  Tom followed her over. “So, you want to go another round, or go out for coffee?”

  Nice. The guy should have been a salesman instead of a personal trainer. She had to dig for a smile. “Sorry, they need me at the office right away.” She held up the phone.

  Tom’s sweaty, too-tanned brow wrinkled. “It’s Saturday. What do you do?”

  She held the smile a beat too long. “I’m an analyst for a big insurance company. Lots of travel. No life.” That second part was the truth. Besides, she knew better than to date a guy she’d just beat up. Talk about giving him something to prove.

  Tom smiled like a used-car salesman. “Well, next time, then. Glad we finally got to spar a little bit. You’re good!”

  “Thanks,” she said, picking up her bag and towel. “I’ll call you when I can come in again.”

  She could feel him watching as she headed for the locker room. And it bugged her. Even after beating him she still felt like he thought of her as a thing, not a person. Maybe it was just how guys were.

  When she stepped into the shower, the scuff on the side of her face stung where Tom’s forearm had landed. She felt for a bruise below her ribs but found only a small sore spot. In a way she was disappointed. She wasn’t sure why bruises were so appealing. It wasn’t that she liked pain. Maybe it was just a reminder that the task hadn’t been easy.

  Nothing had been easy lately. A thought of Panama flashed in her mind. She turned the shower knob until the stream was almost too hot to stand.

  After rinsing off, she wrapped up in a towel and set her small makeup kit on the sink. The woman looking back at her in the mirror had reddish hair that looked a serviceable brown when wet, making her feel about as attractive as Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua. Her shoulders bore the freckles of too many sunburns, and here and there were fading scars, each with its own story, but none adding to her charm. Around the corners of her blue eyes were the beginnings of a few wrinkles when she squinted, but she attributed them to the stress of seventy-hour workweeks, usually trying to keep herself and her team alive. She frowned.

  Get over it, girl. You’re lucky to be alive.

  She sighed. She couldn’t change her past, but maybe changing her look would be the next best thing. She reached into her bag and pulled out the card of a hairstylist. She had been contemplating this for months. Now, for some reason, she was suddenly ready to do it.

  She dropped the card back in her bag and pulled her shirt on over her head. It was time for a change.

  Sunday New River Gorge Bridge, Fayetteville,

  West Virginia. 0500 hours

  Master Sergeant Bobby Sweeney crouched in the tall grass, making himself invisible in the predawn mist rising out of the gorge. He scanned the trail leading down to the road with the aid of a set of AN/PVS-14 night-vision goggles he had “borrowed” from his locker back at Fort Bragg.

  Sweat trickled down the center of his back despite the chill air. His heart and breathing rates were both higher than they should have been after the short hike from where he’d been dropped off ten minutes earlier. But then again, that was mainly due to adrenaline, not exhaustion. No one had ever done what he was about to do.

  Thirty meters in front of him, Highway 19 shot out into space above the New River Gorge, supported by a massive steel arch. Locals touted it as the longest arch bridge east of the Mississippi. But Sweeney was more interested in its height—876 feet from the roadway to the raging New River at the bottom of the gorge.

  His radio crackled in his ear. “Winds at two knots, over.”

  Sweeney nodded without considering that his partner on this mission, Sergeant First Class Frank Baldwin, wouldn’t see it. He keyed his mike. “Good enough.”

  “You sure you don’t want to put this off for another day? Did anyone mention how many laws you’ll be breaking?”

  Sweeney spit. “Been planning it for a year, buddy. And I didn’t drive all the way up here just to go climbing. Besides, I have a wedding to go to. It’s now or never.”

  “How’s the traffic look?”

  “Oncoming lanes are almost empty. Looks good.”

  Frank’s voice wasn’t so sure. “I can’t believe you talked me into this. If you get caught—”

  Sweeney hit his Transmit button and stepped on the other man’s transmission. “You shoulda been an accountant, you know that?”

  A train whistle drifted up from far below. Sweeney’s heart rate rose a notch.

  Frank radioed in again. “Well, Batman, here’s your chance to make history.”

  “Right on schedule. How long is it?”

  “Hard to tell. At least fifty cars.”

  “That’ll do. Gimme a time hack.”

  “All right. Here comes…in three…two…one…now!”

  Sweeney flipped his NVGs up out of the way and stood. “Thanks, bro. See you at the pickup.”

  “What am I gonna tell the major and Phoenix if you don’t make it?”

  Sweeney moved out of the tree line toward the roadway. “Tell the major it was my id
ea. As for Phoenix…” He hesitated, thinking about the pretty CIA agent. Their relationship had been professional, nothing more. That said, he was surprised to feel a pang of…something…at the thought of not seeing her again. He pushed it away with a grin. “Tell her I was secretly in love with her and hoped to be the father of her children someday. That ought to throw her for a loop.”

  “You’ve got a sick sense of humor, bro. Just don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Roger that.”

  He took off down the embankment. When he reached the blacktop of Highway 19, he was at a dead run, despite the full body harness and pack tray on his back.

  Sweeney turned toward the bridge and ran even faster, right past the sign that said No Pedestrians on Bridge. Running out onto it, the span looked much longer than it had when he and Frank had driven across it the day before.

  Headlights rose up behind him. Sweeney flinched as a semi thundered past on the highway, sounding its air horn. He ran as close as possible to the three-foot concrete barrier that separated the roadway from empty space over the drop. The weight of the big truck made the bridge shimmy like Jell-O under his feet.

  He breathed through his nose, pumping his arms and legs in a steady rhythm. His strides were shortened by the leg straps of the parachute harness, and the night-vision goggles weighed down his Pro-Tec helmet, but none of that mattered now.

  Another two hundred yards.

  More headlights appeared behind him. This time it was a pickup truck with big mudder tires. Its brake lights flashed as it passed him. The passenger rolled down his window and shouted, “Yeeha! That’s one crazy son of a gun!”

  Sweeney gave the truck a wave and kept running.

  Gotta love West Virginia. They know crazy when they see it.

  He bared his teeth in a grin, every pore tingling with excitement. One hundred yards separated him from the center of the span.

  He was still smiling when the spotlight hit him.