Killing Kardashian

KILLING

KARDASHIAN

JOHN JETSYN TACHĒ

Copyright © 2017 John Jetsyn Tachē

Published by DAKOTA PRESS LLC.

All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the author.

Acknowledgments

Steve Rampton – Cover Art

Joe Huffman – Illustrations

My Editor, Harvard’s own Kevin Anderson and Kristen Weber of Kevin Anderson & Associates NYC

Khonry – Weapons consultant

Andrea Rawlings, Pier 3 Entertainment

Bob Guerriero and The Journeymasters

Contents

1 KANYE

2 ROSCOE PATRICK CAHILL

3 KIM

4 STAFF SERGEANT QUINN

5 THE KILLER

6 OPERATION EAGLE CLAW

7 TERMS AND CONDITIONS

8 THE DIRECTOR

9 OXYGEN

10 THE WATCHERS

11 THE LORD

12 PABLO

13 THE REALITY INGÉNUE

14 MEMBERSHIP CONSULTANT

15 KOURTNEY

16 THE STUNTMAN

17 THE CHATEAU MARMONT

18 THE LIMO DRIVER

19 MADONNA

20 KHLOÉ

21 THE BODYGUARD

22 CAITLYN

23 THE TV STAR

24 PAPARAZZI

25 THE PITCH MEET

26 THE MOMAGER

27 THE NUMBER TWO

28 THE REAL DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES OF BRENTWOOD

29 HIATUS

30 VISITING HOURS

31 COHABITATION

32 LITTLE BROTHER

33 THE BREAK UP

34 DIVA DINNER PARTY

35 SECURITY GUARD

36 OJ

37 HOUSE SITTER

38 THE PURGE

39 RESURRECTION

40 VANISHING POINT

EPILOGUE

Author's Note:

This book was not written for the politically correct.

¹ Kanye

The bunker remained hidden by the sands of time and the vastness of the rust-colored Mojave Desert. It had been abandoned by the Army in 1959 and for decades stayed a well-kept government secret. A one-hundred-degree, ten-by-ten-yard concrete, cast-iron, enforced secret, twenty feet below the surface. Where the scientists from the Manhattan Project were rumored to have hidden away the plutonium that went into ‘Fat Man’ and ‘Little Boy’. Nuclear devices named for their founders, the stumpy project director, General Leslie Jones, and the thin genius, Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer. Bombs that wiped Hiroshima and Nagasaki off the map in 1945, with the echoing of 150,000 Japanese souls.

The desert was quiet, the only sound the faint echo of a 747 soaring up above. It was a big piece of nowhere, 130 miles west of Los Angeles and a good 70 miles past where the mob guys used to dig their holes. A place long forgotten until today.

The early-twilight hunter’s moon rose over the blowing sands as a gritty wind scoured the terrain. Concealed inches below the surface was a round, iron hatch. It opened to a well, narrow as a straw, lined with a twenty-rung iron ladder anchored into the concrete. At its bottom, suffused with the scent of mildew mixed with a sinus-irritating haze, was a room. Its floors and ceiling were smooth, troweled concrete, painted shiny military gray. The lights were fluorescent and tubular, hanging from wires anchored into the ceiling. Across the shadowy space a Killer readied his tools on a wooden workbench. He was stout, dressed in black, and wore a rubber mask. There were Black & Decker power tools, drills, and saws. A corkboard running up the wall displayed a hammer, an ax, and a machete. A generator humming in a far corner breathed life into the bunker.

On the Killer’s worktable sat an open laptop, its screen showing an animated Grim Reaper using a razor-sharp scythe to chop off Kim Kardashian’s cartoon head. Cartoon blood splattered across the screen. Then the Reaper walked off, dragging the socialite’s head by her long black mane. The famous Kardashian pout, on her dead cartoon face. The words Killing Kardashian flashed across the screen as the anime went on in an endless loop.

The Killer paid it no attention.

In the middle of the darkness, tied to a wooden chair, was a small black man, with a burlap sack tied tight around his head. The sack was snugly reinforced at the neck with a plastic zip tie. Underneath the sack, his eyes had been superglued shut. His mouth was duct taped and his hands and feet were bound with plastic restraints. He wore a bloodstained, white V-neck T-shirt and, shredded at the knees, blue jeans with more blood on the thighs. One of his forearms bore a tattoo of the Madonna and Baby Jesus. On his other were his kids’ names. And even though the little man couldn’t see, he could hear everything: the humming of an engine—a small lawn-mower-sized engine. Hard-soled steps on the floor. Probably boots, he thought. The glue stung his eyes like soap and tugged at his eyelashes. His tongue felt like sandpaper.

Everything I have for just one sip of water, he bargained with his God. Then he fell to thinking. Why was he here? What had he done to deserve being treated like an animal? He knew this wasn’t a joke. It had gone way past that point. His boys knew better than to pull this type of crap. This shit wasn’t funny! Fucking with him like this was an offense punishable by death. Or nothing short of a severe beat down by some of his bodyguards. No, this was no joke. This twisted motherfucker, whoever he was, had one warped sense of humor and a seriously distorted life perspective. Was he another hater? Or a delusional fan, trying to be part of the family? No matter. This prick was as serious as a heart attack. He was a stone cold killer. And for one of the few times in his celebrated life, Kanye West was afraid.

With his back to his captive, the Killer took a black marker and wrote big block words onto white poster boards. Then he hit play on the computer’s iTunes and Kanye West’s Gold Digger thundered off the concrete walls with extreme force. As loud as the front row at a heavy metal concert.

Kanye curled up his feet on the dusty floor and willed his superpowers to the surface. He was still Kanye! This motherfucker knew him. Everybody knew who Kanye West was! Every woman wanted to be with him. Every man wanted to be him! And he knew this maniac wanted something. All these groupie loser assholes, sooner or later, wanted something. Once this nutcase made his demands, Kanye knew that all he had to do was play along, make a deal, and convince the psycho it was legit. He could do that. He was a shrewd businessman. He negotiated seven-figure deals every day. He would simply make this asshole his buddy—and then stab him in the back as soon as he was in a safe place. And then WHACK! Pain interrupted dreams of escape.

An unseen sucker punch hit Kanye like a truck, square on the bridge of the nose. There was a blinding flash. Cartilage cracked. His eyes filled with tears that burned out past the superglue. The more he tried to figure things out, the more confused he became.

And then WHACK! Another truck-like sucker punch jolted his head back, like JFK in the convertible. Kanye wished he were in Disneyland and thought about sucker punches. How there were two types of sucker punches. Those that you don’t see coming and those that you glance, but only at the last second, way too late to do anything about. If you’re lucky, you get hit by your enemy’s best shot, and you’re able to shake it off like a Terminator.

If you’re less fortunate, you get hit with a haymaker by a rock-solid bruiser. And it’s lights out. Nine times out of ten, you hit the ground and go to sleep. Or fracture a cheekbone or get your nose flattened across your face, while you wonder what the hell you’re doing on the ground, as some Neanderthal rains down hard knuckles on your unprotected good looks, because your brain’s not talking to your body anymore, to tell the hands to rise up to protect the face.

A great sucker punch is usually powerful enough to loosen some teeth and depending on who’s throwing it—there’s always the possibility of a broken jaw. But still, the absolute worst thing about a sucker punch is that you never see it coming. Just a big bash followed by a bright flash.

The Killer delivered a crushing heel shot to Kanye’s sternum and the chair tipped over. The back of his head smacked the ground hard with a dull thud.

President Kanye! The Killer’s haunting voice sang out. President Kanye Kardashian Weeeeeeest! Then the Killer started to hum Hail to the Chief as he hoisted the chair back into an upright position.

"Da da dada, Da dada dada dada da!"

Then he let fly another sucker punch and Kanye’s head snapped to the side. Two of his upper front teeth bent inward. Blood poured into his crushed sinuses and this time the cartoon stars were bigger. Then a movie projector whirred in Kanye’s frontal lobes and his life began to flash past, in color. Like they say it does when you think it’s about to end. He saw his Black Panther father, playing ball with young Kanye in the park, and his academic mom teaching English in China.

And then WHACK! Another straight right to the head.

President Kanye! Could I please, please be your campaign manager? I’ve got experience in the political arena. I can get references! The Killer strolled around the chair as Kanye West gasped for a breath. Was that a yes?

There was a long pause. Then a gurgling sound. Then the Killer grabbed the top of the sack and nodded Kanye’s head.

Smart. ’Cause I’m not big on wrong answers.

The wheezing under the sack grew louder and Kanye started to choke. The Killer watched as Kanye jerked violently back and forth for a good twenty seconds before deciding not to help him. More blood filled Kanye’s nasal passages. His brain began to turn off. And then he dug down deep.

There was no Cedars Sinai celebrity hospital ward to ambulance him to. No hot nurse Rachelle or million-dollar surgeon to open an airway. He was on his own. Defiantly, Kanye hacked up a crimson red phlegm ball. The wheezing stopped. Air rushed back into his lungs and blood flowed from his nose as if a dam had burst. A peaceful wave of relief settled over him. His confidence returned: This asshole couldn’t take Kanye West out! No fucking way, he convinced himself. And then WHACK! Another heavy fist found its mark. This time it was a left. More stars lit up Kanye’s universe and his chair almost fell back. Then Kanye reconsidered. Fuck bravery. Time to beg. He tried to speak through the tape in muffled, garbled gibberish that made him sound like the Swedish Chef. After thirty seconds of pleading he realized he was inaudible, and that he was screwed, and he started to weep. Why was this happening? Where was he? Did this guy really want to be his campaign manager? Kanye couldn’t see, but he could tell by the Killer’s ponderous shuffling footsteps that his stalker was heavyset.

Mr. President! Mr. Presidennnnt? the Killer taunted. How you going to save our country with that twelfth-grade education of yours?

Kanye’s knuckles turned white as he clenched the arms of the chair. If this asshole would just take this fucking tape off of his mouth, Kanye could tell him that he had nothing to worry about. Just let me go and we can forget all about this, he would negotiate. You want a new Bentley? It’s yours. My house in Bel Air? I’ll sign it over to you tomorrow. Then he thought it through again. Maybe somebody just wanted to kidnap him and beat him to a pulp before disappearing to some no-extradition island in the Bahamas with a carry on full of ransom money. His money.

Then Kanye heard the high-pitched whine of an electric drill. It was the sound of torture, of agony. He racked his brain for a way out, and found only prayer. God will take care of you, he told himself. Jesus will watch over you ...

Hail Mary, full of grace ... the Lord is with you ...

There was a long interval of quiet as dust particles danced in the light overhead.

Then a wall of cold ice water shocked Kanye from his dreams and snapped him back to consciousness. Water seeped into the sack and he wished that his mouth weren’t taped. A migraine burned a hole in the back of his eyeball, and Kanye West concluded that being a passive, obedient hostage wasn’t getting it done. Get pissed off, he willed himself. If you want to survive, Kanye, get balls out, hair-on-fire crazy fucking insane, just like this mad motherfucker. He would respect that. Then if you die, you went out with a fight. Not like a bitch. This fuck can’t take Kanye West down. Not man to man. Punk ass had to tase me! Kanye reflected on the last thing he remembered. Only fucking way this could have happened. No way I could have seen it! No way Kim would have caught it either. No way! Then his heart sank and he was engulfed by another panic attack. Where was Kim?

Barely a whisker over five foot five, Kanye worked up the nerve and transformed himself into the Incredible Mini-Hulk. And then went crazy insane. Rage killed his pain. He bucked in the chair until it toppled over again, then screamed a muffled roar.

The Killer brandished his Rambo knife. Cut the sack from Kanye’s head. Then yanked the duct tape from his mouth. Kanye spat up blood and gasped for air. He looked like Apollo Creed after the first Rocky fight.

Motherfucker! he screamed. Why are you doing this?

Because I can.

Kanye raised his eyebrows to open his eyes, but it wasn’t working. What did you do to my eyes?

Superglue, the Killer boasted. Want me to fix it?

There was a silence as Kanye thought long and hard about his answer.

Please.

The hard way, or the easy way?

Another silence, broken only by the sound from the buzzing of two vent fans pumping air into the concrete bunker.

What’s the easy way? Kanye asked.

Boiling water.

There was another long silence.

And the hard way?

The Killer pressed his thumbs and forefingers into Kanye’s eye sockets. Skin tore, eyelashes ripped from the lids and Kanye wailed as the Killer spread the rapper’s sealed eyes. When the Killer finished, he stepped back to admire his work. Kanye squinted through blood and tried to focus. A bright spotlight blinded him. The Killer walked into the white glow, a solid-looking figure dressed in a black Adidas sweat suit. To Kanye’s amazement, the Killer wore a Halloween mask.

A Taylor Swift rubber mask.

It had pixie-cut blonde hair with teeth as big as a horse.

Kanye grimaced. What the fuck?

His bloody eyeballs inspected the dark concrete room. It reminded him of something diabolical. An evil place, where victims are tortured and murdered. There was a pungent odor in the air. The smell of piss and cigarette smoke and something else. He craned his neck as far as he could, searching for a way out, but saw only blackness and a glow from some computer monitor on a workbench. Then his mind skipped back to his Kim and he wondered if she was still alive.

The Killer hovered over Kanye and studied him. He saw the blank space in Kanye’s dull brown eyes underneath the caked blood and sweat.

You’re really not all there now, are you? the Killer said, tilting his head.

What?

You’re a little bit of a fucking retard, said the gruff voice under the Taylor Swift mask. Like the Rain Man. Only you can rap.

Kanye spat blood on the floor. His adrenaline kicked in. Where’s my wife, motherfucker!

Motherfucker? The Killer said and struck Kanye with a hard right cross. And all Kanye saw was Taylor Swift punching him in the mouth and three of his upper incisors flying into the darkness. He winced in pain. More blood streamed from his mouth.

Manners, warned the Killer, raising his index finger.

Kanye’s jaw ballooned up. The ringing in his ears was maddening and he shook his head twice to stop the room from spinning. It was sticky humid in the bunker and the air was getting harder to breathe the longer he stayed down there.

Please! Tell me what you did with Kim, he wept. Please!

The Killer stayed silent and stared down at Kanye crumbled in his chair with blood and snot all over his T-shirt and pants. And he didn’t really give a shit. The clock on his mission was already ticking and he only had twenty-three plus hours to achieve his objective.

Kanye tried to peek past the slits in the killer’s mask but saw only blackness. Nothing he could read. Then he studied the white latex gloves and realized the Killer was a pro.

Where’s Kim? he gasped. Just tell me and I promise I’ll give you everything I got.

The Killer squatted in front of Kanye and raised his bloody chin up.

How you going to do that? Transfer your bank account into mine? Write me a check? Maybe pay me in cash? Untraceable bills? You think I’m motivated by money?

Kanye coughed up blood. I don’t know. You tell me.

The Killer grasped Kanye’s chair and spun it around on its hind legs, revealing:

Kim Kardashian. Model, actress, socialite, businesswoman, social media queen, and reality TV star, chained to the ceiling. On her neck was a black dog collar with silver spikes. Her mouth was duct taped. Her hands were numb and blue, strangled in stainless-steel cop cuffs, stretched high above her head on a rusty chain fastened to an iron hook screwed into the ceiling. Her eyes were unfocused and distant.

Your First Lady, Mr. President, the Killer announced.

Then he turned his back on Kanye and strolled over to Kim. The Killer had done his homework. He knew that Kim Kardashian had found fame almost overnight. The perfect storm of three Hollywood celeb reality moments. The first being the day her dad, lawyer Robert Kardashian and a dream team of high-priced, truth-bending Beverly Hills attorneys got OJ Simpson off and cemented the Kardashian name into the world-famous category for the ages. The second moment being when her mom, Kris, parlayed her daughter’s sex life into a reality show for her entire dysfunctional family (also cunningly instructing Kim to spend some time with that Hilton girl).

But without a doubt, the most important Kim Kardashian business move was her sex tape—one that Kim would have put on the Internet for free, until her on-again/off-again wannabe rapper boyfriend with the porno-sized schlong wanted his cut. Several feigned expressions of shock, distress, and hurt by Kim and the family on the entertainment wire were a precursor to the fifty million the sex tape generated worldwide. And even though Mom knew that her middle daughter was as dumb as a bag of hammers. It didn’t matter to her. You didn’t have to be smart to make money. Just famous and opportunistic.

It took Kim Kardashian four hours to get ready to go to Disneyland. Everything she wore had to be one of a kind, trend-setting, and expensive.

Today the Killer had stripped her down to her one-thousand-dollar black satin Victoria’s Secret bra and the five-hundred-dollar matching G-string. And the Killer was careful not to remove the black Manolo Blahnik high-heeled sandals that flexed her calves firm.

In the yellow glow of light shining down on her, Kim’s body glistened. Beads of hot sweat ran down her breasts and disappeared into the black satin of her bra as the stainless-steel shackles dug into her wrists. Her lost face took on panic as the Killer stood in front of her and studied her like a sculpture in the Louvre.

Over the Killer’s shoulder, Kim saw her Kanye. Her eyes pleaded, Please fix this! Fast! She was beyond horrified. Tears mixed with her black mascara.

Kanye shook in his chair. Who the fuck are you? he shouted from across the room. The Killer said nothing. Then he moved in real close to Kim, rubber nose to rhinoplasty. Sadistically close. I’m not gonna tell you again, Kanye warned the Killer. Stay the hell away from my wife!

The Killer took a step back, turned to Kanye, and tilted his head. Then disappeared into the darkness. There was a long silence. A minute went by, two. Kanye focused on Kim. He tried to smile through his mangled face.

It’s going to be OK, Baby! he promised through tears and spit. It’s going to be OK.

Kim’s eyes drifted from Kanye’s over to the Killer at his workbench. She watched as psycho Taylor Swift removed a scalpel, a bone drill, a bone saw, and other torture toys from a large metal suitcase. There was a vise, an ice pick, a hammer, a box of four-inch nails, and a syringe filled with God knows what. And even though Kanye had his back to the Killer, he saw the pure panic in Kim’s eyes and knew that he was in trouble, because Kim could see everything.

The Killer lined up his surgical instruments neatly in a row. Then he reached underneath his workbench for a black duffel bag. Removed a small blowtorch. Sparked it and turned a dial by the nozzle. The white-blue flame burned high. Kim’s eyes widened. And after five hours of being tased, kidnapped, chained to a ceiling, and disrespected, the unchanging, stoic expression of Kim Kardashian finally cracked and she started to bawl. For the first time in her life, she felt sorry for Kanye. He was her rock. Her everything. Even though she wasn’t book smart, Kim was clever enough to have figured out that the rubber-faced Taylor Swift was going to take her husband apart, piece by piece. And she cried like a baby even though she knew that it would be bad for her complexion.

The Killer brushed past Kim with his blowtorch and headed for her husband. She wanted to scream but the duct tape on her mouth made that impossible. When the Killer raised the white flame to Kanye’s right eye, Kanye turned his head away and shut his eyes tight. The killer grasped Kanye’s face like a basketball and held it steady as he brought the flame back to Kanye’s eye.

Kanye’s heart raced. Motherfucker, he wailed.

Just then the Killer’s Apple watch beeped. One second after which, rubber-face Taylor Swift turned to Kim, shrugged his shoulders and extinguished his torch. Never enough time to do the things we really want to do, he said. Selfie time, Bubble Butt. Time to put your game face back on!

The Killer removed Kim’s iPhone from his pocket. Hit camera and held it out in front of her, framing her angelic face perfectly. Kim trembled and tried not to look the mask in the eye. You know what to do, the Killer said. Then he brushed the hair from her face.

Kim gazed blankly down at the floor. Maybe if she wished hard enough, she could disappear back to her lavish life. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. If she just wished hard enough, maybe it could be yesterday or the week before all over again. When she was the reality queen of the universe and everyone kissed her famous behind! Then she visualized happier times. Her three weddings. Family vacations. Travel holidays to France, Rome, and Spain. Fashion Week in New York City. Just let her be anywhere except where she was, facing anything except what was happening to her and Kanye. Then Kim pretended to be Dorothy again. All she had to do was click her heels three times and wish hard enough and everything would be OK.

But it didn’t work. Neither did saying Beetlejuice three times really fast. The Killer grew impatient as his fingers cramped holding up the cell phone.

Selfie! he commanded.

Kim wept uncontrollably. Tears streamed down her perfect breasts. The spiked dog collar the Killer had fastened around her neck made it difficult for her to draw a breath.

Selfie! he demanded again.

Kim swallowed her fear and struck a half-hearted pose. The Killer snapped the picture. Inspected his work and then slapped her hard on her soft behind, which rippled like a wave.

Not like that! I want the ‘Blue Steel’ pose! Like Derrek Zoolander, he directed her. I know you have it in you. So strike it!

Kim went into autopilot and adjusted her body into the trademark Kim K position. Her legs formed together into a perfect V, bending in at the knees. Her booty rose up as she arched her lower lumbar into the proper curve. Then she pulled her shoulders back. But it was difficult with her hands chained above her head. Nevertheless, she adjusted and squeezed together her world-famous cleavage, then threw her hair back like she was dancing at a nightclub.

The Killer nodded his approval and then ripped the tape from Kim’s mouth. Kim gasped for a breath and turned to her husband, looking for a hero.

Kanye!

The Killer passed the back of his glove across Kim’s cheek.

What’s that mutt going to do for you? the Killer said. All that money, fame, and privilege? Look at your man now! What’s he going to do for you?

Kim struggled to hold it together. Then she clicked back into autopilot and hit the classic Kim pose, with her cheeks sucked in and her head titled to her good side.

Nice! the Killer praised. Then he clicked the selfie and checked his shot. Not bad! Not bad at all.

The Killer showed Kim her selfie. Smacked another piece of duct tape across her mouth. Returned to his workbench and downloaded the selfie onto a Facebook page entitled KILLING KARDASHIAN.

Across the room in the shadows, Kanye wept. Then he screamed. Let her go now, motherfucker, he warned the Killer. You let her go now!

Or what?

Kanye shook his chair, still thinking he was half Superman, half Jesus Christ. Then the Killer shut the laptop cover, turned on his heel, and walked over to the little man struggling to get free.

Or what? he asked again.

Kanye stayed silent. The Killer punched him in the mouth, hard. Kanye’s head snapped back and the last of his front teeth dribbled onto the floor.

What do you want? Kanye barely spat out.

Kim turned away frightened.

Then the Taylor Swift Killer raised Kanye’s chin. Gazed in the rapper’s defeated eyes and happily admitted,

I want to kill you guys.

² ROSCOE PATRICK CAHILL

Hastings, England, April 1974

You’ve trained for this moment your entire life. From the beatings you took at home to the hazing you went through at Parris Island. They called you Shorty. Little Shit. Tom Thumb. They tried to break you every day but they could never measure your heart. They didn’t know that you would rather die than quit! Your friends were few. You came up hard! But all of the adversity that you faced had a purpose. To toughen you up! To mold you into the man you are today! You were an athlete first. Trained to compete at the highest level. Not everyone has the mindset to be a football player. Takes balls to line up against someone bigger and stronger than you for four quarters. With no place to hide. Getting your brains bashed in until you or your foe submit. Takes character. Because of this, you have an edge on the average soldier. You know pain already. So what if you didn’t go to college. You have street smarts. More so than any Ivy League snot nose. But now all that crap is in your past. Stow it. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t go to college anymore. Today, it’s time to show both the American and British Armed forces that you are one badass warrior! That Uncle Sam picked the right Marine for this job.

The program is reported to be impossible. A torturous weed-out the soft, hell for masochists only. Three soldiers died during the last trials and thirty-eight more washed out. Fucking pussies, probably! Those pompous Brits best stay clear of you. SAS! Special Air Services. What the fuck is that? What can they possibly teach you? You’ve studied, drilled, and trained with the Rangers and the Green Berets! You can shoot the nut sack off of a field mouse from one thousand yards out. With any type of weapon! In heavy wind! What the hell can a bunch of stank-mouthed Brits possibly show you? Nothing. Not a fucking thing! You’re number one at what you do! And like Dirty Harry said: A man’s got to know his limitations. Brits got theirs. Know yours, Roscoe. Get a hold of that Irish temper of yours. Lock it down. You were chosen because Roscoe Patrick Cahill was destined to be the killing machine your daddy said you could never be. Well, it’s my time to be a hero, Pop. John Fucking Wayne! Just you wait and see! Your only son will show you! You miserable drunk Irish bastard. Your boy will show your blue-collar ass what greatness really is. A greatness you couldn’t fucking attain in a dozen lifetimes!

The military transport truck rolled west along the white cliffs of Dover. The sun showed in beams through holes in the gray cloud mass, hovering above the English Channel, lighting up select spots on the cold North Atlantic. After a long climb through a mountain pass, the truck headed north another fifty miles and took a long route back through the woods before eventually ending up in East South Wales. Near a place called Brecon Beacon.

In the noisy darkness of the back of a military truck, Marine Gunnery Sergeant First Class Roscoe Cahill wasn’t quite sure. He tucked the journal he had been writing in away in his backpack, secured his gear, and waited on his hard metal seat. There were at least a dozen soldiers in the five-ton truck. From just about every country with a counterterrorist unit. All coveting a spot on the illustrious SAS. Across from him, a six-foot-four Army Ranger by the name of Panneton, who had the body of a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, secured his weapon, then stood tall, stretching the cramps from his legs.

You writing a letter to you mommy? he joked.

Naaaaah. It’s to yours, Roscoe smirked. Thanking her for the blow job last night!

The truck shuddered to a stop. The grin disappeared from Panneton’s face. His eyes narrowed and he took a step toward Roscoe. Waiting for him to stand. Roscoe shook his head, took a moment, and finally rose. His face came up to Panneton’s chest.

Panneton smirked. What are we going to do about this?

Do about what? Roscoe spat back.

Getting you back to the North Pole before Santa notices you’re gone?

Fuck you, ’roid head.

Stow it, Marine! barked the stone-faced American CO, a graying war dog named Randolph, somewhere in his late fifties. Waiting for the last of his men to hop off the truck.

Lieutenant Colonel Wallace Randolph was a no-bullshit, tough-as-nails hard ass who didn’t accept failure and loathed excuses. The very same gung-ho jarhead President Nixon hand-picked to teach the American soldier how to fight and win an unconventional war. A counterterrorist war. One with no rules of engagement. The president was not going to be embarrassed.

Nixon was aware of the decimation of the French Army in the jungles of Vietnam by a bunch of wired-out farmers who knew how to destroy entire platoons with sneak tunnel attacks and booby traps. He saw how ill-prepared the German army was when several Palestinian terrorists slaughtered fourteen Israeli athletes at the 1973 Olympic Games in Munich, and he swore that no terrorist incident was ever going to happen on American soil. Not on his watch.

So Tricky Dick Nixon grabbed Randolph—the very best of the Green Berets. The same blood-and-guts Marine who had initiated a counterterrorist program with the Brits years before. Randolph had hand-picked Roscoe and Panneton and several other distinguished American fighting men for their mettle. They were exactly what he was looking for: crazy hard chargers willing to break the rules to eliminate the enemy. Roscoe lined up in front of Randolph with the other American SAS prospects. At five feet seven, he was the runt of the litter. The American squad numbered four: Roscoe, Panneton, another beefed-up Ranger by the name of Curran, and one much-talked-about explosives expert by the name of Giles, who looked funny in dark horn-rimmed glasses over a big nose.

Roscoe stared past the colonel to the horizon. High wispy clouds dotted a cold sky surrounding the base. The fir-tree-lined valley ran north into mountainous terrain. Snow capped the taller peaks and the crisp air smelt clean and unaffected by industry. So this was training grounds for the SAS, Roscoe thought. Piece of cake.

Roscoe had caught Lieutenant Colonel Randolph’s eye back at Parris Island. Nobody could shoot like Roscoe Cahill! He was America’s best. But he had a bit of a temper problem and a wee bit of a drinking problem, like most Irishmen. But show them greatness, and they cut you some slack. Yeah, Roscoe was a bitter, short-fused, class A Irish prick—but he was Randolph’s bitter, short-fused, Irish prick.

Mist hung in the mountain passes and floated through the dense conifers. Roscoe kept a poker face. He didn’t want to appear overwhelmed. Show these bozos nothing, he told himself. His mind raced with excitement and he wondered what the Brits had in store for him and Team America. Two jeeps pulled up and idled and waited for the US team. The drivers were unimpressed Brits with not a lot to say. The colonel sat in the passenger seat and Roscoe slid in the seat behind him. The driver, a slight private from Wales with pale skin, pulled out into the lush green British countryside. Roscoe had been in Great Britain now for ten days, and all of that was spent watching assholes and generals commiserate at state dinners in London. It was finally time to put away the dress blues and all of the pomp and circumstance. It was time get down to Marine business. Time to show these well-mannered Brit pansies what was what!

Roscoe loved history and liked to live in his past. He was a firm believer in the adage that you can’t get to where you’re going unless you know where you came from. He used his past to fuel his future—which meant that he cursed the gods every day for being born short. That had been in September of 1955, on the same day James Dean drove his Porsche Spitfire into a Ford Sedan on a California freeway. Back when the country had a five-star general for a president.

Roscoe grew up in Peabody, Massachusetts, a mill town famous for tanning cowhides, where tough talk was always backed up with a hard fist. Where the Irish brawled with the Italians and the Portuguese put up with the Polish and where everyone got along on Friday nights to cheer on the high school football team.

Roscoe had short black hair parted on the side, blue-green eyes and cheap Irish skin. When he was a boy, his old man, Roscoe Sr., a blue-collar mason, boasted around town that his kid would be the best linebacker in the state, and Roscoe remembered his dad bragging to his red-nosed drinking buddies at the local Champions Pub that his son would get a full scholarship to Notre Dame some day! His boy was going to be one of the greats!

The green English countryside bottlenecked into a fir-tree-lined mountain road. Roscoe took a breath of the clean cool air, gazed into the pale northern sun, and thought about his mom, a petite English teacher who cooked Roscoe three square meals a day and did all his laundry. Then he thought about his dad, a hard charger who bled Irish Green. A distinguished veteran of both World War II and the Korean conflict. Roscoe Sr. was an infantryman. A grunt. And he was proud of it. Like every dad, he wanted his boy to grow up to be an important man. He was close to his boy and loved watching him grow, and by the time Roscoe turned thirteen, father and son were thick as thieves. They laughed at each other’s jokes. Finished each other’s sentences, and became drinking buddies. They were two of a kind joined at the hip. Roscoe’s older sisters, Meg and Margaret, were afterthoughts to the old man. The girls were Mom’s responsibility. The best the old man could hope for was for his daughters to marry early or join a convent, if no suitor came calling. Roscoe Sr. would take care of Roscoe Jr.!

For all intents and purposes, Roscoe Jr. was to be the top priority of the boozing, brawling, military master of the household. His boy was going to be a stud! He would have Red Grange talent and Errol Flynn looks. His boy would be better than Joe D. at the plate, and more fearsome than Jim Brown on the gridiron. The greats would have nothing on his kid!

And even though young Roscoe Jr. excelled at every high school sport he ever played, he never received that scholarship from Notre Dame. He was too short, and his old man would never forgive him for not growing a hair over five foot seven.

And it wasn’t that Roscoe didn’t strive to be The Man. It’s just that he never grew after ninth grade. Not an inch! For high school team pictures, Roscoe always stood on his toes with the tall guys in the back row. But when Roscoe’s pals sprouted and he didn’t, the chip on his shoulder grew. And it got even larger when Roscoe’s less talented teammates received full scholarship offers to Division 1A schools, while Roscoe waited by his mailbox. His offers never came. Still, Roscoe vowed that no one would be ever be better than him. At anything. If they were stronger, he’d be smarter. If they were smarter, he would be a better athlete. If they were quicker of wit, he would be faster with fist. If they had better looks, he would be more charismatic. Roscoe knew he was semihandsome. And when he wore cowboy boots, he grew to almost five foot ten, which meant he could always dance with the tall girls as long as they weren’t wearing heels.

On Roscoe’s graduation day, when his friends were getting new cars and envelopes full of cash, Roscoe’s old man bought his boy a steamer trunk and an alarm clock.

I ain’t paying for no college, he said. You can start laying bricks with me Monday morning or you can enlist in the Marines. Your choice. Just be out of my house in two weeks. You’re a man now. Time to start paying your own way.

Roscoe picked the Marines. Packed his gear and on his way out the door told the old man to go fuck himself. He’d show him. Just you wait, you miserable fucking prick. Just you wait.

The jeep convoy turned into the gated SAS base. A place called Bradbury Lines. A number of freshly painted shiny-white one-level rectangular wooden barracks lined the main path. All were vintage World War II but well maintained. The base gardens were pristine. The jeep clanked to a stop in front of the SAS HQ, It was a two-level shiny white building with blue trim and window boxes with wildflowers. From the front door strolled the base commander, Major Colin Rhoades, a lanky, middle-aged Brit with a Clark Gable mustache. Roscoe and the other men jumped out of the jeeps and stood at attention. The Brit major, who went by the nickname Brain, ignored their salutes and told Colonel Randolph that he was to be in charge of C Squadron. He and his Green Berets would be bunking with several Brits and Scots, and he was to report to the barracks where Staff Sergeant Quinn would show them around.

Be forewarned that we do things differently around here, the Brain said, stern as a headmaster.

Randolph, Roscoe, and the Green Berets saluted the commanding officer. The Brain ignored the salute again. Turned on his heel and marched up the steps, paused to tend to his flower boxes, then disappeared back into HQ.

It took the Americans three minutes to walk to their barracks, a wooden structure much bigger than the HQ. It was a long, single-level rectangular building painted white with blue trim. Roscoe and the Green Berets grabbed their gear and mustered outside the entrance. Roscoe knew Colonel Randolph better than most and knew that the colonel would suffer no fools on this detail. Randolph was being watched by the Joint Chiefs. The last thing he wanted was to screw up. So like all great hard-assed COs, he ordered his ranks to attention and got in their faces.

I don’t expect anything other than your best, Randolph said. Second place is for losers. And if you blow it on this hop, you’re going back to the States quicker than a rabbit gets fucked! If these proper Brits want to walk around like they’re at a Club Fucking Med, fine. Not you guys. Stay sharp. You were all chosen because you’re the best America has. Badass to the bone! Elite! Behave like it.

Panneton, Giles, and Curran cast a glance at Roscoe, uncertain. What the fuck can this little shit do? was written all over their faces. Roscoe felt their disrespect as Randolph rambled on like Patton.

You are the American fighting warrior. The best candidates for this SAS counterterrorism unit! Each of you was chosen because you possess a finite skill set. I doubt these Europeans will be able to match you or teach you much. Just make sure that at the end of the day you all make the cut! It will be the commanding officer of the 22nd British Special Air Services unit who will be choosing the team. I’m here to observe only. Randolph shrugged. You men have six months to show our allies what you’re made of! The last class of two hundred that came through here was all sent packing. Not one soldier was chosen, including three Green Berets from Hood and five Rangers from Bragg. Don’t have me making your excuses to the president! It’s important everyone here is still standing at the end of this detail. Understood?

The Americans bellowed back an enthusiastic Sir, yes sir!

Roscoe’s confidence soared. For a second, he even felt proud of Panneton and the other asshole Green Berets down the line from