Dead Shot (Kyle Swanson Sniper Series #2)

Dead Shot (Kyle Swanson Sniper Series #2)

by Jack Coughlin, Donald A. Davis

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback)

View All Available Formats & Editions
Members save with free shipping everyday! 
See details


In Baghdad's Green Zone, an Iraqi scientist is murdered just before he can reveal the secret that Saddam Hussein took to his grave: the location of the Palace of Death—home to a devastating chemical weapon quietly developed by Islamic militants.

The assassination is the work of a mysterious sniper called Juba, who was trained by the British but now works with a twisted mastermind determined to steal control of the terrorist world from Al Qaeda. When he tests the new weapon by killing hundreds of people at a British royal wedding in London, the devastation is all too real.

Kyle Swanson, once the top sniper in the Marine Corps and now the key member of a secret special operations team known as Task Force Trident, is assigned to hunt down his old special ops rival. A new reign of global terror can be stopped only by a confrontation between the two best snipers in the world, a duel in which the first shot wins—most of the time…

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780312359485
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date: 12/01/2009
Series: Kyle Swanson Sniper Series , #2
Pages: 345
Sales rank: 291,294
Product dimensions: 4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.00(d)

About the Author

Gunnery Sgt. Jack Coughlin was the Marine Corps' highest ranked sniper in the Iraq War. He served with the the Third Battalion, Fourth Marines during the drive to Baghdad and has operated on a wide range of assignments in hot spots around the world. He is co-author of the Kyle Swanson Sniper Novels, and of his autobiography, Shooter.

Donald A. Davis is the author of Lightning Strike: The Secret Mission to Kill Admiral Yamamoto and Avenge Pearl Harbor, and numerous other books, including several New York Times bestsellers. He lives outside Boulder, Colorado.

Read an Excerpt




It was just a matter of waiting. Juba was good at waiting. Patience was an important tool for him, as it is for all snipers. The Iraqi desert sun baked and parched him, but his soul remained calm, soothed by the instructions of his two fathers and the sure knowledge that the hunt was on. Once again, he was the sword of the Prophet. God is great! he whispered, feeling guilty for breaking his oath and speaking the words of praise.

He had been in the hole for three days, shaded only by .ternoons. He let his face and neck become sunburned and measured his rations carefully, eating and drinking only .tions had been eaten, and he had intentionally drained the last water from his canteens the previous day. He was hungry, and thirst clawed at his throat. Good.

Throughout the time in the hide, he had heard sporadic .casional boom of an explosion somewhere down the track. Each morning an American patrol rolled past, clouds of dust following the big vehicles. He could have gotten help anytime he wanted it. Didn’t want it.

.ture was climbing when he saw the faraway dust clouds kicked up by the oncoming patrol. No wonder they were so easy to ambush. He crawled from the hide, brushed away the signs of his stay by brooming the area with a bush, and staggered to the road. The vehicles now could be seen with the naked eye, which meant they could see him, too, a wobbling soldier alone in the desert.

He held up his hands as if in surrender to the first Bradley Fighting Vehicle that approached, with its .50 caliber machine gun trained on him. Then he collapsed. A .nized the disruptive pattern camouflage uniform and weathered beret worn by the British soldier and jumped down to help. They pulled him into the shade of the big vehicle.

Sweat caked the dusty face and dirt clung to the filthy uniform, and when they started pouring some water into his mouth, he greedily grabbed for the canteen. The American pulled it back. “Easy, pal. Just a little bit at a time. You’re gonna be okay.” He offered another sip. A medic smoothed a wet salve on the sunburned face, neck, and hands.

Juba slowly responded in a British accent, haltingly explaining that his sniper team had been discovered a week ago and his spotter killed in the ensuing fight. The Englishman had evaded the searching insurgents, found this road before dawn today, and walked next to it since then, hoping that a friendly force would spot him before the insurgents did. The Americans were unaware that his uniform and the rifle hanging from his shoulder had been stripped from a British soldier he had killed outside of Basra.

Juba was able to stand unaided by the time a helicopter arrived, and he thanked the American soldiers and climbed into the bird. Within thirty minutes, it delivered him to the landing pad of a military hospital inside the Green Zone of Baghdad. A stretcher team met him, but he waved them off, and they led him into a cool corridor, then into a big room where other soldiers lay on cots. A nurse helped him remove his tunic and stuck a needle into his arm to start a slow drip of hydrating fluids. He .uid going directly into his veins, plus the air-conditioning, caused a deep and instant chill, and he began to shake as if he were freezing. The nurse recognized the reaction as normal and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders as a doctor came over to check him. Exhaustion, sunburn, and dehydration, but no wounds. Juba lay back on the cot, enjoying the brief rest and the air-conditioning.

.gence captain came to his cot, having already notified British commanders that their man had been rescued. “They thought you were dead,” said the captain, settling into a chair. He thought the guy looked like hell. “So what happened out there, Sergeant?”

The officer took a few notes as Juba repeated his tale of a mission gone wrong. “Sorry about your buddy,” the American said and put away the notebook. “Bad shit.”

“Part of the job, mate.” Juba sighed and leaned back on the green sheet of the metal-framed cot.

“Your instructions are to rest up and then return to your unit as soon as medically fit,” said the captain.

The busy doctor in uniform came by just long enough to look him over for a final time and remove the needle. “I’ve signed your discharge slip, Sergeant. You’re going .burn. Drink a lot of water and have some chow. Here’s some ointment for the burn, and if you need more, just come by the pharmacy. You want something to help you sleep tonight?”

“No, sir. I’ve dealt with worse than this.”

“Okay, then. You’re free to leave. Good luck.”

The intel officer was still there. “Come on with me, soldier, and I’ll take you over to the mess hall, then give .ders from British HQ are to rest up and then report back to your unit. Meanwhile, you’re a guest of Uncle Sam.”

Juba pushed himself from the cot, acting wobbly, then drew himself erect and stretched, turning side to side. The body was lean and muscular. He put on his tunic. “Thank .ing to get a hotel room, raid the minibar, take a long shower, get some decent food, and then sleep for two days.”

“I hear ya,” said the officer. “I’ve got everything I need. Stay safe.” He waved Juba through the door. The sniper ducked into a bathroom, locked himself into a stall, dropped his trousers to retrieve some documents from a plastic bag that had been tucked just above his right boot, and put them in his shirt pocket. He came out, signed for his rifle at the makeshift armory, and left the hospital. Back on the hunt. Closer than before.

He took his time crossing the military areas of the Green Zone as he made his way over to the new Nineveh Hotel, a five-star, four-hundred-room edifice that offered safety, opulence, an indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool, a .eign visitors, diplomats, and business executives. The gleaming signature spire and a communication array on the roof made it the tallest building in Baghdad.

.dad remained a military town, and it was not thought strange at all when Juba unfolded the papers that he had .cierge of the Nineveh. The documents allowed him to commandeer the corner suite on the twelfth floor for an unspecified “military necessity,” the code that unlocked any door in the city. The civilian led him to the suite and .proving. Soft music played in the background.

Juba thanked him, locked the door, and dumped his .form, and put it back on. He snatched three pillows from the bed, piled them on the small dining table in the center of the suite, and stacked his pack atop them to provide a solid support for the long rifle. Crawling on his knees, then his stomach, he moved to the sliding glass door that led onto the balcony and pushed it open by a narrow six inches. Then he wiggled back about seven feet and stood in the shadows of the room, overlooking the neat front garden with lawns of grass that was irrigated to a deep lush green.

..ish sniper. It fired a .338 Lapua Magnum round that was accurate up to 1,100 meters, and it had a Killflash silencer on the muzzle and a bipod. He had zeroed the weapon two days ago and was confident it would hold enough for the task today. From his position, he could see the outside world, but no one on the ground could see him.

Juba had exchanged the standard Schmidt & Bender PM II telescopic sight for the better Zeiss version used by the Germans, and he peered through it to examine the foot traffic along the pathways. A wolf eyeing a flock of sheep. The people below seemed startlingly close through the clear optics. The first potential target to stroll through his kill zone was a civilian wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and tan trousers. Too easy: a foreign contractor who meant nothing, and killing Americans was not his mission today. It had to be the man with the secret. Sooner or later, he would come along, if the intelligence was correct. Juba would wait. He knew how to wait.

He put down the rifle, sat in a soft chair, and flipped through the English-language newspaper that had been delivered free to the hotel room and checked the football scores to see if Manchester United had won.

He sipped chilled water from a plastic bottle. Scorching outside air oozed through the slightly opened door and did battle with the room’s buzzing air conditioner. The flat-screen color television set mounted in the wall was on, and he adjusted the volume slightly to the loud side. News readers rattled on about next week’s royal wedding in London, elevating the event steadily so that by Tuesday, the marriage of the prince and his girlfriend would be considered the most important thing in the world. Millions of people would watch. As a British subject, he vividly remembered the legends of the glory days of the monarchy, lessons that had been pounded into him as a student and later as a soldier defending the Crown. He planned to be there for the wedding.

Juba was slightly under six feet in height and slender at 170 pounds, with the fair hair of his British mother and the dark eyes of his Arab father. His skin was several shades darker than the normal Briton, more of a nice California tan that had been darkened even more by his work in the desert. It helped him move with ease in the twilight gulf between Christians and Muslims. Juba could be anybody he wanted to be, and for the past few days, he had again chosen the familiar role of a British Army sniper. It was his best disguise, because he once had been awarded the coveted sniper’s patch of two crossed rifles with an S between the barrels.

After reading the sports in the newspaper, he put his eye back to the scope and considered the next possible target, an approaching soldier who, despite the midday heat, wore a helmet and a flak jacket. This had once been the safest place in Iraq, the International Zone, home of the giant U.S. Embassy. It once had been known as the Green Zone, and although bureaucrats changed the name to better claim that the war was the effort of many nations, the Green Zone name stuck. Juba was tempted by the soldier, for he always enjoyed the challenge of placing a bullet in the small gaps of the armored vests or between the ceramic plates. Not the mission: Let him pass.

An hour before sundown, four soldiers in full armor appeared, moving in a box formation as they escorted a smaller man toward the Coalition Headquarters building where the first formal interrogation was to take place. The soldier on the left front corner was talking and making sharp, descriptive motions with one hand, probably an officer directing the prisoner transfer. Except that the man was not a prisoner, more a valuable guest of the Coalition. He had arrived yesterday in Baghdad, with the secret locked in his head. The Iraqi physicist planned to hand the information to the Americans and the British officials, but he had made too many mistakes in escaping from the laboratory in Iran. The biggest error was in trusting his coworkers, who were able to provide almost a minute-by-minute schedule for the defector. Then Juba had been summoned.

The traitor could not be allowed to reach the interrogation room alive. Juba pressed his cheek into the cool stock, his fingers roving with familiarity over the rifle to make sure it was ready. They were three hundred yards away, and he checked the flags on the government building. He estimated the wind at seven to ten miles per hour full value, right to left, which would move the fired round two inches to the left at two hundred yards. He adjusted the scope to compensate. Humidity was zero.

He settled the scope on the officer and looked for a weakness. The waving arm! The officer was describing something, and his right arm windmilled to make his point. Juba exhaled and let his heartbeat slow almost to nothing. Under the arm, that’s the place.

At two hundred yards, almost point-blank range, he squeezed the trigger back, slow and steady and straight, just as the American raised his arm above shoulder level. The big rifle fired, and the Killflash ate up the noise as the bullet entered beneath the right armpit of the officer, smashed down through the rib cage and exited out of his lower left side, crushing bones and shredding every organ in its path. The officer died before anyone could reach out to help him.

Juba accepted the light recoil and cycled another round into the chamber as the startled group stopped in its tracks. He brought his scope to the small man in the middle. They had heard nothing, but the colonel had just been shot! The soldiers spun around, looking for the threat but leaving the target uncovered. The Iraqi automatically bent down, turning to aid the fallen American. That exposed the left rear side of his neck, and Juba centered the crosshairs right there and pulled the trigger again. He was able to see the vapor trail of the bullet, which impacted right below the base of the skull and ripped out the throat when it came out the other side. Two catastrophic kills.

Juba put aside the rifle, ducked down to the floor, crawled forward, and reached up to slowly close the door to the outside patio. He went back, retrieved his kit and the rifle, tossed the pillows back onto the bed, and left the room.

He increased his pace through the lobby and hurried outside with other armed soldiers and civilian private security company guards who were moving into the attack area. A Quick Reaction Force would arrive within minutes, and uniformed men would be all over the place, with all sorts of weapons pointing everywhere, and Juba would be just another soldier with a gun. He made his way through the crowd and walked out of the Green Zone unmolested.

That evening, a small Royal Jordanian Airlines Fokker plane took off on schedule from the Baghdad International Airport. On its manifest was a quiet Canadian civilian engineer with fair hair and dark eyes. Juba was going to London.

The secret that Saddam Hussein had taken to his grave remained safe. The Palace of Death was secure.

Excerpted from Dead Shot by Jack Coughlin with Donald A. Davis.

Copyright © 2009 by Jack Coughlin with Donald A. Davis.

Published in December 2009 by St. Martin's Press.

All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and

reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in

any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

Customer Reviews