"We call you Saint."The name ignited a light in Carl's mind. Saint. He'd been covertly recruited for Black Ops and given his life to the most by Ted Dekker Kindle Book; OverDrive Read; Adobe PDF eBook MB; Adobe EPUB eBook 1 MB. Read Saint by Ted Dekker for free with a 30 day free trial. Read unlimited* books and audiobooks on the web, iPad, iPhone and Android. SAINT TEDDEKKER WESTBOW P R E S S A Division of T h o m a s Nelson Publisher Sinn visit us at Size Report. DOWNLOAD PDF Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Dekker, Ted, Saint / Ted Dekker. p . cm.
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streets of New York, Saint takes you on a journey of betrayal in a world of Showdown A Paradise Novel, Ted Dekker, Jan 3, , Fiction, pages. . kaz-news.info by Ted Dekker. ·. ··11, Ratings. "We call you Saint."The name ignited a light in Carl's mind. Saint. He'd been covertly recruited for Black Ops and. "We call you Saint."The name ignited a light in Carl's mind. Saint. He'd been covertly recruited for Black Ops and given his life to the most brutal kind of training.
Carl Strople struggles to retain fleeting memories that betray an even more ominous reality. He's been told part of the truth——but what's the rest? Invasive techniques have stripped him of his identity and made him someone new——for this he is grateful. But there are some things they can't take from him. The love of a woman, unbroken loyalties to his past, the need for survival.
From the deep woods of Hungary to the streets of New York, Saint takes you on a journey of betrayal in a world of government cover—ups, political intrigue, and one man's search for the truth. In the end, that truth will be his undoing. Publication Details Publisher: Thomas Nelson Released: Sep 2, ISBN: Book Preview Saint - Ted Dekker. Start your free 30 days. Page 1 of 1.
Close Dialog Are you sure? Also remove everything in this list from your library. Are you sure you want to delete this list? Remove them from Saved? No Yes. He was rewarded with a squealing metal bed frame, no more. Another mistake. Whoever had the resources to kidnap them undoubtedly had the foresight to use the right restraints. He was reacting impulsively rather than with calculation. Carl closed his eyes and calmed himself. Focus, you have to focus.
I'm pretty sure they want you to kill someone. Clasped his wrist.
I'm so afraid. Slow down. I've been tied to this bed for three days! I thought you were dead! They took our son!
They stared at each other for a few silent seconds. There was something strange about her eyes. He was remembering scant details of their kidnapping, even fewer details of their life together, but her eyes were a window into a world that felt familiar and right.
They had Matthew. Rage began to swell, but he cut it off and was surprised to feel it wane. His training was kicking in. He'd been trained not to let feelings cloud his judgment. So then his not feeling was a good thing. We were on a cruise—" "No, everything. Who we are, how we were taken. What's happened since we arrived. He lifted his head and twisted it for a look at the mattress under his hair.
A fist-sized red blotch stained the cover. The pain came then, a deep, throbbing ache at the base of his skull. He laid his head back down and stared at the ceiling. With only a little effort he disconnected himself from the pain. Matthew was downloading some crystallized ginger when a man grabbed him and went into an alley between the tents.
You went after him. I saw someone hit you from behind with a metal pipe. Then a rag with some kind of chemical was clamped over my face and I passed out. Today's the first time I've seen you. Not now. There would be time for anger later, if they survived. His head seemed to be clearing. More than likely they'd kept him drugged for days, and whatever they'd put into his system half an hour ago was waking him up. That would explain his temporary memory loss.
The one named Dale is a sickening. Carl blocked scattered images of all the possible things Dale might have done to her. Again, that he was able to do this so easily surprised him. Was he so insensitive to his own wife? No, he was brutally efficient. For her sake he had to be. Their captors had left their mouths free—if he could find a way to reach their restraints. A man with short-cropped blond hair stepped into the room. Medium height. Knifelike nose and chin. Fiercely eager blue eyes. Khaki cotton pants, black shirt, hairy arms.
Carl knew this man. This was Dale Crompton. This was a man who'd spent some time in the dark spaces of Carl's mind, securing Carl's hatred.
Kelly had said Hungarian, but she must have meant someone else, because Dale was an Englishman. The man's right arm hung by his side, hand snugged around an Eastern Bloc Makarov 9mm pistol. The detail was brightly lit in Carl's mind while other details remained stubbornly shrouded by darkness. He knew his weapons.
Without any warning or fanfare, Dale rounded the foot of the bed, pressed the barrel of the Makarov against Kelly's right thigh, and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked with a thunderclap. Kelly arched her back, screamed, and thrashed against her restraints, then dropped to the mattress in a faint.
Carl's mind passed the threshold of whatever training he'd received. His mind demanded he feel nothing, lie uncaring in the face of brutal manipulation, but his body had already begun its defense of his wife. He snarled and bolted up, oblivious to the pain in his wrists and ankles. The movement proved useless. He might as well be a dog on a thick chain, jerked violently back at the end of a sprint for freedom.
He collapsed back onto the bed and gathered himself. Kelly lay still. A single glance told him that the bullet had expended its energy without passing through her leg, which meant it had struck the femur, probably shattering it. I'd love to kill her. And your son. What is his name? You must believe in your ability to save them.
He says the boy will be useful if you fail us the first time. Fresh breezes carried a lone bird's chirping into the room. It's spring. I can smell fresh grass and spring flowers. I can smell fresh blood. Englishman faced him. This explains the bleeding at the back of your head.
Any attempt to remove this device will result in the release of chemicals that will destroy your brain within ten seconds. Your life is in our hands. Is this clear? Exactly what he would have expected, knowing what he did, whatever that was.
Your mission is to kill a man and his wife currently housed in a heavily guarded hotel at the edge of the town directly to our south, three miles away.
Joseph and Mary Fabin will be in their room on the third floor. Number No one else is to be killed. Only the targets. You have two cartridges in the gun, only two. No head shots. We need their faces for television.
Do you understand? Aside from a slight tic in his right eye, he showed none of it. Beside him, Kelly moaned. How could he ignore his wife's suffering so easily? Carl eyed the pistol on the sill. If you make any contact with the authorities, your wife will die. If you haven't returned within sixty minutes, both she and your son will die. He withdrew a knife from his waistband, walked over to Carl, and laid the sharp edge against the red nylon rope that tied Carl's right leg to the bed frame.
But if you try, you, your wife, and your son will be dead within the minute. Kelly whimpered, and Carl looked over to see that her eyes were open again. Face white, muted by horror and pain.
A.D. 30 (A.D., #1)
For a long moment, lying there freed beside the woman he loved, Carl allowed a terrible fury to roll through his mind. Despite Dale's claim, Carl knew that he stood at least an even chance of killing their captor. He wanted to touch Kelly and to tell her that she would be okay. That he would save her and their son. He wanted to tear the heart out of the man who was now watching them with a dispassionate stare, like a robot assigned to a simple task.
He wanted to scream.
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He wanted to cry. He wanted to kill himself. Instead, he lay still. Kelly closed her eyes and started to sob again. He wished she would stop. He wanted to shout at her and demand that she stop this awful display of fear. Didn't she know that fear was now their greatest enemy?
I'm in a nightmare. He reached for the gun. But the Makarov's cold steel handle felt nothing like a dream. It felt like salvation. Carl was sure that he would spin where he stood, shoot Dale through the forehead, and take his chances with the implant or whatever other means they had of killing him and his family. The only way he knew to deal with such a compelling urge was to shut down his emotions entirely.
He clenched his jaw and shoved the gun into his waistband. When he came to his feet, he was facing south. How did he know it was south? He just did. He would go south and he would kill. He dressed quickly, pulled on a pair of cargo pants and black running shoes, and tied a red bandanna around his neck to hide the blood that had oozed from a cut at the base of his skull, roughly two inches behind his right ear.
Odd to think that a single remote signal could take his life. Odd, not terrifying. Not even odd, actually. He snatched up the Makarov, shoved it behind his back, and set out at a fast jog.
He was in a small compound, ten buildings in a small valley surrounded by a deciduous forest. Three of the buildings were concrete; the rest appeared to be made of wood. Most had small windows, perhaps eighteen inches square. Tin roofs. No landscaping, just bare dirt and grass. To the west, a shooting range stretched into the trees farther than he could see, well over three thousand yards. The day was hot, midafternoon.
Quiet except for the chirping of a few birds and the rustle of a light breeze through the trees. On stilts, a single observation post with narrow, rectangular 10 SAINT windows towered over the trees.
There were eyes behind those windows, watching him. All of this he assimilated before realizing that he was taking in his surroundings in such a calculating, clinical manner. His wife lay on a bed with a shattered femur, his son was in some dark hole in one of these buildings, and Carl was running south, away from them in order to save them. Three miles would take fifteen minutes at a healthy jog for the fittest man. Was he fit? He'd run a hundred yards and felt only slightly winded.
He was fit. As part of Special Forces, he would be. But why was he forced to rely on instinct and calculation instead of clear memory to determine even these simple facts? He brought his mind back to the task at hand.
What were the consequences of entering a hotel and murdering a man and his wife? Death for the man and his wife. Orphaned children. A prison sentence for the killer. What were the consequences of allowing this man and his wife to live? Death for Kelly and Matthew.
He was in a black hole from which there was no escape. But blackness was familiar territory to him, wasn't it? A pang of sorrow stabbed him. There was something about blackness that made him want to cry. Carl ran faster now, weaving through the trees, pushing back the emotions that flogged him, and doing so quite easily. When the blackness encroached, he focused on a single pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel, because only there, in the light, could he find the strength to hold the darkness at bay.
He had no way to know with any certainty when the hour he'd been given would expire, but time was now irrelevant.
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He possessed limits and he would push himself to those limits. Any distraction caused by worry or fear would only interfere with his success. He pulled up behind a tree, panting. There was the town. Only one neighborhood in his line of sight contained multistory buildings—the Andrassy would be there.
After a quick scan of the country leading to the town, he angled for the buildings at a jog, slower now, senses keen.
His shirttail hid the gun at his waist, but nothing else about him would be so easily hidden once he encountered people. Was Kelly right? Were they really in Hungary?
He didn't speak Hungarian but doubted he looked much different from any ordinary Hungarian. On the other hand, he was sweating from a hard run and his neck was wrapped in a bright bandanna—these facts wouldn't go unnoticed. The hotel was heavily guarded, Englishman had said. How could Carl possibly race into a completely foreign town, barge into a wellguarded hotel, shoot two possible innocents, and expect any good to come of it?
Images of Kelly flooded his mind. She was strapped to the bed, right femur shattered, face stained with tears, praying desperately for him to save her. And Matthew. He ran past farming lots that bordered the blacktop entering the town from his angle of approach; past people milking a cow, raking straw, riding a bicycle, kicking a soccer ball.
He ignored them all and jogged. How empty his mind was. How vacant. How hopeless. How disconnected from the details swimming around him, though he noticed everything. He slowed to a fast walk when he reached the edge of town and searched for a hotel matching Englishman's description. No hotel at all. And time was running low. Carl flagged the rider of an old black Schwinn bicycle and spoke quickly when the older man's blue eyes fixed on him. Car nodded and ran west. On each side of the asphalt ribbon, people stopped to watch him.
Clearly, he looked like more than a commoner out for an afternoon jog. But unless they represented an immediate threat, he would ignore them. For the moment they were only curious. Assault has three allies: Carl didn't have the power to overwhelm more than a few guards. Speed and surprise, on the other hand, could work for him, assuming he was unexpected.
The Andrassy was a square four-story building constructed out of red brick. A Hungarian flag flapped lazily on a pole jutting out from the wall above large revolving doors.
Two long black Mercedes waited in the circular drive—possibly part of the guard. Carl veered toward the back of the hotel. A large garbage bin smelled of rotting vegetables. The kitchen was nearby. He bounded over three metal steps and tried a gray metal door. He pushed it open, stepped into a dim hallway, and pulled the door shut behind him.
He followed the sound of clattering dishes down the cluttered hall and through a doorway ten paces ahead on his right. He grabbed an apron from a laundry bin against the wall and wiped the sweat from his face. He slipped into the apron.
Barely there long enough to answer a casual glance from a passing employee. It was all about speed now. If he was right, there would be a service elevator nearby. If he was right, there would be guards posted outside the third-floor room that held the targets. If he was right, he had roughly ten minutes to kill and run. Carl took deep breaths, calming his heart and lungs. The soft ding of an elevator bell confirmed his first guess. Kill and run. His mind was on the killings because the killings would save his wife and son.
There were two ways to the third floor. The first required stealth— assuming a server's identity on a mission to deliver room service, perhaps. He dismissed this idea because it was predictable, thus undermining his greatest allies, speed and surprise. The second approach was far bolder and therefore less predictable. Carl breathed deeply through his nostrils and closed his eyes. He'd been here before, hadn't he? He couldn't remember where or why, but he was in familiar territory.
Unless the guards were exceptional, they would hesitate before shooting an unarmed man who approached them. There were towels in the laundry basket.
Carl quickly pulled off his shoes, socks, apron, bandanna, and shirt, pushing them behind the laundry bin. With a flip of his fingers, he unsnapped his cargo pants, let them fall around his ankles, and tied the pistol to his thigh using the bandanna. He pulled his pants back up and rolled up the legs to just below his knees. Bare feet, bare legs, bare chest, bare back—no sign of a weapon, even to a trained eye.
Satisfied, he draped a large white towel over his head and around his neck so that it covered the blood at the back of his neck and fell over his chest on either side. A man who'd just come from a swim or a shower. Unusual to be found walking through a hotel, particularly one that didn't have a pool, which he suspected to be the case here, but not so unusual as to cause alarm. He had taken a shower upstairs, come down on a quick errand, and was headed back to his room. Carl grabbed the towel on each side, strolled down the hall, and walked into the open, whistling a nondescript tune.
His uncut nails made a clicking sound like a rat running across a wooden floor. They were all firmly in this man's grasp: Agotha loved and hated him. Kalman could not be defined easily, only because he refused to explain himself. But then, evil rarely did explain itself. Still, she could not ignore her attraction to the raw power that accompanied Kalman's exceptional lust for death.
He feared nothing except his own creations, killers who could slay a man with as little feeling as he himself possessed. Of all his understudies, Englishman was the one he feared most, although soon enough Carl might surpass even Englishman, a fact that wasn't lost on anyone. It was this tenuous nature of the game that brought Kalman satisfaction, not the millions of Euros this X Group of his was paid for its assassins' skills.
Agotha glanced at the wall clock behind them. Perhaps I should call Englishman. We've come so far. Her place was here, in the compound's hospital. But now they were on the verge of something that even she struggled to understand. I don't care either way. To fail now would be a terrible setback. The shooting of two people was all that stood in the way. Kalman looked at her without emotion. Without comment. He returned his gaze to the monitor and resumed clicking his fingernails on the wood. In the event he raised an alarm prematurely, he would resort to force.
He'd timed his approach by the elevator's bell, but by the time he caught sight of it, the door was already closing. Empty or not, he didn't know. At least a dozen people were staring his way from the main lobby on the right. Casual stares, curious stares. For the moment. Carl stopped his whistling and ran for the door—a man hurrying to catch an elevator. The towel slipped off his neck and fell to the ground. He reached the elevator call button, gave it a quick hit with his palm, and reached back for the towel as the door slid open.
The car was empty. He stepped in, pushed the button for the fourth floor, and resumed his whistling. The door slid closed, and he shut his eyes to calm his nerves. Who are you, Carl? He didn't know precisely who he was, did he? He knew his name. Scattered details of a dark past. But why was his past so foggy? Who were his captors? Why had they chosen him to do their killing? Whatever they'd done to his head was more profound than a mere drug-induced effect.
He grunted and shoved the questions aside. Do you believe? What do you believe? Something about belief mattered greatly.
The elevator bell clanged. He stepped onto the fourth floor, reached back into the elevator, pushed the button for the third floor, and was running toward the stairwell at the end of the hall before the elevator doors closed. Despite the absence of specific memories, he seemed to be able to access whatever information he needed for this killing business from a vast pool of knowledge without a second thought. For example, the basic fact that going to a target's floor by elevator was unwise on two counts: First, because all eyes watching the elevator call numbers above the doors on any floor would know where it stopped.
Second, because the elevator's arrival was almost always preceded by a bell, which would naturally warn any posted guard. Better to take the stairs or the elevator to a different floor. Carl had chosen the elevator because that's what would be expected of a nutty tourist who'd gone down to the lobby for a candy bar or something after a shower.
These kinds of techniques didn't require any thought on his part. His training in the Special Forces had clearly become instinctive. Carl ran down the stairs, pulled up by the third-floor access door, and waited for the sound of the elevator bell, heart pounding. This was it. What am I doing?
The bell sounded. He pushed the door open and stepped into the third-floor hall. Two guards dressed in dark suits stood across the hall, twenty yards down.
Neither sported a weapon. Their heads were turned away from him, toward the elevator. He hurried toward them, covered half the distance before the closest guard turned his way. Carl cried out in pain, doubled over, and grabbed his right foot.
Without hesitation, he inserted his thumb between his second and third toes and dug his nail into the skin with enough force to draw blood. He pulled his hand away, red with a streak of blood. The guard demanded something of him in Hungarian. Carl ignored him. Examined his foot, feigning shock. Muttered loudly. Another question, this one from the second guard.
He gave them a quizzical look. Both had their eyes on his foot. He hobbled toward them. Sorry, I just.
Carl took two fast strides, smashed his left palm under the closest guard's chin while stepping past him. The second guard had pulled a pistol clear of his coat when Carl's right fist slammed into the man's gun hand.
Using his momentum, Carl propelled his head into the guard's chin. No one else dies, Englishman had said. The first guard slumped, unconscious, hopefully not dead. The second stood dazed. Carl grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked the man's head into his rising knee. The man grunted and dropped like a sack of coal. Carl broke his fall with his right leg. The tussle may have been heard inside, but he couldn't change that now. He quickly searched both men, found the card in the second guard's jacket.
Hall still clear. No need for the Makarov tied to his leg.
Carl retrieved both of the guards' guns, shoved one behind his back and checked the other for a chambered cartridge, slipped the key card into its slot, and twisted the knob when a green light indicated he'd successfully unlocked the door.
He stepped into the room, gun extended. He'd been prepared to shoot from the threshold if necessary—time was running short and there was a chance the guards would regain consciousness soon.
He stepped into the room, gun still leading. That distant voice in his head was asking him questions—such as whether he should reconsider shooting two people in cold blood, challenging how he could do this without considerable turmoil.
He shut the voice down. Two doors led out of the room, one on each side. Voices from the one on the left. He broke toward the left, turned the door handle slowly, and then crashed through with enough force to bury the doorknob in the wall plaster.I can smell fresh grass and spring flowers.
The only content we will consider removing is spam, slanderous attacks on other members, or extremely offensive content eg. He sprinted toward the building that had held Kelly. Her legs had been cut and bruised, and the cord was tied tightly enough around her ankles to leave marks.
Voices from the one on the left. Any attempt to remove this device will result in the release of chemicals that will destroy your brain within ten seconds. He'd spent countless hours asking those questions and never received answers, only frayed emotions, which he could not afford. Joseph and Mary Fabin will be in their room on the third floor.
She obviously loves you. It was cool down here.
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