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  P R I M A R Y V A L O R

  (THE FORGING OF LUKE STONE—BOOK 5)

  J A C K M A R S

  Jack Mars

  Jack Mars is the USA Today bestselling author of the LUKE STONE thriller series, which includes seven books. He is also the author of the new FORGING OF LUKE STONE prequel series, comprising six books; and of the AGENT ZERO spy thriller series, comprising twelve books.

  ANY MEANS NECESSARY (a Luke Stone Thriller—Book #1) and AGENT ZERO (An Agent Zero Spy Thriller—Book #1) are both available as free downloads on Amazon!

  Jack loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.Jackmarsauthor.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

  Copyright © 2021 by Jack Mars. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Getmilitaryphotos, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

  BOOKS BY JACK MARS

  LUKE STONE THRILLER SERIES

  ANY MEANS NECESSARY (Book #1)

  OATH OF OFFICE (Book #2)

  SITUATION ROOM (Book #3)

  OPPOSE ANY FOE (Book #4)

  PRESIDENT ELECT (Book #5)

  OUR SACRED HONOR (Book #6)

  HOUSE DIVIDED (Book #7)

  FORGING OF LUKE STONE PREQUEL SERIES

  PRIMARY TARGET (Book #1)

  PRIMARY COMMAND (Book #2)

  PRIMARY THREAT (Book #3)

  PRIMARY GLORY (Book #4)

  PRIMARY VALOR (Book #5)

  PRIMARY DUTY (Book #6)

  AN AGENT ZERO SPY THRILLER SERIES

  AGENT ZERO (Book #1)

  TARGET ZERO (Book #2)

  HUNTING ZERO (Book #3)

  TRAPPING ZERO (Book #4)

  FILE ZERO (Book #5)

  RECALL ZERO (Book #6)

  ASSASSIN ZERO (Book #7)

  DECOY ZERO (Book #8)

  CHASING ZERO (Book #9)

  VENGEANCE ZERO (Book #10)

  ZERO ZERO (Book #11)

  ABSOLUTE ZERO (Book #12)

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  March 24, 2006

  12:05 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Wrightsville Beach

  North Carolina

  Charlotte was drunk on the beach.

  She was sixteen years old, and she had slipped out of her mom’s house to come to this party. It was clever, and daring, the way she did it. It went like this:

  She had told her mom, and her mom’s boyfriend Jeff, that she was tired and was going to bed early. She said she had an exam in the morning. Tomorrow was Friday, a school day. The test was in World History. It was a hard class.

  There was no test, of course.

  Her mom would be up and off to work early. Jeff was rich, didn’t seem to work at all and never got up before noon. When Charlotte left, the two of them were watching a movie in the TV room, like they often did.

  Charlotte locked the knob on her bedroom door, then pulled it shut behind her as she entered the hall. She had stashed a bookbag with her party clothes in the garage. She quietly slipped past the TV room, into the laundry room, then out into the silent three-car garage. If they happened to catch her, she was dressed in sweatpants and a Hello Kitty T-shirt—she was going to bed, but had wandered down to the laundry room to look for some socks she was missing. And wouldn’t you know it? She had locked herself out of her bedroom!

  But it didn’t come to that. Instead, she moved through the garage.

  Mom’s white Volvo was there. Jeff’s BMW convertible and his classic old Hudson from the 1940s were there. Jeff went crazy if someone touched that car. He drove it like once a year to show off.

  Charlotte picked up her bag and went to the side door of the garage. Her heart skipped a beat. She had pulled this off a few times before, but she was still nervous. There was a stone walkway out there, flanked by bushes and leading around to the front of the house. Her mom never set the house alarm until she was going to bed. A lot of times she forgot to set it at all.

  Charlotte took a deep breath, went through the door, closed it carefully behind her, and she was outside the house. Her friend Taylor was waiting for her three blocks away. The party was at Taylor’s house on the beach. Taylor was eighteen, and had graduated last year. Taylor’s parents were away in the Bahamas.

  Taylor would drop Charlotte off at school tomorrow morning like none of this had ever happened. When Charlotte got home in the afternoon, she would tell Jeff she accidentally locked herself out of her room again, and he would open the lock with a screwdriver. Charlotte was a little spacey like that—she locked herself out of her room sometimes.

  Now, on the beach, she breathed the cool night air.

  Rob was a little bit ahead of her, laughing and shouting about something. The waves were crashing, drowning out what he was saying. There must be a storm at sea, the waves were so big.

  Behind them, what seemed like all the lights were on at Taylor’s mansion. The pool area was lit up. There were only about ten kids at the party—it was a school night, after all—but Taylor liked to do things big. The music was booming. Charlotte could no longer make out the songs, but she could still hear the rumble of the bass.

  Her head was spinning with sensations. Two vodka tonics. Taylor poured them heavy. The cold air—the chill was reaching her now. She had just climbed out of the hot tub, and was wearing only a bikini with a plu
sh towel wrapped around her. The freedom of being out, the freedom of having a friend like Taylor, one of the real super rich.

  The surge of fear at the risks she had taken to get here.

  The surge of… feelings… maybe… that she had about Rob.

  Butterflies in her stomach.

  It was a crazy night.

  “Rob!” she shouted. “Rob! Where are you going?”

  “Come on!” he shouted.

  He was tall and blond, a year older than her, on the football team, a lifeguard in the summer. His hair was nice—it flopped down in front of his eyes. He was cute, and had a great body. He was buff. That’s what everybody said. Rob was buff. He wasn’t wrapped in a towel. He was just wearing red shorts. Wasn’t he cold?

  It was dark out here. There was no moon tonight. And it was getting way too cold now. She wanted to go back to the house. The sand was cold on her feet. A chill went through her and gooseflesh rose up on her skin.

  “Rob!”

  Suddenly he was right in front of her, and she bumped into him. He was like a foot taller than her.

  “Hey you,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  He made a face, eyeing her suspiciously. “You okay, pretty girl?”

  “I’m cold. I want to go back to the house.”

  “Already? Come on. Stay out here with me. I’ll keep you warm.”

  He slipped his big arms around her, and she let him do it.

  Now the sensations were stronger than ever. She pressed against him and shivered. But then everything changed.

  Suddenly, there was a shadow in the darkness with them. No, it was two shadows. She and Rob were pulled apart somehow. She fell to the sand.

  She looked up.

  “Rob?”

  Rob was still there, on his feet. There were also two men, fully dressed. They were wearing dark hoods, like ski masks.

  One pulled Rob back by the hair. The other punched him. Rob struggled with them for a few seconds. But then he was down on the sand, too. The men were punching him, and then kicking him.

  Why? Why were they doing that?

  “Rob!”

  Charlotte jumped up, threw her towel away, and ran back toward the house. It was there in front of her, lights blazing, music thumping, tantalizingly close, but much too far away. She ran and ran.

  “Help!” she screamed. “HELP!”

  The waves crashed behind her, the ocean roaring.

  She gasped for air.

  A hand gripped her hair from behind.

  An instant later, a strong arm was around her waist. It was the strongest arm she had ever felt—stronger than Rob, and he was a football player.

  “Hold on, my friend,” a voice growled in her ear. “Wait a moment.”

  She tried to kick and punch, but now the other man was there. He circled around and stood in front of her. All she could see of his face were his eyes inside the mask. He held a hand out. There was a small towel in his hand. He pushed it against her face. It had a sweet smell. She tried to turn away, but couldn’t. Strong hands shoved her face into the cloth.

  In a few seconds, she began to feel dizzy. The lights of the house, looming right there, began to fade. It no longer occurred to her to scream, or try to move her head.

  Slowly, slowly, everything went black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  6:01 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  South Ward

  Newark, New Jersey

  Luke Stone felt the acceleration of the armored car as it turned the final corner and started its run toward the house.

  “One minute,” the team leader said. He was three people up the bench to Luke’s left.

  “Rock and roll,” someone on the other side of the truck said.

  “Move fast,” the team leader said. He stood, holding onto the railing above his head. He was helmeted, visor down, making his features hard to see. Luke knew him as a tall guy with a bushy beard and Coke bottle glasses strapped on his face, former 1st Special Forces captain. The guy seemed utterly fearless. This was not his first rodeo.

  “Hit hard. No hesitation. It’s all bad guys in there. Do not let them give you one second of fight.”

  Luke couldn’t see the house from where he was sitting, but he could recall every detail of it in his mind. He had studied the photographs and the house plans.

  It was a low-slung, one-story bungalow in a neighborhood of very similar homes. The front yard, and the property around it, was overgrown and choked with weeds. A couple of small bicycles lay on their sides near the wall.

  The place was five blocks from a massive landfill—if it weren’t for the dump trucks constantly driving on top of it, and the flocks of seagulls diving from the sky for scraps, the grassy landfill could be mistaken for a small mountain, like a park for people to go walking and hiking.

  There were three bedrooms and one bathroom inside, the bedrooms down a narrow hall. The living room was where you entered the front door. A combined kitchen and dining room. In the kitchen was a door leading down to an underground cellar. There was a fenced-in backyard, as weed-choked and overgrown as the front.

  A squad of doorbusters from the Drug Enforcement Agency were likely hopping the fence into the yard at this second. A DEA helicopter with a sniper in the doorway was trailing this armored truck by about a quarter of a mile. It would arrive seconds after the truck.

  “Thirty seconds,” the team leader said.

  The engine of the big armored truck increased in pitch. They were really moving now.

  Luke glanced across at Ed Newsam. Ed sat on the opposite fiberglass bench, helmeted, visor up, black tactical vest with the letters DEA in white across the front. His shotgun rested across his knees. Ed and Luke were both bunched between other men in black jumpsuits, helmets, tactical vests. The line of men all looked like so many nameless, faceless storm troopers.

  Luke’s eyes met Ed’s. Ed nodded, but Luke couldn’t read those eyes. The two of them were on an interagency loan. They were here as guests, to do an outside assessment of a drug house takedown. They’d driven up from Washington, DC, thirty-six hours ago. These were good guys, but Ed and Luke barely knew them.

  The team leader swayed with the movement of the truck.

  “Here… we… go!”

  Luke glanced past him at the front. The truck was wide open and he could look through the windshield, seeing what the driver was seeing.

  The house was straight ahead. Pale yellow, long faded; brown shingle roof with a slight overhang. It was coming fast.

  The truck burst through the fencing and down the short incline of the driveway to the house. It bumped and bounced over the uneven gravel. The driveway dead-ended at a picture window, blinds drawn. The truck was headed right for it.

  “Impact!” the driver shouted.

  Luke braced himself without thinking.

  BOOOM.

  The truck crashed through the window and the wall that held it. Luke caught a glimpse of the glass and the wall—aluminum siding, outer wall, Sheetrock, all of it—exploding inward.

  He put his visor down.

  Then the back door was open and he was up and moving.

  “Go! Go! GO!”

  Ed and the man next to him were out the door ahead of Luke. Luke landed on the carpet of the living room with both feet.

  “DOWN!” someone shouted. “DOWN!”

  Two helmeted figures in black threw a guy in a T-shirt and jeans to the floor. A table was upended, several guns, money, and bags of white powder flying. One beefy man in black wrestled the guy onto his stomach, pulling his arms behind him.

  Then Luke was moving down the hall, steps behind Ed and the other man. Their target was the third bedroom. Agents were bursting into rooms right and left. Their chatter came through the speaker inside Luke’s helmet. Ed hit a door to his right and blasted through it. The next agent went in. Luke was three steps behind.

  “Drop it!” he heard a voice shout. It was Ed.

  Luke turned the corner. Ed wa
s there in the room, his huge body crouching forward. His shotgun was in his left hand, pointed upward toward the ceiling. His right hand was extended, fingers splayed out.

  Across the room, in front of a narrow twin bed mattress on the floor, was a kid. Luke absorbed everything about him in a split second.

  He was a skinny black kid in a white T-shirt and blue shorts. His feet were bare. His thick hair was out in a crazy Afro, a bright green plastic pick protruding from it. He seemed like he was twelve years old but could have been a little older. Regardless, he looked barely strong enough to hold up the rifle he was leveling at Ed.

  “Wait,” Ed said. “Wait. Don’t you do it.”

  The DEA agent with them was in a two-handed stance just inside the door, his Glock pointed at the kid.

  “Drop it!” the agent shouted.

  “Wait,” Ed said again.

  BANG!

  The kid fired. The round hit Ed’s vest and knocked him backwards against the wall.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  The DEA agent fired three times in fast succession.

  The kid bucked and shivered as the rounds ripped through him. He dropped his gun, his head drooping at the top of his neck for a second. His eyes seemed surprised, like the possibility that he might get shot, that he might in fact die, had never occurred to him before this moment. His shoulders dropped and he slid bonelessly to the mattress. The kid’s white shirt, and the dingy white sheet on the mattress, instantly began to turn red.

  “Man down!” Luke shouted into his microphone. “Man down!”

  “Medic!” the DEA agent shouted into his own mic. “We need a medic in here!”

  Luke went to Ed. It seemed as if Luke’s feet were floating several inches above the ground. Bad memories flooded his mind.

  Suddenly, the drug house was gone, and Luke was back there. Afghanistan, along the eastern border with Pakistan. A long, bad night in a dust storm. A bad mission, poorly conceived and planned.

  He was in a stone house inside a walled compound. A large back room. Luke’s team had fought their way through the house to reach this room. The floors were covered in thick, overlapping carpets. The walls were hung with carpets—ornate, richly colored carpets depicting vast landscapes—deserts, mountains, jungles, waterfalls.