Crimson Phoenix

John Gilstrap

Praise

Praise for JOHN GILSTRAP and his thrillers

CRIMSON PHOENIX

“A nonstop roller coaster of suspense! Crimson Phoenix ticks every box for big-book thrillerdom.”
—Jeffery Deaver

“Don’t miss this powerful new series from a master thriller writer.”
—Jamie Freveletti

“A single mother’s smart, fierce determination to protect her sons turns this vivid day-after-tomorrow scenario into a gripping page-turner.”
—Taylor Stevens

“Crimson Phoenix snaps with action from the very first page. It’s certain to hit the 10-ring with old and new readers alike.”
—Marc Cameron

TOTAL MAYHEM

“Propulsive . . . Not everyone survives the final confrontation, but series fans can rest assured that Grave will fight again. Straightforward plotting, amped-up action, and amusing banter keep the pages turning.”
—Publishers Weekly

SCORPION STRIKE

“Relentlessly paced as well as brilliantly told and constructed, this is as good as thrillers get.”
—The Providence Journal

“A sizzling beach read for military action fans . . . the perfect summer read for thriller fans.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“The series deserves attention from anyone who enjoys plot-driven thrillers. . . . Grave is, as always, a solid series lead.”
—Booklist

FINAL TARGET

“Fast-paced and well-plotted.”
—Booklist

“Exciting. . . . Fans of epic adventure stories will find plenty to like.”
—Publishers Weekly

FRIENDLY FIRE

“If you only read one book this summer, make sure it’s Friendly Fire, and be ready to be strapped in for the ride of your life.”
—Suspense Magazine

“A blistering thriller that grabs your attention and doesn’t let go for a second!”
—The Real Book Spy

NICK OF TIME

“A page-turning thriller with strong characters, exciting action, and a big heart.”
—Heather Graham

AGAINST ALL ENEMIES

WINNER OF THE INTERNATIONAL THRILLER WRITERS

AWARD FOR BEST PAPERBACK ORIGINAL

“Any John Gilstrap novel packs the punch of a rocket-propelled grenade—on steroids! Gilstrap grabs the reader’s attention in a literary vise grip. A damn good read.”
—BookReporter.com

“Tense, clever. . . . Series enthusiasts are bound to enjoy this new thriller.”
—Library Journal

END GAME

AN AMAZON EDITORS’ FAVORITE BOOK OF THE YEAR

“Gilstrap’s new Jonathan Grave thriller is his best novel to date—even considering his enviable bibliography. End Game starts off explosively and keeps on rolling.”
—Joe Hartlaub, BookReporter.com

DAMAGE CONTROL

“Powerful and explosive, an unforgettable journey into the dark side of the human soul. Gilstrap is a master of action and drama. If you like Vince Flynn and Brad Thor, you’ll love John Gilstrap.”
—Gayle Lynds

“Rousing. . . . Readers will anxiously await the next installment.”
—Publishers Weekly

“It’s easy to see why John Gilstrap is the go-to guy among thriller writers when it comes to weapons, ammunition, and explosives. His expertise is uncontested.”
—John Ramsey Miller

“A page-turning, near-perfect thriller, with engaging and believable characters . . . unputdownable!”
—Top Mystery Novels

“Takes you full force right away and doesn’t let go. The action is nonstop. Gilstrap knows his technology and weaponry. Damage Control will blow you away.”
—Suspense Magazine

THREAT WARNING

“Threat Warning is a character-driven work where the vehicle has four on the floor and horsepower to burn. From beginning to end, it is dripping with excitement.”
—Joe Hartlaub, Bookreporter

“Threat Warning reconfirms Gilstrap as a master of jaw-dropping action and heart-squeezing suspense.”
—Austin Camacho, The Big Thrill

HOSTAGE ZERO

“Jonathan Grave, my favorite freelance peacemaker, problem-solver, and tough-guy hero, is back—and in particularly fine form. Hostage Zero is classic Gilstrap: the people are utterly real, the action’s foot to the floor, and the writing’s fluid as a well-oiled machine gun. A tour de force!”
—Jeffery Deaver

“This addictively readable thriller marries a breakneck pace to a complex, multilayered plot. . . . A roller coaster ride of adrenaline-inducing plot twists leads to a riveting and highly satisfying conclusion. Exceptional characterization and an intricate, flawlessly crafted story line make this an absolute must read for thriller fans.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

NO MERCY

“No Mercy grabs hold of you on page one and doesn’t let go. Gilstrap’s new series is terrific. It will leave you breathless. I can’t wait to see what Jonathan Grave is up to next.”
—Harlan Coben

“John Gilstrap is one of the finest thriller writers on the planet. No Mercy showcases his work at its finest—taut, action-packed, and impossible to put down!” —Tess Gerritsen

“A great hero, a pulse-pounding story—and the launch of a really exciting series.”
—Joseph Finder

“An entertaining, fast-paced tale of violence and revenge.”
—Publishers Weekly

“No other writer is better able to combine in a single novel both rocket-paced suspense and heartfelt looks at family and the human spirit. And what a pleasure to meet Jonathan Grave, a hero for our time . . . and for all time.”
—Jeffery Deaver

AT ALL COSTS

“Gilstrap builds tension . . . until the last page, a hallmark of great thriller writers. I almost called the paramedics before I finished At All Costs.”
—Tulsa World

“Gilstrap has ingeniously twisted his simple premise six ways from Sunday.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“Not-to-be-missed.”
—Rocky Mountain News

NATHAN’S RUN

“Gilstrap pushes every thriller button . . . a nail-biting denouement and strong characters.”
—San Francisco Chronicle

“Gilstrap has a shot at being the next John Grisham . . . one of the best books of the year.”
—Rocky Mountain News

“Emotionally charged . . . one of the year’s best.”
—Chicago Tribune

“Brilliantly calculated. . . . With the skill of a veteran pulp master, Gilstrap weaves a yarn that demands to be read in one sitting.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Like a roller coaster, the story races along on well-oiled wheels to an undeniably pulse-pounding conclusion.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

Also by

ALSO BY JOHN GILSTRAP

Blue Fire

Crimson Phoenix

Hellfire

Total Mayhem

Scorpion Strike

Final Target

Nick of Time

Friendly Fire

Against All Enemies

End Game

Soft Targets

High Treason

Damage Control

Threat Warning

Hostage Zero

No Mercy

Six Minutes to Freedom (with Kurt Muse)

Scott Free

Even Steven

At All Costs

Nathan’s Run

Title Page

Copyright Page

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington sales manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018, attn: Sales Department; phone 1-800-221-2647.

This book 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 fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

First Kensington hardcover printing: March 2021
First Pinnacle paperback printing: December 2021

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN: 978-0-7860-4664-5

Printed in the United States of America

Electronic edition:

ISBN: 978-0-7860-4665-2 (e-book)

Dedication

To Joy

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

MCCREA CHECKED HIS WATCH AS HE PRESSED THE SMARTPHONE against his ear. Ten-fifteen. He knew she was home, and he’d give her three more rings before he kicked in the door. Finally the connection clicked. He started talking before the other side had a chance to speak. “Is this Victoria Emerson, U.S. representative for West Virginia’s Third Congressional District?”

“Who is this?”

He recognized her voice and heard the annoyance. “Please respond to my question,” he said. His tone sounded as urgent as he intended.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “Now, who is this?”

“Major Joseph McCrea,” he replied. “CRIMSON PHOENIX is active. This is not a drill.”

A moment of silence on the other end. “CRIMSON PHOENIX?” Her voice trembled. “Not Crimson Shield. CRIMSON PHOENIX?” The difference meant everything.

“Yes, ma’am, CRIMSON PHOENIX. I am here to escort you to safety.”

“You’re here?”

“I’m standing on your front stoop. Please open the door for me so I don’t have to open it for you. My way will be too loud for the neighborhood at this time of night.” He heard footsteps from the inside. A chain slid, and the door opened a crack. Even though he could see only an eye and a cheek, he recognized the face that had been made famous on so many talking-head shows.

Victoria Emerson first focused on him, but then her eyes widened as she saw the soldiers he’d brought with him. Her blank expression showed the enormity of it all. “Is this really real?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, it is. You’ve got five minutes to get your stuff together.”

The United States was at war. DEFCON 1. Release of nuclear weapons imminent.

“I–I don’t know that I can be ready that quickly.”

McCrea had expected that. And he had an answer. “Ma’am, I have orders. I’m taking you to safety. You do not have a vote in this.” He splayed his fingers. “Five minutes.”

The congresswoman spun on her heel and made a beeline to the split-level staircase of their modest Arlington, Virginia, home. McCrea figured it had to be a rental.

“Luke!” she yelled. “Caleb! Out here, right now.” She disappeared upstairs. “Luke and Caleb, now!”

Doors opened and adolescents protested in unison: “Mom!”

“How about a knock?” one of them said. His voice had changed. McCrea heard the teenage self-righteousness loud and clear.

“Both of you,” Mrs. Emerson said. “Grab your go bags and be ready in three minutes.”

“I’ve got a math test tomorrow. Can’t I skip this one?”

“No,” she said. Her tone left no room for discussion. “We do these things for a reason. And I wager that math had nothing to do with the way you snapped that computer shut so quickly.”

“You heard me, Luke?”

“I’m doing it now,” a younger voice said. “Where are we going this time?”

“Three minutes,” she repeated.

He heard the sounds of hangers scraping on closet rods and of thumping against the walls. The go-bag reference had not been lost on him. It’s as if she’d been preparing for the moment.

“I hate bug-out drills!” the older boy yelled.

His mother yelled back, “I don’t care!”

A good-looking blond-haired kid of about thirteen materialized at the top of the stairs. He wore a long-sleeve shirt, jeans and hiking boots. He’d shrugged a good-size jungle camouflaged rucksack onto his back. Maybe a little too heavy for him, but he seemed to be handling it okay. “I’m ready!” he announced.

The boy trotted down the stairs, then stopped short when he noticed McCrea in the foyer. He slung the ruck off his back and started reaching for what McCrea now recognized to be a taken-down Ruger 10/22 rifle. “Mom!” he yelled.

McCrea backpedaled a couple of steps and held out his hands, fingers splayed. “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Easy there, cowboy. I’m the good guy. Which one are you? Caleb or Luke?”

“Mom!”

McCrea became self-consciously aware of his own M4 rifle, which was slung across the front of his body. He slid it around his back. “I know this is startling,” he said. “But you’re really not in danger.” You’re also not coming along. He considered that last part to be news that was better broken by the mother.

“Mom!”

Victoria Emerson appeared at the top of the stairs dressed identically to her son, complete with rucksack and weapon. “Relax, Luke,” she said. “That’s Major . . .”

“McCrea, ma’am.”

“That’s Major McCrea. He’s coming with us.” As she walked down the stairs, she called over her shoulder, “Caleb! Now!”

A gangly sixteen-year-old appeared at the top of the stairs wearing a T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. He’d be handsome one day, McCrea thought, once he grew into his hands and feet. McCrea figured the outfit to be a silent thumb in his mom’s eye.

“Caleb Morris Emerson,” she said in the tone that still inspired fear. “Put the correct clothes on and be ready to go.”

“Why? All we do is drive around and—”

She sharpened her look and he backed away.

“Okay, fine.” Caleb stormed back into his room. Coat hangers clattered against the walls again, boots thumped against the floor.

“Are you okay, Mom?” Luke asked. “You seem . . . nervous. And why is he here?”

Mrs. Emerson ignored the question, and it wasn’t McCrea’s to answer. “Is this really real?” she asked him.

“Ma’am, given your position, I imagine that you know more than I do. I have my orders, and you are them.”

Caleb arrived at the top of the stairs. This time, his clothes matched those of his mother and little brother. “Who the hell is this?”

“My name is Major McCrea. Pleased to meet you, Caleb. Ma’am, we have to leave right now.” He reached out to grab her arm and she pulled away.

“How dare you touch me,” she said.

Caleb rushed forward. “Hey, asshole, what are you—”

“Quiet, son,” McCrea said. “Ma’am, I already told you. You don’t have a say in what follows. I would love for you to follow me, but if I have to carry you, that’s what I will do.”

“You can’t talk to my mom like that,” Caleb said. “She’s a member of Congress.”

“Caleb, hush,” Victoria snapped.

“But you’re his boss!”

Mrs. Emerson held up a hand to calm her son. “Caleb, we’re going with the major.”

Luke looked as frightened as Caleb looked angry. “Mom?”

Apparently, she was really going to make McCrea do this. “Just you, ma’am. Not the boys.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “I’m not leaving them.”

“Ma’am, you know the rules. I am authorized only—”

“Major McCrea,” she said. “I understand that you have your orders, but if you try to separate me from my kids, one of us—you or me—is going to wake up dead in the morning. Do not try me on this point, sir.”

McCrea saw fire in her eyes. His instincts told him she was speaking the truth. His orders were clear. He was to deliver Representative Victoria Emerson to the U.S. Government Relocation Center—the Annex. The rules said no family, but the facility’s rules and his orders were different things. He decided to let the Annex staff sort out their own problems.

“Very well, then,” McCrea said. “All of you. But we have to move now.”

Mrs. Emerson put an arm around each of her boys and ushered both out the door into the humid August air. “You heard the major,” she said. “Time to go.”

“Go where?” Caleb protested. “This isn’t how a bug-out drill works. Who is this guy?”

“I’ll explain in the car,” Victoria said. “We have to go.”

Once they were all out on the front stoop, Victoria closed the door behind them. Then she pulled up short. “Dammit,” she said. “I forgot my keys.”

“Keep going,” McCrea said. “I’ll personally replace anything that might get stolen.” He used a gentle touch on her backpack to keep the parade moving out into the yard.

Luke craned his neck to look at McCrea. “Are you really going to do that?” he asked. “Replace anything that gets stolen?”

“No,” McCrea said. “What’s in the rucksacks?”

“Survival gear,” Victoria said, and recited the list.

Ah, so they werere preppers. Interesting. “Any electronic gear in them?” McCrea asked. “Phones, tablets, e-readers, laptops?”

The boys stared, clearly a silent yes.

McCrea made a beckoning motion with his hand. “Hand them over. All of it. Cell phones too.”

“Why do you need them?” Victoria asked.

“Because my orders tell me to confiscate them. And, ma’am, you can bet that I have orders will be my standard answer to every question you might have. I’m not making this up as I go along.”

“What are you going to do with our stuff?” Caleb asked. He hadn’t moved.

McCrea felt his patience thinning. “Caleb, here’s the thing,” he said. “You can take them out carefully and hand them over, or I can have my troops take all of your stuff and leave it behind.”

Caleb looked wounded. “Mom?”

Mrs. Emerson showed annoyance, but it wasn’t clear with whom. McCrea would understand if she didn’t like him very much under the circumstances.

“Do what he says.”

“But, Mom—”

“Now, Caleb. You too, Luke. Take out all of your electronics and hand them over to the major.”

Victoria unslung her pack and set the example for her boys. When Caleb complied, Luke followed suit, handing over a lot of gear. Game cartridges, game players, laptops. If nothing else, their rucks would be a lot lighter.

McCrea said, “Thank you. Now, what’s with the rifles?”

“Do your orders say to confiscate those, too?” Victoria asked.

“No, ma’am, they don’t.”

“Then the rifles stay.”

McCrea wanted to argue, but she had a point. Why not let them have their rifles? If they survived what was coming, a little firepower might go a long way. “We need to get going.”

Soldiers formed a security corridor that dead-ended at a black Suburban idling at the curb. The entire detail was armed with rifles, but they mostly looked terrified.

As they reached the curb, Caleb pulled up short. “No,” he said. “This isn’t the way it works, Mom. This has never been the way it works. We go in our own car because that’s where the extra provisions are.”

His mother pulled on his arm. “Not this time, Caleb.”

“Stop!” Caleb yelled. He was far louder than he needed to be, and McCrea knew this was his way of getting the most attention. “Tell me what is going on! I am not getting into a car with a guy in a uniform who says he’s a general or a major or whatever. Jesus, Mom, you’ve trained us not to do that very thing.”

This was going to spin out of control. Neighbors would soon be peeking out windows, and maybe they were already calling the police.

Mrs. Emerson shot her hand out like a striking snake and cupped Caleb’s neck at the spot where his spine joined his skull and she pulled him close. “Do not shout,” she said. She looked to the men who surrounded her, then dropped her voice even lower. “The reason this is different is because this time it’s not a drill.”

He stiffened. “W-what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you to get in the car,” she said. “We can talk all you want in there. But not out here.”

To her left, Luke stood very still. A shadow engulfed his face, but glistening eyes shined through. “Mom, I’m scared,” he said.

“We’re all scared,” she said, cupping the back of his head, too, and urging him toward the Suburban.

Mrs. Emerson looked to McCrea, but he kept his expression blank. Next to him, a young soldier looked close to tears. “You should get home to your family,” Mrs. Emerson said to him.

The soldier stiffened and shifted his eyes to the ground.

McCrea added more pressure to her back. “Inside, ma’am,” he said. “It’s not a short drive.”

McCrea helped them doff their rucks and handed them to the E-8, who would be slumming as their driver. “First Sergeant, put these in the back, please.” Once the family was inside, McCrea closed the door behind them, then climbed into the shotgun seat. The driver closed up the cargo bed, slid behind the wheel and they were on their way.

“Mom, you said we’d talk about what’s happening once we were in the car,” Caleb reminded. “We’re there now.”

Mrs. Emerson ignored her son. “Major McCrea?”

He turned in his seat to look at her.

“Why are the roads clear? Why haven’t our phones squealed with an emergency alert? Why don’t things seem more urgent?”

“I’m not the policy person, Congresswoman. Congressperson?”

“Victoria is fine in private,” she said. If this were a different day, she’d have asked to be called ma’am, but not tonight. While she was senior to every military officer in the country, and they needed to know that, this was going to be stressful enough without adding unnecessary formality to the mix.

She was tempted to press for an answer when a piece fell into place for her. The NCA—National Command Authority, collectively the president and secretary of defense—wanted the elements of the federal government ensconced in safety before the possible retaliatory strike could be launched. They couldn’t alert the media or the general public without alerting the enemy.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “We’re launching the first strike, aren’t we?” She directed her words to the back of McCrea’s head, but she was surprised to hear them spoken out loud.

She’d almost nailed it. Actually, Israel was going to launch a strike on Iran, but McCrea hadn’t been briefed on what she was cleared to know. He stayed silent.

“Mom?” Luke said through a choked voice. “What are you talking about?”

“Are we going to war?” Caleb asked. He sounded even more frightened than his brother, but a kid couldn’t possibly understand the ramifications of war.

“I think we might, sweetie,” she said.

“You’re a congresswoman,” Caleb protested. “Don’t they have to get your permission first? We studied that.”

“Only for a declared war,” she answered. “The president has wide discretion short of that.”

And we gave her that power, McCrea thought. The United States had not fired a bullet in a declared war since Japan’s surrender in 1945, but it had nonetheless sent thousands of its sons and daughters to die in conflicts all around the world.

Victoria was only in her third two-year term in the House of Representatives, having won each time by huge margins in her district, and while she was as aware as any news junkie of the growing troubles between the U.S. and Iran and Russia, with Israel being the focus of all, she was nowhere near the top secret inside scoop on impending war.

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