The Extraction - A Sam Wick Short Story

Steel doors and concrete walls couldn't muffle the screams. Sam Wick listened, counting seconds between each outburst while rain hammered against the warehouse's metal roof. The diplomat's daughter had been held for seventy-two hours now. Based on the diminishing frequency of her cries, they were breaking her.

He didn't have much time.

Six guards. Two at the entrance, one patrolling the perimeter, three inside with the hostage. All armed with Russian-made weapons. All expecting trouble – just not from him. Not yet.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the compound for a split second. Sam remained perfectly still, his rain-soaked gear blending into the shadows. Years of training had taught him patience. The mind-numbing kind that allowed a man to remain motionless for hours while insects crawled across his skin and muscles screamed for relief.

Sam checked his watch—a simple, military-grade timepiece that had survived three tours in Afghanistan before following him into his current line of work. The face glowed faintly: 3:17 AM. The patrol would round the east corner in approximately twenty seconds, which gave him just enough time to prepare.

As he moved through the shadows, memories of Kansas farmland flickered briefly through his mind—so far from the Brazilian rainforest where he now crouched. Seventeen years since he'd left home, seventeen languages mastered since then. Portuguese was his fourteenth, and tonight, every nuance mattered. Lives depended on his understanding not just the words, but the subtle accents that would sell his deception.

Thunder rolled overhead, masking his approach to the perimeter fence. The rain had turned the ground to mud, making each step a calculated risk between speed and silence. His boots left no prints—another TF-77 innovation, soles designed to collapse their own impressions within seconds.

The guard passed, boots splashing through puddles, muttering complaints in Portuguese about the weather, his supervisor, his luck. Sam caught every word, the language as familiar to him now as the English he'd grown up with. The man was tired, sloppy, ready for his shift to end. His weapon—an AK-103—hung loosely at his side rather than at the ready.

Perfect.

This wasn't how Task Force-77 operations typically went. Usually, there would be a team, resources, government backing. But TF-77 existed precisely for missions that fell through the cracks of conventional operations—extractions deemed impossible, hostages written off as lost causes. Tonight's mission hadn't even come through official channels. A diplomatic back-channel request that had landed directly on Director Harmon's desk.

"Only send Wick," they'd said. "No official trace."

Translation: if he failed, if he died, if he was captured—America would disavow all knowledge. He would disappear, like so many others who had gambled and lost in the shadows between nations.

Sam had simply nodded when Harmon delivered the briefing. No questions. No hesitation. Just a single nod that acknowledged the stakes and accepted them.

The fence posed no barrier to a man with his training. Sam scaled it in seconds, dropping soundlessly to the other side as another flash of lightning tore through the sky. He counted—one, two, three—before thunder followed. The storm was moving closer. Good. It would provide additional cover for the extraction.

Inside the warehouse, the lights flickered as Sam disabled the electrical panel with practiced precision. His hands moved automatically, the result of training that had transformed him from a promising Army Ranger into something else entirely—the "Master Extractor" they whispered about at Langley.

"What the hell?" a voice barked in Portuguese from inside.

"Probably the storm," another answered, unconcerned. "Check the breakers."

Sam touched the scar running along his jawline—a souvenir from his third extraction in Yemen. A reminder to stay focused, to avoid unnecessary risks. His 90 successful extractions had grown to over 300 in just a few years not because he was flashy or took chances, but because he planned meticulously and adapted instantly when plans failed.

The door opened and a guard stepped out, muttering curses as rain immediately soaked his uniform. His hand reached for the radio at his belt—a mistake that would be his last. One precise Krav Maga strike to the neck, another to the kidney—techniques perfected during his eighteen months training with Israeli specialists. The guard crumpled without sound, not even a gasp to alert his colleagues. Sam caught him before he hit the ground, dragged him into shadows, and appropriated his radio and keycard.

Five left.

Blood leaked from the guard's nose, mixing with rainwater before disappearing into the mud. Sam hadn't intended to kill him—just render him unconscious—but such was the nature of his work. Precision under pressure sometimes had unintended consequences. He felt no remorse, just a mental note for his after-action report.

Sam moved through the warehouse's outer perimeter with the same quiet efficiency that had made his file required reading at the Task Force's training facility. Where others saw impossibility, Sam saw variables. Obstacles. Solutions.

A sudden voice crackled over the appropriated radio: "Paolo, report status of the electrical issue." The speaker's Portuguese had the distinctive accent of Rio's northern suburbs.

Sam keyed the radio, adjusting his own dialect to match. "Checking exterior panel now," he replied, matching the cadence and gruffness of the fallen guard. "Storm damage. Working on it."

"Hurry up. The boss is arriving at 0500 to collect the package."

Sam's expression didn't change, but internally, the timeline compressed. The "boss" likely meant Fernando Diaz, the cartel lieutenant who'd arranged the kidnapping. If Diaz was coming personally, it meant the girl's fate was sealed. They'd extract whatever information they needed, then dispose of her.

Two hours. That's all Sam had.

"Sir, team two reports nothing unusual," crackled the radio again.

"Maintain position," Sam replied, the Portuguese flowing naturally. Seventeen languages, and he spoke each like a native. A skill that had saved his life more times than he could count.

The closer he moved to the warehouse's main structure, the more clearly he could hear the girl's sobs. Madison Taylor, age 19. Daughter of the American ambassador to Brazil. Wrong place, wrong time—she'd witnessed a high-level assassination that implicated government officials working with the cartel. The kind of witness powerful people needed silenced.

The storage room door was reinforced steel with an electronic lock. Two guards outside, one inside with Madison. All armed, all alert, all expendable.

Sam removed a small device from his backpack—a modified EMP designed by TF-77's tech division specifically for his extractions. Three, two, one...

The warehouse plunged into darkness.

"What the fuck?" A guard's voice, panic rising.

"Generator should kick in," his companion responded.

It wouldn't. Sam had disabled the backup systems twenty minutes earlier.

In the chaos that followed, Sam moved like he'd been born without light. The guards were blind, disoriented, vulnerable. Sam wasn't. His sea-blue eyes, unnervingly calm even in combat situations, had adjusted before the lights failed. Two quick, silent takedowns using Muay Thai clinches he'd perfected in Thailand.

The first guard went down with a crushed trachea, unable even to call for help as he died. The second managed a startled "Hey—" before Sam's strike found the nerve cluster at the base of his skull, shutting down his nervous system instantly. Both bodies were dragged clear of the door in seconds.

Sam pressed the stolen keycard against the reader. The lock's backup battery provided just enough power for one cycle. The door clicked open.

Inside the storage room, Madison Taylor was huddled in a corner, wrists raw from restraints, face bruised from interrogation. The final guard stood across from her, waving his weapon nervously toward the door as it opened.

"Don't move!" the man warned, finger tightening on his trigger.

Sam was already inside, already moving. A twist of the wrist, a precise strike—techniques from Kalarippayattu, the ancient Indian martial art few Westerners had mastered. The guard collapsed, neck broken before he hit the ground.

Madison's scream died in her throat as Sam held a finger to his lips. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted between him and her fallen captor.

"Who are you?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming.

"The exit plan," Sam answered, his voice the steady calm of a man who had faced worse odds in more dangerous places and walked away. "Can you walk?"

She nodded, though her legs trembled as she stood.

"Stay close. Don't speak." Sam cut through her restraints with a ceramic blade that wouldn't trigger metal detectors. "If we're separated, head north until you reach water, then east along the riverbank. Understood?"

Another nod.

Sam led her through the darkness, one hand guiding her, the other holding his sidearm—a suppressed Sig Sauer that would be a last resort. Gunfire meant complications. Complications meant potential failure. Every extraction was a puzzle to be solved with minimal force, maximum efficiency.

His mental map guided them past the fallen guards, through the loading dock, and toward the hole he'd cut in the fence. Thirty seconds and they'd be clear.

As they reached the perimeter, a shout erupted from behind them. One of the guards had regained consciousness or a patrol had discovered the bodies. No time to determine which.

"Run," Sam ordered, pushing Madison ahead of him as a spotlight swept the compound.

They sprinted through the rain-soaked yard, mud sucking at their boots. A bullet whizzed past, then another. Sam weaved unpredictably, making them harder targets while keeping Madison shielded with his body.

At the fence, he boosted her through first, then followed as gunfire peppered the metal links behind him. No alarms yet—the guards were trying to handle the situation quietly, which worked in Sam's favor.

"This way," he directed, guiding Madison toward a drainage ditch that would provide cover until they reached the extraction point. The rain would wash away their tracks within minutes.

Two hundred yards through dense jungle. Madison stumbled twice. Each time, Sam lifted her without breaking stride, his conditioning allowing him to carry her weight with minimal effort.

At the extraction point, a nondescript van waited, engine idling. Sam did a quick perimeter check before approaching. Trust but verify—another lesson learned the hard way.

"Clear," he said, opening the side door. "Get in."

Madison collapsed onto the van's floor, shaking from adrenaline and exposure. Sam retrieved a thermal blanket from a compartment, wrapping it around her shoulders before checking her vital signs. Elevated pulse, mild hypothermia, possible concussion from earlier abuse—but she would survive.

"You did good," he told her—the first unnecessary words he'd spoken in hours. Words his father might have said to him after a hard day's work on their Kansas farm, before Sam's world expanded beyond those flat horizons.

"They killed him," she whispered, tears mixing with rain on her face. "The Finance Minister. I saw them do it."

"I know." Sam handed her water, which she gulped gratefully. "That information is still in your head. That makes you valuable. And that makes you a target until we get you somewhere safe."

His sat phone buzzed once. No caller ID, but only one person had this number for this operation.

"Wick," he answered.

"Confirmation of package?" Director Harmon's voice was tense. This extraction wasn't just unofficial—it was deniable. If Sam failed, no one would acknowledge he'd ever been there.

Sam glanced at Madison, now wrapped in the blanket, safe despite the impossibility of her situation just twenty minutes ago.

"Package secured," he replied. "Minimal complications. Coming home."

He ended the call and started the van, navigating carefully through the pre-dawn darkness. By sunrise, they would be at the safe house. By nightfall, on a military transport bound for the States. Madison Taylor would spend months in protective custody, testifying about what she'd seen, helping dismantle part of a cartel's government connections.

And Sam Wick would disappear again, waiting for the next impossible mission, the next extraction deemed too dangerous for conventional channels. Another night in the shadows for the man General Mitchell had once described as "the paradox"—the quiet farm boy from Kansas who had become Task Force-77's deadliest asset.

Just another successful extraction. Just another life saved from the impossible.

Just another day at the office for Sam Wick.

BUY WICKED DECEIT - Sam Wick Thriller 1