PRAISE FOR STEPHEN TEMPLIN

“As action packed as a Tom Clancy thriller... harrowing... adrenaline-

laced.”
—Michiko Kakutani, New York Times
“Pulses with the grit of a Jerry Bruckheimer production...”
—Washington Post
“Reveals an intimate look at the rigorous training and perilous mis-
sions of the best of the Navy’s best.”
—Time
“Well written... an exciting book.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“Cuts straight to the chase. The literary equivalent of a Hollywood
blockbuster... compelling and inspiring.”
—Miami Herald
“A rare glimpse into the thinking, training, and tactics of the Special
Forces at a time when their shadowy work is playing an increasingly cru-
cial role in the war on terror.”
—San Diego Union-Tribune
“Another great novel reflecting our spec ops forces’ global capabili-
ties. Written by a proven and insightful master storyteller.”
—Howard E. Wasdin, former SEAL Team Six sniper
and NYT best-selling author of SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an
Elite Navy SEAL Sniper
“A masterful blend... not knowing if you’re about to take a bullet to
the head from a SEAL sniper or get hit in the gut with a punch line.”
—Dalton Fury, former Delta Force commander and NYT best-sell-
ing author of Kill Bin Laden
“Grabs you on page one and is hard to put down.”
—General Henry H. Shelton, former commander
in chief of the US Special Operations Command
and 14th chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
“A must read.”

1
2 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

—Jack Coughlin, former gunnery sergeant, USMC, and best-selling

author of Shooter
“A muscular thrill ride that’s rich with detail and full of heart and en-
ergy. A standout in the ranks of modern action-adventure thrillers.”
—Mark Greaney, #1 NYT best-selling coauthor of Command Au-
thority,
by Tom Clancy with Mark Greaney
“Eloquent, realistic, humorous, and thought-provoking...”
—Mark Beder, former lieutenant commander, SEAL assault team
leader
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 3

ALSO BY STEPHEN TEMPLIN

Special Operations Group Thrillers
Trident’s First Gleaming [#1] Chris, Hannah, & Sonny
From Russia without Love [#2] Chris, Hannah, & Sonny
Autumn Assassins [#3] Max & Tom
Assassin’s Sons [#4] Max & Tom
Patriot Dream [#5] Chris, Hannah, Sonny, Max, & Tom
Arctic Eye [#6] Sonny & Chris
Special Operations Group Short Stories
Dead in Damascus [#0] Chris & Hannah
Sonny Spy Down [#1] Sonny
The Good, the Bad, & the Sonny [#2] Sonny & Chris
Nonfiction
Navy SEAL Training Class 144: My BUD/S Journal
SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper
I Am a SEAL Team Six Warrior (Young Adult version of SEAL
Team Six)
SEAL Team Six Outcast Novels
SEAL Team Six: Outcasts [#1]
Easy Day for the Dead [#2]
4 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

The Good, the Bad & the Sonny

[#2] A Special Operations Group

Short Story
Stephen Templin
THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 5

Live as if you were to die tomorrow...

–Mahatma Gandhi
Activist
6 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

Back in the States it would be snowing, and people would be bundled

up to keep warm, but here on the beach in Rio, Brazilians stripped off

their clothes and embraced the eighty-degree weather. Delta Force com-

mando Sonny Cohen wore the ugliest pair of swim shorts he could

find—puke-green palm trees and flaming pineapples. He kicked back in

a folding chair under the shade of an open-faced beach tent, its yellow

color blazing like the sun. His sunglasses cast a tranquil filter on the

ocean’s waves, and salt air tingled his skin. This was no covert op; this was

a little R & R to cheer up his buddy, Chris Paladin. At least, that was the

plan...
Chris was wading in the ocean. When the sea surged above his shoul-
ders, threatening to submerge him, he gave a small hop, barely keeping
his head above water. The rising movement of the swells boosted the
height of his jump, and the saltwater’s buoyancy suspended him. Then
Mother Ocean gently lowered him. It looked like fun, but Chris never
smiled.
Sonny lit up a local cigar and puffed on it. Brazilian pop music came
from some distant spot behind him, and off to the side, excited children
dug in the sand with their hands. With each puff of the cigar, Sonny ex-
haled some of the weight of the world.
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 7

A black bird with long pointed wings soared high in the sky. Sonny
whipped out his iPhone to take a photo. He zoomed in on it—a frigate
bird. The red coloring on its throat sac marked it as a male.
Sonny was a birder. Since grade school, he’d taken pictures of feath-
ered life. At that age, he was smaller than the other kids, and when the
other boys found out about his hobby, they kicked the shit out of him.
Birding toughened him, and when he joined the Army, he continued to
try for something tougher, until he finally earned a spot in the Unit. Now
when he went back to visit his mother in Queens, he’d bump into some
of the guys who used to beat him up. He didn’t hold a grudge—he could
take them all, and they kissed his ass.
Chris walked ashore and dropped into the other folding chair. Sonny
offered him a cigar, but he declined with a wave of his hand. Chris’s
goody-two-shoes attitude was too much sometimes.
Fifty meters down the beach, there was a commotion, and it was
coming their way. People held out smartphones and took pictures.
“Who the hell?” Sonny said.
Three tattooed white girls wearing bikinis sauntered along the beach.
A dude built like a fullback, dressed in khaki cargo pants and a black T-
shirt shadowed their movements like a bodyguard. Behind them a heavy,
middle-aged woman carried a large bag and struggled to keep up.
“In the silver bikini,” Chris said. “You recognize her?”
“Nah.”
“Miley Cyrus.”
“Smiley who?”
“Aren’t you going to ask her for an autograph?”
Sonny took a puff of his cigar. “Hell no.”
Chris looked down at his phone and fiddled with it as they passed.
Then Smiley Virus and her entourage were gone.
Someone screamed.
Sonny snapped his attention toward the sound.
8 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

Ten meters out, a woman in a rainbow colored swimsuit jumped up

in the water.
Chris lowered his phone. “Shark?”
A buff dude emerged from the ocean behind her and laughed.
She whipped around and slapped his shoulder playfully.
False alarm.
A posse of bronze Brazilian beauties badonkadonked in Sonny’s di-
rection. They stopped nearby and set down large duffel bags and pulled
enormous colorful beach towels out. Then laughing and chattering in
Portuguese, they arranged the towels on the hot sand. Their rockin’ bod-
ies bent over and stretched to do the deed. One by one, laid out under
the sun.
Sonny lowered his cigar and had to remind himself to breathe.
The curviest gal smiled in Sonny’s direction. She was a hottie, and
he felt like a kid at the carnival about to bump bumper cars and bounce
in the bounce house. Sonny smiled, too. He turned to Chris and said,
“Dude, you need to get laid.”
But Chris kept his nose in his damn phone.
Sonny didn’t try to hide his irritation. “What the hell are you looking
at?”
“A text from Willy.” Sonny and Chris occasionally did contract work
for CIA, and Willy was their new boss. “Willy says that he wants us to
get a scientist out of Rio.”
“Did he say why?”
“I asked, but all I got was the usual—you don’t have a need to know.”
“Can’t Willy get someone else?”
Chris shook his head.
Sonny felt like he was going to miss the carnival. He wasn’t one to
shed tears, but now he wanted to cry. “We’re on vacation.”
“We’re the closest.”
“Dude, this Brazilian babe is checking me out,” Sonny said.
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 9

“Your pineapple shorts are too tight,” Chris said. “They’re cutting off
circulation to your brain.”
Sonny looked over at the girls. “She’s got friends, and they’re smiling
at us, too.”
“They’re squinting at the sun,” Chris said.
“No, they’re smiling.”
Chris stood and folded his chair. “There’ll be others on the beach
when we get back.”
Sonny’s body said to Hell with Chris, but his head reminded him that
he had to help his buddy get over his grief: Leave no man behind. He
didn’t have to like it; he just had to do it. Sonny slammed his chair shut.
Chris shrugged.
They removed their things from the tent before they took it down.
Sonny stole one last look at the girls. They waved.
He forced himself to turn away and help Chris haul the tent and
chairs off the beach.
Chris tapped his phone with his free hand and said, “I’m texting
Willy that we’ll do it.”
“We should have pistols,” Sonny said.
“We’d have to get them from the station,” Chris said. “And that’s in
Brasilia—almost a two-hour flight from here, one-way. Or a fifteen hour
drive.”
Sonny grumbled, “This just gets better and better.”
Chris hustled off the beach and onto a sidewalk, and Sonny fol-
lowed. Their hotel was across the street from the beach. Sonny main-
tained his situational awareness by casually looking left, right, low, and
high. Above their hotel wheeled vultures, gliding on thermals. The vul-
tures were as common as crows in the States; even so, their presence
seemed to be a bad omen.
10 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

AFTER DUMPING OFF THEIR beach gear in their hotel room and
changing into slacks and shirts, Sonny and Chris were on the street, run-
ning an SDR, or surveillance detection route.
“Where’s the scientist meeting us?” Sonny asked as they strolled
along.
“At Christ the Redeemer.”
Sonny walked with Chris to a nearby hotel, where they caught a cab.
Two klicks later, they changed taxis at the Jardim Botânico do Rio de
Janeiro—surreptitiously checking if they saw the same person or vehi-
cle again. To the casual observer, Sonny and Chris were sightseeing. To a
professional surveillance team, they were a nightmare to tail. A surveil-
lance team could maintain eyes on and give the team’s position away or
break off and try another day.
Within minutes their taxi reached the foot of Corcovado Mountain,
a two thousand-foot-tall behemoth covered in forest.
Chris stared up the mountain. “Can you see it?”
Sonny used the camera on his iPhone to zoom in on the vertical
granite peak. He spotted a human figure with outstretched arms. “The
Christ statue, yeah, I see it.”
Their taxi driver had pointy ears like an elf and gray hair. He steered
into the mouth of a tree-enshrouded tunnel at the base of the mountain.
All went black except for some tunnel lights and headlights. Deeper and
deeper they travelled into the black hole. Enemies could ambush them
here, and Sonny and Chris would have nowhere to run.
Sonny fidgeted and kept looking around, even though there was
nothing to see. “This is a long-ass tunnel.”
“Relax,” Chris said.
After several klicks that seemed interminable, they exited the tunnel,
and the sky shone bright again. Sonny breathed easy again. The driver
took them around a loop and through a small neighborhood nestled in
a forest. After a hairpin turn, Sonny’s sense of direction became discom-
bobulated. The driver could stop where some of his buddies were wait-
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 11

ing—men who lived in plywood shacks and would kill for a corrugat-
ed roof. They could have machetes and guns, but he and Chris were un-
armed. “This little vacation ain’t going to end well,” Sonny said.
“It’s just starting to get interesting,” Chris said.
“Remind me of that when we’re getting shot at.” Sonny used the GPS
on his phone to find out where they were, but his map loaded slower than
a snail in peanut butter. “Where are we?”
“Almost to the train station,” Chris said.
“You Americans?” the driver asked.
“Australian,” Sonny lied.
The driver decelerated. “Ah.”
Sonny’s map came online and his GPS indicated that they were in
Cosme Velho, a neighborhood in the southern zone of Rio. The taxi
stopped next to a train station, and Chris paid the driver.
“Is Willy going to reimburse you for this?” Sonny asked.
Chris put his wallet away. “He’d better.” They stepped out of the taxi
and followed a line of people into the train station. “I used my phone to
buy the tickets online.”
When they reached the front of the line, Chris showed the voucher
on his phone, and the ticket master gave him tickets and waved him and
Sonny through.
After a fifteen-minute wait, they boarded a red train. Two overhead
wires powered the locomotive, and it chugged up the steep incline of a
toothed rack rail. The railroad cut a narrow path up an incline between
multi-storied apartment buildings and houses. Higher and higher they
ascended. Soon the buildings surrendered to the trees, where sunlight
sparkled in and out. Occasionally, Sonny caught a glimpse of Rio below.
The track weaved and wound around smooth and sharp turns and
climbed between walls of rock so close that Sonny could reach out and
touch them. They passed over precipices with deadly drops below. This
place was beautiful and deadly.
12 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

Through the window, Sonny spotted a brilliantly colored parakeet

and was about to snap a photo when he received a text message from
Willy: Hope you’re having fun. It was a covert signal to open a secret
message. Sonny used the search function on his smart phone to type in
his password: Sua Sponte. It was Latin for “of his own accord.” Sonny had
volunteered of his own accord four times: first for the Army, then a sec-
ond time to go airborne, a third time to become a Ranger, and a fourth
time to earn a slot on Delta Force. Now he was volunteering for CIA.
He pressed the search button, and his hidden CIA apps appeared. He
opened a new message. Inside were photos labeled Dr. Roger Winchell
Sonny touched one. Dr. Winchell was a fat white guy in his fifties with
white hair and a white beard—the scientist. Sonny studied the photos.
Also included were bona fides, a brief script to allow Dr. Winchell and
Sonny to confirm each other’s identity while appearing to be a natural
conversation. The meeting time was noon, and Dr. Winchell would be
wearing a straw fedora.
Sonny looked at his watch: the meeting was in one hour.
As the train rose above the jungle, the ocean came into view. A few
klicks away, pleasure boats floated in Guanama Bay. Chris used to be
a SEAL in Team Six, and when the feces hit the rotating oscillator, he
would head for the nearest body of water. Sonny preferred going it over
land for escape and evasion, but right now riding a boat out of the bay
looked like a great exit strategy.
The train slowed to a halt. When the doors opened, Sonny disem-
barked with Chris and the others. They climbed some stairs until they
reached escalators that carried them up to the observation deck. There a
giant statue of Jesus stood on a chapel.
Tourists snapped pictures, and some posed with outstretched arms.
Although the statue was over a hundred feet tall and must’ve weighed
hundreds of tons, Jesus looked weightless against the backdrop of the sky,
like he was about to take flight.
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 13

Chris stood staring at the statue as if he wanted it to fly him away,

so he could join his girlfriend. Her name was Hannah, a CIA paramil-
itary officer who had been killed the previous summer during an op in
Italy. Chris often claimed that he and Hannah were only friends, and she
said so, too, but even if the two of them believed that lie, they were more
boyfriend and girlfriend than any couple Sonny knew. She’d been a good
friend of his, and he missed her, but Chris missed her a lot more. Sonny
hoped this trip would somehow pull Chris out of his dark place. But this
trip only seemed to be getting darker.
Chris lowered his head. His voice was hushed: “When I close my
eyes I see her; when I open my eyes I miss her.”
A couple minutes passed. Then a droplet hit the concrete. It was
Chris’s tear.
This vacation was a terrible idea, Sonny thought. He put his hand
on Chris’s shoulder, and they stood there. Rio appeared small in the dis-
tance. The lagoon looked like a green puddle from here, and the Botani-
cal Gardens seemed a small playground.
Sonny broke the silence. “We should get something to eat.”
“You go ahead,” Chris said. “Just order me something, and I’ll be
with you in a minute.”
Sonny gave him his moment alone and took the escalator down to
the restaurant, where he found a vacant table under one of a couple
dozen giant green umbrellas.
By the time the waitress came to take his order, Sonny had lost his ap-
petite. He ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke for Chris and a Coke
for himself.
Chris joined him as the waitress brought their food and drinks. Then
she flitted off to another table.
Chris ate one of his fries. “Aren’t you eating?”
Sonny sipped his Coke. “You gotta be pissed.”
“About what?” Chris asked.
“About what God did to Hannah.”
14 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

“Why should I? Wasn’t God who killed her. Far from it. As far from
God as the Devil can hide.”
“Wish she could be here with us.”
“Maybe she is.”
Sonny glanced at his watch: 11:14. They had forty-six minutes be-
fore the meet.
Chris ate his fries. “I’ll take overwatch.”
“You do that, and make sure we don’t get ambushed.” Sonny said.
“I’ll talk to Dr. Winchell.”
“Comms?” Chris asked.
“Phone calls and texting,” Sonny said.
Chris left his fries, picked up his burger and Coke, and walked away.
Sonny stayed at the table, sipped his Coke, and nibbled on Chris’s
fries.
At 12:05, Sonny had finished eating, and Dr. Winchell hadn’t
shown.
A small, Brazilian man with a shaved head loitered in the restaurant.
Chris texted back: I’m going to bump check Buzz cut.
Sonny emoted a smiley face.
Chris walked like he was heading to the counter. On his way, he
ran head-on into Buzz Cut, acting as if it was an accident. Chris pressed
his abdomen against the man’s abdomen, probably feeling for a weapon
there. At the same time, Chris reached around Buzz Cut as if trying to
catch himself and touched the small of his back—again, feeling for a
weapon. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Chris said. His hands brushed against
Buzz Cut’s hips as he backed away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Chris repeated.
Buzz Cut appeared confused and frowned at Chris, who resumed his
walk to the counter and grabbed two napkins.
Well? Sonny texted.
He’s clean.
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 15

A fat man wandered in wearing a fedora, and Sonny recognized

him from his photo. His face was pale and dripped with sweat, and he
plopped down at an empty table.
Sonny left his empty carton of fries and drink cup on the table and
joined him. “I’m the guide you asked for.”
Dr. Winchell pulled out a limp handkerchief from his pocket and
wiped his brow. “Great to meet you. When does the tour begin?”
“Soon,” Sonny said. The fat man had given the correct bona fides.
Sonny’s phone rumbled.
A text message came back from Chris: Two big unhappy white dudes
heading your way.
Sonny scanned the area. Two frowning white men marched through
the dining area. One wore a green shirt and had big lips. But he had
an odd pouty expression, like a duck. Duck Lips pushed between two
women, who stepped out of his way.
His partner wore a black polo shirt. He bumped into a diner who
almost spilled his drink, and the diner said something, but Black Shirt
continued as if nothing had happened. Although the other tourists
smiled and chattered, Duck Lips and Black Shirt had murder in their
eyes.
Dr. Winchell dropped something and bent down to pick it up.
Duck Lips and Black Shirt shifted their advance towards Sonny’s po-
sition.
Sonny put his hand on Dr. Winchell’s back. Sweat soaked his shirt.
“Stay down,” Sonny said quietly.
Duck Lips and Black Shirt came closer.
Sonny kept his hand on Dr. Winchell’s wet back.
The two frowning men passed, pressing deeper into the restaurant.
Sonny lifted his hand and said, “Let’s go.”
Winchell rose to his feet, and Sonny tugged him by the arm through
the crowd toward the nearest exit.
Sonny glanced at the window to use its reflection like a mirror.
16 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

Chris covered their asses, but without a gun, he’d be limited in what
he could do. Duck Lips and Black Shirt must’ve sensed Sonny’s move-
ment because they followed.
Sonny burst out of the restaurant with the scientist and led him to a
set of stairs going down. Now they were exposed. Damn. Dr. Winchell
hobbled down the steps, and Sonny worried that the physical exertion
might kill the poor bastard.
Sonny dodged a group of eager tourists coming up the stairs at him
and a tired elderly couple going down. Dr. Winchell’s breathing became
rapid, but there was no time to slow for him to catch his breath. Sonny
guided him in and out of people’s paths until they reached the bottom
of the flight of steps. Sonny turned to catch the next flight of stairs going
down.
Shots sounded from behind. Screams pierced the air. A child tum-
bled down the stairs to Sonny’s right. Sonny couldn’t tell if the child had
tripped or been shot.
He glanced back.
People scattered, ducked, and stood frozen. Chris must’ve been
among them, but Sonny didn’t spot him. But he did spot Duck Lips and
Black Shirt, pistols out and racing down the stairs toward him.
Sonny’s pulse pounded harder and faster, and a lump rose up into his
throat. He swallowed the lump and raced to the bottom of the steps, urg-
ing Dr. Winchell to go faster. At the bottom of the flight of steps, the
sidewalk turned. Trees shielded them from any more shots—for the mo-
ment.
The next flight of steps zigged and zagged down. Dr. Winchell lost
his footing on the last step and almost fell, but there was no time for
falling, and Sonny jerked him upright and yanked him into a parking lot.
A pair of drivers sat in their tourist vans with the engines running.
Both vehicles were white and had blue strips and wavy green lines along
the sides. One van was numbered 108, and the other was 109. Sonny
threw open the door of 108 and unceremoniously tossed out a driver.
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 17

Sonny took his place behind the wheel and closed and locked the
driver’s door.
On the opposite side, Dr. Winchell stood next to the sliding door,
swaying as if he might keel over at any moment.
“Get in, damnit!” Sonny shouted.
Someone rushed up behind Dr. Winchell. It happened so fast that
Sonny didn’t have time to react. It was Chris, who threw open the sliding
door and shoved Dr. Winchell in, shouting, “Get down on the floor-
board!” When Dr. Winchell didn’t respond, Chris pushed the man
down to the deck. He slammed the door shut and used his body to shield
Dr. Winchell.
The Brazilian driver Sonny had kicked out yelled at him and banged
on his door.
“Go, go, go!” Chris yelled.
Sonny popped the vehicle into gear, and the tires squealed.
Bang-bang-bang-bang! It sounded like a giant woodpecker pecked
the rear of the van.
Sonny ducked low but not so far that he couldn’t see over the dash.
He sped down into a dark parking garage. Light appeared from the other
side, and he steered toward it. From the darkness, the gray shape of a van
backed out in front of him. Sonny laid on the horn and swerved. His
bumper clipped the other guy’s bumper. It halted, and Sonny kept going.
“Hooah!” Sonny cried out with joy.
“I feel sick,” Dr. Winchell said. “I think—” There was a splattering
sound that came with an acrid odor. Dr. Winchell had hurled.
Chris made a gagging sound.
Sonny hoped Chris didn’t add to the puke-fest. If he did, Sonny
would likely lose his French fries and Coke.
Sonny descended the wooded mountainside in curves that wound
left and right. He spun through a hairpin left. A tourist van drove up the
middle of the road at him. Sonny slammed on the brakes and slid to the
edge of the road. The van moved over and passed.
18 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

Sonny accelerated. “Dr. Winchell, we’re going to get you out of Rio.”
“Tourist van barreling down the road behind us,” Chris said.
“Did you see the driver?” Sonny asked.
“No. But he’s driving like he wants to kill us.”
Sonny checked his rearview mirror. A tourist van colored like his and
numbered 109 gained on him. A muzzle flashed and gunshots rang out.
“It’s them, it’s them!” Sonny shouted. His gaze snapped back to the view
out the windshield. A woman stood in a shack beside the road, stopping
vehicles coming up the mountain. But she wasn’t stopping vehicles going
down the mountain. It looked like she was charging money for going up.
Sonny sped past the checkpoint and under a concrete bridge. A line
of cars crawled in front of Sonny, and he wanted to pass, but tourist
vans coming up the mountain occupied the opposite lane. “We’re getting
jammed up here.”
“Dr. Winchell’s pulse is rapid,” Chris said. “Skin is cold and clammy.”
“Heat exhaustion,” Sonny said. “But Duck Lips and Black Shirt are
more of a threat than the heat.”
“How far can you run?” Chris asked.
“Me?” Dr. Winchell asked.
“Can you run from the dinner table to the refrigerator?” Sonny
asked.
“I don’t run,” Dr. Winchell said.
Sonny shook his head.
“Why?” Dr. Winchell asked.
“Because we might have to bail out and hoof it,” Chris said.
“Can I sit up now?” Dr. Winchell asked.
“No!” Sonny and Chris shouted.
Sonny spotted an opening in the other lane and veered into it.
Bang-bang, bang-bang! The back window imploded.
Sonny ducked and passed three cars before returning to his lane. The
road widened, and half a dozen tour vans were parked off to the side.
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 19

Orange pylons with thick white stripes lined the road in front of Sonny,
blocking his vehicle.
A security guard stood in front of the pylons, and people wearing
shorts and T-shirts and carrying shopping bags crossed the street. More
tourists sat on a bench in front of a building with a sign that read Centro
de Visitantes.
Sonny was headed right for the guard and the tourists, so he stomped
on the brakes and slammed on the horn. Beeeeeep! Beep-beep-beep!
The security guard and tourists scattered away from his path.
Sonny’s van skidded through the pylons.
The road split, and Sonny steered into the right fork. He floored the
accelerator.
Duck Lips and Black Shirt’s van pulled up beside the rear quarter of
Sonny’s van on his side. Sonny braced himself for getting shot at.
Thump! The shooters’ van struck behind Sonny’s rear wheel.
Sonny’s van spun. He tried to pull out of the spin, but his wheels
wouldn’t respond and kept slipping. The van smacked into a metal barri-
cade. Crack! They slid down a ravine.
It seemed a long way down. “Shit!” Sonny said.
“What, what?!” Dr. Winchell asked frantically.
“Hold on,” Chris said.
Thunk! Their van hit a tree, stopping them before they reached the
bottom. An airbag blew out violently and knocked Sonny back.
Chris’s head thumped against the back of Sonny’s seat.
“Bail out!” Sonny threw open his door and slid down the ravine. He
tripped and tumbled.
He heard Chris’s door slide open—then the crash of what sounded
like Dr. Winchell falling out of the van and rolling down the mountain-
side.
“Geronimo!” Chris said.
More gunshots rang out, but no bullets whizzed by Sonny. The bul-
lets must’ve been stopped by the trees.
20 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

Sonny took Chris and Dr. Winchell into the rainforest, where a dark
canopy blocked the sky. In contrast to the puke smell of the van, the jun-
gle air smelled fresh and clean. Sonny ran downhill through a grove of
cedars. Birds chirped. And whistled. And squawked. More joined in. The
birds were so damn loud that it was difficult to hear if Duck Lips and
Black Shirt were following. Sonny thought he heard a twig snap to his
right, and he whipped his head around in that direction, but he couldn’t
see anyone. He wasn’t sure exactly where the sound had come from. He
hustled away from the sound of the snap of the twig.
The epic height and expanse of the trees made Sonny feel like a child.
The forest could protect him. Or it could swallow him up, and he’d never
be seen or heard from again.
He pushed a klick through moist broadleaves. Then he caught a
glimpse of someone moving tactically to the right through a grove of
cedar trees. Sonny couldn’t tell if the movement was Duck Lips, Black
Shirt, or someone else.
Sonny dropped to a crouch behind the bulbous base of a hundred-
foot-tall rubber tree. He turned around to signal Dr. Winchell to find
cover, but Chris was already pulling the doc down into the large fronds
of a golden serpent fern. At the moment they needed to hide, and the
only available concealment was the fern, but it was hardly big enough for
one, let alone two. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to stop any bullets.
Sonny waited and listened. Fifteen minutes passed. Whoever he’d
glimpsed before, there was no sight or sound of him now. Sonny stood.
Chris and Dr. Winchell came out from under the fern. Dr. Winchell
limped, but he’d have to grit through the pain.
Sonny cut a trail between the cedars. After two klicks, the cedars
changed to a mix of mahogany and myrtle trees. Sonny took out his
phone as he walked and examined his map—he was a hundred meters
from Rio Combrido, near where he and Chris had boarded the train
earlier. He patrolled carefully. Slices of buildings appeared beyond the
woods on both sides and in front of him.
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 21

Sonny looked over his shoulder to see how Chris and Dr. Winchell
were doing. Chris signaled that two enemies were flanking them. Were
they Duck Lips and Black Shirt? Or someone else? Regardless of who they
were, Sonny wanted to avoid them. He led Chris and Dr. Winchell down
a concrete ramp between a five-story building and six-story building.
Then he went a hundred meters through a wooded square surrounded by
multi-storied buildings.
The next time he looked over his shoulder, Chris froze with a hand
on Dr. Winchell, who was also still. Sonny stopped, too. A slender man
stood twenty-five meters away, wearing a black T-shirt with a white skull
embossed on it that covered a lump on his hip—probably a pistol. Son-
ny’s heart jumped. He wanted that pistol, but he didn’t want to take a
bullet in the teeth trying to take it. The man with the skull T-shirt left
the area.
Sonny resumed his quiet march. He came to a dead end, surrounded
by buildings. Then he noticed a small path that cut through one corner
of the lot, but that went too close in the direction where Skull had gone,
so Sonny crouched behind a bush and waited. Chris and Dr. Winchell
hid in bushes, too.
After fifteen minutes, Sonny cut through the corner of the lot.
Rather than go around the buildings, he opened a door and walked in.
Dr. Winchell stumbled, and Chris helped him stay on his feet. They had
entered some kind of administrative office. Sonny walked as if he be-
longed there and knew where he was going. Several workers glanced up
from their desks, but no one stopped them or asked questions. Sonny
peered through a window on the opposite end of the office area. Outside
there were no signs of Duck Lips, Black Shirt, or Skull, so Sonny exited
the building.
The sun assaulted his eyes, and he squinted as he patrolled through
the parking lot of a cathedral.
Then Sonny slipped between two worn two-story brick buildings
and stepped onto the busted sidewalk running along a busy street. He
22 STEPHEN TEMPLIN

walked beside a corrugated metal fence tagged with crude graffiti. The
markings defaced buildings, too. A yellow taxi approached, and Sonny
and Chris waved at it. Dr. Winchell bent over and heaved dry air.
The taxi passed them.
Soon a yellow van taxi drove up, and this time Dr. Winchell stood
up and helped flag it down.
The taxi van pulled up to the curb and stopped. Sonny threw open
the front door and jumped in. Chris opened the side door and hauled
Dr. Winchell into the middle row and sat next to him.
Sonny wrinkled his nose. The van had a shit smell to it, and Dr.
Winchell reeked of barf.
“We made it,” Dr. Winchell said. “We’re out of Rio.” Then he
slumped over.
Chris checked his vitals. “He’s alive.”
“Good.” Sonny pointed at the driver and motioned for him to drive
straight. He pulled away from the curb and into the street.
Sonny twisted in his seat. He couldn’t see Chris’s facial expression,
but he guessed that Chris still wasn’t happy. “This vacation sure turned
into a shit sandwich fast,” Sonny said.
Chris continued to look out the back window. “A couple times back
there, I thought we might not make it.” He faced the front with a big
smile. He held his head high, and his shoulders broadened like he was
about to sprout wings. “For the first time in months, I was able to forget
about the past. And we saved the doctor here. ” Chris’s smile broadened.
Sonny put out his fist.
Chris fist bumped him. “Thanks, bro.”
“Hell, yeah,” Sonny said. Bronze beauties and missions came and
went, but a combat brother was forever. The trip was a success—Chris
was back.
The taxi van soared faster and faster until if felt as if it floated over
the streets, and a succession of green lights extended its flight from Rio.
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23
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

S TEPHEN TEMPLIN is a New York Times and international best-

selling author, with the movie rights to one of his books purchased
by Vin Diesel. His books have been translated into thirteen languages.
He publishes with three of the Big Five publishers: Simon & Schuster,
Macmillan, and Hachette UK.
He wasn’t a SEAL, but he completed Hell Week, qualified as a pistol
and rifle expert, blew things up, and practiced small unit tactics during
Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training. Then for fourteen years
he lectured as a tenured professor at Meio University in Japan, where he
also trained in the martial art aikido. His PhD is in education, and he
lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. Secretly, he’s a dark chocolate thief.
To connect with Steve and for updates about new releases, visit his
website at http://www.stephentemplin.com.

24
 THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SONNY 25

This is a work of fiction. Any references to names, characters, organiza-

tions, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Some tactics have been changed to
protect operators and their missions.

All Rights Reserved © 2019 by Stephen Templin

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or re-
trieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Stephen Templin
http://www.stephentemplin.com

Cover design by Stephen Templin