Crossfire

by James P. Sumner

  She smiled back sympathetically. “Of course.”

  “All this with Jericho is bad enough, but this…” He aimed the remote at the screen and pressed a button to connect the call. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

  The screen flickered into life, and the face of the GlobaTech liaison appeared with intense clarity.

  “What have you got for me?” asked Buchanan.

  The man shook his head. “Not much more than I had the last time we spoke, sir. But we do have something of interest.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The warehouse had a second security feed, retro-fitted and connected to an external server.”

  Buchanan frowned. “By who?”

  The man shrugged. “Unknown, but we’re assuming by the personnel working in the warehouse.”

  “Not by their employers?”

  “We don’t think so, no. The primary feed was linked to the main server house a few miles away, owned by the same dummy corporation that owned the warehouse. The paper trail is non-existent, which speaks volumes about the kind of people we could be dealing with here.”

  “We still don’t know who runs this dummy corporation?” asked Buchanan. “Or who they’re a subsidiary of?”

  The liaison shook his head again. “I’m afraid not. Not yet anyway. I have some of the best people here working on it.”

  “Good. So, you were saying?”

  “It’s safe to assume whoever these people are, they’re into something big. The tech we intercepted in the truck that led us here was high-end. Military grade. Not easy to get a hold of. But we think whoever was overseeing this particular operation installed a second feed, either for their own protection or at the request of another party. We don’t know why, but we’re not complaining.”

  “You’ve got the feed?”

  He nodded. “We traced the feed to its source—the back of a local sweatshop maybe twenty miles away. Most of the equipment is still intact, but we could only retrieve three minutes of footage.”

  Buchanan thought for a moment, glancing at Kim for silent inspiration. Then he looked back at the screen and said, “It was a motion-sensor camera. Programmed to start recording if someone tripped a sensor or something.”

  “We think so, sir, yes. But, more specifically, a sensor above one particular door in the warehouse. The feed we found was linked to a tripwire above a fire exit in the northeast corner of the warehouse that was obscured by some crates—stacked up, we think, to cover it. It leads to a dirt track that disappears into some local jungle on the outskirts of the town. We figure it was there as a fast, anonymous way out, if needed. But the camera started recording when the door was opened.”

  “So, that’s how the people who killed our guys got inside?”

  “That’s right. They were good but not good enough to detect the second feed, so we have footage of them entering and exiting the warehouse, before and after the attack on our people.”

  Buchanan moved around his desk and sat on the edge, taking a second to compose himself for what came next. “Show me.”

  The face of the liaison shrunk to a small window in the top left corner of the screen, overlaying the video that now dominated the feed. It was black and white and a little grainy, a far cry from the crystal HD display a moment ago but still good enough to see what was happening.

  Playback began by the video flashing online, showing the fire exit mentioned a few moments earlier. It opened slowly, and a small team of men entered. Their movements were fast and deliberate, keeping in a semi-crouch as they moved as one cohesive unit. Four men. Two teams of two. All dressed in dark, unmarked outfits. Half-masks covered the lower half of their faces. Noses and mouths were hidden behind variations of a half-skull graphic.

  As they moved out of view, the camera feed switched, tracking them as they moved like ghosts through the warehouse. Buchanan noticed the time stamp in the bottom right corner. What he was watching took place just ten minutes after his conversation with the unit commander yesterday.

  The group split. Two moved left around a tall stack of empty metal shelving. The other two moved right, following the wall as it led away from their teammates.

  “The sonsofbitches flanked them…” he muttered, transfixed on the screen. “They never saw them coming.”

  The feeds split as cameras activated to track each group. As Buchanan watched, he saw the second team of two stop as they neared another aisle of shelving. They each took a knee, waiting.

  Then he saw a member of the GlobaTech unit step out, oblivious to the threat awaiting him. The muzzle flash was accentuated on the low-res video. As the light faded, he saw the GlobaTech soldier drop to the floor.

  He heard firing from the other feed. He didn’t need to look.

  “All right, I’ve seen enough,” he announced.

  The feed vanished, replaced by the liaison’s face as it filled the screen again.

  “Any idea who those bastards are?” asked Buchanan.

  “Unfortunately not,” he replied. “The quality of the footage and the fact they’re wearing masks make facial recognition impossible. We’re trying to locate satellite imagery from the area around the time the assault took place, to see if we can track their movements on the way out, but so far, nothing.”

  Buchanan sighed with resignation. “Okay. Keep at it and keep me updated.”

  He clicked the screen off and tossed the remote across his desk before looking at Kim, silently asking for some direction.

  “What do you think?” she asked him.

  He moved behind his desk but remained standing. “Going off what we just saw, I would say they were mercenaries. Could be freelance. Could be on somebody’s books. But looking at how they moved, it’s as if they used to be military but have allowed their training to give way to bad habits. Albeit effective ones.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He finally took his seat. “That means someone has hired a group of mercs to attack GlobaTech personnel. Those men weren’t there for the warehouse. They were there for my team.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “Dammit!”

  Kim paused for a moment. “Should I call a meeting with the board of directors or the section heads?”

  He shook his head. “No, not yet. For now, this stays in this room. Until I have something to tell everyone besides ‘we just got attacked’, there’s no sense in causing panic. Some of the directors aren’t big picture types.”

  “Understood,” she said, nodding.

  As she went to leave, Buchanan said, “You were going to say something before that call came through…”

  She looked back. “Oh, no, it’s nothing.”

  “Kim…”

  She sighed. “Fine. Well, it was about the fact we can’t get in touch with Ray. I was going to say, with everything Jericho and Julie are dealing with… and with all this in Cambodia… are we sure Ray is okay?”

  Buchanan arched a brow. “You think he’s in trouble?”

  “I think we went from business as usual to def con three in less than a day. I think Ray is… a law unto himself sometimes… but he’s one of the best we have. We both know that. He wouldn’t go dark for this long without an explanation. Bad news comes in threes, so people say. I’m just worried his silence might be the third thing, I guess.”

  Buchanan smiled. He knew Kim had a soft spot for Collins, but he also knew she was the most professional person he employed. Not to mention incredibly intelligent and wasted in the role of secretary. He had learned very quickly not to ignore her intuition or concerns.

  “I don’t subscribe to superstition,” he replied. “But I’m a big believer in your instincts. Get on to our team of analysts, see if we can pick up his last known location. Just in case.”

  She nodded and smiled back. “On it, boss.”

  She left him alone, and yet again, Buchanan found himself staring out of the window behind his desk, out across the vast expanse of GlobaTech’s main compound. He watched the small city bu
stle about its business, keeping the world in check.

  “Whatever you’re doing, Ray, I hope you’re all right. We need all the help we can get right now.”

  Collins landed at Halifax Stanfield International Airport as the sun was rising on a new day. He hadn’t managed to get much sleep on the flight, his mind occupied by the task that lay ahead of him. No matter how many different ways he approached it, he saw no obvious way out that didn’t result in him looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. He knew Patricia Velasquez well enough to know that he didn’t want her hunting him.

  Having only a carry-on bag with essential items for the trip, he was able to forego baggage claim after clearing passport control and head straight for the exit. The drastic change in temperature had hit him like a freight train. Gone was the high-eighties of Miami, replaced by the aggressive low-fifties of Nova Scotia.

  Distracted with trying to mentally adjust to the new climate, he didn’t see the man approaching him from his right. As he stood on the sidewalk outside the main entrance of the airport, overlooking the wide semi-circle reserved for taxis picking up and dropping passengers, he felt the familiar sensation of a gun barrel push into his side for the second time in as many days.

  “Ah, bollocks,” he had muttered as he turned to address the new arrival.

  The man was wearing a three-quarter length leather jacket over a high-neck charcoal gray sweater. He had a couple of days’ growth on his face and throat and wore sunglasses, which Collins noted were certainly not required, so must be for added discretion.

  “Let me guess,” he had said. “Patty sent me a babysitter.”

  The man had smiled with little humor. “Miss Velasquez wants to ensure you carry out the job as expected, that’s all.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  “My ride’s this way. It’s an hour to the port. Let’s go.”

  Not wanting to draw attention to them, Collins had followed willingly. The man had gestured him behind the wheel before sliding into the passenger seat.

  They had travelled in virtual silence. The only exchanges between them were when Collins received directions. The journey had taken closer to an hour and a half as they had hit some morning traffic along the way.

  A five-story parking garage stood on a slight rise, overlooking the Port of Halifax from roughly five hundred yards away. Collins had navigated them to the top floor, which was largely deserted. He had nosed the car into a spot facing the port, close to the barrier at the edge. His babysitter had then retrieved two traffic cones from the trunk, which he made Collins place at the bottom of the entrance ramp, so no other vehicles could come up, ensuring they had the privacy they required.

  He had then passed him a long, black bag, which contained a GlobaTech-issue sniper rifle. Collins was familiar with the weapon. He had smiled at the man as he unzipped the bag and began assembling the long gun.

  “This is meant to be some kind of joke, right?”

  The man had shrugged. “A little irony never hurt anyone, I guess. But at least you have no excuses when it comes to taking your shot.”

  “Aye…”

  Once the rifle was ready, he had found a comfortable spot that offered the widest possible view of the port and settled in for the long wait. He could see the entrance gates, where the main highway branched off and inside the yard. He could see warehouses and stacks of storage containers. He could see the foreman’s office. He could see two docking lanes.

  He let out a heavy sigh and waited.

  Almost three hours had passed since.

  Collins glanced to his left, where the man was sitting on the ground with his back to the front tire of the car. His gun rested on his lap, his finger against the outside of the trigger guard, the barrel aiming at Collins.

  “Ya know, it’s a little off-putting having ya point that thing at me when I’m trying to concentrate,” said Collins.

  The man stared back over the rims of his sunglasses. “And yet, I don’t seem to give a damn.”

  Collins smiled dismissively. “Well, I bet ya were the popular kid in class, weren’t ya? Prick.”

  He re-focused his gaze through the sights of the sniper rifle and completed another slow scan of the port, sweeping left to right, from the entrance to the docks, and back again. There was activity but nothing of any interest to him. He had committed the face of his target to memory, and there was no sign of anyone who didn’t simply work there for a living.

  Not yet anyway.

  He looked over again at the man.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?” replied the man.

  “I just figured we’re gonna be spending a fair bit of time together. May as well make it amicable, right?”

  The man smiled. “Why? You hoping to work together again or something?”

  Collins chuckled. “Hell no. This is a one-and-done job for Patty. Just a bit of business we’re taking care of, ya know?”

  The man continued to smile. “Right…”

  Collins held his gaze, processing his reaction before returning his attention to the scope. He concentrated on the task at hand, trying to remain calm. But a sickening realization had just dawned on him. The guy next to him wasn’t just there to make sure he completed the job. He was there to tie up loose ends for Velasquez.

  He was there to kill him.

  15.

  The jet had been airborne a little over twenty minutes. Darius Silva had met them at the airfield, accompanied by three of his own personal bodyguards. After courteous greetings had been exchanged, everyone had hustled on board, anxious to take-off.

  The plane was from GlobaTech’s own fleet. Gone were the days when they relied on the acquired assets of the people they fought against. It was painted white, with an orange and black tailfin that sported the image of a globe that had become one of the most recognizable symbols in the world. Inside offered seating for twenty passengers—ten comfortable reclining chairs on either side of the carpeted aisle, with plenty of space in between.

  Jericho and Julie sat on either side of the aisle, with Hyatt and Silva opposite them. Silva’s men had opted to sit toward the rear of the plane, away from the group.

  Hyatt stared out of the small window, his face obscured by a mask of doubt and concern.

  “Is everything okay, my friend?” asked Silva, noticing his expression.

  Hyatt looked around but didn’t get a chance to reply.

  “No, he’s not okay,” said Jericho sharply.

  Picking up on his tone, Julie reached over and placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t…”

  He shrugged her away. “No. I’m not going to sit here while this sonofabitch acts all nice and polite and innocent, as if nothing’s happening.”

  “Excuse me?” said Silva, scowling. “You should watch your tone.”

  There was a sound of hurried movement, and Silva’s bodyguards all appeared in the aisle alongside him, their hands hovering over their weapons.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” one of them asked.

  “No,” he replied. “The hired help forgot their place, that’s all.”

  Jericho rolled his eyes and smiled. “Hired help? Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this.”

  He leapt to his feet, followed a second later by Julie, who lunged to intervene before he could wrap one of his giant hands around Silva’s throat. In a heartbeat, the noise of shuffling and clacking was audible over the roar of the engines as weapons were drawn and aimed. Jericho aimed at Silva. The bodyguard who spoke aimed at Jericho. Julie aimed at him. The remaining bodyguards covered the stand-off from a distance, ensuring everyone had a gun pointing at somebody.

  Silva sat calmly, smiling at Jericho. “What are you going to do? Shoot me inside a pressurized cabin, fifteen thousand feet in the air?”

  Jericho glared at him. “Don’t tempt me, asshole.”

  “You should sit down.”

  “No, you should shut your damn mouth. We got hit last night because of you.”


  Silva’s expression changed to one of surprise and skepticism. “What?”

  Julie sighed. “Six armed cartel soldiers attacked our hotel. We took them out, but it was a bad situation.”

  Silva glanced at Hyatt, who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, squirming at the sight of the guns. “Ulysses, are you all right?”

  Hyatt nodded. “Y-yeah, I’m fine.”

  Silva turned back to Julie. “How did they know where you were staying?”

  “Good question. A better one would be why they would risk hitting us in such a public place. We need to know what’s going on. You need to tell us about this shipment, and why it’s so important, because right now, the bad guys seem to know more than we do, and that makes our job very difficult.”

  Silva looked in turn at Julie and Jericho. He saw the unblinking eyes, the unwavering aim, the conviction etched onto their faces.

  He went to speak but stopped himself.

  Jericho sighed and took a step toward him, pressing the barrel of his gun against Silva’s forehead. The color drained from Silva’s face, but he still waved away his men when they bristled with retaliation.

  “Now isn’t the time for secrets,” said Jericho. “This is where we are: we’re going to land in Halifax in about an hour. When we do, your shipment is going to come and go, just like you want, and we’re going to shoot anyone who shows up that didn’t arrive on this plane. This is the end game, Darius. There’s no need to keep us in the dark. We need to know what this is all about. Then maybe, just maybe, we can be proactive for once, instead of just dealing with shit going wrong.”

  Silva looked at his men and nodded. Reluctantly, they lowered their weapons and stepped away. A moment later, Julie did the same. Jericho waited a few seconds longer before removing the barrel of his weapon from Silva’s forehead. Everyone returned to their seats, and silence fell inside the cabin, bringing with it a slow wave of calm.