Without Fear

by Col. David Hunt

  “How … can you possibly know that?”

  “It’s our business to know everything about everyone, especially persons of interest such as yourself.”

  “You … you wouldn’t dare,” Adnan mumbled, nostrils flaring, the veins on his forehead and neck pulsating.

  Maryam produced a satellite phone. “Try me. One call and it’s over. We pull your roots.”

  It took a moment, but Gorman just stared in awe as Adnan began to talk, slowly at first, with hesitation, his eyes shifting between the photos and Maryam. He conveyed the location of a compound in the southern section of the country, high above Lashkar Gah, where Pasha Baqer had been ordered by Osama bin Laden to take the nuclear engineering professor.

  At Gitmo it would have taken several sessions of waterboarding, combined with sleep deprivation and other techniques, before coming close to breaking a tough detainee.

  Maryam, armed with the right intelligence, had done it in under minute.

  Gorman handed Maryam a tablet computer showing a map, and Adnan pointed to a location not marked on any NATO map.

  “There is nothing there,” Maryam said.

  “There is,” he said. “Hidden from view. An old Soviet bunker. I promise.”

  “Well see,” she said. “But why, Adnan? What’s there? Why are they taking him there?”

  The drug chief shook his head. “I … I do not know this.”

  “You understand,” Maryam said, “that if you lie to us…” She waved the sat phone at him.

  Fierce determination flashed in his stare as he said, “I swear to you. It is the truth. My job was only to get them across the pass. That’s how they operate. I do not know the reason for the kidnapping.”

  She turned around, faced Gorman, and raised her eyebrows.

  He stretched a thumb toward the door.

  A minute later they sat across the hall, inside another container outfitted as a conference room.

  “You think he’s telling the truth?” he asked.

  “Aye. He will not risk his family. Now the question, Bill, is what are you going to do with this information.”

  Gorman considered that for a moment, then said, “I know a guy … in Kandahar.”

  26

  Spooks, Feds, and Grunts

  KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN.

  Accompanied by Evan Larson, Colonel Stark met the new CIA station chief, Glenn Harwich, outside his hangar. He remembered the intelligence officer, and also his companion, standing next to him, an FBI agent named Monica Cruz, on loan to the CIA.

  “Hey, little miss,” said Larson.

  “It’s ‘Agent Cruz’ to you,” Monica blurted back.

  “Got it,” Larson replied. “Little Miss Cruz.”

  “Knock it off, Chief,” Stark said, without taking his gaze off the CIA man, recalling the attack on the airfield yesterday. He was a bit shorter than Stark and also a bit older, at least based on his bald head, salt-and-pepper beard, and dark bags under his eyes. The man looked spent, tired, in sharp contrast with the fed, who looked fresh out of Quantico. Slim and muscular, she wore her long, dark hair in a ponytail and had a harsh stare of brown eyes over high cheekbones, a fine nose, and full lips. Add radiant honey skin from an in-country tan, plus the tenacity and skill she had displayed in putting down those insurgents, and Stark had a difficult time not doing a double take on her. But as was the case with the pretty air force captain, Stark didn’t want his guys reminding him that Monica was also too young for him.

  “So, Mr. Harwich,” he finally said. “You wanted to talk? Talk.”

  “Need to run surveillance here,” he said, showing a spot on the GPS map on his tablet computer. “Five days ago, a professor of nuclear engineering was kidnapped in Islamabad by the Taliban, with assistance from al Qaeda, and we believe he was taken … to this location.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “Not sure. Trees cover the area, but we did a focused infrared and it could be some sort of facility, which is why we need the surveillance to figure out what the hell it is. We’ve just labeled it Compound Fifty-Seven. The officer on the case, Bill Gorman, is en route from Bagram with one of his local assets and would like eyes on the ground before he arrives.”

  “Do you have a field report with the details?”

  Harwich tapped away on his tablet for a few seconds, looked up, and said, “Just transferred it to your op folder. We’re calling it a high-threat target for now. U.S. eyes only.”

  Stark frowned. “Meaning NATO doesn’t know about this?”

  “For the moment. Until we know more.”

  “Now, Mr. Harwich, do I need to remind you what happened the last time the CIA and NATO didn’t compare notes?”

  Harwich dropped his gaze briefly. “Yeah, I’m aware of that. But we’re dealing with … well, a missing nuclear engineering professor—nuclear being the key word. So until we know more, Langley wants to keep it under wraps. And the nuclear thing isn’t in the report, by the way.”

  “Of course,” Stark said. “Just a ‘high-threat target.’”

  “Right. And there’s something else … something that’s also not in the report.”

  Stark just stood there while Harwich produced his phone, fiddled with it for a few seconds, and turned the screen toward him. “I need to know the instant you find anyone wearing this.”

  The colonel and Larson leaned forward to get a better look.

  “Looks like some sort of Soviet graduation ring,” Stark observed.

  “Correct. From the Gagarin Air Force Academy, the Soviets’ version of—”

  “I know what that is, but I don’t understand what this has to do with your request. And if the FBI knows about it”—Stark pointed to Monica—“then the Agency for which we both work needs serious help. So how about we stop all the bullshit and you just tell us what we need to know to help you.”

  Exchanging a glance with Monica, Harwich said, “You’re right, of course, and old habits die hard, so here comes the if you tell anyone, my career is over kind of information.”

  “Shoot,” Stark said.

  Harwich spoke for just one minute, enough for Stark to understand.

  “So you think the hags found the Soviet nuke and they’ve kidnapped the scientist to get it operational?”

  Harwich tilted his head. “That’s the working theory. So, get ready for—”

  “Happy to do it,” Stark interrupted.

  “Great, Colonel. I’ll let Gorman know that you—”

  “As soon as we get paid for the last op.”

  The CIA man narrowed his stare. “Excuse me?”

  Stark took a moment to explain.

  Harwich looked away, then at Monica, and back at Stark, and just said, “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Just like that?” Stark asked.

  “Just like that,” Harwich replied.

  “Yeah,” Larson replied. “I want to see that.”

  Just then, Ryan stepped outside the hangar, followed by Martin and Hagen, who lit up a Sobranie and remained to the side.

  “I thought I told you guys to remain inside,” Stark said, looking over his shoulder at the trio.

  “What ya gonna do, sir? The man’s gotta smoke, and he ain’t doing it in the hangar,” Ryan said, walking casually up to Stark before stopping abruptly, pointing a finger at Monica, and adding, “Hey! Arizona, right?”

  Stark noticed how quickly Monica’s expression softened. “Ryan? What the fuck?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said, his face broadening into an ear-to-ear grin. “What the fuck? How you doin’?”

  “I’m doing fine,” she said, pointing at her chest before redirecting her little index finger at the former Delta sniper. “But you never called … asshole.”

  “I meant to … really … but—”

  “Whoa,” Martin interrupted, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth and using it to point at Monica. “Hands off, Romeo. I’m calling dibs on the skirt.”

  “Go fuck
a goat, little man,” Monica said to Martin, prompting Larson to laugh while Hagen grinned, took another drag, and exhaled skyward.

  Returning her stare to Ryan’s rapidly reddening face, Monica added, “And as for you—”

  “Sorry,” Ryan said. “I really meant to—“”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “No, really, I’ll make it up to—”

  “Okay, knock it off,” Stark interjected, staring Ryan down while Harwich frowned at Monica. Shifting his gaze back to the CIA man, he added, “Ball’s in your court, Mr. Harwich. You now know where to find us.” And turning to his team, but really glaring at Ryan, he added, “Guys, with me. Inside. Now.”

  Everyone moved, except for Ryan, who gave Monica a little wave and a wink, which she returned, and Martin, who also waved at Monica, who just ignored him.

  “All right, let’s go, you little goat fucker,” Larson said, planting a massive gloved hand on the back of Martin’s neck and steering him into the hangar. “And you too, Romeo,” the chief added, grabbing Ryan by his dog tags and dragging him away while Harwich tugged Monica by the shoulder to head back to their building.

  Hagen closed the hangar doors behind them, and Larson released Ryan, who simply tucked his dog tags under his shirt.

  “Ryan? What the hell was that?”

  “Monica Cruz, sir,” he said with an innocent shrug.

  “Don’t screw with me, Sergeant Major.”

  “Remember that sniper seminar I took in Scottsdale last summer?”

  “What about it?”

  “She was there too, sir. One evening after class, we were all hanging out at this watering hole at the edge of town when these bikers came in and started harassing her. She took out the leader in solid hand-to-hand—mind you, the bastard was twice her size, so look out, Chief. But then the rest of the gang started to surround her, so I … well … took care of them, and afterwards … well, we sort of hit it off and—”

  “All right, fine,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed at Ryan’s lack of professionalism or at the fact that twice in the last day he’d been attracted to someone just to realize they were already taken, and this one by a member of his own damn team. “Just remember my rules when you’re on my clock.”

  “Sorry, sir. She just happened to be the hottest and most badass girl I’ve ever—”

  “Chief, pull up the file from Harwich and review it with the team,” Stark said. “I’m going to make some inquiries about these Harwich and Gorman characters. Make sure their heads are actually attached to the correct part of their anatomies. I’m not having a repeat of the last op.”

  “But, Colonel,” Larson said, “I thought we’re not dealing with those Agency assholes until they do right by us and pay what we’re owed.”

  “Oh, Chief. They will pay. They will most certainly pay.”

  27

  Light My Fire

  KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.

  “What the hell was that, Cruz?”

  Monica shrugged, still not believing Ryan was actually here. The sight of him brought her back to that dusty saloon, back to those rowdy bikers and their haphazard attempt to scare her outside the ladies room. She had taken out their Alpha with a roundhouse to the side of the man’s right knee, but the rest of his gang had caught up to her by the bar while intimidated patrons parted like the Red Sea. In the time it took her to reach over the counter and grab a half-empty bottle of Cuervo Gold by the neck, Ryan had already swirled through the group and—

  “Cruz!”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  Harwich exhaled. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Why? What did I do?”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That shit doesn’t fly with me. Try again.”

  It was Monica’s turn to exhale. “Fine, boss. Fine. Name’s Ryan Hunt. Former Delta sniper. Met him a year ago at a shooting class in Arizona. Caught me by surprise seeing him here is all. All right?”

  He shook his head. “Not all right, Cruz. I don’t give a shit who you bang or don’t bang, just don’t mix business and pleasure on my watch again. Clear?”

  “Crystal,” she said. “What are you going to do about their request to get paid first?”

  “What I always do, Cruz.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Light a fire under someone ass.”

  28

  A Pinch of Luck

  KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.

  Stark grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler next to their C-21A jet and walked to the far end of the hangar while producing his daily dose of PTSD meds. He downed them with a few swigs before dialing Colonel Duggan’s private number.

  “Bored already, Sierra Echo?”

  Stark grinned. “Negative, sir. I’ve been assigned another mission by my civilian contractor.”

  “Oh. So you’re back whoring for the Agency. What’s your pimp having you do now?”

  “Ah … sorry, Colonel. Not allowed to talk about it.”

  A pause, followed by “Hunter … are you stupid or just pretending to be stupid?”

  “Probably both, sir, with a side of crazy.”

  “That Agency secrecy shit is precisely what almost got you killed a couple of days ago.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then, and pardon my French, why the fuck are you calling me?”

  “Because I don’t trust them … sir.”

  Duggan laughed. “Well, at least you haven’t gone completely stupid. So, speak.”

  Stark frowned, hating to ask for a favor. “Could you run the names of my new handlers through your system?”

  “What are you after?”

  “Making sure they’re not dumb motherfuckers that will put my team in harm’s way … like their predecessor. I kind of like my balls and my head where they are.”

  “I see.”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  A pause, followed by, “Well, hell, you did save some of our guys yesterday. So … names?”

  Stark gave them to him.

  “Call you back.”

  Hanging up, Stark sipped his water while staring out the window at the activity on the ramp and the runway behind it. Planes of all shapes and sizes, from UAVs, A-10s, and F-16 Falcons to C-5 Galaxy transports took off and landed in this metropolis that America had chosen to plant smack in the middle of the most hostile country on the planet.

  But it is places like this that keep you in business, he thought, looking back at his guys hanging out by their jet. Ryan and Martin flanked Hagen as the three of them looked over the shoulders of Larson, who was working his laptop on a table next to the nose landing gear. As much as those four joked around, they were all business when it came to reviewing the details of a potential new mission.

  And that was exactly what it was: a potential new mission. In addition to Harwich finding a way to get them paid for the last op—including their bonuses—each member of the team had to accept the new mission. They either all agreed or they passed.

  Stark truly believed that it was this one hundred percent buy in, plus the fact that everyone received equal shares of the take, that kept the team hungry and frosty—and also alive.

  That, plus a cup of guts, a teaspoon of wild, and a pinch of luck, especially after that first shot was fired and all carefully crafted plans went straight to hell.

  But what Stark would not know, at least until it was too late, was that Harwich’s predecessor had left a digital link between the contractor team’s operational file and Major General Lévesque’s daily intelligence brief. The intent was to prevent another left hand–right hand disaster by keeping the NATO chief aware of Stark’s activities while at KAF. For reasons that might never be known, Harwich’s predecessor had failed to include the existence of the link in his brief. So the moment Harwich loaded the information on Compound 57 into Stark’s operational file, calling it a high-threat target, it made
it to Lévesque’s desk within the hour. And knowing little more than the compound’s coordinates and the fact that it was … well … deemed a high-threat target, NATO assumed it had to mean an IED factory.

  29

  Sharia Law

  DIYARBAKIR. SOUTHERN TURKEY.

  Zahra Hassani floored the black Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle, accelerating from the airport on Akkoyunlu Bulvari, the wide boulevard cutting through the center of this shithole of a town on the banks of the Tigris River.

  A town she never thought she’d see again.

  Shops and restaurants along the popular thoroughfare, already closed at this late hour, blended into a blur as she pushed the bike, twisting the throttle while working the gears with the toe of her riding boot.

  But that didn’t matter to the petite Kurdish woman dressed in a black riding jumpsuit and matching Skully helmet.

  She wasn’t in the mood for shopping or eating or socializing.

  Zahra was hunting.

  Familiar streets rushed past as she headed toward the red-light district on the south side of town. She had been just a child the last time she lived here, recovering from the circumcision performed by her radical Muslim uncles, who had maimed her with a razor blade.

  After raping her.

  Her father had found her beaten and bleeding in the alley behind their house, about to be stoned to death, accused of adultery by the same men who had cut her.

  She had been fourteen years old.

  Zahra tightened her grip on the Ninja’s handlebars while narrowing her gaze at the quiet surroundings beyond the Skully’s antifog visor, which superimposed video captured by the ultra-wide-angle camera mounted on the rear of the polycarbonate helmet.

  A small window opened on the upper right-hand side of her field of view. It was her employer, Saudi Arabia Prince Mani al Saud, calling her phone, which was interfaced to the helmet via Bluetooth. They had landed just an hour ago aboard his Cessna Citation X business jet for a clandestine meeting with senior members of the Partiya Karkerȇn Kurdistanȇ, the Kurdistan Workers’ Party. The PKK controlled the major heroin staging areas and transportation routes between Afghanistan and Europe. But the meeting was postponed until the following morning, giving Zahra an operational window of a few hours.