Without Fear

by Col. David Hunt

  Plenty of time, she thought, ignoring Mani’s call as she reached the edge of Diyarbakir’s red-light district, a mecca of clubs, brothels, and countless streetwalkers, all under the glimmer of neon lights and the bass of American rock music.

  Zahra slowed down as traffic thickened, as car windows rolled down to negotiate with the mix of Arab, Turkish, and Armenian girls, most in their late teens, dominating the sidewalks of Toplukonut Street. She contemplated this sea of stilettos, miniskirts, tank tops, and makeup, all for sale at thirty Turkish lira—around ten dollars—for thirty minutes. And the debauchery continued inside the many licensed and state-regulated brothels lining both sides of the street, where a customer could rent a private room that came with the girl of his dreams for little more than a hundred dollars per hour. Legalized in 1923, when Atatürk founded the modern republic, Turkey’s prostitution industry had a current registered workforce of three thousand girls.

  Her mother had been one of them.

  Zahra was born in the Kurdish slums of Istanbul to her father’s mistress, a girl not much older than the long-legged and scantily dressed creatures presently stepping inside SUVs and sedans. Her father had been a high-ranking officer in the People’s Defense Forces, the paramilitary wing of the PKK, a left-wing militant organization based in Turkey and Iraqi Kurdistan. When her mother died from tuberculosis when Zahra was only eight, her father took her in to help the maids. Years later, when her father was away on a mission, his zealous brothers changed her life forever.

  Her father moved Zahra to a clinic in Diyarbakir, not far from the airport, to help her recover from her wounds before enlisting her in the PKK’s Free Women’s Units. Zahra trained in southern Turkey and northern Iraq, where she turned her suffering into anger, applying herself to the cause with mind, body, and soul. Over the following decade, she rose in the ranks, leading her own group of female assassins against high-profile Turkish officials. Her assassination methods, executed with cold precision using a Ruger Mark III pistol fitted with a Gemtech sound suppressor firing subsonic .22-caliber ammunition, made Zahra a legend in the PKK. It also put a price on her head, decreed by the Turkish government. Realizing that the best assassins also made the best bodyguards, the PKK leadership appointed Zahra to the security detail of the president of Iraqi Kurdistan. During an official visit to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, in 1997, Zahra met Prince Mani al Saud, who exposed the petite Kurdish operative to the wealth she could attain by becoming an independent security consultant. She resigned her government post in 1998 to manage security for the prince.

  And now I’m back in this hellhole, she thought, throttling the Kawasaki to get around the line of vehicles, accelerating up the bustling avenue, before turning right onto Oztas Street and continuing for four more blocks.

  The noisy boulevard gave way to a quiet neighborhood. She checked the address plugged onto her phone’s GPS, displayed on the Skully’s visor, and pulled over in front of a two-story corner building.

  Was the informant wrong?

  She gazed up and down the tree-lined street and was about to check the address again when two men dressed in black suits and guarding the entrance shifted their stances ever so slightly. But it was enough for Zahra to notice their silhouettes, barely visible against the dark double doors.

  Hello.

  Dismounting and removing her helmet, she shook her head to loosen her shoulder-length hair, as dark as her eyes and makeup. Setting the Skully on the handlebars, she walked up to the men while offering a smile that was not returned by either man. They were tall and broad, their muscles pressed against the fabric of their silk suits. One was bald, with a goatee, and the other clean-shaven under a full head of brown hair. Their eyes followed her while they kept their arms to their sides, relaxed, confident in their size—and probably in their training and concealed weapons.

  But it would not matter.

  Nothing would.

  “You lost, lady?” one of them asked in the Common Turkic language she had not heard, or missed, in some time.

  But it would be the last thing he would ever say.

  Zahra reached behind her back with a gloved right hand and produced the suppressed Ruger, shooting finger already caressing the trigger as she aimed and fired a 22LR subsonic round. The Gemtech absorbed the powder burn while propelling the forty-two-grain lead bullet through the aluminum cylinder and straight to the middle of his forehead.

  Although the slug’s mass wasn’t nearly as large as a 9mm, it tore through his frontal lobe and lodged itself in the middle of the parietal lobe, robbing the guard of dozens of brain functions, including the ability to stand, hold a gun, or even scream. The Ruger’s blowback mechanism ejected the spent cartridge and extracted a fresh one from the ten-round magazine, sliding it into the firing chamber.

  His associate tried to react, but the laws of physics played against him. In the time it took him to reach inside his jacket for his holstered pistol, Zahra had already shifted targets and pulled the trigger again, just as the first man collapsed by her feet.

  It was over in four seconds. Stepping over both guards, who were now seized by spasms, she reached the foyer, quiet at this hour. But the peaceful setting, the pastel walls, dark hardwood floors, and crystal chandelier, couldn’t hide the fact that this brothel saw as much activity as the loudest one back on Toplukonut Boulevard.

  The only difference being price and quality.

  The luxurious and discreet establishment offered the most beautiful—and disease-free—women in town, catering to a clientele able to afford the equivalent of one thousand dollars for an unforgettable night.

  And the irony of it all was that this business was owned and run by a pair of brothers from Istanbul.

  The Hassani brothers.

  She didn’t bother going upstairs to the suites, where patrons were either already asleep or still getting their money’s worth. Shoving the Ruger behind the small of her back, pressed against her spine, Zahra turned right, toward the office, where she found two more guards.

  Like the ones up in front, this pair sported more muscles than Olympic weightlifters, all packed inside tight black suits. And just like before, her small stature and looks bought her a few precious moments.

  She waved and smiled as she approached them. The men exchanged a puzzled look before one of them walked up to meet her halfway. Zahra shot him through the left eye before pushing him toward his surprised partner, who made an attempt to reach inside his jacket.

  Pivoting on her left foot, Zahra brought her right foot up and around, striking the side of his temple with the toe of her right boot.

  The guard staggered back but didn’t fall. He was tall, almost a foot taller than her, and strong, able to grab Zahra’s shooting hand by the wrist.

  But it also would not make any difference.

  She drove her right knee up in between his legs, crushing his testicles, but before he could scream, she chopped his larynx with the edge of her left hand.

  The guard dropped to his knees, a wide-eyed stare looking almost straight at her in sheer disbelief. And that’s how she left him, gasping for the air that could not get through his collapsed windpipe.

  She inched the door slowly open, wary of having been heard and of walking into the wrong end of a pistol. But all she came upon were two men sitting on a sofa to the right of a pair of desks and a minibar. Two girls wearing nothing but stilettos knelt in front of them, their faces buried in the men’s groins. Zahra had caught them literally with their pants down. They had drinks in their hands, eyes closed and heads tilted back while the girls did their thing. A small table with opium pipes and a white powder that looked like cocaine stood between them.

  One of the girls turned around, smiled, and mumbled hello in Urdu, her eyes half-open with the stupor of drugs, her nose smudged white, confirming that the powder was cocaine. She was a pretty Pakistani in her early teens, with breasts barely developed. The noise got the attention of the other girl, who looked Arab, like Zahra, and also
quite stoned. They started giggling, and then the Pakistani girl stretched a hand toward Zahra, asking her to join in.

  Seriously?

  “Get out,” Zahra said. “Now.”

  The girls exchanged a puzzled look, shrugged almost in unison, and staggered to their feet, somehow managing to balance themselves on those four-inch heels. They stumbled out of the room and chuckled some more when nearly tripping over the bodies of the guards in the hallway.

  The Hassani brothers slowly came out of their trance, eyes also half-closed. One of them, Khalid, tried to reach down for his trousers while his brother, Walid, closed his eyes again, and his head bobbed sideways.

  “Don’t,” she warned, standing in front of them, her weapon held close to her chest, harder to grab and easy to point and shoot.

  Khalid leaned forward and blinked, apparently not realizing until that moment that she was even in the room. His eyes widened when he noticed her holding a gun. Then, slowly, his dark eyes measured her and blinked again, this time in recognition, as he whispered, “Zahra?”

  “Hello, Uncle.”

  Before he could reply, she shot him twice in the groin, and as he started to scream, shot him once in the larynx. As he collapsed, trembling and gasping for air by Walid’s feet, Zahra also shot his brother twice in his genitals and once in the throat.

  She remained there for a moment, watching them choke in their own blood as they stared in horror at their maimed genitals, then back at her. But for reasons she could not explain, the moment didn’t seem as satisfying as she had envisioned for so many years. And a part of her even felt sorry for them, until she remembered her own journey after they had cut her, how she had dreaded the thought of anyone touching her. She recalled her long string of failed relationships because it was just too painful to become intimate. Her uncles had really hurt her for life—or so she had thought, until she met Prince Mani, who fell for the feisty assassin-turned-bodyguard. And as had been the case in the past, Zahra had turned down his advances, until Mani had figured out why, one late evening during a stopover in Monaco, after both had had a bit too much to drink. The alcohol haze had momentarily made her forget, until his fingers slid under her panties and she had screamed as pain shot up from her mutilated genitalia.

  “Are you okay?”

  “It … hurts…”

  “Oh, baby, why?”

  “I’m so embarrassed.”

  His hand still on her, Mani had felt the butchery and had simply hugged her as she cried, whispering softly in her ear.

  “You will always be safe with me.”

  The surgery had actually been relatively minor. Just a couple of hours in the hands of Europe’s finest surgeons, and a month later Zahra had felt like a woman again.

  When the Hassani brothers finally stopped moving, Zahra spat on them, walked right out of the building, and rode the Kawasaki back to the private hangar at the airport, where she found the prince pacing in front of the Citation.

  Unlike other Saudi royalty, Mani preferred Western clothes, and tonight he was dressed in a pair of linen pants, a white polo shirt, and loafers, no socks. And also unlike the glamorous royalty, he wore no jewelry, except for a Breitling pilot’s watch hugging his left wrist.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he snapped, an iPhone in his right hand. He was a handsome devil, with a perfect tan, a perfect haircut, and perfect teeth, and he smelled of lavender, which she would never admit was her favorite smell. His soft features hardened a bit as she approached him, gray eyes glinting in frustration. “I’ve call you several—”

  “Can’t a girl go sightseeing?”

  “You do realize you work for me?” His lips pressed into a hard admonishing line.

  She rolled her eyes and actually wanted to laugh. “What’s the rush? The meeting isn’t until the morning. We still have time to—”

  “Change of plans,” Mani said, checking his watch. “We’re leaving immediately.”

  “Oh … where?”

  “If you’d answered the damn phone I could have—”

  She just cupped his face with a gloved hand, pulling him down and brushing her lips over his before whispering, “That attitude isn’t going to get you anywhere with me.”

  He gave her his devilish half-smile, hands on her back as he pressed her against him and said, “Moscow, Zahra. We need to go to Moscow … tonight.”

  “Moscow? Why?”

  “I just got a most urgent request … from the sheikh.”

  30

  Military Intelligence

  COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.

  “Are you shitting me, Romeo?” said Chief Larson over the secure frequency while he knelt next to Stark, who remained in a crouch between two boulders high up in the rocky hills north of the coordinates provided by the first Agency handler the colonel actually liked.

  Stark wasn’t sure how it had happened, but within a couple of hours of his meeting with Harwich, the funds had posted in his team’s account in the Cayman Islands. And it had happened just as Duggan had called back to inform him that, as far as military intelligence was concerned, Harwich was quite the legend in the intelligence world and Gorman was one of his understudies.

  “Nope,” Ryan replied. Perched three hundred meters up on a hill in overwatch, the former Delta master sergeant had just reported that a U.S. Marines rifle platoon was marching single file toward the compound from the south, and their approach had alerted the guards. “Jarheads are about a click away.”

  “Goes to fucking show you,” Chief Larson cursed.

  “What’s that?” asked Martin.

  “That military intelligence is truly a contradiction in terms.”

  “For once the chief is right,” replied Martin.

  “Well, even a broken watch marks the correct time twice a day,” Ryan chimed in.

  “Twice a day would be an upgrade for NATO,” said Martin.

  Stark sighed, lacking the energy to tell his team to zip the chatter, especially when they were right on the money. NATO intelligence kept sending United States Marines into unwinnable situations.

  The colonel tightened his grip on his MP5A1 while observing a large force of Taliban soldiers gathering outside the heavily fortified, fortress-like compound. Stark was tempted to call the marines off, but doing so would telegraph his position to NATO. And this being a CIA-sanctioned mission, there was no telling what the Agency had shared or not shared with Major General Lévesque—or with Colonel Duggan for that matter. All he knew was that this job—which paid quite handsomely—called for complete radio silence unless he had something to report, and then he could only use this one encrypted radio to do so.

  Grimacing at the nature of his mercenary work, especially when it placed American servicemen in unnecessary danger, he picked up the radio to alert Harwich.

  31

  Need-to-Know

  COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Harwich exploded, storming out of his supposedly secured communications building and marching off to NATO headquarters.

  “I thought this was strictly Agency need-to-know,” Monica said, catching up to him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me something I don’t fucking know!”

  Monica drove while Harwich just stared out the window in silence until they reached the large structure in the middle of the base, cruising past rows and rows of stacked shipping containers converted into living quarters and offices.

  They were able to talk their way into NATO headquarters, but reaching Major General Lévesque, who was holed up in one of the conference rooms in the back of the auditorium-like building, proved unexpectedly difficult, even with their combined credentials.

  “I need to see the general!” Harwich insisted, trying to get past a pair of oversize corporals from the Canadian Army Military Police who were blocking the way into a conference room.

  The one in charge, a Corporal Darcy, cleared his thr
oat and said in a rather raspy voice, “Later, eh? He’s in a staff meeting with the heads of the various armed forces and has ordered no interruptions.”

  “Listen,” Harwich insisted, “he’s about to send another platoon of United States Marines into an ambush!”

  “Like I said, the general is—”

  “Hey, Canuck, this is beyond your pay grade,” Monica broke in, stepping right in front of the large soldier while noticing the bruises on his neck, which gave her an idea. “Get the hell out of our way.”

  Darcy looked down at her and blinked in surprise before exchanging what looked like a borderline amused glance with his partner, who shook his head.

  “Look, whoever the hell you are,” Darcy began, after clearing his throat again. “There is a protocol to see the general, eh? Go see his aid and he’ll fit you in—”

  “Go,” Monica told Harwich, after grabbing Darcy’s throat right over the bruises, bringing the man to his knees while side kicking his partner in the balls.

  Harwich burst through the double doors while Monica released the throat grip on the corporal, leaving him coughing next to his partner, who was curled up on his side, moaning, both hands on his groin. As she entered the room behind the CIA man, Monica expected to see the usual entourage of high-ranking officers from various countries in their military uniforms. Instead, just Major General Lévesque and Colonel Duggan occupied one end of the conference table, and they both turned to the intrusion.

  “Who do you think you are to burst into this special brief, eh?” Lévesque asked, standing at the end of the conference table, the freckles on his face shifting as he frowned. Colonel Duggan from the U.S. Marine Corps sat next to him, regarding them over the rim of his reading glasses.

  “You’ve misused our intelligence, General,” Harwich said. Turning to Duggan, he added, “Your marines are about to walk into another ambush.”