Hunting Ghosts

by Brent Towns

  “Put it this way: once they cross that line, there’s no going back. They’re all volunteers who know the consequences should they get found out.”

  “Air cover?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the government is all right with it?”

  “The ones that count. We’ll not leave you out on a limb. We’ll have a Gray Eagle airborne at all times while you are operational.”

  “How do we insert?” Kane asked.

  “That’s up to you. I’ll get Slick to give you all the intel he can get his hands on. Right, Slick?”

  “You got it, Boss,” Swift replied.

  “Full package on the Gray Eagle, Brooke?”

  “I’ll see it has a couple of Hellfires and GBU-44s,” Reynolds assured him.

  Kane nodded. “The laser-guided bombs will be good. When do we go?”

  “Two days.”

  “Sounds good to me. Does anyone have any further questions about the mission?”

  When the room remained silent, they wrapped up. Kane and Cara grabbed Swift and informed him of what they wanted for the mission. That done, they headed to the armory to check equipment and ammo.

  “I say we stick to the Four-Sixteens, and I’ll take a Four-Seventeen. Frag and smoke grenades. Maybe add the SAW and a couple of grenade launchers.”

  “We’ll need to carry extra ammo,” Kane said in agreement. “Once we get a plan worked out, we’ll have a better idea of what other equipment we’ll need.”

  Cara nodded. “Tell me about Troy.”

  Kane shrugged. “Not much to tell. We grew up together. School, Marines, Iraq. When I joined Recon, we went our separate ways.”

  “There must be something more than that. You got him a job here, and you want him on the team for this op.”

  “Believe me when I say I’d rather have Knocker on this one,” Kane said. “But if I can’t have him, I know Troy will be able to step up.”

  “All right, as long as you’re positive,” Cara said, not quite sure she believed him.

  “He’ll be fine.”

  Chapter 7

  Mosul, Iraq

  Knocker was meeting with an MI6 informant when he realized he was in trouble. The problem was, he couldn’t work out why he was being tracked by Westerners, not Middle Easterners. So far, he’d picked out three of them, all male. He was sure they were armed, even though it wasn’t obvious. He reached down and felt for the reassuring butt of his Glock. All he had to do now was get out of there.

  He reached for his cell and tried the number Tracey had given him, but there was nothing. The signal was being jammed. “Bollocks.”

  Knocker had two choices. His options were to stay here in a public place or find an alley and take his chances. As he looked around, assessing the odds, he saw another man. That made four. These guys were going nowhere. “All right, you tossers, let’s see how good you really are.”

  Knocker rose from where he was seated and began heading toward an alley. Beside it stood one of the four who’d been watching him. He figured the man would do nothing until they were out of sight.

  As he walked past him, Knocker glared into his face, letting him know he was aware of their presence. He said, “Rethink it, Wanker.”

  To his surprise, the man replied, “You’re knackered, mate. Give it up.”

  Interesting, Knocker thought. British. This was worse than he thought. No sooner had the man behind him entered the alley than the former SAS man turned and drew his Glock. The stalker froze, having expected Knocker to run.

  “Right, you sodding scouser, what gives?”

  “Just take it easy—”

  “Easy, bullshit. I’m going to fucking shoot you in five seconds if you don’t tell me what is going on.”

  “Stand down, Jensen. You don’t have a chance.”

  The woman’s voice came from behind him. He frowned, but after as the words sank in, he said, “I don’t fucking believe it.”

  He turned around and stood face to face with Ellen Grayson, alias Nemesis and a one-time member of the Cabal. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  She’d changed. A wide-brimmed hat topped her long, almost cherry-red hair and sunglasses, and jeans and a cotton shirt covered her somewhat slimmer figure. “Drop the weapon, Knocker. There’s no way out for you.”

  He glanced at the men flanking her and became aware that the number behind him had grown by another two. He looked at the weapon in his hand and passed it over with a nod of understanding. Miller took the weapon and tucked it into his pants. As he did so, Knocker looked skyward as though gazing at the sun.

  “We’ve got a person willing to pay ten million to have you delivered to them alive, Knocker. You must have pissed him off something awful.”

  The former SAS man looked at Grayson and smiled. “Maybe I pissed in his porridge.”

  “Maybe. God knows you pissed in enough bowls over the years.”

  “Ten million, huh?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “It couldn’t wait until I finish this op, could it?”

  She gave him a regretful smile. “Not really. You still working for those pricks in El Paso?”

  Knocker cocked his head to one side. “That was a good stunt you pulled back home, faking your death and all.”

  “I saw you there,” she replied. “But that’s quite enough for the time being. Come with us. We’ll have ample time to talk.”

  The procession headed out the far end of the narrow alley, navigating several more streets and alleys to where two white 4X4s had been left out of the way. Knocker was placed in the back of the first with Grayson.

  “So, what are you doing in Mosul?” Grayson asked him casually as though they were old friends catching up after a long time.

  “Working,” Knocker replied.

  “Come on, Knocker, you can do better than that.”

  “All right. I’m chasing a ghost.”

  “Really?”

  “I shit you not,” he told her. “CIA got word he was here and asked for my help.”

  “Remember the last time you were here on an op?”

  “Frigging balls-up, that was.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “So, what are you now, some kind of hunter or something?” Knocker asked her, curious as to why she would be involved.

  Grayson gave a half-smile. “I offer a service to people who require it.”

  “What, now that your old business is screwed?”

  “We’re only lacking money,” she told him. “Once we get on our feet again, the Cabal will be back.”

  “You’re seriously not going to continue on with that shit, are you?” he asked in disbelief.

  “The world is a bad place at the moment, Knocker. It needs people like us to straighten it out. Russia is doing what it wants, oppressing its people. China is expanding, taking away peoples’ freedoms in Hong Kong. North Korea is still a threat, and the Middle East is heating up again. We’re needed.”

  “So, are you the new Ares?”

  “No, that was a pussy name. The new head of the Cabal is called Nemesis.”

  Knocker chuckled. “You really need to get a new press secretary. Shoot the fucker you’ve got now. He’s bloody useless.”

  She looked offended and bit a retort back sharply. “You will never understand the power we have.”

  “What a load of bollocks. You’re just a bunch of skiving tossers who sit around and measure how long their cocks are to see who has the biggest.” He paused and stared before saying, “I’m not so certain you’d lose.”

  “Still got a sharp tongue, I see.”

  “Only for people who piss me off. We screwed you lot over twice already. Once more isn’t going to take much.”

  “You, my dear chap, won’t be around to see it.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Knocker growled.

  He turned away from her and looked out the window of the 4x4. Outside, the damaged city of Mosul flicked past. The situation made him angry.
He wasn’t done, not by a bloody longshot.

  On the outskirts of Mosul, there was an old airfield used by the Iraqis, and before them, the Americans. The runway was long enough to accommodate many of the world’s large aircraft, including a C-17. However, the one sitting on the runway now was a C-130. The two vehicles pulled up on the cracked tarmac and everyone climbed out, pushing Knocker before them as they walked up the ramp. Grayson indicated a seat on the left side near one of the small porthole-style windows for Knocker to sit in. A couple of minutes later, the rear ramp began to rise, and the interior of the plane darkened. The mighty engines spun up with a whine, and before long, all four were roaring.

  Then the pilot released the plane’s brakes, and it started moving. Knocker turned his head and looked out the window behind him, contemplating who the stupid asshole that was dumb enough to pay ten million for him was.

  Langley, Virginia

  “This is bullshit,” Joseph said as he looked at the pile of papers on his desk. He pressed the button on his desk phone and waited.

  “Sir?” came a woman’s voice from the other end.

  “Barbara, find me some damned C4 so I can blow something up.”

  “Paperwork, sir?”

  “Is there any other kind in this place?”

  “Would you like me to have a look at it for you?”

  He sighed, “No, Barbara, it’ll be fine.”

  “Just let me know if I can be of any assistance, sir.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  “By the way, Jim Hooker is here to see you.”

  Thank God. “Send him in. Please.”

  The door opened, admitting a tall, thin man. Once he’d closed the door, he turned and saluted.

  “Cut that shit out,” Joseph growled. “And sit down.” He indicated the visitor chair across from him.

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  “What is it, Jim?”

  Jim Hooker was a ten-year veteran of the United States Naval Intelligence community, but most recently, he had been promoted to head of the CIA Special Activities Division by Joseph. Therefore, at that point in time, the forty-year-old from Massachusetts was overseeing the operation in Mosul. He sighed. “Jensen has disappeared.”

  “Shit. Tell me what happened.”

  “We’re not sure. He went out to run some surveillance and never came back to the MI6 safe house.”

  “What are we doing about it?”

  “I’m putting extra resources on it, but I thought you should know.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “Do we have any idea what’s happened to him?” Joseph asked.

  “No. Best guess is that some branch of ISIS picked him up.”

  The admiral nodded. “Keep me updated, Jim.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Worldwide Drug Initiative HQ, El Paso, Texas

  “Thurston.”

  “Mary, it’s Alex Joseph,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Knocker is missing in Mosul, Iraq.”

  The general remained silent as she processed what she’d just been told. After a long pause, Joseph said, “Mary, are you still there?”

  “Yes, sorry, sir. What do you need from me?”

  “Nothing, Mary. I’ve got my people on it. Besides, I know you’re about to deploy on a mission of your own. This was just a courtesy call to give you a heads up.”

  “Thank you, sir. Does the general know?”

  “I’ll call him directly. My first thought was for you and the team.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll keep you advised, Mary.”

  The call disconnected, and Thurston cursed under her breath. She hit a button on the phone and waited. “Get Kane in here. Cara too.”

  A few minutes later, the Team Reaper commander and his second in command stood before her. They both knew something was wrong immediately. “What’s up, ma’am?”

  “Knocker is missing.”

  “Where?”

  “Mosul.”

  “What was he doing in Mosul, ma’am?” Cara asked.

  Thurston thought of playing the need-to-know card, but they were beyond that. “The CIA had a lead on The Ghost. Their informant there had gone off the grid, and they needed someone to find out what was happening. Now Knocker is gone, too.”

  “When do we leave?” Kane asked.

  “Our mission remains the same, Reaper,” Thurston told him. “The admiral is taking care of the other. He—”

  “But, ma’am,” Cara interrupted, “he’s one of our own. We—”

  “We need to stay focused on our current mission,” the general growled. “We’re wheels-up in a few hours. Has Troy arrived yet?”

  “No, ma’am,” Kane replied tautly.

  “When he does, get him up to speed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All right, that’s all.”

  Cara left the general’s office, but Kane remained. Thurston sighed. “All right, Reaper. Get it off your chest.”

  “We can’t leave him out there, ma’am. You and I both know it.”

  “What do you propose I do about it?” she said, sitting back in her chair to look at him.

  “You could send me to look for him,” Kane replied. “Cara is quite capable of leading the team on a mission like this.”

  “That would leave the team one short, Reaper,” Thurston pointed out. “That was why you asked for Troy.”

  “Send Pete in my place.”

  She shook her head. “No. This mission comes first. If we’ve heard nothing by the time we’re done, I’ll consider redeploying the team to Iraq.”

  “But that could take a week, ma’am. If not longer.”

  “I’m sorry, Reaper, but that’s my decision.” She stood, her countenance conveying that she would brook no further argument on the matter.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hey, Reaper. What gives?”

  Kane turned and saw a broad-shouldered man about his age and slightly taller grinning at him. Reaper stepped forward with his hand out. “Good to see you, Troy.”

  Troy Barker’s smile broadened. “Good to see you too, buddy. They tell me I got pulled because of you.”

  “Yes. I’m a man down, and I need a shooter. You up for it?”

  “I think I can manage it. What are we doing?”

  “I’ll fill you in after I introduce you to the team. We’re leaving in thirty minutes. I’ll have Cara fix you up with some weapons. Follow me.”

  The rest of the team was in the briefing room, waiting to roll out. As Kane and Troy entered, every head turned to take in the newcomer before he was introduced. Axe looked at Troy and asked, “Does this one speak American?”

  Troy frowned and looked at Kane. “Don’t ask,” he said with a shake of his head. “You don’t want to know.”

  “The last guy Reaper hooked us up with had trouble speaking American,” Axe elaborated. “Hell, he had trouble speaking at all.”

  “Where is he?” Troy asked.

  Everyone averted their eyes except for Kane. “He’s MIA. Mosul.”

  “Shit. Sorry.”

  “We all feel like we’re going the wrong way, but it’s not our call.”

  Troy was about to speak when Ferrero entered the room. “All right, get your gear. We’re leaving.”

  Chapter 8

  Khartoum, Sudan

  The meeting place was not the same as the last one, and they were met by a different man. Grayson sat at a small table outside a Khartoum café, drinking something that was supposed to pass for coffee. It tasted like what you would get if a donkey shit in a pot and you boiled it for thirty minutes.

  Opposite her sat Knocker, his bound hands under the table while they waited for the pickup. Two tables away sat Miller, Collins, and Royston, their handguns out of sight on their laps. The three bodyguards and their boss were wired with comms so they could hear everything
that was said. Grayson wore her usual wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses to hide her identity from prying eyes above. She looked down at her watch. “We give them five more minutes, then we’re gone. I don’t want to sit out here in the open any longer than necessary.”

  “Getting nervous, Ellen?” Knocker asked with a smile.

  “Shut up, Jensen.”

  Knocker looked at the street. There were pedestrians everywhere, but one caught the former SAS man’s eye. He was tall with a dark beard and stood sequestered in a doorway, holding a cell phone. He had to be one of the bad guys. Knocker guessed that if he’d seen him, so had the security team.

  Moments later, two 4X4s came toward them. Grayson straightened and said, “Heads up.”

  Her team readied themselves in case something like a double-cross went down. Out of sight was the second team—her backup.

  The vehicles stopped on the side of the street, and six men climbed out. All except one were armed with AK-47s. The remaining man had no weapon and wore a suit. Knocker frowned. The bastard in the suit was definitely Arab. However, the others wore bulging thawbs and face coverings.

  The bulges were unmistakably vests. He looked at their hands, and he could tell right away that these guys were not Arab. They were Caucasian, possibly trained shooters gone over to the dark side. The man in the suit said, “The master will be happy to see that you have accomplished what he asked.”

  “How about we talk about money?” Grayson said curtly, cutting to the chase, not willing to remain there any longer than necessary.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I am no one.”

  “What about your friends?” Knocker asked. “Where are they from? Russia? Bosnia? Britain?”

  One of the men moved nervously. Knocker glanced at Grayson. “Fucking hopeless, aren’t they?”

  “Still got it, huh?” she commented.

  “They’re amateurs.”

  One of the men stepped forward and made to clip the former SAS man with the butt of his weapon. Knocker expected it and moved swiftly. Even though his wrists were bound, he deflected the blow and had the attacker on the ground in a couple of heartbeats.