“Rachel and I should go in together with Abel,” Sara said. “After Rachel leaves with Abel, I will take McWhorter to the room.”
“I’ll stay outside the hotel and watch for Shirazi,” Stryker said. “He hasn’t showed up yet, but the meeting is getting closer. If I recognize him, I’ll give you a heads up.”
Rachel sighed. “I still can’t believe that after this many years, I’ve finally found him.”
“We haven’t quite found him yet,” Stryker said.
“Right.” Rachel closed her eyes, refocusing, and then produced a bottle of small, white pills and set them on the table. Sara leaned over her mug, inspecting them. “Berlin?”
Rachel nodded. “Same ones.”
“Good,” Sara said. “Given McWhorter’s fondness for alcohol, they’ll be perfect.” She looked up at Stryker. “When I take him to the room, we will extract the needed information. We’ll also need to keep him quiet, so we will take compromising pictures of him with another man and use them for blackmail.”
“And where are you getting this other man?”
Rachel smiled. “I was thinking that you could do it.”
Stryker, about to take a drink, spilled water down his shirt. “Excuse me?”
Rachel gazed back at him innocently. “How else do we find a man who will do exactly what we want and not ask questions?”
Sara snorted. Stryker shot her a glare, but she avoided his eyes and drank her coffee. “Bring Abel in here,” Stryker said.
“We already asked him,” Rachel said. “He refused.”
Sara slid out of her chair and about a minute later reappeared with Abel in tow. Abel, tall and solidly built, could have made a living as a fashion model if he was not a member of the elite Kidon team. Despite his good looks—and he was plainly aware of them—he was dedicated and deadly when the time came. Like most on the team, he had lost much along the way; his entire family had died in a Hamas bombing when he was a child, and he carried a smoldering anger just behind the carelessness in his dark eyes. He hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt when Sara apparently dragged him out of bed.
“Ladies,” he said, “you couldn’t wait for me ‘til morning?” He glanced at Stryker. “Sorry, soldier, girls only.”
“Funny you should say that,” Stryker said. “This upcoming op with McWhorter—we need a man to pose naked with him for the blackmail photos. You’re the guy.”
“Whoa there, Rambo.” Abel held up his hands. “No can do.”
Stryker shrugged. “One of us has to.”
One of Abel’s eyebrows raised. “You gonna make me?”
Stryker nodded. “Here’s what we’ll do. We get one punch each. The one still standing will watch for Ali outside. I’ll let you go first.”
Abel laughed, but then he realized Stryker was serious. His smile slipping just a touch, he glanced back at Sara questioningly. Her arms crossed, her face blank, she shook her head ever so slightly.
“You know,” Abel said, “this face is too beautiful to get damaged, and you’re way too ugly to appear on camera, Stryker.”
“I thought you might say that,” Stryker said and clapped the younger man on the back. “In all seriousness, lives are on the line here.”
Abel nodded, sobering further. “As ever, I will do what’s necessary.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said. “Your face won’t actually be in the pictures, and only Sara and I will be with you.”
“As if the two of you hadn’t seen me naked before,” Abel said. He flexed a bicep. Rachel coughed and took a sip of her tea.
“You guys don’t have too much fun without me,” Stryker said.
*****
The week went by quickly as the team continued surveillance of the hotel and periodic checks of the bar area. No sightings of the Iranian or anything out of order had occurred. The team stayed on the street and in the hotel room, which served as a command post. Sara obtained an additional room to use for interrogating McWhorter. By 7:00 on Thursday evening, Rachel and Sara had styled their hair and nails at one of the most expensive salons in DC and donned their glamorous dresses. Sara’s hair stayed shoulder length, but she dyed it black, throwing her blue eyes into sharp contrast.
Rachel left her hair short but highlighted it with blond streaks, complementing her pale green eyes. Both women were beautiful, but the preparation of their hair, nails, and high-fashion clothes made them striking. When Stryker joined the two of them and Abel in the command room, he couldn’t help smiling. Who would believe these beautiful creatures were deadly killers? He couldn’t take his eyes off of Rachel.
Catching his gaze on her, she stepped over and whispered in his ear, “Look at what you’ll be missing.”
He had no response. She let out a soft laugh and joined Sara, who was going over the details with Abel.
“Let’s just forget McWhorter,” Abel said to Sara. “How about you and me just pose for pictures?”
Sara smiled, and Stryker thought it was good to see her loosening up. Maybe it was because they were about to go into the field.
The time came, and they took their positions. It was a brisk day in late winter, and Stryker realized that the downside to this whole arrangement was that Abel would be with two lovely women in a comfortably warm hotel room while he shivered on a rooftop opposite the hotel, a pair of binoculars in one hand and a travel cup of coffee in the other. Well, it was too late to change roles now. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Rachel, Sara, and Abel periodically kept in touch through their hidden microphones, their voices soft but clear in Stryker’s earpiece. Everything went off smoothly. He kept a close watch on the front of the hotel, ready to alert them if the Iranian showed—or anyone with a limp who might be in disguise—but only the expected clientele arrived, along with a few irritating pigeons. They flapped and cooed around Stryker until he strongly considered shooting a few of them with suppressed rounds.
After McWhorter joined their little group for a while, Stryker heard Rachel mock whisper to Abel that she was ready for him to take her back to the room, and a couple of minutes later Rachel’s voice came through clearly as she left the bar.
“Abel and I are moving to position in the room. It’s up to Sara now.”
“Copy. No sign of our Iranian friend.”
“Too bad. I’d like to give him a little thank you present for the fun we had in Bulgaria.”
Stryker continued to watch and listen. Sara’s microphone occasionally picked up McWhorter’s words bragging about his powerful position in the Senate and how important he was. He dropped names of politicians and enlightened her on the way Washington worked. Sara told him she was a model from New York, in DC for several weeks for a magazine shoot. After another round of drinks, he excused himself to the restroom, and Stryker knew that Sara would be dropping one of those pills into McWhorter’s drink.
Things progressed quickly after that. Sara convinced him to come back to her room, and by the time they reached the hallway, he was passing out. She helped him stumble inside, telling a passing couple he’d had too much to drink. He came to in the room about twenty minutes later, bound to a chair, with three people looming over him in masks and military fatigues, lights bright in his face.
“You are going to give me information,” Abel said through the mic. “You will cooperate, or I will make sure your career is ruined. Take a look at these pictures. You can go to the police or talk to your bosses, but it will be too late for you because these pictures will be released to the press. Do we understand each other?”
It was an easy interrogation after that. McWhorter sounded on the verge of tears. As blackmail material went, sexual photos with another man were not exactly damning—the staffer wasn’t married, and many people would not even care—but McWhorter reacted as if they had caught him in the act of murder, as they knew he would.
After being pressed further, McWhorter revealed that he obtained Stryker’s military file on orders from Senator Fillson, the senato
r he worked for. Fillson wanted it for a friend, a staffer named Reed in the White House. McWhorter didn’t know Reed personally.
“Here’s what you are going to do,” Abel said. “These pictures will disappear, but you have to get more information about Reed and whomever he reports to. We believe certain officials in the White House are leaking classified information to the press. We also want the name of the reporter they’re using.”
McWhorter was told to have the information ready the next night, and he would receive a call on his cell phone at 6:00 p.m. with a meeting location. They reminded McWhorter not to speak to anyone about this matter and that he would be a free man if he got them the information. McWhorter started to say he understood, his words dying off mid-syllable as one of them administered another sedative.
“Cleaning up here,” Rachel said. “We’re going to help him to the lobby and be out in ten. The coast still clear?”
“As crystal,” Stryker replied. “Nice work.”
“Thanks.”
Stryker waited and watched, resisting the urge to pack up himself and get out of the cold. A light, freezing rain had begun to fall. He pulled up his hood and continued to survey the hotel. About ten minutes later, Sara and Rachel appeared and hailed a cab. A couple of minutes after that, Abel walked out carrying a duffel bag. He strolled down the block and around the corner, out of sight, where a car would be waiting. Stryker continued to watch, and several minutes later McWhorter stepped onto the street, looking harried and pale. There was no security with him, no indication he had spoken to anyone, and he certainly looked scared enough. It was probably a blow to his ego that the pictures had been taken at all—and that there were people out there who knew what real power was. He waved over a taxi and climbed in, and Stryker at last rose to leave.
The next evening, Stryker and Rachel watched from a distance as one of Rachel’s team met with McWhorter for a drop at the Vietnam Memorial. McWhorter passed over an envelope without incident and walked away quickly, some of the color finally returning to his face.
Back at the embassy, Stryker and Rachel met with the rest of the team. The envelope held a small note, blank except for the names scrawled on it. Stryker felt his breath catch in his chest as he placed the note on the table for the others to see. Abel let out a low whistle.
The leak went all the way to the top levels of the White House. The name at the bottom of the note was Jason Branch—the vice president.
“This complicates things,” Rachel said softly.
Stryker picked up the note. “We stick to the plan.”
Chapter 18
Washington, DC
March 2010
Two days before Stryker’s dinner with Herb Miller, the team started a twenty-four-seven surveillance of the St. Regis Hotel. Late in the afternoon of the second day, the team observed two men, one with a limp, going into the hotel. The team believed the man with the limp might be Ali and took a series of photographs, although their angle prevented a clear shot of his face. About an hour later, the men reemerged and left in separate cars.
The photographs were distributed at the embassy, and Stryker confirmed that it appeared to be the same man they had confronted in Bulgaria. Rachel peered closely at the pictures but said nothing.
With Ali in town, the plan to use Stryker as bait took on a deadly tone. They needed to practice in earnest for how they would fake Stryker’s death. Ali would be watching, and it needed to be realistic. Stryker’s life depended on it.
Rachel prepared to stab Stryker without hurting him. She had a nurse in the embassy draw blood from Stryker over a period of days so blood evidence at the crime scene would be his. The blood was then put into thin liners to be sewn into his Sparkset, which when cut would bleed out quickly onto the floor. The coat Stryker would wear had a thin Kevlar layer along his ribs. Rachel performed the stabbing six different times to perfection and remained confident her part of the act would go off without a hitch.
Once Stryker was stabbed, their assets on the police force would arrive before any other units could respond, and Stryker would be taken to an alley entrance four blocks from the hotel.
Plan A had been set in motion. It was Plan Z that Stryker worried about.
*****
Herb Miller arrived at the St. Regis dressed in a grey Armani suit. The global security business paid well, and there was no harm in letting his prospective employee see this firsthand. He glanced at his Lange I watch and realized he would be five minutes early.
“My usual table, please,” he told the Maitre d’. “A Mr. Stryker will be joining me in a few minutes.”
Herb was seated in the back of the dining room and ordered a Glenfiddich on the rocks just as the Maitre d’ escorted over a tall, nicely dressed man with a lean, athletic build. The man had piercing blue eyes that gave the impression he might be able to look straight through you.
Well, no matter, Herb thought; he had nothing to hide. He stood and smiled at the man as they introduced themselves. They shook hands and sat, and Stryker ordered a Crown and Coke.
“What type of assignments are you currently handling, Jake?” Herb asked once they had looked over the menu.
“At the moment I’m fixing up some property left to me by my parents. When I’m working, I like security assignments, often for business executives who need protection while traveling.”
Herb didn’t doubt that he could do it; the man exuded a calm, restrained discipline that Herb had come to associate with mercenaries, assassins, bounty hunters, and others who killed for a living. “What have you heard about Alpha Security?”
“Only good things,” Stryker said. “I believe they’ve become one of the largest in the business.”
“One of the top three,” Herb said, with a touch of pride. “Many of our contracts are with the United States military, mostly overseas, but we do business with dozens of interests. Considering we’ve only been in business eight years, our global reach and the number of jobs we do for Washington are pretty staggering.”
Stryker looked duly impressed, whether or not he really was, and Herb decided he liked the man. He ordered another glass of thirty-year-old Scotch, though Stryker declined another drink.
“What exactly did you want to discuss with me, Herb?” Stryker asked.
“I’d like for you to visit Alpha next week to see if you might have an interest in joining the company. I believe we have use for someone of your talents.”
“What kind of work are we talking about?”
“Probably best to discuss specifics at the office.”
“Fair enough.”
The waiter arrived and told them about the tenderloin special, which both ordered. Herb asked about Stryker’s military career, and Stryker told him about being deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan.
“What I really miss, though,” Stryker said, “is being a Delta Operator.”
Herb only smiled wanly and sipped his Scotch, but inside he felt his ulcer acting up again. He had seen Stryker’s file, and “Delta” had not been mentioned. Herb was in business with many powerful people, but he knew he was sitting across the table from one of the most dangerous killers ever trained by the United States military. It also meant that the reasons the staffer had called in a favor “requesting” this meeting might not be so innocent and almost certainly had been misrepresented. He felt a bead of sweat start to form on his forehead as Stryker calmly watched him.
“I can understand why you would,” Herb said at last. “That kind of life must be hard to leave behind.”
Stryker nodded. “Close to impossible.”
As Stryker spoke, a small-framed server, dressed in white, moved toward the table with a menu in hand. Herb half turned and caught a glimpse of a woman with blonde-streaked hair only a moment before she plunged a knife into Stryker’s chest. Blood poured out as she withdrew the knife and then stabbed it into him again, her motions lightning quick. Stryker jerked forward, his hands scrabbling at the knife as it was pulled free.
Herb realized then that this may have been more than a set-up to get rid of Stryker—that his own usefulness might have been judged at an end. Stryker’s hand grabbed weakly at his wrist, but he knew the man was lost and now his own life was at risk. He murmured apologies as he backed away. He heard someone scream for help and then for security. Herb Miller turned and hurried from the scene.
Inside the hotel lobby, Ali heard the screams and instinctively knew that his quarry was involved. Something was not going according to plan. He had a sniper waiting to kill Stryker when he exited the hotel—already there had been a delay, for a delivery van had blocked his shot when Stryker entered. Ali went inside to kill Stryker should there be any complications. This was sure to be messy and potentially risky. Ali hoped it would not come to that, although he had to be honest with himself; he would enjoy slitting the throat of the man who had given him a limp for the rest of his life.
He waited in the lobby, keeping his distance, until he heard the first scream. He hurried nearer, watching for Miller or Stryker, and saw a crowd had already formed. It looked like someone was on the floor, surrounded by blood. Ali scanned the faces of those hurrying away from their tables and saw Miller, looking rushed and worried. Ali let him pass undisturbed and then forced his way through the crowd, getting bumped and pushed. He wanted to see the victim’s face and confirm that it was Stryker.
Hotel security started pushing people back, and almost immediately after that two police officers arrived. Ali caught a glimpse of the man’s face on the floor and knew it was the same man who had shot him in Bulgaria. He felt a surge of pleasure, tainted only a bit by the disappointment that he had not been able to gut the man himself.
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