by Brian Drake
He turned to leave but stopped short as the door swung open and a man and a woman entered. They both held pistols.
The gunman grabbed the thermite grenade from the desk and pitched it forward. It crashed on top of the conference table, exploding in a burst of blinding flame. The fire ate into the wooden table and thick smoke filled the room.
The killer moved for the hallway door. A quick step left and the doorway to the warehouse lay ahead. He ran.
Raven shoved Misty out of the conference room as the thermite grenade landed on the table.
They tumbled onto the floor near the front desk, Misty crying out as Raven landed on top of her with most of his weight on her right leg. He sprang to his feet and helped her up.
“Get him!” she said, leaning against the desk a moment.
Raven bolted after the killer. The assassin reached the doorway to the rear warehouse and Raven fired twice. Both .45 slugs smacked into the killer’s back. He pitched forward into the dark warehouse and his face hit the concrete floor with a crack.
The fire alarm kicked on, a piercing blare attacking Raven’s eardrums. He winced. Smoke filled the office. Overhead sprinklers kicked on and showered the fire with water, bringing some relief.
Misty joined him and they rushed into Stathoti’s office. “Hurry!”
Raven covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his coat and ran into the office. He spotted the laptop. Lingering smoke stung his eyes. Raven grabbed the computer and ran out. Misty pushed the door open ahead of her and held it while she ran. He followed. It was a long dash to the van and Misty jumped behind the wheel while Raven settled in the passenger seat.
Misty started the motor and drove away. Raven set the computer on the floor while he buckled his seatbelt.
“She’s tying up loose ends,” Misty said.
“We might find something on the computer.”
Misty turned onto the road.
“And if all we find is his everyday business stuff?”
“Then we’re shit outta luck,” Raven said.
7
“Do you ever get tired of hotel rooms?” Clark Wilson asked.
“Do you ever get tired of your office?”
“Yes.”
“Ditto.”
Wilson laughed. “I hope you have something.”
Raven sat on the edge of the bed. Misty was across the room at the desk, scouring the files on Stathoti’s laptop.
“We do and it’s not good,” Raven said.
“Tell me.”
“The weapons Ben Doyle shipped to Stathoti went out on a ship to three different places. Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York City.”
“Chicago is landlocked.”
“I have no information of how they’re transporting the weapons to any of the cities, Clark.”
“Where’s the ship?”
“Don’t know. It’s called the Sea Queen and I have the IMO number for you.”
“Shoot.”
Raven gave him the International Maritime Organization number. The seven-digit prefix would help Wilson’s crew identify the ship’s current location. Where it originated wasn’t as important as where it was.
“We’ll get on this,” Wilson said. “Anything else?”
Raven sighed. “Yes.”
“I sense more bad news.”
“We have another player on the board.”
“Anybody we know?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Dante Horn.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
Dante Horn, former Green Beret, special operations expert, now persona non grata in the United States. He owned a private military company called Black River. The CIA and Pentagon had once made extensive use of his services. Then they discovered he was taking taxpayer money while working counter to US interests. The government cut him off. He’d had an ax to grind against the United States ever since.
“Where did you find the Horn connection?”
“Stathoti’s email.”
“Why is the gun shipper dealing with the mercenary commander? You’d think they’d be separate from each other.”
“Tanya made a mistake. She forwarded an email to Stathoti with a request from Horn regarding the shipment and left Horn’s email connected with hers. I didn’t need a database to tell me to whom the name Horn referred.”
“Gotcha.”
Raven said, “It’s given a clearer picture of what we’re facing with Operation Triangle.”
“What?”
“Tanya and her father are using a combination of Doyle, Stathoti, and Horn to organize the strike. They wanted us looking in the wrong direction and miss the real perpetrators who are not of Middle Eastern descent.”
“You think you can identify the strike force via Horn?”
“I won’t ask nicely.”
“No holds barred at this point, Sam,” Wilson said. “I’ll make sure Fisher is aware.”
“Horn is in Antwerp. We’re heading there next.”
“Good luck.”
“Find that ship, Clark. We can assume the Triangle force is already in the US. All they need is their weapons and then the mission starts.”
Raven ended the call. The clock was ticking closer to zero. And if the Sea Queen had already reached the United States, they might already be too late.
Tiger Joe Hayden, the CIA man in Damascus, making his twice weekly stop for a bag of cardamom coffee, missed the first assassin coming out of the alley.
He didn’t miss the second.
A fight on a busy sidewalk wasn’t what he wanted but the enemy wasn’t giving him any choice.
The second assassin wasn’t more than five feet tall but moved fast. He turned from a street vendor’s cart and lifted the front of his shirt. Hayden saw the butt of his pistol before the man grasped it and drew the gun.
Hayden threw the bag of coffee. It struck the killer’s face and broke open. The ground beans spreading across his face, falling onto his shirt. The killer let out a startled yell. Hayden closed the gap, filling his right fist with the concealed push-dagger he habitually carried. His hand gripped the T handle with the sharpened blade extending through his fingers. He slammed a fist into the killer’s gut. The blade sank into his skin, ripping open his stomach. The killer wailed. Hayden wrenched the gun away with his left hand. Withdrawing the dagger, he pivoted behind the killer’s back and slammed him into the nearest wall. The killer’s head struck the stone surface and cracked. Witnesses screamed. Some started running.
As Hayden stepped back to avoid the killer’s tumbling body, the second assassin, only a few feet away, lifted his gun.
Hayden’s pulse raced as he brought the captured pistol to eye level. He was using his left hand, and years of practice firing with the non-dominant hand paid off. He fired twice. The recoil of the suppressed 9mm pistol snapped his wrist to the right. Both shots scored. The bullets punched through the second killer’s chest. The man’s face twisted in agony as his forward movement stopped, and then he fell.
Hayden dropped the bloody push-dagger and switched the gun to his right hand. He dropped into a squat. People were running, screaming. The street vendor behind him yelled for the police. Hayden scanned the scene quickly. No other threats came his way. Rising, he broke into a run. He ran two blocks without stopping and ducked into an alley. Stowing the pistol in his waistband, he grabbed his cell.
He called Colleen first.
Her phone rang four times, but Colleen didn’t answer.
Colleen Andreev stepped out of the shower and dried with a big towel. She lived in a small one bedroom, one bath, and the place had seen better days. Everything in it carried the patina of age. She could handle not having all the comforts of home, but a big fluffy towel with which to dry off from a hot shower wasn’t one of them.
She hung the towel on the wall rack and exited the bathroom. She’d laid out her clothes for the day on her bed and dressed without rushing. In the kitchen she poured a cup of coffee and relished
the idea of a cup of the cardamom coffee Hayden was bringing to the office.
They’d been busy in the last few weeks. The interrogations of the two captured Islamic Union suspects had taken up the majority of their time. The Paris lead had been the only productive result. But it hadn’t panned out and cost the lives of five good operatives.
She leaned against the counter in the small kitchen and sipped her coffee. Somebody knocked on her door. She frowned. She never had visitors unless it was Hayden and Freddy and they always called ahead.
She ignored the knock.
Then a heavy kick splintered the aging wood frame. A second kick sent the door crashing inward.
Colleen let the coffee mug fall from her hands as she left the kitchen for a desk. It sat in a corner near her dining table, and she kept her gun there. She grabbed the autoloader from a drawer and upended the table for cover. As the table tipped onto its side with a crash, she knew she couldn’t get behind it in time. The two men entering the kitchen raised pistols of their own and opened fire. The rapid phuts of their suppressed handguns filled the room.
Colleen felt the slugs punching through her and she fell without a sound.
The killers ran out.
She’d left her cell phone on the coffee table on the other side of the room. The phone began to ring.
Freddy Lymann arrived at work before Hayden or Colleen. It wasn’t unusual. He liked being there early to get the computers booted and spend some time alone before the other two showed up.
He moved down the line of computers, switching everything on, then stopped at a printer to look at the messages sent through overnight. He shifted on his feet. His prosthetic wasn’t treating him very well today. He’d awoken with an itchy stump, and still felt itchy despite the medicated lotion he’d rubbed on before attaching the fake leg.
It was another day in the windowless basement. Another day in the glamorous life of an American spy.
His cell phone rang. He carried it on his belt, and answered when he saw Joe Hayden’s name on the caller ID.
“Good morning, boss,” he said.
“Freddy!” Hayden shouted. He was out of breath. Freddy’s pulse jumped. “Two guys tried to kill me, and I can’t reach Colleen.”
“She’s not here.”
“You’re closer to her apartment than I am,” Hayden said. “Get over there and check.”
“Right.”
Freddy hung up and started for the elevator across the room.
The doors started to rumble open.
A sense of relief came over him when he expected to see Colleen step out.
She didn’t.
8
He couldn’t break the habit.
As Dante Horn parked his car in his reserved spot, he took a last look in the rearview mirror. He’d colored his hair the day before, and he ran a hand through his hair to make sure the color was uniform. He knew it was. He paid to make sure. But he was self-conscious about the process and always checked after each coloring session.
The pitfalls of getting older.
Horn left the car and locked it with the key fob. He was a few months away from 50 with a solid build on his six-foot frame. He still looked good. He could catch the 20-something babes if he wanted. The 40- and 50-somethings wanted a shot, but who had to bother with them when the younger ones lined up too? But the appeal didn’t settle his anxieties.
His career in the US military had been stellar. Most of his service had been in special operations. Green Berets in the army, then the classified Special Missions Units of the Defense Intelligence Agency. He was too good for the CIA paramilitary units. Screw those guys.
The digital clock on the wall of his office read 8:59 when he set his briefcase on his desk. Black River Headquarters operated within a multi-level steel and glass structure off Turnhoutsebaan. The building overlooked Rivierenhof Park in the center of the city. The sea of trees and grass from the wide window of his office always brought a sense of calm to a busy day.
His secretary entered with his coffee. She wore a blue suit with her blonde hair tied back and she didn’t look at him as she set the coffee on his desk.
“Mr. Yarvis is on his way,” she said, turning to exit. He said OK and picked up the coffee. There was no reason to sit until John Yarvis arrived. Horn stood by the window looking out at the park.
“Dante.”
Horn turned. John Yarvis waited in the doorway. Yarvis’ big bulk required tailor-made suits. The gray suit he wore fit perfectly on his frame. He always made Horn shrink internally. Yarvis didn’t need to color his hair. He did fine with women. He was Horn’s number two but could easily sit in the big chair if he ever decided to push Horn out of the way.
But they’d served together. Horn didn’t truly think his friend would ever betray him.
“Sit down,” Horn said. Yarvis eased into the chair in front of Horn’s desk. Horn sat and put the coffee cup in front of him. “What’s up?”
“She wants to talk to you.”
“When?” He didn’t have to ask who she was.
“Now. She’s waiting on the secure link.”
“Might as well get it over with,” Horn said. He turned on the large screen monitor on his desk, which activated the web cam mounted atop. The camera was plugged into a small unit beside the monitor which scrambled the signal in and out.
Yarvis moved his chair behind Horn as the boss typed commands into the keyboard. Then a box filled the black screen. A moment later, a woman’s face filled the box.
Tanya Jafari.
“Dante,” she said, “we have a problem.”
“I’m listening.” Horn sipped his coffee.
“The Americans know about Operation Triangle and they’re taking steps to stop us.” She explained about the tragedy in Berlin and how she’d eliminated Stavros Stathoti. She told him about the dead CIA people in Syria. She was confident the Americans wouldn’t pick up further leads.
“What do you need from me?” Horn said. “I don’t see what role I have other than what we’ve already done.”
“Your people are in place?”
“Not only are they preparing as we speak, we have redundancies in place to keep the missions going should one team have to abort. You’ll get your money’s worth, Tanya. Even if you kill me.” He forced a smile.
“I have no intention of killing you, Dante. We cannot complete this mission without you.”
“I will set up defensive measures in case the Americans find their way here.”
“There’s only one you need to watch for.”
“Who?”
“A man named Sam Raven.”
Horn frowned. He exchanged a look with Yarvis. Yarvis only shrugged.
“Do you know him?” Tanya said.
“I know the name,” Horn said. “But neither John nor I have met him.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Do not take his presence lightly.”
“If you’ve taken out Stathoti, there’s nothing else linking us to you.”
“Be ready in case.”
“Is there anything else, Tanya?”
“I’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.”
Tanya vanished from the box. Horn turned off the camera and the computer returned to its default desktop display.
Yarvis moved his chair back to the front of the desk.
“We don’t need a fight with the United States,” Yarvis said.
“I wouldn’t mind taking out a few US operatives,” Horn said.
“You need to pour a bucket of water over your vendetta, Dante.”
Horn scoffed and swallowed more coffee. His beef against the United States was well known to Yarvis and two other close associates. While accepting contracts from the Pentagon, Horn double-dealt with anti-US elements overseas. Via cutouts, he lent mercenaries to jihadist units in the Middle East. The mercs trained the jihadists on how to counteract US tactics.
He’d assured his
freedom from capture or prosecution via blackmail of selected members of Congress. But the protection didn’t keep the Pentagon from cutting him off and making him a pariah in his former home.
It didn’t bother him much. Dante Horn didn’t have a family, and he liked Belgium.
“Look up this Sam Raven fellow,” Horn said. “Get a picture. I want people at the airport watching for him.”
“You think he’ll find his way here?”
“I trust Tanya took the required precautions,” Horn said. “But you never know.”
Yarvis promised to get a team to the airport right away. He left the office.
Horn sat with his coffee and stared into space. His deal with Tanya and her father put several million US dollars into his account. He hoped he lived long enough to enjoy the profits.
Horn’s mercenaries began preparing to put Operation Triangle into action.
They worked in teams of two in New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Weapons and explosives had been delivered, and each pair began scouting targets.
Los Angeles: a local television station.
Chicago: the Cloud Gate sculpture at AT&T Plaza.
New York City: a section of the subway.
The teams took photos and videos and reviewed the material carefully. They needed places to plant their bombs. They wanted the bombs to create mass casualties and push survivors in a desired direction. Into the muzzles of their automatic weapons. The plan called for bombs first, mass shooting second.
Escape routes were up to each team.
They worked independently, unaware of the others’ assignment, and without connection to Horn, Tanya, or Berlin.
The plan had been Tanya’s, refined with the help of her father, with instructions delivered to the mercenary teams by Horn and Yarvis.
The countdown to zero hour was on.
9
Raven and Misty landed at Antwerp International Airport. Clark Wilson at the CIA promised somebody Raven knew would meet them. He didn’t want to waste time with silly contact protocols.