The man let out a loud, “Aahhh.”
She stepped away, retrieving her pistol from her cargo pocket and holding it steady in the man’s face. Blood was running from the corner of his mouth, the crimson rivulets streaming down his long black beard. His trembling hands tugged at the knife, slipping on his own blood, unable to remove the blade from his stomach.
An artery was bleeding. The blood poured over his lips. His eyes turned milky and rolled upward toward his skull. He slumped to the ground, Sassi’s pistol following him the entire way. She stepped toward him and put her foot on the knife and shoved the hilt beneath the skin, embedding the knife into his abdomen.
“Fuck with me,” she spat.
She turned and jogged toward Hakim’s motionless body. Kneeling next to him, she looked into his wide, dead eyes staring at the sky. His throat was slit much as she’d anticipated hers might have been. She ran a hand over his eyes, closing them, vowed revenge, and ran toward the house where she had originally retrieved Aamina for Fatima.
This time she was on the back side of the home instead of coming in from the front. She inched her way around the corner and saw one of the terrorists dead on the ground in the gap between the two homes with the connecting underground tunnel.
Sassi approached the soldier, knelt, felt for a pulse, got none, and realized why when she saw the marksman’s bullet in his forehead. The entry wound was neat and clean, having entered his forehead, but the exit wound was ugly. The back of his skull was a mangled mess of brains, bone, and blood.
She removed the man’s HK P320 pistol, popped the magazine, checked it—full—then ratcheted the charging handle. She caught the ejected bullet in the air, popped it in the magazine, and reseated the box into the grip of the pistol. She charged the weapon, seating a bullet, now confident that the weapon was loaded.
Now she tucked the Bobcat in her cargo pocket and lifted the P320 as she slid her back against the wall of the second house, the one with the intelligence trove sought out by General Cartwright and his men. The alley between the homes was her friend now. She had protection on both sides. There were no windows on the sides of the homes. She stepped carefully on the gravel in the alley, which made a soft crunching sound. She rolled her feet from the heel, along the outside, to the toe, diluting her weight distribution.
The wooden door slapped against the front of the target house. Two men stumbled outside. The general’s men. It appeared one man was holding the other up. Both seemed wounded. They fell forward off the small porch onto the dirt road. The vehicles were five houses to the east along the same road. One of the soldiers gazed with a faraway look in his eyes as he dragged his partner along the road when two things happened at once.
A bearded man ran from the house to her left and lifted an AK-47. To her right, the Russian tanks turned onto the road, their high-pitched squeak signaling their arrival.
Sassi spun to her left and fired two rounds at the bearded man. The pistol bucked twice in her hand, its power more like the Beretta 9 mm than her peashooter. The man tumbled, surprised and wounded. She pumped two more rounds into him until he was motionless. The American dragging the body nodded at her and kept moving, picking up his pace.
The Russian tanks sped up the road toward them, firing machine guns at their cars until they caught fire. There was no escape from this hell for Sassi, it seemed.
The Americans crawled behind one of the burning cars as Sassi hid behind the house to her right. A tank round whizzed past her, cutting through the home’s wood and bricks like Mike Tyson’s fist through thin drywall. The second round bored through the house to her left, causing an explosion that catapulted her into the street.
She crawled forward slowly, listening as the tanks stopped less than five meters from her head. The tank’s machine gun chattered endlessly, chewing at the ground near the two American soldiers. She’d done what she could to save them, but their bodies jerked as large-caliber ammunition smacked into them.
Her ears were ringing as the muffled commands of the tank commander penetrated the chaos.
“Take her,” he said in Russian.
This command she understood all too well.
CHAPTER 11
Jasar Tankian
Tankian stood at the bay window looking into the Beqaa Valley with an expansive view from north to south as he considered the last twenty-four hours. His convoy had been attacked in Syria. An airplane had crashed in the southern end of the valley. Someone had killed three of his men as they recovered a wounded American.
The inevitable turning tide tugged at the back of his mind, a full moon ascending and accelerating the tidal retreat.
Tankian normally kept twenty security personnel at his compound. Once one of his team leaders, Shakir, returned from the wreckage site with the wounded soldier, Tankian went to full alert.
There were four teams of two posted at the four corners of his compound, where he’d constructed firing parapets of sorts. One observer and one shooter. He had three men as his personal security and another two-man team guarding the American in the basement, where he’d constructed holding cells. He’d used these cells previously for random kidnappings and ransom operations, but only sparingly. At his disposal also were Shakir, Khoury, and another two-man roving patrol. Having lost three men at the aircraft location, he was still comfortable with seventeen men on hand.
Below his compound was a tunnel complex with two exits into the valley. The exits were practically indiscernible to someone walking the terrain, but a professional could possibly find them using thermal scopes at night. He considered putting one man at each tunnel entrance but decided his spotter/shooter arrangement at the four corners was best for daylight. Then perhaps he would reposition the security.
“Tell me exactly what you saw,” Tankian said to Shakir.
Shakir had black hair, a thin beard, and narrow eyes. He was wearing baggy pants, a long-sleeved pullover, and an outer tactical vest filled with ammunition magazines.
“We recovered the soldier from the drone and put him in the Suburban. I was checking him for weapons and identification. He had the P390 pistol, a spotter’s scope, and a KA-BAR knife used by U.S. Marines.”
“You think he’s a Marine?”
“Either that or Army Ranger or maybe Navy SEAL. But definitely American.”
“What makes you say this?”
“On the inside of the lens cover of his spotter’s scope was a picture of a young woman and a baby. On the back of it were the English words, ‘Love you, baby.’ It appeared to be the flowery handwriting of a woman. In the background of the picture was an American flag.”
“Where are these items now?”
“In the locker in our team room,” Shakir said.
“And then what happened after you inspected the man?”
“I heard a metallic sound from across the valley. It wasn’t the loud bang of a rifle but the sound of a silencer. I’ve heard it too many times not to realize what it was.”
“Let me see your pistol,” Tankian said. He trusted Shakir, but he was sending a message by inspecting his equipment.
“Of course.” Shakir retrieved his Ruger from its holster and handed it to Tankian. Tankian ejected the magazine, pushing his thumb against the stack of brass-jacketed rounds in the well. None budged, meaning it was full. He held out his other hand, and Shakir placed two additional cartridges in Tankian’s palm. Tankian repeated the process, pressing on each stack while eyeing Shakir.
“Did you have any issues with any of the other men?”
“No! They were my brothers,” Shakir said.
“You left your brothers to rot on the hillside, Shakir. You did so to save your own ass,” Tankian said.
“I did so to return the prisoner, whom I considered a high-value target, to you. The others were dead. Head shots. Whoever was shooting was very good.”
“Yes. The only reason you’re still above the earth, Shakir, is that you brought home a great bargaining chip. But you may h
ave also invited something into our premises that we don’t want. At this moment, the spotter’s partner is evidently looking for him. Our GPS tells us the vehicle is a half mile from here. How do you think it got so close?”
Shakir’s narrow face began to visibly sweat. He wiped at his forehead.
“I did not mean to do anything but honor you with the captive, Commander.”
“The butterfly’s wings have beaten,” Tankian said. “Their wind has caused a movement. The series of events that are visiting us at this moment are a result of this incident. Poor security at the location allowed this to happen. You were in charge. Instead of deploying two guards and two to inspect, you went into the aircraft with all four of you. A sniper-spotter team would have perhaps prevented the beating of these butterfly wings. The gentle breeze I feel against my face is not a friendly one. It portends something nefarious, something that I do not welcome.”
Shakir ran a trembling hand through his black hair. It was oily and matted to his forehead. His eyes were wide with fear, uncertain of his fate. The dressing-down was punishment enough, but would Tankian stop there?
Tankian might have killed him had he not needed the people on hand. He was sure of Shakir’s loyalty and had no worries there, but there was always the issue of making an example out of someone. Perhaps there would be some justice for Shakir’s teammates in their team leader’s coming face-to-face with whoever this phantom sniper might be. If Tankian could capture the presumptive American sniper, he could then put them both in a cell armed with knives, promising that the victor of a fight to the death would be given the chance to live. That would be good sport.
His business acumen took over. He had a valuable prisoner, a multimillion-euro deal to move drones to Tripoli, and a thriving potpourri of logistics work streams. Not only had he worked hard to leach ideology out of his business practices, but Tankian had also cast a net far and wide. If the Americans were to pay him to do some unsavory deed, he most certainly would entertain the offer. His rationale was that his parents would prefer that he be successful. They were businesspeople first and foremost. There was no god that he believed in. He’d seen enough death and depravity to realize that everyone was rendered to the maggots in the end.
“Shakir, you failed your men. You were lazy, but I will let you live to fight another day.”
Shakir nodded.
“You will deploy two Sobirat drones to scan the valley for this sniper that killed your team. Once you find him, he’s yours to kill.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
Tankian stepped outside with his Iridium satellite phone, popped the antenna, and waited for the connection. When the light flashed green, he pressed a speed dial number.
“Yes,” a voice with thick Germanic accents said.
“I have a commodity you might be interested in,” Tankian said. He was calling his powerful and Machiavellian business acquaintance, Max Wolff. In addition to making German luxury automobiles, Wolff dabbled in the black markets for sport, particularly since the Iran market never opened to the West.
“Let’s go secure.”
They each pressed a button on their phones that would put them in an encrypted conversation, blocking the prying Israeli, German, American, and Chinese satellites.
“We recovered an American soldier from a plane crash. Before I did anything, I wanted to give you the first option.”
“Danke. Do we know who the soldier is?”
“I have Khoury chasing that information now.”
As if on cue, Khoury ran outside and handed him a picture. Shown were an American senator named Ian Nolte Sr.; his son, Clutch; Clutch’s wife, Melissa; and their child, Amber. Before Wolff could say anything, Tankian continued.
“Khoury has run face recognition on a picture we found in the soldier’s gear. It appears he is the son of a very powerful man in the United States.”
“Do tell.”
“His name is Ian Nolte. They call him Clutch.”
He could hear Wolff sucking in a deep breath. “You’re sure he’s the son of Senator Ian Nolte?”
Tankian texted the picture of Nolte sitting in his cell and then the picture of him playing basketball at Notre Dame.
“You have two pictures. This is a first report, but I’d say yes, or at least give me some time to confirm. Meanwhile, you can see for yourself,” Tankian said. Wolff’s phone chimed with a ding as his texts were delivered.
“Confirm, and either way, don’t give anyone else the option.”
Tankian smiled. “What are we talking?”
“If it’s the son of Senator Nolte, we’re talking seven figures.”
Tankian smiled again. “Okay. He’s yours.”
“If he’s the son, I’ll want you to take special precautions. There has to be at least one more out there. He wasn’t alone. Be careful. Let’s put him with the drones tomorrow.”
“For seven figures, I follow directions well.”
“I’ll be standing by.” Wolff hung up.
Tankian turned and looked at Khoury, who smiled as well.
“That sounded good.”
“Treat the prisoner well,” Tankian said.
Thinking about Wolff’s warning, Tankian left Khoury to plan, came in through the front door of the compound, and found Shakir in his study off the living room. He put his finger in the man’s chest. “You have full resources to do what you need to do to find the prisoner’s partner. Hold nothing back. Find him.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Execute.”
He turned and walked past the leather sofa and chairs to the back patio. The sun was high over the mountains now. He wanted to catch the prisoner’s teammate before the inverse happened. If he were the sniper, he would be close, maybe a mile or so. It was a mistake to leave the Suburban at the base of the mountain. He could think of no reason for doing so. It made no tactical sense to give away a proximate location. No one but the sniper would have driven it so quickly after the killing at the crash site. His network of eyes and ears along the valley would have eventually returned it, but not so quickly. The sniper probably followed the home function on the vehicle and decided to either come up the hill to recon or head across the valley while the sun was still nosing over the mountains. It had been a few hours since the ambush, and Tankian’s assessment was that the sniper was on the other side of the valley using his obviously considerable skills. The man was probably an American, trained to follow the rules of war. Here Tankian was standing in the open when a sniper was out there somewhere, perhaps even with the crosshairs on him. It wasn’t a big, brave move. It was a giant fuck you to the sniper.
Tankian had the spotter.
The sniper would come to him.
His first option was always to give Wolff right of first refusal, while he considered the Russians, Syrians, and Hezbollah as fallback positions. However, if they caught wind that he had an American prisoner, any of them could make his life difficult. He had originally thought the prisoner would be a low-ranking pawn in the war with no familial connections worth noting and nothing of value to trade, but a senator’s son? This could even be the sniper team that had shot down his drone.
In his study was a compact command center with live streaming videos of the drones circling the valley like hawks. One of the monitors showed another Russian military truck traveling from south to north in the valley. It turned up the hill toward his compound, a dust plume billowing in the air like a speedboat rooster tail. The canvas tarp covering the ribs of the truck billowed like sails as the driver accelerated up the hill.
Why so soon after the last visit?
Tankian walked outside and along the trail atop the ridge, looking down at the crags in the land. Good hiding places. The sniper could be in a million places down there. The cliff was nearly vertical, but it had enough slope that a soldier with skill could climb and blend. He reminded himself to ensure that Shakir tilted the camera enough to get accurate oblique imagery. He wanted Shakir to flood the
zone and kick over every rock. However, he also knew that to attack everywhere was to attack nowhere.
The truck’s brakes squealed to a halt. Captain Padarski climbed out of the passenger’s seat and jogged over to him.
“Long time no see, as the Americans say,” Tankian said.
“Yes, but I have something valuable in the truck,” Padarski said.
“And everyone knows,” Tankian said. He swept his hand across the valley below them and the plains upon which they stood. “Perhaps you could have put a loudspeaker on your truck and advertised what it is you’re about to tell me. Two visits in twenty-four hours? This is not good business.”
“Commander Tankian, I make almost daily runs to your compound for logistics. Sometimes we do it in trucks and sometimes in our tanks. Sometimes you send your convoys forward. No one thinks anything but perhaps I need more fuel or food for my men,” Padarski said, some edge in his voice.
Tankian snarled, his face crinkling audibly. “Your confidence tells me you have information, maybe more?”
“There were Americans in the village. Delta Force. Undercover. Terrorists killed both Americans.”
“That’s useful information,” Tankian said. Delta Force? Sniper team? Could the two be connected? What were the Americans doing in Syria? It made no sense. There was no good reason for them to be there. He knew about the American general across the border in Turkey. A man named Cartwright. Two of his operatives who ran the laundry service for the refugee camp were using their phones to snap secret photos of the man. He was large, Tankian’s size, with a shaved head. Tankian imagined the general looked after his troops and his mission the way Tankian looked after his businesses. The general would not be happy to have a Delta team winged in a clandestine mission. The potential for international embarrassment was huge, which of course was where Tankian made his money. If he could solve Cartwright’s problem, there could be another sizable payday in the near term.
Reaper: Drone Strike: A Sniper Novel Page 10