Reaper: Drone Strike: A Sniper Novel

by Nicholas Irving

  In human terms, the loss was incalculable. He had trained these men, and they had been a team for five, ten, or fifteen years. But they had failed him now. Even Shakir, one of his most trusted advisors, had failed him twice in less than twenty-four hours—first at the plane crash site and then by haplessly leading the man here to the headquarters as he fled with the prisoner, not thinking of the second-order impact of doing so. And then he had given him the drones to find the man who had killed his comrades, but Shakir had failed even there.

  How had his team failed him so spectacularly? They were not trained commandos, but neither were they neophytes in the business of war and combat. Some even had combat time on their résumés. But mostly they were businessmen running supplies and maintaining contact with his vast network. Sure, they had seen the brutal violence of terrorists, but it wasn’t their trade.

  Yes, in some ways, he registered the loss of his business colleagues even more than he did the loss of his family as a child. If his life was all about business, the transaction, then this deal was a catastrophic loss for him. The financial ruin that might follow would be swift if he didn’t take extraordinary measures to prevent it. His network of Russians, Iranians, Hezbollah, and assorted terrorist groups would see the lack of preparedness as a major flaw in his operation. They would no longer trust him unless he stemmed the losses.

  Tankian heard a noise from above. In one hand he gripped his Luger pistol and in the other hand, the Gurkha knife, its large curved blade prominent. From his position in the kitchen, he could see the shadow of a man descending the stairway. Was it an illusion? He couldn’t see the man, but the image was there. Faint moonlight skidded through the small windows, making it difficult to distinguish shapes. There was movement. The creak of a board. The soft placement of a foot.

  There. The man came into view. He was holding a long rifle to his eyes, as if he were shooting. The attacker was wearing what looked like a small swim mask, but Tankian knew these were state-of-the-art night-vision goggles.

  Could Tankian get a shot? He considered the odds. This man had presumably killed half his company by continuing to press forward like a shark, always swimming. Tankian had forever seen himself as the shark, the apex predator, not in a murderous way but in a cunning business acumen manner.

  The man was moving slowly. Tankian lifted his pistol with one hand—believing that he could do what his other men had failed to do—and waited for the compact body of the attacker to step into full view.

  He had three of the fingers of his left hand on the door to the spiral staircase, one of two ways into the basement, and the thumb and forefinger holding the knife. His right hand firmly held the pistol, but he couldn’t deny the slight quiver in his hand. Nerves. Fear. Both were manifesting right now, but he did his best to shut down those unhelpful emotions.

  His hand steadied.

  The man stepped into full view … and quickly spun toward Tankian, the Luger bucking in Tankian’s hand at the same time the man’s rifle fired.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sassi Cavezza

  Pacing back and forth in the cold, damp cell, Sassi relentlessly muttered to herself, “You dumb bitch, you dumb bitch, you dumb bitch.”

  Once she had been situated in this place, they removed the sandbag from her head, but her nose had sucked in so much burlap, that musty straw odor was all she could smell. She’d had a bad feeling about this mission and knew that she should never have let the Americans in on the deal. Returning Fatima to her home had been paramount and consistent with her mission. Maybe the pressure she had felt from Fatima’s father pushed her to act on his timeline instead of hers, but still, UN workers were off-limits to terrorists and armies.

  She blamed the Americans for whatever had occurred in al-Ghouta. Hakim was dead. She couldn’t escape the image of her friend and interpreter lying dead on the ground, his throat slit from ear to ear by the same man who assuredly intended to do the same to her.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. Tears flowed. She covered her eyes, her wrists bleeding from the flex-cuffs. She took in a deep breath, sighing, half of it coming out as a plaintive moan, interrupted by sobs. “Get your shit together,” she muttered.

  She’d lost count of how many hours she had been in captivity. Something more than twelve and less than twenty-four. She’d bounced in the back of the tank for a short period of time and then the truck for hours, sucking in diesel and burlap. Russian voices had seeped through the burlap and the ear protection her captors had placed on her.

  Hakim had been right. The Russian captain was bad news. Of course, she’d known that, but never would she have predicted that the Russian government would underwrite the kidnapping of a UN employee. They were on the Security Council, for Christ’s sake.

  First on the assessment agenda was the status of her confines. Cement on four sides. No windows. Steel door. A naked bulb, probably 40 watts, that shone from directly above. A metallic tube snaked along the plaster ceiling from the top-left corner of the cell. A slight draft pushed upward from the thin space between the edge of the door and the concrete floor. She tested the handle, which was a lever, not a knob. It didn’t budge. Running her hands along the seam of the doorjamb, she checked for any imperfections, but could find none. She used her palms to press and feel for any anomaly. It was just her luck that the cell to which she had been delivered was constructed by a master craftsman. There were no seams or loose blocks. On the back wall, though, she snatched her hands away when she saw she was traversing a darkened splotch.

  Blood?

  It was difficult to tell in the dim light, but her imagination reeled with the possible scenarios. Don’t go there, she kept telling herself. Stay in control.

  Next on the list, after determining there was no easy way out, was a physical assessment of her condition. She still had her hiking boots on, and her feet felt fine. Her legs were sore from the extreme exertion this morning, but they otherwise felt okay. Running her elbows along her ribs, she winced when she lifted her right shoulder.

  Dislocated? Maybe, but doubtful. As her mind focused on the shoulder and the adrenaline ebbed, it was obvious that she would have trouble with the right shoulder if she were presented with an opportunity to fight her way out. Rotating her neck, she felt only the twinge in her right shoulder again, but it was manageable.

  She ran the backs of her hands along her pockets, which were empty. No more knife or pistol, not that she’d expected them to be there. When she lifted her hands to touch her face, the right shoulder bit back at her with pain, but she moved through it. Tears flowed from her eyes as she inspected her face and neck. A few minor cuts, damp with clotting, nothing major.

  Her growling stomach led her to the next item on her list. All she’d had to eat was a stupid Clif Bar washed down with Gatorade. The guards had given her two water bottles, which she’d yet to open, and a bucket to pee in, which she’d not yet used.

  Final assessment? She needed food and painkillers.

  Then she needed to escape. She’d killed today and would kill again for her freedom. She was not a victim; rather, she was a champion of the downtrodden, and there was nothing that could stop her. This affirmation had led her away from her privileged Tuscan life to the ragged existence on the edge of human depravity. While she struggled to understand for what reason that might be at this moment, Sassi let go of any concerns she had and placed them in God’s hands, where they belonged.

  Another sigh.

  Another feeling of peace washed over her … when she realized that she still had on her hiking boots where her small Beretta Bascula knife with its two-and-a-half-inch blade lay hidden.

  Then she heard muffled shouts and gunshots followed by a man shouting.

  “My name is Nolte! Corporal Ian A. Nolte! They call me Clutch! I’m from South Bend, Indiana!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Vick Harwood

  Once he confirmed that the two men who had tried to envelop him were dead, Harwood used his stalking meth
od to traverse the landing and the steps.

  Better to maintain the momentum before another quick reaction force could storm the stairs. He had to leverage his element of surprise and the advantage it had gained him into meaningful success. He could kill bad guys all day long, but he couldn’t lose a third spotter. He had to find to Clutch!

  And Clutch had to be here. Why else would these guys be fighting so hard? Maybe he’d even kicked over a major terrorist hornet’s nest. These guys weren’t super skilled in the application of the tools of war, but they were quick and knew how to shoot. They most likely had just not rehearsed an Army Ranger raiding their compound. They should have thought about that before kidnapping Clutch. Harwood’s experience was that the enemy always reached a tipping point when fighting back was no longer worth the cost. Harwood’s plan was to make the commander of these troops determine that his losses were no longer worth the pain he was inflicting.

  As he stepped silently, bodies lay askew on the landing, all dead by his hand. Rolling from heel to outer foot to the ball with each step, he held his rifle in firing position, trigger slack reduced until all he had to do was twitch his finger. The IVAS gave him a clear picture, allowing him to quickly determine that there were no more live threats on the landing, steps, or in the front of the foyer.

  Beneath the opposing stairway was an open space. He suspected a similar one was below this stairwell. A giant mirror hung above him on the right and above the stairwell on the opposite side. They faced each other, and Harwood wondered about their purpose. Were they windows instead of mirrors? The mirror’s reflected image of him was large, a ghostly apparition on the wall. Upon realizing this reflection could alert someone lying in wait, he quickly spun and aimed at the only distinguishing break in the darkness, a doorway that led to the rear of the house, perhaps a kitchen or dining room.

  Harwood saw movement. The IVAS gave him an augmented, high-definition view of a man holding a pistol.

  Quick to squeeze the remaining tension out of the trigger, Harwood realized the man was shooting at him. He intuitively dove to his right, knowing that pistol shooters often allowed the buck of the weapon to cause them to drift high in the direction of their shooting hand.

  The bullet washed past Harwood and smacked into the mirror above him, which shattered into a million daggers raining down like flechettes. He slid down the stairwell headfirst and canted on his right side, the ammunition pouches on his outer tactical vest making the descent bumpy. At the bottom of the stairwell, Harwood popped up to one knee, shook off the shards of glass like a dog out of water, and used the thick banister and newel as cover. His heart beat loudly against his chest. Two deep, silent breaths did little to slow the heart rate, but he was still in control. No ensuing shots boomed through the living room.

  Only the high-pitched octaves of a squeaky door opening and closing pierced the silence. Harwood maintained his momentum by spinning off the bullnose step and sliding across the marble flooring near the front door.

  No shots. Complete silence.

  He followed the view on his IVAS, which threaded him between two facing leather sofas divided by a low coffee table. Through the doorway was a kitchen island, and behind that a kitchen counter with a small square window above. He moved through the open doorway and cleared to his right, the direction of the door noise, and then to his left.

  Nothing.

  He pushed into the kitchen, noticed an open knife drawer with knives scattered, and then checked a small pantry and utility room. Boxes of pasta and sauce were stacked high, most likely by servants. Harwood was still trying to get the feel of his designated enemy. Despite having killed over ten men so far, he didn’t get a distinct military vibe from this dwelling. Heavily armed, yes, but there were no stacks of ammo cans or explosives that he would expect to find. It was a comfortable home, not a secret redoubt.

  Pushing his way back to the center of the kitchen, Harwood checked the back door, saw the pool and the fence he had scaled in the distance. The southeast guard tower was visible—his second target and the one with the man looking back at the house—and Harwood determined that someone had come to this door about the time he’d engaged the two men in the tower. Beyond the kitchen was a large dining room, which Harwood cleared, finding nothing more than two large hutches filled with plates, bowls, and glasses and a long table with ten chairs surrounding it.

  He came back to the door that had been closed.

  Running his fingertips along the seams, he checked for any type of improvised explosive device. While finding none, he learned the door was metal and thick. Not a normal door. Possibly a safe room or some kind of fire wall off the kitchen.

  Most likely a safe room.

  He tried the lever. No free play at all. Locked tightly. He tugged against the door—no give. Backing away and reentering the pantry and storage area, he faced the open door and laid his rifle on a shelf to his right. The smell of burnt gunpowder was replaced by the pungent odor of spices. Clove, cumin, pepper, and rosemary all competed with the lingering aroma of combat … and brought horrifying memories ricocheting back from his foster childhood.

  Harwood had one foster family that had been borderline acceptable until they weren’t. The foster parents—Sid and Raynel Filser—didn’t pimp out the girls and didn’t totally use the kids as child labor. Sid was a mechanic in a Frederick, Maryland, auto shop and mostly gone seven days a week. Raynel was a decent cook and a strict disciplinarian. Every time a child made a mistake, she would grab a wide leather belt from the pantry in the kitchen. She was a broad woman, always wearing a grease-stained white apron over some floral-patterned dress. When she reared back to gather force for the descending blow, her entire body turned like a cleanup batter in the lineup. Young Vick had reached his limit. He couldn’t stand to see a favorite target of hers, eight-year-old Maggie Chitworth with her freckled face and buckteeth, get hammered anymore. With the mother dragging a screaming and crying Maggie across the cracked linoleum toward the pantry by her natty brown hair, Harwood ran and blocked her. He grabbed the belt. Raynel kept hold of Maggie with one fleshy fist and swatted at Vick with the other. He had been maybe eleven years old and was little more than half her height with less than half her mass. Harwood pulled hard as Raynel stared at him with feral eyes and a leering grin.

  “Little Vickie Harwood, my weird little boy.” She heaved her massive arm and snatched the belt from his small hands. He tumbled backward into the rows of spices, which all crashed down on him. As he was digging himself out, a cayenne bottle had opened, pouring the powder all over his face and in his eyes. The main ingredient of pepper spray was in his eyes, blinding him as he tumbled forward toward the smack, smack, smack of the belt and Maggie’s howling screams.

  “Little Vickie is crying,” she howled with laughter. Suddenly, she had him in her grasp. Maggie’s feet slapped the tile as she ran into the next room. He blacked out when the belt whacked his bottom and back for the twentieth time.

  He was breathing hard now, the memory only flitting through his mind. Ever since that day outside Frederick, he vowed to get stronger and be the best. To rescue those that needed help. Here he was in a pantry with spices perhaps standing above the level where his Ranger buddy was being held captive.

  He reached into his rucksack and removed a block of C-4 explosive, some detonation cord, and a blasting cap. He rigged the breaching charge, grabbed two stun grenades from his ruck, shouldered his pack, inserted some earplugs into his ear canals, grabbed his rifle, and moved forward to the steel door. He put the grenades in his right-side cargo pocket. After securing the sticky C-4 to the door handle, he pulled the ten-second time fuse and hustled back to the pantry, closing that door behind him.

  The explosion cracked in the air, shards of metal hitting the pantry door like ninja stars. He gave it five seconds and bolted from the pantry, eyed the damaged door, and saw it was buckled but not completely off the jamb. He snagged a small spring-loaded grappling hook from his outer ruck pocket
and fed it through the baseball-sized hole where the handle had been. He popped the prongs so that they extended once they were through the door like a fishing hook barb.

  Stepping away, he threw his weight into the coiled rope secured to the hook and popped the door loose. It spun off the hinges and landed on the marble kitchen floor with a loud smack. His IVAS penetrated through the smoke as he began walking slowly down the steps.

  This staircase angled to his left with a solid wall to his right. It opened quickly to a cavernous basement below and then appeared to funnel into a single hallway about twenty meters from the bottom step. The hallway ran away from him between two concrete block walls that appeared eight to ten feet high with the same width. A door was visible on the left side of the hallway, perhaps leading to a small room. There was no movement near the stairs, though someone may have quickly peered around the corner of the hallway. If he didn’t need to remain in the moment in pursuit of the remaining gunmen in the compound, he could rewind his IVAS and play it back to get a more accurate picture of what exactly was there.

  But there was no time to review the footage. He pressed forward, doing what had been working for him: momentum and violence of action. Before rushing headlong into the potential kill zone of an ambush, he held his rifle in his left hand and slowly retrieved a grenade from his cargo pocket. He used his teeth to pull the pin, swallowing its metallic taste with what little spit he had in his mouth. With his fingers firmly on the spoon, he leaned over and flipped it beneath the stairwell and then darted back up the steps behind the protective cover of wall near the kitchen.

  Two shots followed him up, pocking into the cement behind him.

  He quickly shut down his IVAS and turned away, burrowing his body into the wall, smelling the musty odor of concrete and mortar. The light and the bang came all at once. The building shook. Heat spread along the concrete stairway. The smell of gunpowder permeated the air.