War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2)

by Jeffrey Wilson

  The plan was simple: hope the bad guys thought he was on their side long enough for him to man the DShK and tear them to pieces. If they identified him first, this would be the last stupid thing he ever did. With the accelerator pressed to the floor, he screamed across the desert, steering a course to intercept the other truck. The instant the second pickup came into view, his stomach lurched. The enemy truck had already repositioned. In the bed, a terrorist was hoisting a missile launcher onto his shoulder, while two other fighters were engaging the helo with AK-47s.

  Dempsey slammed on the brakes and rolled out of the driver’s seat. With the truck still rolling forward, he vaulted over the side rail into the bed of the truck. He landed hard on his right knee, but ignored the pain and sprang to his feet. Grabbing the twin handles of the machine gun, he jerked back the heavy slide to chamber a round, and then swung the gun around.

  A jihadist standing in the bed of the other truck raised a hand to Dempsey, but then froze as realization set in. The fighter did a double take, screamed at his comrade with the missile launcher, and then dove for cover. The man with the rocket launcher tried to swing his weapon toward Dempsey, but it was too late.

  Dempsey pressed the trigger with his thumb, and the mighty Russian machine gun spit flame and death at the enemy. The recoil was so violent he thought the little truck might tip over as he walked the stream of heavy rounds across the desert toward his target. His first strafe cut the missile-wielding jihadi in half. Without releasing the trigger, he pulled the laser-line of bullets and tracers to the right, slicing through the cab of the truck and the two jihadists firing their AKs at the helo. Their bodies exploded in unison—large chunks of flesh, bone, and blood erupting in a gory cloud.

  Dempsey felt a sharp pain in his left wrist as sparks danced off the DShK’s metal housing. Ricochets. The fourth jihadi was shooting at him from somewhere. Suddenly, the unwieldy monster in his grip had become a liability. Instinctively, he threw himself backward over the side of the truck, landing on his back in the sand. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and sent a bolt of mind-numbing pain down his spine and left leg. He disconnected his mind from the pain and reached for his rifle, only to find it missing. His trusty Sig 516 apparently hadn’t made the trip with him over the side.

  A shadow fell over him.

  He looked east to find a scowling, bearded jihadi bringing the barrel of an AK-47 to bear. Reflexively, Dempsey reached for the bowie knife on his kit, but his fingers found only the torn, bloodied fabric of his tunic. He bared his teeth at his enemy, ready for the pain . . .

  A shot rang out.

  The jihadi’s skull opened and spit its contents out onto the ground. A half second later, the body collapsed into a lifeless heap.

  Dempsey lay still for a beat, until the pain in his back ebbed enough to stand. When he was ready, he got to his feet and surveyed the bloody carnage around him. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the unmistakable growl of a helicopter. Looking south, he saw a black dot on the horizon, growing larger with each second. He slow-jogged back to the downed Mi-17 helo, but instead of feeling relief, he suddenly found himself awash in irritation.

  From the cockpit, the SOAR pilot waved at him. Chunk barked a “Hooyah” and slid down from his perch using the stub of a main rotor blade for support. The SEAL officer hit the sand, whirled, and ran to meet Dempsey.

  “Dude, that was fucking insane,” Chunk said, gesturing past him at the smoking pickup truck and the mounds of body parts around it. “Holy shit, Dempsey. I’ve never seen anything like that before. You’re like fucking Rambo, man.” Chunk swung an arm around Dempsey’s shoulders.

  “You killed our prisoner!” Dempsey yelled, jerking out of Chunk’s grip. “I needed the intel stored in that guy’s brain, and you blew it all over the fucking desert. What do you have to say about that, Lieutenant?”

  Chunk stopped abruptly and glared at him. “How ’bout you’re welcome, asshole. Or better yet—next time, I’ll just let the bad guys kill your ass.”

  Dempsey met Chunk’s gaze. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your prisoner woke up. He was going for an AK. Two more seconds and he woulda smoked your ass.”

  Dempsey opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come. He snapped his jaw shut.

  “Oh yeah, and don’t forget the other two fuckers I capped for you,” Chunk growled and then stormed away.

  Dempsey followed Chunk toward the wreck, wondering why he’d ripped into the SEAL officer like that. What the hell had come over him? Team guys didn’t act like that. Since when did collecting intelligence start mattering more to him than the lives of the Americans he was trying to protect? Maybe since radical Islam had tossed the rule book for warfare out the window. Thanks to Rafiq al-Mahajer, Romeo was dead. Thanks to men like al-Mahajer, Dempsey’s entire Tier One SEAL unit had been wiped off the map. Men like al-Mahajer had to be stopped, no matter the cost. That was his job now. His responsibility.

  He shook his head.

  Maybe he was becoming a Jones after all.

  No way. Never. There had to be a way to do the job without sacrificing his soul. Hadn’t he sacrificed enough already? His career, his identity . . . his family.

  He jogged to catch up to Chunk.

  “We gotta sterilize the helo quick before more bad guys show up. It needs to look like an Iraqi Air Force mission with no signs of Americans,” the SEAL officer said without looking at him. “We could use a hand.”

  “Of course,” he said. They walked a half-dozen more paces in silence before Dempsey threw his arm around the SEAL’s shoulder. “You know, you’re a pretty decent shot—for an officer.”

  The corner of Chunk’s mouth curled up slightly. “And you’re a pretty big pain in the ass—for a spook.”

  “I deserve that,” Dempsey said, nodding. Then, after a pause, “You wouldn’t happen to have any Skoal left, would ya?”

  Chunk smirked and fished a tin of wintergreen snuff from a pocket in his kit. After pinching off a wad for himself, he handed the hockey puck to Dempsey.

  “You know,” Dempsey mumbled, packing his lower lip with tobacco. “I could’ve taken that dude with the sunglasses.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so,” Chunk said, suppressing a laugh. “He looked stronger than you.”

  Both men turned to watch the incoming Blackhawk flare on its approach.

  “The mission’s not a total wash,” Chunk shouted to be heard over the roar of the rotors.

  Dempsey raised an eyebrow. “How you figure?”

  Chunk flashed him a tobacco-stained grin. “Your guy’s laptop and Blackberry were packed in a padded hard case. You still got those.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Dempsey spat a sour stream of tobacco juice onto the sand. In all the mayhem, he’d forgotten about those. Maybe he had something worth delivering to Jarvis after all.

  An encrypted file.

  A recovered e-mail.

  A phone call placed to Rafiq al-Mahajer’s mobile.

  Sometimes, that first bread crumb was all it took to find the trail.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tehran, Iran

  October 14, 2030 Local Time

  The security guard stopped him five meters from the door. Behrouz Rostami scowled at the hand on his shoulder and contemplated breaking the man’s arm. The jujitsu movement was so simple even a child could perform the maneuver.

  Only an idiot grabs a man by the shoulder from behind.

  “This is private property,” the guard said, overconfident. “Turn around and go back where you came from.”

  Rostami swallowed his aggression and casually shrugged off the hand. He turned slowly to face the young Iranian. While the youth’s nondescript street clothing and hapless loitering might fool the neighbors, Rostami had spotted the sentry within seconds of his arrival. “I have an appointment with Director Modiri.”

  In his peripheral vision, Rostami saw the guard’s right hand move subtly toward his waist. Ove
r the years, Rostami had come to realize that killers recognized other killers—the same way one alpha wolf knew another. This puff-chested youth was not an alpha. With the blade sheathed inside his jacket, Rostami could spill the guard’s intestines on the pavement before the kid could draw his pistol. He resisted the urge to smirk.

  “I was not aware of any appointments,” the guard said at last.

  “Call it in,” Rostami said and began tapping his foot. “Tell the Director that you’re keeping Agent Rostami waiting outside.”

  The guard hesitated.

  “Go on, boy. Do as you’re told.”

  The guard’s cheeks reddened, but he retrieved a mobile phone from his pocket. After a terse conversation, the guard pocketed his phone. “The Director said for you to wait here.”

  Rostami sniffed and turned his back on the sentry and the beautiful home he guarded. Rostami had missed the architecture of Iran while in Europe. Not the high-rise condos that grew like weeds in the far-too-Westernized parts of the city, but the homes like this one. The Director’s house suggested modern comfort, but it was contained within classic Persian architecture of columns and domes. The call to the Persia of the past was completed with a row of blue tiles along the eaves beneath the roof. Were the homes not so close together here—in the section of Tehran reserved for the political elite of the “new” Iran—it might have been the home of a Shah from a hundred years ago or more.

  Modiri made him wait for an eternity, each minute raising his ire. A car arrived, forcing him to step aside as it pulled up to the residence. Mercedes E Class, previous model year, he noted. The driver did not get out or lower his window. Three minutes later, the front door of the house opened. Rostami spun on a heel, but his gaze was usurped by the woman at Amir Modiri’s side. She was radiance incarnate. A bonfire of femininity. He watched her, brazenly. She laughed and poked her husband’s stomach with a lithe, manicured index finger—theatrical recompense for something said during a conversation begun in the house. Her gait was light and confident. She had an adolescent quality about her, despite being decades removed from her teenage years. He had heard stories of Maheen Modiri’s beauty, but he had never seen the woman’s vivacity up close. He felt a stirring inside—primal and hot. He wanted to covet this woman. Possess her. Consume her fire. Drink her vitality and then break her . . . ruin her like all the others.

  The driver of the hired car stepped out and opened the rear passenger door. He watched Modiri escort his wife to the Mercedes. She had not so much as glanced in Rostami’s direction, but as she kissed her husband’s cheek, she met his gaze. So much mischief in those espresso eyes. The driver closed the door, and an instant before the black-tinted windows hid her from view, he caught a glimpse of her shedding her hijab. So brazen, this woman. No wonder Modiri keeps a private security detail. I wonder if she knows he’s always watching?

  As the Mercedes backed out into the street, Modiri finally turned to Rostami. VEVAK’s Director of Foreign Operations simply said, “Walk with me.” Rostami nodded and took a position on the Director’s right side. They walked in silence for a block before Modiri finally spoke. “You are not welcome at my private residence. This should have been implicit, given our professional relationship.”

  “I apologize. I did not mean to—”

  “If you ever come to my private residence again,” Modiri said impassively, “there will be unpleasant consequences.”

  “My sincerest apologies,” Rostami said, through gritted teeth.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I have bad news. The safe house in Al Anbar was hit by the Americans.”

  “Did they get Parviz?”

  “He has not reported, so we must assume the worst.”

  “And al-Mahajer?”

  “He sent a proxy.”

  “Typical.” Modiri snorted. They walked in silence for several paces. “But it may be a blessing that al-Mahajer sent a proxy.”

  A lump formed in Rostami’s throat. He’d seen this look in his boss’s eyes before. “You’re not planning to continue the operation, I hope.”

  “I see no reason to abort.”

  “But the Americans have Parviz, and they have al-Mahajer’s proxy. It is only a matter of time before they connect the dots.”

  “And how do you know the Americans have them?”

  “Their bodies were not among the dead and they have not checked in. They’re gone.”

  “No matter,” Modiri said. “Parviz will not crack. He’s one of our very best.”

  “The same cannot be said for al-Mahajer’s proxy.”

  Modiri shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not, but what I do know is that al-Mahajer would never entrust the complete details of this operation to a proxy. We need to reengage with al-Mahajer and take the next steps.”

  “Who are you going to send?” Rostami asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “You, of course.”

  Rostami swallowed his anger down like bitter medicine. Collaborating with the Islamic State was like playing with fire. Managing the rise and rhetoric of ISIS had been a challenge for Tehran, but in Modiri’s mind it was also a golden opportunity. In typical fashion, President Esfahani and the Supreme Leader preached different messages with different strategic objectives. The Iranian President condemned the atrocities committed by ISIS in the region and extended offers of military aid to Iraq and Syria, with the ultimate goal being to cement Persian influence inside the faltering governments of Iran’s two closest neighbors. The Supreme Leader, however, proclaimed that ISIS was the brainchild of the Zionists and America—one designed to sow seeds of discord in the region, turn Muslim against Muslim, and justify making the Middle East into a drone-patrolled police state in a permanent “war on terror.” Ultimately, Tehran needed ISIS to fail—and fail spectacularly—thereby paving the way for the rise of Iran and the Persian Caliphate. Amir Modiri’s job was to help see this done, while at the same time exploiting ISIS in every way possible to inflict wounds on their true enemies—the Americans and the Zionists.

  Rostami suspected that this back-channel mission of offering aid to ISIS was entirely Modiri’s idea. Publicly, ISIS proclaimed all Shia Muslims apostates and went so far as to call for their elimination from the Middle East, but behind closed doors the ISIS leadership would conduct business with any entity willing to provide them with weapons or money. Their recent territory and oil losses were making them desperate. Their global reputation made them the perfect scapegoat.

  Since his brother’s death, Modiri had become obsessed with exacting revenge on the Americans. Rostami doubted that either Iran’s Supreme Leader or President Esfahani knew about Modiri’s ambitious plan to strike America’s heartland using al-Mahajer as a puppet. Modiri was a master of keeping secrets and a god of compartmentalization, but having an agent of VEVAK captured by the Americans during a raid on ISIS leadership would have disastrous consequences for the Director of Foreign Operations. To be caught would not only cost Modiri his career, but quite possibly his head.

  “With all due respect, is continuing the mission best for Persia? Like you, I thirst for revenge, but—”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Modiri said, and struck him like an insolent child on the back of the head, hard enough that Rostami nearly stumbled. “I mourn my brother, but I serve Persia. A successful strike by ISIS in the American heartland will demonstrate America’s vulnerability and weakness on the world stage. More important, it will raise their ire at our radical Sunni brothers and provide fresh incentive to escalate their war with ISIS in Syria and Iraq. This accomplishes three goals: First, it safeguards Persian lives and dollars. Second, it distracts the Pentagon from our operations. And third, it drives American foreign policy to acknowledge and support Iran’s preeminent role in maintaining a stable Middle East.”

  “I understand,” Rostami said.

  “Do you?” Modiri replied, scowling. “I don’t think you do. ISIS believes if they burn, pillage, and murder long enough, the world wil
l crumble. Just look at Syria. But I ask you, Behrouz, what use is a caliphate that rules over a land of bones, ashes, and rubble? ISIS is not, and never will be, a functional nation-state. They are incapable of maintaining, let alone ruling, a prosperous caliphate.”

  “They are fools,” Rostami said.

  “Yes, short-sighted, barbaric fools, but such men are useful—most especially as martyrs on the front lines of battle. We will use the enemy of our enemy as a pawn in our chess match with the West, just as we did with Al Qaeda. Your job is to convince al-Mahajer to accept our assistance. Use whatever flattery, lies, and promises it takes to do it.”

  Rostami nodded. He had to admit that his boss was correct. A success in this operation would serve many purposes in their covert war against the West and rise to power in the Middle East. “Understand it’s going to be very difficult for me to contact, let alone meet with, al-Mahajer after this last raid,” he told Modiri. “He’ll go deep underground for months. Even if I do manage to contact him, the Americans will be hunting him.”

  Modiri swatted the comment away as if it were a buzzing mosquito. “Find Rafiq al-Mahajer. Present him my offer. And don’t come back until you do.”

  “Understood,” Rostami said through gritted teeth.

  Modiri stopped and turned to face him.

  They locked eyes.

  “One more thing, Behrouz,” Modiri said casually, one killer to another. “If I ever catch you looking at my wife that way again, I’m going to have your eyes plucked out and fed to my dogs.”

  PART II

  When walking through the valley of shadows, remember, a shadow is cast by a light.

  —H. K. Barclay

  CHAPTER 9

  Emek Café

  Yenikoy, 34464 Sariyer

  Istanbul, Turkey

  October 18, 0945 Local Time