by Chris Lowry
“Right on time,” he whispered as Avi shouted out his order. Brill could almost repeat it with him.
“Cafe au lait, perrier and a Stella,” Brill’s lips moved as the Israeli ordered.
The man settled into his chair and pulled out a small cellphone. He slid through a number and started talking into it.
The waitress brought his order on a silver tray and set it in front of him.
He patted her on the small of her back and let his hand slide down lower. She smiled and extracted herself with a little grace.
Brill was impressed.
Avi was meeting Bashar Al Assad a terrorist leader of the Lions of Arabia in the cafe in Athens for the express purpose of selling him an arms package of used Soviet weapons from a warehouse in Belarus.
How Avi was connected to Belarus mafia was a dot for someone else to connect.
As was why Mossad allowed him to operate for so long unimpeded.
Brill suspected that the arms sold to the terrorist were used to overthrow or destabilize other governments in the Middle East, which took pressure off the Jewish nation clinging precariously to land on the edge of the Mediterranean.
His instructors back in Virginia had suggested he read about history and geography, and Brill had planned out a course of study.
It had yet to touch on the politics of the region where he found himself operating as of late.
His specialty was Africa.
But politics in the desert seemed pretty much the same as the jungle or even the civilized shore of America.
People struggled to get what they wanted and have their way, and damn the consequences or innocent bystanders.
A black armored Mercedes rolled up to the sidewalk entrance to the cafe and disgorged two bodyguards, giant hulking men with black hair and dark glasses.
They were fat over muscle, giant bellies overlapping their belts, and relied on size instead of speed.
Brill knew there as a third guard in the back seat of the car who covered Bashar’s back as he exited and lay in wait just in case he was needed.
The man himself stood up from the vehicle and stretched in the sunlight.
He was lean and hard looking, a patron of the desert sun that tanned his skin into a leathery sheen. He had three fingers on his left hand from a small bomb explosion as he built a suicide vest, and scars along that same cheek and side of his face.
It was hidden now behind black sunglasses that matched the bodyguards.
Brill watched him walk over to Avi and embrace the man, kissing both cheeks as was custom.
He wanted to marvel at the action, since an Arab man sworn to remove Israel from the map was expressing affection to a Jewish arms dealer.
This proved to Brill that circumstance not only made strange bedfellows, that if the bad men in the world would stop trying to put one over on the rest of society, everyone could all pretty much get along.
Common goals meant common sense should take over.
On the other hand, hatreds ran pretty deep and Brill knew a thing about rage. It was a potent fuel to get a mission accomplished, one he tapped into himself often.
Bashar sat across from Avi and accepted the coffee and water. Avi nursed the bottle of beer as the two men began to negotiate.
Showtime, thought Brill and stood up.
He pulled a couple of coins out of his pocket and left enough on the table to cover Avi’s bill and tip for the waitress.
With his back to the bodyguards, he lit two small M-80 firecrackers from his pocket and rolled them under the tables toward the road.
Each firecracker had a ten second fuse so he counted down from nine as he pulled a Glock 19 from the waist of his pants.
He didn’t need to rack the slide or check the chamber because he had done it a dozen times in the hotel room and on the way to the cafe.
The M80’s explosion echoed up the narrow stone streets the sound bouncing off the walls to amplify the effect.
The two bodyguards by the car jumped and flinched.
They spread out and pulled pistols from shoulder holsters and searched for the source of the sound.
Brill marched across the twenty feet of the cafe toward Avi.
He raised his gun and sent two shots through the man’s heart.
He shifted the gun to the closest bodyguard and dropped him with a round to the forehead and repeated the action to the second man.
Bashar screamed and cowered under the table mewling in fear.
Brill didn’t have him on his list, but the man was a terrorist and killer.
The world would be a better place without him, so he took a shot and drilled him through the nose with a hollow point.
Another man screamed in the new silence.
The backseat bodyguard scrambled out of the car, still yelling as he fumbled for his pistol.
Brill dropped him with a round to the chest and a second to the head just to be sure.
He bent over grabbed Avi’s phone and attaché and walked calmly away from the crying and befuddled patrons of the cafe, twenty seconds after he stood up from his table.
CHAPTER TWO
“This is a secure line,” the voice announced after three rings
“Shadowboxer,” said Brill. “Mission confirmed.”
“Mission confirmed Shadowboxer. Stand by for secondary assignment.”
The call connected him through a series of clicks and buzzing as his brow wrinkled in confusion.
This wasn’t protocol.
After a mission, he was to hide in the safe house for a week, then extract under a false identity.
A second mission on the heels of the first meant something had gone wrong.
He replayed the hit in his head.
Avi was gone for sure. Two hollow points to the heart don’t leave much muscle to work with unless they put the man on a bypass machine in the first three minutes.
Bashar was in the same condition.
He slowed it down and relieved the twenty seconds or so it took to happen and tried to remember if something wasn’t consistent, if it didn’t fit the pattern.
Nope, his hit was confirmed.
They were dead men.
Then what was the second mission he wondered?
The call clicked through and a new voice picked up. It wasn’t his normal handler.
“Brill,” breathed Shelby in his velvet Southern voice.
Brill stood at attention.
“Sir?”
“Call me Shelby son. After what we’ve been through together we can accept a little familiarity despite the formality of our roles.”
Shelby Johnson was a lame duck Senator from his home state and the man who introduced him to Africa.
He was also the Chairman of Barraque, the defense contract company Brill was currently doing off books black operations on the European continent before.
“Shelby,” said Brill. “This is against protocol.”
He was right. There were layers in place designed to protect the head of the company from the actions of its operators and talking on a transcontinental line was breaking all sorts of rules.
Some might argue it made the Chairman an accessory to the murders Brill just committed, though the legal team assembled by the Senator could probably justify a simple conversation.
“Sometimes you just have to look at the rules and say Fudge Em,” grunted the Senator. “I want to tell you that was mighty fine work you did. People noticed and it helped our position greatly.”
Brill felt a small swelling of pride and hated himself for it.
His own father had never dispensed praise when he was growing up, so compliments coming from senior males tended to touch his ego.
He didn’t like that anyone had that power over him.
“That man was competing with us for a contract,” continued the Senator.
“And playing against our national interests. Now Barraque can move in and take over.”
It took a moment for Brill to register what th
e man said.
“We’re doing the deal, Sir?”
“Shelby,” corrected the Senator. “Yes son, we’re controlling the deal. US products supporting our side in this little disagreement.”
Brill sighed softly.
US policy allowed defense contractors to sell weapons to rebel groups in support national interest overseas.
Brill had been on the opposite end of that agreement when Barraque and companies like it armed rebel groups that kidnapped him and his girlfriend when they were volunteering at a refugee camp.
Refugee’s created by those US products.
The rebels raped them both and killed his girlfriend before Brill was rescued by a mercenary company.
They too fought against US armed rebel groups and militias on the subcontinent, a trend that continued when he joined the South African Defense Force.
This web of deceit bothered him, but since he was unsure what to do about it, and working with Barraque allowed him a lot of latitude to remove bad players from the field, he would put off thinking about it until some point in the future.
Right now, he got to kill bad guys and that was enough for him.
“We got a problem and we’re doing a favor for a friend,” said Shelby.
“There’s a little argument down in Syria right now that we’re not a part of, but a Senator’s daughter got caught up in the middle.”
“What’s the favor?” asked Brill.
“I wanted you especially for this one son, cause I know it’s close to your heart. The girl and her boyfriend were scooped up by a rebel group. I need you to go in and get them out.”
Rage blossomed in his belly like a mushroom cloud and blood pounded in his temple.
Another rebel group harming another innocent girl.
Damn right Shelby wanted to send him in.
And since he didn’t say anything to the contrary, there were no orders not to kill them all.
“When do I leave?” he growled into the phone.
“We’ve got a plane waiting for you at the airport,” said Shelby. “I wanted to call you on this because this one is just between you, me and the Senator, got it.”
If he was caught, there wouldn’t be help or anyone coming to his rescue.
He was pretty sure a US Senator would be working official channels, but Brill suspected that he was part of a back-door deal, a favor given for some future favor earned.
It didn’t matter.
A young girl and her boyfriend were in trouble.
When Brill was in trouble in the past, a group of hard men came to his rescue.
He owed one to the universe to try and pay it back.
CHAPTER THREE
A Gulfstream G50 squatted on the runway like a sleek insect. It was painted matte black with golden trim and bore the logo of a fictitious oil exploration company.
There wasn’t, but the cover of the Canadian company would buy him time on the runway.
He climbed up the set of stairs and settled into the cabin.
A single flight attendant came out of the cockpit and shut the door.
He watched as she pulled up the steps and locked them in place while the engines fired up on the plane.
They were wasting no time, which was good.
The longer the girl and her boyfriend were in rebel hands the more damage that could occur.
Brill wanted to be on the ground and gathering information so he could effect a rescue as fast as possible.
“Would you like something to drink for the flight?” the attendant asked.
She had flowing black hair and smoky black eyes that crinkled when she smiled.
Brill still felt a little jittery from the coffee triple stack at the cafe so he asked for a beer and for water.
She brought a bottle of Perrier and Stella Artois and he shook his head at the humor of the Universe.
The plane took off without incident and when they reached cruising speed, the pilot reached back and opened his door.
“Call for you,” he passed a headset to the attendant.
She brought it to Brill and showed him where to plug it into the seat.
“Shadowboxer,” he said into the microphone.
“This is an unsecure line,” the voice told him. “Stand by for instructions.”
“Roger that.”
“A package is waiting at the airport with your credentials and supplies. Look for the logo.”
The call disconnected.
Shit, thought Brill. They didn’t tell him the password.
CHAPTER FOUR
The plane touched down with the gritty sound of rubber on tarmac as the wheels rolled over the sand dusted runway.
Brill unbuckled as they came to a step and met the attendant at the folded down stairwell.
"Enjoy your stay," she flashed a smile.
Brill nodded back.
He wondered briefly if she knew what kind of man she was transporting, or was she part of the network of operatives and support personnel working for Barraque.
Was the offer to enjoy ironic? Was it sincere?
Her pretty smile suggested she meant what she said, but Brill knew better to trust appearances.
He stepped out of the plane and into the musty heat.
A lone battered pickup truck with a plywood bed waited for him.
A man sat on the plywood with his legs crossed.
He wore cast off clothes under an open robe that billowed around him in the swirling wind.
Brill glanced around.
The airport was a private strip far from the noise and clutter of a town.
A mountain range smudged the horizon to the sound and the ever-present wind left a gritty film on his skin.
"This isn't Syria," he told the man as he approached the truck.
Aslan hopped off the bed and opened the passenger door with a flourish.
"Welcome to Turkey," he grunted in clear English. "I am Aslan."
Brill paused before climbing in.
"You have something for me?"
Aslan smiled under a bristling mustache and lifted the seat forward to reveal an oilskin wrapped package.
He placed it on the seat and moved around to the driver's side.
Brill opened up the cloth.
It was a Taurus 9, a heavy bulky pistol with three clips that held 15 rounds of ammunition. He quickly worked through the pistol, racking the slide and ejecting a fourth magazine. It needed to be cleaned but it was serviceable.
Aslan noticed the attention Brill paid to the action of the weapon and handed him a clean cloth. Brill grunted thanks and slid into the passenger seat. He began cleaning the weapon while Aslan drove them toward the smudge on the horizon.
CHAPTER FIVE
"I will distract them," said Aslan sensing the concern coming off Brill.
He almost asked how but instead gave the driver a nod.
"We are near a shallow gorge," Aslan continued. "Open your door and hide until I am gone. There is a trail beyond that that you can follow once darkness falls. It will lead you across the border. Mark the entrance on the other side for you must return on that same path."
Brill glanced out of the passenger side window. At first he couldn't see the hiding hole in the craggy landscape. the land rippled and folded as it marched toward the mountains in a slow steady rise. one dip about ten feet away showed bare earth where a flood had eroded the soil. The shadows played funny across the escarpment. It must be the small gorge his contact was speaking about.
Aslan passed him an oversized two-way radio wrapped in a plastic wrap ball.
"Hide this so that when you return I will come to this spot to meet you."
Brill took the soccer ball sized package, checked his weapon and a go back full of water, food and a first aid kit from the plane.
He grabbed the door handle.
"Stay low," Aslan warned.
Brill rolled out of the door and hunched down. He scooted across the hardscrabble dirt and dipped into the depression.
Aslan gunned the truck engine and shot toward the mountains. He lay on the horn, lights flashing as he raced a mile ahead. The truck slid to a stop and he hopped out to shove a box off the wooden bed. He executed a K turn on the dirt road and drove back in a dusty cloud of silence. He didn't slow as he passed Brill's hiding spot.
From his vantage point, Brill watched a group of robed men descend from the mountain pass. Six of them advance don the box and opened it with victory cries. They held up bottles of vodka to show the two men who had stayed a hundred yards behind as guards and lookouts.