The Messenger - Special Agent Dylan Kane Series 11 (2021)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  There was a humming noise and the lights flickered on, the air conditioner roaring to life as if the city were begging to differ with his assessment. He checked his watch. His meeting was in two hours, which gave him plenty of time to get ready and review the files Leroux’s team had put together. He hadn’t had time to look at them all yet. His itinerary from the moment he left the apartment had been too tight, except for the meeting with his handler. And the more he thought about it, the more he was certain it hadn’t been a necessary briefing, but instead was a mother wanting to see her child. Sometimes that was how he felt the relationship was—mother and son, with bullets and bombs.

  He rolled out of bed and stepped over to the air conditioner, letting the cool air spill over his naked body, the evaporating sweat rapidly cooling him. He placed a towel on one of the chairs at a corner table then sat, strategically placing the icepack where it would do the most good. He logged into his laptop then scanned his emails, a mix of CIA-generated corporate nonsense that any insurance investigator might expect to receive, along with some spam with embedded links that would take him to different sites on the Internet where he could log in to view covert messages.

  He fired back standard replies to the corporate masters at Shaw’s of London, the laptop part of the cover. He could hand it over without hesitation if security officials ever demanded he do so, and there would be no evidence he had done anything to hide what he had used it for.

  He clicked on one of the spam links that took him to a site guaranteeing to increase his length and girth. He glanced down and shook his head. “That would just make you a bigger target.” He scrolled down the page then clicked on Ron Jeremy’s face. A login prompt appeared and he entered his user ID and password, then moments later was logged into a secure server.

  There was a message from Thorn at the top of the list, sent after he was in the air. He clicked on it and smiled. She was renewing her promise to take his advice and was heading back home. It had him wondering where home was for her. The email also named his buddy Leroux as Control for the mission, which suited him just fine. Not only was Leroux his best friend, which meant he could be trusted to always have his back, Leroux also happened to be the best at what he did, and he thanked God every day that Morrison had pushed his friend into the position of responsibility he now had, recognizing the talent being wasted behind a desk analyzing random reports for patterns. His friend had a brilliant mind, a beautiful mind, and it was finally being used to help his country the way it was meant to.

  He pulled up the files Leroux’s team had put together, opening the report on the oldest attack. He wasn’t concerned with the details—he had already read those. What he was concerned with were the new flyovers. He didn’t bother watching the footage. That was a waste of time. Instead, he scrolled down to read the analyst’s report on what differences they had spotted.

  He frowned, nothing of significance noted. He brought up the next report and noted that a new well had been dug and solar panels had been installed, but that had been done by NATO. He cursed. Perhaps his theory was wrong. Perhaps these villagers were indeed innocent. He brought up the file on the third attack and smiled. Unexplained solar panels, rooftop satellite dishes, an above-ground pool, and two new vehicles. An SUV and a box van. He pulled up the images. The SUV was a newer British make, known more for its unreliable sportscars. He chuckled at the stills from the video showing the hood open, repairs evidently already underway.

  Serves the bastard right.

  It was parked in the courtyard of one of the larger homes, solar panels covering one side of the roof, two different satellite dishes on the other. The analyst noted that significant work had been done to the house, old damage repaired, part of the roof replaced, new windows installed. In fact, where there had been no windows, there now were. Somebody had clearly come into a significant amount of money in the past six weeks. Closeups of the box van could explain why nobody was asking questions. Writing on its side indicated it belonged to the local mosque, a generous donation to silence those who would question the donor’s good fortune.

  He sent a message to Leroux, requesting another flyover, focusing on the owner of this house, then pulled up the file on the fourth attack. The analyst noted repairs made to at least half the homes in the village, but no ostentatious displays of wealth, no new vehicles, solar panels, or satellite dishes. Kane leaned back, folding his arms and pinching his chin as the software flipped through the pictures showing the repairs. Crumbling walls, damaged roofs, failing retaining walls. All necessary repairs, nothing that would make any one neighbor envious of the other if they already had four sound walls and a watertight roof. He jabbed a finger at the screen. “That’s something that village elders do.”

  He snapped his mouth shut. He had already scanned the room for bugs, but it was always possible he missed something. He brought up the files on the fifth attack, then the sixth, the fifth showing a similar shared improvement, the sixth showing a single benefactor. It had him wondering who would benefit from this week’s attack. The entire village, or just one lone soul?

  The analyst’s summary agreed with his hunch. Payoffs were happening at most of the ambush sites. Leroux had ordered an expanded search beyond the original parameters to see if there were any evidence of this happening before that had gone undetected. Kane wouldn’t be surprised if more were found, but it didn’t matter. He had enough to go on, and the best place to focus his attention was on the two villages where the wealth wasn’t being shared. Stroll into a village where everyone had benefited and begin asking questions would get him nowhere. Go into a village where one person was living a far better life than the rest, some tongues might be willing to wag if enough money were flashed. He sent another message to Leroux, giving his observations, which essentially matched up with the analyst who had prepared the report, along with his intention to visit the two villages in question once his meeting with the Afghan minister was complete.

  Kane sent the text message to his translator in the open, all part of a cover for both of them if his phone were examined. It vibrated a moment later.

  I’ll be in the lobby in 45 minutes.

  He sent back a thumbs-up, then launched a routine on the laptop that would clear up anything suspicious should it be examined closely. This wasn’t a browser history clean-up. That raised red flags. It was a very selective clean-up that would leave every innocent thing he did intact. He snapped shut the laptop, removed his icepack, and headed for the shower, rehearsing his pitch for why Shaw’s of London should be insuring the future infrastructure projects of the fledgling democracy.

  8 |

  Sarwani Residence Kabul, Afghanistan

  Mohammed “Mo” Sarwani hummed happily as he checked himself in the cracked mirror. Their youngest played in the next room, happily giggling at something that made a clanging sound. He was certain she was repeatedly dropping a pot lid. It would have been annoying if anyone else were doing it, but he always delighted in his daughter’s laughter.

  She was their fourth child, and he and his wife had agreed the last. If Allah blessed them with another, they wouldn’t be upset, but they were no longer actively trying. Four was enough. It was a good size to ensure the family’s future. With all the violence in his homeland, he fully expected that at least one of them would never see his age. And unfortunately, with the Taliban’s resurgence, his two daughters had bleak prospects, which was why he continued to work with the Americans, despite the risk.

  It could be their ticket out of this country.

  He had high hopes when the Americans and their allies had first arrived, but those were gone. There could be no peace with the Taliban. Any agreements signed with them weren’t worth the paper they were written on. The moment the Western troops left, the civil war would erupt anew, and when your enemy was willing to slaughter mercilessly, it was difficult to successfully oppose them when the opposition had morals.

  The only way to deal with the Taliban and their kind was t
o match their level of brutality—massacre every last one of them. Unfortunately, that didn’t match up with what their Western allies believed was just. The only hope the country had once NATO left was to embrace the violence and violate the so-called human rights of those who cared not for those same rights. Kill them, torture them if captured, and imprison or kill anyone who cooperated willingly. It was the only hope for peace.

  The unfortunate thing was that if they did succeed and remove the Taliban threat, someone would eventually fill the void. Afghanistan’s history was one of constant violence. It wasn’t a real country. It was merely a landmass with borders drawn by foreigners who couldn’t understand the tribal culture that dominated their society. It was a culture that never had democracy, and never wanted it. The Taliban had taken over after the Soviets were forced out by the American supplied and financed Mujahideen, using the very weapons and tactics they had learned fighting the Soviets.

  When the Soviets pulled out, leaving a power vacuum that America wasn’t willing to fill as their interests were finished, religious fanatics had seized the opportunity. They captured much of the country and showed the world what could happen when true Islamic fundamentalism was allowed to gain power.

  If the world had thought Iran was bad, it was nothing compared to what the Taliban had done.

  Iran was more of a threat because of the money they had from oil. Fortunately for the world, the only thing Afghanistan had to offer was opium, and a land free of Western influence for groups like Al-Qaeda to train on.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped. What future was there? They had no natural resources, no factories would ever be built here, and foreign investment would dry up the moment NATO left. He drew a deep breath and held it for a moment. There was no hope for his people, though there might be for his family. If they escaped to America. And it was jobs like he was about to do that would be key.

  He forced himself to his feet, checking the mirror one last time. He stepped out of the bedroom and into the living area. The children all jumped to their feet and rushed toward him. He held up a finger. “Wait! Are everyone’s hands clean? You don’t want to mess up your father’s suit now, do you?”

  Everyone froze, hands inspected and approved before hugs were exchanged. His wife pointed at the small suitcase near the door.

  “Everything’s ready. Do you know how long you’ll be gone?”

  He shook his head. “I never know with these people. It could just be tonight, it could be a couple of days. I have no clue, but I’ll have my phone, so I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

  “Don’t forget the party this weekend. You can’t miss it.”

  He glanced over at his eldest son, about to turn thirteen. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me, though. There might not be coverage where we’re going. If they have a satellite phone, I’ll try to get through.”

  She gave him a hug, holding him a little harder and longer than usual, and he kissed the top of her head.

  “Be strong, my love. The more of these jobs I do, the better our chances are of getting out of here.”

  She eased up on the hug, putting a little space between them, then stared up into his eyes, hers welling with tears. “You keep saying that, yet we’re still here.”

  His chest ached at the vocalizing of his failure. “These things take time. I know it seems I’m making no progress, but every time I’m asked to go out on a job, it means they trust me, and the more they trust me, the more likely it is they’ll eventually say yes.”

  She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I hope you’re right. It’s getting more dangerous every day.”

  “I know.” He gave her a peck on the lips. “I have to go now, otherwise I’ll be late.” He said one final goodbye to the children then grabbed the suitcase and headed out the door, all the more determined to ask the man he had helped on countless occasions whether there was any hope of escaping the hellhole he had been born into.

  9 |

  1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta HQ Fort Bragg, North Carolina A.k.a. “The Unit”

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson lay stretched out on the grass, his fiancée, Maggie Harris, beside him, her head laying on his chest. He gently stroked her hair, the tips of his fingers detecting the scar that had held her back for so long. But now she didn’t even flinch as he touched it. It had finally become part of her, a part that had been accepted, no longer a constant reminder of how fragile life could be, no longer a trigger taking her back to that day in Paris when she had been shot in the head.

  Their wedding plans had been put on hold for so long, he had begun to doubt whether she even wanted to get married anymore, but those concerns had been put to rest recently, and things were back on. He was looking forward to becoming her husband, but part of him was more terrified of the process than any mission he might take part in as the leader of Bravo Team, part of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta, more commonly known to the public as Delta Force.

  An engine roared behind them but he didn’t bother looking. He recognized it as Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman’s 1972 ’Cuda in original Barracuda Orange. It was his pride and joy, recently acquired, the day he had purchased it one filled with precious memories of when he rode as a child with his father in the same make, model, and year. He only took it out on days when the weather would be perfect, like today. Blue skies, only a few wisps of clouds with a gentle breeze, an idyllic day for a barbecue behind the Unit.

  He and Maggie had arrived half an hour early so that he could get the oil drum barbecues going, then enjoy a little bit of alone time, the apartment they lived in lacking a yard, the sliver of a balcony providing little enjoyment of the outdoors.

  “Fun’s over.”

  Maggie patted his chest. “Or has it just begun?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose there are two ways to look at everything.”

  She rolled off him and stood, waving at Spock and his wife, Joanne. “Hi, guys!”

  “Hi, Maggie! Hi, BD!” replied Joanne, Spock offering a wave and a smile.

  Dawson rose. Hugs and handshakes exchanged as he admired the pristine Barracuda, parked beside his own 1964½ Mustang convertible in original poppy red, his own pride and joy inherited from his father in equally pristine condition.

  Everyone turned as another vehicle arrived with Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James and his girlfriend, Vanessa Moore, behind the wheel of her purple Nissan Micra, about to provide a hilarious moment as it pulled in beside the other cars. Vanessa climbed out of the driver’s seat and beamed a smile at the others as the massively muscled Atlas threw open the passenger side door and stared at them helplessly.

  Dawson eyed him. “I’ve got two questions.”

  “They’d better be good,” rumbled Atlas in his impossibly deep voice.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “In the shop. And your other question?”

  “Just how in the hell did you get in there in the first place?”

  Atlas frowned. “Believe it or not, getting in was relatively easy.”

  Vanessa batted a hand at him as Sergeant Eugene “Jagger” Thomas pulled up. “Oh, quit complaining. You’re telling me a super-soldier can’t get out of a tight situation?”

  Dawson extended a hand and Atlas waved it off. “No, the car’s in the shop for at least a few days. I need to figure this out.”

  Jagger walked over and leaned in, examining his friend’s predicament. “Too bad Niner isn’t here. We could use him as a shoehorn.”

  Dawson chuckled and Atlas growled. “You’re not helping.” He grabbed his right leg and struggled to lift it out to no avail. He was wedged in good. “I think my legs are asleep.” He sighed. “To hell with it.” He leaned hard to his right, twisting his entire body before dropping his hands onto the pavement then hand-walking his way out, dragging the rest of his body along with him. He flipped over onto his back, staring up at his two comrade
s-in-arms. “Are you two just going to stand there, or are you going to help a brother up?”

  Dawson and Jagger extended hands, then pulled their friend to his feet. Atlas took a couple of tentative steps, letting the circulation return as Dawson stared into the interior of the ridiculously tiny car. It reminded him of his youth. His parents had bought a second car, a Renault R5, a tiny little French thing that they said he could drive. He had been horrified at the idea, but the next day at school, he had walked through the parking lot and saw some of the cars the other kids were driving, and he didn’t feel as bad about it.

  And the freedom it would give him was worth the possible embarrassment. So, the next day he had driven it to school, parked it, and went inside. Nobody said anything. Nobody made fun of him, despite the ridiculously tiny car having a decal across the bottom of the doors reading “Le Car,” just in case anyone confused it with a riding lawnmower.

  And he drove a girl home, confirming the benefits of having wheels no matter how they looked.

  What was hilarious was that the next day, when he came to school and parked, he found four other Renault Le Cars scattered through the parking lot. No one had had the balls to drive theirs to school until someone else did. He had never felt self-conscious about the car from then on.

  But he wasn’t a muscled monster like his friend Atlas. Cars like that were never designed for men like him.

  More arrived, families unloading, the green space behind the Unit quickly filling with the laughter of children as the men, their partners, their families, gathered, providing a perfect example of what they put their lives on the line for every day.