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

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  Morrison pulled out his phone. “Consider it done.” He resumed his departure as someone he was on a first-name basis with answered his call. “Hey, Theresa, I understand you need an authorization from me.” The door hissed closed behind the Chief and a moment later a message came in on Leroux’s workstation. He sat at his chair and brought it up.

  Priority authorization received.

  He smiled as the noose around Akhtar grew a little tighter.

  30 |

  Outside Akhtar Residence Kabul, Afghanistan

  Akhtar stood just down the street from his home, peering at the front gate. He had arrived about ten minutes ago, remaining in the shadows, his face covered and one leg held tucked up under his robes by a tied scarf. He leaned on a cane, feigning an amputation, as he watched every single person that came and went, listened to every sound, every word carried on the gentle breeze. And found nothing suggesting anyone was waiting for him.

  American or otherwise.

  He couldn’t delay any longer. It had been nearly an hour since his phone call with his contact, and longer since the one with the moron. They could be here any minute. He hobbled across the street, maintaining the pretense of an amputee, and was soon at the front gate. He turned the handle and pushed it open, frowning at the fact it had been left unlocked, contrary to the instructions he had given his wife. She would be taught a lesson about listening to her husband when this was over. He pushed the gate aside and stepped in, reaching down and yanking at the knot on the scarf before easing his cramped leg to the ground. He closed the gate then crossed the courtyard and entered the house the stone walls hid from prying eyes. He shook his head once again at it being unlocked as he closed the door.

  “It’s me! Everybody come here at once!”

  Nobody replied.

  “Is anyone here?” His heart pounded as he moved deeper into the house, though his oncoming panic might be misplaced. They could be at the market. It was possible his wife needed something, and of course, she would require an escort of a male relative. Their oldest would fit that bill, and the rest would have come out of boredom or duty to protect their mother. It might also explain why everything was unlocked, his family perhaps feeling security wasn’t necessary if they weren’t there. There was nothing here worth stealing.

  He passed the kitchen and turned the corner then cried out, collapsing to his knees at the sight of his wife huddled over their youngest, shielding him as his eldest three did the same for their mother, all to no avail, their bullet-ridden bodies unmoving, frozen in their final moments on Allah’s creation.

  He had taken too long to get here. He never should have called his partners. Not before securing his family. There was no doubt they were cleaning up the operation, murdering his family in case he had told them anything, and now they would be eliminating him should they find him. He pushed to his feet, rage mixing with the sorrow and anguish. He now had a new enemy, an enemy who had to pay for this atrocity, for indiscriminately killing the innocent.

  Yet how he could find them, he had no idea.

  He sniffed hard then did something that could prove fatal. He pulled out his phone and dialed the number for his contact. It was answered immediately.

  “I thought I told you to wait.”

  “And I thought you said you were collecting my family.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My wife and sons are dead. Don’t pretend you don’t know what happened.”

  “I don’t know what happened. Our team hasn’t arrived there yet. They should be there in the next few minutes. Stay where you are. We’ll come get you and bring you to safety.”

  “If you didn’t do this, then who did?”

  “It had to be the Americans. They must have somehow found out where your family lived. Now stay where you are. We’ll be there soon.”

  The call ended and he stood frozen, staring at the bodies of his family, debating what to do. A moment ago, he had been convinced that his partners had killed his family, but now he wasn’t so sure. Could it have been the Americans? It wouldn’t surprise him. The infidels were the tools of the Devil and had no respect for the lives of the innocent.

  Yet how had they found him? The phone that had been compromised was new, purchased after he had set himself up in the hotel months ago. It had never been used in his home, and he had never called here, as there were no phones to call. How had they found this place, even if they had traced all of his calls, listened to everything he had said?

  He had sent money to his family through friends, yet still, there should be no way to trace his family through them. If the Americans already had his photo, how long had they been working on this? He shook his head. The only people who always knew this location were his partners. They had shown up at his house to make the offer. And what was more likely? That they had come here and killed his family, cleaning up loose ends just like he used to in the old days, or that the Americans had somehow found his family and slaughtered them?

  As much as he hated the Americans, as much as he wanted every single one of them dead, this wasn’t the way they worked. They would have arrested his family and used them as leverage to get him to turn himself in, with the local Afghan forces used as proxies.

  The front gate creaked, snapping him back to reality. He shoved the table in the center of the room aside then flipped over a rug crafted by his great-grandmother so many decades ago and proudly maintained by his wife, whose blood now stained it. A hole was revealed, covered by a sheet of plywood. He flipped it up and reached inside, grabbing an AK-47 and several magazines. He stuffed them in his pockets along with two grenades.

  Whoever was coming through the door was going to die. He no longer cared. If the Americans were here to arrest him, he would have fought them to the death regardless. But if it were his partners, whom he was once again convinced had murdered his family, then they too deserved to die, even if they were fellow Muslims.

  He pulled the pin from one of the grenades then gripped it tight in his hand as he flipped the AK-47 on its side, resting it on the edge of the turned-over table, aiming it toward the hallway that led to the door. Whoever it was knocked, and it gave him pause. Would men sent to kill, knock first? The door opened and his pulse pounded in his ears as he waited for what was to come, uncertain if he were about to greet friend or foe. He could hear the footfalls of several people, whispering instructions to each other in a language he recognized.

  And his eyes shot wide as he realized he hadn’t been serving his cause at all.

  He had been serving that of his enemy.

  He roared in rage as the first appeared. He threw his grenade into the hallway then gripped his AK-47 tight as he squeezed the trigger, fulfilling his dream of dying as a martyr. “Allahu Akbar!” he repeatedly shouted as lead pumped from the weapon. The first man dropped before a shot could be fired in response as three more men surged into the room, their assault rifles spewing as they escaped the grenade, Akhtar having made the critical mistake of not counting off before throwing it.

  His weapon fell silent and he cursed as he ejected the empty magazine. As he fumbled to reload, a long-practiced move now forgotten, the men broke to the side as the grenade exploded. The massive detonation in the confined space was overwhelming, shrapnel and flames erupting into the living area, taking one of the men down.

  But only one.

  The other two opened fire as he squeezed the trigger, and as each of their rounds found its mark, Akhtar continued to cry out, “Allahu Akbar!” as he silently prayed he would still be granted access to Jannah, a paradise he had fought so hard for, despite the fact he had been used, and was merely a tool of those he wanted dead.

  31 |

  Approaching Kunduz, Afghanistan

  Kane checked the nav system. They were fifteen minutes from the airstrip, and their flight was due to leave in thirty. The turnaround time from past experience suggested the plane might already be on the ground. So far, there had been no further atte
mpts to intercept them, however there were no communities between the attempted assault and the airport.

  The road to the airport would be the first opportunity.

  If word had been sent ahead, this was where they would be ambushed. Mo had scrambled into the back seat earlier and folded them down, giving him access to the secure lockup in the back. Both of them now had not only handguns and extra ammo, but body armor and an M4 should things get hairy.

  His comms squawked in his ear. “Diggler, Control. We’ve got activity ahead, over.”

  “Copy that, Control. What are we looking at?”

  “We’re showing a vehicle waiting by the side of the road about two klicks ahead, and another one two klicks beyond that. It could be nothing, but I just thought you should be aware.”

  “Copy that, Control. Have you been able to reach our pilot?”

  “Affirmative. He says he’s fueled and ready to go the moment you arrive if there’s any trouble.”

  “Copy that, Control. Tell him if he doesn’t fly off like a coward, beers are on me, and Mo will give him a big sloppy kiss.”

  Mo’s eyes shot wide at the one side of the conversation he could hear as Leroux chuckled at the other end. “I’m sure that’s incentive enough to keep any man on the ground under gunfire.” Leroux’s tone changed. “Diggler, you should see the first vehicle coming up on your right.”

  Kane spotted the pick-up truck that had seen better days, the burning oil wisping from its tailpipe indicating it was idling. Two men sat in the cab, the driver staring in his mirror, watching as they approached.

  Yet it still could be nothing.

  “Stand by, Control.” He glanced at Mo, his Glock gripped tightly in his lap, his finger on the trigger. “Trigger discipline, my friend.”

  Mo flinched. “Huh?”

  “Get your finger off the trigger. Unless you’re going to shoot that thing, keep it on the guard.”

  Mo shook out a nod, adjusting his finger position so he didn’t blow his own kneecap off if startled.

  “First sign of trouble, duck. The metal in that door will protect you far more than that glass. Remember, it’s bullet-resistant, not bullet-proof. We’re just going to…” He cursed as two men that had been lying flat in the back of the truck sat up, AK-47s in their hands, lead belching at them within moments. “Control, Diggler. We’re taking fire. Repeat, we’re taking fire.” He hammered on the gas as the bullets pinged off the up-armored SUV. They blasted past the vehicle and he glanced in his rearview mirror as a cloud of dust indicated the beginning of their pursuit. “You okay?” he asked Mo.

  “I think so, though I may have to change my undergarments.”

  Kane laughed, remaining calm as the gunfire continued ineffectually behind them—it was far more challenging to aim standing in the back of a pickup truck on a rough road.

  “Diggler, the next vehicle is just ahead. They’re pulling onto the road to block you.”

  Kane watched as another pickup truck came to a halt, blocking the road. The driver stepped out as Kane lowered the window, extending his Glock and steadying his hand on the side mirror. He opened fire, taking out the driver with his first two shots, then adjusted his aim slightly as he eliminated one of the two men in the back, sending the other scurrying for cover.

  Shooting from a vehicle at high speeds was something he trained for. His little game with Fang a few days ago wasn’t just for fun. Zombie Paintball Racing, as she had called it, required incredible skill to do properly, and as long as the zombie element remained out of this, he should be okay.

  His balls sent him an aching reminder of why that was so important.

  “Best path forward?”

  “It’s wide enough on the left,” replied Leroux.

  “Copy that.” He didn’t take his foot off the accelerator. Instead, he kept them aimed at the truck before pulling his arm inside and dropping his weapon in his lap before taking the wheel with both hands. He jerked them to the left, passing between the front bumper of the driverless vehicle and a set of large rocks on the side of the road. He steered back onto the pavement and checked his rearview mirror to see the second vehicle coming to a halt, blocked by the first. More shots were fired in their general direction, but they were out of range. “Control, Diggler. Anything else we should know about on our route ahead?”

  “Not at this time, Diggler. We’ll send the drone ahead to recheck. Stand by.”

  Kane glanced over at Mo, somehow wedged in the footwell. “How in the hell did you fit in there?”

  “I am a very small man. Sometimes it has advantages.”

  Kane laughed. “Well, you’re safe now, so you can sit up.”

  “Are you sure? They’re still shooting at us.”

  “Buddy, they’re way out of range. Don’t worry.”

  Mo struggled back into his seat. “Who do you think they were?” he finally asked, his voice still quivering.

  “There’s not a lot of possibilities. They were clearly waiting for us, so it’s definitely connected to the visit we just paid. It’s either his friends or family, or the people he’s been dealing with.”

  “Which one do you think it was?”

  “I’m guessing friends or family. The chances of Akhtar having people in the area already are slim to none.”

  “He might have called in some local favors.”

  Kane shook his head. “No, remember, only the villagers saw our vehicle, and they wouldn’t know how to contact Akhtar. I think this was friends and family. There’s obviously another satphone in the village. They called ahead, told members of the clan that live in this area what had happened, what our vehicle looked like, and when we had left. This was just a failed attempt to deliver justice for a crime they felt was committed.”

  “Do you think it’s over?”

  Kane flashed him a grin. “Not for a second.”

  32 |

  Outside Kunduz, Afghanistan

  Ben Ledger checked his watch and frowned. He was due to take off in ten minutes, and Kane wasn’t here yet. He had dealt with him before, and the man was never early. And was definitely not an insurance investigator. But it wasn’t his job to ask those types of questions. His job was to ferry people from one point to another in a country quickly falling apart. It made his job more difficult as each day passed, and with the Taliban resurging, he had been forced to cut out several of his regular routes as they were no longer safe to land at, even if the area surrounding the airport was secure. The Taliban were taking potshots at planes, hoping to get lucky as the flights were on approach. They knew that if they managed to take out an aircraft, they were definitely killing Westerners or government officials, all of whom were prime targets as far as the fundamentalists were concerned.

  He had seen enough action in the Australian Special Air Service, his 20-year stint in the military ended in a damn car accident and not on the battlefield. His kids were grown up and moved out, and his wife was shacked up with the doctor who had performed his back surgery after the accident, the divorce papers apparently sitting on his table at home. He’d sign them as soon as he got back, which would be soon. Once the Americans pulled out, this country was going to shit, and he’d be flying his plane somewhere far safer than this hellhole.

  But the money was good, damn good, so it was worth the risk to stick around until the end. Especially when it was people like Kane. He had no doubt whoever the man actually worked for was fully aware of exactly who their pilot was, and what he had accomplished in his career, and they were counting on his skills should something go wrong.

  He cursed as something went wrong.

  Four vehicles raced along the single road that gave access through the easily breachable fence. He turned to his flight attendant and old army buddy, Michael Clarke. “Make sure everything’s buttoned down. I think we’re going to be leaving here in a hurry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And get Ginger ready, but keep her out of sight of the passengers.”

  “Th
at bad, huh?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.” Ledger gestured toward the four vehicles, slowing to make the turn through the gate.

  Clarke eyed him. “Is there a reason we’re sticking around?”

  Ledger pursed his lips. There was no point in waiting for Kane if they were dead. “All right. Let’s get going.” There was also no point in waiting to see what these new arrivals wanted. They either wanted one of his passengers, or they wanted Kane. Neither was good. He rushed up the steps, Clarke on his heels, ignoring the concerned questions from the passengers who had also spotted the vehicles, weapons on full display.

  He skipped the pre-flight checklist, instead instinctively flipping and turning every switch and knob that needed to be dealt with. The engines roared to life as Clarke poked his head in the cockpit, closing the door.

  “Is Ginger ready?”

  Clarke slid aside a hidden panel and pulled out the F88 Austeyr assault rifle, flicking off the safety. “She’s ready.”

  “Then get your ass in that door, and if anybody fires at us, open up on them.”

  Clarke sighed, shaking his head. “I knew I never should have agreed to come work for you.”

  Ledger released the brakes as he throttled up, the plane jerking forward. “Ah, you love it and you know it.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t love it. I just said I shouldn’t have taken the job.” Clarke disappeared, and through the open door, those outside shouting at the plane were drowned out by the protests from the passengers demanding to know what was going on. Clarke delivered an expletive-ridden tirade at them, leaving them in stunned silence, and if Ledger gave a shit about customer service reviews, he was sure some colorful complaints would be left on Yelp after this flight landed.

  A shot rang out as he turned onto the runway, and Ginger responded, Clarke leaving it on single shot so he could pick his targets more carefully and conserve ammo. Ledger had no idea who they were facing. It shouldn’t be Taliban, not in this area, but anything was possible these days. He slid the window open on his left and poked his head out. Clarke had taken a few of them down, and the others were cowering behind their vehicles with no sign of any coordinated effort to retaliate. These were amateurs who had little to no battlefield experience.