by Carr, Jack
“Thought we might be doing this another night, my friend,” Mo said, turning to face the American.
“Nope. It happens tonight,” James Reece replied. “Do you have what I asked for?”
Mo reached into the backseat and handed Reece a leather satchel and a pair of black gloves.
“It’s in there. The pistol’s a bit on the antique side. If investigated, it will be traced back to a deceased Bratva enforcer,” Mo said, referencing the Russian mafia. It certainly won’t be linked to anyone who will lead them to either of us.”
After putting on the gloves, Reece reached inside and pulled out a small black pistol. Inspecting it, he looked at Mohammed with a questioning eye. “Will it work?”
“It will work for your purposes.”
Reece ejected the magazine from the Beretta M1934 pistol and pressed down on the top round with his thumb to ensure it was fully loaded, then inserted it into the weapon and racked the slide before engaging the safety. Chambered in the small 9mm Corto, known to Americans as .380 ACP, it wouldn’t have been Reece’s first choice, but he was pleased that the old pistol was fitted with a suppressor. Stealth was an important component of tonight’s operation.
Reaching back into the bag, Reece extracted a small box and carefully cracked the hinge to find a bottle wrapped in an old rag.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get this. How’d you do it?”
“Reece, I am now one of the world’s most notorious terrorists, thanks to you and the CIA. My Nawaz-affiliated networks are still in place. I say the word, and it gets done. You’d be surprised at how deep these cells are embedded into both the Western and Eastern worlds, my friend.”
Reece nodded.
“I know this is non-sanctioned, so I won’t ask too many questions,” Mo continued. “There are easier ways for the CIA to liquidate their own asset than by sending you to Greece. Were it not for you, I’d still be working for Landry—may God curse him for eternity—so whatever you need, I shall provide.”
“Thanks, buddy. Is your man inside?”
“He is. With Yedid’s protective detail either dead or in a black-site prison, he needed someone with the right credentials—a Syrian, who just happens to work for me,” Mo said with a sly smile. “The CIA will get their money’s worth out of me, I assure you. Pity the same cannot be said for our Syrian general.”
“I know they will. And, I’m going to do what I can to get you out of this deal. I’ll need some time, but I’ll make it happen.”
“Gratitude, my friend. Eventual freedom from indentured servitude, I believe you call it?”
“Something like that. After tonight there are two more people I need to put in the ground: the men directly responsible for Freddy’s death. As far as I can tell, the CIA doesn’t know where they are yet. As soon as I use all assets at the Agency’s disposal to find them, I’m out.”
“So, we shall work together once again at the behest of American intelligence, just like the old days in Iraq.”
“Looks that way,” Reece affirmed.
“Inshallah, one day we shall both be free.”
“Inshallah,” Reece responded.
Reece looked at his watch. “Let him know I’m coming.”
Mo texted a single word via his cell phone and nodded to Reece. “He knows. I’ll be here if you need me. Allah yusallmak.”
Reece exited the vehicle, pulled the satchel over his shoulder, and moved up the street, toward his target.
• • •
What was taking her so long?
She’d enjoyed dinner and downed her share of wine followed by champagne at the club; he hoped she hadn’t passed out on his bathroom floor. He liked watching her dance, turning down the advances of men much younger than he, returning to him when he’d beckoned. Back at his flat, she hadn’t been interested in the drugs, instead having a final drink before going to the washroom to change into the lingerie he’d purchased for her earlier in the evening. She seemed genuinely attracted to him, a result of the unnecessary but pleasant wining and dining. The sex was always better with these young ones if they thought it was more than just a business transaction. They still had hope.
A sharp rap at the door startled him.
“Maada turiid?” He shouted angrily from his bed.
The door opened, and a man who was not his bodyguard entered the room, a black suppressed pistol in his outstretched hand.
“Where is she?” the man asked in a tone that conjured images of death itself.
Yedid looked to the nightstand drawer, knowing he could never make it to his Makarov pistol in time, then nodded toward the bathroom.
Reece moved across the room, his eyes and pistol still trained on the overweight general in white boxers propped up against the throw pillows, and opened the door.
“Get your things,” he said to the small blond girl whose eyes betrayed a mixture of fright and dismay, as he ushered her to the bedroom door and into the waiting hands of Yedid’s bodyguard, who would escort her away.
“Fucking traitor,” Yedid spat.
“Do you know who I am?” Reece asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
The general took a deep breath and eyed the intruder suspiciously in the dim yellow glow coming from a single lamp next to the bed.
“Well, you are American. That I can tell. You can’t be Agency, as they have other means to contact me. Ah, but this might be a test. The Central Intelligence Agency is famous for testing their sources to assess loyalty.”
“I’m not Agency, and this is not a test. I’m here for information. Whether you live or end up like your buddy Andrenov depends on the quality of that information. Do you understand?”
Yedid nodded slowly, digesting everything he’d just heard. He had not been a frontline soldier. He’d chosen an even more dangerous career path. He’d been a politician in uniform under Bashar al-Assad and his father, Hafez al-Assad, before him. He was more adept at political maneuvering in a game during which one small error or lapse of judgment meant torture and death. He’d played the game well.
“I understand. What can I do for you?”
“The sniper, Nizar Kattan, and Oliver Grey. I need to find them.”
Yedid studied the bearded American, weighing his options.
“I’ve told my handler everything I know, that’s part of my deal,” Yedid said, gesturing to the room. “I don’t believe you are not Agency. They are the only ones, how do you say it, privy to those names?”
The small-caliber bullet entered General Yedid’s right knee just above the kneecap, breaking bone and tearing cartilage and ligaments along its path before terminating its flight halfway through the thick mattress. The general’s eyes opened wide in horror as he inhaled sharply at the pain, grabbing his leg, too shocked to even scream as his mind raced to catch up with what had just happened.
Reece covered the five steps to the bed in less than a second, whipping the pistol down and across the Syrian general’s face, careful not to impact the jaw or temple, instead shattering the cheekbone and leaving a nasty gash in its wake.
“Look at me,” Reece hissed down at the terrorist he knew was part of the conspiracy that left his friend’s wife and children without a father and had helped almost unleash a nerve toxin on a civilian population, all for money.
Yedid looked up in a mixed state of shock and confusion. Who was this man?
“I told you, I’m not Agency, but I do want answers.”
Reece stepped back and aimed the suppressed pistol directly at Yedid’s head.
“It’s too late for the leg. You’ll lose it above the knee. If you want to keep the other one, and your life, I better believe what you have to say.”
“Yes, yes,” the general panted, frantically trying to stem the flow of blood soaking his sheets.
“Nizar and Grey. I need to know what you didn’t tell the Agency. I need to know where they are now.”
“I don’t know! I swear to the Prophet, I don’t,” Yedid pleaded.
“The only prophet you worship is the god of money,” Reece said, nodding toward an armoire set up as a bar with an assortment of drugs at the ready.
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to guess. And it better be a good one. I know Andrenov hired you to put the team together. And I know that Grey wanted to run this himself, which puts you at a severe disadvantage tonight. I need your best educated guess as to where they might go and who they might contact.”
His leg in tatters and his face dripping blood, the American the very incarnation of death standing over him, General Yedid weighed his options. He thought once again about his pistol in the drawer a mere few feet away but decided that discretion was the better part of valor in this particular situation. He could talk his way out of this.
“It’s so painful. I need something for the pain. Please.”
Reece walked to the armoire and eyed the selection of drugs and alcohol, giving General Yedid a moment to contemplate his pain and his future.
“Vodka?” Reece asked.
“Please. Yes, vodka,” Yedid responded through gritted teeth.
“Think carefully, Yedid. You don’t want this drink to be your last.”
Reece kept an eye on Yedid in the mirror as he set his Beretta on the armoire and administered a healthy pour, taking a moment to empty the contents of a small bottle from his satchel into the liquid with his gloved hand. He picked up his pistol, turned back around, and approached the bloodied overweight man breathing heavily and still gripping his leg above what used to be his knee.
The general looked up and reached for the drink.
“Not yet, Yedid. First tell me where you think Grey and Nizar would go to ground.”
“Okay, okay,” the Syrian said in defeat. “As I told the CIA in my debrief, I don’t know. What I can tell you is that Andrenov is connected, both in D.C. and in Russia. Grey certainly can’t go back to the United States, and neither can Nizar, for obvious reasons, but they can go to Russia.”
“Russia? But they assassinated the Russian president. Why would they go to Russia?”
“I see, you do not understand Russia. You are too young. My guess from the looks of you is that you spent your time in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Continue,” Reece commanded, holding the drink a bit closer to the Syrian.
“Russia is a puzzle even more complex than the Middle East,” Yedid continued, still gripping his leg. “Andrenov, although excommunicated from the echelons of power, still had supporters in the government who had hedged their bets in anticipation of his eventual return. But, more important, he had deep connections to Russian organized crime, the mafia. If I were to guess, I would speculate that the plan for this contingency was a fallback involving the Bratva, somewhere in Russia, or in a Russian mafia–controlled city.”
“Who would they contact, exactly?” Reece pressed.
“I don’t know.” Yedid prayed. “How could I? That is Andrenov’s territory.”
“Who?” Reece ordered again, moving the pistol to the general’s one good knee.
“I don’t know! I swear to it. I don’t know!”
Reece contemplated the man before him—shot, beaten, crushed—and lowered the gun.
“I believe you,” Reece said, handing the general his drink.
Yedid reached for it with both bloodied hands and brought it to his lips, taking two huge gulps of the strong liquor, closing his eyes in momentary relief from the torture this man had wrought.
Something was wrong.
Instead of the expected respite, he felt an intense burning in his mouth, followed quickly by a pain, sharper than anything he’d ever experienced, attacking his lungs and stomach. His eyes moved questioningly to the man standing over him but were quickly torn away as they rolled back in his head, his back arching, the drink falling onto his chest, convulsions racking his body as the dose of Novichok liquid soluble precursor seized control of his musculoskeletal system and threw him into an exorcistic seizure. As fluid began to flow into Yedid’s lungs, his mouth filled with a white froth that leaked down his chin and out of his nose, his body deteriorating into a writhing mass of agony. His last vision, before his respiratory system shut down and his heart seized, was of the American tossing his pistol onto the bed, looking down at him without a hint of remorse.
• • •
Reece exited the building and made his way through the early morning darkness to the waiting Mercedes. He’d carefully removed his gloves and left them at the scene. One of Mo’s people would leave an anonymous message in Russian for Greek authorities that warned them of the contamination so that appropriate HAZMAT crews could respond; the flat would be uninhabitable for years to come.
Traffic was extremely light and none of the drivers paid much attention to the tall figure climbing into the passenger side of the older-model German vehicle.
He didn’t dwell on what he’d just done. The Syrian general had been at it long enough to know that eventually the reaper comes to call. Reece had gotten the information he needed. His sights were now set on Russia. It was time to hunt.
GLOSSARY
160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment: The Army’s premier helicopter unit that provides aviation support to special forces. Known as the “Night Stalkers,” they are widely regarded as the best helicopter pilots and crews in the world.
.260: .260 Remington; .264"/6.5mm rifle cartridge that is essentially a .308 Winchester necked down to accept a smaller-diameter bullet. The .260 provides superior external ballistics to the .308 with less felt recoil and can often be fired from the same magazines.
.300 Norma: .300 Norma Magnum; a cartridge designed for long-range precision shooting that has been adopted by USSOCOM for sniper use.
.375 CheyTac: Long-range cartridge, adapted from the .408 CheyTac, that can fire a 350-grain bullet at 2,970 feet per second. A favorite of extreme long-range match competitors who use it on targets beyond 3,000 yards.
.375 H&H Magnum: An extremely common and versatile big-game rifle cartridge, found throughout Africa. The cartridge was developed by Holland & Holland in 1912 and traditionally fires a 300-grain bullet.
.404 Jeffery: A rifle cartridge, designed for large game animals, developed by W. J. Jeffery & Company in 1905.
.408 CheyTac: Long-range cartridge adapted from the .505 Gibbs capable of firing a 419-grain bullet at 2,850 feet per second.
.500 Nitro: A .510-caliber cartridge designed for use against heavy dangerous game, often chambered in double rifles. The cartridge fires a 570-grain bullet at 2,150 feet per second.
75th Ranger Regiment: A large-scale Army special operations unit that conducts direct-action missions including raids and airfield seizures. These elite troops often work in conjunction with other special operations units.
• • •
AC-130 Spectre: A ground-support aircraft used by the U.S. military, based on the ubiquitous C-130 cargo plane. AC-130s are armed with a 105mm howitzer, 40mm cannons, and 7.62mm miniguns, and are considered the premier close-air-support weapon of the U.S. arsenal.
Accuracy International: A British company producing high-quality precision rifles, often used for military sniper applications.
ACOG: Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight. A magnified optical sight designed for use on rifles and carbines made by Trijicon. The ACOG is popular among U.S. forces as it provides both magnification and an illuminated reticle that provides aiming points for various target ranges.
AFIS: Automated Fingerprint Identification System; electronic fingerprint database maintained by the FBI.
Aimpoint Micro: Aimpoint Micro T-2; high-quality unmagnified red-dot combat optic produced in Sweden that can be used on a variety of weapons platforms. This durable sight weighs only three ounces and has a five-year battery life.
AISI: The latest name for Italy’s domestic intelligence agency. Their motto, “scientia rerum reipublicae salus,” means “knowledge of issues is the salvation of the Republic.”
AK-9: Russian 9x39mm assault rifle favored by Spetsnaz (special purpose) forces.
Al-Jaleel: Iraqi-made 82mm mortar that is a clone of the Yugoslavian-made M69A. This indirect-fire weapon has a maximum range of 6,000 meters.
Alpha Group: An elite Russian counterterrorist unit that is part of the Federal Security Service (FSB). Alpha Group units also exist in numerous nations of the former Soviet Union, including Ukraine.
AN/PAS-13G(v)L3/LWTS: Weapon-mounted thermal optic that can be used to identify warm-blooded targets day or night. Can be mounted in front of and used in conjunction with a traditional “day” scope mounted on a sniper weapons system.
AN/PRC-163: Falcon III communications system made by Harris Corporation that integrates voice, text, and video capabilities.
AQ: al-Qaeda. Meaning “the Base” in Arabic. A radical Islamic terrorist organization once led by the late Osama bin Laden.
AQI: al-Qaeda in Iraq. An al-Qaeda–affiliated Sunni insurgent group that was active against U.S. forces. Elements of AQI eventually evolved into ISIS.
AR-10: 7.62x51mm brainchild of Eugene Stoner that was later adapted to create the M16/M4/AR-15.
Asherman Chest Seal: A specialized emergency medical device used to treat open chest wounds. If you’re wearing one, you are having a bad day.
AT-4: Tube-launched 84mm anti-armor rocket produced in Sweden and used by U.S. forces since the 1980s. The AT-4 is a throwaway weapon: after it is fired, the tube is discarded.
ATF/BATFE: Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. A federal law enforcement agency formally part of the U.S. Department of the Treasury, which doesn’t seem overly concerned with alcohol or tobacco.
ATPIAL/PEQ-15: Advanced Target Pointer/Illuminator Aiming Laser. A weapon-mounted device that emits both visible and infrared target designators for use with or without night observation devices. Essentially, an advanced military-grade version of the “laser sights” seen in popular culture.
Azores: Atlantic archipelago consisting of nine major islands that is an independent autonomous region of the European nation of Portugal.