BOUVIER KNEW EXACTLY why he had received no word from the team. No contact meant the strike hadn’t gone well. Hamir, the team leader, would have called if the attack had succeeded. Bouvier didn’t call himself. If the team had been compromised, any cell phone chatter could be picked up by listeners.
He sat back and debated his next move. There had to be a next move. Something had to be done about Mahoud. The man was Bouvier’s prime target. With the conference only days away, operations were going to need to be arranged quickly and with little time for solid backup. Bouvier didn’t like to work this way. Hastily mounted operations were more likely to go wrong. There were bound to be unforeseen obstacles.
Bouvier crossed to the bar and poured himself a generous brandy. He stood at the room’s high window, savoring the rich bouquet of the mellow liquid as he tried to review the situation from the point of view of the man orchestrating Mahoud’s security. The liquor, though an unacceptable drink from a religious standpoint, was one of the vices Bouvier allowed himself, always blaming the vice on his French father; it was, he would say wryly, in the genes.
This American, Cooper, was proving to be a worthy enemy. He operated on his own for the most part—his performance in Afghanistan proved that—and seemed to have a propensity for survival. Worthy or not, the man had to be removed along with Mahoud and his family. Thinking as Cooper, Bouvier decided that the man would be forced to remove the Mahoud family from the château. It was a logical next step. The safehouse was no longer safe. Its security had been compromised, and Cooper would see the possibility as untenable. He would remove the Mahouds and take them somewhere he alone would know the location. He wouldn’t even tell his own control. Bouvier saw that as sound logic. The fewer people who knew, the safer Mahoud’s family would be.
To his advantage Bouvier could rely on his immediate contacts, plus the added benefit of Homani’s asset. He would find Cooper and the Mahoud family. Their mission would be completed and the upcoming conference would be canceled.
Bouvier stared out across Paris, the skyline as familiar to him as the lines in his face. The French-Algerian had lived in France for a number of years, brought there by his parents, French father, Algerian mother. The young Bouvier had a rebellious streak that had brought him into contact with radical Muslims in the city. He had started to hang out in the Marais/Oberkamph quarters. Here, in the 11th Arrondissement, there were many brasseries, cafés and restaurants where he could get both Algerian cuisine and company. It was here where he had fallen in with Muslims who, like himself, were disillusioned with the Western way of life and were seeking active participation in some kind of resistance. He developed a strong political attitude, allying himself with discontented factions. Bouvier’s activities and his devotion to the cause resulted in him being cultivated by the power elite. His profession in finance and commodities gave him a solid background when it came to arranging protests and active missions. After a few years Bouvier came into Ali Asadi’s circle and the man realized his potential, promoting him as assistant to the master facilitator Masood. Bouvier was quick to learn and he learned everything his instructor told him, and more. He quietly took on board more than even Masood realized, though Asadi wasn’t slow to understand the way the younger man worked. When Masood was unexpectedly killed during a mission in Pakistan, the group was left without a facilitator. Bouvier stepped in and proved his worth by assuming Masood’s position without once losing his grip. He knew every contact in a dozen countries and had financial matters under control. Within six months it was as if Masood had never existed. And Bouvier became the new master. In truth he became even more skilled than the late Masood. His done deals had resulted in many successful operations, causing death and destruction to a significant number of the enemy.
As he had in the past, Bouvier looked on setbacks as no more than new challenges. He thrived on problems. So he set about putting this one back on track, understanding how important it was to Ali Asadi. The death of Sharif Mahoud would be a high moral victory. Removal of the traitor would ensure the continuing state of unrest, leaving the way open for more recruitment to the cause. Mahoud’s betrayal had been having an effect on many of the moderates, allowing them to claw back many young idealists wavering about joining the ranks of the faithful. His death would show there was no profit to be had in walking away from the ideals of Islam. The moderates—the weak ones—would have much of their power taken away with the death of Mahoud. Without his powerful words and irrefutable appeal to many, there would be a vacuum into which men like Asadi could step.
Although the efforts already expended had failed to remove Mahoud, the sacrifices of the faithful would not be in vain. Mahoud would die.
Soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY
He came to with a pounding ache in his skull. He could feel the semi-dried stickiness of blood that had slipped down from his hair and across the left side of his face. Lyons remained in his slumped position, head down, watching the outline of his booted feet slowly come back into focus. He was sitting on a plain wooden kitchen chair, his hands tied with cord behind him. He heard the sounds of nearby movement, picked up the smell of coffee and heard the crackle of wood burning in a fireplace or stove. Streaks of sunlight crisscrossed the floor.
As his hearing sharpened Lyons focused in on voices. More than one. Conversation filtered in and out as he struggled to pick up clear words through the fuzziness that hampered his ability to concentrate. He fought the desire to shake his head. Listened closely.
“Jake, go tell…Cujo…extend his patrol…area.”
“You…worried…compromised?”
“Being cautious…all…just go do it.”
Lyons heard the thump of heavy boots across the floor. A door opened and closed. He caught a draft of cool air as the door opened, the scent of pine. As the door slammed shut, Lyons felt his ears pop and the rush of clear sound almost made him start.
“Greg, we should clear out of here ASAP.”
This time the voice was female.
Callie Jefferson?
“Babe, cool down. No need for us to panic.”
“Easy to say. Greg, this jerk-off had a Justice Department badge in his pocket.”
“And he’s on his own. No radio for communication. Just a cell phone. I never heard of a Fed coming in without backup. If he’d been part of a team, the woods would be crawling with a task force by now. Whoever he is, this joker is running solo.”
“But he still found us. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Tells me he’s an idiot. No law dog runs around like the Lone Ranger. They’re taught to be team players. Hell, they don’t even take a leak without backup these days.”
“So who is this guy? Hell, Greg, look at the way he was kitted out. The guy had plenty of firepower. Call him an idiot if you want, but he came ready.”
“Okay, I haven’t figured him out yet. But I’m damn sure he was on his own. We’ll see what Cujo says when he gets back. If there are any more out there, he’ll spot them.”
“Shouldn’t he be awake by now? Cujo wouldn’t have hit him that hard.”
“Go check.”
“Maybe I should slap him awake.”
“Kate, you have to curb that violent streak.”
“You think?”
A third voice joined the conversation. Another male.
“Your problem, Kate, is too much pent-up aggression. Try some liquid therapy.”
“Say what?”
“Take a drink. Works for me.”
“Yeah? Well, I’d still rather slap him.”
Lyons saw booted feet move into his line of vision. He could see the woman’s legs as far as just above her knees. Strong, shapely legs. Tanned and firm. The woman stood with feet apart, muscles working beneath the skin as she braced herself. Lyons knew what was coming. Even so he was slow to react. Fingers caught in his hair and yanked his head back. A hard hand struck him across the left side of his face. It was a solid blow, tearing the corne
r of his mouth, and it rocked Lyons’s head to the side.
“Damn it, I told you he was awake.”
Lyons simply let his emotions get the better of him. Ignoring the stinging pain from the blow he swept his booted feet, catching the woman’s closer ankle, and continued through. The force caught the woman off guard. Lyons heard her startled yell as his leg-sweep took her feet from under her. He caught a blurred picture as she fell, slamming to the floor on her behind.
“Hey,” someone yelled.
Two men rushed into Lyons’s vision, each wielding a handgun.
“Son of a bitch.”
One of the men thrust the muzzle of a pistol into Lyons’s neck.
“I suggest you think very carefully before you try anything like that again.”
The woman had rolled to her feet and she came at Lyons in a wild rush, her fists swinging. She managed a full-on blow that clipped Lyons’s cheek before the second man grabbed her and hauled her away.
“Let me go, Todd. I owe that fuck.”
Todd held on to her. Lyons could see him now. He was a big guy, with powerful upper body strength. The arms encircling the young woman were massively developed.
“I warned you, Kate,” he said. “Too much aggression.”
“I am going to cripple him.”
Lyons stared at her. Attractive. Blond and blue-eyed; right now those eyes were blazing with uncontrolled fury. Her lips were pulled back from even white teeth. Although she was struggling, Todd’s superior strength held her captive.
Lyons felt the gun muzzle draw back, saw movement as the guy holding it stepped away. He was of average height, with dark hair cut short and angular features that kept him the wrong side of being handsome. The guy had a small but deep scar on his left cheek, over the bone. He wore tan chinos and a dark wool shirt.
“Kate, enough,” he said simply. “Enough.”
The young woman stared at him briefly, then ceased struggling.
“Okay, Todd, you can put me down now.”
Todd released her and stepped back, arms spread away from his body. She turned to look at him, unconsciously brushing her blond hair back in place.
“You let your guard down,” Todd said. “I told you a hundred times. Don’t step in too close. He was waiting for you to do just that.”
Kate returned her gaze to Lyons. He watched her, unfazed by the threat in her eyes. He had already stored away what he knew about her. She wasn’t disciplined. She let her emotions control her actions. That led to risk taking. He would remember.
“I don’t trust him,” she said.
Todd grinned. “I’m sure he fucking loves you, too.”
The guy holding the gun was studying Lyons closely.
“Agent Benning,” he said. “This is not one of your better days.”
“It’s been that kind of a week.”
“So what are you doing all the way up here in the woods?”
“Maybe he’s looking for Smoky the Bear,” Todd suggested. “He sure needs some tracking advice.”
“Oh, Jesus, we all know why he’s here,” Kate snapped, irritation sharpening her tone.
“I’d like Agent Benning to tell us.”
“Greg, for Christ’s sake.”
More information, Lyons thought.
Greg. Greg Marino, the guy Callie Jefferson had been calling.
“I do believe Agent Benning is looking for Rafiq Mahoud. Give him credit, Kate, the guy has tracked us all the way here. Nice job, Agent Benning. Pity it won’t go any farther. You might have found Mahoud, but it isn’t going to get you a pat on the back and advance you up the pay grade ladder.”
“The only bonus is going to be a bullet in his skull,” Kate said, relishing every word.
“You know, you really have upset her,” Todd said.
“In that case my day just brightened,” Lyons said.
His cheek was throbbing where the woman had hit him, and he could still taste blood from his cut lip.
“Go fetch the kid,” Marino said. “Let him take a look at his savior.”
Grover chuckled. He moved across the cabin behind Lyons. A door was unlocked and opened.
“Get out here, kid. You’ve got a visitor.”
Grover reappeared, pushing a reluctant figure in front of Lyons.
“Say hi to each other.”
It was Rafiq Mahoud. Lyons recognized him from the photograph in the file Brognola had e-mailed to him. He was a tall, lean young man with dark eyes and a shock of thick black hair. Right now he looked scared as he was pushed across the room to stand in front of Lyons.
“This is Agent Benning, Rafiq,” Marino said, grinning. “You should thank him. He’s your personal hero. Came all the way here to rescue you from our evil clutches.”
“Though he isn’t doing too well,” Grover said.
“Is it true?” Rafiq asked. “Did my father send you?”
Lyons nodded.
“What I want to see is how he’s going to achieve this rescue,” Grover said. “Him being trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and all. Hey, that would be fun to watch.”
Lyons ignored the taunts. He held Rafiq’s gaze, hoping the look in his own eyes would at least give the young man some kind of hope. Right now Lyons had nothing else going for him.
“Go and put the kid back in his seat,” Marino said abruptly, tiring of the game.
In the microsecond before Rafiq was pushed aside Lyons silently mouthed be ready. He didn’t know what else to do, so he was surprised when Rafiq gave a brief nod.
A COUPLE OF HOURS later Marino called his crew together.
“Listen up, people,” he said. “Change of plan. We move. As of now.”
“Why the change?”
“I figured Benning was a loner, up here on his own playing the Lone Ranger. You guys talked, I listened. Tossed it around and it started to come up wrong. The more I thought about it, the more it sucked. Can’t figure it all yet, but the last thing we need is a posse of Feds storming in. So we’ll ship to another location. We can take the northern back trail out of here.”
“What about him?” Kate asked, nodding in Lyons’s direction.
“Bring him along in case we need a bargaining chip. You never know. It always pays to have a little extra insurance.”
“Keep him tied up, he won’t be any trouble,” Grover said.
“Let’s get the gear into the 4x4,” Marino said. “Everybody, let’s go.”
Kate and Harper collected the backpacks and hauled them outside. Marino followed, dialing a number into his cell.
Grover brought Rafiq and stood him a few yards away from Cujo, who was standing in the open door, keeping an eye on Rafiq and Lyons. Grover moved behind Lyons to free him from the chair.
“You behave, Mr. Agent Man,” he said.
Lyons acted in accordance with what Grover told him. He had no choice as long as his hands were still tied to the struts of the kitchen chair. He was going to be freed for him to be taken outside, and during that thin window of opportunity he would have to make his move. Lyons glanced across to where Rafiq stood. The young man was watching Lyons intently and when the big ex-cop made eye contact, Rafiq’s brief, nodding response told him the young man was ready.
“Jesus, Cujo, why did you have to tie him to the fucking chair?” Grover said, checking the cord.
“I didn’t want him jumping off it and running away.”
“Yeah, so now I have to untie his hands to get him off it. Apache logic sucks.”
Cujo chuckled. “Go figure, white eyes.”
Still grumbling, Grover fumbled with the ties that bound Lyons’s wrists. He tucked the UMP under one arm and used his right hand to pull a butterfly knife from a sheath on his belt. Lyons caught sunlight gleam on the steel handles and heard the metallic sound as Grover flipped the knife, exposing the blade, then slit the cord binding his wrists.
Lyons used the split second that left Grover with the knife still in his hand, reversing his action to close
the weapon. He rose from the chair, kicked back hard to drive it into Grover’s thighs, then turned and snatched the H&K submachine gun from the man. Lyons’ fingers curved around the hand grip and he swung the muzzle in Cujo’s direction as the man registered what had just happened. Lyons didn’t hesitate. He pulled back on the trigger. The triple burst of .45 ACP fire hammered into the wooden door frame inches from Cujo’s face, blowing out keen slivers of wood that tore at his flesh. He howled in pain, stumbling away from the door as Lyons fired a second burst, one of the big slugs shredding Cujo’s shirt on the curve of his shoulder and clipping flesh.
Cujo flung himself clear of the door. As the man vanished, Lyons turned back into the room, aware he still had Grover at his back. The merc had lashed out to kick the chair aside. Lyons saw the butterfly knife flash open again, the gleaming blade slashing at his throat and the only thing he could do was raise the UMP to protect himself. The blade chinked against the SMG, glancing off, and Lyons swung the weapon in the air, ramming it hard across Grover’s skull. The blow was solid, dazing the merc who swayed on his feet. Lyons hit him a second time, across the side of his face. The meaty sound of the blow was followed by a burst of blood from Grover’s right cheek. He slumped to his knees and the Able Team leader hit him again, driving him to the floor.
As Lyons stepped over the prone body, he reached down and scooped up the knife, flipped it to shut away the blade and shoved it in a pocket.
Then he was at Rafiq’s side. He slapped the youth’s shoulder.
“Hey, let’s go. Back door.”
Lyons pushed Rafiq into motion. The young man ran ahead of Lyons, directly to the cabin’s rear door. He yanked the handle and pushed the door wide, scrambling through. Lyons followed close, heading Rafiq in the direction of the tree line.
“Just keep going,” he yelled. “We need the cover.”
They hit the trees seconds before the rattle of gunfire erupted. Slugs blew chunks of bark and raw wood from the closest trees. Lyons suspected the shots were meant as more of a warning than anything else. They needed Rafiq alive.
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