by Sean Parnell
“On July 19, 2004, I—” Steele ignored the chills that came from hearing Nate’s voice and placed the cursor over the audio bar that corresponded with what West was saying. He knew he needed at least a ten-second sample for the best possible voice match and was forced to listen as West spoke.
“I was conducting close target reconnaissance on high-level members of Al-Qaeda in preparation for the second battle of Fallujah. My primary concern was identifying IED cell leaders . . .”
Steele had what he needed. He hit the pause button and cut the audio sample he needed. After closing the window, he dragged the new file over to the Keyhole’s audio targeting platform and dropped it into the search parameter bar.
The file uploaded and all Steele had to do then was hit enter. Keyhole’s targeting software would take care of the rest. It fed the audio sample into the system, linking it with every satellite, phone tower, repeater, or listening post in the world. If West uttered a word anywhere near a radio, cell phone, or computer with a microphone, Keyhole would mark the hit and send it to Cutlass Main, where Rockford had authorized one of the targeting teams looking for Bassar.
Nate, unless you are hiding in a hole, I’m going to see you real soon.
Chapter 42
It was dark on the stern of the longboat and Nathaniel West heard the cigarette boat before he saw it. The thirty-eight-footer came out of the shadows. Its hull was painted with a radar-dampening epoxy and tinted a dark gray. It looked almost black in the moonless night, like blood on the water.
The smugglers called them Picudas, and with the Twin Mercurys putting out 450 horsepower per engine, they were the fastest things on the water. West snugged the pack tight on his shoulders and waited while the pilot cut the wheel and drifted the boat alongside the container ship’s longboat. He stepped on board without a word.
“Vamonos.”
Yeah, let’s go.
The pilot waited for West to take a seat before advancing the throttles. The engines growled and lifted the prow skyward. West hit the start button on the Casio G-Shock strapped to his wrist. Plenty of time.
He sat slightly behind the pilot, but close enough to the glass to avoid the salt spray cascading over the bow. The Spaniard piloted by GPS, and beside him, a second smuggler kept his face pressed to the rubber boot covering the radar.
On the container ship, he and the captain had traced the route West would take into Spain. The smugglers would not use the traditional lanes used to ferry drugs from North Africa to Spain. West couldn’t afford to hug the coastline, so he paid extra for them to make most of the trip across the open ocean. Getting caught in the open was a smuggler’s worst nightmare. On most nights, the narrow channel was packed with helicopters patrolling in conjunction with a fleet of small cutters. Working in tandem they had a better chance of stemming the tide of heroin coming from North Africa. But palms had been greased and those who would not comply had been silenced. There would be no coast guard on his route tonight.
Still, West didn’t leave anything to chance.
The Picuda traveled at 90 miles per hour and at that speed the engines sucked fuel like a drunk during happy hour. Not long into the trip the pilot throttled back, slowing the boat enough for the first mate to top off the tanks from one of the fuel cans packed in the back.
In an hour they had to stop to refuel. While the captain piloted the boat, West slipped a handheld GPS from his pocket. The Garmin Rhino looked like a walkie-talkie, which in a way it was, but he had the radio option turned off. Instead of beeping when West depressed the transmit button, the GPS sent his location to his men who were waiting somewhere over the horizon. Once he was satisfied that they had a lock, he shoved the GPS back into his pocket.
Five minutes later the pilot once again cut the throttles.
“How much farther?” West asked in Spanish, standing up to stretch his legs. The navigator moved to the rear for the final time and filled up the tanks.
“Forty-five minutes, I’d say. Let me go help Miguel.”
West watched the two smugglers work, their backs to him the entire time. It was a simple operation except when they had to switch the refueling hose from one can to the next. When that happened Miguel needed the pilot’s help.
West waited for the pilot to lift the hose free and slipped behind him, the blade silently coming out of its sheath. He jammed it into the base of his skull and twisted. Lights out, hombre.
He eased the pilot to the ground and crept forward to the mate, who was bent over the fuel tank. “Emilio, the fuel cap,” he said, stretching his arm out behind him.
West grabbed him by the hand and torqued it, wrist and arm as one, exposing the side of his neck. He spiked the blade sideways through Miguel’s neck, severing the artery, and savagely yanked it free. The blood sheeted across the gunwale with a wet splat and the smell of raw meat. Miguel clawed at the wound with his right hand, trying to stem the red tide.
“Don’t fight it, amigo.”
But the wild-eyed mate wanted to live and tried to jerk his hand free, forcing Nate to let go of the knife. He knew it would have been easier if he’d just shot them both, but even with a suppressor the sound would carry over water. West didn’t know who else was lurking in the darkness, but more than that, he liked using the blade. A bullet was impersonal. It meant nothing.
He thought all of this while forcing Miguel into a wristlock. In aikido they called it nikyo, or “the second technique,” and it was one of the first moves West had mastered as a student of the martial art. It was a simple movement, and when he locked it down, Miguel had to stand up or let West break his wrist.
“It’s nothing personal, I just need to borrow your ride.”
The mate was shaky on his feet, the lost blood overcoming the shot of adrenaline. West stepped in close. He could smell the man’s breath, see the shimmer of the black blood on his shirt and the dumb deer look in Miguel’s eyes that told West he knew he was about to die.
He guided him toward the edge of the boat and with a final twist and shift of his hips, flung Miguel into the sea. He retrieved the knife, wiping the blade on the dead pilot’s shirt, and then secured the cap. The boat bobbed beneath his feet, and after stepping behind the wheel, West dialed the radio to the frequency he wanted and pushed the handmike.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miguel reach skyward for a God that wasn’t there for him and then sink below the waves.
“Eagle 1 to Nest,” West said.
“Go ahead, Eagle.”
“I am moving to the rendezvous point.”
“Roger, Eagle, we will see you there.”
West pushed the throttles forward and brought the boat on line with the GPS. Ten minutes later he double-clicked the transmit button, signaling that he was in the area, and cut the engines. With the engines off the silence was deafening. The only sound came from the wake lapping against the fiberglass hull. Off to the port side a light flashed once, twice, and then a third time. West responded with two flashes of his own and an engine started up.
A Zodiac inflatable boat appeared, trailing a white wake, and as it drew closer West could see three heavily armed men aboard. The rubber boat drew alongside and Villars was there with a line. He tossed it across while the other two pulled security.
“How was it?” Villars asked.
“Too easy.”
West sent the bomb across first and Villars secured it with straps and then tossed a package the size of a paperback book across. West caught it and moved swiftly to the back of the boat. He yanked the fuel line free, made sure the gas was flowing, popped the igniter, and set the explosive next to the tank. After tossing off the line, he climbed on board the Zodiac.
“Let’s roll.”
The Zodiac surged toward the shore and when it was a quarter mile away an orange fireball lit up the darkness.
Chapter 43
Meg Harden woke up without a hint of jet lag, which surprised her. I always get jet-lagged. There was a note on the table from
Steele.
“I’ll be waiting in the dining car,” she read aloud, grinning at the smiley face he’d drawn at the bottom. She jumped in the shower, the water making her flinch when it hit the scrapes and bruises West had left on her body. She wondered if Steele had slept. Probably not. She could see him in her mind’s eye, keeping watch while she was passed out on the bed. He had pissed her off on the plane and hurt her feelings when he yelled at her, but after the nap Meg was able to put things into perspective.
“What would I have done in his shoes?” she wondered aloud, already knowing the answer.
From what she had gathered, he had been on the go for almost four days, and sleep deprivation had a way of cutting even the toughest men down to size.
Meg had seen every shade of the male ego. The screamers, the bullies, and the ones who treated her like a china doll. Steele didn’t fit any of these categories. He was a rarity, a man who actually checked his ego at the door.
Will wonders never cease?
She hopped out of the shower and found a pink toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste waiting on the sink. She had missed them before and was wondering what she was going to do about her kitten breath. After brushing her teeth and fixing her hair, she stepped out of their compartment, checked the sign, and swayed through the shifting cars until she saw Steele sitting at a table, a half-empty glass of wine before him. He looked good in a navy button-up that complemented his eyes, and as she approached he got to his feet.
“You look great, darling,” he said, stepping close and brushing his lips lightly against hers.
The operational side of Meg’s brain said the kiss was nothing, strictly business. But the woman in her, the side that had abhorred the isolation and loneliness she’d endured in Algiers, desperately wanted the kiss to mean something. And why shouldn’t it? He did save your life.
The kiss lasted a microsecond, but before Steele could pull away, Meg was kissing him back. I have to know. She pressed her lips against him, felt his strong arms slip around her waist, and allowed herself to forget everyone and everything except the feel of his lips and the rugged, manly scent of his cologne.
Her heart hammered in her chest, carrying the electricity of the kiss all the way to her fingertips. It seemed to last an eternity, and then Steele pulled back. Meg opened her eyes. His face was hot and his pupils dilated with desire. A hungry, eager look replaced the usual predatory stare, and then just as quickly as it appeared, the look was gone.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
She blushed and took her seat. What the hell was that? She watched him sit, noticing the waiter observing them. She wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection, but something about Steele made her reckless. It felt like . . . feels like you can be yourself.
The waiter came over with the menu and a carafe of water.
“She is just as beautiful as you described, Monsieur Sands,” he said in French. “You are a lucky man.”
“Yes, I am,” Steele replied in flawless French before giving her a wink.
“Madame, would you care for anything besides water?”
“Ummm . . .”
“She’ll have a glass of red,” Steele said.
He watched her, checking her approval, and when she nodded the waiter scurried off. There was something sexy about a man who took charge. Jesus, is this the first time you’ve been around a man? she chided herself, looking at the menu.
The dining car was not what she expected at all. It was clean, with tables laid out with fresh linen and silverware that sparkled under the lights that vibrated with the train’s movement. Meg studied Steele over the top of her menu. He was physically attractive, what her girlfriends back in the civilian world would call hot. She had never seen eyes as green as his, but oddly enough what stood out was how neat he was.
How neat he is, really? First date you have been on in two years and you are checking out his silverware? What is wrong with you, girl?
“Anything look good?” Steele asked.
“Uhhh, yes the . . .” Meg realized she was holding the menu upside down. She flipped it over, scrunching up her face in embarrassment, but there was nothing but warmth in Steele’s eyes.
“That’s how I do it too.”
She settled on the chicken and green beans, and when the waiter returned with the wine, Steele ordered for them both. Meg had spent a semester in Normandy during college and noticed that his accent was perfect.
“I didn’t know you spoke French,” she said when the waiter was gone.
“We’ve been married for how long now and you didn’t know that?”
“We still have a few hours until we hit Spain.”
“I’ll give you that.”
“You realize I don’t even know your first name?”
“It’s Eric.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, why?” He frowned for a second. “You think I’d lie about my name?”
Meg smiled. It was a loaded question.
“Isn’t that what you are trained to do?”
“I’m not my job.”
“So you can just shut it off? All the training, the missions, everything, just flip it like a light switch?”
“Well, it may be hard to believe, but I was a person before all of this.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear about young Eric Steele.”
“Let’s get a bottle of wine.”
Halfway through the bottle, Meg realized she was tipsy. It wasn’t just the wine, and she realized that she was enjoying pretending to be married.
“You think we’d work, you know, in a different situation?” she asked.
The question caught them both off guard, obviously flustering Steele, who took a sip of water to compose himself. Dammit, am I drunk? Why did I ask that? The question brought the fear of rejection and the fact that he could be simply playing his part.
“I like kissing you,” he said honestly.
Meg bounced her eyebrows up seductively and reached for his hand. It was a start, and she’d take it. “You said you looked into me, but never told me what you found.”
“I was impressed.”
“I bet you thought I was just another pretty face, what you guys call tab sniffers.”
“Never heard of that one.”
“Really? The guys at Bragg called some of the girls who tried out for the Activity tab sniffers. Kinda like a Special Operations groupie.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, you want to know the first thing I thought when I saw you?”
“Sure,” Meg replied, playing it cool.
“You really want to know?” He took a painfully slow sip of wine, before lowering his voice to a whisper.
Meg nodded, grabbing her own glass, savoring the tang of the alcohol on her tongue. Steele made a big show of checking his surroundings like he was about to let her in on a secret and she leaned in as he whispered:
“I thought you were a lesbian.”
The comment caught her off guard, and Meg almost spit the mouthful of wine across the table. She choked, trying to laugh and catch her breath at the same time.
“Really? That’s what you thought?”
“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up his hand.
The dining car was almost empty now and the waiters were busing the tables, the lights low. Meg knew they would leave soon, and the realization tugged at her heart. There were some moments you wished would last forever, and this was one of them.
“Do you need me to carry you back to the car, Mrs. Sands?”
Meg smiled at him, finished her glass, and got to her feet. She held out her hand, waiting for her “husband” to stand, and when he did, Steele took it.
“I think that it will take more than a bottle of wine before I let you carry me to bed,” she teased.
“Well, I think the bar is still open.”
Chapter 44
The Zodiac dropped Nathaniel West on the shore at dawn
. The sun peeked over the horizon and the sky was the color of static on a television. The crew headed back out to hide the boat, leaving West and Villars to trudge toward the jeep waiting for them. West stopped to light a cigarette before getting in.
“What’s the status?” Villars asked in Afrikaans.
“Two recon teams are watching the house,” the driver replied. He handed Villars a radio and put the jeep in gear. “Call signs are Ghost 1 and Ghost 2.”
“Stand by,” Villars said, offering the radio to West.
Nate took the radio and pressed the transmit button. “All teams, status report.”
“Ghost 1, no movement on target.”
“Ghost 2, we are moving to relieve Ghost 1.”
West knew that even if Steele knew where to look, which he didn’t, his old protégé was too far behind to catch up now. Baudin had made sure of that when he sent the Blue Notice, and if that idiot Styles did what West assumed she would, the Director would quickly upgrade it to a Red.
It really is too easy.
The jeep’s knobby tires kicked up a mix of gravel and sand, the engine whining as it groaned up the hill. West was left alone with his thoughts. The drive took an hour, and halfway through the terrain changed from coastal scrublands to hills covered in chaparral, yellowed grasses, and dark red earth that reminded him of Texas. It was a hard land, pristine yet devoid of both movement and wildlife.
The landscape also reminded West of the contract he’d taken after recovering from his first surgery. He had needed money fast and found the perfect employer in Los Urabeños, an offshoot cartel that had popped up after the death of Pablo Escobar.
Los Urabeños knew that to draw the ire of the United States meant certain death, and the only way they were going to stay in business was if they evolved. They left Cali and set up shop in Paraguay. They also abandoned the plata o plomo—silver or lead—style of negotiations Escobar employed. In its place Los Urabeños paid senators and judges to do their dirty work.