Sybelle came through the outer door and put her back against it as Coastie raised the pistol, pressed the long silencer against the right side of the target’s head, and pulled the trigger three times.
The noise was no louder than a series of coughs as the little .22 caliber bullets bored into the skull and tumbled around in the brain cavity. Bourihane jerked sideways, then slumped down to the floor, leaving a spray of blood on the rich fabric of the compartment door.
The agent had finally realized something was wrong. There were two women in there with the important lady he was guarding, and the redhead that he thought was tipsy actually had not ordered any alcohol, just tea. He jumped over the bar and ran to the arch, drawing his pistol and crashing through the outer door.
Sybelle took a step away from inner double doors, and when the bodyguard surged through, she met his forward momentum with an elbow strike to the bridge of his nose, bone on bone, and he went down hard. “Let’s go!”
Coastie paused only long enough to put a bullet in the inattentive guard’s head, then stepped over him and followed Summers out. Instead of returning to their table, they went left and through the swinging doors into the kitchen, Busy chefs and workers began to shout as the women headed for the rear entrance. Trailed by shouts, they broke free into the night as fast as they could run in high heels.
A black Land Rover with a CIA driver at the wheel was double-parked beside a line of cars. Primary, secondary, and tertiary escape routes had been planned for them to reach the next vehicle. A shooter was supposed to be in the passenger’s seat, but that place was empty. Sybelle yanked open the rear door and jumped inside, using her own pistol to try to cover Coastie, who was climbing in behind her.
The guard posted outside the front door had run inside the restaurant when the shouting started, then chased the two fleeing women through the kitchen. He screamed in French for everybody to stop them, and held his own pistol pointed up until he cleared the back portal. He was in time to see the woman in the yellow dress getting into a big vehicle. He stopped, took a firing stance, and aimed at her back.
Another figure stepped from the shadows thrown by the light coming through the open kitchen door, and the gunman was grabbed by the chin, his head jerked backward as a big knife came in over the shoulder. The unprotected throat was opened almost to the point of decapitation.
Coastie was in the SUV, the door closed behind her, when the unexpected attacker left the new corpse bleeding on the cobbles and calmly got into the front seat. “Hey,” said Kyle Swanson. “What’s up?”
19
PARIS, FRANCE
THE LAND ROVER sped out of the alley and cut into a light stream of traffic, with all four people inside rocking on the adrenaline pumping in their veins, averting their faces from the prying security cameras that laced the modern city. The driver did not speak as he kept his foot heavy on the accelerator for a half mile, weaving into and out of gaps, then made a sharp left turn into a side street and an immediate right that put them into a quiet area of apartment buildings with a few shops fronting the street. He parked behind a store, out of the sight of passersby and where there were no cameras with unblinking eyes.
“Everybody out,” he shouted. “The white Toyota is ours. Swanson, you drive!” The Trident operators abandoned the luxury SUV and jumped into the common sedan, which had a pebble-pitted windshield and had not been washed for weeks. The Agency man popped a thermite grenade into the Land Rover, which he had filled with gasoline at $5.54 per gallon before starting tonight’s mission. The incendiary grenade exploded a few seconds later and set off the gas tank, which erupted in an incredible flash of heat with a ball of flames. The intense brew gobbled up the sturdy Land Rover, scorched the area around it, and destroyed all DNA evidence and traces of ownership.
They were out of immediate danger. The wigs came off, and to the surprise of the CIA agent, the redhead had black hair and the brunette transformed into a blonde. Both women put away their pistols to fuss with their hair.
“We weren’t expecting you, Kyle,” said Coastie, beginning to swipe off the makeup with tissues from the purse. Her voice was steady.
“I landed in Paris just about the same time the two of you entered the restaurant, so our CIA friends let me ride in place of their own shooter since I knew the operation better. How did it go inside?”
Sybelle shrugged her shoulders. “Easier than anticipated. Bourihane had only one security man in the place, and he was lousy. Had to take him down on the way out, too.” She smiled at Swanson. “Coastie put one in his head as she stepped over him just after popping the target three times. Lot of damage for a little .22 pistol.”
“I want to get out of this damned dress and these heels,” Coastie said.
“Go ahead,” said the CIA guy. “Don’t mind me.”
“How much longer until we’re out of here?” Sybelle asked.
“Port of Grenelle coming up in about two more miles,” the man said. “We have a nice little boat that we use as a floating safe house, so I guess you should keep your clothes on until we’re on board. We’ll motor up the Seine a ways to a heliport to ferry you all to a private airport. By then you will be all back to normal, and we have passports and visas ready for you to exit the country. Your stuff was brought over from the hotel.” He handed over a couple of raincoats and towels. “Meanwhile, you can use these.”
Sybelle and Beth struggled into the long garments and resumed attacking the heavy makeup as the Agency representative tried not to stare. With the lights of Paris flashing by, and the distant whoop-whoop of police sirens sounding, they went about the business of transforming themselves from glamour girls into shapeless, plain creatures. He didn’t really know who these people were, because he had not needed to know. But damn! The dark-haired one seemed fearless and in charge, the cute blonde had just cold-popped two people in a fancy restaurant, and the guy driving, well, he hardly broke stride as he ripped off that dude’s throat.
“Can I ask a question?”
“No.” Sybelle drilled him with piercing eyes. “But thanks for all of your help tonight. You’ll never know how happy I was to see that Land Rover waiting outside.”
“No problem. My question is, are you married?”
* * *
THE SAFE HOUSE was merely a cramped cabin on an ugly aluminum-hulled work barge that had a deck littered with coiled ropes, tools, and machinery. The quirky silhouette was intentional, for a vessel had to be relatively small to navigate the ancient low bridges along the Seine, and similar workboats plied the river at all hours. Below deck, it had two powerful engines for extra strength if needed, watertight compartments, hidden cabinets, and a private room that served a variety of purposes, including interrogations. “Y’all ladies go on down there out of sight while we shove off. Once we get under way, you can come up for air.” The CIA man was all business now, peeling off his black leather jacket and putting on a sweater that had been through better days. A billed fisherman’s cap covered his head.
Swanson was already in boots and jeans, and by putting on a crewman’s sweater, he also disappeared into the commonplace sights of the river.
“We’re ready,” said the agent. “Cast off the mooring lines.”
Swanson freed the ropes that held the little barge to the dock, and the engines surged to life with a low growl. He then stayed busy curling lines and moving tools as the agent fed more throttle and the flat vessel slipped away from the pier. Once under way, Kyle stopped pretending to work and sat on the deck with his back to the cabin. He could see the Eiffel Tower from the river. Sybelle and Coastie joined him in a few minutes, both also in jeans, sweaters, and caps that hid their hair; some grime from the boat streaked their white faces.
“That was almost too easy,” Summers commented, knees drawn up to her chest. “Bourihane should have had more security.”
“Don’t overanalyze it,” said Kyle. “Take the gift and say, ‘Thank you.’ They screwed up. I can guarantee it will only get harder.”
“Were they more careless just because she was a woman?” Coastie had wondered about that big gulf that separates the sexes in the Muslim culture. Would they have acted differently if she had been a man? Beth’s mind was untroubled by the sights and sounds of the restroom slaughter; that was already old news to her. Instead, she was puzzling through the job, giving herself an after-action critique and not finding any flaws. By any measure, she believed she had met the high Trident standards. They had trusted her with a lot by letting her take the kill shots instead of giving that assignment to the more experienced Sybelle, and she carried it out. Yet down deep inside, she felt miserable.
Kyle had also been working on what had happened. “Arrogance, maybe. She was in France and not Spain, and moving in public, so they did not consider the actual danger. That’s the whole point of our mission, that no terrorist white-collar mastermind is safe, anywhere. No matter what the reason, this was sloppy planning on their part. It won’t happen again.”
The boat was moving at a cautious waterway speed. Sybelle watched the shoreline and said, “The Paris police are going to try to throw a net over us. I never underestimate the gendarmes—they cannot ignore three dead at a fancy bistro and a burned-out SUV and two good-looking suspects. We sold the international supermodels cover pretty well, so it will be difficult to prove we are Americans, but just to be on the safe side, I want to get on that plane and out of France before they can clamp down.” She got to her feet and brushed herself off.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Kyle. “Where are you going?”
“I want a few words with our cute savior from the CIA.”
Coastie looked up in wonder. “You pick the oddest time for romance.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE SENATOR had secretaries, assistants, schedulers, aides, and other assorted staff to handle the routine business of his office, such as making telephone calls to get the other party on the line before Jordan Monroe had to pick up the phone himself. It was an etiquette thing. This call, however, he was eager to make himself, and in utmost privacy. He left the office entirely, explaining that he was going to walk over to the U.S. Supreme Court for lunch with his old hunting buddy, Justice Benjamin Rathmann.
Once clear of the Capitol, he slowed his pace and looked around. No journalists had followed him, and to the tourists strolling by, he was just another government worker in a dark suit. During their initial meeting in the limousine, Yasim Rebiane had said that he could be reached through his company’s office in Kansas City, which would forward the message, but he also had provided a private direct number. The senator dialed. “This is Monroe,” he said when the voice answered.
“Do you have what I need?” Cold.
“Yes. Now let the girls go. If you have harmed them in any way—”
“Just give me the information, Senator, and quit pretending you have control of this situation.”
Jordan Monroe moved from the sidewalk onto the new grass and stood rock still. “Are they OK? At least tell me that.” He was not used to pleading, and felt tears of helplessness gather in his eyes.
“The information,” reminded Yanis Rebiane, with a hint of threat.
A chill tingled down the senator’s spine. “All right. There is indeed a secret unit that does conduct operations far outside of other agencies and services. The group is known as Task Force Trident. It supports a very skilled operator named Kyle Swanson, who is an experienced Marine sniper. He once won the Congressional Medal of Honor.”
Rebiane thought that might fit the profile. “Who was your source for this?”
The senator was not a reporter and had no problem with giving up the names. “My top aide, Douglas Jimenez, got it through an ex-SEAL named Ryan Powell, who currently has a popular television show and knows the special ops community.”
“This is a good starting point, Senator Monroe, but now you have to start digging harder. Use your influence to find out more about both Trident and this Swanson man.”
“My girls! Yasim! You promised!”
“Yes. Rest easy. Pretty young Michelle and her mother have not been harmed, but only had to spend the night in a hunting cabin in your state. We are not monsters, Senator. The lodge is an isolated but easily accessible place, with a frequently used road a mile away. They will be free to leave about ten minutes after I make the call. Afterward, you must convince them not to call the police, for they remain hostages. I can reach back for them again whenever I choose. There is no place that they would be really safe, nor is the secret of your relationship.”
The senator looked over at the huge white Supreme Court Building and then back to the Capitol. The FBI’s Hoover Building was just down the street, and beyond that was the White House itself, while across the Potomac sprawled the Pentagon. He was standing in the center of power of the strongest nation on earth, and he usually could make things happen in this town with a snap of his fingers. He was also helpless, caught in a web he didn’t really understand. It was also finally dawning on him that he might be under the control of a terrorist. “I understand,” he said softly. “I already have my top man working on it.”
The phone clicked off, and the senator put away his own device. He returned to his office, looking glum and ill, as if he had aged ten years in the last half hour. The splendor of the building and this spacious, decorated office suite meant nothing. The receptionist said that several calls had come in while he was gone, but Monroe waved her away as he went into his private chamber and locked the door. Rebiane had him by the balls and would never let go. Julie and Michelle would forever exist as valuable pawns. He was risking ruin no matter what he did, and the only clear way out was to cooperate with Rebiane for the time being and get him to back off. A final solution could come later. In the meantime, the senator would go full throttle after the elusive Task Force Trident.
MISSOURI
YANIS REBIANE was glad to be done with the senator’s call, and immediately contacted his son, Djahid, in Missouri to tell him to give the hostages a stern warning to keep quiet, then let them go. “I need you back here right after that, so we will be leaving for home. Check the news from France on your laptop. Mercedes Bourihane has been killed.”
Djahid seemed to miss the second part of the comment. “Set them free? Why?”
“If we kill them, we lose them forever. It must be clear to the senator that we can return and take them again at some future date if he disobeys. Free or not, they remain as bargaining chips. Never mind them. We must concentrate on what has happened to Bourihane.”
Djahid had locked the woman and the girl in a bedroom at the lodge, and found them huddled together on the bed when he opened the door. He smiled. “You come with me, woman. Leave the child. I will be setting you both free in a few minutes.”
Julie Scott felt a surge of relief. The kidnapper had hardly said a word to them since the carjacking, and the lack of information scared them. He had not harmed them physically, just kept them locked in the bedroom, which had an adjoining bath. Before he took Julie from the room, Djahid turned on the television set and tossed Michelle the remote controller. “Watch something.”
Then the door was closed and Julie was pushed into the kitchen. Thumping bass notes penetrated the bedroom door as her daughter tuned in MTV and jacked up the sound.
“She is a cute child. It would be a shame if you caused something bad to happen to her.”
Julie’s brown eyes widened. “What do you mean? What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, probably, if you continue to cooperate. Take off all of your clothes.”
“No!”
Djahid punched her hard in the stomach, knocking her to the floor. “Don’t be difficult. I’m not going to rape you. Now take off your clothes.”
Julie stood trembling, gulping for breath. She kicked off her shoes, lifted off her sweater, and stepped out of her jeans. Looking at the man, she asked, “More?”
“Everything.” He was leaning against the counter, a n
ew cup of coffee in his hands. A small camera was pointed at her.
Julie summoned her courage and dropped the bra and panties. Her eyes were closed and her fists clenched. She could feel the cool air and embarrassment as fear painted her skin with goosebumps.
“OK. You can get dressed.” He had hardly looked at her nakedness.
“Can I ask what that was all about? In fact, what is this entire kidnapping about?” Julie was putting her clothes on in a rush, buttoning and fastening.
Djahid held up his camera, then handed it to her. “Insurance, Ms. Scott. I wanted you to be certain that you understand how serious this is. If you call the police, I will return, and next time, it will not be so easy. Very bad things will happen. You can look at these images of your body anytime you need a reminder. You really need to protect pretty little Michelle from me, and from men that I may use. They are violent in their tastes. By the way, your senator in Washington cannot help. We took you because we needed something from him. So far, he has cooperated.”
He put on his jacket and zipped it halfway. “So now I suggest that you leave this place, for there is a gas leak in the basement, and it is going to blow up in ten minutes and burn to the ground. Walk down the driveway and turn left on that unpaved track. A paved road with traffic is a mile away, and if nothing else comes along first, emergency vehicles will be responding to the fire. By the way, the bedroom door is locked. Use that sledgehammer I have left on the table to break it open.” He backed out, keeping his eyes fixed on her. “You should have just enough time.”
As the door closed, Julie Scott snapped from her trance. She screamed her daughter’s name, grabbed the sixteen-pound hammer, and ran for the bedroom. Outside, she heard the sound of a truck rumbling away from the cabin.
20
ABOARD THE VAGABOND
KYLE SWANSON clearly understood that the elimination of Mercedes Sarra Bourihane changed the entire situation. They had bagged the first two members of the Group of Six with precision shots and beneath the dark veil of secrecy, because each of the shady moneymen had accrued numerous enemies and rivals. The Spanish police had been working a very wide spectrum of suspects. They had suspicions, yes, but not evidence to point directly at Americans. The hit on Bourihane in Paris was different. Just as when Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon River to launch his insurrection against Rome, there would be no turning back now for Task Force Trident. They were committed to wiping out the entire Group of Six as massive payback for the massacre in Barcelona, and the pattern was clear for anyone who looked. Hiding American involvement was going to be more difficult.
On Scope: A Sniper Novel Page 14