And I will probably die in the process. Fucking suicide mission, thought Djahid.
As if reading his mind, the recorded voice of his father continued. “This will be a very dangerous assignment, my son. You are the only person I know who can carry it out with even a chance of escape. I leave all of the planning to you. I have no wish for you to be martyred, and I want you back home safely to grow into an even greater man than you already are. If you are called by Allah, then the name of Djahid Rebiane will ring out from paradise for a thousand years. Good luck, my boy. Kill them all.”
Djahid dropped the phone onto the papers and sat for a while with his head propped back against his interlaced hands. It took some time to brush away the philosophical cobwebs until he came down to the nugget he wanted. This Marine Kyle Swanson was their best operator, and he even won their highest military honor. I’m the best on my side of the street. I can take him. I know I can. Then I can take out the woman Ledford and probably a few more agents, too. My name will indeed live forever.
37
MAZATLÁN, MEXICO
THERE WOULD BE NO danger coming from the west, unless a frogman came rising out of the Gulf of California, which Kyle Swanson thought pretty unlikely. A motorboat sped by offshore pulling a colorful parachute and its screaming paragliding tourist dangling below. Girls in bikinis walked in the surf, and guys played with Frisbees.
He and O. O. Dawkins were making still another antiterrorist patrol around the lavish waterfront hotel at which Beth and Mickey would say their vows in less than twenty-four hours. All they saw was people having fun in the big hotel pools and with normal beach activities. Also deterring any problem from the west would be the anchored presence of the huge Vagabond just off the Playa Olas Altas. Sir Jeff only hired ex-military for his crew, and they would remain at discreet combat alert during the event, with two long guns manned and ready with former SAS shooters.
Beaches stretched north and south, and there was no easy attack route from either of those directions. It would take too long over open ground. The lushness of Deer Island was too far away for consideration.
“Our general does not seem pleased with his new assignment,” said Dawkins, with a careful study out over the rhythmic waves that came in to smoothly tattoo the beach. “Getting a third star and being deputy national security adviser to the president seems like a pretty big plum.”
Swanson did a slow 180, looking for places where death might hide. Not the beaches. No way. Having the wedding out in the open actually was much better from a security standpoint than being in the middle of an urban environment with a multitude of hiding places. Urban combat is always a bitch. “He’s going to miss Task Force Trident.”
“Aren’t we all? I mean, this is our last tango as a Trident team. Been a good run, though.”
“It’s the only call, Double-Oh. Our cover has been totally blown thanks to that fool Senator Monroe and his aide. The White House and the Pentagon had no choice.”
“All those balconies up there scare me,” said Dawkins, crossing his arms and scowling at the layer cake of receding patios on the gleaming white hotel that guaranteed every occupant an ocean view. “A good gun in any one of those hundreds of rooms could take a shot.”
“The Mexican cops and Mickey’s boys are going to do a full sweep, every room, tomorrow morning, and no fresh check-ins will be allowed for two hours before the ceremony.” A web of scaffolding was being erected between the hotel and the white gazebo where a justice of the peace would stand with the bride and groom. Police would patrol each floor of the hotel. Metal detectors would sweep each guest at the entrance to the protected compound.
“What about Sybelle?”
“What about me? Come on, guys, we are ready to do the rehearsal.” She wore a loose sundress that the breeze pressed against her legs and a big straw hat.
“You like our new jobs?”
“Same as the old job, just with a new address. Word is around that I requested a field command with MARSOC but was handed a desk job. Glass-ceiling shit, you know?”
“Maybe you really should spend the rest of your life signing papers on transfers.”
“No way, Master Gunny Dawkins.” She punched him on one of his big arms. “Anyway, on paper, you’re going to grow old doing ceremonial parades at the Marine Barracks before retiring to chase fish in North Carolina.”
“Ouch. Officer-on-enlisted-man brutality. Kyle, you saw her. I’m going to sue.”
“I can still smack you whenever I want. You will never even see the Marine barracks, because you have an office right next to mine.” She thrust her chin toward the building. “All those windows give an attacker a chance.”
Swanson shrugged. “We’ve done about everything we can on that, Sybelle. Just time to roll the dice and see what happens. Nobody knows if there is really going to be an attack.”
“This is what we do, remember? Worry and fight,” Sybelle said. They started the walk back. “Actually we have a sweet deal, since the National Security Agency is giving us a whole corner of their new building at Quantico. On paper, the Lizard is moving deep into the National Security Agency. In reality, he will be right there with us, and have legitimate access to all of the NSA stuff rather than having to steal it. The only remaining question is you, Kyle. You decided?” They headed toward the pavilion overlooking the largest pool, where the rest of the wedding party was gathering, everybody in casual clothes meant for the tropical weather.
They waved to Hans Böhm, the friendly German photojournalist from National Geographic, who was drinking a beer at the gazebo alongside his sexy assistant while joking with Lady Patricia and Sir Jeff. He had been around for a few days and had freely handed out business cards. A phone call to his assignment editor at the magazine headquarters in Washington confirmed that he was in Mexico to photograph the famed cliff divers of Mazatlán. He was a tanned and rugged guy, and in the bar he had regaled them with outrageous stories of his last assignment in Africa, where, the German complained, nothing “verked,” and even the lions were lazy. The magazine editor asked if Hans was drunk and bothering people, and Kyle had replied that he seemed to be sober. At that, the editor had snorted and asked if he had hired a local beauty to be his assistant. Kyle confirmed that that had happened; the gorgeous girl carried the camera bag and the lights, and Hans carried a beer.
When they hung up, the man who had answered the call, and truly was a magazine editor, immediately sent a coded message to Yanis Rebiane in Algeria to confirm that Djahid was where he needed to be.
Hans Böhm had asked permission to take some shots of the wedding rehearsal against the setting sun and the palm trees, talking about a special lighting angle from the sun being gold from the heavens, and how he hated Photoshop colors, and both Mickey and Beth agreed. They had hired a local company for the big event, but having some informal shots done by a National Geo expert was an unexpected treat. The girl assistant was trying to set up a tripod but didn’t know how, and Hans went over to help her.
As they approached the others, Kyle explained to Sybelle and Double-Oh that his adoptive parents, both Jeff and Pat, were pressuring him to make the jump into the business and that the CIA was eager to get his counterterrorism skill set under its wing.
“Your cover with us will be fine, Kyle. First, we bring you back from the dead zone officially because it’s no secret anymore that you are alive. So you work under your real name from now on, as a senior instructor at the Quantico Scout/Sniper School. Under this new setup, you can train openly between missions.” Sybelle was looking at him curiously.
“Maybe you can help Lieutenant Colonel Summers sign papers,” Dawkins mumbled. “The only thing that really changes is our name. Our team won’t have one anymore. All part of the happy NSA family, but darker than dark. It works.”
“That’s the part I don’t like,” said Kyle. “I really enjoy having two hundred thousand other Marines covering my ass when I am on a mission. Can’t ever trust the spooks.”
“You’re pretty smart for a little guy,” Double-Oh said. “The jarheads will still be there. Only now we have a three-star general running interference for us, not some peewee two-star.”
“Same song, different verse. We change the letterhead on the stationery and keep on doing what we do best,” said Sybelle. “What about leaving for the civilian side, Kyle?”
“Not ready for that.”
* * *
COASTIE AND MICKEY, his parents, Sir Jeff and Lady Pat, and General Middleton, who would walk her down the aisle, were huddled with the justice of the peace who would perform the ceremony. He was a chubby man who had done hundreds and had a friendly, open face. His job today was like that of a stage manager, making sure that everyone knew exactly what to do, where to stand, and what to say. There were bound to be a few mistakes due to nerves tomorrow, but this exercise would prevent chaos, unless a bridesmaid fell into the pool or something equally as unfortunate happened. His couples liked knowing everything was under control. He was unaware of the threat.
The largest pool had been made off-limits to the other guests for an hour to accomodate the walkthrough, and everyone took their places. Coastie had four bridesmaids, and Mickey’s four closest pals were his groomsmen. Tomorrow they would all be in gowns and tuxedoes, but tonight it was just shorts, shirts, and sandals.
Hans came up carrying a Canon EOS and a 75-300 mm zoom lens and started to snap from the far side of the pool. A smaller iPhone 5 hung around his neck.
Sybelle joined the wedding party while Double-Oh and Swanson moved to where the Lizard stood with three members of the Mexican naval fuerzas especiales—Marine Special Forces—already strapped up with their ceremonial swords. The six men would raise their blades to form an arch of steel under which the newlyweds would pass. They, too, needed a couple of practice tries, since the swords with long blades were seldom used. They were strictly for show and, except for the points, weren’t even sharp.
Swanson had never liked the swords and remembered cursing the hours he spent learning the drill for something so useless. Nevertheless, he put on the belt and scabbard, and the unit formed its lines. They could be outside of the gazebo while the justice of the peace ran the interior practice.
On emerging from the tent, the bride and groom would find Dawkins, the tallest man there, on their left. Beside him was one of the Mexican spec ops veterans, Jorge Alvarez, a grizzled older sergeant who had helped train Mickey when he was just a pup. Then came Kyle, at the end of the file.
On their right would be Sergeant Francisco Lopez, Commander Freedman, and Lieutenant Dante Gonzalez, the unit commander.
“Let’s try it,” said Gonzalez. “Draw!” Six hands wrapped around the grips of the swords. “Swords!”
The blades flashed from the scabbards on command and were rested erect against the men’s right shoulders. “Present,” Gonzalez ordered. “Swords!”
They went up at 45-degree angles, three on each side of the exit lane. Then the men broke into laughter because the arch was so ragged. They might as well have been a bunch of amateurs playacting Game of Thrones warriors.
“Oh, yes! That is gut! Please do it again. Look how they sparkle in this sun! We must catch the light,” cried Hans Böhm. He hurried closer and handed off the big Canon to the trailing assistant and started working with the iPhone 5.
Gonzalez did not care about the light, but his swordsmen had looked like crap. They needed work. “Let’s do it again before we hurt ourselves,” he joked, returning his blade to the sheath. The others did the same, without formal command. They ran the drill again, crisper this time, and with Hans kneeling at the very end of the arch, which would frame the shot. The officer in charge was to his immediate left, and Swanson was near his right elbow.
Djahid Rebiane moved away, back to the girl holding the bag, and fiddled with some more equipment. Not yet. The whore Ledford would come out in a minute, and she would have to pass directly in front of Kyle Swanson. At that spot, he would attack, push Swanson into her, and take them both in no more than ten seconds. With Allah’s will and a couple of tear gas grenades, the confusion would be so great that he would escape through the gawking and startled tourists to a jet ski that was waiting at the water’s edge.
His secondary escape route would be the nearby service door to the hotel, which he had unlocked and propped open with a twig. Third choice was straight into the lobby and out the other side. There was no fourth choice, because if none of the other three worked, he would already be dead. He had spent a lot of time watching the security preparations around the hotel and knew they were expecting the hit tomorrow, actually during the ceremony. Djahid had come to the party early.
The honor guard did its practice again, but Djahid was ignoring them, facing the other way and pretending to be photographing something else. He chatted with his assistant while he casually unzipped the long side compartment on his battered black leather camera case. “Stay very close to me now,” he told the girl.
* * *
THERE WAS NOISE beneath the trellised gazebo as the justice of the peace finished his stage directions.
“This is the part where you get to kiss the bride,” he told Mickey, who did exactly that to a chorus of whoops from the others. “Then you depart back through the entryway and beneath those swords. Be careful out there with the pool. I don’t want to lose my bride and groom before the ceremony!”
They turned, and Coastie hooked her arm through Mickey’s. Then they paused. Outside, Dante Gonzalez said, “Let’s get it right this time, guys.” He gave the orders and the six blades came out, this time with precision, pointed outward and upward, the extensions of strong and rigid arms.
The German photographer was back on his knee, directly in the path of the departing couple. “Come to me now,” he called. “Do not look at my camera. Oh, so pretty!”
They exited the gazebo and moved beneath the first swords. Hans got to his feet and backed away, as if pacing them, and worked the little iPhone 5 at different angles. “Quickly, now,” he said and motioned to his assistant as he stepped aside to clear the way, ending in a position just behind and to the left of Kyle Swanson.
Coastie was radiant, Swanson thought. He imagined her in that fancy bridal gown tomorrow and wondered if she could be any more beautiful.
The German pushed the iPhone camera into the big bag and with the same motion slipped his hand into the long side pocket and gripped an Israeli-made Dustar combat knife. With his left hand, he quickly lifted out two ball-shaped tear gas grenades and slipped them into his vest. Then Hans Böhm ceased to exist.
Djahid Rebiane sprang forward, with the black seven-inch steel blade rising for an overhand attack toward the neck of the unsuspecting Kyle Swanson, three steps away. He had nothing to lose but his life.
Mickey and Beth were directly beneath the last pair of swords when Lieutenant Dante Gonzalez, facing Swanson, saw the unexpected charge. His own arm was still straight out in proper position and he was blocked from intercepting the danger, but his dark eyes widened in surprise. Beth had stolen a glance at Kyle, and her mouth opened to form a shout of warning. The German was the terrorist! He had a knife and was a step away from plunging it down into Swanson’s totally unprotected neck with an overhand stab-and-rip move that would tear into the muscles and arteries and the throat. The blow did not have to be precise, for Swanson would bleed out even if he survived the initial strike.
The inner workings of Kyle’s mind processed the information in a fraction of a second: Gonzalez’s big eyes, and now the Lizard’s, too, Beth inhaling to scream, and a sudden footstep and a disturbance of the zone of air behind him. He bent slightly forward to change his position, sweeping the blade of his sword down and behind Beth as he moved, as if chopping a loaf of bread.
While doing so, he also spun to the left and saw a figure almost on top of him with the black blade of a big knife coming down. Swanson’s left hand shot up to parry the blow, but he only managed to shield himsel
f, and Rebiane drove the point down hard, ripping down the left forearm from the wrist to the elbow as easily as a razor cutting paper.
Kyle didn’t even feel it, because his eyes and brain had fully adjusted in that instant to what was happening. He grabbed the other man’s passing wrist. The German.
Completing his turn and rising from the low point of the crouch, Kyle twisted his sword and thrust upward with the etched twenty-nine-inch blade. He rammed hard and the point impaled Djahid in the soft skin just beneath the chin. For a second, they stood locked in a motionless tableau, with Djahid’s knife-hand wrist trapped by Swanson’s left hand and unable to either withdraw or push forward. Djahid had his own left hand on the curved basket grip at the bottom of Swanson’s big saber, pushing down while Kyle pushed up with all of his strength.
This was the assassin Swanson had known he would have to kill sooner or later, the crushing hammer of the Islamic terrorist movement in Spain. The guy who had killed Mike Dodge.
Djahid’s eyes reflected pain and unexpected fear as he realized that his strength was not enough this time, and that this fight, his mission, and his life were all over. They were almost nose to nose, and he stared with cold hate into the gray-green eyes and found Swanson staring back with equal hatred. Then Kyle found a final burst of strength, rose to his toes to gain more leverage, and tore through the attacker’s last defense. The silver blade of the sword went up hard, through the palate, then the soft tissue of the brain, and finally punctured out of the skull from the inside. The point emerged bloody and rose even higher as Kyle finished the thrust until the hilt of his sword stopped against the chin of Djahid Rebiane. Swanson held the impaled man there for a moment, then let Djahid drop, writhing and gagging on his own blood.
On Scope: A Sniper Novel Page 29