One Hit

by Jack Coughlin

  A full model of the original Excalibur sniper rifle rested in a cabinet in the reception area, below the name and elegant logo of the firm. The big rifle and the smiling receptionist would be the first things a visitor saw on entering.

  Excalibur was the only piece of hardware on display. On one wall of Kyle’s private office hung a framed print of Jasper Johns’s Flag, while the iconic photo of the marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima was opposite. His desk faced outward because he liked the view of the Capitol dome, and a silver laptop computer was on it. Behind it was a built-in credenza bearing the eternally brewing coffeepot and white ceramic mugs, with a sink. A little refrigerator was hidden underneath. The sand-colored wall-to-wall carpet was dominated by a starred Azerbaijani rug, on which rested a few tables and chairs.

  Lady Patricia was pleased with the way it had all come together, although she had considered it still rather too masculine and lacking charm. She solved that problem by hiring a willowy, snow-haired, and very attractive former FBI special agent named Janna Ecklund, who would act as both the receptionist and on-site security officer with a weapon beneath her desk. Her boyfriend, Lucky Sharif, had been promoted to the Washington FBI headquarters.

  Janna wore a black dress that reached her knees and some neat jewelry, and her almost-white hair was fresh. Young men experienced in the ways of Washington were surprised when she coolly avoided their invitations—seemingly unaware of the fact that they were very important men.

  Kyle was in a two-button gray herringbone Canali suit that had set him back almost four thousand dollars and an olive-green tie. He would have preferred to be in jeans and a Red Sox sweatshirt, but Lady Pat had insisted, so that was that.

  Sir Jeff Cornwell and his wife had flown over for the official opening party, which was attended by Washington movers and shakers and the professional hangers-on who were always hunting free food and drink on the D.C. cocktail circuit. Lieutenant General Middleton represented the White House, and the three stars on his shoulders added weight to the affair. He was surprisingly comfortable mingling in the relaxed setting and was particularly attentive to Deqo Sharif, who was seated, almost dwarfed, in Kyle’s high-backed desk chair. She told him that she would be living with Lucky and Janna in a house on the Maryland shore, finally escaping the cold of Minnesota. She had baked a plate of cookies for Kyle’s party, and Middleton said they were delicious.

  There was a firm five-to-eight lid on the evening event, because it would otherwise go all night. The visitors came in waves, nibbled, and checked out the place and its people, then moved on to other pastures. As it grew near to the shut-down time, a young man who had made great use of the open bar introduced himself to Kyle as the administrative aide for a rookie congressman. “You were in the army or something, weren’t you?” the aide asked.

  Kyle gave a half smile and replied, “Umm. Something like that. Now out in the private sector.” He tried to recall what role, if any, the congressman had in military or budget affairs but drew a blank. Obviously this one had no seniority: yet.

  “You know, I was a captain in the field artillery, with a tour in Afghanistan.” The man looked at Kyle, who was shorter and older.

  “Well, everyone at Excalibur thanks you for your service. Enjoy the party.”

  “Hella party,” the visitor said, leaning in closer and nodding toward Janna. “But I’ve struck out so far with the chicks, and it’s getting late. What can you tell me about that Nordic queen before I make a move?”

  Kyle almost laughed but whispered and answered. “My new receptionist. I just hired her. She’s new in the city from Minnesota, is pretty lonely. She likes her men and her coffee strong. I think that with a subtle pat on the butt, she’ll follow you anywhere. Be assertive. Show her you mean business.”

  The guy juked his shoulders and brushed his thick hair with his hand, transforming into a Capitol Hill player before making his run. Within a minute, a loud slap to the face sent him reeling sideways and onto the floor, and Janna stood above him, looking down with a smirk of contempt. Lucky laughed to himself as the young man slinked away to the door like a whipped puppy. Kyle allowed himself a laugh.

  It was not an unusual way for a Washington reception to end, and the other guests took it as the cue to finish their drinks and depart. The Spanish embassy party would still be going strong along Embassy Row because the Spaniards always dined late.

  The doors closed and locked, and it was time to get comfortable. Janna kicked off her three-inch heels and became noticeably shorter, but she was still above six feet. Kyle and the other men ditched their jackets and coats, and everyone refilled their glasses.

  “To the new life,” Sir Jeff said from his wheelchair, raising a toast to Kyle. “You are going to make us a lot of money in this town.”

  Lieutenant General Middleton knocked back his bourbon. “Well, I bring the best wishes of the White House, plus some news. The president will be making a state visit over to Somalia in about a month to demonstrate our support for the federal government in Mogadishu. That’s a big step forward.”

  Everyone had heard the president’s speech to the nation a week earlier, in which he reported that the terrorist known as the Cobra had been killed in Mogadishu in a combined action by American and Somali Special Forces. DNA, photographic evidence, and personal recognition had determined the right man had died. The body was burned in accordance with local customs. General Hamud was reporting that the terrorist group al Shabaab had been staggered by the loss of its new hero. America had buried its own dead with honor and was rebuilding again, too strong to ever yield to terrorism. The tracking and the death of Omar Jama proved once again that there was no place where terrorists who strike America could hide—nowhere in the entire world.

  Lucky Sharif was not mentioned, and the FBI returned him to duty after official reviews of the takedown film showed no wrongdoing on his part. A camera glitch at the decisive moment had prevented a total analysis of Sharif’s actions, but he had a letter from Brigadier General Hamud saying that Agent Sharif had wanted to arrest the suspect and return him to New York for trial. Lucky received a letter of appreciation from the Somali government and a commendation and the transfer to the Hoover Building from the FBI.

  “So you guys are all in the clear. Good job. Finishing that job quickly was the right move,” Middleton said. “Off the record, I can tell you that the man in the White House is very pleased that Excalibur Enterprises has established a Washington office. I promise you that the Pentagon is also pleased.”

  He said good-bye, then left. The Cornwells departed a short time later, with Lady Pat giving both Janna and Deqo cheek pecks. It meant they were in cahoots to keep the men under control. The Sharifs and Janna followed in ten minutes.

  The cleaning crew would not arrive until midnight. Swanson took his drink over to the broad window. Traffic was busy, even long after normal quitting time—the vehicles of people who made the government work. Kyle was one of them now. It was a special kind of freedom that he had never before experienced.

  “Can you handle this?” The question came from the other person in the room, Marty Atkins, the deputy director of CIA Clandestine Service. He had hovered around the edges of the party like an anonymous nobody, identifying himself as a venture capitalist from McKinney, Texas, just outside Plano, and asking if the questioner had ever spent much time down in Plano. Now he had ditched the cover and was back to being one of the top men at the CIA.

  “This first mission was difficult, but it was really a good test. You blended seamlessly with the support units operating outside of the military. You see how that works now. You will use them as extra assets when needed, but much of the time you will be on your own.”

  “I didn’t have a problem not being military. Is that a double negative?” Kyle said, looking deep into his drink.

  Marty Atkins waved his hand to sweep the expensive new offices. “And this is your day job. Pretty sweet. Hide in plain sight as a high-flying business type unti
l you get a call from me. Then you go. Can you handle that?”

  Kyle remained silent for a few moments, still taking it all in. His new life. He had enjoyed the actual independence of command more than he expected. Although a civilian, he would always have the U.S. military backing him up when he needed big boots. Lucky Sharif and Janna Ecklund would be direct hooks into the FBI. He turned to face his CIA boss, and he smiled.

  “Yeah. I can handle it.”

  ONE HIT

  Gunnery Sergeant Jack Coughlin was with the Third Battalion, Fourth Marines during the drive to Baghdad and has operated on a wide range of assignments in hotspots around the world.

  Donald A. Davis is the author of eighteen books, including several New York Times bestsellers.

  ALSO BY JACK COUGHLIN WITH DONALD A. DAVIS

  Kill Zone

  Dead Shot

  Clean Kill

  An Act of Treason

  Running the Maze

  Time to Kill

  On Scope

  First published 2015 as Night of the Cobra by St Martin’s Press, New York

  First published in the UK 2015 as One Hit by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2015 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-9488-7

  Copyright © Jack Coughlin with Donald A. Davis, 2015

  Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com

  Cover photograph © Alamy

  The right of Jack Coughlin and Donald A. Davis to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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