Traffick Stop, an American Assassin's Story (Paladine Political Thriller Series Book 3)

by Kenneth Eade

  Rahbi took Robert’s hand firmly. Robert made direct eye contact, looking Rahbi squarely in the eyes. He didn’t even blink. Finally convinced he was neither being targeted nor stalked, Robert sat down.

  “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Rahbi slid an envelope across the table to Robert. “This is all the information we have on the guy.”

  Robert made a “shh” motion with his index finger to his lips and pushed the envelope away. “Tell me about your daughter.”

  “My daughter?”

  “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Rahbi hung his head. “Yes, it is. It’s very painful to talk about, you know?”

  Robert nodded, and Rahbi took a deep breath.

  “What can I say about Rasha? She was the delight of my life since the day she was first born. Just her presence made everyone around her happy. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t wake up thinking about her. And the thought of her stays with me until I close my eyes at the end of the day.”

  His eyes moistened and his voice quivered. “And the last memory I have of her…it keeps me awake nights. I can’t sleep. I keep seeing her body lying limp in that bathtub. The water was so red. I drown in that red water every night.”

  He clenched his fists. “I want to kill the bastards who did this to her.”

  “The man in the envelope.”

  “Yes, first him.” His face tightened with the taste of vengeance. “And then all of them.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Robert felt the cold sharp edge of the scimitar on the back of his neck as his masked lyncher took his mark for the fatal blow. He heard the whoosh of the blade as it rose and heard his executioner inhale, then exhale as the blade came smashing down, severing his head from his body. He jumped out of bed, wondering if he was alive or dead, his Beretta in hand, panning the cabin, ready to attack any aggressor. Rays of sun sifted through the cabin curtains of the bow of the boat. In life or in his dreams, it didn’t matter. Paranoia ruled Robert’s world, whether he was awake or asleep.

  He checked the inside of the boat, then cautiously opened the door onto the deck. Everything was quiet. He flipped on the safety and secured his sidearm in the gun cabinet. Now that he was awake, he wouldn’t need it for a while. He messaged the old man, asking for a boat and dog sitter while he was away. Then he began the usual preparations for his trip, with one extra add-on.

  Robert took the boat out, as was his habitude from time to time, on a long fishing trip. His neighbors were used to the slip being empty for several days and sometimes weeks on end, while he toured the Aegean or Mediterranean, throwing down the anchor where the fishing was good or wherever he pleased.

  This time he anchored far off the coast of the small resort town of Akti Idras. At dusk, he packed his dive bag with essentials and dressed in his wetsuit and scuba gear. He slipped into the water and swam ashore. Robert traversed the beach unseen, sequestered himself among the trees, and changed into his street clothes. He rented a small motel room for cash and, using a false passport, hired a scooter from a local tourist travel agency, and headed off for the 30-minute drive to Porto Heli to take care of some last-minute unfinished business.

  This time he surveilled the small house where the girls were kept prisoner by day and the nightclub by night for two days, noting no unusual patterns and a simple, established routine. In between surveillance jobs, he caught a few hours’ sleep at the motel. He usually required more prep time for any given assignment, but this particular operation seemed to thrive on intimidation more than force, so he soon felt confident it could be accomplished with a minimum of fuss.

  ***

  Robert waited in an olive orchard until he saw the white van leave the neighborhood, and then walked to the house. His dark clothing and swarthy skin made him no more than another shadow among the many as he slipped up alongside the residence, as he had many times during his surveillance, and patiently waited there in the darkness.

  The beams from the van’s headlights illuminated the street as it approached the driveway and the garage door opened. Crouching down, Robert followed the van inside and the garage door closed behind him.

  Killing the engine, the driver exited and punched a code into the security panel on the left side of the garage door. When Robert heard the “all-clear” beep of the security system, he popped up behind the man and shot him in the head, splattering his brains against the door, which Robert quickly opened with his gloved hand. He stepped inside.

  “It’s about time!” he heard in Arabic from inside. Following the sound of the voice from the only one Robert expected to be left there, his feet drifted across the floor silently, as if they were riding on a thin cushion of air above it. Holding his gun out, he crept up behind a man who was busy clacking away at the keyboard of his laptop. Before the man perceived his presence, Robert had the gun pressed up against the man’s head while he shut the lid of the laptop.

  “Hands up, asshole.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Shut up and get those hands on your head!”

  The man put his hands on his head and Robert yanked him up by the collar and out of the chair, throwing him against the wall. With the gun sticking in his brain stem, Robert frisked the man and found a Glock 34 9mm in a shoulder holster. He pocketed it and emptied the man’s wallet onto the floor. There was a wad of cash, credit cards, ID and a shiny metal key. He scooped up the cash and the key, then shoved the man face first into the wall, smashing the silencer against the base of his head.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take me to the safe – now.”

  “There’s no safe.”

  “That makes my job easier. I’ll just blow your head off and leave and call it a day.”

  The man was shaking. “Wait! Wait!”

  “Let’s go.” Robert pulled him off the wall and pushed him between the shoulder blades. The man led him upstairs to one of the bedrooms, and opened a closet, revealing a floor safe.

  Robert threw the key from the wallet at the man’s feet. “Open it.”

  “I can’t. I don’t know the combination.”

  With his left hand, Robert withdrew an X26 Taser from his left hip holster, jammed it up under the man’s chin and gave him 50,000 volts, dropping him instantly to the ground, where he flopped around like a fish out of water, flailing his arms and legs.

  “Get up and try again.”

  “I…I can’t.”

  Robert kicked him hard in the ribs with the tip of his boot. The man groaned and clutched at the pain, then struggled to get up on his knees.

  “That’s good enough. Now I’m going to give you one more chance to open the god damned safe.” In a shooting stance, Robert aimed at the man’s head.

  With shaking hands, the man put the key into the safe and turned the dial of the combination lock, first right, then left, then right again, from memory. Then he opened the door and Robert kicked him in the head, sending him back to the floor. In the safe were stacks of cash, jewelry, and passports. Robert grabbed the passports and leafed through them. Joelle’s Libyan passport was one; the rest were from different countries – all for females. He recognized the Russian passports of the three girls he had met in the club.

  “Can I go now?” The man looked up at Robert, shivering, with begging eyes.

  “Yeah, you can go.” Robert aimed the gun between the man’s eyes and squeezed the trigger. There was a snap and a whooshing sound of compressed gas rushing through the silencer, then the crack of the bullet meeting the man’s skull, propelling his lifeless body backward. Robert withdrew a cloth sack from his backpack and piled the money, passports and jewelry into it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The gravel crackled under the tires of the white van as it rolled into the parking lot, and the engine went dead. The door opened and two black boots hit the surface, like an invading force. The man in black disabled the security
system and clipped the telephone connection to the building. One of the beef-necks came out and approached the van with curiosity. That was the last thing he ever saw as Robert cut him down with a shot to the head and chest, and he dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Robert dragged his body behind the van, took a Glock 34 9mm from the man’s body, activated his cell phone jammer, then stretched a black mask over his head and face, and stepped inside.

  For starters on a Monday night, there were only two patrons, both sitting by the stage, watching one of the Russian girls dancing nude. The second bodyguard ran toward Robert, but before he could withdraw his weapon, Robert shot him twice and he fell to the floor. Robert trained his gun on the maître d’ as he made an announcement.

  “Hands on your heads and nobody gets hurt.” He waved his gun. The girl on stage screamed, and the spectators in front of her turned around, frozen in fear, with that “deer in the headlights” look.

  “You at the bar, put your hands on your head and step in front of it, slowly. Same for you, Mr. DJ.”

  The DJ reacted first, putting his hands on his head, followed by the barman. Robert set the timer on his watch for three minutes. That was the quickest the local police would be able to get there, and he wasn’t going to cut them any slack.

  “Everyone down on the floor! Keep your hands on your heads, drop to your knees and then on your bellies. That’s right. Not you, baldy, you call your partner out now.”

  “Who?” he asked, his eyes looking away.

  “Don’t play dumb. The other guy in the suit. Get him out here – now!”

  The maître d’ yelled, “Sayid, come on out!”

  The suited Syrian appeared in the doorway of the inner office and Robert shot him in the head and chest to the hysterical screaming of the terrified girls.

  Robert pushed the bald man against the wall, frisked him, took the cash from his wallet and his keys, and threw a cloth bag at his feet.

  “Fill this up with money – all of it.”

  He backed toward the dead Syrian, keeping his gun on the bald man and his eyes on everyone, and frisked the body as he watched the bald man clean out the till. He found a Beretta pistol on the Syrian and kept it. He flicked his wrist, glancing at his watch – two minutes left.

  “Now the money from the office, hurry up!”

  The bald man disappeared, then returned with a full sack and Robert shot him in the head immediately, dropping him as he and the sack hit the floor to the shrill shrieking of the girls. Robert picked it up, then motioned with his gun. “The rest of you, empty your pockets! Cash, cell phones, everything. Don’t get up, just put it all right in front of you and don’t try anything funny or it’ll be the last thing you do. You, black-haired girl,” he said, indicating Joelle, “Fill up this bag with everyone’s cash and cell phones. And hurry!”

  She slowly rose from the floor. “Hurry up! Everything will be fine if you follow instructions.”

  Joelle gathered all the cash and cell phones and held the sack tentatively out to Robert, who grabbed it from her. “Now all you girls, stand up. That’s right, now line up, one after the other. Outside, now! Everyone else – stay down!”

  The girls ran quickly out the door, followed by Robert. He locked the entrance and cut the power to the building. Then he clicked open the van and handed the keys and the bag to Joelle. As she took them from his hands, she didn’t show any fear as she peered through the slits in the mask, studying his eyes. He hesitated for a second as her eyes locked on his, and pushed the thought of her – holding, comforting her – out of his mind, bringing him back to the cold reality that was being played out, and diverted his eyes away from her.

  “Everything you need is in the bag on the passenger’s seat. Now get out of here – now! Get out of Greece as soon as possible. Don’t bother going to the police – you know they’re part of this.”

  Robert checked his watch again. Three minutes was up. Joelle was the last one to pile into the van. Robert unlocked the Mercedes with the key he had taken from the manager and got in. He started the car and drove away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Robert pulled the Mercedes off the road into the olive orchard where he had stashed the motorbike, and switched rides. He rode the bike back to the travel agency, wiped it down, left it parked in front of their office, and put the key into the drop box. Then he donned his scuba gear and swam back out to the boat. The Lana was still where he had left it, in the middle of a restful sea, far from the eyes and ears of the mainland.

  He started the boat and took it off course a bit, heading out to sea in the other direction from where he had come. After half an hour, he dumped the guns overboard without stopping the boat, along with the mask and dark clothing, weighted down with stones. Then he doubled back, setting a course for his island. He drifted into the small harbor silently, tied up the boat, and then changed for dinner.

  Robert nodded to Andreas, the manager of Patralis Fish Tavern, and took his usual seat at a table next to the open window.

  “Kitchen still open?”

  “For you it’s always open.”

  Robert smiled.

  “How was the fishing?’

  “Not as good as usual.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Deep sea. Out by Adamos.”

  Andreas nodded. “You must be tired.” He reached out to Robert with the menu and Robert waved it off.

  “I already know what I want.”

  “The usual?”

  “Yes.”

  He enjoyed a nice meal and then hung out until well until after closing, sipping on a double Greek coffee.

  ***

  Robert spent the next morning cleaning fish he had specially saved in the freezer and defrosted, so it would appear he had just returned from one of his marathon fishing trips. He made sure to acknowledge his neighbors and offered them part of his catch to solidify his alibi. He had taken every precaution, but he was even more paranoid than he was careful. Every step he made had to be covered up with three.

  By the afternoon, the news was buzzing around the island about the armed robbery at a nightclub in the neighboring resort of Porto Heli. The police were reporting it as a possible mafia hit, definitely professional. Nothing about prostitution, of course. Robert listened to the gossip as it spread from boat to boat, not speculating or commenting on it, as was his habitude. He had put another group of terrorists out of a dirty business.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Robert stepped out of the jumbo jet and into the Jetway. He could feel the intense heat emanating from the outside walls, which made it feel more like an oven. When the double doors opened he felt an ice-cold chill from the air-conditioned environment. He followed the signs for customs and immigration. So far, there were none of the telltale signs they had landed in the adult mecca of Las Vegas. That would come after clearing immigration. As the visitors were rustled into a long labyrinth on the right, Robert took to the left lane for U.S. citizens and ran his passport through the machine, which spit out a customs declaration for him to sign.

  He was directed to another line by a security officer, where a stern little black-haired man with a thin moustache held out his hand for Robert’s documents. He presented his passport and declaration and stood patiently as the little man inspected them.

  “What do you do, Mr. Berger?”

  “Not much these days. I’m retired.”

  The man looked up at him, questioningly. His moustache and eye twitched. “You’re kind of young to be retired, aren’t you?”

  Robert smiled. “Thanks for the compliment. Wish it were true.”

  The man plopped his passport and declaration back on the table and slid it over to him. “Welcome back.”

  Robert followed the exit signs which spilled him out into the main terminal. Bells and the sound of clanking coins and the flashing lights made it look more like a casino than an airport. He made his way to the United Airlines domestic terminal and presented a Virginia driver’s license f
or a one-way ticket to San Francisco.

  ***

  He checked into a two-star hotel in Chinatown, paying cash in advance for his room. The neighborhood was a perfect one in which to remain anonymous while he investigated Zaynul Abidin Abdullah. It was lined with cheap Chinese cafés, markets and stores which peppered the street and even cheaper apartments above them.

  He called a number from one of his burner phones. There was a different number for every city, but Robert had memorized them all from his days in the good ol’ U S of A. A male voice answered, “Yeah?”

  “Hey, this is Dick Wolf.”

  “Dick? You’re an old one.”

  “Oldie, but goodie.”

  “Yeah. Wanna come over now?”

  The man gave an address of a motel room on Polk Street.

  When Robert arrived, the door to the room was open. He tentatively slipped in. Sitting in a chair in the corner of the room was a rough looking bearded biker-type, his arms purple with blurry old tattoos, his long frizzy brown hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “Dick, Dick Wolf.”

  “Yeah, Law and Order. I know. Good show. You can call me Bill. What can I do you for, Dick?”

  “I need to fill out my wardrobe.”

  “Dick’s an old name. Haven’t heard it for a while. You a cop?”

  “Would I have that number if I was a cop?”

  Bill smiled. “Come with me.”

  Robert followed Bill as he waddled out the door, down the corridor and up the staircase to another room. He unlocked the door and welcomed Robert in.

  “Long distance or short distance?”

  “Both.”

  “For long range, I’ve got an RPR .308 for three thousand or a McMillan Tac-50 for seventeen thousand.”

  “Let’s see the Tac-50.”

  Bill went to the closet and pulled out an aluminum case, placed it on the bed and snapped it open. Inside was a brown Tac-50 sniper rifle, assembled with a long-range sight and a very long noise suppressor. Robert reached into the case and pulled out the rifle, weighing it in his hands.