by Trevor Scott
The American nurse, Anna Grasso, hugged another former hostage, and Jake moved in close to the two of them.
Anna introduced her friend as Dr. Morgan Cassidy.
Jake shook the man’s hand. “I’m glad you’re all safe.”
The nurse gave Jake a strong hug. “Thank you so much. If you hadn’t come, I don’t know what would have happened to us.”
“We might have lost our heads like all the others,” the British doctor said. “Thank you, sir. And please thank the others for us.”
“I will,” Jake said. If he ever saw Eagle One and his men again.
Then Jake wandered over to the priest, Father Francesco Murici. Instead of a simple shake of hands, the priest also embraced Jake. “Thank you for everything, Jake. I knew we picked the right man for this mission. Somehow we managed to get everyone out alive. It was God’s will.”
“I agree,” Jake said. “God gave us all the experience and the will to complete our operation. Have you heard from the Vatican?”
“No. We will do that in person.”
“Right. Since officially this never happened.” Jake smiled at his new friend.
“Please come to visit me in Rome,” the priest insisted. “I would like to meet that girlfriend of yours.”
“I will.” Jake patted the priest’s shoulder and went to speak with Sinclair Tucker and Jean Paul Talbot.
“Well, Jake,” Tucker said. “It’s never a bloody dull moment when I get around you.”
Jake smiled at his old friend. “I hope to slow down a bit now. Take some simple missing persons case in Europe.”
“You deserve that, Jake.” Tucker reached out his hand and the two of them shook firmly. “What’s the plan tonight?”
“We need to get these weapons back to that billionaire’s villa in Santa Cruz,” Jake said. “I think we all need a few drinks.”
“You got that right,” Tucker said. “I’m gonna say hello to the British doctor.” He left Jake with the Frenchman.
“What are your plans from here, Jean Paul?”
“I’m still suspended,” Jean Paul said.
“Not for long,” Jake said. “One call from the Agency and Carlos Gomez and you’ll have your pick of assignments.”
“We’ll see.” Jean Paul also gave Jake a hug and then kissed him on both cheeks. “Now I know what my brother saw in you, Jake. You got us in and out without a scratch. Plus we killed a lot of bad guys.”
“We got lucky,” Jake said. “I’m not sure about the outcome without General Graves sending in his men.”
Jean Paul shrugged. “The drone strike was a nice touch. But none of this would have been necessary if our governments had some balls.”
“True. Politicians are always looking to cover their own asses. They’d do better if they could.”
“Thank God there are still good men in this world willing to put their life on the line for what is right.”
Jake agreed with a nod of his head. “Let’s get back to the villa and have a few drinks.”
“What do they say in America? You got that shit right.”
“Something like that.” Jake squeezed down on Jean Paul’s shoulder and then walked toward Carlos Gomez.
The billionaire had just turned over his nephew to a couple of EMTs to bring him to the hospital to formally fix the man’s arm. The doctor’s in the field had simply patched the Spaniard’s arm, but he would need stitches on both sides of the wound.
Carlos Gomez embraced Jake, holding his hug longer than any of the others had, and then pulling away but holding both of Jake’s arms. “Thank you so much Mister Adams.”
“Please, Jake is fine.”
“All right, Jake. You did a superb job. Only one minor injury. I don’t know how you did it.”
“General Graves gave us some vital support.”
“I pushed to get that drone airborne,” Gomez said.
“We thank you for that,” Jake said. “Now, when do you plan on explaining all of those former special forces troops close by?”
The billionaire pulled Jake farther away from the others. “We are building a major private force to counter these radical Islamic terrorists hell bent on establishing a Caliphate from Africa to Europe. We are in every country they are, waiting for the right moment to strike.”
“I think you’ve already done that,” Jake said.
“A bit prematurely, but it was necessary.” Gomez hesitated, his glance becoming more intense. “We would like you to join us, Jake.”
Jake laughed. “I’m getting too old for this crap. My legs are like rubber after climbing those mountains.”
“Nonsense. You are in great shape.”
“Not for sustained combat. And it’s not really my specialty. I’m more of a shadow warrior, working the back streets and alleys of Europe.”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind, Jake. These terrorists have infiltrated every country in Europe. We need people like you to establish an intelligence apparatus to augment our forces in the field.”
That he could do, Jake thought. But was he willing to give up his sedate life in Calabria? “Let me think about it,” Jake said.
“Anything you want. Also, there will be a big bonus for your work. My people will send it to your bank account.”
“Thanks. I also spent a lot of money on fuel.”
“My people will reimburse you for that.”
Jake nodded. “You don’t mind if we use your villa tonight. We have to return your guns and could all use a few drinks.”
Gomez smiled. “I anticipated this. My people have restocked the bar and food.”
Jake thanked the man again and then wandered off to join up with Sirena, Tucker, Jean Paul and Father Murici. Jake could get used to working for a guy with the resources of Carlos Gomez. But he also had a feeling the plan that Gomez had involved a lot more than just his bank account. Something was brewing in Europe—a new renaissance, an awakening of sorts that finally seemed to get it. Business could not thrive without security. Business interests needed stability to maintain growth. Radical Islamic terrorists were antithetic to the peace and security of good business practice.
31
Malaga, Spain
A little more than twenty-four hours had passed since Jake had landed in the Canary Islands with the former hostages. He and his crew had gotten a little too drunk the night before, celebrating their success at the billionaire’s villa. Then late in the afternoon, Sirena and Jake had gotten a flight on the Gulfstream from Tenerife to Malaga, Spain.
On the flight Jake had read a briefing from the Agency on the leader of the kidnappers, the man with the snake tattoo. He was the same man Jean Paul called Ahmed. And the man who the American nurse, Anna Grasso, had described to him during her quick debrief. He was known to his men only as Mamba.
As it turned out, this same man was the ghost Sirena had been trying to track down in Valencia when Jake brought her on to their recent mission.
Now it was close to midnight and Jake and Sirena walked down a narrow street in the downtown area of this port city on the Costa de Sol. They had gotten word from Spanish intelligence that the man they sought was still holed up in an apartment close to the port.
After the operation in the Atlas Mountains, Jake’s legs were sore and rubbery. He was getting too old for this shit, he thought. But now he was right in his element, the dark streets of Europe. He could live with this type of work.
Sirena stopped Jake with a tug on his arm. “How do you want to play this?”
Jake had been wondering that ever since they discovered the leader of the faction in the south Atlas Mountains had escaped their assault. The Agency would want this man to be taken alive, but those higher up in the U.S. government were more interested in simply killing these terrorists and calling them lone wolves. Unless they wanted or needed a big political win. Then the guy they had killed would be elevated to a critical terrorist leader that they had eliminated, like they had actually pulled the trigger thems
elves. Leading from behind the security of their ivory mansion.
Shrugging, Jake said, “We have just two options. We kill the bastard or we capture him and suck every last bit of intelligence out of him.”
“That’s my preference,” she said. “But. . .”
“You don’t think the administration wants one more inmate in Cuba.”
“That’s right.”
“He might not give us much of a choice.”
“I know.”
“Besides,” Jake said, “if these people are smart they won’t have any actionable intelligence on any other faction than their own. That’s how smart networks work.”
“All right,” Sirena said. “Let’s at least try to see how smart these guys are. This Ahmed or Mamba or whatever he’s calling himself these days, has been able to stay one step ahead of Spanish Intelligence for quite some time.”
Jake agreed with a nod. “Go over this apartment again.”
Sirena told him that the apartment complex was used mostly by immigrants and the poor. “Our friends in Spanish Intel have the entire area controlled. Farther out in the perimeter are the police special operations units.”
“Why are they allowing us to take the lead?” he asked for the third time.
“Because word got out that we were the ones who took down the terrorist training camp in Morocco and secured the release of the hostages.”
“And, I’m guessing Carlos Gomez has a lot of pull in the Spanish government,” Jake said.
“That’s more than likely the real reason,” she agreed.
That and the fact that the Spanish could deny responsibility if the op went south.
Jake felt inside his leather jacket, grasping the handle of his Glock 17. “All right. Let’s do this.”
There was no way to isolate those in the second-floor apartment of the building two blocks down. At this hour most would be sleeping. They hoped to catch everyone in their beds. But there was no way to warn others in the building. For all they knew, others in the building were part of the network, or at least complicit to the cause.
Both of them turned on their communication devices in their ears and checked that they were working.
“English,” Jake reminded the others. His Spanish wasn’t great.
Sirena grasped Jake’s arm like a lover, and the two of them strolled down the narrow street. Occasionally she would place her head on his shoulder. To any observer they were simply a couple wandering back to their apartment after drinking. She spoke to him in Spanish and Jake simply laughed or nodded his head.
When they got to the apartment building, the door was magically unlocked for them. Spanish intel had grabbed the signal earlier and one of their operatives buzzed them through.
Once inside, Jake and Sirena split apart and pulled their guns. Now quietly and swiftly they made their way up the stairs to the second level. Jake hoped like hell their intel was right. Otherwise they might be breaking into some poor old couple’s apartment.
“Second level,” Sirena whispered to those listening.
The corridor was nearly pitch black, with only a couple of dull lights burning above the numbers on doors. Their subject apartment was on the far end on the left, the corner apartment next to the fire escape stairs, with a view of the road out front.
They had discussed how they wanted to breach the door. If they simply kicked in the door, they would make a lot of noise and allow those inside to arm themselves. But if they went in quietly, as Jake proposed, they could catch them sleeping. Luckily, Jake’s plan had been approved, and the Spaniards had acquired a pass key for every apartment in the building.
Sirena pulled out the key and hesitated.
Jake shrugged and gave her a look of wonder.
She let out a slow breath of air and quietly slid the key into the deadbolt lock.
He understood her apprehension. What if they had somehow found out they were coming? What if they routinely had their door booby trapped with explosives? This man would naturally be on edge after the destruction of his training camp. Assuming he even knew.
Sirena started to twist the key, trying her best to keep the noise down. But this evening was unusually quiet. There were no crying babies or dogs barking. It was as if the building was abandoned.
When the deadbolt caught and scraped slightly, making a clicking sound, Sirena stopped.
Something happened next that surprised even Jake. He wasn’t sure what made him react, but something wasn’t right. It was movement of some sort behind the door, he would remember later.
Jake suddenly grabbed Sirena and together they hit the floor to the right side of the door. Simultaneously, the door exploded from three shotgun blasts, sending buckshot into the wall across the hallway. Rays of light from the street outside shone through the shotgun blast holes.
Now all hell broke loose. Jake’s ears were ringing, but he could still hear frantic yelling in Spanish through his earpiece. Inside the apartment he heard Arabic.
The two of them recovered, taking up positions alongside the right edge of the door; Jake close to the edge and Sirena behind him.
They were waiting, Jake knew. With one quick motion, he jumped to the other side of the door and the shotgun blast narrowly missed him. Now he was on the left side and Sirena was on the right side.
The two of them gazed at each other, unsure how to proceed. Sirena pointed to her earpiece.
More Arabic from inside the room.
Sirena yelled something to them in Arabic, and those inside immediately yelled something back to her.
“That wasn’t nice,” Sirena said aloud to Jake. Then, in Spanish, she said something into her comm unit.
“What’s up?” Jake asked.
“They’re moving in, tightening the cordon,” she said. “We need to take these assholes.”
Jake agreed with a nod. Then he pointed to himself, meaning he would take the lead. Without forethought, he turned his gun to the door and started to shoot slowly. Then, while still shooting, he kicked the door in. He saw movement and aimed at that, increasing his rate of fire until his slide stuck back indicating he was empty.
Then Jake backed to the left edge again and Sirena started to shoot slowly, simply aiming her gun around the open door and firing. While she did this, Jake changed out his magazine for a full one.
When she was out, she dropped the empty magazine and shoved another into the handle before releasing the slide and chambering a fresh round.
More Arabic. But also someone was using the universal screams of having just been shot.
There was no way to take these people alive, Jake reasoned. But he could try.
“What now?” she asked.
“I hit someone. Now we take them.”
“Or. . .we could let the tac team do it.”
Jake thought about the layout of the apartment they had gotten from Spanish intelligence. Kitchen to the left. Two bedrooms and the bathroom to the right. The sounds of the yelling were coming from the bedrooms. Except for the man he had already shot, who had to be laying in the living room wounded.
He didn’t think. He just reacted. With a full magazine of seventeen rounds, Jake rushed into the room. Light seeped in from the street below. He first saw the man on the floor with the shotgun. When he raised it to fire, Jake shot the man twice—once in the chest and again in the face.
Movement to his right, followed by a salvo of shots. Jake dove and rolled.
Sirena shot from the edge of the door at the gunfire.
By now Jake had his gun aimed back to the bedrooms. His heart pounded out of control. His ears rang like a Sunday cathedral at noon.
When he saw movement again, he waited until he had a clean shot. He could see the gun. He could see the hand and the arm. Then he saw the man’s face and his right leg. Jake fired five times and the man hit the floor, screaming in pain.
Jake got up and rushed toward the man. He kicked the guy’s gun away from his hand and placed his shoe against the guy’s th
roat.
By now Sirena was at Jake’s side. She went past him to check on the back bedrooms.
The wounded man was in serious pain, Jake could tell. Even in the subdued light, Jake could see the tattoo that ran from his right wrist up his arm to his biceps.
Sirena came back saying it was clear in the back rooms. She called it in to her Spanish friends, saying to bring an ambulance. Then she clicked on a small lamp in the living room.
The man had been struggling beneath Jake’s shoe, but had now given up.
Looking closer, Jake saw that a couple of his bullets had hit the terrorist. One had entered the man’s right thigh and another entered his groin. Blood was coming out profusely. Jake found a pillow from the living room and shoved it onto the man’s wound. But deep down he knew it was futile.
“We’ve killed everyone in your Moroccan training camp,” Jake said. “Tell us about your network and we might let you live.”
The Mamba said something in Arabic.
Jake looked up to Sirena for help.
“He said some bullshit about virgins,” she said.
“I don’t think so,” Jake said. “I’ve shot your pecker off.”
Now the man’s words barely came out of his mouth and Sirena leaned in to try to hear.
Jake looked at Sirena for help.
“I didn’t get that,” she said. “I think it was just more bullshit. Is he just passed out?”
Checking for a pulse, Jake said, “Afraid not. He’s dead.” He took the pillow off that man’s leg wound and he saw that the blood had oozed out and pooled in a massive puddle on the cheap carpet. Then Jake patted the man down, found his cell phone, and pocketed that. He found his own phone and took a number of quick images of the man’s face and his snake tattoo. Then he attached those to a text and sent them to both Kurt Jenkins and General Graves.
Moments later the room was filled with tactical forces dressed in full black battle gear, from helmets and body armor to automatic weapons.
Sirena spoke with the leader in private and then came back to Jake. “The Spanish government wants to take credit for this raid.”