Clear by Fire: A Search and Destroy Thriller

by Joshua Hood

  Mason took the back way out of the apartment. The heat of the day had not yet fallen on the city, and the streets were crowded as he headed toward the Gueliz district. The “new city” attracted American tourists and wealthy Europeans, and he walked as quickly as possible through the sea of faces without attracting any unnecessary attention.

  He’d had a rough life but had never been one to blame his situation on others. Mason wished he could say that his mother had done her best, but that was a lie. The only thing she ever cared about was getting wasted, and while most kids had childhoods full of good memories, he had the sullen days and violent nights of an alcoholic’s son. His mother might not have loved him, but she’d made him into a survivor from day one.

  Tossing the Makarov into a trash bin, he took out his phone and dialed a number. A moment later a man answered in Arabic.

  “Yes?”

  “You were right, it was Vernon. Have you finished the download?”

  “I’m just leaving. I will send what I have to your phone,” the man replied.

  “Good. He’s at the Emirates Café. Bring the package with you.”

  Ten minutes later, Mason was standing in the shadows, near the front of the Emirates Café, scanning the documents stolen from Vernon’s computer. A pair of sunglasses hid his dark eyes as he glanced at the target’s table.

  The glare made it hard to read the smudged screen, and he was just about to hold the phone up when something clicked. It had taken less than a millisecond for his brain to interpret the two words that his eyes had seen, and he frantically swiped backward until he saw them again.

  “Operation Karakul,” it read.

  He felt his heart skip in his chest, and a wave of adrenaline washed through his nervous system. He was barely able to steady his finger enough to open the message.

  Mason’s time in Anvil had given him access to more classified data than the entire analyst division at Langley. It was important that his team could track threats as they evolved, and he had come across the name “Karakul” before—it was the code name for Hamid Karzai, the president of Afghanistan.

  The e-mail was from Razor 5, which he knew to be the call sign attached to the Joint Special Operations Command, but it was the content that floored him. It was simple and to the point: “Razor 5 confirms Operation Karakul is a go. Prosecute target ASAP.”

  Mason couldn’t believe it. His mind scrambled as he slipped the phone back into his pocket and stared at Vernon, who was sitting at an outside table in front of the café methodically wiping the inside of his empty glass with a white napkin.

  “This motherfucker,” Mason muttered, running his hand quickly over his dark, slicked-back hair. Flicking the cigarette into the street, he made his way to the front door and disappeared inside.

  The surprise on the CIA agent’s face when Mason appeared before him told the soldier everything he needed to know.

  The Algerian had told the truth; Vernon had betrayed him.

  “Sorry to drop in like this, but it’s been a hectic couple of days.”

  Vernon smiled sickly and tried to stall by taking a sip of water. “It’s good to see you. I was just . . . having some lunch. I didn’t know you were back,” the spy stammered honestly.

  “You gave me a job and I did it. Now I’m back for your end of the bargain,” Mason said as he studied the spy’s reaction.

  “Uhh, yes, of course.” Vernon turned white and scanned the crowded café, looking for a way out and trying to tell whether Mason was alone.

  The waiter approached, and Mason ordered coffee and hummus and lit a cigarette with a battered Zippo while the man squirmed across the table.

  “You aren’t going to order anything?” he asked innocently.

  “No, I’m not really hungry.”

  Mason watched tiny beads of perspiration appear on the spy’s forehead. His pupils dilated and he shifted often in his chair as he struggled to get comfortable.

  Who the fuck is Razor 5? he wanted to scream at the man, but he had to play it cool if he hoped to use the spy. Vernon was a slippery son of a bitch who might have been short on brains, but he was long on cunning. In fact, he was slick enough to make a career out of what had started as a joke.

  The first time someone suggested arming a drone, everyone had laughed, but Vernon saw value in the idea and managed to gather enough support to get his own team. Five months later, the room was packed as Vernon’s armed Predator smoked a house full of jihadists. He went from zero to hero before the shrapnel ever hit the ground, and soon after, he was charged with populating the kill list the drones would use for targeting jihadists. It was a good job, with zero oversight, which made him a perfect match for Barnes.

  How had he not seen it coming, Mason thought. Vernon and the colonel fit together like pieces of a puzzle, but he’d been so desperate, so eager to trust, that he had let his guard down.

  Vernon was back to inspecting the glass when the waiter returned to the table, and Mason spoke to him in Arabic.

  “He’s afraid of germs,” Mason said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the glass.

  “Fucking Americans and their germs,” the waiter replied before walking off.

  Mason slipped the sunglasses off his face and stared at Vernon. “We had a deal. I work for you, and you get me back to America. You remember that, don’t you?”

  “The deal is still on, I promise. This has to be a mistake. Let me make a call . . .” Vernon started to reach into his pocket and Mason slammed his palm down on the table.

  “Hold on there, boss. If you are trying to call Karim, let me save you the trouble. I just killed him.”

  The man froze, his hand an inch from the light jacket he was wearing. Mason could tell he was trying to figure out whether Mason was going to kill him in the open or let him live. The agent loved war by proxy, but when the conflict was right in his face, he became very uncomfortable.

  The waiter dropped off the plate of hummus, and Mason tore a strip off the pita bread and used it to spoon some of the hummus into his mouth. He knew just as much about Vernon as the spy knew about him.

  “The job was compromised. I think you tried to burn me,” Mason said.

  “Now hold on, I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but someone is filling your head with a bunch of bullshit.”

  Vernon was reaching, and they both knew it. He was buying time—hoping he could regain control of the situation.

  “Really? For the last six months I’ve put a fucking continent between me and Decklin. For all he knew, I was dead, but the moment I show up in Kona, there he is. Are you saying that he’s clairvoyant or that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing?”

  The spy tried to go on the offensive. “You had a bad op—it happens—but don’t try to put this on me. Five different countries want you dead, including the US. Before you start making accusations, I think you might want to take a second to remember who your friends are.”

  “Friends like Barnes? Is that whose dirty work you’re doing?” It was a gamble, but Mason couldn’t give the man an inch of traction. He had to push him now, or he’d never get the truth.

  “What?” Vernon was frozen by the question, and Mason knew he had him.

  “I know what you’re up to, and it’s never going to happen,” Mason lied.

  Vernon stared at him, his mouth hanging open like a broken gate. The spy was stunned, but recovered quickly and pulled an envelope out of his pocket. Passing it across the table, he locked eyes with Mason.

  “Look, I didn’t tell you to grow a conscience and fuck up your life. You did that on your own, pal. You made a choice and it backfired. I’m sorry the world’s not fair.”

  Mason reached for the envelope, which Vernon was holding down with the tip of his fingers. The spy felt a shift in the momentum; Mason still needed him.

  “Do you know what they had us doing out there?” he asked.

  “I don’t know or care. Mason, you need to grow up. There’s a war going on
and you need to get over the past. I’ve read your file, and it’s a sad story, but here’s a news flash: no one gives a shit. The only reason you’re not dead or locked away is because I want it that way.” He lifted his fingers off the envelope and let Mason take it. “The only people who care about you are gone. The only record of your existence is in a file that I burned the day I found you. Remember that.”

  Mason slipped the envelope into his pocket as the waiter returned with the bill and a carafe of water. The young Arab sat the check on the table and began filling Vernon’s glass. Mason reached for the check, bumping the waiter’s arm, causing him to spill the water across the white tablecloth and onto Vernon’s pants.

  “What the fuck,” Vernon yelled, pushing away from the table as water soaked his pants. Mason’s hand flashed to his pistol at the spy’s sudden movement, but he quickly regained his composure as the waiter set the carafe on the table and made a big show of blotting the water on Vernon’s jacket.

  “Jesus, Mason, what is this bullshit?” Vernon’s face was red with anger as he tried to brush off the waiter’s clumsy attempts to help him.

  “Calm down, it’s just water,” he said as Vernon finally untangled himself from the zealous Arab.

  Vernon sat back down, keeping his chair away from the dripping white linen, and looked accusingly at Mason. “That was some bush-league bullshit.”

  It was obvious that the CIA man thought he had done it on purpose.

  “Look, I said I was sorry. It was just a little water.”

  “Yeah, but I’m the one who looks like he pissed his pants, not you.”

  “Fuck, maybe I just need to find someplace to hide out for a while and get my shit together,” Mason said, a plan forming in his mind as he lit another cigarette and the other patrons turned back to their meals.

  “You need to do something. You’re falling apart on me. Go get laid or whatever it is you do. I’ll make some calls and see if we can get you back in the States in a few weeks.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry for getting in your face like that.”

  Vernon looked across the table and studied him. Mason looked defeated, and that was exactly what the spy wanted.

  “I told you that I would take care of you. You’re going to have to trust me, okay?” Vernon’s voice had softened, but it was all an act.

  “I know. I’ll take care of the check and then I’m going to get out of here. I think I need a new country. Can you get me some papers?”

  “Where are you trying to go?” Vernon asked as he stood up. He wanted to get the hell out while Mason was off balance.

  “Maybe up the coast. I’ve got friends in Libya,” Mason replied, lowering his head in false defeat as his mind scrambled to connect the dots. He needed to get Decklin out in the open, and he hoped Vernon would take the bait.

  “Let me see what I can do. Give me an hour,” Vernon said, shouldering his assault pack and walking away from the table.

  Mason finished the rest of his coffee and pulled a handful of crumpled bills out of his pocket and tossed them on the table. The waiter came back to collect the bill and looked down at the desolate American.

  “Do you want some more coffee?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take another cup,” Mason said as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of fresh American bills from Vernon’s envelope.

  The waiter nodded, took the money from the American, and then placed a phone on the table.

  “That was a nice switch,” Mason told him.

  “I know.” The waiter smiled as he pocketed the cash and began clearing the table.

  Mason had never trusted Vernon and had paid a great deal of money to keep the man under surveillance. The cloned phone was a result of that significant investment. Picking it up off the table, he ran his fingers across the small screen, clearing away a layer of dust. He needed to get out of the country but had to be sure that Vernon had taken the bait.

  The American had learned the hard way that there were very few people he could trust. He’d trusted Colonel Barnes once and was still paying for that mistake. Finishing the coffee, he slipped the phone into his pocket and headed to the street.

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  Northern California

  The middle-class neighborhood looked like a postcard sent from the god of suburbia. Stately trees and cookie-cutter houses stood watch over the men and women jogging up the impossibly black asphalt as Renee Hart turned down the street for the third time.

  Sprinklers lazily baptized manicured lawns and pruned bushes while perfectly distributed drops of water sparkled brilliantly in the fading sunlight.

  Renee frowned behind the wheel and squinted against the sun’s fading rays as it slipped behind the Sierra Nevadas. She was living a nightmare, a Special Operations soldier lost in suburbia.

  She felt out of place in the blue jeans and polo shirt she was wearing instead of her normal combat gear. Being in civilian clothes made her feel vulnerable, and her left hand slipped to the horseshoe pendant hanging from her neck, an unconscious grounding technique. Her mother had given her the simple talisman, and the sterling silver was worn to a glossy finish from nervous friction. It reminded her of the life she had left behind and the damage her decision had done to her tight-knit family.

  It had been hard telling her mother that she was joining the army. She’d felt guilty as the tears spilled down her mom’s face, but she had made her choice, and there was nothing more to talk about.

  “You’re giving up your future to follow a boy?” her mom had screamed at her. “You are going to regret this for the rest of your life.”

  Renee tried to tell her the same thing she’d been trying to tell herself. She wasn’t doing this because her boyfriend had signed up. She wanted to tell her mom that she was afraid of college, and that after the awful years of being a terrible student, struggling with dyslexia, and feeling like an idiot in school, she felt this might be exactly what she needed. But she just couldn’t quite get it out.

  Finally, she found the address and pulled into the driveway she’d already passed three times. The white stucco walls and dark wooden trim were a drastic contrast to the dirty brown compounds of the Middle East, and the unfamiliarity made something as simple as finding an address incredibly difficult.

  She knocked on the heavy oak door and a moment later a man’s distorted face appeared in the lead-glass window. Her contact, Joseph Davis, worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency, and he was ruining her day.

  “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming by,” he said, holding open the door for her to come in.

  “We have a problem. I tried calling, but you didn’t pick up,” she said, getting right to business.

  “I must have been in the shower. You got time for dinner? Annie’s making meatloaf.”

  Renee looked around the pristine entryway, taking in the little touches that people fill their house with to make it a home. Joseph turned and walked through an open door, and she stepped in, careful not to track dirt onto the spotless terra-cotta tile.

  Following him into the kitchen, Renee saw a fit brunette standing over the stove. The woman frowned as Renee walked in, and immediately a palpable tension filled the air.

  “Annie, this is Renee. She flew in from Afghanistan to help us out at the office.”

  Renee could tell Annie didn’t like her right away, but she was used to the injustice of women acting hostile around her. Wives were the worst. Female soldiers weren’t supposed to look like she did, and the fact that their husbands were working long hours with the pretty blonde was interpreted as a threat. This was exactly why she preferred to stay in Afghanistan.

  Relationships had never been her strong suit, and observing the couple gave her a glimpse into what she’d given up to pursue her career. Renee had always planned on getting married, and she knew vaguely that she was running out of time. Someone had once told her that a young girl’s father is her model for future mates. If that was true, then it
was no wonder she was still single. Her dad had only paid her attention when she stood in front of him and demanded it.

  “Renee said she called, but I never heard it. You didn’t hear my phone ringing while I was in the shower, did you?”

  “Nope,” Annie said, looking back down at the pot she was stirring.

  She was a terrible liar, and Renee realized immediately that she’d probably heard the phone and most likely erased the call log.

  “The target got a call. He was on the line for ten seconds before hanging up and deactivating his phone,” Renee said, ignoring Annie’s scowls.

  “Shit, did you let the guys know?”

  “I let them know, but apparently someone canceled the surveillance. No one is watching him.”

  “What the fuck do you mean it got canceled? We had authorization for the rest of the month.”

  “Joseph,” his wife exclaimed, apparently surprised at his language.

  “Sorry, baby. Look, I have to go,” he said, grabbing his pistol from the kitchen table.

  “I’ll be in the car,” Renee said. It was obvious that this was going to need some smoothing over.

  She could hear the emotion in Annie’s voice as she made her way to the door. Outside, she shook her head as she unlocked the Jeep with the key fob and climbed in. Renee could imagine what Joseph was going through inside. The job demanded flexibility and total dedication, which left little time for healthy relationships.

  Renee had left Afghanistan forty-eight hours earlier and had already lost a day trying to get caught up with Joseph’s end of the operation. Her team was counting on her to bring back actionable intel, and she was getting nowhere sitting in her new partner’s driveway.

  According to the intelligence report Joseph had sent up the chain, he had found evidence that her target was about to make a major buy, and she needed to know what was important enough to pull him out of hiding. Three months ago she’d come across an American soldier of fortune by the name of Decklin who was funneling guns and money for al-Qaeda affiliates in the Mideast. At the same time, the Department of Defense’s intelligence division, or DIA, was investigating a two-million-dollar wire transfer that originated in Saudi Arabia and was traced to California. The recipient, a Dr. Keating, ran a company called BioCore, which had a handful of government contracts with the CIA and the DoD. Believing Decklin could be working with this Dr. Keating, Renee had been sent to California to assist the DIA.