He sat at a small wooden table, ordered a chai, and examined the photos he’d been taking throughout the morning since he’d landed—pictures of local children playing an impromptu football match in a closed lane, women entering the Kandahar Nursing and Midwifery Institute in pale blue chadaris, and the distant turquoise turrets of the mausoleum of Ahmad Shāh Durrānī, the congregational mosque said to contain the sacred cloak of the Islamic prophet, Muhammad.
“I can always count on you to show up when I least expect it.”
Wes glanced up to see the smiling face of Ahmad Qadir, his long-time ally and a local contact for journalists and photographers alike.
“I like to keep you on your toes, Qadir,” Wes smiled, gesturing for him to sit down.
“You always manage to do that,” Ahmad admitted with a smile, signaling to the shop owner for another cup of chai. “Chitur hasten,34 my friend?” Ahmad smiled, his teeth bright against the length of his dark beard.
“Man Khub hastam. Chuma chitur hasten?”35 Wes replied, pulling out a small envelope and handing it to Ahmad.
“Better if this is what I think it is,” Ahmad answered, slipping the envelope under his vest. “Your Persian has improved.”
“It’s still terrible, but I appreciate you not calling me on it,” Wes answered with a shrug. “You notice that envelope is thicker than usual?”
Ahmad sipped his chai. “And here I thought you were just happy to see me.”
“Well, that too,” Wes chuckled. “I’m looking for information on a man named Ibrahim Nazar.”
Ahmad gave him a startled look. “You’re looking for trouble, Wesley. I should give you your money back and tell you to go home.”
“Aww, come on now, Ahmad. I just got here,” Wes cajoled. “Give me a chance to get a little action first before you send me packing.”
Ahmad considered him a moment before glancing out across the busy square. “Why do you want to get information on a man like this?”
“I started a series on the cocaine-for-heroin trade in Brazil recently. The roads led me back to Afghanistan. And since we both know who controls opium production in this country, seemed fitting to go straight to the source,” Wes explained, sitting back casually, looking to any passerby like two old friends chatting under the shade of a tarp on an arid afternoon.
“That man’s heavily guarded,” Ahmad said. “You won’t get to him.”
“So he’s here?”
“He moves constantly,” Ahmad told him. “No one really knows where he is at any given time.”
“I want any information and contacts you can get for me on his operation—”
“Wesley, my friend,” Ahmad shook his head in warning. “The Afghan economy is completely dependent on opium production. A single-year’s harvest produces billions of dollars, and Nazar is the single largest employer for cultivation, processing, and transportation of opium. What you’re asking for isn’t merely difficult—it’s impossible.”
“Nobody likes a monopoly, Ahmad.”
“So says the American,” he responded with an eye roll. “Nazar is virtually untouchable. And your digging around will only make you a marked man.”
“What can I say, Ahmad?” Wes smiled. “I love trouble.”
“You’re a complete lunatic.”
“Possibly,” Wes shrugged as he pretended to examine his camera. “I want to know anything you can find out. Where he is, how he operates, who his enemies are—”
“You sound like CIA,” Ahmad observed.
Wes chuckled at that. “You’d know more about that than I would, Ahmad. I’m just a journalist trying to get a good story.”
“Or trying to get us both killed. You’re playing dice with death, Wesley,” Ahmad warned.
“When are you gonna learn, Ahmad? I’m not in danger. I am danger,” Wes replied, setting his camera down. “Nothing is scarier than being exposed. Figure I might as well be the one doing the exposing.”
Ahmad stood, tossing a couple coins onto the tabletop. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Baadan shoma ra bebinam,36 Ahmad,” Wes replied.
“God willing,” Ahmad muttered before disappearing in the mid-afternoon crowd.
Chapter 23
Dec 18th—Afternoon
West Loop, Chicago
J A C K
Jack examined his opponent carefully, gauging his mental tenacity, watching for changes in tactics as they traded combinations with one another, bobbing and weaving in the age-old boxer’s dance. While the guy had youth and boundless ambition on his side, Jack suspected he lacked the fundamental endurance that only years of training could instill.
Jack watched for the telegraphed hits, catching them a split second before their release. Gloved fists met his flesh, but they never quite landed, never quite had the intended effect. Jack worked the ring, wearing his opponent down as he feinted and jabbed, occasionally getting close enough to take a torso hit, only to deliver swift, hammering retribution. Jack came in punished quickly, retreating light on his feet, sweat rolling down his brow. Manny, his trainer, coached and reffed from the side of the ring, shouting encouragements and gruff reprimands.
After a couple rounds, Jack had his opponent’s number.
He jabbed him hard twice in the face, stunning the guy before pulling back just long enough to deliver a powerful right cross. Jack knocked the guy’s face so far to the left, he nearly fell over. Jack brought his momentum back in the opposite direction with a vicious left hook that knocked the other fighter sideways, polishing the whole thing off with a pummeling uppercut that lifted his opponent so high into the air, he accidentally spat out his mouth guard on a shocked gasp.
“Cojelo con take it easy, Jack,” Manny shouted from the side. “You’re beating on Ralphie like he owes you money, bro!”
“Whoever gets in the ring with me better show up to work,” Jack muttered said around his mouth guard.
“Jesus, Jack!” Manny threw up his hands. “Qué estás haciendo güey?37 You keep demolishing all your training partners like this and no one will work out with you!” Manny sighed, exasperated. “This is the third guy this week!”
“Then get me tougher guys,” Jack muttered, moving toward his corner.
Manny crossed his arms, shaking his head. “I’d organize another fight club for you but Sam would have my ass.”
Jack lifted a brow. “Last time I checked, she wasn’t your mother or your boss.”
“That don’t mean I ain’t afraid she’ll whoop my ass if she hears I aided and abetted murder, culero.”38 Manny replied, looking at him like he was crazy. “The way you’re going at it these days, I have a feeling I’m going to be giving testimony one day.”
Jack shrugged, noting a tweak in his shoulder. He winced, rotating it gingerly. He must have pulled a muscle.
“You alright?” Manny asked him. “You need the trainer?”
“I’m fine,” Jack replied, wiping his face with a towel. He thought about the fact that he hadn’t really slept more than a couple hours a night since waking up from his multi-day bender with Nia. “Actually, you got any painkillers?” Faced with yet another restless night of tossing and turning, the words were out of his mouth before he could fully consider them.
“Sure thing,” Manny nodded, pulling off Jack’s gloves. “Got some leftover Percs from my last bout.” He reached into his duffel bag and tossed the prescription bottle to Jack. “I hate that shit. Makes me feel too stupid. You can keep it.”
“Thanks.” Jack popped a couple into his mouth, figuring it would be enough to take the edge off. He’d take a couple more when he made it home, hoping they’d keep him down long enough to get a few hours of continuous, dreamless sleep.
“Jack, you done with your workout?” Mitch asked, untying his training gi as he entered the boxing area of the gym.
“Yeah, just finished,” Jack nodded, palming the prescription bottle as he picked up his gloves.
“Got some good news,” Mitch told
him, a pleased look in his eye.
Jack considered him. “It’d better be about Leviathan.”
“It is,” Mitch nodded, watching as Jack jumped down from the ring.
“Well?”
“One of Leviathan’s biggest backers has indicated an interest to divest,” Mitch informed him. “They’re willing to sell a major block of shares to us at a discount.”
Jack felt the first smile he’d had in days curl his lips. “That is good news.”
“If all goes to plan, we’ll have more than ten percent of Leviathan by next week.”
“Funnel it through at least three of our shell companies.”
“Done,” Mitch nodded. “Anything else you want for Christmas?”
Samantha in my arms.
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “Lucien Lightner’s head in a box.”
*
Dec 18th—Afternoon
Nice, France
R O X A N N E
When Rox observed her targets, she looked for all the different facets of their lives that would affect the most damage if exposed. There were the obvious things, of course: the extramarital affairs, the offshore accounts, the dual lives. But what she’d found over the years was that it wasn’t the indiscretions themselves that sliced as much, as it was the breach of trust between partners. It was rarely about the sex, the money, or the assets. It was about the betrayal of intimacy or of loyalty—triggering an avalanche of lies—that was the most painful. In those inescapable, undeniable moments of revelation, a mark’s world would begin to unravel. Rox only needed to tip the scales and step back while she watched what remained crash in a tumult of momentum and chaos, like pulling the string on an elaborately-woven garment.
The moment she saw Delacourt, she knew she’d found Lightner’s string.
Lightner had reserved a stunning seaside villa built on the side of the cliffs facing the cold azure waters of Anse de la Scaletta under a pseudonym. He was a slippery bastard—always on the move and difficult to track, but as soon as she’d discovered his relationship with Delacourt, she knew his mistress would lead her right to him. Rox’s patience paid off when she’d followed Delacourt to the villa. A woman such as Delacourt was as good a reason as any for Lightner to fall headlong into a ravine of his own making. In fact, he was so distracted with Delacourt, Rox had managed to steal into the villa, planting listening devices as well as cloning his phone within five minutes of his mistress’s arrival.
As Rox listened in on their lovemaking, she wondered if Lightner’s wife knew about Delacourt; if she knew about the handwritten love notes and the Cartier Caresse d’orchidées jewelry, or if she simply thought their affair was about the Agent Provocateur lingerie and silk bindings attached to the bed posts. Rox also wondered if Lightner was aware that Delacourt was similarly involved with a powerful French politician and a handsome Austrian artist, the latter whom Rox suspected the courtesan truly loved, despite his comparatively meager means.
Once Rox discovered the villa, she’d called Lightner’s wife in London, pretending to be a French realtor, confirming their appointment for a viewing of the vacation home her husband was considering purchasing. Laetitia Lightner, Lucien’s wife of nearly twenty years, had been thrilled at the call, operating under the assumption that her husband was surprising her with a multi-million dollar vacation home in the South of France for their family. She’d immediately booked a flight to Côte d’Azur. Rox arranged for a car to pick her up, ensuring no quick getaways once she found her husband and his mistress sharing a winter home that should have been hers, indulging in the simple intimacies any couple would.
To add fuel to the fire, Rox penned a sexy invite to Delacourt’s handsome Austrian artist, urging him to join her for a long weekend away at a friend’s home by the sea. Rox had also sent a car to pick him up at his studio in Paris, just to make certain his arrival would prevent Lightner from seeking refuge with Delacourt. When push came to shove, Rox doubted Delacourt would choose dramatic strife with Lightner over the open arms of the artist she loved.
First step to dismantling a man’s life: Take away his home. Give him no rest, no safe place to lay his head at the end of the day while everything around him begins to fall apart.
Rox was quietly removing the spark plugs from Lightner’s Lamborghini when Laetitia arrived. Rox heard her at the front door, imagined Laetitia reading the note Rox had left after she’d picked the locks, urging his wife to go inside to meet her husband for the private viewing. Rox made quick work of disabling his vehicle before she heard the first of the hysterical shouting.
“Lucien, you fucking maggot!” she heard Laetitia scream. “Is this your bloody whore, you slag?!”
Rox smiled.
She crept out of the garage just in time to see Delacourt’s handsome artist step from the car, the afternoon sunlight glinting off his chestnut waves, a happy, relaxed look on his face. She could see why Delacourt was so taken with him. Rox was almost disappointed she was going to miss this epic encounter as she watched him step toward the house, unaware of what he was walking into.
But alas, Rox had more stones to lay on the path to Lightner’s destruction, and there was no time to waste gloating over the inevitable win. Now she just needed to ruin his public image and reputation with a handful of phone calls to well-known reporters.
Step one was complete.
Onto the next one…
*
Dec 18th—Late Night
Shindand Air Base, Afghanistan
S A M A N T H A
Close to midnight, the jet touched down on one of the broad runways of Shindand Air Base in Western Afghanistan. Sam took in a deep breath of cold night air, taking in the desert moon dust of the alluvial plains surrounding them. Sam swore Afghanistan had a taste to it. If she’d been blindfolded and dropped into the country without her knowledge, she’d know where she was on the piquancy of the air alone. All those years she’d spent stationed here, she’d come to appreciate the harshly-beautiful austerity of the country, ravaged wilderness that it was.
While her team conducted munitions and equipment checks, reviewing and vetting inventory lists with various US Army personnel, Sam heard a footfall approach across the tarmac. She turned, peering into the darkness.
“When Morrissey told me Lieutenant Commander Samantha Wyatt would be landing in Afghanistan tonight, I thought, ‘No way is she coming back to this shithole.’”
Sam smiled, recognizing a voice she hadn’t heard in over seven years. She turned, seeing the familiar shadows of a tall man approach in the darkness. “And miss the chance to see you again, Wright?” she asked as he materialized before her. “Never.”
Davis Wright, the Navy SEAL she’d worked with to try and take down Ibrahim Nazar all those years ago, came to a stop in front of her wearing civilian clothing and a warm smile as he greeted her. Davis was a bit more salt than pepper these days, and he had a full beard now, but he still radiated the same ineffable vigilance she recalled from all those years ago. Sam reckoned he must be in his early forties now, though he still looked tautly muscled and fit as a fiddle.
“Samantha, you haven’t aged a day,” he told her, his eyes warm.
“I hope that’s a compliment, considering the last time you saw me, I was laid up in a military hospital,” she replied, grinning as she shook his hand.
A shadow passed over Davis’s face. “We should have killed that bastard Nazar then. I still think about that mission from time to time.”
“I should have killed that bastard Nazar,” Sam corrected. “But if you’ve spoken to Admiral Morrissey, then you know I’m about to get my second chance.”
“I heard,” Davis nodded. “That’s actually why I’m here,” he told her. “I wanted to let you know my team will support you in any way you need. I don’t want Nazar walking this earth any more than you do, with all the shit he’s done.”
Sam’s brows rose. “You know this is technically unsanctioned, right? Or did Morrissey neglect to ment
ion that fact?”
“Good thing more than half the missions my team have ever completed are black ops.”
“Look, Davis,” Sam began, putting a hand on his arm. “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, unless Morrissey has green-lit this with your CO, I can’t take the chance of any of your men being killed or court-martialed for helping me nail this guy once and for all. This isn’t a military op anymore,” she confessed. “It’s a personal vendetta. He sanctioned a hit on me and my partner in Rio, he’s killed Colonel Collins, and—”
“I saw the files, Samantha,” Davis interrupted her quietly. “And I wouldn’t offer assistance if I wasn’t fully aware of the consequences.” He glanced behind her, expression alert as her men approached. “Besides, we’re on loan from the CIA for this op, so while it may be unofficial, no one is getting court-martialed if everybody is getting what they want, right?”
Sam took that information in, wondering what had changed in the week since she’d seen Morrissey in D.C. As Rush and Talon flanked her, unconsciously protective, she took a moment to introduce them. “Rush, Talon: I’d like you to meet the Blue Team assault leader of SEAL Team Six, Chief Warrant Officer Davis Wright.”
She could almost sense Talon’s and Rush’s eyes widening.
“It’s an honor, sir,” Rush said, shaking his hand. “Evan Rush, formerly of SEAL Team Eight.”
“Always a pleasure to meet another SEAL brother,” Davis nodded.
“And this is Lee Talon, also formerly of SEAL Team Eight,” Sam finished as the men greeted and shook. “He’s my sharpshooter.”
“I saw you run sniper demonstrations at Coronado,” Davis remarked as he greeted Talon. “You’re a helluva shot.”
“Thank you, sir,” Talon acknowledged, uncharacteristically circumspect in the face of one of his modern military heroes.
“Davis here was just offering to help us out,” Sam informed them.
“We were on point to get Ibrahim Nazar eight years ago,” Davis explained. “But that bastard got away from us after he knifed Sam here. Hasn’t sat right with me ever since.”
Complicated Creatures: Part Two Page 25