Complicated Creatures: Part Two

by Alexi Lawless

“Generally, the US military’s unofficial policy is to turn a blind eye to opium production, as more than half of the Afghan economy is reliant on poppy farming. Frankly, we don’t see it as being central to our anti-terrorism mission,” Winch replied matter-of-factly.

  “Except that said poppies not only constitute the livelihood of Afghanistan’s indigent, rural farmers, they also benefit all parties embroiled in political conflict in Afghanistan, as well as the country’s criminals,” Sam remarked dryly, steepling her fingers under her chin.

  “We’re not here to eradicate opium farming, Lieutenant Commander Wyatt,” Winch admitted. “Our interests are to maintain the balance of power in an endlessly-precarious political situation. In the absence of the Taliban in this region, local tribal leaders have largely controlled the opium trade, but they are also very useful to us in providing intelligence, scouting, and keeping their territories clean of al-Qaeda and Taliban insurgents.”

  “So Admiral Morrissey’s willing to aid us in wiping out Nazar as long as it’s politically expedient for him to do so,” Sam concluded. So much for altruism. “How convenient for you that I basically volunteered my men and equipment to do the job.”

  Winch glanced at Davis. “We didn’t exactly show up to the party empty-handed, did we?”

  “I would have gladly volunteered,” Davis murmured to her. “Just turns out the timing worked out on both sides.”

  Sam nodded grimly, looking back at the production facilities in the satellite photos. “Do you have visual confirmation that Nazar is here in Herat?”

  “We do,” Winchell nodded. “He was spotted today leaving his compound.”

  Sam looked across the table at Avi Oded. “Based on what you learned of Nazar’s modus operandi, do you think it makes the most sense to hit him where he lives or where he works?” she asked, glancing back at the maps.

  “Depends on your appetite for civilian casualties,” Avi responded. “It’ll be easier to get to him at his processing facility, since his compound will likely be seriously fortified, but I think striking him on the road may also be an effective penetration point.” Avi looked to Simon. “You’re the wheel man, Michaelson. What do you think?”

  “We hit him on the road, I reckon,” Simon nodded. “Leviathan will be running a minimum three-car envoy with armored trucks, so we could catch him on the Islam Qala highway or one of the back roads where we can nail the convoy with an RPG.”

  Sam shot Winch an impassive look. “I’m assuming you know we don’t intend to bring him in alive?”

  Winch just smiled. “The United States will disavow any knowledge of attempts to assassinate Ibrahim Nazar,” he answered.

  “This won’t be an attempt, mate,” Simon smirked. “She’ll want his head, this one will,” he said, nodding toward Sam.

  “We both want his head,” Davis remarked coolly, sitting back in his chair.

  Sam looked back at Winch. “Let’s go over everything you’ve got on Nazar’s schedule. I want to know where he goes, when he goes, and for how long.” Sam turned to Davis. “We’ll want to begin surveillance tonight.”

  Davis rubbed his hands together. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  *

  Dec 20th—Late Morning

  Nazar’s Compound in Herat City, Afghanistan

  S A M A N T H A

  Samantha passed the perimeter of Nazar’s compound wearing the traditional pale blue silk chadari, a disguise she hadn’t donned since her last tour of duty in Afghanistan so many years ago. But this time she carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun carefully hidden in a basket of fruits and vegetables. She walked by the Leviathan security team largely ignored. It’s always the people you least expect, boys, she thought, smiling to herself.

  “I count four wireless cameras at the top of the front compound wall, a steel reinforced front gate, and at least four guards in plain clothes patrolling the street,” she murmured into her throat mic.

  “There will be at least two more guards standing just behind the gate, carrying standard-issue M4 automatic rifles and at least two side arms a piece,” Avi replied into her ear piece. “They’ll be wearing bullet-proof and heat-resistant Kevlar plates as well, if they’re following SOP.”

  “Oh, these buggers are following SOP alright,” Simon remarked next. “I see fortified guard posts at each corner, about fifty yards apart. They can monitor vehicular and foot traffic from all sides, the ruddy bastards.”

  “They’re likely running three shift changes to keep the men fresh and alert, minimum of twelve men per shift throughout the compound,” Avi added from across the street where he and Henri sat in a beaten-up Land Cruiser wearing traditional garb.

  “You mean to tell me that there are at least thirty-six Leviathan guys guarding one man?” Talon chimed in from his perch a few buildings away. “That’s a whole new definition for overkill.”

  “We have special forces from four different countries trying to kill him,” Avi pointed out. “It’s no wonder he’s got a legion of people protecting him.”

  “Where the hell does he keep them all?” Talon marveled.

  “They’re probably hot bedding,” Avi explained. “You know, like on submarines—they rotate bunks with each other, swapping rack time with each shift change.”

  “Well, shit, in that case, why don’t we just get them all their own hotel rooms, some cold cases of beer, and some attractive women to lure them out?” Talon quipped. “They’ll clear the compound in ten minutes flat and just leave Nazar with us.”

  Sam rounded the corner of the compound as she continued listening. She was just crossing the street when she caught the subtle wink of a telephoto lens.

  “Do we have camera surveillance across the street, southeast side?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Negative,” Simon answered. “I’m on the northwest side. Rush and Kurt are still at the base reviewing drone footage, and Davis’s SEAL team is scouting the processing facilities by Hari River.”

  “Then we’ve got some company, boys,” she announced. “Avi, you’re counterintelligence. Anything I should know about?”

  “It’s not Israeli, if that’s what you mean,” Avi replied. “But with Nazar’s list of enemies, who knows who else it could be.”

  “I’m heading over to check it out,” Sam answered. “Talon, watch my back.”

  “Got your six, boss,” he answered over the comm.

  Samantha approached the bank of shrubby olive trees where she’d seen the rounded black eye of the camera lens. She walked slowly, pausing to make a show of checking her fruit basket as she peered through the eye netting of the chadari, trying to get a better glimpse of who was holding the camera. Given the height of the lens, she guessed it was a man. She saw a rustle, hardly visible, as the mystery photographer withdrew the lens from the dense leaves of the trees she neared. The gap he’d made in the bushes closed up behind him like a lamina of smooth, silvery scales.

  Sam passed quietly, looking for a break in the bushes, listening for the sound of footfalls or engine noise as she neared. At the end of the corner, she saw the garden wall of a private home and a slightly-opened iron gate.

  “I’m going in to check it out,” she whispered. “Talon, you’ll lose sight of me. Simon, you come around to cover. Avi, you and Henri keep eyes on the compound while I check this out.”

  “Wilco,” Simon answered. “Moving into position.”

  Samantha slipped inside the gate, careful not to make a sound as she stepped inside an unkempt courtyard surrounded by dense thickets of Russian olive trees and blooming Tamarisk bushes. Sam gave the house a cursory glance as she turned a slow circle, her hand holding the handle of her gun in the pocket of her chadari just in case she was attacked.

  The house appeared locked up. A mid-range sedan covered in a thin sheen of desert dust sat silent under a carport. She couldn’t see movement, but she could sense someone else’s presence, instinct triggering the fine hairs on the back of her neck. Her finger rested lig
htly on the trigger as she debated her options.

  First option: wait him out. See who moved first in this strange game of chicken. She didn’t know why she knew he was alone, but some sixth sense told her it was just the two of them in this secret, forgotten garden a mere stone’s throw away from death’s door.

  Second option: hide, seek, and attack. But she’d have to take off the chadari to do that; risk exposing her identity. And when the two of them finally found each other in the thicket, the sounds of their eventual tussle for supremacy would likewise jeopardize her, potentially involving Simon in the skirmish and almost certainly betraying the entire team to Leviathan’s security.

  Third option: leave, hideout, and wait for him to withdraw and retreat. Keeping an eye on this house wouldn’t be a hardship since they already had eyes on Nazar. The unidentified infiltrator would have to leave eventually.

  “Boss, I’m just outside,” Simon said into comms.

  “Stay put,” Sam whispered, withdrawing. As she moved toward the gate, she sensed the barest hint of movement behind her. She turned again, readying for an attack.

  But none came.

  No one stood behind her, the courtyard quiet as the wind blew gently through the olive trees. Sam scanned the space one more time, certain that someone was there with her even though she could not see him.

  No matter. She’d return tonight under the cover of darkness. Because friend or foe, they had company.

  And she would find out who it was.

  Chapter 26

  Dec 20th—Late Afternoon

  Oslo, Norway

  R O X A N N E

  From inside the hacker’s loft, Rox observed the man who called himself Hasse Knutsson as he crossed the street below, returning to his residence in Oslo’s trendy Tjuvholmen district, appropriately translated to English as “Thief Island.” This once-rough industrial dockland neighborhood now gleamed with sloping glass-and-wood complexes, art galleries, and reclaimed warehouses; home to young, hip Scandinavian yuppie couples, talented creatives who adorned themselves with too many piercings and tattoos, and, apparently, skilled computer hackers on the lam. Hackers like Hasse—boys with too much talent and definitely not enough paranoia.

  Though it was just barely four o’clock in the afternoon, the Norwegian winter sky was already darkening as nighttime approached. Rox didn’t know how the Scandinavians could stand it—this near-constant darkness of wintertime. She continued to watch Hasse as he picked his way through the snow-plowed pedestrian walkway balancing grocery bags and a coffee cup despite the slip and slide of the snow beneath his feet.

  She stepped away from Hasse’s window as he disappeared below at the building’s entrance, counting the seconds as she heard the heavy mechanics of the industrial elevator he was taking rise to the fourth floor.

  Rox cocked her gun, a modified Ruger 22 with a locked bolt that prevented the escape of gas except through the suppressor—an excellent gun for close-range assassinations and quiet kills. Hasse’s own guns sat completely disassembled on the coffee table, though from the look of them—polished and basically brand new—he’d never had to use them.

  As Hasse entered his loft, humming along to something playing through his earbuds, Rox watched him cross the broad open space of the loft to his kitchen, tossing his keys on the counter as he set down his groceries. He was younger and taller than she imagined, with overlong blonde hair that made him look like a baby-faced sheepdog. Rox watched him put milk and orange juice into the fridge, abruptly belting out a Guns N’ Roses chorus as he pantomimed Axl Rose’s iconic hip swivel.

  Paradise City, indeed, Rox smiled, waiting for him to realize she was standing behind him.

  Hasse opened the freezer, making a show of it before plunging his hand into the ice maker, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. His whole body tensed as the realization hit him. He turned slowly, yanking out his earbuds as he saw her across the room.

  “You shouldn’t hide weapons in the freezer, Hasse,” Rox remarked casually as she approached him, gun raised. “If the gun doesn’t jam, your bullets fire at a lower power with a reduced coil.”

  “Tell that to the Norwegian military,” he replied flippantly as he stepped back, reaching for his knife block.

  “Bet I can shoot you faster than you can throw a knife,” Rox drawled, stopping a few feet away. “Besides, I’d prefer not to kill you, Hasse. Too much of a mess,” she explained genially.

  “My name is not Hasse,” he bullshitted, abandoning his attempt at the knife once he realized it would do him no good. “You’ve got the wrong guy—I’m Andreas Jørgensen.”

  “Save your assumed identities for the chicks you pick up at the bar,” Rox replied. “I’m just here for that naughty little mind of yours.”

  He blinked, stepping back until he could go no farther. She watched him debate whether to continue with his charade or just drop the act. Rox could feel him leaning toward the latter.

  “Who are you?” he asked instead.

  “You were paid a ludicrous sum of money to hack into the computers at Lennox Chase and hand over the itineraries of Samantha Wyatt and Carrick Nelson,” she explained. “Now I need you to pay off the debt you owe to them.”

  “Are you Interpol?”

  Rox laughed a little at that. Today she had long red hair and the dramatic makeup of a well-to-do goth; her clothes asymmetrically cut in expensive black leather. She fit right in with the artsy types hanging out along the waterfront, talking shit about art and philosophy; smoking expensive French cigarettes.

  “No, Hasse,” Rox shook her head. “I’m worse. I’m the tax man.”

  “I can give you the money back—” he argued.

  “You really think this is just about money, Hasse?” Rox tutted. “Did you really think we wouldn’t find you? That you could just give us what you were paid and that would be enough?”

  Hasse edged past the kitchen island across from her, eyes darting toward the living room. And then he saw it, all three of his guns disassembled on the table, neatly lined up, like a training exercise.

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, shit,” Rox repeated, amused. “Creative hiding places though. I’ll give you that.” She was behind him so fast, Hasse wasn’t able to turn around before she’d jammed the end of the suppressor into his kidney. “It’s simple, really—what we want from you, Hasse.”

  He exhaled a slow breath.

  “What is it?” he asked finally.

  “The man who hired you?” Rox asked. “I want to smoke him out.”

  “I don’t know who he is,” Hasse pleaded. “Everything was done anonymously—communication on dark net, electronic transfers in Bitcoin—”

  Rox noticed that his Scandinavian accent became thicker when he was nervous and when he lied. She pulled a Taser from the pocket of her duster jacket and pressed it into his back, delivering several excruciating joules of power into his nervous system. Hasse’s muscles locked in frozen pain before he collapsed to his knees in shock. Yanking the Taser, she kicked hard him across the room, his inert body sliding across the polished wooden floor.

  As Hasse lay gasping for breath, tears running down his face, his muscles remained locked in a garish, awkward contortion. Rox sat down casually on the arm of a chair in front of him, crossing her legs as she examined him indifferently.

  “Like I said, Hasse, I’m not here to kill you,” she smiled briefly. “But I’ve got no problem with putting you through a great deal of pain to get what I want.”

  “Wh—what—” he gasped, his body still unable to execute his mind’s commands properly.

  “You will hack into every account associated with Lucien Lightner. His emails, bank accounts, credit cards, stock portfolios, IDs. Hell, I want access to his library card. I want anything and everything that makes him an individual in the modern world, and I want it now.”

  Hasse stared up at her. Rox watched him weigh his options as the pain began to recede. She could see the fear growing strong
er as he saw the danger lurking behind her casual gaze, the sadistic streak behind the languorous smile she gave him.

  “And if I do this, does this make us even?” he asked on a tremulous breath, contorting a little as he tried to sit up.

  Rox examined him, debating whether she could allow him to live or not after the deed was done.

  She shrugged. “For now.”

  *

  Dec 20st—Evening

  Nazar’s Compound in Herat City, Afghanistan

  S A M A N T H A

  Samantha lay on her belly under an old truck across the street from the house where she’d seen the photographer earlier in the day. From her vantage point, she could watch the gate she’d slipped out of hours ago as well as the high eastern wall of Nazar’s compound.

  She’d returned a couple hours ago, dressed in tactical blacks, her hair tucked in a black skull cap, camouflage around her eyes and face. Using infrared binoculars, she watched silently as two of Leviathan’s guards patrolled past, openly carrying their assault rifles now that they were under cover of darkness.

  At this point, it was a waiting game. Between her team and ST6, they had every angle of Nazar’s home and main place of business covered. It was just a matter of finding the right point of vulnerability and nailing him when the moment of truth arrived.

  And that moment was close.

  Sam could feel it as sure as she could sense an impending storm before seeing the darkening horizon. She felt wired and ready, every sense heightened, hyperconscious as she scanned for opportunities, weaknesses… mistakes.

  A trace of movement flickered past her peripheral. She dropped her hand to her Beretta, finger light on the trigger. Sam watched as a tall, dark figure cut a swath across the road, moving fast toward the house where she’d seen the photographer in the olive trees.

  “Tango, west corner,” she murmured.

  “Need cover?” Julien Henri responded, lying in wait a few yards closer to the compound. He was easily one of the best close quarter combat men she’d ever worked with, but she wanted to pin this guy herself.