by Vince Milam
“Agreed. But they’ll sleep at Archer’s place. We’ll be there to meet them.”
“Alright. Let’s get this show on the road.”
We did. I requested cabin privacy from the two pilots after takeoff. I unclasped the shipping cases and reviewed Marcus’s weapons’ cache. Two Colt 901 rifles, .308 caliber. Each with an Elcan Specter scope wired for night vision. Two HK45 pistols, semiautomatic. Suppressors for the pistols. When attached, the pistol/suppressor combination made for an awkward length. Marcus also brought two shoulder holsters to accommodate the added size.
“Do not even think about giving me grief about the HKs,” Marcus said. He knew my preference for Glocks.
I didn’t. Heckler & Koch manufactured a fine firearm. The pistols were chambered in .45 ACP, a no-nonsense round and more than satisfactory. Marcus also included two Remington Model 870 12 gauge pump shotguns. Just in case.
“You forgot the blowguns,” I said, admiring the collection.
“Funny. We should handle most any situation with this assortment. Unless you plan on an underwater assault.”
We both snoozed the flight’s final hour. Wheels down woke us both. The Pacific glittered under the cloudless sky, the weather perfect. At the car rental counter I used a false driver’s license and a legit credit card tied to a Cayman Island bank and found an obscure side street. Parked and kept the car idling. Pulled a GPS detector from my rucksack.
“What are you doing?” Marcus asked.
“Locating the GPS device.”
“Why?”
“Hard lesson learned.”
On a previous gig the Company had tracked me through a rental car’s GPS. Wouldn’t happen again. The detector signaled a location tucked behind the left front bumper. I stretched out on the asphalt and found a small card-deck-sized gray box. Removed the device’s battery.
“I’d forgotten you lived such a spook-filled life,” Marcus said, watching.
“When in Rome.”
“Just to confirm. We anticipate the operational area’s a spook-free zone, right?”
“I think we’re ahead of the pack.”
We headed for Archer’s house. Traffic was bad, bumper-to-bumper in stretches. Marcus rolled down his window, produced a cigar, and clacked the Zippo open.
“You may note,” I said. “This is a nonsmoking rental car.”
“You may note the state of California wouldn’t be happy about any of the hardware we carry.” He paused and fired the smoke. “Why, between the cigar and exotic weaponry we’re a regular Bonnie and Clyde.”
It struck me that this was the first time Marcus had teamed for a domestic operation. We’d performed missions throughout the world together. Both rural and urban environments. Along with our Delta Force brothers. Post-Delta, the lone incident where he’d engaged happened on his ranch near Fishtail, Montana. Far from an urban setting. An ugly and intense and bloodletting event, but on such isolated geography as to make civilian involvement moot. This was a different ballgame. A mission more attuned to my recent endeavors, recent contracts. Marcus had no truck with such a world.
Offsetting that was the simple fact that there wasn’t another person on this good earth I’d rather have with me, covering my back. A man who defined tactical and ensured the operational t’s were crossed and i’s dotted. Blunt, direct, perform the mission. A man who’d lay down his life for me. And I him. A stone-cold fact overriding any other factor.
Traffic cleared as we approached Archer’s subdivision. A slow drive-by of the cul-de-sac’s entrance revealed a sedan parked in Archer’s driveway. Excellent. Someone was home. The Amsler radar tingled, the period at the end of this long and bloody series of events within reach. I expressed as much to Marcus. He, of course, focused on the immediate.
“Ingress and egress via the backyard,” he said. “Take our time, pick the proper moment. We’re two locals on the hike path. Nice day for a walk.”
“Roger that. Tuck into the bushes along the fence, visually assess the backyard and house.”
“Then over the top. Quick dash toward the garage back door. Assess, act, execute.”
Execute was a performance indicator within our jargon, and a terminal implication as well. Ugly stuff, but I focused on Amsler, now at last within reach. A headshaking hard-to-believe. But she was here, or close by.
A small parking lot afforded a semblance of solitude alongside the power line greenbelt. Two other vehicles, empty. The owners jogged or walked or pedaled along the two paved paths. We both kept our light jackets on—cover for the shoulder holsters.
“Are you still contemplating the Swiss option?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m not,” he said and chambered a round.
We locked eyes.
“Give me a chance to talk with her. All I’m asking.”
He shifted his gaze out the front windshield. A nostril sigh, a light headshake.
“You’d best hope she talks fast.” He opened his car door.
“You losing the lid?” I asked. Marcus still wore his Stetson.
“Why?”
“It might be worth a mention the key for a civilian incursion is ensuring no witnesses can recall anything. Like a black guy in western wear and Stetson.”
Without comment he removed the wide-brimmed hat and tossed it into the backseat. We left the vehicle and strolled the quarter-mile toward the back of Archer’s house. I kept my hands in the front pockets of my jeans, a casual stroll.
“If she’s here, what about the stuff she’s been brewing?” he asked. He’d pulled a cigar, thought better of it, and returned the smoke to an inside jacket pocket.
“Play it by ear. See what’s there. Containerize whatever we find. Head to the hills and bury it. Your point about the Swiss being human was well taken.”
“Miracles never cease.”
“But I’m still leaving the haul-her-back-to-Switzerland option open.”
Marcus ignored my statement, but he clearly grasped the toxin’s mysterious nature and didn’t press for more detail. Uncharted turf—on both our parts. A fact, a gray area, not affecting the core mission, which was: stop this madness. End it.
“She’s got a sixth sense,” I said as we approached the tall cedar fence around the half-circle of Archer’s cul-de-sac. “She’ll run if there’s a whiff of pursuit.”
“All the more reason for rapid action.”
We halted at the intersecting fence line of Archer and his neighbor. We stood back to back and scoped the area, the pathways, sought movement of any sort.
“Clear,” I said.
“Clear,” he repeated.
We ducked into the thick, shoulder-high bushes and peeked over the fence. A sliding-glass back door, sure enough. With the curtain drawn shut. All good. The garage back door where expected. No dog, at least not outside. And no noise. Dead still. I dug into a pocket and pulled out two sets of blue latex gloves. Handed Marcus a pair. His initial reaction was to stare at the offer as if it were some foreign object, unrelated to anything he might require. I got it. Fingerprints weren’t an issue in Yemen or Afghanistan or Angola. But this was domestic turf, and there were fair odds we would leave bodies behind.
He internalized the need, delivered a brief and quiet snort of disgust. We stretched the tight latex and covered too-large hands. Then over the top, fast and silent. We pulled our weapons and dashed toward the back door of the garage. Halted, listened. Littering the ground at our feet were a half-dozen Davidoff cigarette butts. Each with but a few puffs taken. I indicated the butts for Marcus, gave a thumbs-up. We had her. Maybe. I should have felt a greater sense of exultation, or at least satisfaction. But the moment was tinged with something else. A sense of wrong trail, wrong place and time. A gut thing, but one persistent and polluting. I shook it off. Amsler could be positioned on the other side of the door, stirring her cauldron. No time for doubts.
Chapter 33
Silence. My ear near the back door, my expectations set for the c
link of lab glassware, movement. Nothing. Two unseen joggers chatted as they loped past along the greenbelt path. A commercial jet far overhead exited San Diego airspace. Birds chirped on a gorgeous day. I heard a voice, too muted for recognition, too distant to have originated inside the garage. A male voice. Inside the house.
I hand-signaled Marcus, enquired if he heard anything. He returned a slight headshake. No. But it sounded somewhere inside, no doubt. The voice stopped. I placed a hand on the doorknob, the other with weapon ready. I glanced at Marcus. He nodded. I’d go first, low, and eliminate threats. Marcus, on my heels, would handle any remaining issues. Which included a possible Amsler kill shot. He’d also cover my back, with an eye toward the inside garage door leading into the house.
A single rapid and smooth motion. The door opened—with minimal noise from hinges—and a pistol-first slide-through, targets sought. I stepped into emptiness. A plain-vanilla car garage. Shelves with yard implements and stored household items. A lawnmower, workbench with tools, old cardboard boxes filled with whatever. No lab, no Amsler, no indications of cooking. Then the voice again. A phone conversation—one-sided from our perspective. A straightforward chat, businesslike. But not English. Or Farsi, or Swiss.
It was a Russian. He spoke without a care in the world, paused, spoke again. All indications pointed toward complete unawareness of our presence in the garage. What the hell?
Marcus picked up on the voice and remained in pure operational mode. A silent stride across the concrete floor and alongside the door leading to the house’s interior. An adamant head indication to get my ass in gear and prepare for another entry. The Russian voice had thrown me, and I stood stock-still. The weird factor cranked up.
Marcus glared, gave another head jerk. Both actions filled with, “Hey, dumbass. Follow standard operational protocol.”
I can’t say I fully snapped out of it. But his directives prompted the appropriate reaction, although distraction and confusion reigned. It made no sense, none. A Russian jabbered away inside the house. I had a quick flashback of Jules’s skeptical response to my certainty that the Russians would now back away. But she’d intimated their potential involvement would not be to further Amsler’s effort. So why this Russian?
Get real, Lee. Get operational. I stood on the killing floor, safety off, soon to deliver quick and sure violence on the other side of the door. Two wooden steps led to the entrance, Marcus and I positioned at either side. I stepped onto the second step, focusing my weight placement above the underneath wooden support structure to minimize creaks. The Russian—clearly having a phone conversation—continued talking. His voice’s volume raised and lowered dependent upon what direction he faced. The guy strolled around as he conversed. I tested the doorknob. Unlocked. I nodded toward Marcus; a return nod indicated all green. Waited for the moment. Waited until his voice pointed away from us, his back in my direction.
No stealth. Burst in and gain the target. I did. The weird meter cranked up several more notches. Between us on the kitchen counter was his weapon. Another suppressed semiautomatic pistol of Russian make. He stood five paces past his weapon in the middle of the open living area. The Russian turned with a casual air, acknowledged our presence and the two pistols aimed his way with an agreeable nod. And the crazy bastard kept talking on the phone! His other hand gesticulated as he emphasized verbal points. Nearby, a couch. A couch with a dead man, eyes open, a perfect centered red hole in his forehead. The dead man had the visual appearance of a MOIS agent. What the hell?
Marcus brushed past me, gun trained, while the Russian continued his conversation. I eased closer as well. The guy wore a light-blue windbreaker, khakis, buzz haircut. Nondescript as could be.
“Don’t know,” I said. “Don’t know what the deal is or what’s going on. I just know this is beyond strange.”
The Russian captured my comment and spoke into the phone again, cool as a cucumber.
“You think, James Bond?” Marcus shook his head and shot me a quick glance. “I thought you said we were ahead of the spooks.”
“Apparently not.”
“You think?”
Marcus would take action within the next several seconds. Either allow me management of the current reality or put a bullet in the Russian’s head.
“Let me handle this,” I said.
A preemptive move on my part, ensuring the Russian remained vertical until we gained answers, more insight. In midsentence the guy pronounced “Case Lee” into the phone. Oh, man. The last freakin’ thing I wanted to hear.
“Sure,” Marcus said. “You handle this. The two of you being on a first name basis and all. You handle this until I get uncomfortable, which isn’t too far away. Then I handle it.”
The Russian ended his call, kept both hands visible, and tossed the phone onto the couch alongside the dead Iranian.
“This is a cleanup operation,” he said. “As you know.”
I didn’t know jack except we faced an FSB hitter. The Russian spoke English with a heavy accent. The FSB, Russia’s version of the CIA, ensured their field agents were polished and professional and operated within areas where their language skills could pass for a local. Not this guy. Nope, here stood a wet-work specialist. A professional killer. Ice water ran through his veins, attitude assured and nonchalant.
“Iranian?” I asked, nodding toward the couch’s expired occupant.
“Of course.”
The MOIS agent constituted the Case Lee greeting committee. They’d covered their bases in the event I’d tracked Amsler this far. That part I understood. Other pieces fell into place as new questions arose. MOIS had gone rogue. They’d teamed with Amsler and disregarded their patrons, the Russians. That wouldn’t do. At all. A valid puzzle piece. But this hitter’s appearance said others knew of Archer. Only the Russians? Amsler had told them of the plan while in Rio?
“Amsler and Archer?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not here. And not here for a day or two. Maybe three. A pity.”
Yeah, a pity. This guy could have whacked them both and taken the sample back to mother Russia. A pity.
“So what now?” I asked.
Important question on many levels. Amsler and Archer had split. I doubted this guy had any clues about their whereabouts. Plus the Russians wanted me dead because of past activities in Suriname and New Guinea. I wasn’t exactly top of their shitlist, but I was on it. This guy had ID’d me, knew my name. Exhibited peculiar behaviors in my direction. Behaviors that indicated a teammate, a fellow comrade. At least for this mission. And if such were the case, this presented an opportunity to leverage the situation and shove me further down their kill list. Not off it, perhaps, but a notch or two lower. Become a catch-as-catch-can hit. Self-serving given the current situation, but when life gives you lemons…
“Now? We are happy you are here. Best of luck.”
The accent so thick as to forestall any nuance. Still, more pieces fell into place. They were handing this off to me—lock, stock, and barrel. It told me that when it came to next steps, they had no clue.
The wake-up light flicked on, and more puzzle pieces fell into place. Russian fingerprints on the Amsler-Iranian hookup. MOIS gone rogue. Amsler disappears. I didn’t know the murky espionage world to any great depth, but I did understand one cardinal rule, one Jules had emphasized: don’t take action that could escalate events onto a global stage. Everyone in spookville got it, with few exceptions. The Iranians were one of the outfits who’d failed to grasp the concept. They didn’t care.
“Well?” Marcus asked.
“Wait one. Working on it.”
The FSB was throwing the Company a we-tried bone. We tried to rein in the Iranians, they’d say. Put a stop to it. Even killed one of their agents. But your guy arrived. That Case Lee fellow. So we’re all on the same page. Let’s stop this madness.
I fell far outside the realm of a CIA “guy.” The FSB knew it. But they also understood I had some form of connection to the Company, however t
enuous. From their perspective, a positive connection. I failed to hold the same view.
“You got anything resembling a trail?” I asked the Russian. “Any leads?”
Straws grasped. He shrugged.
“May I light a cigarette?”
His accent weighed thick; his stance remained matter-of-fact.
“No. So this is it? You’re walking away?”
“Wait a damn minute,” Marcus said.
“I follow instructions,” the wet-work specialist said. “As do you. They are not here. This Iranian was here. I completed my work.”
Sent to clean house, he’d done his part. Sleuthing, investigation—not among his skill sets. The one thing he did offer was a halfway good word passed up the Russian food chain. Ran into Case Lee. Reasonable fellow. Yes, I’ll put a bullet in his head if you’d like, the next time we meet. As for Amsler? Who knows?
“Okay. Out the front door.”
I signaled with the pistol’s barrel. Marcus shot me another are-you-nuts look until the trust element took over. He gathered himself, snorted loudly, and led operations.
“You will exit through the front door,” he said, addressing the Russian. “You will not walk past your vehicle. Cut across the lawn. Any sudden movement, and I will kill you. Understood?”
“I would like my weapon. And my phone.”
“Come back for them in one hour. If you come back earlier, I will kill you. Drop your car keys on the floor.”
The Russian glanced my way, sought support. I shrugged in return. Out of my hands, bud. Marcus Johnson called these shots. He slid his hand with a slow and gentle motion into a front pocket, retrieved the keys, and dropped them on the floor.
“You will walk to the end of the street. You will turn right. You will continue walking for an hour. Understood?”
The Russian nodded back, unafraid but accepting. Part of the job, a pain in the ass, but not unreasonable requests.
“Do anything wrong, anything, and I will hunt you down and kill you.”