by Brian Drake
Stiletto ran to his car and started the motor.
He wanted to check the Blaser home before reporting to the embassy. The gunmen at the mall suggested the worst, but what if. . .
Presently Stiletto switched off the lights and guided the rental to the curb a few doors down from the house. The Blasers owned a single-level at the end of the street with a mix of open space and trees behind the home.
Scott followed the sidewalk. The night’s chill dried the sweat on his face. Street lamps lit the way. The houses on either side showed no signs of life at this hour--until he passed one fence and woke a dog. He ignored the barking and strode on. When he came abreast of the Blaser house, he dropped behind a car parked on the street. The dog kept barking. The Blaser house showed as little life as the rest of the neighborhood. Until the front curtain moved.
A subtle movement, sure, but the kind of quick check a sentry would make in case the barking signaled the arrival of a rescue team. Which meant something in the house might be worth rescuing.
Two vehicles sat in the driveway, one a small passenger car and the other a large SUV. From his dealings with Blaser in the past, only Blaser’s wife drove. Lars biked or used public transit. The SUV was an enemy crew wagon. Scott slid into the shadows on the side of the house and climbed over a gate, the old wood wobbling a little. Landing hard on a concrete path with yard tools to his left, he stayed low and advanced. The Blasers had no pets to disturb.
Darkened windows lined the side of the house. When Scott reached the corner, he stopped and scanned the yard. Swimming pool, garden, some trees. A pool of light spilled across a portion of the patio. Shadows moved across the light.
A shovel, rake, and smaller pieces of garden equipment lay against the fence to Scott’s right. He put away his pistol and grabbed the shovel. He rounded the corner to see the sliding glass doors that provided a partial view of the family room and adjacent kitchen. A man holding a stubby submachine gun focused his attention on the family room.
Stiletto launched the shovel like a spear. He threw high to compensate for the heavy front end. As the shovel arced and began to descend toward the glass, Stiletto hauled out the .45. The metal blade struck the glass low but achieved the desired result. The glass shattered, first in the middle, then spider-cracks weakened the rest of the pane. The glass cascaded across the pool of light. The armed man turned with his weapon up. Before he completed the turn, Stiletto detached the gunman’s jaw from his face with a .45 slug.
A woman screamed. Stiletto charged through the opening, more glass crunching under him. He swung left, right. Only Mrs. Blaser and her two kids occupied the family room.
“Where are the others?”
Rubber soles squeaked on the kitchen tile. Stiletto spun and fired at the gunman, who ducked back. The slug tore a hole in the wall.
“Far corner and stay low!” Stiletto snatched the dead man’s automatic weapon and jammed the stock into his shoulder. He heard Mrs. Blaser telling her kids to move. Scott watched the kitchen and the hallway to the left that led to the front door and living room.
The second gunman rounded the corner ahead, attempting to come down the dark hall, but stopped short. Stiletto stitched him stomach to chest. The gunman decorated the wall with crimson flecks and bits of bone as he flopped forward onto the carpet.
The blast still stung Stiletto’s ears. He moved backward to the Blasers. “Any more?”
They stared wide-eyed, the woman holding her young son close on one side and her teen daughter on the other.
“Any more?” he said again.
The boy held up two fingers.
“Two more on only these two?” Scott said.
“No more, just them,” the woman said.
“Mrs. Blaser, I was supposed to meet you at the mall and get you all out of here. Where’s Lars?”
“They took him.” Her voice shook.
“Where?”
“The university.”
Stiletto grabbed a cell phone from a jacket pocket and dialed.
When Jennifer Turkel answered, he identified himself.
“Cops are all over the mall, Scott!”
“It was an ambush. The Iranians got to them first but I’m with Blaser’s family now.” He explained the rest.
“I’m on my way with a tac team.”
“Just you and one or two others. They’re frightened enough.”
“You don’t sound like you’re staying.”
“They’ve taken Lars to the university. We can’t lose him.”
“What do you mean Lars?”
Stiletto hung up.
“Mrs. Blaser, look at me. I’m Scott, a friend of your husbands.”
She nodded.
“My people are on the way to get you but I need to find Lars.”
“Go,” she said.
“The person coming for you is named Jennifer.” He described her. “She’ll have some other men with her. You’ll be taken to the embassy where it’s safe.”
The daughter said, “You’ll bring my Daddy?”
“You bet, sweetheart. You’ll be together soon.”
Stiletto ran out to his car.
He drove with hands tight on the wheel. He could not face the family with failure. And that meant he had to rescue Lars Blaser or die trying.
Stiletto knew the basic layout of the university from his previous visits.
He parked about a block away and entered the campus on foot, shoulder bag containing various goodies across his back. The physics lab was a small building detached from a larger hall. Scott spotted a sedan and another SUV identical to the one at the house parked near the front door.
He stayed behind a tree and watched for a while. Nobody stood near the sedan, but two men in leather jackets wandered around the SUV, taking turns circling the vehicle and scanning the area.
Stiletto moved his bag to the ground and carefully opened it. He took out a smoke grenade and clipped it to his belt. The Heckler & Koch UMP-45 also inside the bag already had a mag locked and a suppressor on the barrel. An infrared scope sat atop the HK’s receiver. Stiletto stowed two more 30-round mags in his pockets.
He watched the sentries circle the SUV again. Lining up one man in the sights of his weapon, Scott pulled the trigger. The slug hit the sentry low in the neck, splattering the driver’s side of the SUV. The sentry dropped. The other had his gun in one hand and a radio in the other. As he reported the attack, Stiletto shot him in the mouth, the slug opening a hole in the back of the man’s head and sending a spray of gore outward. He put down the HK and pulled the pin on the smoke grenade.
The door to the lab opened and three more gunmen emerged. Stiletto tossed the grenade. As it rolled across the asphalt, thick white smoke spewed, creating a thick cloud between Scott and the gunmen. Stiletto peered through the scope and lined up the man-shaped heat signatures. The gunmen coughed and called to one another, spreading out. Stiletto triggered short bursts, shifting his aim after each, and the men collapsed. Stiletto left the tree and raced across the space between him and the lab, ignoring the smoke, reaching the door. As he ran through, more gunfire crackled from down the hall. Stiletto dropped flat and fired back, then jumped up and dived through an open doorway. Automatic gunfire peppered the doorway and then stopped.
The room was dark as well, lab tables and stools spread about. Stiletto retreated to a corner. The shooting had come from the left side of the entry hall. He heard two men shouting; a third man screamed and shouted back. Stiletto recognized the third man. Blaser. At least he was still alive.
But the enemy had Stiletto pinned in place, outnumbered, and they held the ace. They also couldn’t leave via the hallway without crossing his line of sight.
More talking from down the hall. Two more shots smacked the doorway, splintering the frame. Despite his distance from the flying wood shrapnel, Stiletto jumped with each hit. They wanted him to tempt him into making a play for the hallway.
Scott looked around. The windows sure looked
wide enough for him to slip through. If he could get to the back door, that might work to his advantage.
He slung the HK and flipped the latch on one window, easing it open. He slipped outside and dropped into a squat among the trimmed hedges alongside the wall. They poked and prodded at him but provided cover as Stiletto made his way to the corner, around which was the rear door of the building. He stopped to listen. When the lock on the rear entrance snapped and the door opened, Stiletto readied his weapon. They were coming to him. Even better. Two men emerged, Blaser and a gunman. A car started around front. Tires squealed. Stiletto fired once. The gunman dropped. Blaser let out a yell, but stopped when he saw Scott. Blaser wiped the gunman’s blood spatter off his face and said: “Hamin—”
Tires screeched again, the sedan rounding the corner. The driver, Shahram Hamin, stopped short, the tires smoking, slammed the car into reverse. As the car shot backward, Stiletto fired but none of the shots connected. The speeding car raced out of range.
Blaser grabbed Stiletto’s left arm, almost pulling him down. “He has them! He has them!”
Stiletto shoved Blaser back. “I got your family out of the house.”
“No! He has my krytron blueprints!”
Sirens in the distance. Growing louder as the local police converged.
“We gotta run, stay in the shadows.”
Stiletto and Blaser slipped away as two police cars pulled up in front of the lab. Back in the rental, Stiletto drove and Blaser caught his breath. As they passed through an intersection, Stiletto said: “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“I knew you’d come. You said my family is safe?”
“Back at the embassy. That’s where I’m taking you.”
“He has my blueprints. They made me correct them! Now they can find somebody else. All our work, Scott. It meant nothing!”
Stiletto clenched his jaw. There was no argument to reply with.
The only thing they could do was grab Hamin and get the blueprints back. The most important part of the mission, to Scott, anyway, was the safety of the Blasers, and that had been accomplished. Now Stiletto could scorch the earth looking for the man truly responsible for the situation.
Jennifer Turkel said: “Leaving apartment with briefcase and laptop.”
“I see him.”
Stiletto’s voice reached her via a standard Bluetooth unit in his right ear. In the age of such a common sight, the fancy covert com units of the past weren’t necessary.
Jennifer Turkel had provided another icy reception for him when he arrived 24-hours earlier, blaming him and his “Agency cowboys” for the problem, but promised she’d do what he told her to make sure the family escaped danger. It was all Stiletto could ask for.
And all he needed for her to do was drive the van.
It was the next morning and Stiletto’s team had been watching Hamin’s apartment all night. He sat at a table in front of a café across the street from the building, and left the table to blend with the sidewalk traffic as Hamin traveled the short distance to the apartment building’s attached multi-level garage. Jennifer rolled up in a black van. Stiletto jumped into the passenger seat. She activated the emergency lights, pressing another button on the dash that stalled the engine. She turned the key and cranked the motor several times as cars behind them stacked up and honked. Stiletto powered down his window and waved them around.
The van looked plain and indeed had no rear seats, but it had reinforced bumpers for ramming. Stiletto’s plan called for use of such a bumper.
When Shahram Hamin exited the garage in his white Mercedes, Jennifer Turkel hit the kill switch again and started the motor. She followed the Mercedes into traffic.
Iranian agent Shahram Hamin placed the briefcase and laptop on the passenger seat of the Mercedes. Before starting the car, he opened a panel built into the door near his left knee and checked the Glock-18 machine pistol nestled in the compartment. He had two 32-round magazines inside his jacket.
He didn’t wear any old jacket. Hamin liked to travel and live in style. The jacket had set him back $2500, black leather with a silk lining, which went with his lightened hair. Style salons were one aspect of Western culture he didn’t dislike. His natural black hair always looked like a dead cat on his head. Properly styled, parted down the middle, and touched with blonde highlights, he looked hip and contemporary.
He started the car and turned on the stereo. The speakers came to life playing the jazz CD he had picked up on his last trip to the U.S., steady beats punctuated by a saxophone filled the car. He drove out of the garage.
The shootout at the lab had not been expected and, because of it, the entire network he’d built to smuggle bomb parts into Iran had to vanish. Already fellow agents around the world were pulling out and liquidating loose ends. In the briefcase, he had the corrected blueprints to the needed krytrons. Either Iranian scientists could continue their assembly, or they’d have to find a suitable foreign replacement, appropriately pressured, of course, to do the job.
Hamin’s cell rang. “Yes?”
“We’re back a few cars back,” one of his teammates said. “No sign that you’re being followed.”
“Okay.” Hamin hung up.
He knew somebody was back there. Had to be.
Stiletto dialed his support team. The other agents used non-descript vehicles to shadow Hamin, rotating every few blocks.
Jennifer stayed as far back as she could to avoid detection.
The second unit called to report that Hamin was heading for the motorway and, more than likely, the airport. Stiletto gave the order. Get lined up to box him in. Standard rendition protocol.
“Shahram, I keep seeing the same two cars.”
“I’m almost to the motorway. Stop them.”
Hamin put the phone down. As he drove through an intersection, a black van on his left ran the light and plowed into his front fender with a terrible crash, glass shattering, metal twisting.
The shock of the impact jolted Hamin, but the belt held. The driver’s window poured glass bits onto Hamin’s lap. The jazz kept playing as the car spun 360 degrees, the tires smoking, the acrid smell of burnt rubber filling the air. The side airbags burst open and Hamin screamed. The car stopped. Gasping, Hamin felt the side of his face, stung by the impact of the airbag. The skin wasn’t cut. His vision spun. The jazz kept playing. He slammed a palm against the stereo control and turned it off.
He grabbed the Glock-18 as somebody wrenched open the door.
Scott Stiletto leapt from the van with the Colt in hand. Hamin raised a machine pistol and Scott dropped and rolled. The first burst cut through the air where he’d been and the impact on the dry asphalt flared through his body. Hamin fired a second burst into the black van, the bullets smacking the bulletproof windshield but not cracking it. Hamin slid over the hood of his car and took off running. He carried the briefcase along with his gun.
More pistol fire cracked behind Scott. He rolled over and looked. Two more Iranians, running his way. His support team fired over the hoods of stopped cars, drivers and pedestrians screaming, running away if they could. Stiletto jumped up and slid across the Mercedes and ran after Hamin.
Chapter Two
Hamin pushed and shoved his way through the pedestrians in front of him. A man grabbed the back of Hamin’s jacket, jerking him back. Hamin swung an elbow and clocked the man in the jaw. Hamin whirled to fire at Scott. The blast missed and a woman screamed behind Stiletto. Scott stopped at a lamppost, looked back. The woman, bleeding from the arm, clutched at a man who pulled her to cover behind a parked car.
Stiletto started running again. The situation was deteriorating fast.
He felt his right ear for the Bluetooth unit but it had fallen out somewhere during the chase. Pulling out his cell, he called Jennifer, breathing hard as he spoke. “Where are you?”
“One of our guys is wounded but we took out the other Iranians.”
“Get back to the embassy. I’ll find my way back.”
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br /> Hamin rounded a corner ahead. Stiletto followed, slipping on a patch of wet garbage from an overflowing Dumpster. He fell hard on his left side. The .45 roared once. Hamin stumbled as the slug blew off the heel of one shoe, but the Iranian agent kept going. He reached the end of the alley and turned right.
Police sirens neared. He was out of options. Stiletto painfully rose and ran to a fire escape in the middle of the alley and climbed to the roof of the building, the steel groaning against his weight and shaking back and forth, rattling against the building, as he climbed.
Hamin’s legs began to hurt but he kept moving, walking fast. He’d managed to cover several blocks but there were still many more to go. He kept looking around, but there was no further sign of the American.
People were out and about enjoying their evening and paying no attention to him. He slowed as pedestrian traffic thickened, checking store fronts for a specific address.
He spotted the tobacco shop with its “open” sign brightly lighted. It would not have made a difference had the shop been closed, but this way he could enter through the front.
His government maintained several front operations in major cities around the world, their task to aid any agents who asked for help. Such contacts were made only when there were no other options. Hamin needed a night’s rest, transportation, and a secure Skype connection.
The clerk behind the counter watched him expectantly. Hamin figured he looked nothing like a regular customer with the sheen of sweat on his face, the disheveled clothes. He stopped at the counter and spoke a coded phrase in Farsi. The clerk responded. His expression became interested, serious. Hamin explained the situation and what he needed. The clerk led him into the back room. It was small and cramped, but it had light and a desk with a laptop. The clerk did not identify himself as he cleared the screen of what he’d been working on and offered the chair to Hamin. He said he’d return with tea.