“That’s what you were going for, asshole?” Mike asked him, holding the laptop in his hands. He removed the flash drive and pocketed it. “No need to answer, Alexander. Our techies will be all over this.”
―
“Jasmine’s gone,” Lisa announced in a hollow voice, reentering the cabin. She was holding Al-Nashwan’s Desert Eagle in her hands.
“We need to get out of here ASAP,” Mike said, concentrating on the task at hand. “The port authorities have probably sent for the cops already, and that could get messy for headquarters.”
“What do we do with him?” Lisa asked, pointing to Al-Nashwan, who was now violently coughing up blood.
“Keep an eye on him,” Mike said, then considered it. “And stay on the lower deck. No need to risk having someone see you.”
“Okay. I’ll call Support Five while you try to get us out of here,” his wife replied, already punching the numbers into her secure smartphone.
―
Mike hurried up the stairs and took the helm.
Ray isn’t here. And I don’t have time to interrogate Shamrock about it. With any luck, we’ll find clues on the yacht once we reach a safe harbor.
Mike noticed that the yacht was now rubbing up against the neighboring vessel on its port side. They must have boarded the boat at the last possible moment, he realized, because there were no more lines holding the yacht in place. Mike said a silent thank-you to whatever power had kept the current in their favor and had prevented them from drifting into danger.
Mike, who had driven large boats on Lake Ontario, was at ease behind the helm. He gently pushed the electronic throttles forward and heard the yacht’s transmission engage. The Azimut glided out of her slip while fireworks illuminated the sky behind them, sending short and brilliant flashes of light. A few minutes later, after they had cleared the marina, Mike fed more diesel to the two engines. The Azimut accelerated rapidly until it reached its cruising speed of thirty-five knots. Looking at the two fuel gauges, Mike validated that the tanks were full. A quick calculation confirmed that it would take them approximately five to six hours to reach Naval Station Rota, which was located close to the Spanish city of Cadiz.
They were half an hour into their trip when Lisa came up and sat next to Mike in one of the two captain’s chairs.
“Shamrock’s dead,” she said simply.
Mike sighed. He had expected this much.
“Did he say anything?”
“No. I don’t think he had the strength to do anything except moan. He simply bled out and died.”
“He knew about my father, Lisa,” Mike said, frustrated for coming so close to learning the truth about the whereabouts of his dad.
“We’ll find him,” his wife replied. “Together,” she added with a smile.
Mike kissed his wife. “Thank you for being here.”
“Happy to be here.”
After a moment, Mike asked, “Did you take care of Jasmine?”
“I cleaned her up the best I could and wrapped her with bed sheets. We’ll bring her back with us,” Lisa replied.
Mike nodded. “Did you talk to Mapother?”
“I did. He said it’s a damn shame for Jasmine. Those were his exact words.”
“Fuck! She wasn’t trained for that, Lisa. She shouldn’t have been here with us. Damn it! This death is on us. No, it’s on me. I should have been the first one to enter the room.”
“We did our best, Mike,” Lisa said. “Jasmine knew the risks. We all did.”
A few minutes later, Mike finally asked, “Anything else?”
“Support Five will take care of the things we left behind in Spain. They also said that there was no call made to the police about gunshots at the port, possibly because of the fireworks.”
“Makes sense. We were lucky then,” said Mike, slightly adjusting the throttles.
They spent the next hour riding in silence, lost in their thoughts. As the adrenaline of combat drained from their systems, they were left exhausted.
Lisa had nearly dozed off when the sound of her smartphone ringing made her jump. “Yes?”
“You’ll be met in Rota by a guy named Jack,” came Mapother’s voice from IMSI headquarters.
“We’re bringing Jasmine’s body with us,” Lisa warned him.
“Of course you are,” replied Mapother. “An IMSI plane will be waiting for you upon your arrival. Don’t talk to anyone other than Jack, and don’t hang around too long.”
“Copy that.”
“Two more things.”
“What are they?”
“Primo, try to get as much intelligence as you can aboard the vessel. Once you get into Rota, IMSI won’t have access to the boat anymore, and all the intelligence will have to be shared with the Spaniards. I don’t think they need to know that Alexander Shamrock, former US Special Forces officer, was in fact a master terrorist close to the Sheik.”
“I understand.”
“Secondo, the Canadians successfully neutralized the three terrorist cells that were planning to blow a pipeline terminal in Alberta. Zima led one of the team but was wounded during the raid. She’ll be fine.”
“She’s a strong girl.”
“And could become a great asset for us,” added Mapother.
“She didn’t think so when Mike asked her back in Portugal.”
“We’ll see. Maybe in a few months, who knows? See you in New York. And Lisa?”
“Yeah?”
“Good job. I’m very proud of what you and Mike have accomplished. Please pass along my message to him.”
“Will do, sir.”
“I was right about you two,” Mapother said before signing off.
Lisa replaced her smartphone in her pocket and told Mike what Mapother had said. She then spent the remainder of their trip getting as much intel as she could from the boat. She placed the laptop and all the documents she uncovered in two backpacks she had found in one of the boat’s closets before asking Mike to gear down. Once her husband brought the boat to a rocking halt, they grabbed Shamrock’s corpse and dragged it up the stairs onto the main deck and the swim platform before throwing it overboard. With all the blood seeping from his wounds, they knew the sharks wouldn’t take long to arrive. She then used the freshwater hose to clean the deck and the swim platform from Shamrock’s blood.
As they approached the naval station, they saw that two patrol boats, one Spanish and one American, were waiting for them. The American boat summoned the Azimut by radio. Mike was asked to follow the Spanish boat into port, while the American one stayed behind them.
After receiving his final instructions on where to dock the Azimut, Mike effortlessly parked it alongside a cement pier. On the wharf, they saw a dozen US Marines waiting for them. Their leader was a man of medium height dressed in a dark business suit. It was easy to see that he wasn’t happy to be there.
Mike cut the engines and grabbed the backpack Lisa handed him. Once they had disembarked, the dark-suited man walked over to them but didn’t offer his hand.
“I’m Jack, and I don’t want to know who you are. I work for Dick Phillips.”
“The DNI,” said Mike.
“That’s right. Follow me, and don’t ask questions.” Jack abruptly started walking toward a waiting Suburban.
“Jack?” called Mike.
The man stopped dead in his tracks and turned. “What did I just tell you?” he asked impatiently.
“This is important,” insisted Mike.
“What is it?”
Mike explained that a colleague of theirs was still on the boat and that there was no way they would leave her behind.
“Why isn’t she here then?” asked Jack, his voice seething with irritation.
“She’s dead,” Lisa replied, struggling to keep her temper in check.
“I see,” replied Jack. He then yelled, “Sergeant Izsek, come over here, will you?”
A black man wearing a US Marine uniform jogged up to them and nodded to Mike and Lisa.
“Sergeant,” Jack began, “you and another man of your choice will accompany these two back to the yacht.”
“Aye aye, sir!” snapped Izsek.
“You’ll then respectfully carry the remains of their colleague to the Suburban.”
Izsek nodded and gave a crisp salute.
Mike and Lisa looked at each other. This wasn’t how their mission was supposed to end.
―
The ride from the dock to the airport was a short one. The two IMSI operatives insisted on transporting the remains of their friend from the Suburban to the plane themselves. IMSI’s pilots, William Talbot, and Martin St. Onge, had prepared multiple buckets of ice to keep the body cool.
As Mike climbed aboard the plane, he took his seat and closed his eyes, thinking about his daughter Melissa. What would he do, he asked himself wearily, to see her one last time? But he already knew the answer: anything.
CHAPTER 75
Kobani, Syria
Since his attempt to escape, Ray Powell’s rations had been cut in half. To make matters worse, his jailors had removed his bucket. He was now forced to urinate and crap on the floor of his cell. At the beginning, the stench had been unbearable. Now, he didn’t even smell it anymore. His body was becoming weaker by the day. At least the beatings had stopped.
He had not seen “Ben” since their fight, and Powell wondered if maybe he had killed him.
I certainly hope so.
The pain in his broken jaw had only subsided a little. Looking at his skinny body, Powell knew he didn’t have enough energy to try another evasion. That was probably their intention when they decided to starve me.
Unexpectedly, the ground under his feet started to shake. For the last week or so, Powell had noticed small vibrations within his cell similar to the ones an earthquake would produce. But never one of this magnitude. This was different. Powell closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on any movements or sounds coming in from the outside. Once again, the ground vibrated—even stronger this time—and dust came down from the ceiling.
An explosion! Powell was sure of it. An explosion had caused this. But it couldn’t be a rescue attempt. Not after all these years. Maybe he was in a war zone? That would make sense. Powell glued his ear to his cell’s door, trying to listen for any reaction from his jailors. He had not been in position for ten seconds before another violent shockwave made him lose his balance.
Dammit! That was close.
“Hey!” Powell yelled, thumping on his cell door with his forearms. “Can you hear me? Hey!”
Two flash-bang explosions, one after the other, made him jump. The sound of automatic weapons firing followed a second later. What’s going on? Powell frantically looked around him to see if he could find anything he could use to defend himself. But he knew better. There was nothing.
Just grout, piss, and shit.
He could hear men yelling orders in Arabic. They were approaching his cell, their boots betraying their advance. Powell relaxed his muscles and took a few deep breaths.
Here they come. He was half-surprised when he heard a key being inserted in the lock and a voice speaking to him in English. “Ambassador Powell?”
No point in lying. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Major-General Fuad Younis, commanding officer of the Fifteenth Special Forces Division of the Syrian Army. We’re here to rescue you.”
The Syrian Army? I’m in Syria? What am I supposed to say?
“Okay,” Powell replied shaking his head. “Please come in?”
As soon as the door opened, two soldiers dressed in combat gear entered and cleared the room. Moments later, a tall gentleman also dressed in combat gear approached Powell. If the stench of the cell bothered him, he didn’t show it. “I’m General Younis, Syrian Army, Mr. Ambassador,” the man said, pumping Powell’s hand. His thick accent made it difficult for Powell to understand. “Can you walk?”
“Yes, of course I can walk,” replied Powell. “Where are we?”
The general looked at him, confused. “You’re in Syria. You didn’t know this?”
“No,” Powell said. “What’s today’s date?”
The general told him.
Oh, my God! I’ve been in custody for more than two years…
“What are you planning to do with me, General?” Powell asked.
“We’re here to send you home, Mr. Ambassador.”
CHAPTER 76
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Sheik Al-Assad was shaken. First, the frantic call he’d received in the morning from his associate in Syria informing him that the compound was under attack. Under attack? Didn’t I pay the damn Syrians enough to protect it? Traitors! When his calls to General Younis weren’t returned, the Sheik knew the turncoat had been squeezed into collaborating with his government. His guess was that Powell would be sent back to Canada to gain some political points for the Syrian regime. They needed all the help they could get to help them in their fight against ISIS.
Now he had just overheard the final minutes of his most trusted helper’s life. He had been having a lavish dinner with his American friend when Al-Nashwan called to discuss the final details of the recruiting plan he and Alavi had put together. The Sheik had excused himself from the table to listen to what his lieutenant had to say. He was once again impressed by their performance and was looking forward to the next wave of attacks, planned to start within the next few months.
The strike against his most trusted team members was hard to accept. It was a severe blow, though not a fatal one. Most of his international network was still intact. Yet one question kept returning to his mind in the minutes following the call. What was he to do with his longtime friend Steve Shamrock?
After the firefight had ended, Sheik Al-Assad had remained on the line and heard one of the assaulters calling Al-Nashwan by his birth name. How was that possible? The Sheik had promptly come to the conclusion that the assaulters must be Americans. Delta? DEVGRU? CIA Special Activities? That would explain why someone had recognized Alexander. Maybe they had served together while he was part of Special Forces.
Mike Powell.
Those had been the last words on Alexander’s lips. Could it be possible that the son of Ambassador Ray Powell was alive? The Sheik dismissed the idea. Mike Powell had died at the Ottawa airport. Many newspapers had published a piece about his death. No, that wasn’t possible. The man was dead. He would look into that and see what he could dig up.
But for now, he had a tough decision to make. No matter what American agency had conducted the raid, the US intelligence apparatus would shortly learn that Alexander Shamrock had been involved in the Sheik’s terrorist network. The investigation would surely lead to his father. And then, who knew?
That raised a real problem. If he decided to part ways with his friend, he could forget about the rest of the seventy million. Would he be able to find other sources to fund his jihad against the United States and its allies? The Chinese and Russians would be more than happy to do business with him—as long as he kept his attacks directed toward the Americans. Would Steve Shamrock understand? They had started this journey together, to get revenge for the loss of their family—their beloved Ghayda, his beloved father.
After painful deliberation, he made his decision and walked back into the dining room, where Shamrock was seated at a table set for two.
“You have that peaceful look, my friend. You received good news? Is it about our operation in Edmonton?” Shamrock asked. He picked up a mouthful of braised lamb. “I didn’t think we would get a report so soon.”
“It’s not about that, Steve. I had to make a hard decision.”
“And that calmed you?
I guess I need to make more tough decisions myself,” Shamrock said, chuckling.
“It always brings me peace when I know I’m doing the right thing,” replied the Sheik.
The CEO of Donatek nodded in understanding. “And what would that be in this instance?” he asked.
“That we need to part ways, old friend,” replied the Sheik.
His hand rose, and he shot his best friend at point-blank range in the head.
Shamrock toppled backward in his chair, and the contents of his brain splattered across the expensive painting behind him.
Two of the Sheik’s bodyguards appeared at his side seconds later.
“Clean that up, and take care of his driver,” ordered Sheik Al-Assad. “And burn their bodies,” he added before briskly walking out of the dining room.
All of this unpleasantness had ruined his appetite.
CHAPTER 77
Miami, Florida
Mapother had given them a few days off following their lengthy debriefing. The loss of Jasmine Carson had taken its toll on all of them, but mostly on Mike, who kept replaying the events leading to her death. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had let her down somehow.
After Jasmine’s funeral, Mike and Lisa had flown commercial to Miami. They hoped the warmer weather, coupled with a few Coronas, would allow them to relax with each other. Sitting on the balcony of their corner suite, Mike looked over at his wife. She had her eyes closed, enjoying the breeze coming from the Atlantic Ocean. She’s at peace, he thought. Even though we didn’t get the Sheik, she’s happy. He reached for her hand, and she gently squeezed his.
He was so proud of her. She had played a critical part in stopping the Sheik from annihilating the flow of oil into the United States. She had pulled herself together when she needed to and had proven to Mapother she could be depended upon. Because of her and the rest of the team, IMSI had averted an immense catastrophe that would have stopped dead in its tracks the fragile economic recovery the world needed so much.
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