by Ronie Kendig
“You didn’t see him chase me down at my house,” Cell said.
“Still no gun,” Maangi muttered. When Cell shot him a wide-eyed glare, Maangi shrugged. “What? She’s right.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Tox said, gently touching Cortes’s arm. “This is a dead horse. We need to quit beating it. What happened is done. I can’t change it. If you want me to say I’m sorry—then I’m sorry.” He took a breath. “You know me. If I did something, it had to be done. Not talking about certain missions is as much a part of what we do as the weapons and kit we use.” He looked directly at Cell this time. “What happened three years ago . . .” He shook his head. “I want it gone. Buried.”
Understanding coursed through Cortes’s green eyes. “You don’t want to talk about it.”
“No.” Could she see what three years ago had cost him? “I don’t.”
Ram nodded to MacIver. “You’re in charge, right?” When the commander agreed, Ram folded his arms. “Brief us.”
“Okay,” MacIver slid out an image. “This is our guy—he’s called Tanin.”
“Dragon,” muttered Ram, staring at the picture, his phone in his hand again. “It means ‘dragon’ in Arabic.”
“What’s his real name?” Tox dragged the glossy across the table and memorized the man’s face. Middle Eastern. Single brow. His left ear was a melted mess, half gone. Could he hear out of that side still? The hooked nose had been broken—maybe when he lost the ear.
“Nobody knows,” MacIver said. “He’s a ghost. We don’t have any information other than he seems fond of an Arabian prince”—he tugged out another image, this a composite aerial shot of a compound with an inset of a man in a suit—“Salih Abidaoud. In fact, last known location of Tanin was at Abidaoud’s sprawling property in Jurf Al Darawish.”
“Jerk where?” Cell asked.
“Jurf Al Darawish,” Ram repeated, his eyes never leaving the documents and images. “Southern Jordan.”
“So the assassin is working for Abidaoud?”
“We don’t know.”
“But he’s holed up at the dude’s palace?” Cell said, his voice pitched.
“He’s there. Why, we don’t know. Abidaoud could be a target.”
“No,” Ram said firmly. “No, if he’s not working for him, he’s working with him.” He snapped his gaze to MacIver. “What committees was Ambassador Lammers heading? Why was he in London?”
“To oppose a measure being presented to the UN on mining and distribution rights.”
“Yes, it makes sense.” Ram nodded. “With his partying and penchant for luxury purchases, Abidaoud became a problem for his family, so they relegated him to this wasteland, overseeing the quarry that funds about one-fifth their wealth.”
“A fifth?” Tox repeated. If they had this family’s wealth divided up into numbers like that . . .
“They own oil fields in a couple of countries, have a sapphire mine, others, I’m sure.” He nodded to MacIver. “That bill would directly affect Abidaoud’s personal coffers.”
“Dude, how do you even know all that?” Cell asked.
“Worked a mission involving him a few years ago.”
MacIver nodded. “Back to the intel.” He showed an image with what almost looked like fortified walls.
“Is that the property?” Maangi asked. “It looks more like a fortress.”
“Quarry,” Ram said. “He got the worst location and lowest-producing mine to oversee as punishment by his family.”
“So is this where we’re going to find Tanin?” Tox didn’t care about the family’s wealth. He wanted to hit this guy and get out of there.
MacIver showed a grid layout of the property. “One hundred acres of desert,” he said as he displayed another photo, this one zoomed in.
Tox trailed a finger along dark lines framing a sprawling white structure that abutted a small mountain. “Tiered access.”
“Intel shows three perimeter gates leading up to the main complex. You’ll HALO in and come over the eastern side of the mountain. Bypass the electrified fence, then find and neutralize your target.”
“Exfil?” Tox asked, already eyeing the best route to escape.
MacIver pointed to a small huddle of structures outside the compound. “A vehicle will be waiting here.”
“That’s what? Two, three klicks?”
“Two-point-six,” MacIver confirmed.
“Agent Cortes isn’t trained in HALO jumps,” Wallace said.
“Are you?” Ram studied the guy, his eyes full of unspoken questions. Ones even Tox wanted to know. Had the guy been military prior to suiting up?
“Doesn’t matter,” MacIver said to the agent. “Neither of you are going in with Wraith.”
Surprise shot through the noisy temporary structure within the Globemaster, but Tox savored the relief. Two less bodies to worry about.
Wallace flinched. “Excuse me, but—”
“That’s just it. Your butt. We need it here.” MacIver huffed as he looked at the intel. “You’ll be of better use when we get tagged by Jordanian authorities for entering their airspace. When we are forced to set down in Amman, you’ll be our get-out-of-jail-free card.”
Cell grinned. “Hooah.”
13
— Day 8 —
En Route to Jordan
The team sat in the modular structure studying the schematics. Making notes. Logging info into devices they’d strap to their forearms. Ram stood at the grease board, going over exfil plans. His phone must’ve buzzed because he drew it out and glanced at it. Thumbed the buttons, then slid it back into his leg pocket. What was that about? Tox made his way down the line to Ram and shouldered in next to him.
Ram’s hard gaze hit his.
“We’ve been together since day one,” Tox said, his voice just loud enough to be heard. “You never worked a mission involving Salih Abidaoud.”
Ram scanned what he’d drawn on the whiteboard, clearly not wanting to talk.
Tox angled around, staring behind Ram. “How’d you know about Abidaoud?”
“Just do.”
“And the phone—who’s calling?”
“Tzivia.”
Tox’s heart skipped a beat. For two reasons—one: his friend had answered that question, so it could be considered diversionary. Meant to distract Tox from the information hidden behind the chatter. And two: it was Tzivia.
He shifted, unable to stop the question. “How is she?”
Ram nudged him with this shoulder. “Without you, fine.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, well, you gave her a raw deal.”
Tox snorted. “We had one dinner—at a picnic table at Leavenworth.” He looked down, recalling with clarity the hurt that had shone in her eyes when he’d told her good-bye. “She didn’t need to be shackled to that.”
Ram didn’t answer.
Tox had hated telling Tzivia to move on with her life. “She finish her doctorate?”
Ram nodded.
“Still working with Cathey?” It’d be good if she was, because the professor, though a bit absentminded, was wise and revered. He spoke a dozen languages, including useful ones like French and German, as well as ancient ones. And he was a believer, which Tox knew annoyed the tar out of Tzivia. Good opportunity to stretch her.
At the mention of Dr. Joseph Cathey, Ram’s cheek twitched. “With him, but not for him. She has her own dig in Saudi. Fairly significant. Kafr nearly ruined her. This is . . . punishment, but promising, she says.”
“Good that it’s promising.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty worked up about it—historic find.”
Tox nodded to the phone. “She’s texting you more often than a lover would.”
Ram hoisted his helmet from the rack. “They’re having problems. Looters. Some of the team are sick. Not sure why.” He shrugged. “She gets worked up easily when it comes to the digs. Not telling me everything either.”
The
door to the cube swung open and MacIver stepped in again. “Suit up!”
****
“Five mikes!” came the droning announcement through the comms piece tucked in Tox’s ear. He glanced at the digital readout strapped to his wrist. Thirty-four thousand feet.
The warning claxon barreled across the wind noise hammering the aircraft through the open bay door. Abidaoud and Tanin waited some eight klicks below. Tox mentally walked through the plan—scale down the mountain, fight off resistance, penetrate the compound, locate and kill the target, exfil.
Streamlined but not as simple once boots hit ground. Tox was ready, though. And glad to be back in the game. Glad to have the adrenaline surging through his veins once more.
He thought about Ram. The information he had. His friend always seemed to have access to more intel than normal. There’d been rumors around SOCOM that Ram had ties to Mossad, Israel’s agency for intelligence collection, covert operations, and counterterrorism—among other things. Unofficially, they were the world’s most efficient killing machines. Tox never broached the subject because Ram’s stony silence told him not to. It could amount to treason and a court-martial, but his friend knew the laws.
A sharp pat to his shoulder signaled the two-minute warning. Tox disconnected from the oxygen panel and switched to his bailout bottle. The first burst of icy air shot through him, proof the bottle worked.
With his own O2 bottle, MacIver served as jumpmaster and moved into position at the bay door. First to jump, Ram lowered his goggles and lumbered toward him with his gear and chute. Ram first, Tox last. Maangi, Thor, and Cell trudged past him, taking their cue from MacIver for safe jump intervals. Tox glanced back and saw the agents watching, oxygen masks keeping them alive at altitude. Chiji gave him a look steeped in both panic at the open bay door—he hated flying—and frustration at being separated from Tox. After a nod to him, Tox turned and stalked out to the lip, vibrations insane.
MacIver patted his shoulder, and Tox pitched himself into the wide-open sky. Gravity yanked him down, the frigid air tearing at his clothes. Terminal velocity of over two hundred miles an hour gave a thrill unlike any other. Pressure pushed against his ears and he forced an exaggerated swallow to clear them.
At two thousand feet, he caught the rip cord. Tugged. Below his boots, he saw the others, chutes already open. Verifying his altitude, Tox opened his. Jerked up and back, he navigated toward the eastern face of the mountain, out of sight from the compound. Ram landed, secured his chute, then quickly grabbed his weapon, and took point. Thor had removed his chute and was digging a hole where the team would bury their chutes, jump helmets, and jump gear.
As soon as his boots hit terra firma, Tox released the chute and twisted around, going to a knee. He hurriedly balled the nylon, then drew off the helmet. He shouldered out of the pack before removing his jumpsuit. The whole process took the team close to twenty minutes to land, remove the jump equipment, and bury their gear.
With his weapon up, he knelt again. Glanced at the readout, and with a gloved hand gave signals for the team to head south. Once they crested the spine, they headed down and northwest, straight up behind what intel said was a gardening shack.
Tox had to admit it was nice. Nice to be back in action. Nice to be with his team. These men. Each one had a skill vital to the mission—Cell’s ability to jury-rig two sticks and create a long-range radio; Maangi’s combat medic skills; Thor’s brute force; Ram’s connections to just about every major contact you could need running an operation; Chiji—well, didn’t matter what his Nigerian friend did as long as he had Tox’s six.
A shout went up. Tox crouched, staring down his scope in the direction of the noise. Like ants on a hill, people were moving quickly around the compound. Cars whipped up to the front of the structure.
“They’re going ape,” Cell muttered, staring through his nocs.
“What’s happening?” Maangi asked.
Tox pulled out his own binoculars, going flat against a boulder. Silence cut through the cold weather. Tox watched. Sorted what he saw.
“That’s Abidaoud,” Thor said, “hurrying to the third vehicle.”
Tox felt the success of this mission sliding through his fingers. “What about Tanin?” He scanned the scene. The people in the compound were excited. Fear? “Anyone got eyes on Tanin?” They couldn’t lose this guy.
“He might not be—”
“There! Just exited the south portico.”
Tox jerked left and centered on the assassin. “Maangi, he can’t leave there. Cell, call it in.”
“On it,” Maangi said, laid out with his sniper rifle. Beside him, Thor ran calculations and gave him numbers to dial the gun. If Maangi missed, any subsequent shots would be a homing beacon for return fire, RPGs, and whatever else that place had in their arsenal.
Cell radioed in the change in the status of the mission.
Lanky, entirely too confident with that swagger, Tanin had nearly reached the awaiting armored Lexus. This was going south before they could even dip their toes in the waters of combat. Men scattered to vehicles.
Cell’s voice scratched. “Repeat, Pie in the—”
Tox grabbed his radio, needing this taken care of now. “Maangi, you got joy?”
“Pie in the Sky, we receive you, Wraith Six. Go ahead.”
“I have joy.” Cheek to the rifle, Maangi lay very still, listening as Thor did calculations of distance and wind speed.
“Take the shot when you’re ready.”
“Copy that,” Maangi said.
Crack!
After firing, Maangi worked the bolt, ejecting the spent shell, and chambered another round without taking his eye off the target. “Broke one-fourth mil left.”
Tox had his nocs, watching the entire time.
“Negative hit,” Thor called. “Target is—”
Crack! Maangi fired another shot.
Expecting return fire, Tox put his finger into the trigger well of his M4 and stretched out on the ground, waiting. He slanted a look to the others, low on the hill with him. He eased a mirror from his pocket and slid it up over the rock to get a view.
“Move out—head south.”
Rocks shifted. Dirt crunched beneath boots as the men moved, staying low and starting the retreat.
Rocks spat at them, the shards of splintered stone like tiny daggers. “Taking fire, taking fire!”
As the others cleared out, Tox searched for the shooter. He found him hunkering behind a large potted plant on the back terrace by the pool. Tox eased back the trigger and neutralized the threat. The entire compound seemed to have emptied. It made no sense. Had they been tipped off?
He shifted and turned to catch up with the team.
Crunch.
He froze at the noise from behind and to his left.
Crunch-crunch. Scritch. Boots slid then caught traction, the person uttering an oath in Arabic.
Shoulder against the large boulder, Tox pressed himself out of sight. He dared not move, even as light hit his leg. Move and he’d be dead.
A short, potbellied man with a Kalashnikov slipped and stumbled past him. But then he stopped.
With all the stealth he could muster, Tox reached to his thigh holster and drew out his suppressed Glock 22. They couldn’t risk this guy getting away to tell anyone else where they were, and Tox couldn’t risk his shot being heard.
Potbelly whipped up his fully automatic weapon and took aim at the team.
Tox eased back the trigger. The man pitched forward, and Tox scrambled over to him, then hid his body behind the rock. He negotiated the steep hill, his weapon ready, his gaze never leaving the direction the first guard had come. Surely Abidaoud’s security wasn’t this bad.
It took him ten minutes to catch up with the team at the base of the mountain. They hoofed the 2.6 klicks to the village and their vehicle in silence, eyes out, adrenaline pumping hard, expecting a bullet to expose their gray matter or an IED to send them home in pieces.
With the secure phone, Tox dialed in. “Command, this is Wraith Actual.”
“What happened back there?” Major General Rodriguez demanded.
“You tell us, sir. Infil went without a hitch until we were ready to breach the perimeter, then things go ape. They’re running to vehicles.”
“Tanin?”
“Still alive.”
“Possibly clipped,” Thor put in.
Tox nodded. “Might’ve clipped his wing. If we get satellite, we can drone this.”
“Negative. We are not authorized and too many civilians. Even if we were, can you verify which vehicle he got in?”
“Last one, sir.”
“Have you had eyes on them the whole time?”
Tox bit down on the frustration. “Negative.”
“This isn’t a total waste. Because you were there, we’re able to track them. And . . . we might know where they’re headed.”
“Sir?”
“Get to the extraction point.”
Glancing at the phone did nothing to lessen his confusion or frustration. Tox bounced it in his hand and peered out the cracked, dirty windshield of the rusted SUV. “He thinks they know where they’re going.”
“I might know, too.” Hand hooked on the steering wheel, Ram curled his wrist and pointed down the road. “Tzivia—she says they’re in trouble down there.”
“Down where?”
“Saudi, Jebel al-Lawz. Not more than a forty-minute chopper trip out.”
“What kind of trouble?”
And Cursed Be He Who Steals It
She did not believe him. And it was okay with Benyamin. Understanding required context, and that she did not have. To be sure, even he did not have enough.
Alison bent over him, tucking the blanket around his shoulders. She squatted, her brown eyes so like her savta’s. “The beach will do you some good, eh, Sabba?”
As Alison went to the shoreline and dipped her toes in the sparkling waters, he tried to ignore the din of noise, shouts, and laughter. Squeals and wailing children. Coney Island was a nice respite from the dull monotony of their home, and Gratzia had always loved visiting when the children were young. But now, with its carnivals, sidewalk vendors, and throng-infested sandy-rocky shore, Coney Island wept of things lost.