by Brad Taylor
I ignored the glance, knowing she was baiting me, and said, “Sometimes the mission is the men. You’re so full of anger I can’t believe you’ve lived this long. Sometimes you have to back the fuck off. Sacrificing your men on a suicide mission is what the enemy does.”
She said, “Yes. And you fight fire with fire. The mission always comes first. Always. The enemy fears us precisely because of this.”
I grunted and said, “Is that why your government traded over a thousand Palestinian terrorists for one Israeli soldier?”
She slammed back into her seat and refused to meet my eyes. She said, “That would not have been my call.”
Looking at Aaron, I said, “Well, maybe they understand something you don’t. Sometimes the mission you’re given isn’t the one you should conduct.”
Aaron said, “We don’t have that luxury. The mission always comes first. And your mission is ours. I promise.”
I slowly nodded and said, “Okay. We’re going to stake out the Internet café he’s been using. We’ve got a team that’s using al-Britani’s Twitter account, saying the attack in Jordan was delayed and asking for guidance. He’ll want to respond. When he does, we ID him—meaning one of you will do so—then get a pattern of life. From there, we take him down. Can you do that?”
I jerked a thumb at Shoshana. “Or will devil eyes here want to split his head open?”
44
Aaron smiled and said, “We can do that. Anyway, if you don’t trust Shoshana, you can always pair her up with Jennifer. That’ll solve the problem.”
Aggravated again, I said, “Enough with the lesbian jibes. I’m serious here. I would think that you would be the last to disparage Jennifer or Shoshana’s skills with a lame joke.”
He scrunched his eyes and said, “Yes. I’m talking about her skill.”
I looked at Jennifer, but she refused to meet my eyes, instead focused on Shoshana.
What am I missing?
Knuckles was as clueless as I was. Aaron said, “She didn’t tell you? In my team, we know all, both the good and the bad.”
Which really poked a sore spot. And made me wonder if Jennifer was complicit in the death of al-Britani. I looked at Jennifer and said, “No, apparently my team doesn’t want to do that.”
Jennifer closed her eyes and said, “It’s not what you think. I told you that you could trust her. I trust her.”
I saw Shoshana’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. She turned to me. “I’ll do the mission, just as you ask. I’m yours to do with as you see fit. Is that enough?”
Jennifer locked eyes with me, her glare telling me to back off. I held her stare for a moment, seeing some pain come out. Recognizing the moral compass I’d thought she’d lost. She was blaming herself for al-Britani because of my comment earlier.
I said, “Yes, it’s enough.”
Shoshana said, “Good, because your little lover there kicked my ass in the back of a van. I don’t want to repeat that again.”
I snapped my head to Shoshana, and she was grinning, reading me whether I wanted her to or not. She knew how much the revelation would mean, precisely because Jennifer had kept it from me.
She said, “You’re a good man, Nephilim. Don’t try to make me into less.”
I turned to Jennifer, seeing embarrassment. And I understood it was true. Whatever had happened in the back of that van had been violent, and Jennifer had won. Which, because I’m a little bit of a Cro-Magnon, made me secretly slap the ground and cheer.
And Shoshana knew how I would react. She didn’t give a rat’s ass about her reputation. She was focused on the mission, and she was manipulating me to get it done.
I leaned back, acting like I was considering, but everyone understood it was for show. Shoshana could barely conceal her disdain for the act. Aaron waited patiently.
I said, “Okay, we’re in play here. We’ve got to get you guys outfitted and cover some basic contingencies. We’ve got a support team in a separate bird, and they’ll actually control our actions. We can’t meet them—ever—except for the drop-off of the precious cargo. They’re going into Albania under a completely different cover. We get Rashid, and that’s the only time we’ll meet. I’m sure you’re used to operating that way.”
Aaron said, “Yes, yes, we get the game. You made us leave our weapons and equipment. How will we do this?”
I said, “Knuckles, you want to show them the reason we fly with such incredible luxury?”
He said, “My pleasure. Follow me.”
They moved to the aisle and I stood, feeling Jennifer’s hand jerking my sleeve. I turned back to her and she said, “Pike . . . you know when we left the van, I didn’t think she’d kill al-Britani. Right?”
I stopped, looked her in the eye, and said, “I know. I believe you.” She glanced down at the floor and I took her hand. She looked at me again and I said, “I know.”
She paused, wanting to say something else.
“What?”
And, because I’ll never figure her out, Jennifer changed tack. “I think that whole report on the Lost Boys is crap. I don’t believe it.”
Like a guy seeing a car wreck, then trying to process it, I had to rewind her words to make sense. I said, “Jennifer, they’ve got the best minds in the world working on it. If they say it’s just a nickname, it probably is.”
“Maybe, but as far as the ‘best minds’ go, you rank right up with them. You’ve proven them wrong more times than they’ve been proven right. Half the time they’re predicting sunshine in a snowstorm.”
I moved down the aisle, saying, “Okay, okay. One mission at a time.”
She said nothing else and we reached the back of the aircraft. Brett said, “I guess we’re a go?”
Knuckles said, “Yeah, believe it or not. Let’s show our guests what they’ve won.”
Retro grinned and turned to the wall above the kitchen galley. He inserted a special tool into what looked like a straight plastic covering, firmly riveted in place. Magically, the entire panel fell away, exposing an interior full of armament where ordinarily the noise insulation would be. The entire aircraft was built as an infiltration platform, and housed everything from weapons to surveillance kits, all camouflaged to defeat host-nation customs and immigration.
Aaron said, “Very impressive. And we can choose what we want?”
Feeling superior, I glanced at the wall and did a double take. I saw a bunch of guns that shouldn’t have been there.
I said, “What the hell is this? What are those?”
Confused, Knuckles said, “What do you mean?”
I stabbed my finger at a black rifle hanging on a hook. It looked like an M4 that had been chopped down, with a collapsible stock and a bulbous suppressor running off of a nine-inch barrel, the free-floating aluminum hand guard acting as a sleeve over both, with Picatinny rails sprouting all over. Something from a movie set.
“This, damn it. What is it?”
The weapon was nothing like the HK UMP we ordinarily used, a .45-caliber sub-gun that could be suppressed without significant alteration of zero because the round was subsonic to begin with. Which is why we used it.
Sheepishly, Knuckles said, “We went away from the UMP. I thought, since you were a ‘team leader’ again, someone would have told you.”
Aaron went back and forth between us, I’m sure wondering if we were clowns in a circus and whether he wanted to put on the four-foot shoes.
Since Panda was a pure intelligence collection mission, we hadn’t needed a great deal of equipment in Kenya. We’d flown into Nairobi commercial, hiding our Glocks and surveillance kit the old-fashioned way: by breaking them apart in our checked luggage. When we’d redirected to Jordan for a capture mission, I’d asked for the deployment of the rock-star bird, complete with a package hidden inside. Due to cover concerns, it had arrived too late to be of any use, but would come in handy in Albania. Or so I thought. I hadn’t realized my idea of a “package” was now old news.
I
said, “Nobody told me shit. So you don’t have my UMP here? The one zeroed for me.”
“Uh . . . no. But we do have the ability to zero. With lasers. Right here in the plane.”
Glancing at Aaron, and not wanting to make us look any worse, I said, “Okay, okay. What am I looking at?”
“Nothing more than an integrally suppressed AR, with some unique properties. Built by Primary Weapon Systems, it’s got a proprietary long-stroke piston system, making it much more reliable than the old gas AR guns like the M4.”
I said, “And that was worth the switch? Since when did we have issues with the UMP’s reliability?”
“Reliability wasn’t the problem. The caliber was. The PWS system is chambered in 300 Blackout. Much, much more knockdown power than the UMP’s forty-five. The can is Gemtech. Believe it or not, it’s shorter than the UMP suppressor, and it’s built specifically for the Blackout round. In subsonic, it sounds like a pellet gun.”
He saw my look and said, “You have to admit, we’ve been in some gunfights where the reach of the UMP was questionable. I know when we created the Taskforce we all talked about how the fighting would be within a room, but it hasn’t worked out that way.”
I said, “That’s why we have the HK416. There are different tools for each job. I can’t believe the Taskforce just switched complete weapon systems based on one idiot’s recommendation. The damn UMP worked fine. It was concealable, and had serious knockdown power for close quarters. Now you want me to tote an AR?”
He gave me his I’m going to act like I agree until I tell you you’re wrong look, something I’d seen for more years than I could count.
He said, “Yeah, okay, but let’s do some counting. One, Bosnia. Outgunned from a distance. Two, Hungary. Outgunned from a distance. Three, Egypt. Outgunned from a distance. Four, Ireland. Not outgunned from a distance, because you gave Jennifer a 416. I could go on, but those are off the top of my head, in operations with you. I’m sick of that shit.”
When I heard that, I knew arguing was going nowhere. Clearly, he was the man who’d done the testing, convincing the Taskforce to change, and I’d just insulted him with my comments.
He continued, ticking off statements on his fingers, “The 300 Blackout in supersonic has much greater knockdown power, and in subsonic it beats anything in its class. The HOLOsight has a Mil-Dot calibrated for both, so you don’t have to worry about zero problems if you switch from sub to supersonic, and the Gemtech suppressor can handle both just fine. In fact, better than fine. It doesn’t have the range of 5.56, but it works great for its purpose. A gap that needed to be closed. The PWS system will clear a room just like the UMP, but beyond that, it’ll clear a block when shit gets bad. Unlike the UMP.”
I grinned, and he backed off. I pulled one off the rack and said, “It’s a little big.”
He said, “Bullshit. It’s a little heavier, but it’s not big. What you’re holding is a massive half inch longer than a suppressed UMP. Half inch. The only reason it’s heavy is because it’s made with actual metal instead of that plastic crap that kept breaking on the UMP.”
I said, “But the UMP stock can fold over, making it a hell of a lot shorter.”
He pushed a button right at the buffer spring, and I’ll be damned if the buttstock didn’t swing over, much like the UMP.
He said, “Only difference is you can’t operate the weapon this way. It’ll fire exactly once, but we never assault with a folded UMP anyway.”
I grinned and said, “So, you don’t have a vested interest in this experiment, do you?”
“Only because I’ve hated the bastard who brought the UMP into the Taskforce before I got there. Some asshole who always thought he knew best.”
Which, of course, would be me. And he knew it.
I said, “Touché. Get them outfitted. I’m assuming the pistols are the same, unless you decided that we need to start using dart guns.”
He grinned and said, “Nope. Same ol’ Glocks.”
Shoshana was gazing at the armament in lust, like a pothead entering a Colorado marijuana store for the first time. She stroked one of the systems and said, “May I?”
Happy at the interest, Knuckles said, “Sure.”
Jennifer tugged my sleeve, saying, “Can I pull you away from the commando wet dream for a moment?”
I grinned and followed her. Out of earshot from the others, she said, “Did you hear what I said earlier? About the Lost Boys?”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard. What do you want me to do about it?”
“I want the reports. I want to see them for myself.”
In the old days, when I really was a Cro-Magnon, I would have just told her to stow it, but Jennifer had shown a unique ability to solve problems others had missed. In this case, the problem set wasn’t ours. We were after a different terrorist. I settled for logic to dissuade her.
I said, “Look, they did a complete scrub on Hussein. It all came up empty. He had no connections to anyone who went to Syria. Shit, even the school they found him in was closed down after he left.”
“What for?”
“I didn’t read the report, but apparently it was a pretty heinous place. Some kids killed a guard, and in the ensuing investigation to find them, they found out the school was hell on earth. Now the people running it are on trial. Apparently, they got what they deserved. Hussein is exactly what the name said. A fucking lost boy, looking for something to make his life worth a damn.”
She looked out the window, thinking. I said, “What?”
“Can I get the reports? Please?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I just can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing a piece. I just want to make sure there’s nobody else looking for something to make his life worth a damn.”
45
Walking across the famous Bridge of Sighs leading to the draconian prison at the Doge’s Palace museum, Jacob finally saw a glimmer of hope. Watching the pious church leader pause at the far end, looking right and left through the crowds of tourists, Jacob saw a buxom woman appear and plant a sloppy kiss on his lips.
Jacob knew his target was married. Knew he was in Venice with his Catholic student group, ostensibly as a chaperone. His purpose was solely to ensure the safety of his charges. But clearly he had other things in mind, including a secret rendezvous with a mistress he’d probably flown in from the swamps of Florida while his wife stayed at home baking cookies.
Jacob gazed at the woman’s breasts wiggling back and forth, covered in a low-cut top, with a modest scarf failing to hide their size.
Par for the course. Christian hypocrisy at its best.
The woman was the first indication that Jacob might have a lever to accomplish his mission. Something he had been having extreme doubts about since they’d landed at the Venice airport yesterday morning.
After the Lost Boys’ experience in Syria, flying to Italy out of Istanbul had been surreal. Living on the ragged edge, their instincts trained to look for peril at every turn, trying to act like they were nothing more than tourists had been very, very hard. Every question directed their way was met with suspicion, and every action of the passengers viewed with a predisposition that they were attempting to obtain information.
At one point, Jacob had had to stop Carlos from getting into a fight over an overhead bin, the obese person bewildered at the rage Carlos held. When the flight attendant noticed the scuffle and began moving their way, Jacob had stood, squeezing his fist around Carlos’s upper arm and saying, “Sit down. You are done.”
The passengers around him had noticed the exchange, and he realized the risk of discovery was beyond some omnipotent intelligence agency finding out their mission.
It was held in themselves.
They had lost whatever civility had once coursed through their veins, and that had been slight to begin with. Before Syria, all they had known was the white house. Now, after having their humanity further eroded in actions supporting the nascent Islamic State, Jaco
b was leading a pack of wild dogs in a land of groomed Chihuahuas. If they wanted to succeed, they needed to be another Chihuahua. And Jacob wanted very much to succeed.
Maybe.
After the meeting in the hotel bar with Omar, Jacob had gone to sleep thinking about his future. Unlike his fellow Lost Boys, he hadn’t fallen headfirst into the spell of the Islamic State. It was strange, even to him, given what he’d done in its name, but he didn’t feel the fervor. Didn’t yearn to slaughter people simply because they smoked a cigarette or were Christian. He only wanted to prove something to himself. To succeed just once, eradicating the failure that was his life.
He wanted to show the world that he wasn’t just a bit of trash blowing on the side of the road. But, until the meeting in Istanbul, he’d never really believed it. He knew he was different from Carlos and Devon, in both capability and views, but hadn’t realized how much different until fate had brought him to Omar.
That man was a creator. He was a force of nature that carved out what he wanted through willpower, intellect, and brutal skill. And he’d seen something in Jacob. Had recognized that Jacob wasn’t like the other cattle flocking to the fight. It caused a conflict in Jacob’s mind.
It brought questions. Things he couldn’t answer now. The fact remained that Omar had entrusted him with success. Had bestowed on him the responsibility to win, because he believed in Jacob, and Jacob wouldn’t forget it. Couldn’t let him down.
That confidence had wilted once they’d arrived in Venice. Exiting the terminal, Jacob had had his first shock of the mission. Expecting to take a cab to Venice from the airport, he’d found that the only thing available was a water taxi. After thirty minutes of wasted effort, stumbling from one dock to another, they’d managed to make it to the small historic city-state, riding a boat that had no sympathy for their lack of knowledge.
He’d intended to check into the hotel room booked by Omar—a Best Western, which, by name alone, had given him an American image—and then spend the rest of the day hunting his prey. What had happened instead was he and his crew had dragged their luggage through a myriad of small alleys, walking on foot to find a hotel that apparently wanted to remain hidden.