by Brad Taylor
She sat back into the chair and said, “I don’t need to know what he screwed up. I see it on a daily basis.”
Knuckles grinned and said, “Offer still stands. You want to talk about what happened in Jordan, I’m willing to listen. But I’d hate to waste Pike’s time, since his attention span is so short. Show him what you have.”
She opened her purse, withdrawing some computer printouts.
I said, “Okay, what the hell is the big deal? We have an operation starting tomorrow, and I have a couple of loony Israelis to deal with. Conspiracy theories are taking a backseat.”
The next words out of her mouth made me second-guess who was loony.
“Pike, I read through all of the reports on Hussein, both open-source, and our own analysis. They missed something. The Lost Boys are real, and I think they’re on the hunt.”
I rolled my eyes and said, “We don’t have time for this shit. We have a mission. Feed your suspicions into the system. We take orders. We don’t make them.”
She pursed her lips, glancing at Knuckles for backup. He said, “That’s it? That’s all you got?”
I returned to my computer, mapping out my surveillance strategy. Jennifer pushed the lid down, causing a spike of anger in me. She held a finger to my lips and said, “Hussein recruited the Lost Boys. I don’t know why, but he did. Hear me out.”
I started to bark at her and Knuckles leaned in. “For once, assume you’re not the smartest in the room.”
I gritted my teeth for a moment, then spit out, “Well?”
Jennifer said, “Remember the video? Of the guy saying he was doing it for the White House?”
I nodded. She placed a digital recorder on the table. “This is the last thing Hussein said before he died.”
Hussein’s disembodied voice floated in the room, chilling because we knew it was real. And he was dead.
“It’s because of the white house. I never wanted to go there. Nobody wanted to go there. They did this. Ask Jacob. He’ll tell you about the white house.”
We sat in silence for a moment, then Jennifer said, “That’s been pinging in my head for days, because it just didn’t make any sense. His final words didn’t match what the Taskforce assessed about the Lost Boys. So I asked you for the reports.”
She laid an official Taskforce transcript in front of me.
“Hussein was incarcerated at a Christian reform school in Florida. The one that’s now closed down. Remember you told me that? Well, the chief reason it was shuttered was because of horrific abuse, and that cruelty was primarily conducted in a building on the center of the campus. Called the ‘white house.’ They weren’t talking about attacking America on that video. They were talking about something they’d all experienced. Together.”
She let that sink in, then continued, “The murder of the guard that drew the attention to the place occurred during a breakout. Three men escaped. Three. They disappeared without a trace.”
I went from her to Knuckles. “And?”
She slapped a cushion and said, “And they’re the damn Lost Boys! The ones in the video. One of the boys who escaped is named Jacob, for God’s sake. They’re tied to Hussein. It isn’t just a nickname given by the Islamic State. It’s a group, and they’re working together.”
I said, “Even if they are, we have a mission here. What do you want me to do about it?”
“I want to get their names in the system. Get the Taskforce to check them out. We know who escaped, but the Taskforce hasn’t looked at this thread.”
I rubbed my face, not needing this distraction. “Fine, fine. I’ll do that. Can we get back to our mission? We’ve got a killer here with intelligence training. I’m not too concerned about a bunch of escaped juvenile delinquents chopping off heads in Syria.”
She said, “Because they’re not holding a knife to your throat. But what if they’re holding it to someone else’s? Right this very minute.”
52
Jacob leaned against the rough-hewn brick, trying to remain inconspicuous. It was a losing battle, and he knew it. He simply looked like he was up to no good. A single man, standing by himself in the gloom of night. He imagined he was representing exactly why the street had such a nefarious name.
Originally looking for an entrance to a canal, away from the gondoliers and tourists, he’d used Google Maps to find Rio Terrà Assassini. He’d walked it, a mere ten minutes from his hotel, and liked what he saw. No stores and only one bistro farther up the lane, it was narrow and off the beaten tourist path. The far end was nothing more than a set of concrete steps that dropped into the murky canal water, the walls of the alley just over ten feet across. A perfect spot to pull up a small boat, and, since it dead-ended into the canal, no tourists or locals would be using the alley as a thoroughfare.
Walking back to the hotel, he’d become intrigued by the name. He’d Googled it, and found that the alley had a little bit of a story behind it. Assassini referred to the assassinations and murders that had occurred in that small stretch of stone, with pickpockets and thieves preying on the wealthier class trying to sneak to the nearby brothels located in Calle della Mandola. The discovery surprised him, but it was fitting. Centuries could go by, but the killer instinct was drawn to the same locations.
He saw a group of Korean tourists leave the wine bar fifty meters away and turn toward him, clearly going the wrong way in the maze that was Venice. He tried to appear as if he had a purpose, kneeling down and pretending to work the rope anchored above the stairs. When he stood back up, he met the eyes of the lead tourist, and the man stopped dead in his tracks, seeing something he instinctively wanted to recoil from. He muttered something in Korean to his partners, then they all turned abruptly and began walking much faster back the way they’d come.
Jacob cursed and looked at his watch. Nine forty-five. Where is Carlos?
Their target was due here in fifteen minutes, and he wanted to get him immediately into the boat, while the man was still compliant and before he could alert any potential contingency he had planned.
He had a lot of information he needed to get from the target, and he wanted to do it out on the ocean, away from anyone who could hear him scream, should force become necessary.
First, they needed to find out where he’d stashed the lady. They had only two more nights, and didn’t have the time to go searching. Second, they needed to know unequivocally if he’d talked to anyone. He knew the boys were clean, because he’d spoken to Devon. They were currently boozing it up in a pub a half mile away and had no idea what had transpired with their chaperone, but that didn’t preclude the target from having alerted his mistress.
Those questions were significant, but the primary one was whether their target had planned to be gone for the duration of the day tomorrow. The boys indicated that they were on their own, and the target had stated he was doing business meetings, but Jacob wanted to know if that was true, or if he was planning on spending the day in bed with his lover.
Jacob wasn’t too worried about a missed business meeting, as the mission would be done in a week. The worst they’d do was call the target’s phone and leave a voice mail.
After the mission, he could care less what they found, but all of that was predicated on the target doing what he told the boys. If he was lying about the meeting and instead intended to get lathered in sweat with his honeypot tomorrow, it would be an issue, because the target was never leaving the boat alive tonight.
The thought brought back memories of the Kurd, reminding Jacob of what he was doing. The meat of it. The heart. He felt the filet knife hidden in his sleeve, knowing what it would taste in the next thirty minutes. An action that plenty of kids back in the school had blustered about, but never actually done—something Jacob could no longer say.
Jacob wondered if the act was worth the sacrifice. Once he did this killing, he was on an irreversible path. There would be no turning back. He would be a hunted man forever. The only place he could return was the cauldron of the
Islamic State, forced to subjugate his newfound sense of worth for the rest of his life. Ironically, a sense of worth provided by Omar and the Islamic State.
But what was the alternative? Leaving now would mean abandoning his friends Carlos and Devon. They weren’t smart enough to stay alive on their own. If he quit, fleeing to a new life, the mission would fail. Carlos and Devon would return to the Islamic State, convinced their faith would allow mercy. And they’d be tortured to death, ending up on a gruesome tape much like the very one they’d made earlier in Syria.
Hussein was already dead. Jacob felt some guilt at that. He could have gotten him out, but he had not, and he wouldn’t do the same to Carlos and Devon. Everything he had been through, both in the white house and the Islamic State, told him that family was worth far more than anything else. When everything was boiled down, that was all that was left, and he now included Omar in that circle. The one man who’d ever shown him respect.
He thought about Omar and his skill. He could work for a man like that. He could do what Omar wanted, and he could achieve a bit of success. Maybe more than a bit. He’d recognized his skill, and felt a loyalty to Omar that he’d never experienced before.
He caught movement behind him, and saw a fifteen-foot aluminum-hulled boat float out of the gloom, a grinning Carlos working an outboard motor. He cut the engine and glided in. Jacob grabbed the bow and used the anchored rope to tie it fast.
Carlos said, “Sorry I’m late. Had a little trouble with the boat.”
Jacob stood up and said, “You didn’t have to hurt anyone, did you?”
“No, no. The owner was working late. I just waited for him to leave. I’d have called, but it worked out.”
Jacob nodded and Carlos said, “Did he come?”
“Not yet. Should be here any minute.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
Jacob looked back up the alley, seeing a man break out of the crowds from the wine bar. Walking into the light, Jacob recognized the target.
“He’s here. Get ready.”
* * *
Chris Fulbright passed the bistro in the alley and slowed, straining his eyes. He saw two shadowy figures at the end, a canal behind them. He glanced back, as if there would be some help behind him, then continued on, much more slowly than before.
He came within the feeble light from a second-story window and saw that the men were mere boys, maybe twenty years old at the most, which raised a primordial instinct. He was unfamiliar with anything smacking of danger, but something deep in his gene pool registered a threat.
In his head, the odds were they’d been sent by the German conglomerate and were nothing more than hired messengers. But something about them was off. Feral.
Behind them was a small johnboat, with what looked like a load of rope and cinder blocks. He dismissed it as some local’s conveyance.
He resolved to hear them out but give them nothing beyond what they had. He’d trade his enormous breakthrough into Europe, throw away five years of work because of a moment of infatuation with a set of tits, but he wouldn’t give them leverage for anything else.
The taller of the two stepped forward and said, “Chris, my name is Jacob. Please step into the boat. We have some things to discuss.”
53
Jacob saw the alarm on Chris’s face and wondered if he shouldn’t just tackle the man, flinging him into the boat. As quickly as the thought entered, he discarded it. They had to navigate up the small waterway to the major hub called the Grand Canal, and would be passing underneath several bridges to do so. They couldn’t accomplish that with a writhing, screaming kidnap victim.
He said, “We only want to talk. Away from the crowds. On the water, where it’s safer for us.”
“Why? I don’t have anyone with me. I promise.”
“We mean you no harm. You agree, and you’ll be on your way shortly.” He held up a thumb drive. “You get this, and your wife will never know.”
Jacob saw he wanted to believe, and knew it would be enough. Chris nodded and gingerly slid into the boat. Jacob untied the bow and Carlos started the motor. They began gliding down the canal, headed to the larger one.
Chris said, “What do you want? Why have you been following me?”
Jacob had known this question was coming, and had thought about his answer. He knew that Chris would have formulated the why already. He had no idea what that would be, but he knew it existed, and had decided to use Chris’s beliefs against him. He said, “You know why.”
Chris sagged back into the metal seat and said, “Okay, okay. Tell your boss he can have it. I’ll leave Europe to him. I’ll go to my meeting tomorrow and bow out, then tell my people it didn’t work in our favor.”
Jacob had no idea what he was talking about, but liked hearing about the meeting tomorrow. One question answered.
When he didn’t speak, Chris said, “Is that not enough? Why are we still going anywhere?”
They passed under a stone bridge, Carlos waving at the tourists on top like a goofy local, then they entered the Grand Canal, an expanse of water seventy meters wide that threaded through the island city-state like a snake. Carlos turned to the north and opened the engine up, drowning out further talk.
They passed by water taxis and other boats, some big, some like theirs. They rode in silence, Jacob keeping his eyes on Chris. Going underneath the Rialto Bridge, one of the few that spanned the Grand Canal, Chris finally shouted something, and Jacob waved his hand, indicating he should wait.
He felt his weapon shift and clamped his other hand on the sleeve to stop its fall. He wasn’t quick enough. The filet knife fell to the hull of the boat, clattering silently in the shadow of the engine.
Jacob looked at Chris and saw fear. The canal curved toward the west, the Rialto Bridge receding behind them. Chris tensed, and Jacob jumped toward the knife, instinctively thinking that was his goal.
Chris dove over the side.
Jacob screamed and Carlos cut the engine, the boat immediately slowing to a crawl. Carlos whipped his head to the rear, scanning the water and shouting, “What happened? Why’d he bail out?”
Jacob snatched the knife and glanced around, seeing no other boats. He heard Chris shout, churning about in the water, and jumped over the side.
He paused, getting a bearing on Chris, seeing him flailing toward the nearest bank, swimming in a modified dog paddle, hampered by his suit and lack of ability. Jacob, a much better swimmer, began stroking toward him.
Jacob came abreast of him and grabbed Chris’s collar, saying, “Stop, stop. We aren’t going to hurt you.”
Chris screamed, “Help me! Someone help me!”
The shout seared Jacob with panic. He jammed the blade with an overhand strike, stabbing Chris in the chest. Chris let out a piercing shriek, and one thought exploded through Jacob’s mind: Silence him.
He reached up and grabbed Chris’s hair, pulling his head backward, dragging the man down below the surface, the scream becoming bubbles under the water. Chris began to fight in blind panic, and Jacob swam deeper, kicking his legs and pushing against Chris’s body.
Jacob fended off the ineffectual thrashing of Chris’s arms and felt the pressure in his ears. He knew he’d gone deep enough. He wrapped his legs around Chris’s torso and cinched his hand deeper into the hair. He pulled the head back and jabbed the filet knife into his prey’s neck, the water and darkness causing him to hit high, sinking the blade into Chris’s jaw. He tried again, and found his target.
He missed the carotid artery, but caught the esophagus. He ripped out, feeling an explosion of bubbles. Chris’s fight became feeble, then stopped altogether. Jacob held on until his lungs felt like they were about to burst, then swam upward, dragging the body with him.
He broke the surface with an explosion of air, treading water and cradling Chris’s head as if he were a lifeguard. He scanned around and saw Carlos slowly circling in the boat. He waved, and Carlos increased speed toward him. Jacob looked toward shore
, but saw nobody. They were across from the Rialto Market area, and at this hour, it was closed, the market nothing more than empty tables and stands, waiting for tomorrow’s fruits, fish, and vegetables.
Carlos pulled up next to him and said, “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jacob looked down for the first time, seeing Chris’s head bobbing in the water, blood leaking out from the massive tear in his neck, his hair floating about like a halo, his eyes open and wet.
Jacob said, “We didn’t get any of our answers.”
Carlos said, “We know he’s having meetings tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but he might be meeting the woman as well.”
Jacob hoisted the torso toward the boat and said, “Hold his arms.”
Carlos did so, awkwardly leaning over and tilting the hull with the weight of the body. Jacob went through the dead man’s pockets, pulling out his wallet, passport, hotel keycard, and cell phone. He threw them into the boat, then began punching the blade into Chris’s chest like he was using a fork on the plastic of a microwave dinner. Venting the body to allow water to enter the lungs.
He tossed the knife into the boat and said, “Tie him to the side. We need to drop him in the ocean, where we planned. We can’t risk him being discovered.”
Carlos dropped the rope into the water and Jacob began lashing, keeping the body below the waterline, Carlos helping where he could. A barge towing a bucket loader appeared around the bend and they stopped working, Jacob crouching below the gunwale.
It passed on without incident.
Carlos put in one final cinch of rope and said, “What are we going to do?”
Jacob pulled himself over the side of the skiff, water running off of his clothes.
“Continue on. What else is there?”
54
Opening his ProtonMail, Rashid was pleased to see a message. It was from someone called UnionJack7883 and the subject was “Timeline.” He assumed it was from al-Britani, and used the word Timeline as his decryption password. It failed.