King's Ransom

by E H Jennings

  He turned and walked back toward the porch. “Anyway, all you need to know is that we were good at what we did. Really good. Those first two years were incredibly successful. Up until early oh-five, we had killed every target we’d been given and lost none of our own.

  “But starting in March of that year, everything changed. We lost our first guy on a mission in Yemen; we got the target, but still, we weren’t used to the taste of failure. We went into our next mission pissed off and looking to exact vengeance. Which we did, killing seventeen members of an Al-Qaeda cell operating out of Jordan.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “But that was the last mission where things were normal. Everything fell apart in a matter of months and no one could explain why. It was like our targets knew we were coming.

  “There was talk that Mirkwood was gonna get pulled. But despite the heavy losses, our anonymity was intact and we still hadn’t failed a mission. We were still too valuable to shut down.

  “We carried out several ops that summer. And just like before, we were taking out targets and losing an operative or two on every other mission. By the time we accepted our final mission in October, Mirkwood’s forces had been reduced from twenty-four to eight. We had lost two-thirds of our men. And it was on that final mission that we finally figured out why.

  “As it turned out, it didn’t just seem like they knew we were coming. They actually knew we were coming. One of our head spies, an old spook legend named Ezekiel Lazarus, conducted pre-mission recon. Turns out he had also been feeding operation details to our targets.

  “The last mission was a full-scale ambush. We had no chance. They sent in six of us and the results were disastrous. Three were killed, the other three were badly injured, and we didn’t get within ten miles of the target. It was the death knell of Operation Mirkwood. We were finished and we all knew it.”

  “And you and Connor were on that mission?” Sampson asked.

  Carson nodded. “We would have died with the others if it weren’t for one of the locals. He drug us to safety and we eventually found our way to a Lebanese hospital. We were there for three weeks before we got well enough to travel back to the states. Our family thought we were dead.”

  “Who was the third guy?” asked Sampson. “The other one that lived?”

  “Troy Mendez. He was a hundred yards above us in a sniper nest. He killed at least a dozen before taking heavy AK fire. He was hit but crawled off into the brush and got away.” Carson grinned. “I have no idea where he went, but he resurfaced two weeks later at that hospital in Lebanon. He waited with us while we healed up and we all flew home together.”

  “What about the Lazarus guy? What happened to him?”

  A dark emotion settled in behind Carson’s eyes. “After they pulled the plug on Mirkwood, Mendez hunted the bastard down. It took a year, but he finally found him having lunch at an outdoor café in Greece. He put a Winchester .300 mag round through the guy’s forehead from over a thousand yards. Said chunks of gray matter landed in some woman’s hummus two tables away.”

  Sampson grunted. “You said the guy was some kind of spy legend. If so, why wouldn’t he be on the Agency’s Wall of Shame alongside Aldrich Ames and the rest?”

  “Simple,” said Carson. “He was a legend. Apparently his cold war exploits were unrivaled. He was also a traitor. But he committed his treason while embedded in fully black operations. Remember, the Agency promised to completely disavow Mirkwood if things ever went sideways. Instead of putting Lazarus’s name on the wall, they erased it.”

  “Erased it?”

  “That’s right. Just like the old Soviet practice under Stalin, they simply made him vanish. As far as the CIA is concerned, Zeke Lazarus never worked for the United States in any capacity. Take it a step further, he never existed at all. They destroyed everything: pictures, files, identification, briefing reports, IRS records, family scrapbooks. Anything that could have ever hinted at the fact that Ezekiel Lazarus ever lived. Which is why people like you have never heard of him. And you never will.”

  Sampson changed the subject. “Where was the final mission?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “Where in Syria and who was the target?”

  Carson shook his head. “Those are not questions I can answer.”

  Placated, Sampson turned and started walking inside.

  “Not so fast,” said Carson. “We had a deal.”

  She tried to look nonplussed. “Ask away.”

  “Were you and Colton in some kind of relationship?”

  Carson had been wondering about it ever since Wytheville. If there had been romance, or at least a close friendship, it would give Sampson motive. But Carson saw no sign of the tell. No microexpression.

  “I only met him once,” she answered. “We ran into each other in a copy room one afternoon at Langley. I barely knew him well enough to recognize his picture.”

  Still no microexpression.

  “Is the CIA your only employer?” he asked.

  There. The crease at the corner of her mouth.

  She smiled and opened the door. “I’m afraid that’s one question too many.” She stepped inside and grabbed her keys off the counter. “Now let’s go meet the man that killed the legendary Zeke Lazarus.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sampson drove while Carson checked his phone.

  General McManus had sent him the address and Carson plugged into his GPS, then forwarded it to Connor. Connor replied and said he would be there in half an hour. Next, Carson called Mendez and informed him of the change of plans. He too would be arriving in less than an hour.

  Carson put his phone away and the car was quiet. He and Sampson hadn’t spoken since she refused to answer his question. She guided the Land Rover along New Circle, and when the GPS prompted, exited onto Versailles Road.

  The horse farms came into view.

  Enclosed by white four-board fences and studded with multi-million dollar barns, Kentucky’s horse farms were some of the most iconic tourist attractions in the world. The rolling hills and bucolic scenery brought in over four billion tourism dollars annually, making it the state’s top agricultural cash crop.

  Traffic thickened as they passed Keeneland Race Track. The fall meet was in session, and though it was before nine in the morning, people were already piling in by the thousands. Some were wealthy investors and businessmen out for a day of leisure or wining and dining clients, while others were local celebrities and horse connoisseurs. But the majority were college students, trading in a day of class for cornhole, beer, and Kentucky’s second biggest tourist attraction—bourbon.

  They followed Versailles Road out of Lexington, through Versailles, and north toward Frankfort. They turned left and eventually came to an immaculate stone entrance. The gate was closed but a man in nice clothing hurried over and opened it for them. They waved as they passed through.

  There was a brick mansion on the hill and half a dozen thoroughbreds grazing in the field. Carson marveled at the rustic beauty as Sampson parked the Land Rover next to the stables.

  Carson had done a quick Google search and found that Damien Fitzgerald, McManus’s brother-in-law, was in fact one of the wealthiest individuals in the northeast. This wasn’t his land, his mansion, or his stables. But these were his horses. And he had paid for the private runway in the field beyond the stables so he could keep a close eye on his investment. His plane was parked on the tarmac, waiting for them.

  Carson and Sampson were observing the intricate woodwork on the barn when a diesel truck pulled up next to them.

  “I’ll be shit,” said Mendez, rolling down his window. “The King hath returned.”

  The two men got out and shared a bear hug.

  “It’s damn good to see ya, Carson.”

  Carson nodded. “You too, Troy. Thanks for coming.”

  Sampson couldn’t help but notice Troy Mendez was massive. Carson was big, but Mendez stood at least four inches taller. His chest and
shoulders bulged. And despite the temperature being in the forties, his green t-shirt was short-sleeved, revealing tattoos covering both his arms.

  Born to Venezuelan parents, Troy Mendez had grown up in Miami with his aunt and uncle. Due to his dark skin and gargantuan size, he had often been mistaken for a Samoan.

  When Mendez saw Sampson standing by the Land Rover, he glanced at Carson. “Damn.”

  “Troy, this is Agent Rachel Sampson. Sampson, meet the great Troy Mendez.”

  Sampson shook the man’s hand but didn’t say anything as he looked her up and down, paying particular attention when he came to her chest.

  “Oh, and Troy,” Carson added. “She could definitely kick your ass.”

  Mendez grunted appreciatively. “Even better.”

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about,” said Carson, interrupting Mendez’s thorough physical assessment of Sampson. “We figured out who killed Lee and Chuck. And it’s not good news.”

  Mendez reluctantly pulled his eyes away and nodded at the plane. “Hell, let’s go ahead and board. I could really use a drink.”

  “It’s nine in the morning.”

  Mendez grinned. “Exactly.”

  • • •

  Connor arrived ten minutes later and the plane lifted off the horse farm runway.

  Sampson sat by herself and sank deep into her thoughts.

  She listened in to their conversation and learned that Mendez was an instructor at the sniper school at Fort Bragg, his old stomping grounds when he was “behind the fence” with Delta Force. Mendez told them about his nephew and Connor bragged about his wife and daughters. There was a lot of laughing and slapping of shoulders, a rare happy moment amid a potentially life-shattering crisis.

  Sampson was envious. She couldn’t remember her last happy moment.

  Her life was already shattered.

  She watched Carson laugh and felt a slight warmth in her chest. Though she wouldn’t exactly call them friends, there was some semblance of…something forming between them. He didn’t trust her and she could understand that. She was a stranger and a spy. If put in his shoes, she would be thinking and acting in the exact same way.

  Guilt consumed the warmth. She liked Carson; she couldn’t help it. His meek life in Coal Creek, the passionate way he cared for his family. Carson King was a good man.

  Unfortunately, that made her assignment all the more difficult. She hated lying to him. She truly did. But he couldn’t know the truth.

  Not yet.

  When she glanced at Mendez, she had the urge to jump across the aisle and plunge a knife into his throat. She had hidden her hatred quite well back at the farm, but it was overwhelming now. Troy Mendez was the reason she was in this mess.

  She was definitely going to kill him. Just not today.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Istanbul

  Sayid awoke from his nap exactly two hours before the meeting. He quickly showered, dressed, and gathered his things, then sat on the bed and pulled out the small medical kit he had brought along with him.

  Though his bond with Faisah was probably the biggest reason the Qassam Brigades had allowed him to join, the fact that he was a physician certainly didn’t hurt his case.

  During his primary schooling in Syria, several of his instructors had taken notice of his intellect and helped him get into a medical school in India. With his father dead, there was no way his mother could pay for such an education, so the community had helped. His friends and neighbors rallied, raising enough money to get him through his first year of training. He had then taken a full-time job working at a bakery on nights and weekends to fund the remaining three years.

  Upon returning from India, Sayid was a local hero. He opened a clinic in his small hometown outside Aleppo and provided free medical care for the first three months of his practice—his way of saying thank you for all the town had done for him. They had given him and his family a future, and he intended to give them something in return.

  For seven years following medical school, life was very pleasant for Sayid. He began making a solid, honest living, and he met his beautiful wife, Prishna. Their daughter was born eleven months after the wedding. His medical practice was growing, he bought a home large enough to accommodate his mother moving in with them, and it seemed, for the first time in his life, that things were finally as they were meant to be.

  Then came the civil war.

  Three months after the protests in Deraa, his wife and child were both dead. Two weeks after that, his mother was hit by a ricocheted bullet fired by members of the Shabiha, a group of thugs loyal to the Assad regime.

  It was then that Sayid had left. His beloved hometown was in flames and everything he had once loved was scattered among the ashes. He had heard talk of an opposition cell operating out of the woodlands surrounding Al-Jaboul Lake. He had no idea it was the Qassam Brigades; all he knew was he wanted to fight.

  He found the Q24 compound in the middle of the night. When he pulled down the steep hill into the compound’s frontage property, several men surrounded his vehicle and threatened to kill him. And they probably would have if it hadn’t been for Faisah.

  Now he was here, in a hotel in Istanbul, and as he looked down at his old medical bag, he remembered all his life had once been.

  When a car honked its horn outside, he shook his head, clearing the memory from his mind. This was no time for reflection.

  Unzipping the leather bag, he took out a butterfly needle attached to a luer-lock syringe. He then rolled back the sleeve on his left arm, palpated the cephalic vein in the bend of his elbow, and plunged the needle into his skin. Blood erupted into the line as he pumped the handle on the syringe. When the syringe was full, he disconnected it from the line and capped it using a yellow rubber stopper.

  He disposed of the used syringe and tubing line in the bathroom trash can, then removed the trash bag and tied it tightly. He placed the blood-filled syringe inside his travel bag and tossed the bag over his shoulder.

  After stuffing his Kel-Tec into the holster hidden on his waist, Sayid turned off the lights and left the Basileus Hotel.

  He tossed the trash bag into the dumpster in the parking lot, then took a left onto Kaleci street.

  In the distance, Sayid could see the Best Western jutting above the black horizon. He took a deep breath. It was finally time to deliver Faisah’s envelope.

  • • •

  “There he is.”

  Vlad Gribanov was sitting in a wooden chair in room 311 of the House of Zeugma hotel, looking out over the busy street below.

  He had a pair of Swarovski binoculars hanging around his neck but he wasn’t using them. His primary area of interest was barely thirty yards away.

  He pointed, showing his two comrades what he was talking about. “There,” he said. “It’s the man we saw this afternoon. The man who spoke with the clerk.”

  The other two leaned forward and caught sight of the Syrian they had observed eating lunch earlier in the day. Vlad had quickly grown suspicious of the man, telling his comrades something didn’t feel right. The man moved like a ghost.

  They watched as the wily Syrian made his way up the sidewalk and stepped inside the Best Western Acropol, waving politely to the concierge as he entered the decadent lobby.

  Vlad grabbed his phone off the windowsill and made the call.

  Three rings later a wicked voice answered. “This is Div.”

  “Boss, we got a problem,” said Vlad. “The man I told you about earlier, the Syrian, he’s about to make contact with The Secretary.”

  Vlad was surprised to hear his boss chuckle. They called him The Savage—and for good reason—but the term tended to imply primitivism, or even stupidity. Drago Ancic, the Divljak, was anything but stupid.

  “This isn’t a problem,” said Ancic. “It’s the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. Don’t interfere. Let him make contact. When he leaves, follow him and to
rture the information out of him. Find out what his purposes were in Istanbul, who sent him, and who his boss works for. And most importantly, find out what his business in Turkey has to do with The Secretary. If we’re lucky, he’ll lead us right to the targets.”

  “And what will we do with him?” asked Vlad.

  “You’ll do what I pay you to do.”

  After his boss hung up, Vlad looked at his team members. None of them understood why Div had given them this assignment. They had been sitting in a hotel room for almost forty-eight hours. When the man called The Secretary finally showed up just over an hour ago, there had been about five seconds of excitement before the man simply walked into the Best Western and disappeared from sight.

  They had a picture and a description: he was a Turkish banker in the employ of the Syrian National Council, apparently as some sort of secret-keeper. He wore nice clothing, but his stature was slight and unimpressive. If they hadn’t known better, they never would have given the man a second glance.

  As Vlad stared across the street, the truth suddenly washed over him. The Secretary was the go-between, the messenger.

  Div had told them the man would be here for a dinner party being held in the hotel’s conference room. And indeed such a party was happening; it was advertised on the marquee and they had watched richly dressed men and women bustle into the hotel for the last hour.

  But though The Secretary was officially here for the party, he was unofficially here for something else. And Vlad realized that’s what Div had meant by an opportunity. They were watching The Secretary because any correspondence being sent to the targets would invariably funnel through him.

  If they watched long enough, they might unveil a clue as to the location of the targets. And when they knew their location, they could engage the final stage of the plan.

  Killing them.

  Vlad wasn’t one to question orders, but he was offended that Div was hiring outsiders to complete the mission. His exact words were, “This will take a delicate touch.”