by E H Jennings
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Gstaad
36 hours remaining
Dawn was born wrapped in splendor over the Alps. The fuchsia-tinted horizon reflected off the snow-capped peaks and the alpine forests, enveloping the mountain country in an almost incandescent glow.
At Stonehill’s chalet, everything was still; the bustle of the promenade was muted both by the forest and the elevation change. The only sound or movement came from that endemic to the countryside. And as Carson stood on the wide porch, sipping coffee, he found a deep appreciation for such a natural silence.
It was one of the things he loved most about Coal Creek. But he was a long way from home, he reminded himself, and if this mission failed, home would never be the same again.
He finished his coffee and went back inside.
They all met in the upstairs living room. When Carson got there, Stonehill was introducing Sampson and Mendez to someone, a man Carson had never seen before.
Except he had.
In the brief interlude between their meeting in Stonehill’s man cave and sunrise, Mick Travis had been transformed into the stately Mr. David Wainscott, Roland Stonehill’s son-in-law and personal pilot.
Mick’s ponytail was gone, replaced by shoulder-length hair dyed black and gelled with expensive product. His goatee had also been relinquished in favor of a triangle-shaped soul patch, suitably dyed to match the hair on his head. He wore a navy suit with a white shirt, no tie, and light brown loafers, sans socks.
“Wonderful to meet you both,” said Travis, shaking Sampson and Mendez’s hands in turn. His accent was an eccentric but believable British. It was far from perfect, but it was polished enough to convince Mendez.
Carson glanced at Sampson and she avoided his eyes. He was getting closer to being able to trust her, but there was one major problem: she still knew things he didn’t. He had always believed an operation built on half-truths was doomed to fail, and now the stakes were higher than ever.
Nonetheless, there was a plan in place; it was their only chance. And whether he liked it or not, the fate of the mission and the lives of a great many people—including his own—rested in her hands.
He shifted his gaze to the hulking figure of Troy Mendez and felt bile rise in his throat. If what Stonehill and Travis had told him was true, which he was now confident it was, Mendez was already dead.
Stonehill motioned for everyone to take a seat as the projector screen descended from the ceiling. Vincent moved swiftly into the room, handed Stonehill a folder and gathered up empty coffee cups as he left.
The casual chatter ended when an image appeared on the screen. It was a map of Europe and the Middle East. Stonehill pressed a button on the remote and a red line appeared on the map, circuitously connecting Gstaad to a point in southern Turkey.
“This,” announced Stonehill, “is your flight plan. If all goes well, you will land south of Gaziantep in approximately nine hours. Further transportation will await you there.”
“We can’t fly straight into Syria?” Mendez asked.
There was a hint of suspicion in his tone. Sampson shifted in her seat.
“We don’t have airspace clearances,” said Travis. “And considering their current state of affairs, it doesn’t hurt my feelings.”
Stonehill pressed another button and the map zoomed into tight focus on the northwestern regions of Syria. “This is Bab Al Salameh, the border crossing that will get you into Syria. It won’t be simple and I would not expect an abundance of hospitality, but arrangements have been made.” His eyebrows lifted. “As have contingency arrangements.”
“What about weapons?” This came from Sampson. “We can’t overtake a terrorist compound without some serious firepower.”
“Another reason we’re not flying directly into Syria,” said Stonehill. “An assortment of weapons and other useful items will be made available to you upon your arrival in Turkey. I think you will find them most satisfactory, even with the high standards I’m sure you each maintain.”
Carson finished studying the map and asked, “What intel do we have on the cell?”
Stonehill slid a folder across the table.
“Inside you will find the entirety of our information on Q24. While it is far from all-encompassing, the data is thorough and extremely current. Langley would be impressed.”
Carson opened it and flipped through the first few pages. They contained a series of satellite images each accompanied by a short paragraph of explanation. The writing was staccato and plain, but there were at least forty pages of data.
Stonehill seemed to read his mind. “I suggest you use the flight time to plan out your attack. For individuals of your skill and experience, I trust nine hours is a sufficient thought space.”
Carson and Sampson shared a meaningful glance. The plan had already been constructed, in Stonehill’s barn just before dawn. To her credit, Sampson had contributed significantly. She was cagey as hell. She had also performed the more delicate work in assembling Mick’s disguise.
“The three bastards we’re supposed to take out,” said Mendez. “We’re absolutely positive they’re going to be there?”
Stonehill nodded. “I have confirmation from a variety of credible sources.”
“And how will we know where to find them?”
“It’s all in the packet. The building’s floor plan is outlined and the most probable locations for the meeting have been circled, as have other key details. You’ll find I’ve made some suggestions regarding points of ingress and egress, but they’re just that—suggestions. You’re the operators. Trust your instincts and improvise as needed.”
When Stonehill turned off the projector, it was clear the briefing was over. They all gathered their things and began shuffling out of the conference room. Carson hung back and waited for the others to leave.
“So everything’s a go?” he asked.
Stonehill nodded. “It’s all in place, just as we discussed.”
“And Connor?”
His eyes smiled behind the blue frames. “Just as we discussed.”
“Think he bought it?”
“I do,” said Stonehill. “For now.”
Carson took a deep breath and asked a very honest question: “What are the odds we make it out of this alive?”
In reply, Stonehill reached inside his sport coat and produced a pistol. It was a black Beretta 9mm, very similar to the one Carson had once used in the field. He handed it to him.
“Think of it this way,” he said. “If you weren’t here, if you weren’t about to do this, Colton’s odds of survival would be zero.”
Carson nodded but didn’t say anything. He was surprised when the old man reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Keep your eyes and your mind open, Carson. Do that, and the world as we know it might just stand a chance.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Southern Turkey
27 hours remaining
Stonehill’s Gulfstream G550 was being stored in a hangar at a private airfield twenty miles north of Gstaad.
The sleek private jet was the epitome of luxurious comfort and opulence. Though outfitted to comfortably carry as many as nineteen passengers, the G550 was also lean and mean, offering pilots the ability to fly more than eleven non-stop hours at speeds over six hundred miles per hour.
It was one of three owned by the good doctor.
Carson, Sampson, and Mendez spent the nine-hour flight above the Mediterranean pouring over the intel Stonehill had provided. They sat in leather seats and spread the documents across an oak table. As they worked, Carson noted Mendez checking his phone and wondered what information the man was feeding back to McManus.
His time would come.
And so would McManus’s.
Stonehill had spoken accurately about the intel: it was both thorough and current. The bizarre billionaire was clearly a very skilled intelligence asset with a large network of resources.
Old friends,
thought Carson, remembering what Stonehill had said about loyalty.
Q24 was a two-story compound with a basement. Though the images were grainy, it also seemed there was some sort of space beneath the basement. And most troubling, a network of underground tunnels connected a second structure to the compound. Stonehill had speculated it was somewhere amid the tunnels that Colton was being detained.
It was obvious they would be outnumbered; that had been an assumption all along. In addition to the forty-some Hamas fighters, there would also be FSA soldiers in attendance, not to mention a security deployment from the NSC.
Carson didn’t give a shit about the targets. In his mind, and apparently Sampson’s, the op was simple: do whatever it takes to extract Colton and pray to God for a miracle.
It was a smooth flight, and by the time Mick guided the wheels onto a private runway near Gaziantep, Carson was convinced Mendez had fallen for the misdirection. The absence of microexpressions confirmed the fact.
Again, he had to give credit to Sampson. She had played her role perfectly.
A dusty Dodge Caravan awaited their debarkation at the airstrip and they all climbed in, including Mick. Mendez was under the impression that David Wainscott had been tasked with getting them all the way to the rendezvous point. He didn’t know, of course, that he would be joining them in the firefight.
As the van beat along the rocky road, Carson nonchalantly handed the folder to Mick, who quickly and quietly brought himself up to speed. He absorbed every detail like the professional he was, committing them to memory before giving the folder back to Carson. With an imperceptible nod, Mick gave his approval.
Dusk was settling over the landscape as the van finally came to a stop outside the storage facility. Mick paid the driver, who never spoke, and they all got out.
The facility was nondescript and far from pristine, bordered on all sides by a rusty metal fence with mangled barbwire along the top. There were four rows of buildings, each containing approximately twenty-five individual units. The buildings were constructed of unpainted cement block, while the doors to each unit were made of thick metal and padlocked. A green number had been painted on every door.
In the third row, near the back of the property, was unit 213. It looked just like the others, but that’s where the similarities stopped. It belonged to a man in the employ of an American shadow agency, a man whose name Stonehill had refused to divulge. A man Stonehill promised they could trust.
Such a man left nothing to chance.
Carson took out the key Stonehill had given him and undid the padlock. He and Mendez heaved the metal door open. It spun on rollers into the ceiling, revealing a second door behind it. The second door was made of steel.
A small black square along the side served as something like a barcode scanner. Carson took the access card from his wallet and held it in front of the square. The card glowed red; there was a pause, then a beep, then the sound of steel beams shifting against one another. The door slowly swung inward.
With the sunlight fading, they stumbled into the dark space. Sampson used her cell phone flashlight to find a light switch and flipped it on.
They all stood in silent appreciation.
Two white Toyota Land Cruisers were parked side by side, both armored and emblazoned on either side with black “UN” decals. Behind them was a workbench covered with a vast menagerie of weapons and documents.
“Shit,” said Mendez.
“Yeah,” added Mick. “Imagine being married to his daughter.”
It really was quite clever, thought Carson. Using the Cruisers, along with fresh passports and UN credential packs, they would cross the Syrian border disguised as a United Nations detachment. Their passports were all Italian, as were their cred packs. Even though the United Nations Supervision Mission in Syria, or UNSMIS, had officially ended in July, an extension had been granted and the UN still maintained a peacekeeping presence amid the strife.
“Let’s move,” said Carson.
They loaded the weapons into the vehicles and stowed them in cavities in the floor. They each kept at least one hand weapon on their person, but the heavy artillery needed to be kept out of sight. Carson had the Beretta Stonehill had given him in Gstaad; he also had a Ka-Bar knife and some garrote wire.
Sampson and Mick got in one SUV while Mendez and Carson took the other. They pulled out of unit 213, Carson locked it behind them, and they left the facility at 1727 local time.
At 1800, Carson worked to steady his breathing as they approached the border. In three hours’ time, the fight to save Colton, and the world, would begin.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Al-Safirah
As darkness fell on Q24, the men made their way to the rooftop to smoke cigarettes and drink from bottles of American whiskey. It was warm for October, and considering the constant stress of a war, they intended to make the night count.
The Arab waved as he passed them.
His brief meeting with Hassan Abdullah had just finished and the second meeting would start within the hour. The others would be arriving soon.
He walked briskly down the steps to the first floor, then entered the stairwell at the rear of the building. Two flights down, his footsteps echoing off the walls, he turned to his left and started down a narrow hallway. When he came to the final set of stairs, he took out a flashlight and descended deeper into the darkness.
He didn’t really need the light; he knew these tunnels by heart.
The hallway continued to narrow, the air becoming dank and musty. The walls had nearly closed in on him by the time he reached the doors. They were black and made of iron; each marked the entrance to a holding cell.
He used a key to open the first door on the right. As it turned inward, grinding on rusted hinges, the Arab heard movement in the darkness.
He extinguished the light and said, “It’s me.”
The movement stopped. There was neither light nor sound, just the humorless void of the torture chamber. And the stench of the man shackled to the wall.
The Arab closed his eyes and let the magnitude of the moment consume him. Six years of intricate planning and painstaking sacrifice had led him to this night. If he pulled it off, it would change the course of human history.
He opened his eyes and breathed in the damp air. When he did, he heard the ragged breath of his prisoner, the clinking of chains as the man shifted position.
“It’s almost over,” the Arab whispered. “They’re nearly here.”
He took three items from his kaftan and knelt down beside the prisoner. The first was a loaf of bread. He found the man’s hands and sat the loaf in them, then listened as the prisoner ravenously tore into it. When he was finished, the Arab handed him the second item. A key.
“When the lights come on, free yourself from the manacles. But do not leave the cell for any reason. You must be here when I return.”
More ragged breath, but the man reached up and took the key.
Finally, the Arab stood.
“Here,” he said, handing over the third item. “Take it.”
When the prisoner’s fingers closed around the gun, the man moaned with delight. This was proof his misery was nearly over, that the Arab had been true to his word.
“If anyone comes into this room before I get back, kill them.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
24 hours remaining
Stonehill’s chalet had been a sanctuary filled with revelation. One of those revelations was that Benjamin Caruso, the Sephardic forger of Sarcelles, was in fact not a member of the CIA.
Caruso also didn’t work for Warren McManus. He was a highly sought freelancer, among other things, but more importantly he did a lot of work for Roland Stonehill. Stonehill had remained very cloak and dagger, merely saying that Caruso’s services had significantly benefitted his “organization.”
They had also benefitted Carson. Twice.
For the second time in two days, documents prepared by Caruso had effectively
granted border access.
Entry through Bab Al Salameh was far from pleasant. Despite the UN decals and impeccable credentialing packs—again, Caruso—Mick had been asked to exit the vehicle. With everyone holding their breath, they watched as the sentries patted him down. If they found his weapon and noted the absence of a serial number, there would be no choice but to fight their way out; Carson kept a hand on his Beretta.
But border patrol found nothing. Mick was clean.
When he got back in the car with Sampson, he winked and nodded at the dash, where his pistol was held in place by a magnet. Sleight of hand had saved the entire operation. And probably their lives.
Carson had his window down as the Cruisers rolled to a stop and he could hear the water. Jaboul Lake was large, more than a mile across, and a southern wind pressed the waves toward them.
Gunning up didn’t take long, and they went through a final check of operational details. The assault would be a series of three rally points: at the first, Mendez would branch off, moving south and west of the compound. His objective was the high ground to the south; meanwhile, Carson and Sampson would move to the second rally, where they would await signal from Mendez. After a carefully coordinated siege, they would reconvene with Mendez at the third rally, southeast of the lake, where Wainscott would pick them up in one of the Cruisers.
This was the plan as Troy Mendez understood it.
This was not the whole plan.
Stonehill had spared no expense when it came to the weapons and tac gear. Carson had his Beretta on his hip and a Sig on his ankle, and he shouldered a Heckler and Koch 416 assault rifle. Sampson carried two hand weapons to accompany an M4, and Mendez packed a case containing the only sniper he had ever used in the field—the .300 Winchester mag.
Carson and Sampson each had black tactical helmets to match bulletproof vests, combat pants, and boots, but Mendez opted for a hat, turned backwards.
They each wore bone mics and NVGs, and after testing them, Carson gave Mick the signal that everything was a go.