King's Ransom

by E H Jennings

  Suddenly more fighters came pouring in from the back of the compound. They advanced down the hallway from both directions. Though their numbers had been drastically reduced, they had nearly flanked Connor and Mick when something unexplainable happened: they started falling, blood spattering from fatal wounds.

  The kill shots were coming from behind them.

  There was a dramatic upswing in the intensity of the fight, and the last thing Carson registered before passing out was being grabbed by the collar of his vest and drug along the floor, away from Connor and Mick.

  • • •

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Mendez was looking down on the compound through his scope when he saw something he couldn’t believe. Though he had been at cold zero moments before, he felt his heart rate quicken as adrenaline flooded his veins. It was a stroke of luck unlike anything he had ever experienced.

  He watched as a man climbed over the roof’s edge and worked his way down a small ladder secured to the building. Mendez did a double take, then a triple take, but the world-class optics made it very clear: he knew this man.

  He was the highest priority target on the planet, and finally seeing him in person had left Mendez in a state of shock.

  But as the man quickly descended the ladder, Mendez saw his window of opportunity closing.

  He took a deep breath and closed back in on cold zero. He touched the tip of his nose then the tip of his scope, a routine that had never failed him, and let the crosshairs fall directly on the base of the man’s skull. He moved his finger to the trigger.

  Then he felt it.

  “Nighty night, motherfucker,” said Rachel Sampson, as she placed the gun against Mendez’s head and pulled the trigger.

  • • •

  Drago Ancic lit a cigarette as the images appeared on the screen. He sat back, let smoke filter out his nostrils. It was done.

  Warren McManus was smiling, maybe as broadly as he ever had in his life. They were in his library, seated at his desk, and the two large monitors told the story. On one screen was a live Skype feed straight from Al-Safirah, where Vlad Gribanov and his men were set up in a Humvee four hundred yards from the compound.

  On the other screen, McManus’s greatest professional victory to date was on full display: even without his brother’s help, Carson King had succeeded. The faces of the three NSC members stared back at him, their eyes lifeless and empty. The pictures were close-ups, taken with a cell phone.

  “You’re sure?” McManus asked Gribanov.

  Vlad’s face came into focus. “Absolutely positive. And Mendez has been dealt with as well. We just watched Sampson take him out.”

  McManus was skeptical. “So you’re telling me Carson took down the compound by himself?”

  “No, Sampson went in too. Mendez laid cover while they breached the compound from the south. We heard the gunfight and a series of explosions. There’s been no sign of King, but obviously your targets are dead.”

  McManus studied the faces on the screen. The targets were dead; there was no denying that. But something felt off.

  “Who the hell cares,” said Drago, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Just finish the op and get out of Syria. King did his job. Now let my men do theirs and let’s be done with this shit.”

  McManus was quiet as he considered things. He had not expected the mission to go this smoothly and that made him nervous. But the reality was that the targets were dead; the blackmail had been fulfilled and he was vindicated. In fact, he had already received confirmation from the Syrian government. All was square.

  The Mirage Project was safe and his pending appointment to SecDef was secure. He needed to call Prosser ASAP and let him know the good news. But first, there was one more item of business to address.

  He leaned forward and gave the order. “Kill them all.”

  • • •

  Tears slid down Sampson’s cheeks as she stared at Troy Mendez’s corpse.

  He was a ruthless swine and a murderer. And now he was dead.

  Taking a step forward, she spat on his face and pumped another bullet into his chest for good measure. “This is for my family,” she said, then unloaded the rest of her clip into what was left of him.

  When the slide locked back, the chamber empty, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She had received the images as she was stalking Mendez, which was a little quicker than she had been expecting. It almost threw her off but she was able to slip behind some brush and forward the messages on to their destination.

  The new message was a reply from McManus. It contained the two words that confirmed their business arrangement was officially concluded:

  Mission Complete.

  She slid the phone in her pocket and looked down at the compound. Things had gone quiet; that was either really good or really bad.

  Her knees buckled when the bullet hit her in the back. She landed on her side, her face pressed against sandy earth. She tasted salt and thought maybe it was the rain.

  It didn’t take long to realize it was blood.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Carson blinked several times, trying to determine if his eyes were actually open. Unless the blow to the head had blinded him, the space around him was completely and utterly black. There was no light of any kind.

  He was being drug by his collar. There was dirt beneath him and he could tell from the acoustics the passage was very narrow. He could also smell moisture, a cool, stale dankness hanging thick in the air, and in this part of the world that could only mean one thing: they were underground.

  His captor had brought him to the tunnels.

  Which was why Carson had stayed quiet. The man knew who he was—it was the only explanation for abducting him as opposed to just killing him. The fact that he had brought him to the tunnels was further evidence; if Carson remained still, there was hope the man would lead him to Colton.

  There were footsteps in front of them. Barely audible, but the enclosed space amplified the sound. The steps were followed by the grind of metal against stone, then a soft murmur of voices.

  As they rounded a turn, a narrow sliver of light erupted into the darkness. Shadows were cast against the walls and they revealed movement beyond the light. There were at least two people, maybe more.

  Everything went black again and Carson felt the space widen around him.

  They were in Colton’s cell.

  Just before he made his move, the man let him go. He fell on something hard and stifled a grunt, forcing himself to stay limp.

  “Stand up,” a voice said.

  Carson didn’t move. The voice came from behind him.

  “Stand up, Carson,” the voice said again. “Hurry.”

  It was a deep voice with a slight accent, but it wasn’t harsh. In fact, it was almost polite.

  They clearly knew he was conscious, so Carson complied and got to his feet. He slowly drew the Beretta and held it against his side.

  “Now,” said another voice.

  A blinding light filled the room. Carson used his free hand to shield his eyes while he raised the Beretta with his other.

  “Get back!” he screamed.

  As his eyes adjusted he saw an Arabic man standing in front of him. He pointed the gun at the man’s face.

  “Put it down, Sayid,” the man commanded, and Carson turned to see another Arab, holding a pistol on him. The second man’s eyes were black and angry.

  “Turn around and listen,” said the man with black eyes. “We don’t have much time.”

  Sayid didn’t lower his pistol; neither did Carson.

  Realizing Carson wasn’t about to turn his back on a man wielding a gun, the Arab came around and stood in front of him. To Carson’s surprise, the man had removed his turban, revealing a thick spray of white hair.

  “Hello, Carson.”

  Carson squinted. “Who the hell are you? And where’s my brother?”

  There was movement in the corner and a third man came into view. Cars
on moved his eyes without turning his head and saw all he needed to see—it wasn’t Colton.

  The man with white hair stayed calm. Unnervingly calm. “You know who I am, Carson, just as I know you. You’re a good man, and I want to help you.”

  “Tell me where Colton is right now or I’ll kill all three of you.”

  Inexplicably, the man smiled. His teeth were as white as his hair. “I have no doubt you could do exactly that. You were one of the most talented operatives I ever worked with.”

  Now Carson’s head started to spin. Worked with. There was something familiar about the man’s face, something that made Carson nauseous.

  “Where’s Colton?” he persisted. “Last chance.”

  “He isn’t here,” the Arab answered. “But I know who took him.”

  Carson stepped forward and placed the Beretta against his forehead.

  The Arab was still smiling as he slowly raised his hands. Carson was prepared to kill him, but the man didn’t draw a weapon. He kept talking.

  “The same man that ruined your life also ruined mine. We have a common enemy. The Mirage Project, Mirkwood, Bradford, Prosser…McManus.”

  When the Arab lowered his hands, Carson’s knees buckled and his stomach heaved. He vomited on the stone floor.

  The Arab had removed his contacts. They were falsely colored, making him appear to have dark brown irises. Now his icy blue eyes stared back at Carson, and he would have known them anywhere. They were unmistakable and impossible.

  “Lazarus?”

  The man nodded, his smile fading.

  Rage and shock shook Carson’s body and he shoved the pistol back into Lazarus’s face. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains out, you benedict son of a bitch!”

  Lazarus said nothing. Nor did he flinch. He simply held the gaze, his eyes the color of midnight glacier, bearing into Carson’s soul.

  Ezekiel Lazarus was a traitor. He had singlehandedly ruined Operation Mirkwood and killed dozens of American soldiers. He had betrayed Carson, and Connor, and the whole unit. He had betrayed the United States of America. And he was dead. They had hunted him down and killed him for his cowardice. They had left his brain in a bowl of hummus. Mendez had seen to it.

  Carson’s breath caught in his throat. Mendez…

  His story was the only proof. The body was never recovered and there were no images of the scene. Until recently, there had been no reason to question Mendez’s story. But if what Mick and Stonehill said was true, there were now about a thousand reasons.

  For if what they said was true, then Lazarus was McManus’s worst nightmare. He had been Mirkwood’s head spy and was connected all over the world. Which meant he was a loose cannon with enough firepower to bring the whole Mirage Project down on its ass. He was the fall man that never fell.

  Carson looked up and found Lazarus staring at him, waiting for it all to click into place. There was a piece of Lazarus’s right ear missing, a small chunk just above the lobe. And that was the final piece Carson needed.

  The civilian that drug him along the pavement that day in Syria, the Good Samaritan that pulled him out of harm’s way—it wasn’t a civilian at all. Carson remembered the blood dripping onto his face, remembered looking up and seeing the wound in his savior’s ear. The arrangement of transportation into Turkey, the admission into the military hospital…

  He couldn’t believe the words, much less say them, but Ezekiel Lazarus, notorious traitor, the man the CIA wiped from existence, had saved his life.

  Carson’s bone mic crackled. It was Mick. “You okay? We’re coming in hot.”

  Carson glanced at Lazarus, who nodded.

  “I’m fine,” said Carson. “But get down here as fast as you can. There’s something you need to see.”

  “Oh don’t worry about us, Captain America,” Connor spat. “We’re good. It’s not like we got shot or anything.”

  “Just get down here.”

  Carson watched as Lazarus unshackled the man in the corner and helped him to his feet. Though the man had clearly been a prisoner, he now had a gun.

  Lazarus ambled back over. “I realize there’s a great deal you don’t understand.”

  “Who is that?” Carson interrupted. The prisoner was short with thinning hair and a scraggly beard. He was unremarkable—except for one detail: his skin was white.

  “There will only be time for explanation if we make it out alive,” said Lazarus.

  “Why should I trust you? Why should I trust anyone at this point?”

  The spymaster chuckled. “You shouldn’t. But you need to learn to recognize the truth when you hear it. And the truth is, if you don’t do exactly as I say, your entire family will be dead before sunrise.”

  Carson searched for any sign of misdirection, but realized he was out of his league. Men like Zeke Lazarus weren’t at the mercy of microexpression; they created their own reality. The truth was whatever they said it was.

  “Connor and Colton,” Lazarus continued. “Not to mention Amy, Audrey, and Alyssa. They will all die.”

  “Why?” Carson asked.

  “Because we have forty seconds until we’re overrun. And once we’re dead, McManus will give the order to execute the rest of your family.” He paused and let the words permeate. “It’s all by design. You and Connor were the safety valves he never intended to create. So he did what any wise tactician would: he flipped the battle plan.”

  Carson slid his Beretta back in the holster. “What do you mean he flipped the plan?”

  “You’ve outlived your utility,” said Lazarus. “So now you’re a loose end.”

  “Ghosts,” said Carson, understanding. “He intends to make my family the final ghosts of Mirkwood.”

  Lazarus nodded stoically.

  “Hands up!” Connor shouted, as he and Mick charged into the room. “Get your fucking hands in the air!”

  “Connor,” said Carson calmly. “Look at him. Stop and look.”

  Mick, Carson realized, had already lowered his weapon.

  “Son of a bitch,” Connor whispered, his jaw falling slack.

  Carson gave him a meaningful look. “No time to explain.”

  Lazarus nodded at Sayid, who unshouldered Carson’s HK and gave it back to him.

  “He saved our lives,” said Carson. “It appears it’s time to return the favor.”

  “Bullshit! He’s a fucking traitor!”

  “He knows where they are, Connor. McManus has them. And unless we get out of here and stop him, he’s going to kill them.”

  Connor cussed in disbelief, but lowered his rifle.

  Lazarus glanced at Carson. “Time to go.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Lazarus led the way, followed by Carson, then Connor and Mick, then the prisoner. The man with black eyes brought up the rear.

  Moving at a jog, Lazarus directed them back into the hallway and swung to the right. The lights were on now, revealing the passage was no more than three feet wide. When they reached what Carson thought was a dead end, the space actually got narrower and the ceiling dropped almost two feet, forcing them all to move in a crouch.

  The ground began a gentle upward slope as they pressed on, legs burning. A hundred yards later they rounded another turn and were greeted by a stone wall.

  Lazarus reached up and grabbed a piece of twine dangling from the ceiling. He pulled it, dislodging a segment of plywood that had been painted and used to conceal a hole in the rock. With the faux ceiling gone, Lazarus pulled himself through the hole and out of the tunnels. Everyone else followed.

  Though this architectural feature had not been included in Stonehill’s packet, it didn’t take long to realize they had surfaced through the floor of the smaller mud brick structure Hamas used as a garage. The building was dimly lit, and Lazarus drew one of his Kimbers as they moved through the cluttered space.

  “You’re with me, Carson,” he whispered, motioning to a white Volkswagen Jetta parked near the wall. “You too, Pete.”

/>   As the small man sauntered past, Carson recognized him. He wasn’t able to place where he had seen him before, but he definitely had.

  “Mick,” said Lazarus, “you take Connor and Sayid in the Jeep and bring up our six. Follow as closely as you can.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Mick. “My wife always said I tailgated the hell out of people.”

  Lazarus and Mick drove while Carson rode shotgun in the Jetta and Connor did the same in the Jeep. Fingers were on triggers as the engines came to life and both vehicles exited the garage.

  The road turned from gravel to dirt as they left the frontage property and swung around behind the compound. Descending steeply toward the lake, there was a point when the road was no longer a road at all, but rather a sandy trail of rocks and tortuous cutbacks. That didn’t stop Lazarus from pressing the Jetta up over thirty miles an hour. And as promised, Mick was right on their ass.

  “Here,” said Lazarus, reaching inside his kaftan with one hand while jerking the wheel with the other. He produced a black box and handed it to Carson. “You do the honors.”

  Carson had his window down, HK up, and was trying not to get thrown against the ceiling. “What is it?”

  “Just push the blue button.”

  Nothing happened at first. Then, it did.

  The explosion rattled the vehicles from over five hundred yards away. A glance in the rearview revealed what Carson already knew: Q24 had erupted, lifted toward the sky in a fiery tower of mud brick and simtex. The fireball was massive, the destruction total. There would be no identifiable corpses left to find.

  Lazarus slammed the accelerator and the Jetta went slightly airborne. He looked in the mirror. “You gonna miss it, Pete?”

  Carson turned and saw the man had tears in his eyes. He had been a prisoner, and now he was free. He smiled. And suddenly, Carson knew where he had seen him before.

  “Peter?”

  He would later be very grateful for his timely recognition of ABC Chief News Correspondent Peter Bosworth. For in that exact moment, bullets shattered the Jetta’s windshield and shards of glass filled the car.