Show No Mercy

by Brian Drake

  “Okay,” Mueller said.

  The mercenary pointed the remote at the driveway and clicked a button.

  Mueller motioned the Audi forward.

  The Audi started to roll, but jerked to a stop, Lanka letting out a howling scream as she bolted from the car.

  “Lanka!”

  She shouted at Mueller to shoot the car and ran for the tree line.

  “Lanka, no!”

  The woman crossed through the tree line and then a burst of SMG fire split open her back. Lanka was dead before she hit the ground.

  Mueller fell to his knees and screamed. The mercenaries raised their weapons. Stone and McConn leaned out the back windows and opened fire. The HKs sounded like buzz-saws. The 9mm stingers chewed through the porch railing, shards of wood exploding everywhere. Some of the shots slammed into one of the mercs, cutting him down. He fell against Mueller. The bomb-maker fell from the weight of the dead man, rolling the body of him. The second merc returned fire, shuffling to the far end of the porch.

  Mueller grabbed the dead man’s gun and fired into the car, shattering the windshield. The trunk popped open. The shooters were slipping out through the rear seat to take cover at the bumper. One of them extended his weapon around the fender. Mueller dropped and rolled right as the rounds chewed up the spot where he’d been. He shouted at the surviving mercenary guard. “Reactivate the mines! Do it now!” He fired on the car as the merc took out the remote and pointed it at the driveway.

  16

  McConn fired a burst around the left fender, dropping back to cover as Mueller returned fire.

  “Run!” he shouted.

  Stone didn’t argue. They knew either side of the driveway was mined, so Stone did the obvious. He broke into a sprint away from the Audi, heading for the frontage road. McConn fired out his magazine, Mueller and the merc staying low as his salvo rocked the porch and reloaded. Then the earth erupted in a trio of blasts, lifting the Audi off the ground. The force of the blast pulled McConn off his feet and threw him forward. Parts of the car hissed by, flaming bits of shrapnel striking McConn in the back. He scrambled up and kept running. Stone reached the road and fired off a few bursts of covering fire, but the explosion and flames now covering the front of the house blocked their sight of Mueller and the surviving guard.

  McConn reloaded his HK. His camo clothing was torn in spots.

  “I want to go after them,” Stone said.

  “And risk the mines?”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Mueller will run for the cave. Come on.”

  They started running back along the road to where Dane and Nina had left the BMW.

  Dane started to rise when he heard the explosion, but Nina put a hand on his shoulder. “They’re fine.”

  More crackling gunfire indicated the fight wasn’t over.

  But then the echo of the shots faded.

  Dane clutched his .45 while Nina cradled one of Stone’s HKs. A breeze made the branches around them move a little; then they heard pounding footsteps accompanied by huffing and puffing.

  Dane and Nina crouched behind a fallen tree trunk, which was perched on the slope about fifteen yards from Mueller’s cave. The Ford Explorer inside the cave was set up for immediate departure, with the keys tucked above the driver’s side visor. Dane had lifted the hood and yanked off the cylinder coil packs so no matter what, Mueller wasn’t going anywhere.

  When Mueller and a surviving mercenary guard started down the slope, Dane and Nina tensed, waiting until they were closer. As Mueller reached the cave and put out a hand to guide himself around to the front, Nina triggered a burst from the HK. The salvo cut through the mercenary, splattering Mueller’s clothes with blood and sent the merc tumbling down the slope. His body smacked into a tree. Mueller spun around like a top as Dane’s .45 slug blasted through his left shoulder. The bomber skidded to a stop halfway to the trunk. Dane and Nina leaped over and ran to the German.

  Mueller glared at them through pain-filled eyes, the blood from his shoulder mixing with the spatter from his guard, the front of his clothes a wet, sticky red. He clawed inside his coat with his right hand, grunting. Dane leveled the .45 at him.

  “Show me your hand!”

  “See it like this!” Mueller yanked out a pistol.

  Dane fired once. The back of Mueller’s head exploded, the bullet kicking up a geyser of dirt as it exited his skull and as Mueller’s body jerked with one last spasm, the pistol fired. The bullet whistled past Nina’s left elbow and burrowed into the tree trunk.

  Dane cursed. He knelt beside Mueller’s body and ripped open the coat, searching the interior pockets. He found a cell phone.

  “Let’s see what we can find in the house,” he said. Nina followed him up the slope.

  Dane paced in the bedroom of the hotel suite, cell phone to his ear. It felt good to be out of his combat garb and back in normal clothes and he felt a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction with the death of Hans Mueller. But Mueller wasn’t the end of the mission.

  He was only the beginning. His death only partially avenged San Francisco. And while shooting Mueller might have been satisfying, any future leads had died with him. Dane currently had nothing further to go on. He needed Lukavina to provide a clue. He was glad for the access to Agency resources, something he only had because Lukavina convinced the DCI to bring Dane officially into the investigation.

  Because he had no plans to slow his assault.

  He had left the curtains closed. He didn’t think anybody would try sniping at him from the top of the Brandenburg Gate, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  The others were in the living room eating off the sample platters delivered by room service containing a variety of fried items Dane had no interest in consuming.

  The CIA man finally picked up the other line.

  “We blew it,” Dane said.

  “Tell me.”

  Dane related the story.

  “We still have Mueller’s helpers,” Lukavina said. “It’s not all bad.”

  “They may not know much. The phone I found was a burner, nothing there except numbers McConn says reroute a hundred ways.”

  “Nothing in the house?”

  “It was clean. I mean clean, Len. I’ve never seen a place so spotless.”

  “Even the bathroom?”

  “You know what I mean. Mueller’s tradecraft was top notch.”

  “We’ll work on the helpers, but I still have tasks for you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’ve been in touch with General Walker and he has his security squared away, but there’s somebody else you should go see. The informant who helped us nail Graypoole Senior is at risk. Malek Kader is the man’s name. We can’t reach him.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t think so. Kader was a valuable asset. Junior would gloat same as he did about San Francisco. I’ll forward the information to your cell. Get to him ASAP.”

  Dane felt a surge of excited energy rush through his body. The first round had been a bust, but the second might prove fruitful.

  “I’ll brief my people as soon as your intel arrives, Len.”

  “It’s on the way.”

  Lukavina parked the government sedan curbside and exited the vehicle. The streetlamps lit the cul-de-sac well; crickets filled the night.

  A man in civilian clothes with a USGI crew cut answered the door. He wore a pistol on his hip.

  “Lukavina,” the CIA man said. “I’m expected.”

  The army man asked for Lukavina’s ID, which the CIA man provided, along with a business card starting he worked for the Smithsonian Institute, which was part of his cover. CIA employees didn’t carry badges or go around announcing themselves.

  The soldier confirmed the appointment via radio with somebody inside, then stepped back to let Lukavina enter the house. He followed behind Lukavina and shut the door and told the CIA man to wait. The Marine retrieved General Walker from the family room and he came out t
o greet Lukavina.

  “We’re in the middle of packing, Len,” Walker said.

  “I need to ask you what it would take to cancel the trip, General.”

  Walker frowned. His wife stuck her head into the room, mouth open, unblinking. Walker guided Lukavina into the study.

  “Let’s talk about this.”

  Walker shut the door.

  17

  It was a small office with only the basics. Desk with computer near a wall covered with pictures of his daughters from birth to adulthood. The bookcase on the other side of the room contained not books but memorabilia from Walker’s career. The floor needed cleaning. It was worn from many steps and a dirty path wound its way from the entryway to Walker’s desk.

  He did not offer Lukavina a chair or a drink and leaned against the front of his desk. Lukavina stood before him. “Did something go wrong in Germany?”

  “Mueller is dead. But we didn’t find any leads to Graypoole.”

  “You’re assuming he’s going to target me.”

  “It makes sense.”

  “What makes sense isn’t always true.”

  “General, you’ll be overseas. No protection. There will be a target on your back the whole time.”

  “But if I stay here?”

  “Under guard, until we have the situation under control, we think you’ll be much safer.”

  “I can’t exactly get a refund on this trip, you know.”

  “You’re going to argue because of the money?”

  “My family hasn’t had--” Walker stopped. He let out a breath and folded his arms. He looked past Lukavina for a few moments, then: “Give me a percentage. How sure are you I’m a target?”

  “Eighty percent. General, you were in charge of the team sent to kill Graypoole’s father. You know I’m right.”

  “My family, too?”

  “You should all be in one central location until--”

  “Right, right, until the situation is under control. I’ve been in your spot more than once, Len, I know the drill. You know how it is.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “What did I tell you—never mind.”

  The two men watched each other a moment.

  The General said, “I have one CID man in the house, whom you met at the door, and two more down the block in a van. My wife is already nervous enough with the fellow in the house being here.”

  “I suggest we move you and your family to a safe house or even The Farm, General.”

  “Help yourself to a drink, Len.” Walker moved away from the desk. “I have to talk to my wife.” He left the study, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Lukavina didn’t want a drink. He sat down instead. Then he stood up and moved to the window. He couldn’t see much of the yard since it was dark out, but he stared anyway.

  He had tried to be optimistic about Germany and the death of Mueller, but Mueller’s helpers hadn’t provided any further information. Armand Wulf and the other captured mercenaries knew nothing about Mueller’s connection to Graypoole. They were only hired hands working directly for Mueller and had no contact with their employer’s employer, though they knew somebody provided instructions based on a variety of phone calls. CIA officers in Berlin were certain Wulf and the mercs were telling the truth and enhanced interrogation protocols had been withdrawn.

  They were still playing catch-up against an opponent who was several steps ahead, and Lukavina was counting, probably, too much on Steve Dane. Throwing agents around the world searching for the proverbial needle wasn’t a good idea, either. Even the DCI had agreed. Dane was their best chance, their literal “blunt instrument” in dealing with the threat.

  Malek Kader, the informant who had proved valuable in the past, who helped them kill Graypoole Senior, was their best solid lead, if he was still alive. If he wasn’t, there was still his daughter to talk to. Maybe her father had left with her a failsafe in case of emergency.

  Graypoole the Younger had slipped under the radar and bashed them over the head before they ever knew he was close enough to strike. Lukavina had no intention of getting caught off-guard again. There were too many lives at stake. Some of them close to him.

  Lukavina heard Walker raise his voice a little. Penny raised her voice in return. He couldn’t hear everything they said. Great. A knock-down drag-out. The drink cart sat against the bookcase, several bottles of whiskey and bourbon on display along with spotless glasses.

  Maybe he’d fix a drink after all.

  Walker shut the door and shook his head at Lukavina.

  “I’m not going to be very popular for a while.”

  Lukavina set his glass down half-finished. “My apologies, General.”

  “Finish your drink, Len.” Walker crossed to his desk and sat down. “So. A safe house?”

  Lukavina took the chair in front of Walker’s desk after the general gestured to it. “Yes. How long will it take your daughters to get here?”

  “Day or two.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements then. We’ll move you all at the same time, with your CID team, if you like.”

  “Sure.”

  “I wish I had a better solution, General.”

  “It’s only money.”

  “I have control over discretionary funds, sir. I’m sure I can. . .you know.”

  Walker laughed. “Can you imagine me accepting such an offer, Len?”

  Lukavina shrugged.

  “But after the butt-chewing I just got. . .I may take you up on it.”

  Behnam Rostami paced as the wind hammered.

  He moved with his arms folded, only a few feet at a time, taking as much shelter as he could near the outer hanger walls but the wind still rushed by. Wind was important at an airport; the Zurich International Airport had a lot of it, with a ton of open space to make sure it stayed plentiful. The runways and terminal buildings were planted in the country with green scenery surrounding the property. It looked as if they constructed the airport in the middle of a farm and told people not to build anything around it. The private hangar, on the north end of the airport, sat across from the main terminal with runways in between. At this distance, he heard none of the organized chaos inside the terminal. He barely heard the jets parked along the jetways as they fired up their engines.

  Rostami stopped and checked his watch. Another five minutes, at least, before Mason Graypoole arrived.

  Rostami, a former member of the Iranian Secret Service, had been a close confidant of Graypoole Sr., one of the few to escape the raid that killed the elder. When Mason Graypoole had called, Rostami didn’t have to think. A lawyer by trade, he’d avoided exposure and the CIA dragnet, during the original hunt for Graypoole the Elder because his firm provided the necessary cover to stay out of sight. He left the firm behind after receiving the call, turning the Zurich law practice to his partners, calling his departure an “extended sabbatical”, and now stood waiting for Graypoole to pick him up in the private jet.

  He had concerns. Graypoole, unlike his father before him, was being too flashy. After San Francisco, where he practically announced his guilt, the law enforcement and intelligence agencies of the US would be sniffing for him all over the world. Bragging about the SF bombing had already cost the life of Mueller and they’d lost more than a hired gun. They’d lost Mueller’s expertise and connections as well. US intelligence had been humiliated and they would spare no expense in their pursuit of vengeance. He knew how they worked. He’d done the same thing as a secret service agent many times, in many countries, chasing Iran’s enemies.

  Airliners thundered down the runway at regular intervals, the sounds loud enough to bridge the gap where Rostami stood and he examined every plane, noted every distant chirp of tires. So far, no Graypoole. Had something happened?

  Rostami took a deep breath. His car was on the other side of the hanger; he could be gone in no time if events turned sour.

  And then a jet smaller than any of the airlines appeared over the runway a
nd touched down with yet another chirp of tires. A white Bombardier Global 7000, one of the most expensive private jets money could buy, very fast, very fancy. Twin engines, raised stabilizers on the tail, low-slung wings with flared tips. The fuselage was the usual tubular shape with a rakish profile in front.

  Too much flash.

  Rostami picked up the suitcase behind him. The plane taxied off the runway and made the slow forward roll toward the private hangers. The whine of the engines grew louder as the pointed nose increased in size, and presently the white and gold plane stopped close enough to the hanger for Rostami to reach out and touch the right wing.

  The Iranian walked around the nose. The wind beat at him some more, the bright sun scalding the bald spot on his head. He wasn’t quite six feet with worry lines on his face and wrinkled skin around his neck. Graypoole’s stewardess, a petite Chinese woman with long black hair and brown eyes, wearing what looked like a vintage Pan Am uniform minus the logo, met him at the fuselage door. She lowered a set of steps and he climbed inside.

  18

  “Welcome aboard,” she said, raising the steps and pulling the door shut. “Mr. Graypoole is waiting for you.”

  Rostami muttered his thanks and proceeded down a narrow passage, the fuselage windows on one side, doors leading to the four rooms on board to his left, the bedroom, game room, TV room and bar. He held his suitcase before him as he cleared the passage into the Global 7000’s dining area, a space with dark paneling, beige carpeting and a long dining table. The jet could take ten passengers, but the table only seated six.

  Graypoole sat at the table facing a wide screen television mounted on the forward wall. He smiled and raised a glass at Rostami.

  “Ben,” he said, using the infuriating shortened version of Rostami’s name. The Iranian put his suitcase down and leaned across the table to shake hands. The engines outside flared and the plane started moving. Rostami found a chair.

  Graypoole gestured at the TV. “I recorded the CNN reports on San Francisco. It’s exhilarating, isn’t it?”