by Gary Ponzo
Turning the page, he noticed another small article of interest. A report of an assassination attempt on an ex-FBI agent who was now a sheriff in Gila County, Arizona. Apparently the suspect was a young Kurdish terrorist who had been shot to death by the agent’s ex-partner. Kalinikov shook his head in disgust. Everyone wanted to be an assassin but nobody was willing to put in the time to become a professional.
By now the FBI knew these two incidents were not a coincidence. It concerned Kalinikov, but not too much. He was far superior in his abilities to fall prey to a tail or be caught finishing his work. It always came down to routine. The same routine which caused the next name on his list to become vulnerable. FBI agent Mell Downing’s weakness was his sweet tooth. Every day after work he would walk into this very coffee shop and buy a chocolate muffin to eat on his way home. His wife was a meddling woman who watched every calorie the poor guy ate, so Downing would get in a last sugar fix before he went home to his mate’s scrutiny.
Kalinikov checked his watch, then looked up in time to see Downing enter the coffee shop and move to the sales counter. The assassin waited patiently as the clerk picked up one of the two remaining chocolate muffins with a pair of tongs and placed it in a bag. The same two muffins which Kalinikov had ordered, then laced with a slow-working poison, then quickly returned the muffins for two chocolate scones instead. He’d laced the muffins so quickly, so adroitly, that he’d never even left the counter. He needed the clerk to know they were untouched as he apologized for his mistake and assured him they were still fresh for another client. The clerk, in a hurry, placed the two muffins back in the case.
Now, Agent Downing was scanning the room. He was trying to be inconspicuous, but Kalinikov could sense the anxiety in his eyes. Downing couldn’t possibly recognize him. Kalinikov had always worn a disguise and never left a true surveillance image behind any job he’d ever done.
Downing took the bag from the clerk and smiled. As he left the shop, he dipped his hand greedily into the bag and stuffed his mouth with the delicious toxin. The amount of Ricin powder he’d already swallowed was lethal. The vomiting and diarrhea would begin within a couple of hours, then severe dehydration followed by low blood pressure. Unless he had every major organ transplanted within the next forty-eight hours he’d be dead.
Kalinikov watched the man walk blissfully down the sidewalk toward home. He crossed Downing’s name from the list and took a sip from his cold cup of coffee. He shook his head. Human beings thrived on routine. It gave them comfort in its ritual. But in the hands of someone with Kalinikov’s experience, routine could be very lethal.
• • •
Before he even opened his eyes, Nick Bracco heard his wife’s voice. She seemed to be stifling a giggle.
“Can you imagine,” Julie said. “I’d have paid anything to be there.”
When Nick’s eyes gained focus, Julie was at the foot of his bed in an animated discussion with Jennifer Steele.
“Who knew those two brutes could act?” Jennifer said.
Julie turned to see Nick trying to prop himself up on his elbows.
“No, no,” Julie ran over and rested her palms on his torso. “Stay down, baby.”
Nick’s left shoulder pinched him with a searing burn that sent a nauseous spike to his throat. He swallowed it down, then allowed gravity to settle his head back to the pillow.
Julie smiled down at him. “How’s my boy?”
Nick fought a drug-induced stupor. “How long was I out?”
“You slept through the night,” Julie said. “The surgery went fine. The best thing you could do right now is rest.”
Nick’s patchy memory sprung to life. “Who shot me?”
Steele came around Julie to face him. “Afran Rami.”
“Rami?”
“Apparently the KSF is bitter.”
Nick nodded. “Where’s Matt?”
That brought a smile to both of the women’s faces.
“Yeah, well, he and Tommy are sort of working together.”
Nick squinted.
“You see,” Julie said, “while you were recovering, Kemin Demir stopped by.”
Nick’s eyes widened.
“It’s okay,” Julie said. “Matt and Tommy took care of it.”
“Tell me about it,” Nick said.
Julie looked at Steele and Matt’s new partner seemed to give it some thought.
“They played good cop, bad mobster,” she said. “I guess Matt knew about a weakness.”
“His kids,” Nick said.
Steele’s mouth opened. “How did you-”
“We were together for ten years. There’s very little that only one of us knows.”
“Yeah, well, they got Kemin to lead them to the KSF safe house.”
Nick lurched upward, but an acute sting in his shoulder forced him back down.
“They’re liable to walk into a trap,” he said with a short breath.
Steele’s eyes showed concern. “They know,” she said.
Nick looked out the window and tried to focus. Barzani couldn’t have many soldiers left. Afran Rami was his youngest and his nephew. He must’ve begged his uncle to be the one to kill Nick Bracco. The kid was inexperienced with rifles, so it was a tactical mistake to send him in the first place. But Barzani was loyal to a fault.
“Nick,” Steele’s voice became somber. “Dave Tanner is dead.”
Nick put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He didn’t need to hear any details, he already knew who and why. He thought of Dave’s wife and daughter and sighed. The team had become a target. Barzani had enough money to hire every hit man in America to track them down and get revenge for killing their leader.
Nick sat up on his elbows and thought about the rest of the team. “Anyone else?”
Steele shook her head. “Everyone else is fine.”
Julie’s face wilted with apprehension. With her hand she held her stomach as if trying to protect her unborn child. Nick reached over and touched her arm.
“It’s okay, Sweetie,” he said, looking as confident as he could while wearing a baby blue hospital gown. “We’ll take care of this.”
Julie bit her lip and nodded, but Nick could see the memories coming back to her. The death of Don Silkari while trying to stop the KSF from destroying the White House. She must’ve known the arduous task ahead of them and wondered where it might stop. Nick sat there wondering the same thing himself. But he knew Barzani was the key. If he found him, he would cut the head off the KSF’s American team.
• • •
“Something’s wrong,” Temir Barzani said. He wore olive fatigues and stood at the head of the kitchen table to address his soldiers. Inside the log cabin were seven KSF members who were assembled around the long, oak table with complete focus on their leader.
“It’s thirty minutes past his contact time,” Barzani said. “We must assume he’s been captured, or worse.”
“Worse?” a soldier asked.
“Yes. He could have given up our location.”
A murmur of disagreement filled the small room. The tepid chatter was silenced by the loud thud of a fist pounding on the table. All eyes returned to their leader.
“Now,” Barzani said, “until we hear from Kemin, we must prepare for uninvited guests. Secure the cabin.”
“But, Sarock, if Kemin is merely late, he might-”
One glare was all it took for Barzani to receive the desired submission from his subordinate. Barzani had two requirements from his team while they occupied American soil: Speak only English and never second-guess his orders. Both rules came from the greatest leader the Kurdish Security Force had ever known, Kemel Kharrazi. Since Kharrazi’s demise, Barzani had been forced into a leadership role he reluctantly assumed. It was a suicide mission they were on, but Barzani kept that to himself so he could receive the full thrust of obedience he needed to succeed.
Barzani appraised his soldiers with a stern eye. “Why are you still gathered here? P
repare for intruders. Now!”
The kitchen buzzed with screeching wooden chair-legs and shuffling feet as the team headed toward their assigned posts. Barzani would not make the mistakes his predecessor had made. He would leave no opportunities to thwart his plans. Especially from the FBI agents who destroyed Kharrazi.
One of the soldiers stayed by his side awaiting instructions. The man was his finest lieutenant, Hestin Jirdeer, who was the one person Barzani trusted above all others.
Jirdeer waited until the room cleared before he said, “Rami was a brave soldier.”
Barzani understood the meaning. Rami did everything he could to become just like his uncle, but he was too inexperienced to take on such a task. Barzani wondered whether he’d undermined his authority by making such a brash decision, or whether he was displaying his willingness to lose his own nephew to prove a point.
As if Jirdeer could sense his concern, he looked his leader in the eye and said, “It was the right choice.”
Barzani appreciated the gesture. He nodded.
“And so was Kemin,” Jirdeer said. “However, these men are not to be underestimated.”
Barzani looked at his lieutenant with a questioning expression. “You have already sent for the assassin?”
“Yes, Sarock. We may be low on manpower, but we have an excess of funds. These funds can pay for someone else to achieve our goals here. I think this man is a good choice.”
Barzani looked down at his computer screen where he’d just transferred a half a million dollars to pay for the deaths of the remaining FBI agents who’d conspired against them.
He pointed to the screen. “Is this man as good as The Russian?”
Jirdeer hesitated. “It is doubtful anyone could be so good, Sarock.”
That was a very true statement. The Russian had no equal. It’s the reason they’d decided to overpay him. Vengeance had no price tag.
Barzani heard the bustle of footsteps overhead. His men were acquiring positions for battle. At one time there were more than two hundred KSF soldiers in the United States. This was before the American FBI agent had tricked their great leader and ruined their plans of forcing U.S. troops from their homeland in Turkey. A place where Kurds made up twenty percent of the population, yet after thirty years of negotiating with the Turkish government for autonomy, their language was still barred from schools and official parliament meetings. The time for negotiation was clearly over. It was time to make the United States pay for their support of the Turkish government. But more importantly to Barzani, it was time for revenge.
“Do you trust this man?” Barzani asked.
“No,” Jirdeer said. “But he is no friend of law officials.”
Barzani grinned. He always valued his lieutenant’s directness. There was never any worry of pretense. He pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to Jirdeer. “Take whatever you need.”
As Jirdeer reached for the key, Barzani pulled it back. “Make sure he gets the woman. I want this agent to suffer. I want him to understand what losing a family member is like.”
Jirdeer took the key. “As you wish, Sarock.”
• • •
“Why are we stopping?” Tommy asked from the back seat.
Matt had slowed the sedan and pulled to the curb of the suburban tree-lined street. “We wait here for backup. Luke is picking up Jennifer.”
“What are you talking about,” Tommy said. “I wanna get this rat bastard while I still got venom running through my blood.”
“They’ve got six, maybe seven soldiers up there. We’re not going to accomplish our goals alone.”
“I gotta tell ya.” Tommy shook his head. “Taking orders is not my strong suit. It’s the reason I never got married.”
“Relax. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Kemin’s face grew smug in the passenger seat.
“The fuck you so happy about?” Tommy blurted.
Kemin’s smile disappeared. He seemed reluctant to engage Tommy in dialogue. As if he might give Tommy more information than he already had.
Tommy stepped out into the cool autumn air.
“Where are you going?” Matt said.
“I’m taking a little stroll.”
“Get back in the car!”
Tommy dug his toothpick in between two back molars and took in the surroundings. Nice rolling hills. The houses were separated by acres of trees. No two homes looked alike. Nothing like the endless parade of row houses that framed the bowling-lane streets back in Baltimore.
“I like it up here,” Tommy said.
“Good, now get back in the car.”
Tommy looked down at Kemin in the front seat. “How far away are we?”
Matt jumped out of the car and slammed the roof. “Dammit, Tommy, we do this my way.”
“Your way put my cousin in the hospital. I’m not so impressed-”
“I’ll take you,” Kemin interrupted.
No one spoke.
“You two fight like old women arguing over a soup recipe,” Kemin said.
Tommy smiled. “See, even the terrorists are accommodating up in the mountain air.” He opened the passenger door and gestured Kemin to get out.
“Tommy,” Matt said. “You’re screwing this whole thing up.”
“Let me tell you something, G-man.” Tommy pulled on Kemin’s arm until he was out of the car. “A kind of operation like these guys have, they’ve got a system. This putz is overdue for his call-in. They know something’s wrong. If we wait until those two get here they could be gone.”
Matt seemed to consider the idea.
Tommy raised his eyebrows to emphasize his point. “You see I understand these guys better than you think. We don’t have time. At least let’s get close and be ready to stop them if they try to bolt.”
Matt lowered his head for a moment, then slammed his door shut and came around the car. “All right. We get to within five-hundred yards and that’s it. I’ll monitor them with my field glasses.”
“Is that the same as binoculars? You government types always trying to complicate things.”
Matt shook his head in disgust and motioned for Kemin to show them the way.
Tommy took out his pistol and held it waist high. “Don’t get cute, unless you can run faster than a thousand feet a second.”
Kemin took slow, deliberate steps and seemed to be searching for markers along the way. Tommy didn’t like the way Kemin observed the leaf-covered floor of the forest. It gave him an uneasy feeling, like when someone had a winning hand at a poker table.
Tommy was about to tell Matt about this when his world fell out from under him. He plunged to the bottom of a massive hole with enough force to empty his lungs. He gasped for air as tears filled his eyes. The back of his head throbbed from the impact. He tried to make sense of what just happened. He looked up and eight feet above him were long strands of branches with leaves glued to them. They covered up the opening. A couple of the branches came down with him into the hole.
He heard Matt shout. Then two gunshots pierced the forest.
Matt stopped shouting.
Tommy groped around the hole for his gun, but it wasn’t there. His breaths were coming in quick spurts. It was dark and the dirt was cold and moist. The gun, where did his gun go? His question was answered when he looked up. Kemin leered down at him with his arm extended. In his hand was Tommy’s gun.
“Great,” Tommy said, catching his breath. “You found my gun. Thanks.”
“Throw me your cell phone,” Kemin said.
“What’s the matter all of a sud-”
“Give me your cell phone or I kill you like I did the FBI agent.”
“See, I just don’t see myself doing that.”
“Goodbye, you stupid, stupid man.” Kemin stretched out his shooting hand and smiled a wicked smile. Tommy sat motionless. He shut his eyes tight and waited. When the shot came, it was quieter than he’d expected. As if Kemin had moved farther away. He waited for the pain, but it
didn’t come. When he opened his eyes Kemin was gone. He couldn’t put it together in his mind until he saw a different face come into view above him. It was Matt. His face was dirty. His gun was by his side.
“You okay?” Matt said.
“How?”
Matt pounded his chest with his fist and the unmistakable sound of Kevlar rung out. “I slipped it on before we left the hospital.”
“You know something,” Tommy said. “I’m beginning to have a crush on you.”
Chapter 4
Joe Tessamano sat down on the barstool at the Winchester Saloon and raised his index finger to the female bartender.
“Draft Bud,” he said.
The woman gave him one of the best tip-grubbing smiles he’d ever seen. She was half his age, but that didn’t stop his imagination from drifting away. He watched her in those tight jeans pour his beer and place it on a cocktail napkin in front of him. He slid a twenty dollar bill toward her and said, “Keep it.”
She beamed and Joe smiled back. He took a sip of his beer and looked around the darkened bar. It was his first trip to Payson since he’d moved to Scottsdale from the East Coast. Scottsdale was oozing money, with oversized trucks and hot moms driving convertibles and everything else this little mountain town wasn’t. But he didn’t drive the hour and a half for pleasure. This was simply a business trip. Or at least it had the potential to be a business trip should the circumstances present themselves.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a hand-rolled Dominican cigar. The Cuban’s had the best tobacco, but the Dominican’s knew how to roll better than anyone he’d ever seen. He licked his lips, then placed the cigar in his mouth. The female bartender gave him a firm look.
“Don’t worry, darling,” he assured her. “I’m just getting it lubed up for later.”
She grinned and Joe winked back.
A thin man with dark skin and thick mustache sat next to Joe. “Are you Joseph?” the man said with a Middle Eastern sounding accent.
Joe didn’t like the guy already. He was stiff and uncomfortable and drawing attention to himself just by his formal behavior. He’d called him Joseph as if he’d learned his name from looking up Joe’s driver’s license.