Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller

Home > Other > Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller > Page 4
Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 4

by Stephen Templin


  Max emerged from his trance and peered out of the alcove, pointing his laser in the direction of possible surprises. The guard had passed and no one seemed to be behind him. Tom dropped down from the wall and linked up with them.

  Bruce rose from behind the potted hibiscus and took them to a back door, where he stopped. Max and Tom stood guard while Bruce gave a light knock. There was a pause before two light knocks replied from inside. Bruce gave three light knocks. Then the door opened.

  No sooner had the three men entered the main residence than the woman who’d let them in shuffled away in a hurry. Is this a double cross? Is she leaving to warn others? Is she escaping an impending ambush? Max had no evidence to doubt her, but what-ifs often creeped in anyway. Bruce guided them down the opposite hallway. The air was musty, and the walls were lined with stainless steel drums that looked like alcohol kegs.

  They climbed a stairway that lacked paintings or other decorations. Too narrow to be a main stairway, this appeared to be a service stairway for the maid or other servants to use. With walls to the left and right and Bruce in front and Tom behind, Max was left with scant space to maneuver if bullets came at them. Also, he wouldn’t be able to shoot in front of him without hitting Bruce. Just one man at the top of the stairs with a machine gun could cut down all three of them.

  Steady and slow. The stairs ended at the second floor, where Bruce led them to a door. He looked back at Max and Tom, and they nodded—ready. Bruce turned the doorknob. It opened. They slipped inside. In the green glow of Max’s night vision, it was difficult to tell that the dude lying in bed asleep was indeed Seven Ball. More than once in Iraq, local “friendlies” fed Team Six and the D-boys false targets in order to eliminate rivals and settle old scores, while the real targets in the global war on terror continued to do damage.

  But there was no time to second-guess—only act. Max flex-cuffed the prisoner’s wrists, gagged him, put blacked-out goggles over his eyes, and slid a hood over his head. He sure hoped this was Seven Ball. The man panicked and thrashed for a moment until Tom poked him in the neck with the muzzle of his submachine gun; then he became compliant. He stank of garlic.

  Max, Tom, and Bruce whisked their high-value target, who was dressed in man jammies, out of the room and down the narrow stairway. Although this was Seven Ball’s house, with the hood on, he stumbled. They hustled him out the back door.

  If someone had spied Max, Tom, and Bruce during their infiltration to the target, that person and their comrades would be waiting along the same route to ambush the team on their way out. Max and Tom preferred a different exfil route, but under the circumstances, this seemed the only way in and out without alerting the guards.

  Outside the main building, Max gave Bruce a leg up to help him scale the wall while Tom kept watch over the HVT and the surrounding area. After reaching the top, Bruce pulled Seven Ball by his arms while Max pushed him from below. Tom continued to protect their flank. Seven Ball was heavier than he looked, but Max and Bruce managed to get him to the top of the wall. Then Bruce slung a rope under Seven Ball’s armpits, and he and Max lowered their prisoner down the outside of the wall.

  Seven Ball slipped out of the rope, and he splashed down in the water with a grunt that was muffled by the ball gag. Their bag-and-drag had become an impromptu waterboarding session. Still bound and gagged with a hood over his head, Seven Ball thrashed in the water. Max and Bruce scrambled down the wall and pulled him to his feet before he drowned. Max hoped the noise of the rain covered the noise of their tactical sins.

  After they all cleared the wall, they waded through the water to put distance between themselves and Seven Ball’s guards and any reinforcements they might call up from the nearby submarine base.

  Max’s team pressed forward until they reached the tree line inland, where they entered the forest to shelter themselves from possible spying eyes. With Bruce on point and Tom maintaining rear security, the responsibility of handling Seven Ball went to Max in the middle. Seven Ball was limping. Max figured he’d twisted an ankle or something during the splashdown.

  In addition to watching Seven Ball, Max kept an eye out for enemies, made sure he kept up with Bruce, and checked that Tom didn’t lag too far behind. They weren’t out of the woods yet—either figuratively or literally.

  At the edge of the trees, they spotted their vehicle and stopped. They examined the surrounding area for a moment before proceeding. The place seemed undisturbed. Then they crossed the open area. They opened the rear doors and stuffed Seven Ball into the back of the van. Max and Tom then jumped in and sat on the wheel wells with their feet resting on top of him. Seven Ball had probably thought he was untouchable in China next to a submarine base, tucked away in his guarded estate with the massive wall—but he thought wrong.

  Bruce slid in behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and rolled forward. Max was eager to put more space between them and Seven Ball’s estate, and he sensed that Tom and Bruce felt the same. The van’s wheels spun out briefly before they caught the asphalt, and Bruce turned onto the coastal road leading west—away from Seven Ball’s, heading for the airport.

  Max, Tom, and Bruce remained quiet, preventing Seven Ball from overhearing any information. The black streets were mostly deserted as they passed resorts and woodlands. As they turned inland, they rolled through small towns. With each ticking minute, the number of resorts and trees shrank, and the cities grew in breadth and height. Vehicle headlights on the road increased in number, an international mix of Volkswagens, Toyotas, and Fords.

  Bruce had been driving about twenty minutes when they entered the city of Sanya. They turned off a main street populated with international and local hotels and traveled a smaller road past merchant signs that were written in English and Russian in addition to Chinese. After more turns, the roads became narrower, and they pulled into a tiny lot with a small, unmarked warehouse. Illuminated by their headlights, standing in front of the building was a slender Chinese man who opened a large sliding door. Bruce drove inside the warehouse and parked next to a shipping van colored and marked with the logo of a well-known international company.

  Although Bruce’s van could travel about town without drawing attention, it would stick out trying to access the cargo area of the airport. The three main areas of access to the airport were for travelers, crew, and cargo. In China, as well as America and other countries, there was a significant difference between screening for passenger travel and screening for air cargo delivery. The volume of shipping cargo was so high that security officers couldn’t possibly check every vehicle coming through its gates, and they relied on shipping companies to inspect their cargo and keep it secure before bringing it to the airport. For the well-known and trusted shipping companies, airport security personnel would examine driver and vehicle identifications, but rarely the contents of the vehicle. If a driver and the company logo on his van were known to the security guard, the driver might enter the airport without even having to show his ID.

  “I can only take you this far,” Bruce said. “I do not have direct access to the airport’s cargo gate, but my friend here does. You will be in good hands.”

  Bruce had proven himself to be an excellent agent, and Max was wary of working with someone different, but if Bruce trusted him, Max figured he could, too. Bruce didn’t mention his friend’s name, but even if he had, Max and Tom wouldn’t know if it was real or an alias.

  The thin man wore coveralls that matched the coloring and logo of the international shipping van. He hopped into the driver’s seat.

  Max, Tom, and Bruce loaded Seven Ball into the back. He put up a struggle, but Tom gave him a smack in the head, making him compliant again. They put Seven Ball on the floor in front of a pallet stacked with boxes stabilized with stretch wrap and strapped down securely. Then Max and Tom sat on the deck facing their HVT. Beside them was a duffel big enough to fit him inside. Next to it were two pairs of official shipping coveralls. Bruce gave them a thumbs-up. Max and Tom returned t
he gesture. Bruce closed the back doors and the van began moving. Without windows, Max and Tom couldn’t see Bruce to wave goodbye.

  The pallet of boxes prevented them from seeing up front, but it also blocked anyone outside from seeing the brothers. Thin Man drove significantly faster than Bruce, turning hard and braking harder. The motion combined with the smell of the plastic wrap and Seven Ball’s garlic odor was not pleasant. Max injected a sedative into Seven Ball’s right buttocks to knock him out. The gag muffled a squeal. Seven Ball tried to put up a fight, and Max allowed him to squirm until he passed out. Max and Tom maneuvered him into the giant duffel bag and zipped it shut except for a small hole to let him breathe.

  The brothers changed into their coveralls. The clothes fit both of them with leftover space to conceal their weapons underneath.

  Soon music played from the front—Justin Bieber. “Oh, hell no,” Max grumbled. Tom’s face wrinkled as if he experienced the same mixture of disbelief and disgust—the brothers weren’t Beliebers.

  After twenty-five minutes, the unmistakable noise of an outgoing plane roared overhead. The airport had to be close. More airplane engines sounded, coming and going. The Bieber music stopped, and the van came to a halt.

  Max worried that security was going to order an inspection. He felt like a fish in a barrel of water with a shotgun pointing at him. At least a fish could dive for safety, but Max and Tom couldn’t dive through a metal floorboard. Then the van moved—in reverse. Max couldn’t understand why they were backing out of the gate.

  The van stopped. Then the rear door opened. Only Thin Man was there. “We are here,” he said. They’d passed security at the gate without having to stop and now were backed up to a plane sitting on the tarmac. The rain had stopped. It was difficult to make out whether the plane was Willy’s or not. Max poked his head out to get a better view.

  “Is this our plane?” Tom asked.

  At the top of the air ladder, Willy waved at them. Max returned the greeting.

  “This is it,” Max said.

  Willy disappeared back inside.

  Max and Tom unassed the van. Tom reached in and slid the duffel closer to the rear door, then they each grabbed a strap and swung the bag free. Max’s hold on the strap wasn’t secure, though, and he lost his grip. The bag dropped to the tarmac.

  “Too bad he’s too drugged up to feel that,” Max said.

  “He’ll feel it later,” Tom said.

  Max smiled. He used the handles on the bag like the straps of a backpack, and Tom helped hoist it onto Max’s back and hold some of the weight.

  Thin Man sped away before the brothers could thank him.

  Inside the plane, Willy greeted them. “Welcome back, boys!”

  The brothers unceremoniously dumped the body on the deck, and Willy closed the hatch as the pilot prepared for takeoff. Willy unzipped the bag, took off the man’s hood, and looked at him.

  “I’m going to be pissed if we went through all that trouble and this isn’t Seven Ball,” Max said half-joking.

  “Not cool,” Tom said.

  “Stranger shit has happened,” Max said.

  Willy grinned. “It’s him! Well done.” From a storage compartment, he pulled out a set of sound-blocking headphones and placed them over Seven Ball’s ears before putting his hood back on.

  Without a shot being fired, it was a perfect op. Max and Tom let out a whoop and fist-bumped each other. They still hadn’t left Chinese airspace, but they couldn’t resist the premature celebration.

  “Vietnam will be a more permissive environment for us than China,” Willy said. “We’ll fly Seven Ball to a safe house in Hanoi and interrogate him there.”

  They took their seats before the plane taxied down the runway and they were airborne. Max knew his body needed rest, but after the adrenaline rush of capturing the HVT and the anticipation of interrogating him, his mind couldn’t surrender. He’d been so focused on this part of the operation that he hadn’t had time to think about Dad.

  “Don’t worry,” Tom said. “We’ll find him. That’s what we do.”

  Max forced a smile. “I just hope we find him in time.”

  3

  Hours later, inside an Agency safe house in Hanoi, Max and Tom observed a live video feed on computer monitors linked to cameras and audio inside the interrogation room. Willy stood in front of Seven Ball, who sat in a chair with his hands and feet bound. Now his hood, blacked-out goggles, and sound-blocking headphones were gone.

  Seven Ball stood up and spoke defiantly. “You can’t do this. I work for the Communist Party of China.”

  Willy slammed Seven Ball back in his chair. “Sit down.” Then Willy eased into the chair in front of him and offered a cigarette.

  Seven Ball looked like he wanted it, but he didn’t take it.

  “Aren’t you going to stand up again?” Willy asked sarcastically.

  Seven Ball said nothing and kept still.

  “You’re not so strong without your strong men. We know all about you. You speak English and Vietnamese in addition to your native Chinese language and are spying to support China’s bioweapons program. Under the cover of a wealthy pharmaceuticals businessman, you recruit those with the money, knowledge, and power.”

  Seven Ball remained silent.

  “We also know that you like to gamble. You’ve racked up beaucoup debt with a Hong Kong triad. And you’ve been stealing from your own government to pay off your gambling debts.”

  “That’s not true,” Seven Ball argued.

  Willy continued. “But now that the Communist Party has clamped down on the triads, you’ve basically told the mafia to screw themselves. Instead of paying your debts, you use the money you steal for more entertainment.”

  “Okay, I’ve heard your lies. Now can I go?”

  “Where would you like to go?” Willy looked around the room as if there wasn’t anywhere to go. “You want to return to your place in Hanoi? Throw another party? Kill another American and take another captive?”

  Seven Ball clenched his lips tight.

  “Do you know where we are?” Willy asked.

  Seven Ball kept his lips shut.

  “Of course not.” Willy paused. “You’ve taken an American citizen hostage. You’re in my world now.” He stood, walked to the metal door with no doorknob, and knocked on it. The sound of unlocking came from the other side of the door. One of Willy’s guards opened it, and Willy walked out. Then the door slammed shut in its metal frame and locked again.

  Seven Ball’s shoulders sagged, and his gaze fell to the floor.

  Willy joined Max and Tom to watch the monitors. “Let’s give Seven Ball a little time to make himself uncomfortable. In the meantime, you boys should get some rest. As soon as we extract some actionable intel, I’ll wake you.”

  Unable to give himself permission to rest, Max appreciated Willy’s okay. Max and Tom found beds to rack out in, and as Max’s body crash-landed, he drifted to sleep.

  As promised, Willy woke Max and Tom. It was before the crack of dawn as the brothers shuffled their feet behind Willy to a secure room of the safe house. “Seven Ball mentioned a Chinese-Vietnamese man named Thu Duong who seems to know where your father is,” Willy said.

  A petite Asian woman in her mid-twenties walked in, awkward as an adolescent. She wore white slacks, a white blouse, and a gold ring around her pinky. In her arms she carried a stack of papers and files.

  Willy introduced her. “This is June Lee. She’s a Chinese-American case officer working undercover as a translator for the embassy here in Hanoi. She’s taken the initiative and done some paramilitary training on her own. And she’s an expert marksman.”

  “I bet I can guess your birth month,” Max said, chuckling at himself. “June.”

  Tom rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stared blankly at Max. Willy looked at Max strangely, too. Max shrugged.

  June smiled at Max before she set her papers and files on a table and took a seat. “Guess again.”

>   Max was pleased at her willingness to play along. “May.”

  Tom and Willy shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.

  June seemed to notice that Tom and Willy weren’t enjoying the exchange, and she quickly ended the quiz. “I was born the day before Thanksgiving.”

  “June knows Thu and can arrange for you to meet with him,” Willy said.

  Tom focused on June and kindly asked, “What do you know about this guy named Thu?”

  Her expression became serious. “He can’t be trusted,” she said, “and he’ll take you for every penny you’ve got—or worse. I can set up a meeting with him, if you like.”

  “Yes,” Max and Tom said without hesitation. Max wasn’t eager to do business with this guy, but he was eager to find Dad.

  4

  On the fifth day of his captivity, hands cuffed behind his back, Hank peered through the opening at the bottom of his blindfold. He could see little aside from the concrete floor he sat on, and a pair of feet that weren’t his. He was not alone in his cell. The dirty white Converse knockoffs with a red star on them belonged to his guard. He was supposed to be outside Hank’s cell, but this was not the first time he’d come inside. Knockoff touched his shoulder.

  “No,” Hank said in English.

  Knockoff was undeterred. One hand remained on Hank’s shoulder while the other stroked his hair. Knockoff spoke something softly in Chinese.

  “Stop,” Hank said. “Now.”

  Knockoff’s hand moved from Hank’s shoulder to the flesh of his neck. He breathed heavily.

  “Stop now. I won’t tell you again.”

  Knockoff licked Hank’s cheek.

  At forty-six years old, Hank couldn’t brawl as easily as he had in his thirties; even so, he still knew how to turn on the aggression. He shouted. It was so sudden and loud that it caused Knockoff to jump. Voices and footsteps came. Knockoff hurried out of Hank’s cell, but before he could close the door, someone arrived, shouting in Chinese. Hank tried to see who it was, but his blindfold blocked his vision. Then the door to his cell was locked and he was alone again.

 

‹ Prev