Ghost Target

by Nicholas Irving

  “You don’t deal,” Basayev said. He looked at Samuelson and smirked. “It’s your call, Abrek. Me or the Reaper.” Basayev walked over and punched a button on the wall.

  The chains beneath him shook like a hundred rattlesnakes. The conveyor coughed to life. The metal grate began moving him forward toward the incinerator.

  A million thoughts sparked in his mind, but he latched on to the fact that Jackie’s younger brother had died from an opium overdose at Fort Benning, Georgia. Jackie had used her considerable interpersonal skills to befriend an FBI agent, who had mentioned to her that they had traced the opium to Helmand Province. She had come to believe that MLQM was the culprit. Could she be the assassin? Could she be with Nina?

  “I know where they are!” Harwood said.

  Basayev was leaning over Monisha. He had removed the painter’s tarp. He stood and pressed the stop button.

  “Tell me, Reaper. Or I take the girl and you burn.”

  “No!” Harwood said. He gasped and strained against his bonds. He felt the heat wash over him in continuous waves. He was halfway to the incinerator. Ten meters away. Flames licked out of the cylinder like a serpent’s tongue.

  “Talk, Reaper! Where’s Nina!”

  “Leave the girl, Basayev,” Harwood said.

  “Not your decision, Harwood. It’s up to Abrek. His choice. If he chooses you, then you bring me Nina and you can have her back. If not, well then, goodbye.”

  Basayev looked at the steaming furnace and then the ailing fourteen-year-old with hardened eyes. His hands flexed, as if preparing for torture.

  “Just do it, Reaper,” Monisha muttered. “I’ll be okay. Don’t want you burnt. He ain’t nothing.” She had turned her head and was eyeing Harwood. “We good,” she added.

  “I know about the nuke,” Harwood said. “Sammie, he’s got a nuke ready to blow. Today. Tomorrow. I don’t know when, but soon. You’re one of the good guys, Sammie.”

  Samuelson eyed Basayev, then Harwood, and went back to Basayev, as if watching a tennis match.

  “Is that true, Khasan?” Samuelson asked. He was confused, uncertain.

  “Your Reaper is desperate, Abrek. He will say anything. But as I said, it is your choice.” Basayev smirked, but it was a less confident sneer. He cradled the girl and pressed the start button again, feeding Harwood to the pig incinerator.

  Harwood eyed Samuelson. His spotter stood temporarily frozen. “K-Khasan. Stop!”

  Monisha screamed, “No!” Basayev stepped over the painter’s tarp and Harwood’s rucksack as he fled with the teenager. Harwood heard the door slam as the chains propelled him toward the fire. A diesel engine fired up outside and the sound of gravel peppering the metal wall echoed inside the warehouse. Monisha was gone and perhaps so was he.

  “Sammie!” Harwood shouted.

  Maybe it was the absence of Basayev or the presence of Harwood, but Samuelson turned toward Harwood. He dove toward the wall, slammed the button to stop the conveyor, and then ran past Harwood and shut down the incinerator. Reaching Harwood, he began cutting the ropes with his knife, muttering something unintelligible to himself.

  “V-Vick, are you okay?”

  Samuelson helped Harwood stand. His shoes were barely intact, the rubber soles sizzling on the concrete. He looped his arm around Samuelson’s shoulders and they walked away from the heat. Samuelson opened the door, they both looked at the empty lot, and Harwood said, “Monisha’s gone.”

  “We’ll find her, bro,” Samuelson said.

  The irony was not lost on Harwood. Samuelson was saving him when he had been unable to do the same in Afghanistan. Similarly, he had now failed Monisha. Nonetheless, he needed to press ahead.

  “Thanks, bro,” Harwood said. He hugged his spotter. Held him tight, then pushed away. “Are you seriously connected with Basayev?” he asked.

  Samuelson looked away, eyes furtive. He heaved a heavy sigh, frustration leaving the body.

  “He saved my life, Vick.” Then, after a moment, he asked, “Is there really a nuke?”

  “I think so,” Harwood said.

  The two former teammates squatted against the wall of the corrugated metal building.

  “You okay?” Harwood asked.

  “I’m like you. Have good days and bad days. Like I said, he thinks you’ve got Nina. It’s the only reason you’re alive. While I was recovering in Kandahar, Basayev said we had to find you to find Nina.”

  Samuelson’s stuttering seemed to come and go as stressful memories ebbed and flowed.

  “You were in Kandahar all this time?”

  “Yeah, Basayev’s not stupid. He knew coalition forces would be crawling all over Helmand Province looking for me. He brought me to a safe house a few miles away from the FOB in Kandahar.”

  “How’d you get here? I mean out of Afghanistan and into the United States?”

  “We took a truck from Kandahar into Iran. He’s got some credentials there, too. Passed me off as his captive.”

  “Which you are, by the way,” Harwood said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe…”

  “Keep going.” Samuelson was remembering, and if that memory cycle took him all the way back to being a Ranger, then good.

  “An airplane flew us from a dirt strip into Oman where we flew on a private jet to the Bahamas and jumped on a charter yacht up here. Basayev has money, evidently.”

  “Why here, though? Savannah?”

  “We were tracking you,” Samuelson said.

  “Yeah, I found the tracker. But if I’m not killing these people, then who is? You guys?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. We figured it was you,” Samuelson said.

  Harwood turned his head to the left, toward a mesh window. A flash of dark blue swept past. They had been in the warehouse for longer than he wanted to stay. The tarp that had covered Monisha lay at their feet like an empty body bag.

  “So, where is it?”

  “Where is what?” Samuelson asked.

  “My rifle.”

  Samuelson paused, looked away.

  “It’s m-missing,” he said. “I had it for a while, but it’s gone.”

  “You had it here? Brought it here?”

  Again, Samuelson looked away, scratched his whiskers, then spoke. “Yeah. It was in a duffel bag with some other stuff.”

  “Last place we stayed was a Motel 6 near Fort Bragg. Hadn’t seen it since then. Maybe a week? That was a different rifle you saw the other night.”

  “You were at Fort Bragg?”

  “Like I said, we’ve been following you, b-bro.”

  Harwood’s mind flashed. Images of Jackie Colt putting something in her trunk at Fort Bragg. Was it luggage? A rifle?

  “Who else is on the kill sheet?” Harwood asked.

  “He just told me he had one. Didn’t show it to me.”

  Samuelson’s distant stare was interrupted by rapid eye blinking, as if he was searching his mind for answers.

  “No, Sammie, think. Help me here. We used to do this in combat. Who else is part of this thing? Did Basayev mention anyone else? Did you drop him off anywhere with some equipment to dig? Did he ever use your car?”

  Samuelson scratched his chin. His eyes flicked left and right. He tugged on his cap, thinking.

  “General Sampson’s dead. General Dillman’s dead. Two cops are dead. Senator Kraft is dead,” Samuelson said. “Basayev was tracking them. He’d repeat it after he heard it on the news.”

  “See? He’s got a list. If not an actual sheet, he’s got one in his mind. Plus, you left off two of General Markham’s guards.”

  “That’s it. I remember that name,” Samuelson said.

  “Okay, this is helpful. We need to get moving,” Harwood said.

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  Harwood shouldered his ruck, charged his pistol, and directed, “Follow me.”

  “But where?”

  “To find Nina Moreau and Jackie Colt, then get Monisha back.”
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br />   Harwood had done the math. Basayev didn’t have the range to be everywhere he had been and also do the shootings. No single person had that kind of capacity. It was a two-person job. And the only two people with motive and access to his rifle were Jackie and Nina.

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re doing the killing,” he said.

  Samuelson nodded, looked away, tried to speak, but the words weren’t coming.

  “What, Sammie? What’s in your mind right now? Just grab it.”

  Samuelson squeezed his eyes shut tight. Tears flowed. His lips turned downward in a drool-soaked sob. “I … I can’t remember, but it’s important!”

  Harwood placed his hand on Samuelson’s shoulder. “It’s okay, bro. Remember bros before hos.” He hugged Samuelson.

  “Bros before hos,” Samuelson repeated. “That’s my line.” He chuckled an odd laugh, like a car engine coughing. Harwood cradled the back of his misshapen skull with his hand, feeling for the first time the dent a rock must have caused. Imagining the pain Samuelson endured, he hugged the sobbing Ranger tighter.

  Samuelson’s heaves slowed and he pulled away from Harwood.

  “He mentioned a man named Lunev,” Samuelson said. “Not to me, but I overheard him on the boat one day. He was on the radio. Stan Lunev, I think.”

  Harwood stepped back. He knew the name.

  “Are you sure he said Lunev? Stanislav Lunev?”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly.” Samuelson smiled, like a child who had just answered correctly in class.

  Lunev was a Russian defector who had briefed the American government on the ease with which the then Soviet Union and present-day Russia could infiltrate tactical nuclear weapons into the United States using spetsnaz high-altitude insertion.

  “If he mentioned Lunev, then he definitely has a bomb.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Not once did FBI Special Agent Deke Bronson believe that his Match.com profile would transition from dating mechanism to intelligence source.

  But it had.

  “Nancy” had connected with him and said she had valuable information about the sex-trafficking ring. That was interesting primarily because the police and FBI had not gone public with the sex-trafficking angle. It was still close hold. So unless there was a leak from a very small group of people, his meeting with Nancy could be a major break. And he needed a break.

  Bronson sat inside the Starbucks on Bay Street just north of City Hall. It was bustling with the usual cross section of humanity. Busy college students hammered away on MacBooks, young professionals carrying satchels ordered lattes, dog lovers sat outside sipping chai while their best friends lapped at tin bowls filled with water or snapped treats from their masters’ hands, and rushed patrons waited impatiently as the presses and blenders whirred.

  Faye Wilde was across the street checking her phone, looking like any attractive millennial doing her thing on a work break. He could smell the burgers frying at Five Guys just up the road. Max Corent was inside the burger joint on his MacBook monitoring the Starbucks security cameras. It was a simple hack into the system and Corent had radioed that he was live. Randy White was on the roof of a brew pub across the street just above Wilde. He had his rifle in a kit bag ready to go, but Bronson had ordered him to use the spotter’s scope initially and then to use his judgment on whether to switch to his rifle.

  A waif of a woman dressed in black brushed his shoulder as she whisked past him. A piece of paper fell into his lap as she disappeared behind the patrons waiting in line for their orders. Beyond the line was an outdoor seating venue with umbrellas and beyond that was the open street.

  Bronson opened the note: Catch me if you can. Love, Nancy;)

  He took that as a cue to follow her. Bronson stood and began walking quickly in the woman’s direction as he spoke calmly through his earpiece microphone.

  “Following suspect out of the side entrance. Looks like she’s going right into the alley,” he whispered.

  “Roger. I’ve got her,” White said from the rooftop. “Skinny black-haired woman dressed in black. Makes for a good target.”

  “Not that skinny, actually,” Bronson said, turning the corner. He saw the toned triceps of his target about twenty-five yards away. She was moving swiftly, black jeans, tight-fitting short-sleeved black shirt, short black boots, all meshing with the long black hair swishing like a mare’s tail. She ducked into an alley that Bronson knew that White, Corent, and Wilde could not observe. Then another turn and another.

  Soon he was following her along a dark corridor of low live oak trees. It was a running path and it occurred to the marine in Bronson that he was being led into an ambush. The black-haired woman was the rabbit and he was the fox. Only the hunters preferred the fox over the rabbit.

  She turned off the asphalt greenway and onto a small footpath into the trees. Damn the torpedoes, Bronson thought. He whispered into his microphone, “In pursuit behind the Starbucks, maybe four blocks. On a greenway and now a small trail.”

  “Stop, boss,” Wilde whispered from somewhere. Her voice was raspy, as if she was running.

  “Already committed,” he said.

  And he was. He stepped into the woods and soon a high kick caught his jaw and he spun, but not before he got a powerful left arm up and twisted the ankle, however briefly. Regardless of that action, she was on top of him after a quick heel pick and a razor-sharp forearm in the throat.

  “The killings continue until you arrest General Markham and Vick Harwood. You’ve got twenty-four hours,” she said.

  Bronson couldn’t make out her face; the long black hair was a veil, shielding her from recognition. He could smell the sweat and filth, as if she hadn’t bathed in weeks. Before he could gather any more clues, she was off him and moving quickly to the north, away from him.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “Nancy!”

  But she was gone like a vanishing ghost, present one second then diminishing into vapor.

  A few seconds later, Faye Wilde came running with her pistol drawn. “Was that her?”

  Bronson stood, “Had to be.” Rubbing his jaw, he remarked, “Damn good roundhouse. That shit wasn’t in her profile, was it?”

  “No time for joking around, sir,” Wilde said. “We’ve got to find her.”

  “She’s gone. Fast. Strong. No chance,” he said.

  Wilde looked at the path into the woods. “Why on earth did you follow her in here?”

  “I figured she wanted to say something to me. I just didn’t realize she would preface her remarks in the manner she did.”

  “You ripped your three-hundred-dollar Boss shirt,” Wilde said, relaxing.

  “Felt that. Aren’t you going to ask what she said?”

  Corent and White appeared on the scene, the four of them standing at the edge of the tree line.

  “Randy, Max, you guys go about a hundred yards in there and see if there’s anything. Doubtful, but you never know.”

  “Roger that, boss,” White said, gripping his rifle. “Let’s go, Max.”

  The two men walked carefully into the woods as Bronson stood from his one-knee position and said to Wilde, “She said we need to arrest Harwood.”

  “Well no shit,” Wilde said.

  “And General Markham.”

  “Markham? The air force guy? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s got a house about ten miles from here. I fully intend to talk to him ASAP.”

  “Tread carefully, Deke. He knows people,” Wilde said.

  “I’m aware of that, Faye, but I can’t ignore it, mostly because she just risked capture by the FBI to communicate with me, whoever she is.”

  “Say anything else?”

  “Yeah, we have twenty-four hours,” Bronson said.

  “Or what?”

  “She didn’t say, but I don’t want to find out.”

  Corent and White returned. Nothing.

  Wilde’s phone rang. She answered and listened.


  “Oh my God,” she said. “An anonymous tip. Harwood is in a warehouse on River and McGuire Streets.”

  “Let’s move. That’s not even ten blocks from here,” Bronson said.

  * * *

  Harwood needed to contact the FBI, but on his terms, not with his hands clasped atop his head.

  He grabbed Samuelson and led him to the side door. About one hundred yards away was Lanny’s shot up Mustang. Basayev had moved them to a completely different warehouse opposite where they had ambushed him. Police were milling in the field around the Mustang, making the route a no-go. The other two doors on the building opened simultaneously. At the front of the building were a black man and a redheaded woman, both aiming their pistols at Samuelson and Harwood. Two men entered from the left side, one with a pistol and another with an AR-15 rifle. Each pair was about fifty yards away.

  “We’re jacked, dude,” Samuelson said.

  “No. This was your buddy calling us in. He’s playing with us. Likes for us to be on the move, not get complacent. It’s all about the nuke.”

  A voice called out from the front. “Vick Harwood!?” It was both a question and an announcement. Like the man was not totally uncertain, but neither was he convinced it was him.

  “Who’s asking?” Harwood shouted back. They were next to the only escape route. Harwood assumed that the pursuers had banked on the police blocking that avenue of egress.

  “FBI!” the man shouted.

  “Got nothing to do with any of this,” Harwood shouted.

  “Then you’ve got no reason to run. Come talk to us. Help us figure it out,” the man said loudly as they advanced at a fast pace.

  “Not my job,” Harwood shouted. “Do yours and it’s plain to see.” The FBI had to know about Lunev, because he was in witness protection.

  “You’re an American,” the FBI man said. “It’s everybody’s job.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Harwood shouted as he grasped the doorknob, looking through the metal mesh window as he kept an eye on the police outside. The FBI continued to advance. “A man named Xanadu is who you’re looking for, not me. And while you’re at it, you may want to find Stansilav Lunev.”

  He nodded at Samuelson, then looked at the tarp where Monisha had been covered. He heard her imaginary voice: “Reaper, what we gonna do now? Cops ever’where.”