Outside, in the small lounge, Bretta was running through the same sort of checks as Ethan had made with his gear. She had her favored Beretta Px4 Storm pistol sitting in her own thigh holster and, as Ethan walked out of the bedroom, she whipped it up and pointed it at the blank wall in front of her.
She replaced her pistol, whipped it out again. She did this continually, reinforcing the muscle memory.
So much of what we do, so much of what keeps us alive is muscle memory, Ethan thought. Still, she also probably did it as a way to distract her nerves.
He stowed his rifle, flashbangs and bulletproof vest in the sizeable duffel on the couch. Next to the bag, propped on the sofa cushions was William’s own load-out; a M 16 SCAR-L assault rifle, a model that had actually been brought into the military to replace the CQBR that Ethan had opted to carry. It took the same ammunition as Ethan’s weapon––5.56mm x 45mm rounds––but had the tactical advantage of being able to have its barrels quickly swapped out in the field. William had fitted it with the ten-inch barrel making it perfect for the potential close-quarters engagement that might arise. There was also a Sig Sauer P228 nine mil sitting next to it, as well as an Ithaca 37 pump-action shotgun.
Ethan held the shotgun up to Bretta and raised an eyebrow.
“He said he wanted it in case we had to breach anything,” Bretta said, shrugging with the easy grace of a hunting cat.
Ethan gave his head a little shake and put the shotgun into the duffel bag.
“You good to go?” he asked her.
She nodded. “William should be back soon. The amount of nondescript SUVs parked around this part of town, it won’t be long before he finds one that takes his fancy.”
“No doubt,” Ethan replied.
“Here, can you pack this?” Bretta asked and tossed her HK MP5 submachine gun across the room. Ethan caught it deftly and slipped it into the weapons bag.
“A classic,” he said, nodding at the MP5.
“Well, you know I’m a classic kind of gal,” Bretta said with a shark’s smile.
Ethan wondered if he had ever laid eyes upon a woman who looked quite so good, or quite so dangerous. It was a heady combination.
Ethan picked up William’s weapons and stowed them in the bag with the rest of the gear.
A few minutes later, there was the familiar scratching at the lock and the tall Texan strode into the room, closing the door swiftly behind him.
“All right,” William said, his usually sanguine face a mask of dead calm, “We’re good to go? Everyone got their bang-bangs?”
Bretta snorted and nodded. “Have you got us a friggin’ ride is the real question.”
William affected a look of hurt puzzlement. “You know I wouldn’t let you walk, not on the night of the big dance!”
“All right, that’s enough,” Ethan said. “Black Swan is going to connect in a second to go over the op one more time. Get your game face on.”
“Are we packing water or MREs?” William asked. “In case we have to make a break for it and skip coming back to the safehouse?”
MREs were Meals Ready to Eat, and were used when troops were on deployment.
“Negative, I don’t expect we’re going to be gone that goddamn long,” Ethan replied. “Just take as many bullets as you can. If fate decides to shit all over us and we run into the Kidon team, I don’t want anyone going black on ammo. Understood?”
Bretta and William grunted.
There was a dull ping from the laptop sitting on the coffee table.
“Okay, gather round.” Ethan said.
“Copperhead, Maelstrom, Death Adder,” Sam greeted them, after her face had materialized on the screen. “You’ve had time to review the documents. Any questions?”
When there were none, Ethan iterated their plan of action.
After he finished, Sam nodded. “Let me just remind you of this though: the Imam Hossein University is a public place. There is a lot here that could go wrong. I don’t need to tell you that the three of you being caught breaching an educational facility and abducting an esteemed nuclear academic would be the very epitome of a Charlie Foxtrot.”
A Charlie Foxtrot was military slang for a clusterfuck, and Ethan was in agreement that one of those was the last thing that the team needed.
“Factor in that this scientist is on the radar of a Kidon team,” Sam continued, “and you have the ingredients for a situation to go sideways very fast.”
“Well that’s why you hired us,” William said. “We’re experts at mitigation.”
“I’d prefer containment to mitigation,” Sam said. Her eyes focused on Ethan. “Get Dr. Avesta out alive.”
Ten minutes later, Ethan and Bretta were sitting in the backseat of a dusty Hyundai Santa Fe. William had done well with his choice of appropriated ride, as the Santa Fe was one of Iran’s most imported SUV models and would hopefully take some tracking down if it was reported stolen.
“You think Black Swan is telling us everything we need to know about this HVT, Copperhead?” Bretta asked Ethan. “She seems to want this scientist awfully bad.”
Ethan shrugged. “She’s told us everything we need to know, and whether there is more or not doesn’t matter.”
Bretta grunted noncommittally.
While William made his way through the Tehran traffic, past Shafagh Park and the Iran Canada Language School, Bretta and Ethan slipped on and adjusted their bulletproof vests, holstered their pistols and chambered rounds into their primary firearms before flicking on the safeties.
Once this was done, Ethan stared out of the tinted rear window, scanning the traffic for any sign of pursuit or overly interested watchers. As it had been when they were travelling to the safehouse earlier, the traffic was quite light.
“Still can’t get over how empty it is,” Bretta said, while she gazed out the window.
“I should have at least lost one of my side mirrors by now,” William agreed.
Ethan gazed out at the men and women hurrying along the sidewalks of Asad Abadi Street. There were fewer of them than usual, but as always, the pedestrians wore brightly colored chadors––the traditional women’s garb that covered all the body except the face––and hijabs predominated. Due to the heat there were also plenty of people wearing vividly colored manteaus––the long cotton or wool tunics so favored by the local Iranian. Ethan knew that Bretta was a staunch advocate for the manteau. She had voiced her opinions on their comfort and breathability when the two of them had enjoyed their down time together when off mission.
The few people out and about seemed to be hurrying along with their heads down. Many––if not the majority––of the locals were wearing the eerie single-use surgical masks on their faces.
William stopped at a red light––something that, in Tehran, was less a rule and more a suggestion that no driver took any notice of––and the fact that he was not immediately honked into oblivion by the motorists behind him told Ethan how quiet the street really was.
William took the opportunity to slip his Sig into his thigh holster, chambering a round before he did so. Then he took his bulletproof vest that Bretta was proffering and put it on the passenger seat.
They continued on.
A tricky bit of driving from William, cutting straight across the busier Dr. Fatemi Street to a chorus of furious horn blasts, brought them onto North Fēlestin Street. Rather than take this road all the way down until it turned into South Fēlestin Street, before taking a hard right and practically driving into the university’s medical buildings, Ethan had William turn off at Keshavarz Boulevard and do a circuit of the university compound.
“All right, Death Adder,” he said, and the use of William’s codename told the other two that the mission was now, undoubtedly in progress, “make a U-turn. I saw a security gate back there that leads into the closest parking lot to the Physics Research Center.”
“How the hell do you know that?” William asked.
Ethan pointed at a road sign in the man’
s side mirror.
“Copy that,” William said.
With the reckless confidence that one needed if they successfully wanted to drive and survive on Tehran’s roads, William turned the Hyundai around. While he did this Ethan climbed, with no little difficulty, into the passenger seat.
“Um, just so I understand this, you want to go in through the security gate dressed like this?” William asked.
“Affirmative,” Ethan replied.
“The junior operative didn’t report a gate guard...” William said, trying to keep the dubiousness in his voice to a minimum.
“No, he did not,” Ethan agreed. “But sometimes plans benefit from a little improvisation,” he grunted as he straightened his body armor. “Maelstrom?”
“Yes?”
“You brought along your incapacitating agent?” Ethan asked.
“Of course,” Bretta replied.
“All right. Hand it over, and pass me one of those surgical masks back there while you’re at it. Here’s what we’re going to do…”
4
Parviz Lankarani looked up from his copy of Irana Esperantisto as the Hyundai Sante Fe drew up next to the security window of his booth from which he manned the gate of this particular car park. It was a rare day indeed when a grad student or faculty member wanted access to the Physics Research Center at this time in the evening. Usually––unless it was during the exam period––Parviz would only need to look up from his reading material a handful of times during his graveyard shift. He placed his finger carefully on the part of the article he had been reading so as not to lose his place, removed his reading spectacles and slid open the Plexiglas window of his booth. He had been warned by his superiors that doing this––as an older member of staff, they treated him as if he was ninety rather than fifty-eight––could be potentially hazardous to his health. Parvis had seen Tehran go through some extremely volatile times though, and he’d be damned before he let a cold virus dictate how he went about his days.
The tinted window wound smoothly down and the face of a big man appeared in the aperture. With difficulty, Parviz refrained from rolling his eyes. This man had one of those disposable surgical masks on, covering his mouth and nose. From the odd tilt of the mask, Parviz could tell that the man had quite the beard underneath.
“Salaam allykum,” the man said in Farsi, with an ever so slight Bandari accent.
“Salaam,” Parviz replied with a smile.
“I was wondering if you could help me?” the man asked, still in perfect Persian. Parviz did not think that he was a local, but he was, perhaps, an expat from somewhere that lived in the city.
“I’ll try, sir,” Parviz replied, cordially, his leathery face creasing up in another smile.
“I’m trying to find this,” the man said and held up a piece of paper that might have been a map.
Parviz’s eyes weren’t what they once had been. He’d leaned forward in his booth, his mouth slightly agape as he strained to see what the paper was.
And, suddenly, the piece of paper was whipped away.
Ethan watched William lean out the driver side window. Before the old security guard could so much as frown, William had sprayed him three times in the face with the small spray bottle containing a carefully mixed concoction of Halothane––a once much-used anesthetic––and a few other incapacitating chemical agents that a man of this one’s age should safely handle.
The security guard leaned back, blinking rapidly and uttering a garbled string of surprised curses that made no sense in any language Ethan knew. He stumbled back into the wall of the booth, looking profoundly confused and somewhat incredulous.
Ethan glanced over his shoulder, checking once again that no other cars had queued behind them. All was still clear. He turned back to the security guard. He knew that the Halothane-based spray might take up to thirty seconds to works its magic on the––
The man collapsed with an undignified crash, bouncing off his desk and sending stationary and paperwork cascading over the floor.
William hopped nimbly out of the Hyundai, while Ethan slid into the driver’s seat. He kept an eye on the rear-view mirror while William made the old man as comfortable as he could expect to be, tied at the hands, elbows, knees and feet. William checked that the old man had not swallowed his tongue and propped him against the wall, lying on his side, and out of view of any other cars that might pull up.
Then he pressed a button on the small control console on the desk and raised the arm blocking the entrance. Ethan drove through, Bretta opened the rear door and William slid into the back seat. Then they were away again.
“Not bad,” Bretta said, as she peered out of the windshield, her eyes already scanning for any hint of Israeli company. “I always worry about those incapacitating agents. They’re a bit imprecise for me. Either they don’t knock the man out, or they kill him outright.”
“He might die yet,” William said.
“Out of our hands.” Ethan pulled the car into a parking space that was cloaked in the dense velvet shadow spread by a linden tree. The parking lot was almost entirely deserted. Ethan wasn’t sure if that was because of some lockdown instituted to combat the virus, or simply because of the late hour.
Amongst the smattering of other vehicles though, there was a white Renault Captcha.
“That’s the target’s vehicle,” Bretta said, pointing it out.
Ethan observed the license plate, and nodded.
The trio piled out of the car. All three members of the team looped their radio earpieces over the top of one of their outer ears. These earpieces were connected to their M3 Peltor Litecom Dynamic throat mics, which were, in turn, connected to a tiny battery affixed snuggly at the small of their backs. There were some very handy wireless earpieces available for military contractors, but Ethan had always preferred a wire when stealth was not a priority in the field. There was nothing worse than diving for cover, being thrown across a room by a grenade concussion blast or smacked squarely in the face, only to realize that your only link to your backup or team had flown out of your ear.
“Radio check,” Ethan said.
“Check,” Bretta said.
“Check,” William said.
The three of them donned their Wiley X Romer 3 ballistic safety glasses––or birth control glasses as they were affectionately known by military personnel, due to them being so unstylish.
With only a single nod, Ethan communicated that it was go-time. They hefted their weapons and flicked off safeties. William slung his Ithaca pump-action shotgun over his shoulder.
Ethan’s face could have been carved from oak, his mouth an axe wound.
“I’ll take point. Death Adder check six,” he said.
“Copy that,” William answered.
They removed the surgical masks and donned balaclavas, sliding them over the ballistic safety glasses, then assumed their positions.
They crossed the parking lot in that unmistakable, crouching hustle that was so indicative of the well-trained military professional. Their eyes and the muzzles of their weapons performed scanning arcs as they crossed the stretch of asphalt and made it to the door of the Faculty of Science building. Here they stopped and checked their surroundings.
Ethan was aware, from his study of the blueprints of the university that Sam had sent through, that the Faculty of Science building joined up with the Physics Research Center. He had decided that, rather than run straight to the research center’s own entrance, the team would approach via the cover of the Science building first. It would reduce the risk of being randomly spotted by some passer-by or onlooker, though it would also mean they might encounter janitors and security.
He depressed the door handle and led the way inside the building.
“Maelstrom,” whispered Ethan, “guard ahead. Take point on this one.”
“Copy that,” came Bretta’s reply in his ear. “Maelstrom is oscar mike.”
From his seat behind a desk, Ethan could see the well-bui
lt campus security guard standing idly just through the doorway which he and his team needed to get through. The corridor the man was blocking was the last stretch of hallway dividing the Science faculty building from that of the Physics Center. The man’s back was to them. There was a handgun in his hip holster and a baton hanging from the other side of his belt. Above the doorway was an Arabic sign describing the Physics Center.
Ethan saw Bretta emerge from out of the shadows to his right. He knew that William was on his left flank, but could not see the big Texan. Bretta slung her MP5 over her shoulder, darted forward and, with the swiftness and silence of a swallow, launched herself on to the guard’s shoulders, wrapping her muscular legs around his neck.
The guard’s arms came up to clutch at Bretta’s thighs. Ethan saw Bretta’s powerful legs contract and the man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Ethan knew that Bretta had squeezed the man’s carotid arteries so hard that his brain had momentarily been deprived of blood flow and he had blacked out.
Ethan and William moved forward and grabbed the prostrate mans legs and towed him behind a desk. While Ethan and Bretta scanned their environment, William bound and gagged the man with flexi-cuffs and duct tape.
The trio of DIA contractors moved quickly and quietly along the corridor, which was an enclosed bridge that spanned a pedestrian walkway below. Through the tall glass windows, Ethan was gratified to see that there was not a single visible soul abroad.
This virus isn’t all bad, he thought.
They slipped through the double doors that led into the center proper and Bretta closed them noiselessly behind them. They were in, what Ethan thought of anyway, as the stereotypical reception area. There were a couple of long desks running along either side of this space with computer monitors evenly spaced along them––extra work spaces for students––and a water cooler in the corner.
Ethan had memorized the map of the building, and knew precisely where to go. A stairwell awaited at the end of the main hallway. The target resided two floors up.
Boiling Point (An Ethan Galaal Thriller Book 4) Page 4
