by Brent Towns
“Amigo, someone has to make sure you stay out of trouble.”
“All right, then. Let’s get everything organized. We leave tomorrow. Cara, a word.”
As the others left, Cara walked over to Kane. “What’s up?”
“This thing with Knocker has me troubled. He’s out there on his own, and no one wants to read us in.”
“He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
Looking her in the eye, Kane asked, “Do you still have your friend at Langley?”
Cara shook her head. “Reaper, don’t—”
“I need to know what he’s into.”
“Shit. All right, I’ll make a call. I’ll come to your place tonight if I come up with anything.”
“Thanks.”
Sam “Slick” Swift sat staring at his computer screen, unwilling to admit defeat. His eyes were burning from hours of looking at the monitor without a break. He’d searched and searched but found nothing to get him excited. He ran a hand through his red hair and let out a long sigh. Muttering something under his breath, he began typing again.
There was movement beside him, and a voice said, “How’s it going, baby?”
He looked up at Brooke Reynolds. He saw the large coffee in her hand and asked, “Is that for me?”
“Sure is.”
Reynolds was the commander of Bravo element. Most of their work was behind the scenes. The lithe woman was a qualified UAV pilot as well as an occasional field operative. Her long black hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she wore tank top and sweatpants. Swift took the coffee. “Thanks. You been working out?”
“Yeah. Trying to get rid of the pent-up energy being non-operational leaves me feeling.”
“You need to find yourself a guy,” Swift told her.
She smiled. “I wish. You’ve still got nothing, I gather?”
“Not a damned thing. It’s like she’s a ghost. There one minute, gone the next.”
“Did you try running facials on her bodyguards?”
He nodded. “Nothing.”
“Were there any reports filed in any countries about kidnappings?”
“I went back a week and came up empty. I had to use tight search parameters, though. If I hadn’t, the results would have been a nightmare.”
Reynolds stared at the picture for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Slick, but I’m done. If only there was something you could use to identify her. Something that isn’t her face.”
Swift’s eyes widened, and he jumped to his feet. “Yes!”
Reynolds took a step back as he whirled around. “What?”
“You’re magnificent,” he told her excitedly, putting the coffee on his desk and slopping some on the surface. He cupped Reynolds’ face in both hands and kissed her. “Absolutely magnificent.”
Surprised by the behavior of the normally self-controlled computer tech, she asked, “What did I say?”
“Look at the picture. Her hand. What do you see?”
“Fingers?”
“Look closer.”
“She’s wearing some kind of ring.”
“Exactly. If I can work out where it was made or which store it came from, I might get somewhere.”
Reynolds nodded. “Glad to be of help.”
Swift sat back down and started working once again, this time with more vigor. “Sorry, Brooke, I need to get back to this.”
“Never mind me. I need to shower anyway. Just let me know if I can help.”
Without looking around, he said, “You already have. You already have.”
“Don’t you ever lock your door?” Cara asked as she walked into Kane’s living room.
He looked at her and shook his head. “Nope. I figure if they want me bad enough, a locked door ain’t going to help any.”
“An open one is just an invitation.”
He reached under a cushion on the sofa and pulled out his M17. “I always keep a little deterrent handy. You want a beer?”
“Sure, why not?”
“They’re in the refrigerator. Grab me one while you’re there.”
“Asshole.”
She came back with a couple of beers and sat on the sofa next to Kane. He screwed the top off his and took a long pull. It tasted even better than the last one. “What did you find out?”
Cara stared at him for a moment, contemplating her words, then took a drink of her beer. She said, “Here’s an idea. Instead of talking about classified shit, let’s have sex. It’ll probably be safer.”
He chuckled. “As good as that sounds, I’ll take the intel.”
“All right.” She sighed. “But you really have to sit on this, or my friend could get reamed seven different ways.”
“Cross my heart.”
“The admiral has sent Knocker to Mosul in Iraq. Something to do with them being close to finding The Ghost.”
Kane sat forward. “On his own?”
She nodded. “Uh-huh. He’s been there before. An agent has gone off the grid, and Knocker’s supposed to make contact with him. Apparently, the guy infiltrated a cell and suddenly disappeared.”
“Shit. They should never have sent him alone.” He took another pull of his beer.
“Oh, that’s not all. It gets better. Those guys who tried to kill Knocker the other night? They told him The Ghost said to say hello.”
“You’re shitting me!”
“Nope.”
“Remind me to talk to him about what it means to be part of a team.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is that all?” Kane asked.
Cara took another drink and nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Is everything squared away for tomorrow?”
“Sure is.”
“I guess you’ll be going home, then.”
She smiled around the bottle. “Eventually.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Eventually?”
She crept on hands and knees across the sofa until she was straddling his thighs. “Yes, eventually.”
Swift’s eyes widened. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
He’d done it. He had found out where the woman purchased the ring. Exploding out of his chair, he began dancing around it like a cheap stripper. Hips gyrating and thrusting and—
“Is this a private dance, or can anyone join in?” Thurston asked.
“Holy crap!” Swift blurted and regained control of himself. “I thought everyone had gone.”
“Obviously,” Thurston said. “Why the…whatever that was?” She pointed up and down with her right index finger.
“I found out where the woman bought her ring.”
She gave him a weird look. “All right.”
“The woman from the picture. The ghost woman.”
“Oh, right.”
“She bought it from a specialized jeweler in Europe,” he told her. “In Geneva, Switzerland.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is there any footage of her at the store?”
“I’ll try to find some, but this is all I have at the moment.”
Thurston nodded. “That’s good work, Slick. Now, go home.”
Exhaustion swamped him, and he realized that many hours staring at a screen took its toll. “You know what, General? I might just do that.”
He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and started toward the door. “Goodnight, ma’am.”
“Goodnight,” she called after him. Then, “Slick?”
He turned. “Yes, ma’am?”
“The dance. Never again, got it?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Got it.”
Chapter 3
Mosul, Iraq
Mosul was a mess. When the Iraqi and Coalition forces retook the city from ISIL, large portions were destroyed. Knocker hadn’t seen devastation like that since the team had been in Aleppo six months before. Buildings had bullet and shell holes, and some were just blown into rubble.
Dressed like a local in a thawb and a keffiyeh, Knocker moved down
the debris-strewn street. His face was unshaven, and his M17 was hidden beneath his garments.
He’d been in Iraq for all of twenty-four hours, Mosul, even less. The transport he’d been given was parked a block away, a Toyota Landcruiser. Hidden in the back of the vehicle, beneath the floo,r was an M4A1, magazines, a vest, and a second encrypted cell, along with a couple of extra passports and press IDs saying he was a freelance reporter for the BBC.
Although Mosul had been virtually cleared of ISIL extremists, there were still some there, people who had been able to escape the net and joined up with smaller terrorist groups. One of those, the CIA’s man in Iraq had been able to infiltrate.
Knocker stopped, aware that some of the civilians were staring at him. He ignored them and cast his gaze on the building across the street. This was supposed to be where the CIA’s man, Abbas, lived.
A local stopped and stared at him. He had a long black beard and angry eyes. He stepped toward Knocker and said in Arabic, “Min 'anat?” Who are you?
Knocker glared at him. “I’m no one you need to concern yourself about.”
Over the past few years, the former SAS man had brushed up on his Arabic, so he spoke it well.
“What are you doing here?” the man asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I have not seen you here before.”
“And after today, you probably won’t again.”
“Who are you?” the man asked again.
“Go away.”
“No, I will not go,” the man said defiantly. “You do not belong here. It is you who should go.”
Knocker sighed heavily, then reached inside his thawb and took out the M17. “Fuck off.”
The man backed away. At first, he was intimidated by the weapon and the sudden outburst in English. Then his face screwed up in anger, and he spat on the ground. “Go, or your bones will bleach under the hot sun.”
A crowd was starting to gather, drawn by the commotion. That was the last thing he wanted. “Shit.”
Knocker glared at the man once more and started to walk away. Behind him, the man spat on the street once more and hurled insults at his back.
He disappeared into an alley and stopped, waiting for the man to move on. Eventually, the man did.
After several minutes, Knocker went back, but this time he went to the door of the house instead. He knocked and waited.
A woman answered. Not old, early thirties. She looked at him and said almost timidly, “Yes?”
“I’m here to see Abbas.”
“He’s not home.”
She started to close the door, and Knocker braced his hand against it. “I’m a friend of his.”
“My husband doesn’t have any friends.”
Knocker changed to English. “Can I come in?”
Alarm showed on her face. “No, go away.”
“Listen, I need to talk. If I stay out here, people will get curious. They will want to know who I am.”
She opened the door wider. “Come.”
He entered and stopped inside the door. Closing it behind him, she then began to lead him farther into her home. Knocker said, “Here will do. I don’t want to intrude.”
She nodded tentatively. “Okay.”
“Can you tell me where Abbas is?”
“I do not know.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Two weeks.”
Knocker winced. Two weeks was a long time, and if he had to put money on it, he would guess that the man was dead. “What is your name?”
“Akira.”
“Akira?”
“Yes. What is your name?”
“Call me Ray.”
“Ray.”
“Akira, where did Abbas go?”
“I don’t know.”
Knocker was getting nowhere. “Did he say anything?”
She shook her head. “I am worried.”
“You should be. Do you know if he kept anything here?”
Akira stared at him, still unsure whether to trust him. Knocker said, “I’m here to help. You can trust me.”
She guided him into what passed for a living room and stopped. Shoving aside a coffee table, she then pulled a rug back to reveal a trapdoor. With a low grunt, she opened it and exposed steps leading down into the earth. “Follow me.”
Descending the steps took them into total darkness. When she reached the bottom, Akira turned on a small light to reveal a hidden room that might have been in some kind of spy movie.
There were maps on the walls and a locked cabinet that might have contained guns. Pictures. Knocker walked over to them. “Are these the men from the cell?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t know where they hang out?”
“There is a building near the market,” she said.
Knocker turned his head slowly to stare at her. At first, he wasn’t sure he’d heard it, but it was there. “You’re American.”
“Yes, I was born there and brought up in New York. So was Abbas.”
“I did not see that coming. Did the cell know Abbas grew up in America?”
“I don’t know.”
“I want you to think about this very hard, Akira,” Knocker said firmly. “Has Abbas been acting any different? Could he have gone to the dark side?”
She looked at him in disbelief. “This is not a Star Wars movie.”
“Think. Has he been acting any different?”
“Maybe a little, but it doesn’t mean what you think. He was starting to believe that he might have been compromised.”
“Why didn’t he get out, then?”
“He couldn’t. It was too far along.”
Knocker nodded. “The Ghost?”
“Yes,” she said. “He was close. Really close.”
“Nothing is too close,” Knocker told her.
“Even if he’d seen the man you are all hunting?”
Knocker was stunned. “He’s seen The Ghost?”
“Yes.”
“Does he have a picture?”
Akira shook her head. “No. However, he said that he walks funny.”
“What did he mean, ‘funny’?”
“I do not know.”
Knocker had to relax, bring his heart rate down. No one—no intelligence agency—had ever been this close. He focused on the pictures stuck to the wall. There were four of them, and each had a name: Ahmad, Latif, Jakeem, and Hadi. “And you said these men are from the cell?”
“Yes. They are part of a bigger organization. There are a lot of smaller cells broken up throughout the city. Only the ones in the cell know who their members are. No one knows those who are in the other cells.”
“Makes sense. How did he get to see The Ghost?”
“I don’t know.”
Knocker nodded. “Thank you for your help. I’ll go to the market and see what I can find out.”
Akira walked over to a drawer and opened it. The former SAS man noticed a remarkable change in her demeanor. She reached inside the drawer and took out a handgun. From where he stood, it was hard to make out what it was. Like a skilled professional, Akira dropped out the magazine and checked it, then slid it back home. She racked a round into the chamber and hid the weapon below her garments. “I’m sick of waiting and doing nothing. I’m coming with you.”
Knocker nodded. “I guess you are.”
The market was busy, but that helped the couple blend in better. Armed militia still roamed the streets, but luckily, they showed no interest in them. Knocker had parked his ride a block away.
Akira nodded at a bullet-pocked building behind a dried meat stall. “That one there.”
Knocker shifted his gaze. It was two stories tall and had a small balcony with an armed guard on it. “That doesn’t look too good.”
“He is always there.”
“Is there a back way in?” Knocker asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s have a look.”
They
walked away from the market and found an alley that led them to a back street which, like many others, was littered with trash. Knocker turned into it and walked parallel to the direction they’d come. When he figured he was in the right place, he stopped. It did have a rear entry. They studied the back of the building, looking for cameras or other security devices. A man appeared, stern-looking with a thick beard. “What do you want?” he growled. “Go away.”
Knocker looked at the AK he held. The former SAS man raised a hand and started to walk away with Akira.
“Wait,” the man said. “Turn around.”
Knocker stopped and turned, as did Akira. The man peered at her and said, “I know you.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for my husband.”
“He does not want to see you anymore. Forget you ever knew him.”
“But he’s my husband,” she replied.
“Not anymore. He is one of us. He will soon be joining the martyrs who have gone before him.”
Akira looked shocked. “What?”
“Go away.”
“No. Tell me about my husband.”
The man started to bring up his AK. Knocker grabbed Akira’s hand, mindful of propriety, and turned her away from him. He said quietly. “Not now, Akira. Let’s go.”
“He’s my husband. I want to know—”
“Move before you get both of us killed,” he whispered harshly.
Akira kept walking, and Knocker glanced back. The man continued watching them as they moved up the alley before finally turning to go back inside. The couple stopped, and the former SAS man said, “I’ll come back tonight.”
“What if something happens before then?” Akira asked.
“It won’t. Trust me.”
When Knocker returned that evening, he had the M4 as well as the vest. Moving stealthily through the shadows until he reached the back door of the building, he paused. As far as he knew, there were five men inside. However, there might be more. What he wouldn’t give for some darkness and a set of NVGs.
He’d left Akira with the vehicle up the street. Once the shooting started, she was to drive to the alley and wait for him to come out. If he took longer than ten minutes, she was to leave without him.
