by Brent Towns
“We were told you were careful. I am Amun. Come inside. He awaits you.”
Nemesis stepped forward, followed by two of her men. Amun held up a hand. “Just you alone.”
“Not on your life, mate,” one of the men said. “Where she goes, we go.”
Nemesis looked at the bodyguard. “It’s fine, Mark.”
Mark Miller was a former Royal Marine Commando and the head of Nemesis’ personal detail. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Nemesis followed Amun into the compound. The interior was as barren as the never-ending miles of nothing outside the compound. Everything except a chair and a cane screen had been removed from the yard. “You will sit on the chair,” Amun said.
Nemesis did as she was told and sat on the plastic chair. From behind the screen, a voice said, “Welcome to Sudan.”
“I take it you’re the one I’m here to meet?”
“I am. If you give Amun your account number, he will transfer the money you were offered for your attendance.”
Nemesis reeled off the appropriate numbers and waited for the money to be transferred. Once the transaction was complete, Amun showed her the confirmation, and she nodded in satisfaction. With that done, she said, “Why have you summoned me here?”
“I have a job for you. I’ve been told that you are good at what you do.”
“And I heard you were British. I guess our intelligence sources were accurate.”
“I daresay they are.”
“Who do you want me to do?”
“A British SAS man named Raymond Jensen. I want him brought to me. Alive.”
“All right. I think I can manage that. Do you have any idea where he is?”
“The last I heard, he was in Mosul, Iraq. He may still be there. I do not know.”
“Even if he isn’t, it gives me a place to start. Killing him would probably be easier.”
The Ghost considered. “My original order was for his death, but fine. If you can’t bring him to me alive, I will accept his head.”
“Original order? You’ve tried before?”
“Yes, but those who went before you were far from up to the task.”
“Of course, there will be a price,” Nemesis said.
“I will pay you ten million for the man. Five million for the head.”
Nemesis thought about it for a moment before saying, “Agreed.”
“Then our business here is concluded.”
“Where do I make the delivery when I am done?”
“Amun will give you the details,” The Ghost told her. “Goodbye.”
Nemesis left the barren compound and walked through the dust to the SUV, where Amun handed her a slip of paper with details for the delivery to The Ghost. The meeting concluded, the team loaded into their vehicles once more and headed back to Khartoum. As they left, Nemesis said into the lapel mic she had donned before the meeting, “Flint, remain in position and see what you can get me on that bastard.”
“Copy, ma’am.”
Royal Palms Hotel, Khartoum
Reclining in a lounge chair, Nemesis sat listening to the report former SAS sergeant Ben Flint, her head of operations, was giving. In her right hand was a photo, one of four her team had managed to get.
The suite she was in was large, bordering on palatial. Her bodyguards were staying on the same floor, while the operations team was rooming on a lower floor.
“That was taken twenty minutes after you left,” Flint said. “He was picked up by a Land Rover, and they drove off.”
While the picture was of good quality, there was no clear image of The Ghost’s face. The only identifying features that might be useful were the crutches the man used. However, he wasn’t called The Ghost for nothing. He would disappear like a grain of sand in the desert he drove into.
“I’m sorry, but we couldn’t get a picture of his face.”
Nemesis laid the photo on her lap. “Never mind. It was worth a try. Have our friend in Zurich look into it. Maybe he can come up with something.”
“Do you really want to do this, ma’am? Looking into clients like this isn’t something we usually do.”
“We’ve never had a client with a fifty-million-dollar bounty on his head either,” she pointed out.
Chapter 6
Mosul, Iraq
For two days, Knocker had been waiting for word from Swift—two long, boring days. He knew they were locked in on an op, but the guy was supposed to be shit-hot on a keyboard. It was with clipped tones that he answered the call when it came. “What the bloody hell have you been doing, mate?”
“You knew we had an op on, right?” Slick reminded him.
“Yeah, I knew that, but I’ve been in this shithole with my thumb up my ass for two days, waiting for you to call me back. Now, what do you have?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You must have something.”
“Nope, nothing. I’m sorry. The only way that guy you were asking about could get in and out was if he was a gopher.”
It hit Knocker how he’d done it; there was a tunnel under the building. That meant he was going to have to go back.
“I’m sorry, Slick. Thanks for your help.”
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t help you any more than I have.”
“No problem. Say hi to the others for me.”
He disconnected and went into the other room of the safe house. There were two British Secret Intelligence Service agents going over papers at the table. He said, “I have to go out. I need a ride.”
One of them, a woman he knew as Tracey, looked up and asked, “Where?”
“Back to the scene of the crime,” Knocker told her with a smile.
“Are you crazy?” she asked.
“I think there is a tunnel under it.”
“The place will be crawling with police, terrorists, even bloody Santa Claus.”
“That’s why I’ll go after dark.”
“What good is it if you find the tunnel anyway?” Tracey asked.
“I have a guy who can work wonders with a satellite. He might be able to pick up something at the other end.”
“You’re frigging daft, mate.”
He gave her a broad grin. “That’s what makes it all the more fun.”
“You’ll need extra equipment. NVGs, torch, grenades. Shit like that, yeah?”
“The whole package,” Knocker allowed.
“If this turns to shit, don’t you bring any trouble back to us.”
Knocker shrugged. “If this turns to shit, I won’t be coming back.”
“I can’t believe this shit,” Tracey growled as she followed Knocker into the target house. Everything was a luminescent green from their NVGs, but once they were inside, Knocker took out a small flashlight. As expected, the building was empty.
Jensen found the door to the basement and went down. Once there, he walked around, looking for anything that might indicate there was a tunnel.
He’d seen lots of hiding places for them over the years: behind cupboards, wall rugs, under tables, a chicken pen, and even one hidden under a latrine.
It took Knocker only a few minutes to find this one. In the corner of the basement was a solid wood cupboard. Behind it was what Knocker was looking for. He slid it back, and the ragged opening of a tunnel appeared. He looked at Tracey. “Bingo.”
They were both armed with suppressed M4 Carbines. Knocker turned off his flashlight, pulled down his NVGs, and switched on the infrared laser sights on his weapon. “Let’s go and have a look.”
They followed the tunnel for a good two hundred meters. At the end of that distance, it stopped, a wooden object of some description blocking further progress and covering their exit. “I’ll bet my left nut that this is another bloody cupboard,” he said in a harsh whisper.
“It has to be a basement in another building,” Tracey surmised.
“Yeah, and it’s probably loaded with flaming Jihadis looking for a nice piece of ass coming out of the
ir cellar.”
Knocker let the M4 hang by its strap as he tested the obstruction. It gave with pressure, and he slid it away from the opening as quietly as he could to reveal, as predicted, the darkened basement of another building. They walked through the opening and swept the room.
“What now?” Tracey asked.
“We have a look around.”
“Shit, Knocker,” she growled. “There could be a fucking shitload of terrorists up there, just waiting for some British wanker to come strolling up the stairs to say hello.”
“Great, isn’t it?”
He led the way up the stairs to a door. A light shone beneath the thin gap between the door and the floor. Knocker took his NVGs off and tried the handle. It turned, and the door latch came clear with an audible snick.
The former SAS operator eased his way through the opening, the M4 held at waist level in his right hand. The door led them into a short hallway, which was empty. Knocker seemed to mentally toss a coin as to which way to go.
A loud screech helped him make up his mind. The previously empty hallway now contained a man holding an AK-47. He had just brought it up to fire when Knocker double-tapped him in the chest. However, it wasn’t enough. The man’s trigger finger drew all the way back, and the AK rattled to life. Bullets stitched the ceiling as he fell, showering the hallway with debris. Not waiting, Knocker moved toward him. Tracey stayed behind him, covering his back.
“So much for quiet infiltration,” she hissed.
“Shit happens,” Knocker said as he shot the downed man again and stepped over his body.
The hallway opened into a large room, and Knocker swept it as he went. A door to his right was flung open and another armed man appeared. The former SAS man shot him before he could even get his weapon up. These guys had no idea and were totally unprepared, whereas Knocker was well-practiced at clearing rooms.
“Find us a way out of here,” Knocker said as he covered the open door. Behind him, Tracey walked to his right and checked a second door.
She opened it and called, “This way.”
Knocker followed her through and found himself in a darkened courtyard. Immediately, they dropped their NVGs over their eyes. Behind them, shouts could be heard from other rooms in what looked to be a larger compound.
“Someone made a cock-up,” Knocker said.
“Do you think?” Tracey growled. “We need to get the hell out of here before we wind up dead.”
Knocker pointed at a gate in the sandstone wall. “That way.”
Tracey rushed toward it while Knocker covered the doorway. “Stuff it,” he growled and took out a grenade. He pulled the pin and tossed it through the opening.
The thing exploded violently, blowing dirt and debris in every direction. He heard cries of pain and gave a satisfied nod.
“What the hell was that?” Tracey called.
“Just saying goodbye.”
The gate led to a dimly lit street. Tracey said, “Which way, Captain Cook?”
“You know the natives killed him, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
An automatic weapon opened fire from the darkness of a concealed alley down the street. Bullets whipped overhead, and the M4 in Knocker’s hands came around. He squeezed the trigger. A long burst hammered out, and the shooter stopped firing as he took cover. “Back that way,” the former SAS man called to Tracey.
With her weapon up to her shoulder, she moved swiftly in the opposite direction while Knocker covered their rear.
“In here,” she called quietly over her shoulder and slipped into an alley. Knocker followed her into the darkness. “That was fun,” he said.
“Just keep moving and follow me,” Tracey scolded. “I think I know how to get back to the vehicle.”
“Lead the way.”
“And shut up. I’m not talking to you.”
Worldwide Drug Initiative HQ, El Paso, Texas
“All right, gather around,” Thurston ordered her people as they entered the briefing room. “Find a seat and listen up.”
Kane sat on a blue sofa next to Cara and Axe sat on her other side. Brick chose a stool off to one side. He had been distant ever since their return from Hawaii. The others took up various locations around the room and waited for their commander to start.
“Okay. The DEA came back to us earlier this afternoon with some information they gleaned from our resident Yakuza boss. He’s given up his supplier in Brazil.”
“What about the woman?” Kane asked.
“He doesn’t know who she is, and Slick is no closer to finding her than he was a week ago. So, we concentrate on what we do know.”
“Which is?”
“We’re going to Brazil,” Thurston said.
“Rio, baby,” Axe said with a hint of excitement.
“Amapá, actually.”
“Shit,” growled Axe. “I hate fucking jungles.”
“Why did you become a Recon Marine, then?” Cara asked him.
“I was told it paid good,” he replied.
“Really?”
“True story.”
“Who told you that crap?” Cara asked.
Axe looked at Kane.
The Team Reaper leader shrugged. “So, I lied.” He paused. “Will we have Knocker back by the time we go operational?”
“No.”
“Then I propose a stand-in,” Kane put forward.
“Shit,” muttered Traynor. “Don’t pick me. I hate jungles just as much as Axe does.”
Pete Traynor was a former DEA agent who did a lot of undercover work, hence the beard and tattoos that covered his arms. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his hair matched his beard.
“I was thinking of Troy, ma’am.”
“You want me to pull him off what I’ve got him working on to come play with you and the others, Reaper?” Thurston asked.
“I’m sure your Special Projects team can do without him for a couple of days.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“All right, let’s talk about what we have.”
Ferrero stepped forward. A large screen lit up, and the briefing began. The former DEA man pointed at the screen, which displayed a picture of a man who was distinctively Latino in looks, with a bushy mustache and wavy dark hair. In his right hand, he held a gold semi-automatic handgun.
“This, ladies and gents, is Alfredo Costa, known throughout Brazil as ‘A Arma Dourada’ or the Golden Gun.”
“Where do they get these crazy names from?” Axe grumbled.
Ferrero continued. “He’s one of the biggest cocaine manufacturers and distributors in Brazil. He resides in Rio, but most of his production is done in Amapá State. That keeps him at arm’s length and makes him harder to prosecute.”
“How much is he worth?” Traynor asked.
“Estimates say he’s worth somewhere in the vicinity of two hundred billion, give or take.”
“If we find any of it, can we keep it?” Axe asked.
Thurston fixed her gaze on the big man. “Sure. Maybe you can use some of it to pay for your accommodations at Leavenworth.”
Axe smiled. “Glad you cleared that up, ma’am.”
Ferrero said, “The mission will be twofold, to stop production and take Costa off the grid.”
“How off the grid are we talking about?” Cara asked.
“He’s to be taken alive. How it’s done is up to the team.”
“Where will you be setting up HQ?” Kane asked.
“We’ll set up in Rio with the Batalhão de Operações Policiais Especiais,” Ferrero explained.
“Who?” Reynolds asked.
“BOPE.”
The Batalhão de Operações Policiais Especiais, or BOPE, was a Brazilian tactical police unit from the military police based in Rio. They performed a vast array of roles, from suppressing prison riots and breaking barricades set up by drug cartels to armed patrols and recon in remote terrain. By all accounts, they we
re good but brutal at their work. They had been referred to on multiple occasions as a death squad, and given that their badge bore a skull with a knife through it, one could understand why.
“I’ve heard they’re good,” Cara said, nodding her head.
“Killers in uniform,” Kane announced. “I’ve seen them in action. You too, Luis. So why are we climbing into bed with them?”
“It was the only way to get in the country with the blessing of the government,” Ferrero explained.
“If these guys are so tough, why don’t they send them after Cowboy Alf?” Axe asked.
Cara groaned. “You did not just say that.”
“Say what?”
“‘Cowboy Alf.’”
“You don’t like it?” Axe wore a hurt expression on his face.
“Your worst yet.”
“I could have called him ‘Freddo Frog’.”
“Good grief.”
“To answer your question, Axe,” Ferrero cut in, “Costa is popular among the people. While the government goes after his product and isn’t afraid to engage his men, they hold back on going after the head of the snake. Their fear is if they do, they would have numerous riots on their hands.”
“But it’s all right for us to do it,” Kane said, shaking his head.
“That’s right.”
“Hang on a minute,” Brick said, speaking for the first time. “It sounds to me like if we go after Costa, we’ll be doing it on our own. Am I right?”
“Yes, almost.”
That changed things.
Kane said, “This guy has an army. What if we get jacked up and are neck-deep in the shit?”
“You’ll have backup.”
“Who?”
“A unit of BOPE shooters.”
“I thought they didn’t want to get involved?”
